Letter

The plan was to drive to Wisconsin on Monday afternoon, but Kelly got sick, so we left a day later. She still wasn’t feeling well when we were leaving, so I drove. I knew it was serious because it takes a lot for her to relinquish the wheel. That woman loves to steer.

We stopped at the supermarket for dinner stuff, then picked up the dogs at Lynda’s. The last time I was up here it was early fall, but when I went into the house it felt so familiar. Not quite home but not not home. The bed upstairs where I sleep has the mattress we picked up from a lady a few towns over. There’s artwork I’ve given Kelly over the years scattered here and there. There are traces of me in this place.

We have our routine. We sit on the couch each working on our own thing, we walk the dogs, run errands, watch movies, drink, eat, talk. There’s few people in the world I love more than Kelly. We’ve been there for one another through a lot.

Last time I was working on the layout of the Soviet book; this time, it was the new one set in bars. As part of the research, I’ve been reading books set in taverns: George Ade’s The Old-Time Saloon, Finlay Peter Dunne’s Mr. Dooley’s Philosophy, but especially Joseph Mitchell’s Up in the Old Hotel. With a gun to my head, I’d say that Mitchell’s book is my favorite book. So rereading it has been a joy. To do so at a dear friend’s house is the cherry on top. 

On Wednesday we went to Evansville, the town Kelly lived in the first time she moved to Wisconsin. While she was with her insurance agent, I sat in a cafe and drew out the window. The place was empty after a couple left, having finished their lunch. The two women behind the counter wore black chef smocks. The place was new and you could tell that it was opened with lots of ambition and dreams. Could it make a go of it in this tiny town? Who knows. It was the day after Mardi Gras so I order the king cake; no prize inside but it was delicious all the same.

After Kelly was done, we drove by her old house because she wanted to see how much further it had sunken into the ground. I’d helped her move into it about twelve years ago. 

Friday we drove to Milwaukee for a Flat Five show. While Kelly and her bandmates were getting ready, I read some more Mitchell. Then I watched the crowd filter in from the merch table Kelly has set up. I like selling records and t-shirts at their shows because it makes me feel useful and gives me a good perch to listen, while spying on the audience. The band has a diehard fan base, but I could tell there were a lot of newbies this night. Most were converted after two or three numbers. One woman told me how grateful she was to hear joyful music at such a dark time in this country. I couldn’t argue.

On the way back to Kelly’s, we tried a couple exits before finding a gas station cheeseburger for my dinner. I would’ve been fine going without; it’s a privilege to help Kelly do her thing.

The painting I painted this visit out the kitchen window is the third in my series of views from Kelly’s house. I’ve now done north, south, and east. Only west remains. I hope that after I’ve done that one, she’ll ask me to come back. I’ll start another series. Maybe something from upstairs. Who knows?

I’d even be willing to sit through another episode of Project Runway. That’s how much I love visiting with the woman who lives in a house by a river in a one-horse town in Wisconsin.

—I reviewed a great new story collection set in the now-demolished Stateway Gardens housing project in Chicago and illustrated a story about the rapture coming to a small Southern town.

I’ve been getting rid of things. Books and records, mostly. When you live in one place awhile you accumulate stuff. Like a squirrel drags flotsam from the outside world to gird for winter, we bring things home to make it feel more like home. But after a time, all this crap starts weighing on the psyche. You come upon a book you bought because of some momentary enthusiasm but have never opened. You have to admit to yourself that you will never open it and that it would have a better chance of being useful elsewhere. So you through it, and dozens of others like it, into a rolling suitcase and carry it down your three flights of stairs, onto the bus, and a couple blocks further, to the non-profit, donation-only bookstore. Then you have an empty suitcase and you feel lighter. At least, that’s what I did. And it felt so good that I kept going.

I started going through the records. The box sets went first. There’s some kind of psychological barrier with playing those. For some reason, the packaging feels to daunting to get into. Opening it to get to the music seems insurmountable. Then, if you start on the first record, there’s an implicit expectation or suggestion that you must then listen to the other three, four, five, or ten. I try to think back to the moment I decided to plunk down money for these doorstop-sized guilt magnets. Like with so many things that can be acquired, the momentary daydream of ownership is much better (and cheaper) than actually going through with it.

Many books and records remind me of particular people or situations I’d rather forget. That’s reason enough to find them new homes. It’s no knock on the quality of the art, but a personal association can so color a thing that it’s impossible to appreciate it. Sometimes it has to do with who made it, other times how I got it. If all I can think of is that person when I read/see/hear it, then it’s time for it to go.

I’ve sold books and records back to stores since I was a kid. There’s a shameful pawnshop aspect to doing this. It’s what junkies and homeless people do. But I’ve worked at making this current culling into a positive experience. After a block of records or books is gone, my place feels roomier. It gets easier to breathe. I don’t feel cheated for only getting ten cents on the dollar at the record store because I know that whoever buys them next will value them more than I have. I’ve never collected as an investment. I have no strategy for the things I buy. Certainly no eye for what they might be worth in the future.

It’s odd to see things I once owned—sometimes for years—for sale in a store. In the case of the LPs, I traded the ones I wanted to get rid of for store credit. So I return to the shop now and then to browse. Some of the my old higher-end records are given pride of place, faced for easy access. Then, the next time, one or another will be gone. Scott, the store’s owner, will tell me who bought it. In that way, the story of these things, which once meant something to me, continue.

There is, of course, an inherent contradiction in this ascetic-like purging. The books and pictures I make myself are adding to the teetering pile of things in the world. I’m making the problem worse no matter what I do. My latest recycling scheme intended to thin out the flatfiles is these bookmarks. It’s satisfying to cut up old pictures and through the unneeded parts in the trash. It’s also satisfying to have people buy them and get them out of my life. In my dream scenario, the only art of my own that would be in my house is whatever I’m working on at the moment.

There’s a good chance that I’ll be moving to a new place in the coming months. This likely prompted this latest reassessment of what to trash and what to keep. The idea of having to deal with a few less boxes is very appealing. But it’s felt good to have a little less. To lightened the load. To literally get rid of baggage. I highly recommend it.

But, if on the contrary, you’re looking to add more to your nest, do I have a deal for you! Help me empty out this place so I can start over in the new one with less.

I feel like I’ve been on a promo tour for a year. Ever since I brought boxes of Music to My Eyes back from Dekker Bindery in Michigan last February and hauled them up my three flights, a chunk of my attention and waking hours has been devoted to planning events, trying to get attention, and, most of all, hand-selling books. There have been many good moments, but overall it’s been an exhausting and often discouraging process. I’m a lousy salesman. I have little faith in the various apparatus of commerce, such as advertising and promotion. I’m a reluctant self-promoter; the bullshit repeats on me even as it escapes my mouth. And yet, there’s no one else who wants the job. So what else am I to do?

It all came to a crashing halt last Thursday at Uncharted Books. I’d asked my friend, the historian Paul Durica, to do the last of my scheduled talks to promote the publication of Soviet Stamps. The secret back room of the shop (accessible by pulling a particular book in a book case) was set up with chairs, but no one showed up to fill them. I’d cancelled events where no one showed up before, but decided to have the talk anyway. Have a listen, there’s some good stuff there. It’s a shame there wasn’t anyone to hear it as it happened. After we were done, Paul and I went to Simon’s for a drink. So the evening wasn’t a complete waste.

I have nothing else scheduled until a couple art shows late-summer. I can look back on the Soviet Stamps events over the last month and a half and be satisfied with the different public conversations I had. My Virtual Memories talk with Gil Roth went live last week (we taped it in New York City on January 3rd). Christian TeBordo interviewed me at the Dial on January 9th, Kyle Beachy did it at City Lit on January 30th, and Ben Terrall followed on February 5th at the Green Arcade in San Francisco. I also appeared on Nick Digilio’s WGN radio show. Each conversation was different and forced me to think on my feet. It’s a testament to each of these people that there were so few questions repeated. I’m grateful to know some smart people who took the time to read my work and think about it and show up to help get it out into the world.

I managed to sell some books. But now I can go back to doing what I’m best suited for: painting and writing.

I’ll continue to carry copies of books everywhere with me. Until I figure out some other way to sell them, this will be it. It’s really been this way from the start. Even with Hack, I hand-sold more copies than any virtual or brick-and-mortar outlet. On my low level of recognition, this is the only way to make any money off books. My next two books will likely be self-published. I’ll have some time to think out some new strategies in the meantime.

Work continues on Old Style, my bar book. I’d say I’m about halfway there. I’m finishing up design work on an an LP for a friend in New Mexico. I’ll share it with you when he gives the thumbs up. It came out pretty well.