Andrea Wilson Woods' Blog

October 8, 2010

I’m sitting on a plane flying from Burbank, California, to Dallas, Texas, with a connection to Detroit to visit my husband who is working there. I have my usual window seat. As I look through the glass, I marvel that man is able to fly over the clouds in a big bird. You see, I’m looking at the wing of the airplane. I’m so close to the wing that I can read words such as “Hoist,” “No Step AFT,” and “Boost Pump.” I have no idea what these labels mean, but they must be important. These parts must matter, and I’m sure this plane cannot function without them.

The sky is hazy, but I can see the land—a chessboard of tan and sienna squares—below me. I don’t know what state we are flying over. I always like it when the captain announces that sort of thing, but they rarely do anymore. I imagine we are probably over New Mexico, maybe near the border, although I could be wrong. The clouds are behind us now. They resemble an island of ice with freshly powdered snow or a cluster of small cotton balls, the kind I use to wipe toner on my face.

I don’t know the number of times I have flown. I’ve lost track. I am an expert at the post-9/11 regulations that include three-ounce maximum liquids (mini liquor bottles are acceptable) in your carry-on bags as well as the removal of your shoes at security checks. I don’t know how many airports I’ve been to, but I have only traveled to four countries outside of the US: Canada, Mexico, Fiji, and Australia. I only count Canada and Mexico because I have flown as well as driven there on multiple occasions. Yet every time I enter a plane, I am in awe of what man can create. Think about it: we travel through air.

I cannot imagine what astronauts feel like in space or the ones who were fortunate enough to step on the moon. We take email for granted, but I remember a time when there were no answering machines, much less the Internet. My husband and I own hundreds of books, but people didn’t have that luxury until Gutenberg invented the printing press around 1440. I have spent my entire life reading books; my world would be empty without them. In my short 38 years, I have seen music evolve from records to eight tracks to cassettes to compact discs to downloads on mp3 players such as iPods. Innovation is man’s greatest gift to the world.

Perhaps sitting on a seat in an airplane is not as romantic as wearing a red cape or as exciting as riding a fantastical creature, but we humans are still flying over 30,000 feet above the ground. We ride in big birds to fly to faraway places. How lucky are we?

AWW — XoXo

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Since this blog is the second part of a series, I recommend reading Part One—the biker, the musician, and the driver before you meet the king and the volunteer.
On Friday, January 21, the first day during my third visit to Detroit, I had the pleasure of meeting Doug and George, the oldest and perhaps most interesting men of the five cool dudes from Detroit.

Doug the Art-Deco King
I met Doug Ramsey when I stumbled upon his shop Deco Doug located in the artsy section of Royal Oak, Michigan. Although his storefront is small, Doug’s shop is full of rare and authentic treasures such as a 1920s chandelier and a 1930s cash register that he uses to conduct business. He talks fondly of each item and can tell you exactly how he acquired it. When I jokingly asked if he took things from dead people (I had just seen the film Please Give), he responded, “No. Not usually.” I immediately fell in love with his dry wit.
Somehow, we started discussing how his business had declined when one of his biggest buyers, a General Motors bigwig, had become a father and no longer had as much discretionary income. Then Doug mentioned Google. According to him, someone from the company had come into his store to take pictures and put him on Google. The whole thing seemed suspicious to me and although Doug has some computer skills, his Internet knowledge seems limited. I asked him if he had a website or had sold his items on Ebay. He has considered creating the former and has bought stuff on the latter. He looked at me possibly sensing my growing excitement. “What could I sell on Ebay?” he asked.
“Something unique. Something celebrity.” I scanned the hundreds of items turning 360 degrees trying to find the perfect thing to illustrate my point. “THAT!” I pointed to the glass cabinet.
“What?” asked Doug as he peered through the glass trying to discern which item I meant.
“That baseball. You said 1930s—right? Signed by a famous ballplayer?” He nodded. “That is an Ebay item. You need to figure out which ones are … I dunno know maybe 10 or 15 percent of your inventory. The rest would be sold on your website.”
“I need a young person like you. Someone with your enthusiasm to get me going.” I smiled and gave him my card knowing that he won’t call me. Although I can write and edit web content, I cannot design his website. Not only does he need a web designer, but he also needs a photographer. Most of all, he needs a local energetic “young” person who appreciates his store and sees its future possibilities. Doug says if I ever move to Detroit that I should stop by again. I think we would make a great team.

George the Grumpy Volunteer
I actually met George for the first time when I visited the DIA in October. George volunteers at a desk just outside of the gift shop on the main floor. His primary duty is to print copies of any artwork that a patron requests, which I find incredible since most museums don’t offer this service.
Unfortunately, I caught George at a bad time that Friday night. He was swamped with requests. When I asked for a copy of Robert Henri’s The Young Girl, George muttered that he didn’t think he would have time. “Write it down,” he said shaking his head. “Come back later.” Later? The museum was closing in ten minutes. Not wanting to deal with Grumpy George again and sidetracked by Eugene taking me to the Rivera mural, I did not go back to retrieve the print. I had forgotten about George until my most recent trip.
Once again, I went to the DIA on a Friday night because they stay open until 10pm. Having already seen the permanent collection, I focused on the Fakes, Forgeries, and Mysteries exhibition. An hour before closing, I had viewed the exhibit, drank a vodka tonic, and bought too many books. Still wanting a print that wasn’t offered as a postcard in the gift shop, I decided to see George.
Thankfully, there was no line. Once again, I requested an Henri only this time I asked for The Beach Hat. George didn’t recognize the artist; in fact, he didn’t seem that familiar with art at all. He apologized for the slow computer, but I didn’t mind because we were talking. Since he mentioned being a child during the Great Depression, George must be in his eighties. He volunteers at the museum three days per week but only weekday afternoons and/or evenings. “I used to do mornings,” he said. “But the children. They’re so loud.” I nodded and told him I used to teach.
I showed George the books I had purchased, and his eyes lit up when he saw The Detroit Institute of Arts: A Brief History. “Now that’s a good buy.” George flipped through the book showing me the original DIA building. He remembers that it became the welfare department after the DIA moved to its current location on Woodward Avenue. Turning more pages, George pointed to one of the DIA’s most famous works: Rodin’s The Thinker. George says it was originally inside when the museum moved, but then it was placed it in front of the entrance. “Can you believe that? Outside? In this weather. Humph.” That’s when I realized that George cares about art. He cares about the museum. Most importantly, he cares about Detroit. As it turns out, he likes The Beach Hat.

I want to thank all five dudes Marcus, Eugene, Dana, Doug, and George for giving me their time, telling me about their lives, and educating me on a variety of topics from what it means to be Jamaican to how to survive a winter in Detroit. I love how eloquently Eugene’s friend describes Detroit, “[It] is an archipelago of interesting places in an urban sea of desolation.”

I would add, “inhabited by amazing people” between the words places and in.

AWW — XoXo

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During my three visits to Detroit, where my husband has been working on the television show Detroit 1-8-7, I have encountered many friendly folks. My mother has said from the time I could speak that I never met a stranger. My ability to talk to anyone has allowed me the privilege of meeting some interesting people over the years although my habit of speaking to strangers used to annoy my sister Adrienne. Why do you talk to everybody she would ask. You don’t even know those people. However, her complaints never stopped me from chatting with salespeople, drivers, or anyone else who seemed amusing.

What Adrienne didn’t understand was if I was talking to people, I was in a “good” place. With the exception of one person, I met all of these men during my visit last month, which tells me I am letting down my guard, coming out of hibernation, and joining the world again. If I had stayed underground, I would have missed the opportunity to know them. From youngest to oldest, meet the biker, the musician, and the driver.

Marcus the Jamaican Biker
I met Marcus at the Detroit Institute of Art (DIA), one of my favorite places in Detroit. He is completing an internship at the DIA as part of his undergraduate education, which includes architecture and business classes. A first-generation American, Marcus moved from Florida to Detroit in order to attend school. He intrigued me with good looks and easygoing nature, but he also educated me on what it means to be Jamaican. For example, when I complained about the cold weather and how the heat in my rental SUV (GMC Acadia) didn’t seem to work, he said I know what you mean; I ride my bike every day.
“As in bicycle?” I asked. He nodded as if riding a bicycle in the snow was the most common thing in the world. When he made a joke about being Jamaican that I didn’t get, I asked him to explain.
“In Jamaica,” he said, “you’re expected to have four jobs by the time you’re 12. Otherwise you’re lazy. You work hard. Everyone works hard. I only have one job besides this one [internship] and school so I can’t complain about riding my bike. Besides, it’s not so bad.”
Wow. Even though I have always been a hard worker, I owned a car at Marcus’s age (approximately 20), and I would never ride a bike in the snow. Then again, I’m not Jamaican.

Eugene the Nice Musician
Of all of the cool D-dudes, Eugene is the only man I met last year, and he is the closest to my age. I went out to Tallulahs with my husband’s coworker’s girlfriend—a girl’s night-out gone wrong. I like Nadia, but I spent the first hour with her standing on my feet and nodding my head as I listened to her tell me her entire life story. To be fair, I was in my Funky Fall Blues phase. However, once we sat at the bar, Nadia turned her attention to a man, and I was off the hook, which is how I met Eugene. He happened to be standing next to me.
Eugene gives off a “Nice, harmless, well-mannered” vibe. As soon as he said hello, I knew he wasn’t going to act inappropriate. (Sometimes, a wedding ring presents a challenge to the opposite sex.) Soon, we were immersed in conversation where we discovered we had many things in common. Eugene is a teacher; he showed me the Silly Bandz on his wrist that his students had given him. I laughed as I attempted to figure out the shape of each band, and I found it charming that he wore them in public. Eugene is also a musician with his own company Telepathic 3-D Productions.
When Eugene asked me about my plans for the next day, I told him that I was going to the DIA. I was looking forward to it because I didn’t get to see it during my first visit to the city the previous month. Imagine my surprise when Eugene said, “I work there tomorrow night. I help with the Drop-In Workshops. We’re making sugar skulls for Día de Los Muertos. Day—”
I interrupted him, “Day of the Dead.”
He laughed. “Yes. Oh, of course, you know what it means. You live in Los Angeles.” I didn’t tell him how much the holiday reminds me of Adrienne. “You should come by and make a sugar skull,” he said.
Although I opted not to make a sugar skull, I did contact Eugene the next day when I arrived at the museum. I saw him and his friend Charles supervise the children in the workshop. Eugene gave me tips on specific exhibits, got me a huge discount at the gift shop, and showed me the Diego Rivera mural, which I had somehow missed. Being the perfect gentleman, he walked me to my car. Besides being a nice, polite, intelligent, Midwestern guy who owns his own home and makes a decent living, he gives tours of Detroit. If you are interested, email him and use me as a reference.

Dana the Dynamic Driver
I met Driver Dana at the end of my trip. A kind, large man with a warm smile, Driver Dana works for Thrifty car rental, and he drove me to the Detroit airport. Since only he and I were in the shuttle, I started talking to him. I told him how much I liked the name Dana for a man.
“Really?” he asked as if I wasn’t being sincere.
“Sure,” I said, “It’s just like Tracy or Kelley. Gender neutral. Cool and interesting.”
“Well, I’m actually two out of four.”
“What?” From there, he explained that he was named after his godfather Dana, but then his godfather named his son Dana. Okay, three. Then Driver Dana named his son Dana. Four.
“And you all hang out together?” I asked.
“Yep,” he smiled as he turned into the airport.
“How do you, ya know, tell each other apart when saying someone’s name?”
“Oh,” he laughed, “I’m Little Dana, and he’s Big Dana.” Somehow I knew he meant Big Dana was his godfather, but I wanted to ask if his son was Little Dana Jr. And what about Big Dana’s son, Dana? Was he Big Dana II? And why, did a man who seemed so unsure about his name choose the same one for his son who must feel lost in the sea of Danas? In that family, Dana might as well be Chris.
Driver Dana and I talked about other subjects including the dreadful demise and hopeful resurrection of Detroit. He watches Detroit 1-8-7 and he thought it was cool that my husband works on the show. He laughed about my “Detroit jacket” and my plan to stuff it in my suitcase as soon as I got inside. As we said goodbye, he added, “You tell your husband he has a sweet wife.” Will do, Little Dana.

As the first three of the five cool Detroit dudes, Marcus, Eugene, and Dana are under 50 years old and part of the Millennial or Gen X generations respectively.
During the next installment of Five Cool Dudes from Detroit: Part Two—the king and the volunteer, you will meet two older men from the Baby Boom and Silent generations who express their passion for art in different ways.

AWW — XoXo

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After visiting the MOCA and seeing the Geffen, I was exhausted and hungry, but my learning to love LA journey was far from over. As I left the Geffen, I spotted the National Center for the Preservation of Democracy, and I loved the picture in the window. In my opinion, it qualifies as art. The artist who created the poster seemed inspired by Barbara Kruger’s style.

Right next door, I discovered one of the most beautiful Buddhist temples that I have ever seen—not that I am Buddhist or spent my spare time in temples. However, the ornate architecture of the historic Nishi Hongwanji Buddhist temple would inspire even the most devout atheist. This temple was the first home of the Japanese American National Museum, which moved to an 85,000-square-foot pavilion across from the temple in 1999. Many years ago, my husband and I saw the most amazing exhibit there titled September 11: Bearing Witness to History. One of the most difficult, yet moving, experiences was listening to recordings of the passengers on United Airlines Flight 93 when they realized that terrorists had hijacked the plane. The ensuing madness that followed—scuffling, shouting, screaming, praying, and the good-byes—brought tears to my eyes.

Still starving, I stumbled around Little Tokyo determined to find some food. I figured anything was better than the greasy sandwich from EJ’s Grill that I had refused to eat for lunch. I chose Daikokuya because it was one of the few restaurants already open for dinner. When I walked in, I saw that I was the only non-Japanese person in the entire place, which I took as a good sign that my meal would be terrific. I ordered shrimp and vegetable tempura, which came with miso soup, salad, and white rice. I drank the tastiest iced green tea. The entire dinner cost me $14 including tip, and I couldn’t even finish it because I was too full. I highly recommend Daikokuya for its excellent food, good service, and low prices.

As I made my way back to the Metro, I thought about my day. I had done everything that I would do in a different city: I rode public transportation, I occasionally got lost, I visited art museums, I discovered interesting artists, I ate at unfamiliar restaurants, and I walked everywhere. Since I was in the midst of EMAO, I wore a pedometer all day, and I logged 4.95 miles in my Skechers Shape-Ups. At various times, I was tired, cold, or hungry—issues that always occur when I am excited in new surroundings.*

Overall, I consider the day successful. Including food, transportation, and museum fees, I spent a grand total of $23.25. The day was cheap by LA standards although I confess that I used my graduate student ID to receive $5 off the museum admission price. The only thing that burst my renewed love for LA was seeing a junkie on the train. I watched this skinny young man in his dirty, torn jeans and once-upon-a-time white t-shirt. He nervously looked around, dipped his finger into a “pack of cigarettes” and then rubbed his nose with white dust. His eyes darted and I knew staring directly at him was probably a bad idea so I looked over his shoulder. He was trying to be inconspicuous, but it’s hard to miss a twitching addict shoving cocaine up his nose in public.

I sighed as the reality of LA smacked me in the face. I realize addicts are everywhere, but I naively imagine that they hide in the shadows in small towns. Perhaps I am wrong. I was so preoccupied observing the cokehead that I took the wrong train. I had to double-back on the purple line to get back to the red line to return home. When I exited the North Hollywood Metro Station and saw the Amelia Earhart mural, I smiled. Last flight indeed.

I will never love the Land of Angels the way I used to in my youth. One day I will leave … I will take that last flight … and when I return, I will be a visitor. Only then will I once again appreciate Los Angeles for everything it has to offer … because I will no longer live here.

AWW — XoXo

*As long as exhaustion, coldness, and hunger don’t happen at the same time, it’s all good. However, when the triple threat occurs, I become Mrs. Hyde and frighten people.

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I apologize for taking too long to complete the Learning to Love LA (again) series that I started on April 21. I have so many blog ideas that I often get distracted, but I’m determined to finish the last two posts because I love art and because I need to love LA again. For a reminder of where I last left off, I recommend reading Part Three—Visiting the MOCA.

I didn’t know it when I planned my excursion, but apparently when you buy a ticket to the Los Angeles Museum of Contemporary Art (MOCA), you receive free admission to The Geffen Contemporary. A DASH ride away, the Geffen includes pieces from MOCA’s permanent collection as well as touring exhibitions. Of course, I was there to see the Collection: MOCA’s First Thirty Years. I have selected some of my favorite pieces as well as my least favorite for your reading and viewing pleasure.

I was immediately drawn to Richard Hawkins‘ Disembodied Zombie Skeet Pink. The inkjet print transforms actor Skeet Ulrich into multiple dimensions, as the piece has a 3-D feel to it. What I like most about Skeet Pink is that it seems like an odd representation of me and my sister Adrienne. At first glance, it appears dark, edgy, mysterious, but if you look closer, you will discover the playfulness, the sensitivity, the woe. When I turned my back, I could feel Skeet’s empty eyes following me.

Barbara Kruger’s Untitled (It’s a small world but not if you have to clean it) is pop art at its best. At 143 x 103 inches, this photographic silkscreen on vinyl covers an entire wall; it’s impossible to miss. With the magnifying glass held against her eye, the woman seems to stare directly at you and the message seems specifically for you. With “small” and “world” in a much larger font and the half-opened smile, you sense Kruger’s intended irony. Even the title—Untitled—with the real title in parentheses mocks you, but I love it when art and the artist make me laugh.

Jean-Michel Basquiat’s Six Crimee, a 72 x 144-inch acrylic and oil stick on masonite piece, scares me. When I first saw the green imagery with black scrawls that resemble people, I thought—Basquiat looked into my brain and captured my nightmares. The numbers and lines and halos made me shudder. You know how there are certain words that always have a negative connotation? Well, I think the same idea holds true in art. Six Crimee is cold, empty, grim, and frightening. I don’t like it, but I kept going back to see the dark side of my dreams.

Initially, John Baldessari’s Two Highrises (with Disruptions)/ Two Witnesses (Red and Green) appears to be an odd tribute to the terrorist attacks on 9/11—except that he created this 98 x 68-inch piece in 1990. Composed of color photographs and vinyl paint, Two Highrises/Two Witnesses forces you to think about the situation. Where are the people standing? Are they watching the event happen in front of them? Why are their faces blocked out? If red means stop and green means go, what does that say about the two highrises that explode into flames? I don’t have any of the answers, but I enjoy art that makes me question the world around me.

My nomination for the worst piece of “art” in MOCA’s collection (far worse than Cy Twombly) goes to Thomas Hirschhorn’s Non-Lieux (meaning non-site or non-places). Hirschhorn says, “I don’t make political art; I make art politically.” Well, I say he makes crap. Unlike the Baldessari piece, this mountain of candle wax (didn’t my friend make this “art” in college?) complete with a photographic collage and flags bearing the word democracy is a tribute to 9/11, and I’m sure it took a long time to finish. However, as I used to tell my students, you are not graded on effort, you earn your score based on your work. Despite Hirschhorn’s attempt to visually capture the various facets of the aftermath of 9/11, he gets an “F” in my book.

To see more artists and their works, I recommend viewing my MOCA Picasa Web album.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. Learning to Love LA (again): Part Five—Ending the Day is coming soon! (No seriously, it is.)

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