Why We Migrate

My parents met in the Detroit Public Library. It was a rich era. Their co-workers were all on fire with creative potential. Mary had wisdom and tampons at the ready if any woman was in need, and made fried chicken that could cause you to eat your fingers by accident. Garth was preparing to take his stylish demeanor off to Rochester to start an internationally renowned dance troupe. My uncle was on roller skates in the basement, finding titles, as diligent then as he would be as a doctor of psychology years later. The sky was the limit. Love was in the air.

Years have passed. My parents left to pursue careers in fashion and photojournalism, and raised me in California. The city has changed for the worse. Lately, the draw of family and memory has trumped the South of France or Tuscany in their minds when they think of where they'll retire. They're hoping, now, to return.

While the world has looked on Detroit as the nation's badge of failure, I've been taught to regard it with nostalgia and romance. There are murals, veggie-laden farmers and kosher butchers at Eastern Market, where my grandfather used to go to warm his hands over coffee after carrying ton after ton of steel. Richard Avedon photographs are now on view at the Detroit Institute of Art. The folks at the Chaldean store will, after a few months, begin to look you in the eye and help you navigate tubs of olives, honey-toned flaky baked goods, imported fava beans and bulk spices. The Avalon bakery will sell you coffee with pizza for breakfast. Art students roam the alleys with cameras and sticks of charcoal. The owner of Cyprus Taverna in Greektown once dreampt of singing opera. My father's best friend Rodney will tell you a joke... especially if a six pack of his favorite cheap brew is involved.

Sure, the houses are falling down. In fact, our house in Indian Village has seen better days. But guess whose parents' lived there before he grew up and became a famous author? Hint: He wrote Middlesex. If it's haunted, this house's ghosts are happy omens; beacons of good faith for the people who enter into its raccoon-infested walls. (Half-kidding).

Few places on earth have made me feel so artistically energized. And for the record, the grocery stores are not, as the media would have you believe, on lockdown. Try biking from the center of town to a new Trader Joes to buy some pita chips and a five-dollar Reisling if you think I'm kidding. There is poverty, yes. Crime, absolutely. But the city is much more full of color, culture and spirit than most people have been led to realize. Which is why I'd like to invite you to come see for yourself!

This is my idea: think of an art project. Save up a bit of cash. Come to the motor city for a while and be creative. We'd like to host an exhibition or festival at our house some time this summer to celebrate the city. This blog is an invitation.

I'd like to spend the next few months writing about what Detroit has to offer, to help encourage and inspire people about its richness. My father will provide (some of) the photographs. If not this summer, at some point, take a moment to check this city out. It could use the positive attention.