For the last three years, I have lived a ten minute walk from the lake. A feature that started as a “pro” in a spreadsheet of apartment listings has now become an integral part of my life in Minneapolis, a city of lakes in a land of ten thousand. Through almost daily strolls, I’ve come to know the five centerpieces in the nearby Chain of Lakes quite well.

Bde Maka Ska is the shining star as the biggest and busiest. Harriet to her south is quaint and classic, the most polite. Cedar is wild and alternative, overshadowing her bashful and forgettable sister Brownie. But the showiest of the bunch is Lake of the Isles, beaming and photogenic with its well-groomed wildlife and imposing waterfront estates.

In Minnesota, “the lake” is a symbol of both serenity and status. It’s the core of our abundant parks and a convenient weekend refuge for those that can afford a second home on one (or at least have friends who do). I made some of my best childhood memories at my grandparents’ cabin, which has since been sold and bought and sold and bought and now accrues passive income as a vacation rental. My family returned for a weekend last spring. Apart from shiny new kitsch, the place felt the same. If anything, I was even more comforted by the breeze through the pines, the chorus of loons, and the dockside battles with bluegills. I owe the place gratitude for providing such a solid foundation to my now fortified Midwestern identity.

I have developed a new sense of state pride in my young adulthood, coming to see for myself how Minnesota’s natural beauty is complemented by a widespread commitment to the deeply human. We conceive of ourselves as distinctly participatory in civic life, quick to mobilize, and uniquely dedicated to arts and culture. Results may vary, but I think we often have the receipts to prove it.

I find it frustrating, then, that the most prominent piece of public art along our city’s shoreline, a statue that draws the community to a free annual event by the thousands, inspires nothing in me but annoyance.

I am referring to the famous Lake of the Isles Pencil, of course. You may have heard the story by now. The remains of a tall bur oak, severed by a storm, have been transformed into a simple and stately number two pencil in the front yard of one of the lake’s most impressive homes. Each June, the owners throw a massive party on the parkway while the pencil gets sharpened. Now in its fifth year, the celebration has grown in size and spectacle.

I first witnessed the commotion last year, upon making an unfortunate turn onto the street bordering Isles. Before I knew what was happening, dazzled pedestrians surrounded my car on all sides, bringing me and my Corolla to a standstill. In my attempts to understand, I only got more confused by the bright yellow inflatables and booming bass. Had I missed a barricade? I somehow inched through the crowd without collecting an insurance claim, but I left the scene with a nagging sense of unease that I found difficult to articulate. Until now, that is.

Last weekend, I attended the Pencil Sharpening with a skeptical but open heart. To my initial disappointment and eventual sadistic pleasure, I found the whole thing to be an excruciating circlequirk. Upwards of four thousand people showed up, donning Scholastic Book Fair ready-to-wear to drool through a retired pharmaceuticals CEO’s first venture outside of capital: a miserable interpretation of “CoComelon Live.”

This is the function I’ve heard countless neighbors claim embodies the spirit of our great city? Well, I refuse. Bear with me, folks, while I sketch my manifesto against this beloved Minneapolis landmark and its absurd mass public humiliation ritual. You had your fun and now I’ll have mine. Indulge me while I try my hand at Substack’s favorite pastime: intellectualizing minor annoyances to convert you to the righteous side of haterdom. This is my desperate attempt to whittle some meaning from that poor tree that I don’t think its father or fans have done themselves.

Y’all wanna see something sharp so bad? I’ll do my best. Take that pencil costume off and put your big boy pants on. I’m rolling out the footnotes and shit.1

The Sharpening

This year’s sharpening took place on Saturday, June 6th at 1 p.m. I moseyed over to the lake first thing in the morning to investigate the scene. It was about what I’d expect for 9 a.m. on a Saturday, with maybe a few more picnic blankets laid out than usual. When I returned at 12:30, however, the corner of 22nd and Lake of the Isles Parkway was flooded with eager disciples. I would describe the general vibe of the gatherers as “if an Instagram Reel and a Bluesky post had a baby.2”

Even in this affluent, renter-scarce neighborhood, there was little available street parking on adjacent blocks. The density and whiteness of the crowd rivaled State Fair levels, without the soothing promise of a pronto pup. (They did have an ice cream cart that the hosts generously purchased with yesterday’s compounded interest.) A scaffold had been erected around the pencil itself, allowing access for the sharpener. I found a spot near the front and mentally prepared myself for the impending hullabaloo.

Music blared from giant speakers in the preshow. A DJ spun 80s tracks by Madonna, Rush, and of course, Prince, while I took in a sight that couldn’t have happened a decade sooner than the 2020s. I can’t deny that I felt a slight charm at the volume of enthusiasm, the palpable anticipatory thrill beaming out of each cardboard pencil hat. This was soon dashed by the program’s opening number: a raucous Steve Aoki remix of “Imagine.3” Out came John and Amy Higgins, the pencil’s doting owners, to preside over their subjects on the mansion’s regal patio.

“Look at all the people,” sang Lennon over a farting EDM beat. This is also probably what these millionaires will say while flashing their camera roll in the coming weeks. Apparently they didn’t learn the same lesson the rest of us did from that celebrity rendition in 2020. Higgins cleared his throat to address his city.

“America, welcome to Minneapolis!” Girl, WHAT? Who are you talking to? Well, Higgins explained, we were in the esteemed company of guests who had trekked here for the event, hailing from such exotic locales as Idaho, Utah, Nevada, Ohio, Illinois, and Nebraska. He then bragged about the pencil’s recent inclusion in Atlas Obscura, Smithsonian Magazine, “Instagram,” “Canadian radio,” and “the news.”

John and Amy then vaulted into a speech scattered with hollow metaphors, prompting the crowd to nod knowingly. Higgins espoused the pencil’s worth as a reminder to write things down, to translate thought to paper, to make your ideas known to others. Advice taken, sir. Your sculpture is powerful and important and impactful.4

Amy remarked that the event displayed “a whole lot of community,” eliciting instant applause. When did the word “community” come to mean “a group of people existing simultaneously in the same space in public”?5 Our vague allusions to “community” in this form obscure the fact that the majority of us are no longer living in it, increasingly isolated as we surrender our freedom, privacy, attention, and thought to corporations that surveil and exploit us, run by executives that throw and attend dinner parties at mansions just like this one.

Actual community takes the form of consistent connection, oriented around intentions more substantive than googly-eyed pleasure. Nothing about this event facilitates conversation, minus the endless cacophony of “ope”s and “sorry”s that reliably murmurs its way through every clustered group of Minnesotans.

Something something “making a mark,” something something “the aftermath of a storm,” something something “can’t be uprooted.”6 All low-hanging fruits that imply a connection between their showboating and a violent military occupation that kidnapped thousands of our neighbors, murdered two, and terrorized the rest. You’d think with a 16-foot-tall pencil they could draw a line a little less faint.

I regret that I feel so called to pooh-pooh a rare public opportunity to reckon with our shared experience of hell last winter. But any gravitas owed to the subject was glazed in layers of fairytale language and hazy reference, conveniently allowing the speakers to avoid the overtly political statements to which the corporate bourgeoisie are so averse.

Never mind, though, time for a performance by the University of Minnesota marching band. This, at least, was a good call, especially given the very “marching band” energy emanating from the crowd. And no shade, I really mean that! I’ve always admired my sisters in the band, their cheery and uh, quirky vibe. The only person on that property bringing any level of theatricality all day was the gay guy in the cymbals section. The owners then paraded out the sculptor, Curtis Ingvolstad, who I will pardon from criticism due to his possession of a skill.

There was an unexplained interlude where the action stopped for a few minutes, my attention wandering to the slight reddening of some pasty necks in front of me. Then, we were treated to a procession of the sharpener scored by Aviicii’s evergreen 2011 masterpiece “Levels.”7 Some people waved their arms in pencil suits on the roof. Another costumed gaggle toddled onto the lawn and flailed their bodies in a routine I’m wary to describe as “dancing.”8 They flossed, dabbed, and invoked other assorted death postures that marked the terminal diagnosis of American monoculture in the 20teens. Credit is owed, however, that they permitted us to survive the bacchanalia without hearing “What Does the Fox Say?”

John. Amy. Your home is $3.7 million but you couldn’t shell some cash on a choreographer? A costumer? Nah, why would you do that when you can get an Amazon Halloween costume for 50 bucks? By this point it seemed clear that the only rewards reaped from this “local investment in public art” are massive amounts of attention and a conversation subject for thousands of brunches on Sunday morning.

“We’re all just here to have fun,” I heard someone in the crowd say. But what exactly is fun about this? “Because it’s fun” is also the same reason three-year-olds tearfully provide when the iPad is gently tugged away from them. Throughout the hour, there was laughter. It was unclear to me what we were laughing at. I chuckled the first time I heard a punchline about being “number two,” but not the other five times it was shoehorned into the microphone.

John made a 6 7 joke about eight months late, though he didn’t have the foresight to schedule the heterosexual pride fest a day later. Yes, sharpening a fake pencil is funny on its face. There is a sense of humor to the ridiculousness, but that appeal is earned only by the conceit itself. There’s no payoff or surprise, just the animalistic pleasure of stimulating shapes, colors, and sounds.

I do think this would be a perfectly sweet event for kids, but anyone under five feet tall certainly couldn’t have seen shit. It’s a missed opportunity to not make this some kind of last day of school event for the students down the street at Kenwood. There could be some genuine wisdom about the increasing obsolescence of a pencil as ChatGPT use soars and elementary schoolers tap away on Chromebooks. It’d be less crowded. I would have a lot less hate in my heart and an amusing sight to stride past while I fish tapioca pearls from the bottom of a bubble tea. This year, though, they closed the street, sparing clueless drivers from the fate that befell me last time and ensuring that the crowd was impenetrable to any casual passersby.

If we choose to interpret the sharpening as a satirical performance art piece about the fecklessness of certain swaths of Minneapolis liberals and lefties, it could win Tonys. Alas, though, everyone seemed dead serious in their inability to take anything seriously.

If you enjoyed the event, I apologize for my meanness. My criticism is intended primarily for the event organizers, not any individual attendees. It’s easy to get swept up in this kind of thing. It’s always nice to have something going on. It is none of our individual faults that the collective bar for live entertainment has been algorithmically ground down to a stump.

And trust me, I wouldn’t go to all this trouble if they just carved their mutilated tree into a pencil and called it a day. What I can’t stand is the brash insistence on some profound meaning to their whimsical burning of cash. I think this spectacle is emblematic of our city’s particularly white and liberal cultural shortcomings, our inauthentic affect, our obsession with our own relevance.

As for the grand reveal, the sharpened tip? I didn’t stick around for the actual climax of the masturbation session because I’m a cultured piece of shit and wanted to catch an artist talk at Cruise, the new gallery on Hennepin. I did some research, though, and only grew more passionate about the conclusions the pencil helped me start to draw.9

The Sharpeners

So who are John and Amy Higgins anyway? Most of my research circled me back to press coverage about the pencil, but I found some enlightening evidence in the most likely of places: InsiderTrades.com.

This sage resource revealed that pencil commissioner John Higgins “served” as CEO and CFO of pharmaceutical companies Ligand and Connetics for over 25 years, alongside some thrilling forays into investment banking. He seems to have since rebranded in retirement as a do-gooder of the Twin Cities arts landscape, purchasing once-threatened music venue Icehouse and beginning a term on the Walker Art Center’s board of trustees. (Is it so mean to expect a more inspired performance from the man who governs one of the best contemporary art museums in the country?)

In April, a documentary about the Lake of the Isles Pencil premiered at the Minneapolis St. Paul International Film Festival. It also had a private screening at the Walker. The documentary’s fine. They made a film that belongs right at home in the indie festival circuit. I’m more interested in how the documentary proves that it wasn’t stage fright that made these millionaires spew drivel.

Cast in glorious beams of light shining through their massive windows, John and Amy make a 21-minute attempt to spin meaning out of great tragedy: a storm that lowered the property value of their lakeside home. The interviews are interrupted by footage from the pencil’s creation, a riveting firsthand document of a rich man speaking to his contractor. Some instrumental music begs pathos while words get strung together. A curated selection of quotes:

• “It was a big tree that meant a lot to this neighborhood.” I hope they ground the rest of the oak to a pulp and then used it to make tissues!

• Higgins describes Minneapolis as “an endless park system with homes sprinkled around.” I’m sure it feels like that as you count the ducks while sipping your morning coffee, but let’s not forget that “equity” was the category that tanked our score in the Trust for Public Land’s national city park rankings.

• “I definitely will admit that I wasn’t this philosophical about it at first,” says Amy. “But to me, it’s a reminder to be kind and do good in the world.” I think that not being philosophical was the correct stance, actually! This is cuckoo bananas nothingburger.

• “That sharp tip, it’s a promise for more thoughts, more ideas,” says John. But we couldn’t put more thought into that choreo? The best we could pick for the playlist was Prince?10 He’s been dead ten years, now, let the man rest for just one citywide event, I beg you.

• “Art is important because if done well, it should stop us for a moment. It should stop us and make us smile, make us emotional, make us think.” Okay fair, honestly, I’m mad as hell and haven’t stopped thinking about this pencil since Saturday. Which proves it doesn’t even have to be done well!

• “This stopped traffic, it literally stopped traffic.” So did a family of painted turtles on your street last week, John. Where’s their documentary?

John prattles some more in a Southwest Voices feature, headlined “Higgins invests full time in the Southwest Minneapolis arts scene.”

“We really do view ourselves, not with any sense of ego or need for attention, but as people who care.” The lady doth protest too much methinks! Remember how Higgins started off with “Welcome to Minnesota” and a rattled list of press coverage? There was a camera crew on the roof!

“Instead of investing in our personal life or well being, we’d rather give it back and invest in the community.” You don’t invest in your personal life? Really? Spoken from your 14,628 square foot manor? Let’s be serious. These are not straight shooters.

I would ask how stupid he thinks we are but I don’t want to know the true answer to that question. We are definitely getting stupider.

The Dulled

The ironic sensibilities of yesteryear’s hipsters, grating even at their peak, have since rotted into a culture of widely enjoyed pointlessness. The idea of irony is that it recognizes a gulf between expectations and reality. In drama, it means the audience knows something that the characters themselves don’t. Neither of these work when we’re all desperate to be knowing spectators. It circles back and we become hapless, foolish protagonists being duped by the plot, thoughtlessly Portlandiafying ourselves.

The art that has helped me the most to understand the 2020s milieu is a monologue from John Early’s comedy special “Now More Than Ever.11” Over a weepy improvised piano, Early offers a eulogy to culture, lamenting the dominance of a certain dialect that has invaded and overtaken the public’s language. Here’s an abbreviated excerpt:

I feel like the only thing we were really taught as a generation is to vamp. Just hold the floor. Just keeeeep holdin’ that floor. Keep talkin’, keep talkin’, keep talkin.’ In the boardroom, in the classroom, on your fucking podcast, just keep stringing those words together. It does not matter if you don’t know what they mean. Keep talkin’, just keep talkin’, you know? We’re just a bunch of used car salesfolx. A bunch of disruptors and creatives just bumpin’ up into each other. A bunch of doers and makers, roaming the streets at night. Yeah, you know, I’ll give you that, we’re makers, we’re good at making. Making shit up!

I was in a coffee shop recently and I saw what I hesitate to describe as a piece of art. It was an illustration of Rick Moranis and he was holding a piece of pepperoni pizza. And that was framed. And then I thought, is that all there is? You know? Like when we’re loadin’ up the time capsule for future inhabitants of Planet E, is this what the millennial shall put forth? You know? Or will it be an illustration of a taco? ‘Cause I’m sure still seein’ a lot of that. Or will it be…A LITTLE DANCING CHEESEBURGER??? Or will it be a video of one of the chefs from the hallowed halls of Bon Appetit, making a lemony garlicky crispity crunchity jammy cacio-y e-y pepe-y cacio e pepe?

We have to get serious, you guys! We have to get serious, before it’s too late, and our gravestones are like: “Because cancer.”

The Lake of the Isles Pencil is our Rick Moranis with a slice of pizza, and the verbose Higginses its used car salesfolx. The schtick doesn’t seem to mean anything at all outside of the brief and ever-dimming spark it prompts from hordes of dead ass eyes. (You should watch the whole special, or at least listen to this part, because a transcription doesn’t do Early justice.)

I hate the pencil the same way I hate when people laugh knowingly at humorless moments in Trylon movies, the same way I hate Mendota Heights’ own “SubwayTakes,” the same way I hate the “Bestie, let me merge!” bumper stickers that plague every other hesitant Prius on 94, the same way I hate that a college-aged man can’t read a book without getting “performative” allegations, the same way I hate the fuckass tanktop that Jacob Frey wears every damn Pride weekend. The best jokes gain something from their repetition, but unfortunately these aren’t among them. I can barely muster the decency to react diplomatically the first time. Is a little creativity really too much to ask for?

I think this whole hiveminded clutch to nonsense is representative of how algorithms have glitched the traditional scales of cultural value. In her book “The Sum of Small Things,” Elizabeth Currid-Halkett outlines a theory of the “aspirational class.” She suggests that the well-to-do and their wannabes have pivoted away from flashy displays of wealth to more symbolic and inconspicuous consumption that nevertheless signifies their eliteness. Think wellness regimens, co-op produce, season tickets, and subscriptions.

For whatever reason, the Lake of the Isles Pencil Sharpening has come to be one of these symbols for Minneapolis, this strange clash of tote bag slingers bowing before the CEO’s mansion in the name of “fun,” “art,” “joy,” and “community.” We simply want to signal that we know objects, experiences, and art build our worth through our consumption of them rather than legitimately think through the value they provide. It’s not just that these performances are “fun,” it’s that they embody a form of humor that, despite its worthlessness, symbolizes a cultural knowledge, an inside joke for a certain type of elite. It’s created a pathetic indifference to originality. We are so endlessly amused with ourselves these days. (And yet here I sit, the spitting image of Alyssa Edwards writing standup.)

The word “pretentious” is often lobbed the way of critics who ask for more from art, especially when it’s “whimsy.” “Let people enjoy things!” But “pretentious” refers to an overreliance on pretense to mask a lack of substance12. A pretense like, say, how the annual sharpening of a pencil somehow represents “the radical power of communal joy” instead of a ravenous desire for attention and complacency. To me, the Pencil Sharpening was far more pretentious than the art gallery I went to after, where people showed vulnerability parsing through genuine experiences from their lives. It offered few incentives, though, that translated well to digital currency.13 Easily photographed slop has become pretentious.

I was talking to my friend Erin about this and she pointed out another great example. Last week, a video circulated on Twitter of a concertgoer getting humiliated on stage for wearing a banana costume.

While these musicians’ tactics were harsh, I felt a sense of relief upon seeing the reality of this performance finally be acknowledged as it was happening. After being disrobed by the band, Mr. Randomsauce made a predictable pivot, victimizing himself for the radical audacity of his unapologetic joy.

“There are real weirdos out there. I believe every person is weird in their own way, or at least that’s my generous thinking of humanity, but there are real weirdos out there,14” Erin told me via voice memo. “These kinds of things, you can tell they’re not being done by real weirdos, they don’t have that thing about them. I think it is about that self-congratulatory sense of ‘Oh my God, it’s so crazy we’re out here at the Pencil Sharpening!’”

I’m so thirsty for authenticity. I want desperately to have authentic experiences with people and with art, unmediated by the brainrot we’ve thoughtlessly gobbled up at the troughs in our pockets. And lucky for me, Minneapolis is already the perfect place to do that. We just need more of you to participate!

We Are Better Than This, Minneapolis!

I hate when Minneapolis makes me want to move to New York.15 I feel so lucky to have been born in the Twin Cities. In my heart of hearts, I know the best parts of this place really love people back in a way that is genuinely special and rare. I feel deeply invested in getting Minnesotans to take ourselves seriously, to believe in our contributions as more than just joy and entertainment and community, but as legitimate expression.

We don’t have to give art credit just for existing, despite the insistence of our instinctual Minnesota Nice-ness16. This is how we end up tolerating freakish AI monstrosities on our billboards, buses, and storefronts. It shouldn’t be problematic to demand an ounce of substance from a public event that closes streets at the most visited park in the state and seems to be creeping into our communal self-identity.

I am also alarmed by the migration of the Uptown Art Fair from the well-established center of the neighborhood to Lake of the Isles, presumably because, as well-put by Racket, “this site will ensure that no one from Edina will accidentally see a homeless person while buying a painting of a loon for their cabin.” If more pencilslop is what Uptown’s perennial revival has in store, I’d rather it stay “dead.”17

Speaking of Uptown, another great example of so many Minnesotans’ stunted cultural literacy is our obsession with Prince. This is to say nothing of the quality of Prince’s work, but rather the inconceivable ratio of “times Prince is mentioned” to “times any genuine insight into Prince’s music is offered.” Rather than let him be a symbol of something particular, he’s been squished into this identity mold so Minneapolitans have a claim to cultural relevancy.

The common progressive parlance would rebut this by claiming the inaccessibility of other forms of art, due to constraints created by both money and whiteness. Fair point, but the arts scene here is strong precisely because it is culturally diverse, tenacious, and comparatively well-funded. The Southern Methodist University DataArts project ranks the Twin Cities as 5th in the country for “arts vibrancy,” assessing the supply, demand, and public support for arts.18

We have a rich and innovative arts scene spanning disciplines and forms. Our private arts institutions have made great strides towards accessibility, with abundant opportunities to get free or discounted tickets to experience our state’s state of the art art. We give Chicago a run for their money in the race for de facto cultural capital of the Midwest.19 Our institutions punch far above their weight, but so, too, do our DIY scenes, our scrappy artistic underground. You can find free or dirt cheap ways to communally experience music, theatre, visual art, film, and literature nearly every day of the week. The night before the sharpening, I paid $13 to see the best Shakespeare production I’ve ever seen and even got a free shot of mezcal out of it.

We have an abundance of wonderful public art to enjoy here, too. It feels too obvious to even mention the Minneapolis Sculpture Garden and its iconic Spoonbridge and Cherry, a piece which actually serves as a gateway to serious engagement. Celebrations like May Day and BareBones showcase the incredible folk artistry of our puppetry scene. Both cities’ streets are chock full of murals. If we’re talking public art that inspires moments of reflection and joy, the sidewalk poetry in St. Paul is a great example. We should remember this not so we can brag about a title, but so that we truly appreciate the artistry that abounds here, and let it do its job of pushing our thoughts, emotions, and actions.

But still, so many Minnesotans only want to celebrate art after someone else has put in the work of finding it for us. As algorithms tighten their stranglehold, it seems less and less of us are looking for it, more and more content to suck on the stub of a Ticonderoga. The Star Tribune, our preeminent news source, seems stubbornly glued to mainstream venues, only covering fringe ones as they disappear20. To have a thriving arts scene, we need to cultivate critical engagement with works outside our immediate field of vision.

I went to the artist talk on Saturday knowing little about it. That local artist, Tia-Simone Gardner, discussed a photography project depicting her hometown’s geography with frankness and curiosity. I found her extraordinarily compelling and had conversations about her ideas with the people sitting around me. Even if I didn’t find it interesting, though, I would have been glad to give myself the opportunity to find out if I would. It was also free, with refreshments served, and I counted 21 people in attendance while thousands watched the sharpening. Of course, the Venn diagram of those target audiences isn’t a circle, but I don’t know if that can be explained by the most convenient reasons.

The power of art is often overstated, but it is legitimate and real, and it is owed to artists who are curious, brave, honest, and critical. I’m not asking for complexity, just genuine intention. The value of thinking is apparently a commodity even the wealthiest among us can’t be bothered to afford. I love things that are dumb and stupid, when the creator knows they’re dumb and stupid. For art to be powerful, we have to put ourselves through the risky and often humbling work of salvaging meaning from it. I mean, just look at me, as fun as this is, it’s a bit embarrassing.

My irritation is intensified because I know this is a culture to which I belong21. I am not beyond reproach. My awareness of the narcissism of small differences will unfortunately not spare me any shame. I’m sure I am sometimes pretentious, probably in this essay, despite my best efforts to be honest. My salary, which I earn by managing and multiplying grants from wealthy institutions, makes me uncomfortable. Last week I delivered a middling performance in an improv show. At the sharpening, I wore a hat repping my private liberal arts alma mater. While leaving the event, I think I accidentally microaggressed an acquaintance. Shortly thereafter I recorded a voice memo to send to my friend and played it back to assess if I found myself sufficiently entertaining, ignoring several Signal notifications in the process. A few blocks away, I got distracted by an author’s name in a Little Free Library, and tucked the work of widely acknowledged literary merit into a tote bag of my own. Who knows when I’ll read it, but I’ll certainly display it proudly on my bookshelf for visitors to notice.

I exhaust so much thought into parsing through my annoyance at this damn pencil not to chastise from afar, but because I identify and loathe these tendencies in myself constantly. We need to hold ourselves to a higher standard, look at the big picture, and not confine criticism as an outlet for merely yelling at big meanies.

Just the next day at Open Streets, I experienced a version of community that really did feel important. I thanked a shopkeeper for a recommendation they’d given me a few weeks ago. I bought a print directly from an artist. I talked about orangutans with a cashier. I watched strangers sing karaoke for a free slice of pizza, and let them convince me to do the same. I ran into friends and neighbors. They introduced me to new friends and neighbors that accompanied them. And I don’t deserve a pat on the back for any of it! It’s just definitionally a much more accurate description for what community and joy mean to me in actuality, and a thoughtfully planned artistic gathering for which I have much more gratitude.

As long as our city’s artistry remains a significant part of our identity, we need to hold ourselves to appreciate it through exploration, authenticity, and rigor. Pick up the damn pencil, Minneapolis. Let’s write our own narrative instead of slurping up the one we’ve been strong-armed into by our city’s elite22.

xoxo

Abraham

3

Me to Mr. Higgins