First, I must say exactly how I feel about the Huron Valley Council
for the Arts, and it begins with gratitude. Saturday, November 6,
2010, the council organized a tour of artist homes and studios. One
could drive oneself around the route and be sure of a warm welcome.
One could ride from stop to stop and be sure of good company along the
route. I sincerely regret not having a copy of that itinerary, because
it's great reference material if one collects art. Thomas Lynch of
Milford Michigan is a favorite poet of mine, and in early November, he
will grace the house at the Highland Station House, reading from his
new book, "Walking Papers". You can be certain you don't won't one of
these "Walking Papers" until very late in life. Lynch is principal of
a chain of funeral homes bearing his family name, and he writes about
life and death without sentimentality. Any art center serving poets
and painters has my gratitude. Mr. Lynch is worth a significant drive
for the Friday, November 12th reading, 7:30 PM Alas, Sunday, I was driving towards Milford on my way to luncheon with
my daughter, and we love to visit art collections. A small patch of
old time Highland exists at the corner of the Highland Road and
Milford Road, and every post in Highland proudly bore a banner for the
Highland Station House, a banner in lovely fall colors. Who could
resist a stop at this building that looks half train station, half
church. It even has a steeple. We saw two cars in the lot and the
foyer door wide open to the brilliant Indian Summer day. So we entered
the foyer and walked up the stairs through the antique wood and glass
doors. In the back, two men were strumming on guitars, with a great
deal of sound equipment set up, microphones and speakers and all. The
amplification sounded good in that old depot, and I waved at the two
men and walked into a rest room. Surely a Sunday afternoon concert was
planned, and in our good luck, we had stumbled upon it. As an extra
bonus, the front gallery had exquisite natural light from high banks
of windows, and the 15th Annual Art Show awaited our attention. The
collection had just opened to the public Friday, and I could tell at a
glance it had above average charms. All I needed was a wee splash. When I left the loo, one of the guitarists confronted me. He had to
put me out. The building wasn't open, and he was responsible for the
contents. If an item went missing, he would be held responsible. While
lulled by a sense of safety in the arts center and taking care of
business, he had ejected my 14 year old daughter from the building. My
daughter looks more mature than her age, but there's a rule of
etiquette that one doesn't speak to a man's daughter without
permission. I explained to the man that we visit art centers all over
the state, that we were trustworthy and today might be our only
opportunity to enjoy the collection. He relented, I recovered my
daughter, and we toured the collection, but without that enjoyment
that leads to amusing. One woman had painted a lovely oil of Sandhill
Cranes by a river, and I didn't write down her name. I was reminded of
the excellent art shows in Bruce Miles or the La Cloche Mountains,
held during the summer along the Georgian Bay, exhibits held summer
after summer for many years. I couldn't imagine such an awkward
occurrence there, however. The artists staff the shows for an entire
weekend. If I were sour and the HVCA not so dynamic, I might point out that art
centers under a non-profit charter exist for a public, and the
pedestrian and the board member stand upon equal footing with regards
to access. Our to put it tartly, if the art center had time, light and
electricity for a jam session, it had them for ardent visitors. Even
the Scarab Club, once a private club, an arts destination for over one
century, has its gates open for the public now and any artist or
collector may join, without sponsorship or resume. I admit, I must become independently wealthy so I can visit art
centers during the hours reserved for those, "in the trade". However,
I am a business traveler and employed in a professional position that
can keep me in an office for twelve hours a day. I had just finished
up work at a factory in Caro, Michigan, and it was January in the
years after September 11th. The night had grown cold and country dark
after an early, winter sunset. I had admired that church building that
housed the Thumb Area Center for the Arts for days, especially the
steeple, a masterpiece of woodworking. I was happy when I noticed the
blazing lights pouring out the line of stained glass windows, and I
knocked on an imposing pair of tall, wooden doors, painted black. A
friend of mind told me she had taken square dancing classes in the
back ballroom, and I wanted to see that room. I was admitted by an male actor, and I explained that I was about to
drive two hours back to Detroit, but I wanted to see the center. The
actors on the stage were relaxing after rehearsal, and I chatted with
them amiably about the show. I then excused myself to visit the square
dance room in the back. I told the actors exactly where I was walking
and why. In the hallway coming back from the square dance room, a
surprisingly small chamber, I came face to face with the center's
director, and she was breathing heavily. She had run around the center
looking for me. She was freaked. She explained she had an actress
changing in one of the dressing rooms. Funny, but barging into a room
with a closed door, especially with the look of a woman's bathroom,
had been farthest from my mind. I explained my wish to have seen the
square dance room, apologized for any misunderstanding, and then I
excused myself. I have often reviewed in my mind why she panicked to that degree. The
night was dark. I was a stranger, although I was employed by one of
the town's largest employers. I had arrived wearing a dark leather
jacket. Until 2005, Caro had two businesses on Main Street, not far
from the art center, dedicated to witch culture and merchandise. The
adjacent businesses along mainstreet had placed crosses in their
window in reaction. The tension in the city attracted the attention of
filmmaker Robert St. Mary, who produced the film, "The Separation on
Main Street". An entire building, with an impressive facade, housed
Anonka's Witches Museum. During a lunch hour, I visited the collection
and found it to be rather vanilla. I paid five dollars to visit the
dirt floor dungeon, and panicked only when the woman guide started
screaming at me. She was angry about persecutions of witches depicted
in the dungeon. According to Roadside America, the museum closed, and even the stone
gargoyles came down from the facade. I still wonder if the people in
the art center took me for some kind of dark lord. I was a polite but
curious stranger earnest trying to access an open art center, but
ended up driving south through the dark to Frankenmuth, feeling rather
frightened. I guess it's easier during the daytime during the week. During a
recent visit to Norcross Georgia, I followed the signs on the Buford
Highway to the Kudzu Art Zone. I had just enjoyed a delicious lunch at
the Blue House Cafe, a sandwich shop with imaginative and nourishing
offerings. I could see exquisite small paintings on the brick walls, looking
through the door glass. The sign on the door announced the limited
hours open to the public, but I could hear a public gathering. So I
rang the door bell, only once, and a woman came to the door. I gave
her the spiel, always the same spiel, always true, that I was only in
town for a day or a matter of hours. She invited me into the main
chamber, where a poet and a cancer survivor was giving a lunch time
reading of her new poems to the studio owners, taking a break from
painting. They had name for all their applauses. One woman would call
out the name and then they would applaud. I haven't seen named
applauses since my campfire days. After a few poems, I excused myself
and drove back to the factory, perhaps a better man. Huron Valley Council for the Arts:
http://www.huronvalleyarts.org/1/257/index.asp Thumb Area Center for the Arts:
http://www.tacfta.org/ Poet Thomas Lynch:
http://www.thomaslynch.com/1/234/index.asp The Separation on Main Street. Caro, Michigan in the Time of Anonka's
Witch Museum:
http://www.knowsaint.com Anonka's Witch Museum, Now Closed: http://www.roadsideamerica.com/tip/10212 Blue House Cafe:
http://www.bleuhousecafe.com/ Kudzu Art Zone, Norcross Georgia: http://www.kudzuartzone.org/
for the Arts, and it begins with gratitude. Saturday, November 6,
2010, the council organized a tour of artist homes and studios. One
could drive oneself around the route and be sure of a warm welcome.
One could ride from stop to stop and be sure of good company along the
route. I sincerely regret not having a copy of that itinerary, because
it's great reference material if one collects art. Thomas Lynch of
Milford Michigan is a favorite poet of mine, and in early November, he
will grace the house at the Highland Station House, reading from his
new book, "Walking Papers". You can be certain you don't won't one of
these "Walking Papers" until very late in life. Lynch is principal of
a chain of funeral homes bearing his family name, and he writes about
life and death without sentimentality. Any art center serving poets
and painters has my gratitude. Mr. Lynch is worth a significant drive
for the Friday, November 12th reading, 7:30 PM Alas, Sunday, I was driving towards Milford on my way to luncheon with
my daughter, and we love to visit art collections. A small patch of
old time Highland exists at the corner of the Highland Road and
Milford Road, and every post in Highland proudly bore a banner for the
Highland Station House, a banner in lovely fall colors. Who could
resist a stop at this building that looks half train station, half
church. It even has a steeple. We saw two cars in the lot and the
foyer door wide open to the brilliant Indian Summer day. So we entered
the foyer and walked up the stairs through the antique wood and glass
doors. In the back, two men were strumming on guitars, with a great
deal of sound equipment set up, microphones and speakers and all. The
amplification sounded good in that old depot, and I waved at the two
men and walked into a rest room. Surely a Sunday afternoon concert was
planned, and in our good luck, we had stumbled upon it. As an extra
bonus, the front gallery had exquisite natural light from high banks
of windows, and the 15th Annual Art Show awaited our attention. The
collection had just opened to the public Friday, and I could tell at a
glance it had above average charms. All I needed was a wee splash. When I left the loo, one of the guitarists confronted me. He had to
put me out. The building wasn't open, and he was responsible for the
contents. If an item went missing, he would be held responsible. While
lulled by a sense of safety in the arts center and taking care of
business, he had ejected my 14 year old daughter from the building. My
daughter looks more mature than her age, but there's a rule of
etiquette that one doesn't speak to a man's daughter without
permission. I explained to the man that we visit art centers all over
the state, that we were trustworthy and today might be our only
opportunity to enjoy the collection. He relented, I recovered my
daughter, and we toured the collection, but without that enjoyment
that leads to amusing. One woman had painted a lovely oil of Sandhill
Cranes by a river, and I didn't write down her name. I was reminded of
the excellent art shows in Bruce Miles or the La Cloche Mountains,
held during the summer along the Georgian Bay, exhibits held summer
after summer for many years. I couldn't imagine such an awkward
occurrence there, however. The artists staff the shows for an entire
weekend. If I were sour and the HVCA not so dynamic, I might point out that art
centers under a non-profit charter exist for a public, and the
pedestrian and the board member stand upon equal footing with regards
to access. Our to put it tartly, if the art center had time, light and
electricity for a jam session, it had them for ardent visitors. Even
the Scarab Club, once a private club, an arts destination for over one
century, has its gates open for the public now and any artist or
collector may join, without sponsorship or resume. I admit, I must become independently wealthy so I can visit art
centers during the hours reserved for those, "in the trade". However,
I am a business traveler and employed in a professional position that
can keep me in an office for twelve hours a day. I had just finished
up work at a factory in Caro, Michigan, and it was January in the
years after September 11th. The night had grown cold and country dark
after an early, winter sunset. I had admired that church building that
housed the Thumb Area Center for the Arts for days, especially the
steeple, a masterpiece of woodworking. I was happy when I noticed the
blazing lights pouring out the line of stained glass windows, and I
knocked on an imposing pair of tall, wooden doors, painted black. A
friend of mind told me she had taken square dancing classes in the
back ballroom, and I wanted to see that room. I was admitted by an male actor, and I explained that I was about to
drive two hours back to Detroit, but I wanted to see the center. The
actors on the stage were relaxing after rehearsal, and I chatted with
them amiably about the show. I then excused myself to visit the square
dance room in the back. I told the actors exactly where I was walking
and why. In the hallway coming back from the square dance room, a
surprisingly small chamber, I came face to face with the center's
director, and she was breathing heavily. She had run around the center
looking for me. She was freaked. She explained she had an actress
changing in one of the dressing rooms. Funny, but barging into a room
with a closed door, especially with the look of a woman's bathroom,
had been farthest from my mind. I explained my wish to have seen the
square dance room, apologized for any misunderstanding, and then I
excused myself. I have often reviewed in my mind why she panicked to that degree. The
night was dark. I was a stranger, although I was employed by one of
the town's largest employers. I had arrived wearing a dark leather
jacket. Until 2005, Caro had two businesses on Main Street, not far
from the art center, dedicated to witch culture and merchandise. The
adjacent businesses along mainstreet had placed crosses in their
window in reaction. The tension in the city attracted the attention of
filmmaker Robert St. Mary, who produced the film, "The Separation on
Main Street". An entire building, with an impressive facade, housed
Anonka's Witches Museum. During a lunch hour, I visited the collection
and found it to be rather vanilla. I paid five dollars to visit the
dirt floor dungeon, and panicked only when the woman guide started
screaming at me. She was angry about persecutions of witches depicted
in the dungeon. According to Roadside America, the museum closed, and even the stone
gargoyles came down from the facade. I still wonder if the people in
the art center took me for some kind of dark lord. I was a polite but
curious stranger earnest trying to access an open art center, but
ended up driving south through the dark to Frankenmuth, feeling rather
frightened. I guess it's easier during the daytime during the week. During a
recent visit to Norcross Georgia, I followed the signs on the Buford
Highway to the Kudzu Art Zone. I had just enjoyed a delicious lunch at
the Blue House Cafe, a sandwich shop with imaginative and nourishing
offerings. I could see exquisite small paintings on the brick walls, looking
through the door glass. The sign on the door announced the limited
hours open to the public, but I could hear a public gathering. So I
rang the door bell, only once, and a woman came to the door. I gave
her the spiel, always the same spiel, always true, that I was only in
town for a day or a matter of hours. She invited me into the main
chamber, where a poet and a cancer survivor was giving a lunch time
reading of her new poems to the studio owners, taking a break from
painting. They had name for all their applauses. One woman would call
out the name and then they would applaud. I haven't seen named
applauses since my campfire days. After a few poems, I excused myself
and drove back to the factory, perhaps a better man. Huron Valley Council for the Arts:
http://www.huronvalleyarts.org/1/257/index.asp Thumb Area Center for the Arts:
http://www.tacfta.org/ Poet Thomas Lynch:
http://www.thomaslynch.com/1/234/index.asp The Separation on Main Street. Caro, Michigan in the Time of Anonka's
Witch Museum:
http://www.knowsaint.com Anonka's Witch Museum, Now Closed: http://www.roadsideamerica.com/tip/10212 Blue House Cafe:
http://www.bleuhousecafe.com/ Kudzu Art Zone, Norcross Georgia: http://www.kudzuartzone.org/
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