Painting Spaces

We are in the last minute stages of planning our first exhibition of the summer! It will be a small meet-and-greet featuring the art of some new artist friends, family, and ourselves. We are going a little crazy trying to design the heck out of our new space:

Fashion 313

Extremely Close and Very Uncomfortable

The Story of Two Ladies Taking Fear to Task

Radhika

When Aisha was selling the idea of "Detroit Ho!" six months ago, she had me at the word Detroit. I had been contemplating my post-collegiate future, and was feeling bleak about joining other graduates heading in a mass exodus to those familiar cultural meccas like New York, Boston, D.C., and any European capital. Detroit Ho! was an opportunity to do something different, to make meeting and greeting a new city my first priority, to work with friends and to develop future artistic collaborations. In the following months, when I began to learn more about Motown, I felt privileged to live in a city that has seen such important civil rights activism around housing, workplace discrimination, and city governance. And, I was energized by current stories of community activism, large-scale art projects, and my fellow Seminole residents.

I couldn't have predicted that I would find something to work on as soon as my first day in Detroit, something totally unexpected involving neither art nor activism: fear.

The ground-work was laid before I got to Detroit. My bubbly enthusiasm about coming to stay here caused concern among family and friends, whose perception of Detroit was shaped by the Cops-esque footage of violence often shown on mainstream news channels. The fact of having grown up in an inner-city neighborhood in Boston, where ambiguous noises at night leave you wondering "gun shot or firework?" did nothing to dispel my dad's fear that somehow, Detroit would be a new level of dangerous. It seems even natives of Detroit feel this way: an elderly woman siting next to me on my flight through Atlanta felt that she had to intervene while I was in the midst of gushing about my summer plans, to ask me where I was from. When I told her she said, "You know Detroit isn't Boston, honey."

So perhaps I was predisposed to be scared because of well-meaning, yet fear-mongering individuals. It also didn't help that I have a prediliction to be excruciatingly cautions around unknown men-folk (always reliably half of any population-- except the one where I spent the last three years of college). During my first week in Detroit, my face was consistently twisted into a pretzel of discomfort when I would sally outside alone.

After a run with Aisha on one of my first days out and about in Detroit, this discomfort, which I had unquestioningly accepted as part of city living, came up. She had witnessed my pathetic attempt to wave hello to a man who had greeted us while we were jogging on Jefferson, and afterward subtly staged a friend-tervention. I was introduced to a new and alien concept: being friendly takes practice. It had always been my intention to get to know people in our community, but I unconsciously only seem to rise to the occasion in 'safe' spaces, such as a community garden, bookstore, outdoor jazz festival (already sounds like a post from Stuff White People Like, right?)

So, armed with this knowledge, and excited to end my perpetual cold feet, I jumped into practicing my hellos. In front of the gas station on Jefferson. At the Post Office. By the broccoli at the Indian Village Market. After an initial "hello" there have been some stellar responses: an invitation to a concert at Cafe con Leche, a cool glass of water with ladies from the Congregational Church in Grosse Pointe, "hey baby," a possible new artist collaborator with her mom, and too many returned "hey-how're-you-doings" to count.

So far I haven't had reason to regret my newfound friendliness, although I'm learning to enjoy that there will always be a wide variety of responses. Like when I said hello to someone on the way to Chene park for a Jazz concert, and he said 'Hey Boo boo do you have a light?' Then I got to say, 'Not Boo boo. Lady.' And he got to say 'Excuse me, young lady do you have a light?' Later that day, a visably intoxicated man intercepted a friend and I, physically blocking us as we tried to pass. This experience wasn't particularly enjoyable, but perhaps the opportunity to maneuver out of it was worth the discomfort. My friend kept her cool while I vigorously side-stepped him, repeating, 'Alright, alright.' Extremely close, yes. But as time goes by, more and more comfortable.

Opening up to the possibility of a good interaction is the thing.

Aisha

Of course some things happen regardless of how we walk down the street. A catalytic converter was cut clean off of one of our vehicles, and the tires were stabbed on the other car, both in broad daylight. This despite the nervous watch our across-the-street neighbor keeps on the street-- he sometimes stands with a beer "watching the cars" as an evening past time. A cop-friend tells us with glee about her daily encounters with bullet wounds, standoffs and shoot outs, in what she brags to be the most violent city in the world. It's not so much there is no reason to fear. It's just that there isn't much point.

I am reminded of one stiflingly hot day when we were stopped at a gas station, and a group of teenaged boys walked languidly across the street, shirtless and strong, constituting what on television would be a scene of virile intimidation. The huge, semi-automatic weapon that one of them swung cagily alongside him was made of blue plastic, and the boys were on their way to fill it with water. The threat of danger that statistically has more reason to threaten these guys seems to slide off of their relaxed shoulders while, in a suburban home protected by seven security systems, the idea of danger just rings and rings-- enlivening benign moment after benign moment with the flavor of imagined violence. To what degree, I wonder, does this expectation of catastrophe make you into a target when you might not otherwise have been?

While crime undoubtedly occurs, the scary/sweet image of these boys is much more indicative of our actual experience of danger in this city. Most people you meet are just trying, like you, to get across the street safe, and to keep cool in the heat. Such people within the city limits are, in our experience, much more likely to extend or return a hello to some random stranger with a smile on he face than a passerby in one of the wealthier suburbs we've visited on occasion. In fact, the most overtly aggressive interactions we've had thus far have taken place at a yoga studio in Grosse Pointe. Which has taken a toll on my savasana.

There are most certainly things a young woman should avoid doing in a new city known for drugs, poverty and crime. But encounteing a whole population with the expectation that they are out to hurt you seems to me, at this point, as inaccurate as it is unwise.

Luck to the Duck Who Swims the Pond and Never Lost a Battle

During the week of the US Social Forum, the First Annual Seminole Street Artist's Colony hosted a gaggle of friends to our great delight-- many of them Detroiters coming back to the city for the first time in years. The house turned into a Festival of Interesting every breakfast, every morning. There is no joy like seeing your father sip coffee contemplatively while a rapper snacks on eggs beside him, a midwife muses on the beauty of birth, and a woman's studies professor makes a case in favor of the word "queer" while giving a recent Smith graduate a massage. Yes, we had LOTS of fun.


One needed not attend the forum itself to benefit from the buzz that the thousands of attendees brought to town. Without paying a registration fee or entering a conference room, I was able to see folks camp out on Woodward avenue in a tent city, listen to people discuss the pros and cons of conducting a public panel on anti-Zionist movements, watch a bunch of slam poetry at the bar where Houdini died, and find out how an independent bookseller keeps her shelves so dynamic that her authors engage in complex socio-political discussion by merely sitting alongside one another. I also found out the answer to the infamous riddle: How do you cram a city full of queers into one tiny dive bar?... I can't reveal the answer, but it involved dancing in the street.

One fan favorite event that was affiliated with the USSF was the Mexican Revolution exhibition at the Skillman branch of the Detroit Public Library. This traveling exhibition of photographs by Agustin Casasola opened with a show by a very talented group called Son Solidarios, and was followed by a performance by a band that included the former high school art and music teachers of one in our gang.






When we were at home we relished in the pleasures of our collective little hearth during rain storms, tarot card readings, hash brown cookings, pie feasting, sun porch literary discussions, chilaquiles with ingredients from Mexican town and spooky ghost tours of the third floor. The core group of us got so addicted to having lots of folks around that we now describe our present psychological state as "the empty nest syndrome."

A couple of gals biking across the country came by shortly after our forum-folks left. They are working on a local food blog called The Hungry Bicyclists, which paved the way for us to be, somehow, in a permanent state of potluck. When my dad told my grandmother that some guests had baked us cornbread, she asked him how he came to be such a lucky man.


Opening our house has proven to be a remarkable exercise in allowing ourselves to be the recipients of a lot of goodness. Some have scoffed, but I've deemed the period of Detroit's Social Forum "The Era of the Gifts." It may be cheesy but it's true-- and you know what, sometimes I read Oprah magazine in the grocery store. What of it? We are feeling a lot of gratitude around here these days.

I title this blog post with my Aunt Cora May's favorite toast because I can't think of a better wish for the flock of travelers that descended upon us. Come back!

Do you know the Mushroom Man?

We have welcomed a new member to the First Annual Seminole Street Artist's Colony! We found her at the airport, reading a magazine about politics in French:


Radhika brings know-how about marionettes, translates art captions into Russian, and wants to preserve things once she gets ahold of some jars. She also got us into the habit of biking, jogging and stretching in the mornings. In fact, we are currently taking advantage of the "first week free" policy at the fancy Grosse Pointe yoga studio up Jefferson... somehow I doubt that we will come back for those $17 classes after our week is up, though.

Radhika's arrival marks the end of our back-breaking period of WORK, and the beginning of what for some reason got named the "Era of Engagement," which will include lots of art, good food, cheap wine and soaking in the pleasures of people (lots of friends are arriving for the social forum next week!). Here are some projects we completed while we were doing nothing but sanding, painting and cleaning. (Note the stencils inherited from my housepainter-grandfather). This is in the third floor space that will eventually become "The Colony":




The Era of Engagement has had some awesome moments, including homemade, handpicked-cherry pie with our new neighborfriend, Rosie. But it was clear that this period had officially begun when we went to the Detroit Institute of Art last night, dragging along my cousin Travis for the fun. We thought we were getting off to a late start, but accidentally came on the most happening night of the century. There was modern dance next door to the cafeteria....


...and the first Electronica band of Burkina Faso was performing underneath one of the most breathtaking murals of all time in Rivera court.


Art isn't just limited inside buildings, though. We've been seeing some great murals while driving around. This has got to be my favorite:


This one is just plain endearing:


And this one is our favorite to shout out in passing:


Last but not least in a quick catch-up on the week is our Saturday morning trip to Eastern Market. This too is littered with talented musicians,



and amazing produce.


Today I bought a teeeeeeny bag of Morels from the Mushroom man.


Recipe ideas?

Don't tell them you've never done it until you're done...

Wow! What a crazy weekend around here. The bathroom got a face lift. 3 days of tiling, scraping and painting. I could set up camp in there! Aisha and I were able to get my bedroom window unstuck from the outside. Air... Speaking of air, it just happens to be heavenly this evening. 69 degrees, clear, wind from the NE, humidity 76%. Our new friends, Keegan and Molly, who live around the corner, gave us some eggplant, zucchini and cucumber plants for our garden. We planted them as well as some basil and the plants donated by Thomas and his family. This morning the bunnies were out of their hole. I thought they might have wandered off but I noticed them behind the ivy after I planted the garden. Oh well.

"I like it when my kombucha mushrooms talk to me..."

As it turns out, Detroit is living and breathing gardens. There are vegetables everywhere! Around the corner from our house, a man gave us a twenty minute tour of his impeccable backyard farm, bragging about hybrid squash and gourmet carrots in a sassy Caribbean lecture as the evening sun set behind him. On another day, during the Indian Village garden tour, Logan ran into an Up South Foods van selling fresh produce to the neighborhood (music spilling from its windows). Up South is one of many initiatives created to fulfil the needs of this urban "food desert," where grocery stores are sparse enough that the local Walgreens advertises "fresh produce."



So, in a city so eager to support new growth, how do you start a garden? Go to the nearest bakery and order a cup of coffee. That's what we did. At our (of course) favorite morning eatery, Avalon, a beautiful family sat down at the table next to us and started talking about kombucha. Since Logan's ear is always tuned to Kombucha radio, we were soon talking 'shrooms (not psychedelic), and before we knew it, they had invited us over and offered us a bunch of tomato, okra and pepper plants for our garden. One half of this couple, Thomas, is a full time gardener (and daddy to the two adorable, sprout eating babies below), as well as a veteran who hopes to start a gardening organization as a means of recuperation for other vets.



Earlier in the week, Logan had met the folks at the West Village community garden on a bike ride. She was given the job of Neighborhood Compost Person. She subsequently arrived at our yard with a rich batch of black compost from the suburbs.

The dog is, apparently, a fan.


Logan was turning the soil (ooooh the difference from dusty Arizona) in the backyard dog run, mixing the compost in, when WAM! She unearthed a baby bunny nest! (More on that later...)

There is now a nice strip of compost-rich territory, guarded by a rock wall (formerly the porch steps!) just waiting to feed some roots.


We bought a bit of basil from Eastern market today, but should be able to fill a good bit of the garden with plants donated to us by various new friends and community resources. The Retired Horticulturalist of Belle Isle around the corner has offered native ferns for other parts of the yard, and my grandmother's lilies are blooming along the perimeter of the garage. We're off to a good start!

BUT WHAT WILL HAPPEN NEXT?

Will the bunnies grow up over night and eat our Rio Grande tomatoes?

Will Logan's kombucha mushrooms morph into giant lily pads and float away on the river?

Will Chris Farley live in a van down by the river?

Who knows.

This is only the first of many garden episodes, so stay tuned.