Autumn arrival

I remember rolling into Minneapolis in September, a few weeks later than expected thanks to some car trouble in Colorado. The reds and golds and browns of autumn leaves were still crisping along the sidewalk. Everything was beautiful, and fall in Minneapolis remains my favorite season.

Brian and I arranged with a friend to sublet her place, the upstairs floor of a split-level single-family home. It would be a few days before it was ready, so we spent the first weekend in Minneapolis on the welcoming and ready futon in our friend’s basement.

The apartment, once cleared out, was a great first place to stay. Our upstairs abode was in the house next door to our friends and walking distance to little coffee shops and restaurants in Stadium Village and Dinkytown. Both districts were at that point still populated with small and local shops, and we were a quick hop to Espresso Royale or the (old) Purple Onion.

My transition from the concrete jungle of Los Angeles probably made me seem pretty touristy to my friends. Squirrels were a novel excitement, and an endless canopy of trees and the picturesque fall foliage served as beautiful frames to every street picture. With a small bit of savings, I had strategically placed myself in a great location for a new adventure, and there were nothing but blank pages on which to write the next chapter.

At the time the world seemed open in an exciting but overwhelming way. I wondered: What’s harder? Knowing what you want to do and struggling to get there or not knowing yet what you want and having to learn on the go? I was about to find out. The first page of an empty journal is always the scariest one to write on.

This post is adapted from It’s Never Going To Work: A Tale of Art and Nonprofits in the Minneapolis Community with illustrations by Athena Currier. Post graphics by Jamie Schumacher. ©2018 Jamie Schumacher.

It’s Never Going To Work is a light-hearted, illustrated book that offers real-life insights on founding a community space and nonprofit. It provides tools, tips, resources, and camaraderie to community organizers and anybody attempting something new.

Minneapolis kids dance!

In 2002, I spent a memorable New Year’s Eve in Minneapolis. After visiting Brian’s family in Wisconsin and basking in the luxury of lefse and klubb, we ventured to the Twin Cities for the New Year’s holiday. Heading to a party that evening, my friends and I pulled up to an old craftsman-style house at 911 Fulton Street, parked, and stepped inside. As we walked inside the warm smell of radiant heat welcomed us in from the brisk winter air. There were sheets of plastic on the windows, and as we walked upstairs, heat continued from burly radiators lined along the walls. The Midwest was a new place for me, full of charm and pleasantly welcoming.

After a drink and a few introductions, we piled into cars and headed out to the Kitty Cat Klub to ring in the new year. Even the drive was memorable. We wound down River Road, the river on our left and the University of Minnesota to the right as we drove into then-still-mostly-historic Dinkytown. The mighty Mississippi called, peeping out to meet me from behind my memories of random band lyrics and works of literature.

Our friend Jim was bartending that night, and my new friends assured me the Kitty Cat Klub, with its cozy couches and chill vibe, would be the perfect place to be to ring in the new year. Giant windows in the back of the venue gave view to more lights and buildings in Dinkytown, the walls with exposed brick softened by strategically placed curtains and Victorian mirrors throughout. We claimed a square of couches in the back, and there we remained for the next five hours, talking and drinking, laughing and happy. I felt so at home; it was one of the best nights I could remember in quite some time.

I met some of the most painfully intelligent, wonderful people I’d ever meet again, and we talked through the night about philosophy and art, music and politics.

We were back on our way home the following morning. It was a beautiful New Year’s Day, and a beautiful start to my love affair with the city of Minneapolis.

A few months later, a terribly rough and busy patch at work had me itching for a little adventure. I booked a last-minute flight back to Minneapolis, where the Faint was playing that weekend at a venue called First Ave. I had seen the band recently in Los Angeles, and while the performance was great, the audience was subdued. Too cool to dance, I wondered? Why not gift myself a vacation to the city I’d enjoyed so much a few months before, but stay a little longer this time?

It was a good call. Chris, a friend I’d made during my New Year’s Eve visit, offered to host me for the weekend. We took the scenic route up from the airport, and—the ultimate tour guide—he pointed out bit by bit wonderful things about Twin Cities.

“That’s our light rail.” He explained, proudly: “They’re testing trains and timing right now, but the plan is for it to open next year.” We went to Minnehaha Falls. We drank coffee at the (old) Purple Onion. We ate french fries and drank milkshakes on the patio at Annie’s Parlour while we enjoyed the beautiful May weather. Another best night ever was budding in my newfound community of friends. We saw the Faint play at First Ave., and I was overjoyed to discover: Minneapolis kids dance! I slept in the cozy bed of a friend who was out of town that weekend and immediately felt like I had a home away from home in Minneapolis.

On my last night in town we returned to Fulton Street and hung out for a bit at our friend Jim’s, where I curled up on the couch with DRC, his three-legged lab. But the air was full of excitement, and none of us could sleep. So we decided to hit one last quintessential Twin Cities stop—we headed over to St. Paul for a 3:00 a.m. breakfast at Mickey’s Diner (where we saw a drunk local celebrity I dare not mention here).

And that was it. I was sold. I returned to California and Tigger-bounced into our crappy little apartment shouting to Brian, “Let’s move to MINNEAPOLIS!!!!!!” I was all in.

We came again to visit in July, spending a little more time investigating the city before making a final decision. I gave notice at my job, and we ended our month-to-month lease on that terrible spider-infested apartment. Breaking the news to my family when we returned was the only hard part.

I’m going to pause here for a brief note with a minispoiler: this story is not about that relationship. Much to our mutual though unsyncopated heartbreak, Brian and I eventually broke up, he returned to California, and I remained in the Midwest. That story, unlike this one, is a most excellent adventure filled with sword-fights, princes, giants, and swashbuckling pirates. (You’ll soon be able to watch the made-for-TV movie on FX.) But alas, this book is about Minneapolis, art, and nonprofits, so we now return to your regularly scheduled programming, already in progress.

“Whatever made you decide to move to the Midwest?” “Why the hell did you move here?” Those are probably the most common questions I get whenever anybody discovers I’m originally from Southern California. As though Minneapolis is some sad, second-rate place to live. On the contrary, I think Minneapolis is warm, welcoming, and accessible. Of the good things that came from that relationship, finding my way to the Midwest and relocating to Minneapolis was one of the bigger ones. Did I miss my family? Without question, and I still do. But I’ve never regretted the move, not even the time I accidentally locked myself out of the apartment during a snowstorm.

This post is adapted from It’s Never Going To Work: A Tale of Art and Nonprofits in the Minneapolis Community with illustrations by Athena Currier. Post graphics by Jamie Schumacher. ©2018 Jamie Schumacher.

It’s Never Going To Work is a light-hearted, illustrated book that offers real-life insights on founding a community space and nonprofit. It provides tools, tips, resources, and camaraderie to community organizers and anybody attempting something new.

It’s 5:00 a.m. and you are listening to Los Angeles

I hope everybody had a beautiful holiday season and that 2019 is off to a good start (though a chilly one for my Minnesota friends.)

Over the next year, I’ll be sharing more from It’s Never Going To Work - and more in general, including a few new articles I’ve been working on. In honor of the new year and many new adventures beginning, here is the opening chapter from my book.

Happy New Year!

It’s 5:00 a.m. and you are listening to Los Angeles

Lakewood, CA—September 2003

Brian and I woke up at the crack of dawn. We loaded up the car with our meager belongings, then circled my parents’ house one last time for anything forgotten.

My mom packed us two little coolers with snacks and treats, because she’s amazing like that. She stood at the edge of the curvy walkway that leads up to my parents’ house, arms crossed and trying to smile, my dad beside her. And there they remained as we backed out of the driveway, turned down the street, and gradually drove out of view.

As we wound round the mountain roads on our way out of the L.A. basin the sun began to rise, beautiful bright reds and oranges that almost made it hard to see the winding roads ahead. I knew my Social Security number by heart (thanks, college!), but I was twenty-three and still had no idea who I was. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with my life, exactly. But I knew I wanted to try life someplace new.

That was how I left California, after several months of planning and prep, in the wee hours of the morning. My boyfriend and I spent our last few weeks in my old room at my parents’ house, having escaped none too soon from a spider-infested apartment. And rather than it being stressful to live with my parents again, it was good to spend a few weeks of concentrated family time before leaving.

A mom now myself, I can only fathom how hard that must have been for my own mother. Even writing this makes me choke up a little and want to go wake up my finally sleeping toddler to give her a little squeeze. Adventures like these are a little ways off for her, but I know they’ll be here before I know it. When they come I hope I’m half as gracious, brave, and encouraging as my mother was—my whole family, for that matter. And as my travels would tell: attempting to live in a new place is one of the best ways to bust out of one’s comfort zone.

This post is adapted from It’s Never Going To Work: A Tale of Art and Nonprofits in the Minneapolis Community illustrations by Athena Currier. ©2018 Jamie Schumacher.

It’s Never Going To Work is a light-hearted, illustrated book that offers real-life insights on founding a community space and nonprofit. It provides tools, tips, resources, and camaraderie to community organizers and anybody attempting something new.

Chapter Title - Mike Doughty.

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How To Balance While Climbing

Setting: Minneapolis, MN — August 2006

We tidied up after the Guerrilla Art exhibit opening and sat around for awhile talking. Roger Lootine was one of the featured artists, displaying zines and artwork from his cheeky and politically savvy Residue Comics series. Eventually it was me and Roger left, and we decided to continue our conversation about politics and art on the rooftop adjacent to the gallery. We headed to the back storage room, dusted the rust off the handle, opened the window, and climbed out to our roof.

“You get a decent view of the Northrup King Building from here,” I said. “The grain factory too, or whatever that is. All I know is that sometimes in the winter, it totally smells like cereal!”

“Does that go to the other roof?” he asked, pointing up.

“Yeah, but I haven’t been up there. The reliability of that ladder freaks me out a little.”
 
 “C’mon, let’s go!” he said cheerfully. (My friends are far more fearless than I am.)

And so we climbed, me much more cautiously.

“If you keep three points on at all times you’ll be way more secure as you work your way up,” he advised, quite correctly. And just like that, little by little, I found my way up the ladder all the way to the next rooftop and over once again. A killer view of downtown, a killer view of Northeast, and a kindred spirit to share it with. It doesn’t get much better.

Every so often, less often now than before, I get an email from a stranger asking to meet for coffee. To talk about how to start a nonprofit or how to open a gallery. I’d like to say I’ve always been generous with my time, but there was definitely a period when I shied away from meetings in general. Especially in the early years, there simply wasn’t enough of me to go around. I wanted deep down to be more open with my time, and I’m the kind of person that likes being busy, but the impact of saying yes to everything is not sustainable.

A few years later I took up bouldering and rock climbing, through which I learned even more about balancing. Even when you’re strapped in with a reliable belayer to help secure you, there’s always the hope you don’t fall. So you make sure your footing is steady and your grip is strong before you make the next move up the rock face. And sometimes it isn’t up — it’s sideways or even down and back up another way. Regardless of whether you’re working your way up, down, or over, balance is key if you want to make it out intact.

It has taken me years to learn how to do this with any small semblance of grace. It’s learning to say no politely, while still being as helpful as possible. It’s learning to know myself and keep open windows to fit folks in for meetings since that’s something I value. It’s learning to take time for myself and my family unapologetically, and being supportive when others do the same. It’s making sure my footing is sure and my balance is stable before I take the next step, much less help somebody else with taking theirs.

The best part of the gallery wasn’t always the exhibitions themselves: it was the edges, the after, the in-between spaces where I was able to connect with artists and colleagues like Roger. One of the most important lessons I learned from them was to not only check my footing, but also to trust myself.

Note to self: call Roger, say hi.