85th Regional Exhibition: State-Wide Call for Entries
Muskegon Museum of Art 85th Regional Exhibition – All-State Edition
Entry Registration: May 2, 3, and 4, 2013
The MMA’s Regional Exhibition holds a respected position within Michigan’s
art tradition, representing the best in our artistic community. This year,
for the second year in a row, the invitation to enter artwork is extended
to artists throughout our state. Registration is open to all artists 18
years and older who reside in Michigan.
Up to two artworks may be submitted for juror selection. Artworks must be
physically brought to the Museum from Thursday, May 2, through Saturday,
May 4, or be shipped, pre-paid, to arrive by May 1. Digital entries are not
accepted. Complete information and entry forms are available at
www.muskegonartmuseum.org. The 85th Regional Exhibition opens on May 23 and
will be on display through August 21, 2013. The public is invited to join
the artists at an opening reception on Thursday, May 23, from 5:30 to 8:00
pm. Awards will be announced and given to the artist during the event at
This year’s juror is Doug Stapleton, an artist, curator, and educator. He
is an Assistant Curator of Art with the Illinois State Museum, Chicago
Gallery, and a former Artistic Associate with the Chicago-based
contemporary dance company The Seldoms. He is an adjunct faculty member in
the Interdisciplinary Arts graduate program at Columbia College, Chicago,
and his art has been exhibited recently at the Chicago Cultural Center and
at the Loyola University Museum of Art. More information on the juror can
be found at www. dougstapleton.com.
The 85th Regional Exhibition is underwritten by Shape Corporation and
Contemporary Art Ally Alcoa Foundation. Awards are underwritten by
Huntington Bank with additional support from the Muskegon Museum of Art
Foundation. Additional support is provided by the Michigan Council for Arts
and Cultural Affairs, the National Endowment for the Arts, and media
sponsor is Mlive/Muskegon Chronicle.
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Our train has blasted through Chelsea, where it would make a great stop if
one were going to the Purple Rose Theater. We are on our way to Jackson. I
am on my way to Kalamazoo for the day before my 3:30 PM bus takes me to
Grand Rapids. I have been on the move since 4:30 AM and that’s three hours
and twenty four minutes. I am recalling a dream. I had placed a mattress on
the floor of the living room of a big open floor plan house. I covered it
with bed clothing from Bed, Bath and Beyond, and it looked all right.
Although a mattress on box springs not on a bed frame looks tragically
tacky. There is that choice to see the keys or to see the countryside. We
have a widow in the dining car. We have two friends returning from Ann
Arbor whom I have asked if they were painting students from ARTIC. I am
glad I am still a bit of a touch typist. The concession counter is being
run by a man with a genuine comic talent. “Hello Business Class!” “He was
here first?” “He’s an old friend, we go way back”. He, of course, reminds
me of a character from The Green Mile, the man who passed away last year
and was honored at the Oscars. Was it the Oscars? I am having a nice time,
except we didn’t get one of those cars that provides the Internet. I can
just fully tap into what I am thinking at the moment. I see a deer blind on
stilts, among dead snags of trees in a wet land rank with dead, brown
cattails. I don’t want to think how much money I have spent so far on this
stupid, compulsive trip. I am no closer than I was before. She had fun. “We
had fun, with a purpose”, I answered. It is of course parenting time. I
have at least an hour to Kalamazoo, and I have no idea what I will be doing
in Kalamazoo. How that single Greyhound line back to Muskegon drives my
life. I would be so much better off if I could have taken the Megabus back
at 1:00 AM Monday morning. I could have avoided a premium cab drive. I woke
up this morning, a fact that the soulful man behind the counter celebrated.
“I know who you are. We go way back”. Three odd bars as we pull into
Jackson, all of them serving plenty of Budweiser. Krista up sold me to a
Black Crown, which reminded me of a Michelob. Allegiance Health has a cure
for the sickness that spoils noon time. Our concession stand man is
breaking down boxes and talking about the Lake Effect snow in southwest
Michigan and northern Indiana, but it is not going to stop us from going
110 miles and hour. Amtrak didn’t spend 23 million to upgrade the tracks to
be defeated by Lake Effect snow. We have 21 people boarding at Jackson.
What does it mean when your mother waves to you from the platform in
Jackson. What does it mean when that woman walks away from the platform
with a yellow rag covering her mouth, held in place tightly as she walks
away, bent over slightly. Looking into the complex of buildings that make
up downtown Jackson. The glass of the Jackson station has started to slowly
flow to its bottom, making all those wavy glass imperfections that are the
sign of age. “If that changes, I will keep you abreast of that situation”.
He has been on this job for 38 years, so he might be sixty years old. A red
head from business class chased him down the aisle as he went to make his
pitch to the newly arriving passengers from the Jackson stop. That is the
second red head from this weekend’s trip that has accentuated her red hair
with dye. Pizza Hot Line by the gas station with a Buddy’s, a reefer has a
series of holes worn between its reinforcements. I chose the long way home,
I chose the long way home. I can already feel the joints in my right hand
begin to swell. I must hit the keys lighter. The red stick grows amongst
the cattails and marsh grass, and it has grown reddish with the longer days
of light. I could get my aspirins out and my blood pressure meds out and
that one medication that makes blood pressure work in all the right places.
So far, we haven’t been forced to wait on any rail sidings. Sleeping from 9
until 4 AM hasn’t quite reset my sleep clock. I might make Sunday an early
night to turn in too. I want to compartmentalize my dating in Muskegon,
leaving Hennessy’s for myself alone. Marsh and woodlot, marsh and woodlot,
pile of stones with an old tree grown from the center of it. A veteran of
Iraq has medically retired, and he’s chatting up Henry in the lounge.
Pontiac to Dearborn, where the club car concession opened, makes how long
of a nap. Today the conductor scanned the UPC square of my ticket,
presented by the Amtrak application. He didn’t ask for no id. The
passageway between this car and the following has been accumulating leaking
snow from a gap in the door sealing.
Thinking about Rand and Stuart, and being glad I didn’t answer, “I’ve been
fixing Stuart’s errors and handling problems he couldn’t for five years. I
asked a question of Rand who didn’t have the answer and asked the same
question of Kara who did”. I probably got an extra two weeks of pay out of
that reserve. Is it Adrian or Albion that we are how encountering, passing
through the beautiful campus of brick? Let’s see if that one med makes my
head hurt or makes me dizzy when it takes effect. I doubt it was needed to
today. I have five or six left, a twenty five dollar value. We made no stop
at the Albion station. The young retiree is a handsome, lanky ginger with a
ginger beard and an earring. She looks like the woman from the office but
three decades younger. The woman in the office has had two or maybe three
husbands. I am not wild about my options. Our red haired passenger has a
beautiful voice, which has a bit of purr in her tone. We are north of some
river and south of Interstate 94. I regret I will not be continuing on this
trip to Chicago. I can’t be the odd man out every time. Tengo Cansada. This
morning, all I have is jealousy and lowered expectations for my time in
Kalamazoo. Maybe I find someone to drive me the ninety miles home. I
assisted myself chemically, but I didn’t seem to need it during the
previous, self test. Erase. Erase. Erase. Ada, why don’t we take your
mother to lunch at Root, which I have wanted to enjoy for a while too.
What’s amazing is my mother fed her children farm to table every day for
twelve years, although she bought her meat from the Spartan store in town.
I see the open water of a river, and we have been following it for how
long? Yes, it is a river and we are south of Marshall. But the river peters
out west of Marshall? I am just trying to read the land as we pass through
it. Here, it is dammed for electricity. I didn’t know we passed through the
south end of Marshall. I am doing well with my touch typing. There is a
center less wind turbine on a post. There is the Marshall water tower.
Winston Park. Oh, that’s that rest stop? Text Lynn. For all the good it
does. Or was it the north end of Marshall? Maybe it’s the nail holes in the
corners. Doh! She’s the young woman from Hillsdale? Why does it matter?
Let’s face it. Trains have carried this country. Bar codes were invented
for the train industry, a fact that edifies the conductors. He’s got a Yale
hoodie. I have forty five minutes to type before my train arrives in
Kalamazoo. My daughter opened the mailbox, and the invitation has filled
her mailbox with the reek of cigarette smoke. I don’t think we’ll be
catching that daughter smoking anything. The man drinking a bottle of
Starbuck Frappucino knew that this was the 351 train, and announced it to
the club car before the conductors could. It’s a QR code, right. And here
we have the cereal factories of Kellogg’s. I tried to read a sign on a post
near the Third Base Lounge, and I couldn’t make out the blue lettering on a
blue field. White lettering. Good Times Lounge in a building that had to be
a church who once had banked on a weird architect. Strange drinking going
on it that bar. I got off in Battle Creek, could I make it home tonight? It
was Thursday when I took the last dose. Battle Creek has a train depot that
needs much recovery work. The one they use is a marvel. The rail road
people get special treatment on Amtrak. I got my blood pressure up over the
charge for a ride to the train station and the lack of support for train
passengers, getting us around by shuttle. Usually, we can get off for a few
minutes here. Don’t be left behind. 1950, not 63.
We have a changing of the guard in Battle Creek. This crew has been on the
job since 4:30 this morning, which still makes for a short day. If the door
is open, maybe it is intentional. A genuine eeeeek of OMG! Cropped hair
stared at me. I just kept walking. It shows green if not properly latched.
Problem is, the light goes on without the lock being set. I didn’t see that
club from the tracks. What creek is channelized there? I am remembering the
woman I bought a beer after talking with her on the platform in LA. Maybe I
could do something for you? She got off in Carlsbad, and a man met her on
the tracks. She made a business doing some kind of document scanning. It
was the widow. Twenty minutes. My, that perfume is much stronger than I
remember it. Hello is indicated. We are moving up to 110 miles an hour are
we? I will need my time in the metal closet. I have placed everything where
a guest would sit. Remove it. Open up a perch for the fragrant one. I have
the past in my future in the form of clutter. A nice little creek ….
Photography Credit, Dwight Burdette
She rides her hips as if they were a horse. I read that as an example of simile in the manual of poetry writing, Western Wind. I haven’t a copy of the book. I should be able to Google that phrase and find the poem and the poet, as I could find the song, “City of New Orleans” by googling, “Hello, America, How Are You?” One summer afternoon in 1995, I saw a woman run east on Kercheval in Grosse Point Park, and she ran swiftly and with great form. She rode her hips as if she was riding a horse. I haven’t forgotten that line of verse and I haven’t forgotten my brief glimpse as she ran through a moment of my life. I was running then, and I was about to run in the Detroit Free Press Marathon, which I barely completed. I performed better at the half-marathon distance. I once ran in a weight category for men nearing two hundred pounds, the Clydesdale division. I posted pretty good times for a Clydesdale, running miles in less than eight minutes an hour. I can make that time on a bicycle now.Girls take to horses quite dearly, and luckily, my daughter and I had a huge horse show to visit at the exhibition center at Novi Road and US-96, south of Twelve Oaks Mall in Novi, Michigan. One of the exhibitors, a young woman, declared to me, “Girls who love horses don’t get into trouble”. I bought my daughter a flute and I hope it has the same effect. She’s been out riding the horses on girl scout adventures, so she has had brief moments of an equestrian girlhood. I have heard many stories of families who have given their daughter a horse to love, either to raise at home or to board at a neighboring horse farm. I was talking to a photographer who had taken a series of beautiful photographs of a young woman and her horse. She was departing for graduate school in the later part of the month of August, and she had found a good home for the horse. If she wasn’t home, the horse wouldn’t receive the right, personal care. He had gotten the text message early in the morning, and he had come out to take pictures before dawn. One picture had the mists of a small Michigan lake in the background. I met a woman who had won championships and a professional income as a hay bale racer. When I met her, she wore a silver seahorse around her neck. She had divorced, and the horses were lost as part of the financial shock that divorce evokes upon a person’s life. She had a child whom she wanted to teach to ride, so she was saving to buy her girl a horse. She had moved home to run the family farm, so there was plenty of room on the Newaygo spread to feed and exercise the new family member. In the same place where I had met the woman with the seahorse, I met a woman who had acquired a pygmy horse from a rescue operation, and she added it to her stable of two paints. Her father wanted her to acquire an iron horse, a Harley Davidson to ride in the Rolling thunder parades. She was preparing for the day her daughter departed for Florida to study marine biology by uploading all of her horse riding pictures from a laptop to Facebook folders. I certainly hope Facebook plans of allowing people to use their accounts forever for free. There’s too many albums of memories up on the Internet counting on the Facebook promise. I have taken my daughter to see the ponies at the horse races, including the action at Sports Creek and Northville Downs. She has an idea of earning credentials as a veterinarian, and seeing animals at work, running in a sport that many think honorable, has to be a good experience. I bet on every race, and made ten dollars for my trouble, showing her how to pick horses from the racing digest. I thought of that as a mathematical experience. Many of her friends expressed dismay when she told them about our visits to the races. The sport is dying slowly, and Great Lakes Downs has fallen to the changing tide of the gambling industry. It’s no longer necessary to keep horses and run a clean race to have a horse race. It’s easier to simulate a horse race on a computer system, and I’ve seen one of these at Firekeepers in Battle Creek. You can’t smell the scent of the horse hair on the wind.
The goat has long held a special place in the bestiary of my mind.
Hesse Hathaway Park stands on Williams Lake Road in Waterford
Township, Michigan, and a family of farmers donated the farm house,
barns, coops, fields and forests to the township. The manager
maintained a herd of goats and a coop full of chickens, just to give
the farm an authentic feel. He had success maintaining a hutch of
rabbits, and children loved to feed them. My daughter has gone to
visit Hesse Hathaway Park every year, in every season, since the
second year of her birth.
I saw a mouse taken by the talons of a red tail hawk earlier this
season. The hawk had awaited in a tree top for my car to drive by,
making road noise that the field mouse had been grown tired of
hearing. He sailed downward on his extended wings and nabbed the
mouse, catching the furry body on his second try. The red tail had to
fall left a few inches to make the second grab in the corn stubble. It
was like watching a good short stop bobble and then secure a line
drive. That action unfolded before my eyes in the spring, when the
season was fresh and trees were unfolding leaves from buds.