Things Worth Skipping Sleep for in Seattle: part 2

                                                                          FILSON

Not everything has left. Some things have stuck around, like the image of grunge rockers wearing flannel shirts. These are the same plaid shirts worn by Brooklyn lumberjacks circa 2009.

You can thank Seattle. They birthed the fashion long before Mother Love Bone became Pearl Jam. Long before anyone anywhere else.

Pendleton in Portland didn’t start making wool shirts till 1924.

Carhart was founded in 1889 but they were all about overalls and that canvas coat.

L.L. Bean was just inventing their boots in 1911

Filson started manufacturing wool clothing to outfit Klondike prospectors and lumberjacks in 1897. I, because I naturally claim the authority to do so, award the title of first flannel shirt maker, to Filson.

Now sure the fabric was around before them, and it was even made into shirts, but there is no other existing American manufacturer who has been making what we think of as the plaid flannel shirt longer, or in a place more directly associated with that clothing item, than Filson in Seattle.

Today the catalog features cowboys and fisherman, but the shop floor is populated with Brooklyn style sales associates, which suited me just fine. Their stuff is heavy, bulletproof, and so far beyond my price range that the only item I left with, or that I can afford to own, was a little button pin the size of a penny.

It cost $2.

The other stuff is well worth the price, but it is hefty.

 

I myself am quite hefty.

I got this way in large part by enjoying a good meal. Seattle accommodated…

[continued tomorrow]

Things Worth Skipping Sleep for in Seattle: part 1

I realized on the plane that the only things I knew about Seattle were based in the early 90’s. This makes sense as the Emerald City’s golden age coincided with my own coming of age but what surprised me just a little was the empty gap between then, and my now middle age.

Granted, the Seahawks did win a Super Bowl between then and now, yet in my mind, and I might argue most minds, Marshawn Lynch and Richard Sherman were the whole story there. So much so that for all I can remember the Seahawks might have played all their games in Sherman’s back yard- in some undisclosed American town.

If I try real hard I can remember the show Frazier, but no one remembers Frazier until after they remember Cheers, and that is all Boston. And, if anyone remembers Cheers they will either remember Sam Malone or Woody, then maybe the Red Sox, and none of that will lead you back to Seattle.

Wait, but if you think of Woody, you will drift over to Toy Story, which is Tom Hanks, who was in Sleepless in Seattle, so maybe you can get back to that town- but only if you do so by also going back to 1993.

And that is a bit of a shame since the place is worth a visit.

I knew about the place where they toss the fish, and back in 1992 I went up to the top of the Space Needle, but what I didn’t know was that at the base of that tall pointy tower is something even better.

MoPop, or the Museum of Pop Culture.  

It looks a lot like the Disney Concert Hall on the outside, but the inside is much more Nirvana than Beethoven. Literally.

There I saw Kurt Cobain’s cardigan, Eddie Vedder’s demo tapes, and a whole pile of guitar’s broken by both of them. I also saw Jimmy Hendrix’s guitar from Woodstock,

Prince’s blouse,

Spock’s shirt, The Wicked Witch of the West’s hat, the Hobbit’s sword, the Swamp Thing’s face, The Shining’s axe, and a six fingered glove from the Princess Bride.

It was fascinating, enjoyable, and oddly validating that they had artifacts from all sorts of pop culture things from when and wherever, but when it came to things from Seattle, they only had the things I remembered.

Except the Sonics. I cannot forget the “X-Man” Xavier McDaniel terrorizing the Jazz. But both he, and the team, have left town.

But not everything has left…

[continued tomorrow]

The Mote and Beam of Race in America

If you are a white American, who feels blamed for all that is wrong with America, and you are getting tired of it- I understand. I know that feeling. I get it.

Some of you, or us, might have actually been called a honkie, or a cracker, but most of us have not. Most of us have never been accused of racism, or called a racist to our face. But we get that message on television, online, or in classrooms and books. It is out there. Most of us, with very few and far out exceptions, don’t hate anyone because of their color, and in fact, quite like and appreciate people of all sorts and descriptions. We know who we are on the inside and it is so very tiring to be told by others that we are something different. Something bad. Because we aren’t that.

 

Right.

 

I invite you, us, to just ponder this feeling for a moment. How despite not being directly accused, as in no person has said “{insert your name here} you are a racist and black people have it hard in America because you {insert your name} make it that way”, we still feel that blame. This message in the atmosphere causes us to feel a burden and shame that we either have to reject or bear. It does not feel right and that feeling takes a toll.

 

Now, having pondered that reality and that feeling, I ask you to consider, or imagine, what it must feel like for any average black person to live in America. Imagine being a black American who goes to a school named after Robert E. Lee, or whose neighbor flies a confederate flag, or whose town square has a statue commemorating the confederacy. Perhaps none of these things, or none of the people responsible for their existence, are there calling this black person the N-word, and maybe no one has refused them a job because they are black, but still, there is in this environment, a bad atmosphere. There is, and are, these physical manifestations that might not say “I hate you”, explicitly but rather just celebrate these people, or symbols, or times, that considered you, the black person, less than human. Just imagine how in every history class, on every 4th of July, before every sporting event, or every time you pay for something with cash, there are physical celebrations of individuals and times, that considered you, the black person, equal to animals and property. No one around you seems to care, or even notice.

 

No one is saying to this contemporary black American that they are an animal or less than human- but the face on that quarter said it.

 

Would that get tiring?

 

If you are a white person, like I am, and you feel the pressure or the angst or the frustration of being blamed or defamed, consider for a minute there are no government monuments in your life honoring Farrakhan or Elijah Muhammed. The United States of America has no holiday or currency that honors anyone who expressed an explicit hatred for, or belief in the inferiority of, you.

Nothing in your day to day life, puts you naturally in the position of honoring or paying homage to a person or institution, that explicitly and with federal sanction demeaned you.

 

The more I consider this, the more I think things are not the same. It isn’t an equivalent. I might still have some feelings, I for one have indeed been called all those names and been directly accused (in my mind unjustified), but even considering that I must admit that what I bear is far less significant, or even existent, than what my surroundings say to black people all the time.

 

It is like comparing a wisp of a ghost to the Secret Service. Neither really have anything to do with me or have any direct influence on my life, but I know one exists and can be touched, but I can’t really prove the other. One is obvious and indisputable, even if it doesn’t know me, while the other might just only be in my head.

 

So I, and we, the white folks, have this experience and this feeling, but I urge us to use this feeling to better understand, and perhaps empathize, but absolutely respect, those people, especially the black people, who choose to kneel during the anthem, who ask for statues to come down, who lobby for streets and schools to be renamed, or all of those people who might complain about something that you or we might consider insignificant or imagined, and just understand how big the beam is in our eyes. We cannot refuse or ignore or deride those who point out the tangible, when we ourselves harbor ghosts.

Black History Month: Black Face and Fried Chicken

In 1925 a Utah businessman having just sold his car dealership was looking for a new venture. Having a good sense of his market he moved from selling cars into selling fried chicken.

He opened a cabaret restaurant and called it “The Coon Chicken Inn”.coonchickencover

The spot’s décor featured a black face minstrel, complete with over-sized grin, bright red lips, and a winking eye. The icon was plastered on all of its menus, the napkins, the catering delivery trucks, and then there was the front door. Patrons entered the establishment by walking through the mouth of a gigantic black-faced minstrel head.17540556_1

The owner wasn’t making business choices based in some specific hatred for any one person, or out of spite toward a group of people, he was just looking for something he thought would work. Something that would sell. And it did.

The place was popular enough in Utah that the owners were able to open franchises in Portland and Seattle. Now this is not to say that no one thought it offensive or wrong. In fact the NAACP sued the restaurant claiming their theme was racist. Because it was. But the owners, and the general white population, simply didn’t care.nwedodgessuit.jpg

In response, and to avoid further litigation, the Coon chicken Inn painted the black-face blue.

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When sued for being racist, the ownership chose a technicality sort of solution rather than ending the racism. The NAACP were not pleased but the courts were satisfied and the local public never cared in the first place. People kept eating there till 1957.

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Black face has never not been racist, but it was, and has been, acceptable by the general white American public for more than a century. Racism was not just in the South, nor was it just the way some people treated black people. Racism, or anti-blackness, was a pervasive part of American culture- like apple pie and baseball.

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That does not go away over night. The ripple effect carries consequences well into our day and when we, us now, are confronted with those consequences we would do well to consider for whom we are concerned. Are we more worried about the careers of white politicians or the day to day lives and status of black people?

 

 

Jane and Emma: the movie

There is a scene in the new movie Jane and Emma where Emma, the wife of Joseph Smith, realizes, or learns, that her “friend” Jane, a free black woman, had moved away from the newly built city of Nauvoo Illinois, to escape racists. This scene isn’t simply meaningful in that it acknowledges racism in 1840’s America, but because of the way it acknowledges the racism that existed in that New Jerusalem destination of religious converts to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. Jane, propelled by her religious convictions had walked 800 miles to get to Nauvoo only to find that Zion was, for the most part, still America.

But that was just one little scene in a movie that is about so much more. The plot of Jane and Emma takes place over the span of one fictionalized night in Emma’s home. Joseph, having just been publicly murdered by a mob is laid out under a sheet on a table and an understandably emotional Emma is trying to come to grips with her personal loss. Jane, unaware of Joseph’s death shows up on the doorstep having been drawn there by some lingering impression and compulsion she cannot explain. The two women spend the night watching out in fear that enemies will come in the night and steal the prophet’s body, and sub sequentially work through their relationship. I’m not sure how you make a movie that only covers one night in which (spoiler alert) nothing actually happens- yet they pulled it off.

Well, really, Danielle Deadwyler and Emily Gross, who play Jane and Emma, pull it off. Deadwyler took a character most people have never heard of and nailed it so hard that I left the theater telling my daughters, “Her! You be her! That is what we are all trying to grow up to be.” Gross took on the role of Emma, who has a problematic reputation within Mormonism, and left the viewer with a new level of understanding and compassion for this complex woman. That alone was worth admission.

But the greatest triumph of this movie was that the writers and producers created a product set in an 1840’s America city and church and let two women remain the driving forces and central characters. They were not secondary, they were not existing to support a man, they were themselves and the story stayed theirs the entire time. Joseph existed, Jane had a love interest, but they weren’t the point.

Mostly, Jane is the point.

Jane was a real person. She, like so many people around her, lived a hard life. What made Jane so remarkable was that despite the hardships, and so many of those hardships were manufactured and put upon her by those who shared her faith, was that she simply could not be crushed. She never stopped pushing forward for what she knew was true or right. She stuck with her faith even when it looked like they were all in the wrong. She stuck with the faith when the faith effectively rejected her. She was not there for them she was there for truth. And in the end, time has proven that she was in fact, right.

My Modern Man’s Modest Wish List: stuff I don’t have but should- part 1

Occasionally I drift into materialistic dreams of stuff that I believe would make my life, and myself, better.

I do not have these things in part because of the specificity of my tastes, but also, because I maintain a modest budget that leans more toward necessities. My real challenge in life is finding ways to make the following items necessary.

The items in question are:

Solidly made, water resistant, steel banded wristwatch.

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Black running shoes, no colored trim, no bulging or bubbling soles.

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Plain brown, no extra zippers, no colored trim, high collared, leather racing jacket.

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Brown leather, no adornments, waterproof, hiking boots.

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All black, no colored trim, backpacking backpack.

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Black sub freezing sleeping bag.

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Desert tan pack packing tent.

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Navajo blanket.

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Wooden longboard.

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Two, leather and wood, Kala armchairs.

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Original, large scale painting by Gregg Deal.

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1st edition 1891 copy of American Football by Walter Camp.

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I am somewhat surprised I am still alive without these things.

What It Takes To Get What I Want

Over the years and through a lot of experience I have learned a few useful things. One of the most useful, or the most widely applicable, is that in order to get what I want, I have to go and get it. Not in the simple work hard toward a goal sort of thing, but much more in a stop sitting there with your hand raised waiting to be called or chosen, because you will never get picked. So instead stand up and go grab, or do, whatever you want. Don’t wait for permission, don’t wait your turn, just do it. Because my turn never came up.sitting in nook reading

I know now that one of the major reasons I never got my turn, at least not in the way I always dreamed, is because no matter what I knew, or could do, no one knew who I was. Nor did they really care who I was- or am. I realize now that my ability to do anything- absolutely anything- has always been limited by the people around me. I have never met an astronaut, and as it turns out, it is very hard to become an astronaut if you do not, nor does anyone around you know, an astronaut- or at least someone working on the human side of the space program. Now I recall being told lots of prerequisites, or told of the appropriate path to one day being eligible for being launched into space, but I know now that they were in reality just guessing, or passing along the guesses, of others. They didn’t really know and I was absolutely never going to be an astronaut.

And yet someone out there still gets to be an astronaut.
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What I was and have always been most likely to become, was a school teacher. There was by proximity always the chance I could be a police officer, a CPA, or a low level manager in any variety of businesses where I would be tasked with numerous duties that would be hard to explain to a suburban adolescent and even more impossible to make interesting to such a person. Because growing up, those were the people surrounding me, and the people I knew.

I guess there was a chance, thanks to the unique characteristics of my school teacher father, that I might have become a hermit living in the woods, an auto mechanic, or maybe even a cowboy, but I had no true interest in those things. I was sort of interested in art. I was pretty good at drawing, and though my father was in fact an art teacher, I knew no working artists- other than teachers. I had other interests as well, but my experience, environment, and the advice coming from those I knew, told me that none of the things I was interested in would ever feed a family, which was my primary duty, and were best given up or at least relegated to hobbies. This was practical advice, and from any of our experiences, it was true. So I settled.ol chap

Eventually I moved. And I started, intentionally, meeting new people. I wanted to do new things. I wanted to do things that were interesting and meaningful, or even just more in line with the things I was best at, and I started to just go for it. I did most all of this unsupervised and un mentored, which is to say I probably did most of it poorly. Yet some of it worked. For instance, it never occurred to me that I could attend an Ivy League school. Quite the opposite really. In fact, to my knowledge I never even met anyone who attended an Ivy League School till, as an adult, I moved to Philadelphia. Once there I met plenty of very impressive, yet still human, students and alumni from nearly all the Ivies. I met them because they lived there, and even then, it did not occur to me that I could attend till one day I did a strange thing and emailed a woman I heard on the radio. She was talking about things I found interesting, the same sorts of things I was doing as a hobby, and it just so happened that she was a professor at an Ivy League school. I reached out to her out of the clear blue sky, mostly because she was local, and surprisingly she reached back.

And now I have a degree from an Ivy League School. Had I just sat and waited for that school to notice me, or really, had I just sent in an application not knowing anyone, it never would have worked. Not for me.

As I look back at it now, most of the things I have done in my life of which I am proud, or that might be of some value (because those two are not exactly the same) are the result of me showing up somewhere uninvited, inviting myself, or reaching out to complete strangers. I have learned to put on a suit jacket, act like I belong, and then just stroll in and casually start asking questions. It works. Sometimes. Really it only works a very small portion of the time, but in the 40+ years of my life, it is the only thing that has ever worked. I am just not shiny enough, noticeable enough, or connected enough, to do any different- that is if I want to do anything remarkable.

And along the way, I have also learned and seen directly, that this works in large part …

 

because I am white.

 

I have learned that these things don’t work quite the same, if someone is black. Or a woman. Or anything that isn’t like me, a straight white man. This is not to say that it cannot work for a black man, but the stakes are definitely not the same. The worst that has happened to me is getting kicked out of the American Philosophical Society Archives and told to come back during a regularly scheduled meeting. No, that isn’t the worst. I have indeed been called lots of nasty names and insulted with words, but I am given a helping of grace or room for error, whereas a black man entering a room uninvited is very likely to be arrested- or worse.

Not figuratively. Not maybe. But Likely.

Like here

Or here

And here

How about here?

Should I keep going?

This is what has, and is, and really has always been, the case for black people. Not every time of course, just like walking in uninvited didn’t work for me every time. But the default setting is that though this world, this America, isn’t set up to hand me anything, it will allow me to do things that are just a little bit “out there” in order to get a shot, while this same world is suspect of, afraid of, and will normally squash, repel, or punish any black person who does something just a little bit “out there” trying to get a shot.

That is what privilege is.

And that is how America works.

Staying Grounded: I am so often wrong… at least initially

I had a very deep and brilliant thought this morning while in the shower. It was based on a scripture in Matthew and as this thought occurred to me I began mentally working through the application of this chapter and verse into my life, into my family’s daily life, and especially the implementation of my brilliance throughout all of society. This was important.IMG_3702

Then, once I was dried and dressed, I sat down with my mate’ and opened the Bible to the verse in question. Upon re reading it I realized it meant the opposite of what I had remembered and my entire scheme fell apart.

It was a valuable lesson.

I was not wrong in the spirit of what I was thinking, and definitely not wrong in motivation- I was looking to do good and be a better person. Yet when it came to these particular nuts and bolts, this little thought regarding implementation of Godly ideals, I was off-base. It is not best to be off base regarding God.

This is why we have these sorts of books. This is why scripture is called such and canonized. It keeps us grounded. There is among those with whom I commune, the recurring theme that the great value in this grounding is that the world is continually shifting, and it is this immovable type set that allows our footing to be securely on God’s ground. I don’t disagree but I would like to add that as I demonstrated this morning, it isn’t only the world that is shifting but us.

Or maybe most of us aren’t shifting in how “they” mean it regarding the world, in that God is in one place and the world is drifting and shifting away, but maybe we as individuals were never really as in line with God as we sometimes assume, and we need quite a bit of movement and improvement if we are to ever get on the right page. I find this thinking more productive especially considering most of us aren’t really all that exceptional; we are normal, which means that thinking about our own improvement rather than the requisite repenting of some imagined “other”, is more likely to bring us to the most applicable lesson.

Because odds are the things I need to work on are close to, or similar to, the things that those around me need help with also.

So I am glad to have something trustworthy in which to stay grounded, because no matter how fallible the translations in there might be, they are surely less fallible than you and me.

My Support for Hyphenated Black People

Let me say up front that Black Americans have no need of my endorsement or recommendations in anything they might think or feel.

That being said, I am in full support of any Black American who prefers the identifier “African-American”, and here is why.

I often field questions, or rather suggestions, from various white people that “we” should all just be American with no hyphens or ethno-racial identifiers. This suggestion is normally given in the spirit, or with an expressed desire, that we should be a united, racist-free, nation. I appreciate this desire, share the hope of a day without racism, but reject the proposal, and here is why.

When the United States first formed as an independent country, those in power decided formally that to be “American”, or a citizen of the United States, a person had to be white. This is why the waves of immigrants over the years were able to shed their hyphens of Irish, English, German or otherwise and melt into that one word, American. Others had a tougher time.

This is why Arizona wasn’t allowed statehood till 1912. It had been “property” of the United States since 1848, with people living there for centuries previous, but the United States had a policy that there needed to be a critical mass of white people living in any given territory before it could be considered a state. The people living in Arizona were brown and it took a series of intentional settlements including land giveaways encouraging white immigration before white people had enough of a majority to be part of America. This critical mass of whiteness was attained around 1910, the application process took a couple years, and thanks to that ball getting started rolling, by 2010 Arizona had become 73% white.

As late as 1927, almost 60 years after the passing of the 14th amendment, the Supreme Court was still settling cases on who got to be considered white, which again, was a synonym for American. Lum v Rice decided that it was up to the individual states to decide who was and was not white (in this case it was a person from China suing to be white), in order to decide who got the full privileges of American citizenship. All because you had to be white to get those official privileges.

Most of us know the story of the Civil Rights movement in the 1960’s where Black Americans had to not only win legal battles but also take beatings from police officers in order to be allowed the same rights as other Americans, aka white people. Now if we keep in mind that these Black people’s families had been on this continent and participating in the building of this country every bit as long, and even longer, than many Irish, German, Italian, French, or even Iranian- all of whom assimilated by becoming legally white, we should take a closer look at what we suggest anyone do in order to assimilate.

Because back when Irish were shedding their hyphens, Black Americans were not only forbidden from full assimilation but also systematically prevented from pursuing success. So they forged their own ways to prosper.

While Black Americans were raising white children, cleaning white houses and having their labor exploited without constitutional protection, those same Black people were inventing jazz, laying a foundation for the discipline of sociology, reciting poetry over drum machines, fighting in American wars, penning novels, and helping send astronauts into space. All this while not being allowed the title of American, but rather Negro- or other words connoting their color with an added measure of insult. Consequentially Black people have developed a distinct culture that is very much American but distinct from that of those who were accepted as white/American historically. That deserves respect, honor and appreciation.

In the past the “distinctness” brought along by immigrant groups (which is everyone other than indigenous peoples) was absorbed, or allowed, by letting these “others” be swallowed by whiteness. Some groups wanted to be white but still unique, and America said “yes” giving them St. Patrick’s and Columbus days. In response to things like Columbus Day, other white people founded things like the Daughters of The American Revolution, but all of them were united under the banner of American whiteness.

All of that is, quite literally, history. So when do we move past all that?

Fair question.

In 1967 a group of Black Americans attempted to get past it and exercise the 2nd amendment. They formed a militia and bore arms for their own protection. America responded by taking their guns and passing gun control laws. These Black people claimed the guns were to defend themselves, and that they had a right to do so, and America said they did not have that right.

The next year, sans militia, Martin Luther King Jr. was shot for advocating Black citizenship. So we know that the past wasn’t history 50 years ago.

How about 9 years ago?

The election of a bi-racial Black man to the presidency of the United States was heralded by many as the moment when we as a nation were finally over our racist past. How ironic then, that the most prominent and persistent accusation against our Black president, the accusation by which our current president made his political name, was that he was not born in America. He was accused of literally not being an American. Which was very much in line with the messages America has sent Black people all along. The past is obviously not gone yet. Was the 41 years between MLK and Obama enough to have both erased 192 years of racial division and then drive it all the way back into divisiveness due to some Black people preferring a hyphen?

Or maybe the term African-American isn’t exactly the cause, but rather just a hindrance?

Considering the contributions and struggles of Black people in this country, and knowing that all the other assimilated groups very literally shed their hyphenated status in favor of whiteness, makes the request that African-Americans only claim the title American, smack of condescending insult. I do not say this as an accusation that anyone who has forwarded such a suggestion did so from a dark and cruel place- but not all insults are intended.

Black people should be able to claim full American status without having to do so in a way that has always been a nod to whiteness. If the only way to do this is to bring back hyphens for everyone- great. Do it. But I will not be the one to tell any Black person that they should reject or ignore the African heritage that my country has so intentionally tried to dishonor all this time. For a Black person to be able to claim both their African descent, their Blackness, and their full American status simultaneously, is in my mind the best American dream. It is long past time that we, as Americans, accept that our country is, has been, and should be, a nation of people from many places, who don’t all look the same, who do not all act the same, and who can claim the fullness of who they are- while being fully American.

Admirable Insanity: Robolights

Kitsch and art are parallel lines that never cross. Some artists like Warhol, Lichtenstein, and I could even argue Klimpt, sort of brush up against that line, but the whole genre of pop art acts as a buffer between the two making absolutely sure that those lines do not cross.

Unless you are in Palm Springs.

Imagine the Watts Towers but replace the Antoni Gaudi influence with Tim Burton. Just as the Watts towers are a backyard monument built “just because”, so is Robolights. But Robolights has a bazillion more Christmas lights- and toilets.

Approximately 30 years ago Kenny Irwin Jr. started building giant robots in his backyard. He was 9. Since then he has graduated art school and inherited the family house, but he has never stopped building. When I say never stopped, I mean I am unsure when he stops to eat because this place is the macabre junkyard version of kudzu. It is thick, ever growing, and covers everything.

When I first visited the place and posted pictures online, the most common questions were what and why? Neither can nor should be answered. Robolights is the kind of place that must be experienced not explained.

I can tell you that there is a feature touting itself as one of only two microwaved microwaves in the world, which would be Kitschy, but while viewing the torched appliance you are standing on a path lined by thousands of little skulls flanked by microwave legged robots under an archway holding up a roller coaster of shopping carts filled with aliens.

Everywhere you look something is spinning and flashing and probably features a skull or a toilet. And it is all in some dude’s backyard in residential neighborhood. Which on paper makes this completely kitsch. I am arguing that it is not.

When Duchamp presented a urinal as artwork it was initially rejected but is now considered by many as a foundational piece of 20th century art. Comic books aren’t necessarily taken seriously, but when Lichtenstein paints one single comic frame and blows it up larger than life, collectors pay millions. It is hard to say where the line really is.

Typing out descriptions of Robolights just doesn’t work. I’m not saying its on par with the Mona Lisa, but writing that there is this painting of an acceptable looking woman who is kinda smiling but not really, would not do justice to DaVinci. Same idea here. I’m not sure Kenny Irwin is really “saying” anything, but I’m also not convinced Leonardo had some grand message when he painted Mona.

What I am definitely saying is that we should all go see the Louvre, and Kenny’s house.