Art Museums

Hey I'm back, it's February and the garden is safely buried under at least a foot of snow, the sidewalks should only be tackled with ice skates, so that brings me here.

I have wanted to write about The Minneapolis Institute of Arts since I began this blog endeavor for the obvious reason, it is my favorite and most consistent "Third Place". I am a volunteer docent and I'm at the MIA at least once a week if not several times a week. So why the hesitation? Why not shout it from the roof tops? I realize that it means so much to me that I don't want to get it wrong in the description. A year into this and I have come around again to the idea that its better to share imperfectly than not at all, so here goes.

My experience at the MIA is a religious one, in some ways more so than my Unitarian/Universalist weekly routines which sometimes fall short of my "religious" expectations and aspirations. What am I blathering on about? When I am at the museum, either giving a tour, preparing for one, or visiting with fellow docents I feel like I am tapping into my highest self. I am transformed by the mental stimulation and I feel connected and closer to the sea of humanity through the vehicle of art. I lose myself, rediscover myself and expand myself all at once. I feel an openness, a sense of hope and an ease of knowing what to do with my spirit. This is not a state I get to readily in life, so you can see why I might tread lightly on this sacred territory.

The following is a reprinted version of an article I wrote for the MIA docent quarterly publication. It captures the spirit of the "Third Place" of museums for myself and possibly for you. Enjoy. The exhibit closes on February 7th so there is still time to view it!

As docents, if we caste the right spell, priestess and spectators alike will be transformed by the experience.

Consulting the Oracle, 1884, is on display at the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts and was my inspiration for the above comment.

Actual Size (W x H): 198cm x 119cm [ 78.01" x 46.89" ]



A sumptuous exhibit of JW Waterhouse, (1849-1917) aptly called The Enchanted Garden is on view until February 7th. I was exhilarated by this exhibit for many reasons. First of all, in October William Holman Hunt was still fresh in my memory and I enjoyed the rare thrill of connoisseurship that sometimes comes as a result of being a docent.

Also, in the northern climes we seek refuge and sanctuary in our museums when it gets cold outside. Our gardens die back, but our spirits do not, they live on in that internal world of contemplation and reflection and imagination. I may curl up by the fire with books, but also need and crave the communal- so I venture out and hope that the external world will rekindle that inner fragile spark.

Waterhouse’s exquisitely painted large canvases of ancient narratives did just that, they were breathtaking and were marvelously set off by full length black velvet curtains and large cushioned benches. The theme of Garden Enchantment was enhanced with the use of lighting which created the illusion of a magical stream running through the exhibit. My guess is Waterhouse would have approved of these enhancements and theatrics, he was fascinated by the new developments of his day in archeology, anthropology and comparative mythology. He had a progressive interest in the lives of ordinary people with an emphasis on sensuous delight.

Finally I loved this exhibit because it features one individual. It is such a treat to see an artist’s development and preoccupations. Waterhouse’s sketchbooks are full of insights, especially when we see his early stages of an idea and then the later developed and often very different final versions. It was particularly fun to see Waterhouse’s sequence of paintings on ‘The Lady of Shalott’. I hope you will transport yourself to Montreal before this exhibit leaves on February 7th, you won’t regret it.

Internet Social Networking as a Third Place

All is quiet on the blog front and that is as it should be in summer. As I read Thomas Friedman's editorial in the Sunday NY Times this week he commented on the advantages and disadvantages of places in Africa with and without the connectivity of cell phones, internet, etc. The goal is to know when the tool is beneficial and when it is not.

I have yet to delve into the Third Places available via the internet as a subject of my blog, probably because as we all know it is a curse and a blessing depending on the person and the moment. My mind doesn't work in pithy sayings so I am ill suited for status updates on Facebook. I am a reluctant internet social networker or cell phone user. I resent dependency and have enough of a hard time figuring out social etiquette face to face without further complexity. Imagine my shock and dismay when the rest of the world proceeds without my approval, harumph! My latest blow was finding out that my monthly cell phone bill was going to be in excess of $400! Well, not mine exactly, but my "family plan" with my daughter. She pays for her phone, so this is going to set her back a bit. Those plans for new school clothes with summer babysitting money have gone out the window! I consider myself partly to blame because I was in the dark about "normal" text usage for teenagers. I thought our plan was generous, especially since I do not text at all. The "average" teenager texts 2000 messages per month. The sprint guy says I got off easy, that there have been parents with $4000 bills! I'm sorry, but internet, cable, cell phones, none of these replace real live face to face contact!

We are sensual beings. We need to touch, smell, taste, see, and hear to feel alive. At least I do, especially in summer. I am content to read books, watch movies, surf the internet or gab on the phone when I cannot bear to face a bitter Minnesota February evening, but give me the breeze off the water, the cricket in the grass, the smell of hydrangea and the ability to lose myself in it without interruption. My sentimental views are quaint and obvious but I know I have kindred spirits out there, some of whom are too content with summer to be reading blogs, perhaps we'll connect in February!

Rush River Produce

Does an annual trip constitute a Third Place? Today was the picture perfect summer day, 75 degrees and big billowy white clouds floating along a blue, blue sky, beckoning us away from the city. Each year the kids and I, usually with another family, head to the river bluffs above Lake Pepin Wisconsin to pick blueberries. It's about an hour's drive from St.Paul and we get a dose of country for the morning. We drive over hill and dale past fields of corn and farms with sheep, horses, cows and even llama!

The drive along the St.Croix river is beautiful and relaxing because we have the road to ourselves. It brings me back to similar meandering drives from my childhood along the Hudson River or along the coast from Monterey to Big Sur. We city dwellers enjoy the freedom and escape of the open road away from the traffic and stoplights, especially in summer. It's a wonderful sense of arrival to go from the 4 lane highway to a two way road and then a dirt paved windy climb alongside prancing deer to the door of Rush River Produce, a farmstead surrounded by gardens and fields of blueberries!

We spend the first half an hour wandering and taste testing. Elena is determined to find the biggest blueberries and Ian gets to work filling his box, forever the competitor to see who can pick the most. I usually plop myself on a bucket and start eating. They weigh the boxes of blueberries to determine your price as you exit, but they don't weigh us, so I treat it as an all you can eat buffet. The scenery is gorgeous, the farm is situated at the high point above Lake Pepin surrounded by rolling hills into the distance. The picking is easy and after about an hour or so we pay up, usually buying some honey and maple syrup for a total of $30. This is a much better deal than going to the amusement park, we head home full and refreshed and we have tapped into an experience which reinforces and celebrates the sensory pleasures of summer.

Unity- Unitarian

I've been a member of Unity and it has been a consistent Third Place for my family for 13 years. Our lives were reeling after Elena was born. Eric was still in residency, I was back at work and finding it hard to claim the mental space to think beyond the next moment. Unity became my sanctuary. Then and now Unity reminds me to believe in a bigger picture. The music restores me, the service inspires me and the community provides the structure to motivate me beyond my isolationist tendencies.

After my father's premature death, my nephew's forced admission to rehab due to meth abuse, my knee surgery, or just a run of the mill tough week, my instinct would be to recoil from anything social. Despite this, more often than not, I have often found myself seated on a pew at Unity crying, smiling, praying among others. There are so many repeated strains on our existence, it helps to connect with others along this journey, in the same place week after week.

Summer services are run by church members. These are some of the best sermons and on more than one occasion I have felt as if the service was designed and delivered specifically for me. Our attendance is rather erratic in the summer months, but we did make it this past week. The message was a call to be more than American consumers, but to be citizens and to see our lives, our money, our short time on earth as a precious resource.

This was uncanny because three days later I was sworn in as a US citizen. Similar to my experience at church, I stood in the Great Hall at Bethal University Seminary (as a US District Court) surrounded by 701 other people from 95 different countries and I felt the power of our new connection and status, as stated on the US coinage, E Pluribus Unum, from many one. Every one of us was there with our own story, the man I met in line from Gambia with his two year old twins, the man who sat next to me from Nicaragua who invited his accountant to witness the ceremony, the woman behind me dressed in her traditional dress from Togo, each of us with our private thoughts but all of us united through the power of ritual.

There were many factors contributing to my decision to finally become a citizen, including the Obama effect, but the tipping point has been building for some time as I have grown into being a Unitarian. We have a special Coming of Age ceremony for ninth graders at Unity which Elena will take part in this year. As I have crossed this new threshold into US citizenship, I too feel as if I have come of age.

My third place, set serenely and defiantly amid the cracked pavement and cracked people.

To stand at the door of 245 Hyde Street, San Francisco, is a miserable experience day or night. The smell of urine hangs in the air, drug deals go down, people yell at no one and about nothing. Trash flutters by, as forgotten as the people who tossed it.

But open the door and you are transported. For inside lies Hyde Street Studios, home to countless legendary musicians. Creedence Clearwater Revival recorded here, as did Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, and the Grateful Dead. More recently, Hyde Street has housed the sounds of Cake, Joe Satriani and... me.

Hyde Street Studios is where I am recording my first album.

To be within the walls of Hyde Street is to forget all that is outside. When I'm there, my mind is totally focused on the music and the people I'm working with. There are no dying souls right outside worrying about one last high. There is no weather, no night or day. Sometimes I even forget about my brain injury and how wrenching it has been to me and to Catherine, my wife, and my parents and sister and friends. And there is a sound, not of drums and bass, not of guitars, not of singers, but the singular sound of being at peace.

Thank you, Hyde Street. I don't know where I'd be without you.

Car Connections

My car is a third place. We live on a hobby farm on the eastern border of Woodbury where corn and soybeans are our closest neighbors. We spent a lot of time on the road Luckily, I love my car. For 10 years I drove an eggplant-colored all-wheel-drive Dodge caravan, with erratic squeaks and door locks, in which I most-often felt like a Sherman tank driver. On my 45th birthday my husband surprised me with the gift if a new Volkswagen Jetta that runs on diesel and gets 44 miles to the gallon. This was the car of my dreams. I have admired Jetties from afar for years. They seemed sporty, but roomy and reminded me of adventures from the carefree years when I was out of college and single.

My red Jetta drives smooth as silk and is outfitted for almost any situation. In the glove compartment I have a stash of napkins for messy moments and spills of Chain tea or iced coffee, my favorite drinks. There is a pouch with quarters for parking meters along with the obligatory car manual that I consult less than I should. Purcell hand cleaner, of course, a tire gauge I’ve never used and a flashlight I forget is there when I need it.

In the door pocket to my left is a notebook for keeping lists of things I think of while driving that I can’t forget to do. There’s also our school’s phone directory, the hours for the libraries in our county, my CD case and a laminated Twin Cities map. There is also a pack of gum for those days when I forget to brush my teeth. In the passenger door pocket, I carry a Minnesota/Wisconsin road map and a magnification sheet because I cannot read a road map without glasses. I’m scared I might get lost one day when I don’t have my glasses.

A compartment between the front seats carries pens, glasses cleaner, discount coupons, lip balm and tweezers. In my advanced age, I am the victim of long stray hairs that grow overnight on my chin. I have discovered that the light streaming in the car windows together with the small mirror on my visor, provide the best place to see and remove these embarrassing hairs.

My trunk is surprisingly large and carries numerous essentials. A complete car emergency kit with tools and light, jumper cables and air pump. Also, a rope for tying down the hatch when carrying bikes; a leash for walking the dog, a towel for wiping her feet after a muddy hike, a box of peanut butter crackers to stave off starvation, a baseball cap and balls for tennis, a pouch with tampons, a box of band aids, a tiny first aid kit, and a bottle of water. I also have 5 fabric grocery bags that I am finally in the habit of using. For months after I put them there, I would get into the store and realize I had forgotten them and berate myself. There’s a blanket for laying on the back seat when I’ve taken our dog to the beach, to sit on during soccer and baseball games or for impromptu picnics. I also have the obligatory folding chair for the sidelines.

More importantly, my car is a place where I can enjoy the undivided attention of my family members – an extremely rare commodity in my life these days. In the car, I have the best conversations with our three children, broaching topics that are difficult to bring up over the dining room table, such as trouble with friends, school challenges, and sex. I once read that it is easier to talk about difficult subjects with your children when you are side by side as opposed to face to face. This has been true for me and, since our teenagers hate going on hikes (one of my favorite things) and we don’t wash dishes together, because we have a dishwasher, the car is the next best thing. My husband is a whirlwind of activity; he juggles multiple projects simultaneously and is qualified to fix any and everything. He is a lawyer, mechanic, plumber, electrician, tree mover, handyman, teacher, son, brother, father and husband all wrapped up on one. Weeks can go by when we hardly see one another, he to bed long after me and up and out before I open my eyes. On rare occasions, we find ourselves together in the car, and if I can keep him from his cell phone, we reconnect. I love to read out loud while he drives, sharing parenting books, the newspaper, essays I’ve written. We talk about our kids, our schedules, future plans. He fills me in on his myriad of projects and I share what’s going on in my world. My parents used to reconnect like this on a daily basis over cocktails before dinner. My husband rarely drinks or sits down. The car is the place where I get him all to myself.

Franken Rally

Please join Sen. Klobuchar, DFL Chair Brian Melendez, Franni Franken and Al Franken for a victory rally today from noon-1 at the Capitol. We've taken Wellstone's seat back!