Jackson's Michigan Theater

I drove 35 minutes yesterday to snap pictures in Jackson. Would you believe I've never been to Jackson that I can recall?

I just walked Michigan Avenue a few blocks. It was cold.

As I was walking by the Michigan Theater on Mechanic St., a nice man stepped out and invited me to come in and take pictures inside. They were setting up for the play "Issues" last evening. I didn't get good photos of the setup because of poor lighting. But I sure enjoyed seeing this 75-year-old theater that's being refurbished.

As this web site says, "The Michigan Theatre, the last and largest theatre built in downtown Jackson, opened April 30, 1930. It was built for the mainstream popular entertainment of the day -- vaudeville and movies. For just pennies, the public was treated like royalty as it passed under a glittering marquee into a Hollywood fantasyland. The building's exotic Spanish style, lavish interior plasterwork, ornate polychrome terra cotta facade, carved walnut furniture, plush wool carpeting, heavy damask draperies, stained glass light fixtures, and oil paintings entertained the patrons as much as the attractions on the stage and screens. It was the first air conditioned building in downtown Jackson and offered a place to escape the summer heat."

Happy St. Patrick's Day

During the week, I do most of the cooking and menu planning. On weekends, Don usually cooks me breakfast. Today, he cooked this gorgeous Irish breakfast:

- bacon cooked crisp

- poached eggs on crumpets

- broiled tomatoes

Don and I are both sad, because we don't think he'll be able to go to Ireland with me for work this summer.

But today at least, we'll celebrate the Irish by eating well.

Tom Bissell's fourth book!

I found out today at a college retreat that my former classmate in poetry class at MSU was written up in the New York Times book section for his new book THE FATHER OF ALL THINGS:
A Marine, His Son, and the Legacy of Vietnam.

"At the beginning of this fine book, Tom Bissell asks the obvious question: 'More than 30,000 books on Vietnam are currently in print. Why another?'” You can read the whole review here.

Photo from the New York Times.

authenticity

I’m in one of those periods when my mind is shuffling information chaotically. It does this periodically when I’m studying something new. I just let it go, shuffle on, work on it, whatever it is. Even my nights seem filled with chaotic dreams.

What it’s working on, with some intentional input from my conscious mind, and some good hard study, is photography.

Yes, I’m studying technique (lighting, composition, white balance, etc.). But I’m also studying what’s happening in the “fine art” photography world. I’m no expert, I’ve just begun this pursuit. But it’s reminding me of what I studied and learned (and still am) about poetry:

~ Don’t use clichés.
~ That photo of a flower, so what?
~ What is beautiful?
~ What’s been done already?
~ What’s new about your perspective?
~ Is it honest, authentic?

Questions are raised about the whole nature of aesthetics, art and whether beauty is the point of photography? Is it MY point?

In the elite world of photography, even the winners of the photoblogs awards this year, the photographers are often, may I say usually, not in the category of “wow, that’s a beautiful photo,” but rather in the category of, wow, that is really interesting, that’s a new way of looking at that particular subject.

Here are some examples:

Jeff Wall

Hannah Kvist

And check out the photobloggie winners.

So, as an artist, within the larger context of the world of the arts, I want to figure out, what is my authentic “voice”? Do I care what's considered by critics GOOD? In poetry writing, in photography. We all have influences, those who have gone before who leave their mark on our work. How do I choose them? How do I make what I love about their work my own?

And then, how do I find an audience who appreciates my expressions? Because after all, I’m not just doing this for myself.

This is the chaos in my brain. But writing it out here helps.

Into the Irish Hills

Thanks to Ingrid and her man's recommendations, I drove about an hour into the Irish Hills area on my day off today, to explore some places I've never seen.

In spite of a cold and a sore throat, I enjoyed the leisurely trip and stopped on Route 52 to snap some interesting scenes along the way.




My first destination was Hidden Lake Gardens, just outside Tipton, owned and operated by MSU. The air is starting to warm up, so not once did I shiver as I wandered a bit around the pond, and in the conservatory. This swan took a nap on the ice for a while.





The amaryllis are in bloom, and they dominated one of the conservatory rooms.




After the gardens, I drove a few minutes down the road to Tecumseh for lunch at the British Pantry and Tea Room Café. I drank jasmine tea,





ate lobster bisque soup, a beef pasty and profiteroles for dessert.




They're filled with English cream. I couldn't finish all that and brought LOTS home to Don. I'm serious.


After that delicious and satisfying lunch I drove another short drive to McCourtie Park in Somerset Center. William H. L. McCourtie turned his estate into this park.


There are seventeen of these bridges -- each a different design - which look like they're made of wooden logs, but they're all made of cement. The detail on each one is amazing and even more impressive in person.

This purple martin house is gigantic (and made of wood, not cement) and can hold up to 200 birds! Didn't see any. I did see a crane flying low but couldn't keep him in my frame.

The only thing that would have made this day better would have been to share it. Next time I'll take Don with me. Or you?

I need your help

First, I was so moved by Nathalie's reference to my last post at her blog and to all the visitors who were touched by Robert Busby's story. It truly shows that what we do has an impact. Many thanks to Nathalie, and to all of you.

~ ~ ~ ~

This is a short work week for me, since it is spring break for our students, and I played hookie Monday and will again Friday.

I had an adventure at Lake Michigan Monday in the ice and snow (visit my Flying photoblog for the particulars).

Now I need help planning another outing Friday. Any ideas?

Criteria:

- No more than 3 hours drive

- Photographic opportunities

- No beaches, please (whew!)

Robert Busby

Robert Busby owned the Creole Gallery in Lansing, in a part of the city called Old Town, of which he was sometimes called “mayor” because he encouraged and invested in it more than anyone, including art galleries, restaurants, boutiques, specialty shops, a jazz festival, wine festival and countless other community endeavors.

Two years ago I took part in a poetry reading at the Creole. Last year my son and his musical partner joined David Mead in a concert there. Mr. Busby invited the artists up to his refurbished loft apartment for a glass of wine and a visit before the show.

He was the loveliest of men, full of energy and enthusiasm for his community. His gallery has been a small, charming venue for artists of every type for years. I loved reading my poems there, with the old hardwood floors, distressed brick walls with paintings hanging, an eclectic artistic attitude and an audience that appreciated it all.

I don’t know what will happen to it now.

Robert Busby was beaten to death Tuesday in the basement of his gallery, apparently by his handyman, a man whom he had helped out for a long time. No motive has been discovered, nor may it ever be, since his alleged killer took his own life after the police chase.

Thank you for spending a moment with me in gratitude for a man who blessed his community with his presence, resources, time, energy, kindness, and love.

Thank you, Robert, for everything you did for us. For who you were. For who you are.

Both photos borrowed from the Lansing State Journal.