In its first cycle, City Love Song was an improvised story about New York which was performed in 24 cities around America. In its second cycle, City Love Song is a portrait of America, drawn from those 24 cities and the railroad tracks between them, which Jack will be taking to 13 cities around the world.
- If you’re in the Cities, you can’t skip breakfast at Mickey’s.
Madison may have been my homecoming, but the Twin Cities are where I was born. Beloved friends and family members live there. St. Paul is the bed in which my roots were cultivated.
- At least one part of your breakfast should pass through this press.
Chastened by a disjointed and tense performance in Appleton, I arrived in the Twin Cities eager to reclaim that sure sense of self and work that had been found in Chicago and Madison. Visiting with cousins and others began to loosen these knots I had tied within myself.
My arrival coincided with the St. Paul Fall Art Crawl, a happy stroke of good fortune: a modest registration fee put City Love Song into a widely-distributed catalog and me in the company of numerous artists. Better still, I had as my guide the tireless, indefatigable force behind St. Paul City Ballet: Georgia Finnegan Amdahl, who happens to be my dear aunt and kindred artist spirit.
She gave me use of the historic Grand Avenue studio (current home of SPC Ballet) and put me in touch with the good people at Studio Z, who were hosting an Art Crawl showcase. I would give a preview performance on Friday, and have full use of a beautiful space all afternoon on Sunday.
- The toast which eventually emerges from the box-robot at left is chewed up and spat out in a wet glop by cast members. Repeatedly.
Studio Z is in the Northwestern Building, a large artists’ co-operative that was originally built as the Chicago, St. Paul, Minneapolis & Omaha Railroad Building, which is a lot to call anything. I arrived early to check out the space and offer a hand if needed. Everything was well-situated, so after visiting a few adjoining studios I took a seat to observe and support the other performers (and maybe inspire them by my example to stick around for mine–didn’t work, though).
These acts ranged from the wack (performance art always walks a thick, thick line between brilliance and complete inanity) to the sublime: Craig Evans and Debbie Sorensen-Boeh reeled out a too-short set of terrific bluegrass on banjo and fiddle. So good, in fact, that I immediately purchased the CD they offered, which has since provided music for Scenes from America and the MLKDay Shout for Love video. The recordings are good. Live, these two are great.
7:30 was my scheduled slot and at 7:15 the artist following me had not appeared, so I was granted ten of his allotted fifteen minutes. At 7:25 my Uncle Ken burst into the room taking gulps of air–he had run from the car, fearing he’d be late. My heart swelled at his appearance! I anticipated most of the people I knew to attend the full show Sunday, and hoped only to catch some new ears at the showcase. Now I had family in the room, and nearly half an hour to play with.
A few others wandered in so I began some loose dialogue to pin them down. This worked, and it helped me too, since it provided a relaxed, easy-going introduction to the story. I rolled into it without announcement or pause, and those in the room remained engaged throughout. I found this so encouraging that I relaxed to the point of vocally recruiting any passersby who peeked into the studio’s open doorway. I might have taken this a step too far–I can clearly recall the widening eyes of a plump woman in the fourth row–Get on with the show, her pinwheeling forearms told me, and I promptly obliged her. Though I only presented pieces of the story, I left that night feeling I had reclaimed the right to call myself a storyteller.
- Uncle Ken helps ready the space for performance. Note: this is the only caption in this post which doesn’t reference breakfast.
Sunday came and there again was Uncle Ken, this time readying the Grand Avenue dance studio for my performance. My aunt couldn’t attend–she was producing an event in Madison–but a good number of cousins, aunts and uncles would be present. Aunt Pat and Uncle Chuck arrived with cookies and juice (!), and more than one family member brought friends. Introductions and conversation ensued, interrupted only by the arrival of a slightly-hesitant middle-aged man and his grown daughter. They looked at us and we at them, the pause in conversation like a bell jar over the studio lobby, and then we descended en masse with cookies and brownies and smiles and handshakes. The young woman was a prospective student at nearby Macalaster College, and after touring the campus had seen people filing into the dance studio. She and her father had come over to find out what was going on and happily, they stayed for the show.
With these kind strangers and the others in place, I began. Performance is work, but it’s meant to be the fun part–it’s what all the other work is building toward. This performance was a littler gentler, its pace steady. The tale itself remained sturdy, well-supported, the details clean. I remembered my role and had access to my skills. It helped to be surrounded by supportive people, especially now: my next stop was Fargo, where I didn’t know a soul.
