Mammo (I’m trying to make myself not say this, but the urge is strong) GLAM

Here’s how to get the most spa-like experience out of your mammogram. First, have some of the coffee in the waiting lounge.

It’s as bad as office coffee but just have it. Focus on the plants. They’re fake plants but just do this. You think the plants in your spa waiting room are real, or that the coffee hasn’t been sitting there all day? Just have this. Put in some creamer. Take it with you into the changing room. Scan the area for signs you’re in a clinic.

Turn away from those signs and don’t look back. Focus on the locker.

Appreciate the slow, soft closure of the door, like a spa locker, not like a gym locker. Appreciate this by draping your attire on the hooks and gently lifting out the chambray tissue under-robe.

The advantage of paper over satin or rayon is that the cinch is more profound. So your waist looks small and your top and bottom look artificially flared, like you’re a pair of paper fans flipped up and down, or a curvaceous crepe lantern. Far more interesting than a robe that just hangs there and shows your regular human shape. Now slip on the branded over-robe.

Experiment with the color-texture mix. Pop the collar! I know you’re prepared to do this because you graduated from high school in the mid-1980s. This is who gets annual mammograms now, these days, it’s us. Ladies! Welcome. Admit that the scrunched collar of a paper robe is just about as flattering as the ribbing on a poly-cotton Izod shirt, it really is, and you would never know that if not for time and wisdom. Celebrate your under-robe collar. Be pleased you’ve come this far.

Be pleased somebody thinks enough about form and function and your state of mind right now to craft a machine that looks like sculpture. Curvy! It’s an O. It moves every way, at every angle, so rather than lying down and letting your head fall through a padded hole or whatever, like at a spa, you just have to stand there in the flattering low light and lean up against a heating pad. That’s it. That’s arguably less taxing than some spa treatments. During a mammogram your hair stays good, your makeup doesn’t run. You can check that for yourself in the reflective glass.

There’s the issue of wiping off your deodorant before the scan, which is a pain, but afterwards — deodorant towelettes!

Emery boards!

Stickers!

The sculpture machine, which is new this year at Mankato Clinic, shows results during the scan so there’s no longer the need to sit in the waiting lounge wearing your robe. I miss that because there’s some gravity to those ten minutes that you just can’t get anywhere else. At my 2011 exam I was in the post-scan lounge and my colleague DeAnna walked in and sat down on the other couch. I knew, because everybody at work knew, she was there to check a cancer that had shown up in the past year. Our chit-chat went like “hey, DeAnna,” and then “hello, Ann,” and then we each drank coffee in the particular silence that strikes up between work friends wearing matching pink bathrobes, one is dying, one isn’t.

You can see why they say you should do that every year.

Spring VOGUE transposed for 34 degrees in the 56001

What the editrix wears to the acknowledgment ball

It’s official! With this week’s arrival of my copy of Christopher Fisher’s A History of Stone and Steel, I am the most-acknowledged person in my writing world. Chris acknowledged me among his critique buddies. It’s a very macho book.

The University of Minnesota Press recently released We’ll Be The Last Ones to Let You Down, in which I’m acknowledged by author Rachael Hanel who is a hot boundless thing right now. So by association, what she said here makes me feel kind of boundless as well. Not as on-fire as the display font at the top, but like the rule underneath it. Well-spaced and ready.

Last fall saw the release of Amy Stockwell Mercer’s second book, The Smart Woman’s Guide to Eating Right with Diabetes: What Will Work, in which I’m delighted to be acknowledged among Amy’s personal-and-private storytellers.

And proud to have written the foreword, which the publisher let me sign like this:

I don’t know if any writing programs name this as a goal, “get acknowledged,” but I think they should. It feels great. I think it would make a good category at the Minnesota Book Awards. “Most Acknowledged.” I would win the inaugural award, of course, and would strive to wear something appropriate.

Something “taut and luminous” per the blurb on Christopher’s back cover, “macabre and lyrical” as the Star Tribune said about Rachael, down-to-earth yet bold yet low-carb for Amy, which is what she is and how she writes. I  would accessorize with a few harsh but hopeful pieces for my writing friends who are just one bleeding red edit away* from a gorgeous published page.

*Call me.

The Mankato Symphony is stable because it dresses like this

The Mankato Symphony Orchestra has a great thing in conductor Ken Freed, who is an artistic and public relations powerhouse with a formidable sweater collection. He’s also a stunning violist and you can see that for yourself when he solos at Sunday’s concert. I don’t know what he’s planning to wear that day. We can only hope.

What I think is really working for the Mankato Symphony right now, though, why nobody’s locking anybody out or getting audited, is executive director Sara Buechmann’s strategic and visionary sense of style.

Strategic because her flowing lines and green sash pair well with the office woodwork and with Ken’s sweaters. Visionary because look at the shoes.

These aren’t even shoes. These are architecture. On their own, they’re breathtaking, and juxtaposed with Ken’s woolens they represent the kind of diversified portfolio every organization needs. I know that usually refers to investments and programming and the like but you can start judging based on what the staff is wearing. No, you really can. This is a true thing. You get a team that spans homemade knits and posh Mary Janes, you can guarantee that team will defy odds. They’ll transcend whatever messes plague their contemporaries and get the work done. A hothouse natural order will dominate:

Nails will be painted. Budgets will be balanced. Warm drinks will be served. Flyers will be folded. Whims will be tempered, tempers will be assuaged, shows will go on. Art will happen.

Take this cue, Minnesota Orchestra and Saint Paul Chamber Orchestra. Drive down here and see how your outstate colleagues dress and then go back to the negotiating table fresh and woolen and polished. Ready to focus. As Chicago Symphony Orchestra President Deborah Rutter recently said, ”…these are issues of art, not finance. And if you try to overlay finance all the time, you will never make a good case in the world of art because it just doesn’t work that way.” Right on, sister, and if you’d like Mankato Symphony leadership to take you shoe shopping to overlay that tweed jacket with some hot wicked prairie style, let me know.

Come witness the Mankato Symphony in action on Sunday, April 21 at 3:00 p.m. at Mankato West High. Ken might wear a sweater. Sara will most definitely wear something you want.

It’s tough to look good in April

Spring starts out so ugly, unless you’re a piece of trash, and then you’re like, thank God! At last, some flattering light.

I saw a bunch of sweet gleaming rot between my house and downtown last night. A lot of wet folds and curves.

Ok yes. Right. I said “gleaming.” I said “folds.” You guys, this stuff has been mistreated for a long time. The whole entire winter. It deserves to feel good.

And there was this, on Byron Street.

The detailed rendering had three options for doorknob placement, which, without question, was the best part.

It’s on the 700 block, if you’d like to go see. It’s the thing that could make all the difference for you this season.

I mean, unless you’re not seeking new levels of hot bold grit.

But I think you are.

Spring fashion for the reputation cannibal

Last Saturday night I went out all dressed up in other people’s credentials. They looked so good on me, you’d swear I was the real thing. The centerpiece was a brooch from retired dean-professor-poet Jane Earley. Here it is in its original habitat, the navy polyester of Jane’s lapel.

Here it is Saturday night.

My shoes and pants came from the yard sale of author Nicole Helget. The sale was late last summer. I rode my bike which limited my purchases to what I could fit in my backpack, so I had to leave behind these pumps and this one great pair of black pants with zippers on the legs, even though I really wanted them both. Not because I wear pumps or pants, but because I was delighted to find that Nicole and I shared a shoe and ass size. Oh please. What. Like you never went to a prominent artist’s yard sale and checked the pant tag, and saw they were the same as yours, and thought, excellent! I’m famous-sized!

A couple months later, I really needed some pumps to wear to a work thing so I messaged Nicole and sure enough she still had them. She left them on her porch for me to pick up that night, along with the pants, which I didn’t wear to the work thing because the zippers were a bit much. But obviously I had to wear them at some point, if I ever expect to publish.

You would think there’s no topping that but you haven’t seen the earrings. The earrings are what nailed it.

The wires and blank frames came from Hobby Lobby. The photos inside are from the contact sheets of pictures I took in Nieu Bethesda, South Africa, where outsider artist Helen Martins filled her bleak and tiny back yard with more than 300 concrete sculptures of camels, owls and people. Helen and her hired man Koos Malgas shaped each piece by hand. Do you feel what I mean by that, have you ever touched wet concrete? I bought a box of it after I visited the house, to see if I could make a little statue or two, and I did, and it burned like hell. You can’t wash it off because by the time you realize it hurts, it’s already in. They used crushed glass to make the concrete sparkle. I don’t know if the palms of Helen and Koos were completely numb, or if the sting was part of what they needed, or what. I know they kept going for twelve years, making and making despite heat and poverty and the neighbors’ disdain. In 1976, Helen’s eyesight began to fail, and she told Koos the yard was full. No more making. She sent him away and ingested a mixture of lye and crushed glass and olive oil, and collapsed on her kitchen floor and died a few days later.

I believe she would have liked my outfit.

One thing you can’t see here is the glitter in the shawl. It’s not as good as crushed glass in concrete, but I’m telling you, layer this with the brooch of a smart person plus hand-me-down famous pants and publish-me stilettos, plus crafty little earrings of despair, and seriously. You could not be more ready for thinking, making, shaping, busting forth into the light and other fashionable acts of spring.

Ann’s Office Outfit Makeover: Carrie Moore

I barely know this woman but I understand she used to play sax at Circus World, then she lived in England for a bunch of years, and now she dresses superclassy for her day job in Waseca. My love for all the possible backstories that brought Carrie Moore from Baraboo to here are entirely enough to qualify me to give her a makeover.

Also, Carrie, I saved the ticket from your local acting debut. Not in a stalker-ish way, although I really liked the performance.

(Seriously you guys, have you ever seen the role of a cranky child played by the mother of an actual small child? It’s funny and yet it transcends “funny” and gets at some dark cathartic stuff. Carrie’s wailing never stopped but it also never got ironic. It just, went, on. With urgency and endurance and anguish and stuck-ness and delight. Which is a really nice way to announce your arrival in town.)

I saved the ticket because needed the documentation for taxes.

I’m showing you this, Carrie, in case you have any trepidation about living in a new place trying to build a network and figure out where you want to take your art next, like if you want to keep acting, or reunite with the sax while your kid is napping (might not work), or whatever. I was nervous about exactly that kind of thing when we moved here without knowing anybody. And then a few years later, here I am itemizing deductions to offset my band’s taxable income. You know what I’m saying? It works out. I hope that’s as inspiring as I mean for it to be. Like I said, I don’t know you well, but the poise with which you wear your Chanel-like getup tells me you have an appreciation for business acumen or for people who dress like they have some. A few additional tips, or things that look like tips:

- You already know about Rural American Contemporary Art and that’s good. Please keep coming to RACA events. They’re the world headquarters of people doing art for art’s sake, and often day jobs as well, and apologizing for neither. Also, good parties.

- The Small Business Development Center can fill in anything I’ve failed to explain here with the tax stuff, should you you want think more about art for income. The client roster is pretty public, though, so be aware that your arty RACA friends might know you’re dabbling in fiscal conservatism. But then again, a lot of us are clients. So just, you know, discretion. Right? It’s a small town.

- In addition to keeping all your receipts for tax purposes, keep documenting the important stuff like your recent dead-of-winter color change:

The depth! And the wisps, the lips! I have no idea if this was a pro job or a box color, but I want it to be the latter, because I love the thought that you went out to get pre-storm supplies like milk and cereal and whatever your not-at-all-cranky kid might need, but then, there on the shelf sat Miss Clairol in Hot Caramel, or something, and you went for it, and came home and did this instead of making dinner, and stained the new sink in the process, and everybody got mad, but for God’s sake did you feel good. And warm. And not just from the ammonia and the plastic cap wrapped around your head. Carrie, please keep doing this kind of thing, and then who knows.

For we are no Circus World. But we do have several types of box color in our drugstores, and a disproportionate number of artists passionately devoted to making nowhere into somewhere, and deep appreciation for people who try new shades and take risks and wail.

Hey, the Mankato Magazine story that prompted these makeovers is now posted! The issue also features a piece by Rachael Hanel, who introduced Carrie and me. Oh this town.