From the category archives:

CULTURE

McCann Erickson entry proposing creativitylivesindetroit.com, courtesy of NYtimes.com

McCann Erickson entry proposing creativitylivesindetroit.com, courtesy of NYtimes.com


The New York Times article by Stuart Elliott, a former writer for the Detroit Free Press, is making it’s way around to Detroit’s cultural purveyors. The article details Time Inc’s contest to attract young creatives to Detroit.

IT may not be the advertising version of “Mission: Impossible,” but it is certainly a challenging, if not daunting, task: produce a campaign to encourage young and creative people to consider Detroit as a place to live and work.

Judging by his lead, Stuart Elliott isn’t buying into Detroit as a beacon for creative aspiring artists. Here’s the gist of the contest:

The initiative to help change what may be the most dire urban image in America is being sponsored by the Time Inc. unit of Time Warner as part of a yearlong project, Assignment Detroit, that involves reporters and editors from Essence, Fortune, Money, Sports Illustrated, Time and related Web sites. Several advertising agencies with offices in the Detroit area were asked to develop campaigns; five agreed to take part. Their work is to appear in the Dec. 7 issue of Fortune, due Nov. 23, as well as on three Web sites: cnnmoney.com, fortune.com and time.com. (The value of the ad pages that Time Inc. is devoting to the contest in Fortune is estimated at $400,000.)

On the contrary, what cool, creative, progressive 18 year- old isn’t intrigued by a placed like Detroit?

It’s funky, rebellious and inevitably some part of their favorite music was made there. Detroit beckons the adventurous, the rebels, the out-of-the box types. It always has – it has something to do with a tough guy reputation.

By all means, it’s very cool that Time Inc is making an effort to get their hands dirty in the D, by investing in the image of the community, when they are struggling to keep reporters, fact checkers, and printers employed. And, the ad agencies that are struggling to keep the doors open probably appreciate the business and challenge to do something proactive in their own backyards, with account money from car companies down.

Yet, the approach seems to be backward, or at least disconnected. It’s about more than getting people to consider Detroit, it’s about learning to work with opportunity, or lack thereof. Generally, in society, artists have sought out places that no one else considered relevant. Hello Soho. But being a pioneer comes with tax — what I heard someone in Detroit once jokingly describe as a ghetto tax. Like, know your history. Come prepared.

The city has long attracted a certain band of outsiders to move in. In Detroit, an outsider is someone who wasn’t hired in by the car industry. See the Cass Corridor art scene of the 1960s for reference.

More recently these dreamy drifters and visionaries have been a diverse set of adventure seekers. A Japanese DJ who was willing to clean houses in exchange for a place to live. A recent LA college-grad who hopes to learn something about the indie music biz. A DC graphic designer who also dabbles in house music. A U of M doctoral candidate who is studying urban living. A poet who wrestle with a subtext of grit. A rock legend who chooses to live privately. A soul singer who opts to get more mansion for her money in Grosse Pointe. The daughter of a French diplomat looking for an urban thrill. A New Yorker who has visions of managing the next big thing.

I had my creative pioneering experiences, living at 2030 Grand River Ave. You won’t find this building; it’s was demolished a couple years ago. My rent was less than $200. It was a gigantic loft with large, looming windows that welcomed the event of sunrise. In many ways, at 22, I had it made. But it also came with a rat population, heat that wasn’t activated until mid-January,and ultimate slum lords who stole my security deposit. I used to write with gloves on, tears freezing, my breath fogging up the computer screen. I learned big-city sensibility — like taking all my change out of the car to avoid luring a window smash, and to always park under a light that worked, and be alert on an empty street. Happy to say, I emerged unscathed. By the time I moved out, I knew many of the local homeless population by name. That was the 90s. It’s a new day in Detroit, with plenty of condos and cheap homes, but beware of a place that sounds too good to be true. The sleazy landlords are still there, too.

While all of this provided great character building, young creatives need foundation to grow on, in exchange for living the artist’s way. That’s the hard part. That’s what the advertising won’t be honest about.

Let’s get the record straight. There’s more than one kind of person who falls under the definition of the creative type — and not all creative type are built to do great things. This is the difference between the working artist and the almost-there’s. There are plenty of people who call themselves artists, who boast about their small successes and dream, but can’t quite seem to keep it together, held-back by drugs, booze, or laziness, a lifestyle that’s easier to maintain in a town where the cost of living is considerably less. But they’re still trying. And still promising. And many of them call Detroit home. And if you aren’t savvy enough to see the difference, this energy can be very deflating.

There’s the grown-up, stage two artists — dancers, actors and stars who’ve returned home to raise a family and hob-knob in the local scene, taking on creative careers in education and community building to sustain themselves, wistful for the dream that evades them, or content with the fulfillment giving back brings them.

Then there’s the artist who is outwardly successful, that everyone constantly hits up for money, connections and opportunity. Chances are these artists do a good portion of their business elsewhere, while they make their work at home. They are there, but they worked their ass off to arrive.

Then there’s the artist who is simply trying their best, waiting for something to happen, waiting for someone to come, waiting for someone to keep a promise, waiting for someone to notice.

The trouble is with the premise of this campaign is that there needs to be long-term vision to keep the motivated artist in Detroit, who are not simply there to be close to family, who want to live and make ends meet, who want to make great work, and who want to reach an audience.

In Michigan, there are no large group of patrons that support a viable artist scene, and with a declining tax base, that’s not going in the coming months, when people are just trying to keep the light on. There are no special tax breaks for artists to live in Michigan. And there certainly aren’t enough coffee shops for artists to work second jobs. Art supplies, new business endeavors, and food cost money.

For an incentive like this to work, it’s got to come from the inside out, and from the outside in. Detroit has to want people, too. Yes, an artist can make great work in Detroit, but it’s very difficult to sell it there.

Detroit may be temporarily thrilled by the attention, but by culture, the Midwest is slower to change, and in fact will look at you as if you’re crazy when you do something different. It takes an ambassador to carry it off. People don’t want to be told how to live. Can we blame them?

Despite its growing reputation as an urban farm, Detroit is an insider town. It’s a small town that acts as big city, and the core remains intact. It takes credibility to make headway with the local vanguard. That’s why local rock stars are frequently called upon to make a new idea fly. Yet, most of them live in the suburbs as well. If the accomplished creative types who live in the suburbs don’t want to invest in town, then why would outsiders? Are we talking Detroit? Are we talking Michigan? Or, are we talking in abstract about a community that is disconnected?

This has long been the case in a city plagued by segregation, the ills of racism and greed. There are lots of bad people who’ve done their dirt in Detroit, like the slumlords and drug suppliers and scamming agencies who don’t live there, and made it harder for the people who do. These issues need to be confronted head on, and not disregarded. It’s about appreciating the value of those in our community, and being honest about who’s doing what and how.

Are we ready to thrust these burdens on the young? Artists might start out as idealistic, but they need some reality to build on as real life sets in. It’s not easy.

It’s about more than an image — it’s about creating long-term efforts with realistic premises. Detroit isn’t going to change overnight, and there has to be some kind of investment with vision to responsibly encourage artists to set up shop.

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It would be nice to see a few grants tied in with this incentive for artists to expand opportunities, or to find existing businesses, events and entrepreneurs and to pair them with pioneers from the outside greater world. Like, will Kid Rock hire you to design for the Made in Detroit label? Will Amazon open a branch of their online book company in Detroit? Are there tax breaks for small businesses to move Detroit? And how are artists who aren’t making any money going to pay to park their cars in overprice lots in a city where it’s nearly impossible to live without one? Who’s going to hand out maps to suburban grocery stores, or hip you to E&L Supermercado?

Detroit needs to do the work to go along with this campaign, if it really wants artists to invade from afar, outside in.

Detroit is not an easy city to move to. At first it’s campy, disconcerting in its derelict. And then it seems regular. It’s the kind of place, to truly appreciate the quality of life, you must know somebody, and that’s where the entry to the creative spirits swing open, and that after you’ve paid your dues, put your time in, and you look around and see the quality of the work being done that’s when you know you’ve arrived.

It’s where you’ll meet the toughest artists around, and if you’re patient, you’ll learn from them, and teach them, too.

It’s where things work only if you don’t settle for half-ass. Because it’s easy to come to Detroit and get by on nothing, and act like something. Half-ass is easy when you don’t have any personal goals, when it’s easy to think that after awhile there’s no one paying attention. And when you think you know better. Detroit certainly won’t give you your dreams. However, if you’re looking for a place where you can be quiet, and think, and explore, and stretch out you will find that. With all that space, there’s plenty of room to work.

Here’s how I would sell Detroit to artists:

Detroit is where things are made. Detroit, and it’s nearby Midwestern cities, are where things have long been created. When there isn’t much going on, it affords the opportunity to dream, to work, to create, and if you’re not paying land taxes or the ridiculous high car insurance, it’s much less expensive to live in Detroit. Detroit won’t teach you how to make it anywhere. But it will make you.

Maybe you’re not a Detroit artist. But perhaps, you’re an artist for Detroit.
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michigan

No I cannot forget where it is that I come from
I cannot forget the people who love me
Yeah, I can be myself here in this small town
And people let me be just what I want to be
– John Mellencamp

Everyone comes from somewhere — a big town, a little town, a hodgepodge of villages strung together in moves dictated by imposed change. Somewhere along the journey to adulthood, those places take root in character shaping, with experiences and inflections molding the individual. Must an individual stay in one place to claim it as home?

I spent my first 27 years in Michigan. I grew up in a house on a dirt road in a small town — Novi. It was so small in the late ’70s and early ’80s that I rode the school bus for over one hour to get to the elementary school located in another town, West Bloomfield, in the Walled Lake School district. We had a Northville phone exchange that changed from 313 to 810 to 248 as the rural small town grew to be a suburb throughout the 80s with the sprawl of development. I went to university in a medium-sized town, East Lansing in the middle of the state, an intellectual Big Ten haven in the midst of rural farm country. I moved to the big town in 1998, Detroit, Michigan, which is now, by all accounts, a shrinking town.

Scene on Detroit River, Belle Isle, by Frederick M. Delano, undated 1860s courtesy: Bentley Historical Library, U of M

Scene on Detroit River, Belle Isle, by Frederick M. Delano, undated 1860s courtesy: Bentley Historical Library, U of M

I officially left Detroit on New Year’s Eve 2003. Things were looking up for Detroit demographics in those days — pre-2005 Super Bowl fever was sinking in with entrepreneurial upstarts and Kwame Kilpatrick seemed on target to incorporate decent politics with his youthful swagger.

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But hindsight is what it is. Six years later I’m a long way from returning to Detroit, and as times have taken a turn for the worse, I’m starting to feel like a phony Detroiter. I gave birth in New York to a Brooklyn baby, for goodness sake.

I started 2004 in New York, wide-eyed and scared of the unknown, in the dust of 9/11 detritus, unscathed by the difficult decade on the New York nerves. Originally, my big city sabbatical was going to last a few weeks; I wanted and needed to escape Detroit for a moment after a bad row. New York was decadent and seductive and thankfully anonymous, but more than I could handle — too many people, too much concrete, too damn fast. It didn’t take long to grow accustomed to the intoxication of power and possibility that has wooed millions.

On a whim and a dare, I extended my stay for one year in New York City, declaring my intent to move back to Detroit when I achieved success with writing pursuits, hoping buy a big house in Indian Village after I made good on dreams come true. I wrote a long sappy email to close friends about my intentions and sense of purpose. I even kept up an apartment for a time in Michigan.

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Indeed, things change when people make changes. My hypocrisy: I like to go home, but the truth is, I don’t want to stay there. At least not all the time. At least not right now. At least not for more than a couple weeks at a time. What kind of Detroiter does that make me? The fractured city of Detroit makes me feel a host of emotions — loyalty, relief, pride, fascination, boredom, amusement, sentiment, nostalgia — and recently — guilt.

I should get over it and move on.

Yet, I won’t, I can’t, seem to let go. I’ve still got my identifiable flat Midwestern drawl and countless miles logged on the route from I-80 to I-75. I know the familiar turns taken high in the sky LGA to DTW. Michigan is where my mother immigrated to with our family in 1954, escaping persecution. It’s where my father found home after a fractured upbringing. It’s where my 99-year old grandfather lives his twilight years. But, it’s more than my family that pulls me to Detroit. There’s something there that reminds me of who I am, as I relax on the big-wide open highway surrounded by GM, Chrysler and Ford makes, moving forward with speed and confidence, and when I linger in small quiet nooks built for natives, reminded of all the good that sails beneath the radar.

I prescribe to the notion of place. I like reading books about the landscape of places, I pay attention to setting in film and I attempt to generalize qualities of those who come from certain regions. Michigan people are: hard-working, down-to-earth, humble, provincial, dreamy, the sleepers who will rise to the top in any challenge. Add Detroit to the mix — and staunch joins the list.

Playwright Ron Milner

Playwright Ron Milner

Detroit has a grip on me, to point of obsession. I’ve rationalized leaving with my efforts to help those who are there, to tell people about all the great things Detroiters are doing, to try to woo them away like me to be aspiring Detroiters from afar. There’s safety in numbers. And now as many Detroit natives have returned to survey the barren landscape, looking for connector points to fill in the dot, the exodus continues for those who’ve given up on the town.

Here lies a personal point of contention: the struggle of those with Michigan roots who jump ship. I suspect I’m not alone; for several years the majority (80 percent, I’ve read) of young people churned out of the state have opted to relocate, to spread their lives, talents and loves in other places. Some leave for the big city with wanderlust infused with only a gutsy single suitcase, some leave because it’s the safe bet. What these people share is that they come from somewhere else — a place they chose to leave behind.

Doug Coombe's photographs from 2004 show D-Troit in NYC

Doug Coombe's photographs from 2004 show D-Troit in NYC

I see them here, in big New York on small skinny streets — the aspiring DJ at the post office hustling his way into three jobs around town, awkwardly trying to keep up with the wear of long subway commutes, the long-gone successful writer and filmmaker who reminds people of her Detroit pedigree, the shoe designer who shyly mentions Detroit at the end of his bio, the graphic designer who expresses his loyalty with his dedicated Detroit/U of M/ Michigan State sporting schedule, or the musician that everyone thinks lives in Detroit but ends up more often crashing at a New York pad to export the energy, contact and creative motivation. Sometimes, I feel like I know more Detroiters here, than there — an inflating sad sentiment.
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Marcel Wanders on Target

by Tamara on November 6, 2009

in CULTURE, DESIGN, fashion

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Dutch Designer Marcel Wanders rose to international prominence with the introduction of the Knotted Chair in 1996, which he created for Droog Design. He has gone on to carve out a definitive reputation in design and interior among the name-brand designers of the era. His corporate collaborations are numerous, and include BeB Italia, Puma, Swarovski, Bisazza, Poliform, KLM Royal Dutch Airlines, Flos, Boffi, and Cappellini. It makes sense that Target joins that list, in time for holiday wares, with an extensive list products to keep people moving, or at least add a little pizazz to the ride along the way.

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Glancing through the look book, there’s something Wanders for every which way. By land.

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By air.

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By land.
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By car/sleigh.
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By home.

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More Design on Gotryke:
Sportmax x Formavision
Urban Park Lot

More on Marcel:
mocoloco
Fast Company
Future Blog
Target Addict

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"Texas Cycle Show"  by Rosson Crow
A November art tour of New York should include stops to recently opened exhibits:

The first a big splashy STAGES show benefiting Lance Armstrong’s cancer fight charity Live Strong at the Deitch Space:
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The 25 artists in the show represent a cross-section of background with divergent work. Yet, the work was cohesive and vibrant, perhaps inspired by the common cause of healing, cures and the fortitude of Armstrong. Artists included Rosson Crow, Jules De Balincourt, Shepard Fairey, Futura, Andreas Gursky, KAWS, , Yoshitomo Nara, Catherine Opie , Os Gemeos, José Parlá, Richard Prince, Ed Ruscha and Kenny Scharf.

Crow’s bicycle exhibition from the late 1800s was particularly moving. Attendees at the opening clamored to get their pictures taken with this piece. On view through Nov. 21.

Juan Gomez

Juan Gomez

Columbian-born painter Juan Gomez is showing at the newly-opened Charlie Horse Gallery in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Gomez’s work teases the eye, elongated limbs of babies and women presented in backdrops of color.

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The exhibit for Gail Buckland’s photographic overview of rockshots opened at the Brooklyn Museum, with rock’s biggest stars caught in the flash bulb. While the stars steal the stage, the emphasis is on the rock photographers that have documented everyone from Elvis to Lil Kim. A small room with imagery devoted to Grace Jones is a particular highlight. But nothing beats a brunette Deborah Harry performing with Blondie at the opening. Guitarist Chris Stein’s photography is also included in the show. On view through January 2010.

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Thanks to the Djali Rancher blog for putting us up the link to our friend Bobbito’s CNN interview on Latino in America that airs Oct. 21 and 22.

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Beth Ann Bayus reflects on the moments when time stands still.

My daughter got her first school pictures taken this week, and I don’t care how they turn out. I don’t need them to remember her, not them or the hundreds I have stored in albums. I have pictures I’ve taken that no one can see. For my eyes only, recorded on not on film or jump drives, but on the cerebral negatives of my brain. Pictures only I can share with only myself, taken from only my perspective.

I have a pregnant friend who’s a film director. She’s spent her life recording life. It’s her soul. It’s her heart. How do I tell her now that the best pictures she’ll take of her child will never appear on a monitor or a screen, never be viewed by all on a wall or an album?

There are really only two things she needs to know. First, when they finally tell you to push, push hard and push down, not out. Second, be sure to take the pictures. The pictures in your mind. The ones that matter to you and only you.

I took my first when they laid my daughter, still slimy and gray from the vernix, across my quickly deflating belly. It’s the first time I ever saw her. I couldn’t see her face or even her head for that matter. But the picture I have of her thin thigh, finally allowed enough room to stretch out, laid across me like a raw drumstick, is mine and only mine.

I have another favorite. It’s a movie, actually. One of her swinging out and back from me in a blue baby swing at the park. Glowing in the cold of early spring sunshine, it’s the first time I felt comfortable being there in that wood-chip family realm. No longer a visitor, she’d finally made me belong.

Another is of her in the bathtub, surrounded by yellow tile from the ‘50s, transparent blonde hair plastered tightly in a watery crown on her head. It’s the first time she told me she loved me. The camera’s a bit shaky, having literally crumbled to my knees at the side of the tub, but the picture’s in focus, nonetheless.

These are the images I hope my friend takes, and the ones I hope to see when I close my eyes on the world for the last time. Slow-mo, in color, clear as the day I took them.

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Another Gotryke child speeding toward the limit.

Another Gotryke child speeding toward the limit.

Beth Ann Bayus sounds in from her Detroit post.

She didn’t say anything.  That’s usually my first indication that I’ve said something she doesn’t agree with, but feels it’s not her place to interject.  So went the interaction with my mother when I first told her about the concepts outlined in the Parenting with Love and Logic book I’d just finished reading  Her moment of hesitation told me everything:  “Be careful how much of this you subscribe to, as there’s no such thing as a silver bullet for anything in life, but especially not one for raising children.”  Who better would know this than a mother of seven?  Who better than one who had weathered every storm, every possible scenario from infant to adult, and maybe even a little beyond?

That’s why I initially hesitated to claim full, complete allegiance to the philosophies put forth in the book.  (And my apologies to those already in tune this tome, for apparently, I’m one of the last people on Earth to have read this parenting Bible. But in all fairness, I really didn’t have a reason to read it before my daughter got to the “testing” phase of her young life.) Or at least that’s what I thought when I first picked up the book at the local Barnes & Noble.  Now that I’ve read it, though, I think every human being who interacts with another human being, regardless of their relationship to each other or their relative ages, should read this book.  The philosophies and strategies for dealing with the parent/child relationship outlined therein are eerily applicable to many of life’s situations, whether the reader is a parent, an uncle, a teacher or has never even come close to contemplating a contribution to the human gene pool. [click to continue…]

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Get lost in good taste

by Tamara on October 7, 2009

in CULTURE, Food

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All dressed up, but where to go? Our colleague and compatriot food and travel critic extraordinaire Salma Abdelnour has launched a Salmaland — the new where-to-go domain for all things fanciful, filling and fresh in New York City. Salma will reveal where you’ll really find the best NY burger, and she’ll share industry gems along the way, such as” too much demand is the road to sloppiness.” This is not your average food blog –Salma was the travel editor at Food & Wine and the restaurant editor at Time Out New York. She left her job as food editor at O, The Oprah Magazine, to be a freelance food and travel writer. You can’t get much better taste buds than that.

Here’s an excerpt from the world according to Salma:

Soho/Nolita: Breakfast Club

Café Gitane sums up what’s enchanting about Nolita—and what’s so damned annoying about it. A little café on a side street with deliciously potent coffee; a laid-back, vaguely French-Moroccan vibe; glossy international magazines to browse through; sunlight pouring through the streetside windows. You could spend hours here. Except you can’t get a table, ever. (Unless you show up around 9am on a weekday morning.) Order a cafe creme and the baked eggs with basil or an open-face sandwich of chili-spiked avocado on whole-grain toast, and be reminded why you’re alive, why you’re in this crazy town, and why it’s all worth it. The couscous is better than it needs to be too, especially when you spike it with the harissa that comes on the side. But for that, you’ll have to show up at midday or evening rush hour—and, yes, wait.

Café Gitane. 242 Mott St. between Prince and Houston Sts.; (212) 334-9552.

Prices/Features: C, V (See “How Salmaland Works” for key to letter abbreviations.)

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The world rushes by me – a whir of greenery on my left and the steady waters of the Hudson River on my right. I am speeding on Amtrak from Albany to New York City after two days of Range Rover testing in the Vermont woods.  I love train rides  — the long linage of open tracks offer moments of contemplation, when ipod playlists reverberate with crescendos, pulsating beats and chords and the deeper lyrical content of favorite songs rings in my ears, where possibilities are revealed with each mile covered. Train doors open and close, the conductor passes through the cabin, new passengers arrive; change is constant, but steady and sure.
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I spent a good part of my late teens and early twenties on trains in Europe. I was lucky enough to be spend summers studying and researching. Trains are where I found my love for solo travel. Brussels to Zurich. Berlin to Dresden. Dresden to Prague. Paris to Amsterdam. Back then, I wrote in journals in my best handwriting. I read books, unburdened by a laptop.  Ironically, I lost my longest journal on the last train ride – two years of my life bequeathed to the endless journey.

Trains make me want to write – a saving grace for a woman who has long defined herself as a writer — first and mostly for myself, then for my teachers, and ultimately for a broader audience that sometimes I find.  I’ve been writing about music for print publications for over 14 years – covering rock stars, hip-hop heroes and little-known emerging artists in every genre.  Along the way, I’ve written for national magazines about all sorts of topics  – painting, fashion, travel, design, architecture, wine, sports, community news, social justice and many, many cars.  How I’ve covered so many beats is not because I have a short attention span (at least I hope not), but because I first consider myself a disciplined writer, and with enough research, study and observation, I like to think I’m worthy of the challenge of to tackle unchartered ground.

When I first started out in automotive journalism, I thought it would be another area where I would write an occasional article.  I wanted to write and where I lived in Detroit, cars were an obvious choice. I never dreamed I would get to know the inner workings of the automobile industry intimately, that I would know the intimate details of every manufacturers creed and their areas of weakness.  I preferred walking and train riding to driving, and though in some ways I still do,  I would have been surprised to know that I would develop a wanderlust for roads, too.  I would have laughed if I knew I would travel the world driving high speeds and offroading in rugged terrain, in high heels and clunky boots. I’ve been writing articles about cars for nearly eight years, and I’ve yet to grow tired of this beat.

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What draws me to car writing is two-fold. First there is the obvious experiential aspect – the amazing journeys that take me far and away, that push me past my comfort zone and have made me a stronger, more confident individual. I continue to live that life – reaching my personal high-speed best of 156 mph in a 2010 Aston Martin DBS last week, and off-roading through treacherous ruts in the Vermont woods yesterday in a 2010 Land Rover LR4. It is a lifestyle that is romantic with opportunity, the price being a precarious juggling act of ethics, sincerity and scheduling. The biggest perk in this is that my writing affords me these opportunities.

On another level, what compels me to stay focused on the car world is the broad impact transportation has on our lives, a connection that is not apparent on the surface. Encouraging people to buy new cars is generally not a noble pursuit, but providing new information is part of what makes an astute journalist. Yet, it is the decisions that people make that fascinate me, and here are the stories I like to chronicle best. The driving instructor who took me to the train station this morning exemplified the kinds of driver’s choices I like to uncover. He drives sturdy SUVs for personal reasons, because he is looking for the best way to get back to nature. He spends all of his free time in the woods, where he says that’s where he finds his soul. This conversation started with the kind of Range Rovers he likes, and what he likes about new models in general.

I’m interested in how people express themselves, and cars are one way where some personal statement is initiated, even by those who don’t have a driver’s license, or cycle, or walk, or simply who stand still. I like that cars are common ground, a conversation in the making. I like knowing about a tangible industry that helped build the modern world, for better and for worse.

That industry is changing rapidly, prompted by a world that is changing superficially, a world that is more electronic,, interconnected, but not by one that is more evolved.  And here lies the untold stories – how human beings make choices, not always logical, but how our desires and directions determine our histories. And it is here on the train, the lost American art of travel, where I get the time to think about this journey.

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I’m back in my hometown this week, and I find myself thinking about the latest Huffington Post column on Detroit, which drew from a Vice Magazine article, determined to pinpoint the dereliction of the media on Detroit. Here’s the premise:

“It’s reached the point where the potential for popularity or “stickiness” or whatever you’re supposed to call it now is driving the coverage more than any sort of newsworthiness of the subject. There’s a total gold-rush mentality about the D right now, and all the excitement has led to some real lapses in basic journalistic ethics and judgment. Like the French filmmaker who came to Detroit to shoot a documentary about all the deer and pheasants and other wildlife that have been returning to the city. After several days without seeing a wild one he had to be talked out of renting a trained fox to run through the streets for the camera. Or the Dutch crew who decided to go explore the old project tower where Smokey Robinson grew up and promptly got jacked for their thousands of dollars’ worth of equipment. The flip side is a simultaneous influx of reporters who don’t want anything to do with the city but feel compelled by the times to get a Detroit story under their belts, like it’s the journalistic version of cutting a grunge record.”

While this all may be true, I dispute the notion that a media ambush on Detroit is a new occurrence. For decades global media sources have flocked to Detroit to parse out the roots of urban destitution and the beauty that emerges from the slums of despair. They come in search of the source for the music left in Motown’s shadow — techno, hip-hop, garage rock, or Northern Soul. The auto industry and the surrounding industrial decay in the inner city provide the backdrop. In a few days or in one month they rush around to meet the city’s luminaries, creating a buzz in the community that scrambles to appease them, to be a part of something that seems important. They tell folks that they are here to do the city justice, though they have no personal ties here other than their love for music. Music is the ambassador for a silent city.
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And while the representatives of these media outlets often consider themselves noble seekers of fact, these magazine articles, books and documentaries are generally not even available in Detroit, nor the U.S.. where they can be fairly judged, critiqued, or debated. They air on Dutch TV, the BBC or at an obscure film festival made in their native languages, where the subjects will never even know how their ideas will be presented. Investigative journalism about racism, poverty, and history becomes another form of muckraking entertainment.

If the subjects in these pieces are lucky, they may receive a sample copy or two, but often time the media archeologists disappear leaving behind nothing, yet they extract the souls of the city for their own credibility. What these pieces do is legitimize the creators, who stand to gain financially and win public acclaim for their efforts to understand the juncture where blight inspires creativity. What is perplexing is that what they make has nothing to with accountability or in depth responsible reporting.
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I learned about the fascination with the Motor City when I worked for Detroit techno record labels in the late ’90s. My job description was broad with modest resources afforded by these small companies. As a label rep, I felt like a tour guide, with international media outlets arriving weekly. We hosted Japanese writers and photographers, French filmmakers and documentarians from Holland, the UK, Australia, and Austria. We stayed up late driving them from the east side to the west side, making sure they made it to their hotels safely. Sometime they showed up on our doorstep with plans to walk around and look for a youth hostel — an unlikely premise in any American city. We ended up feeling responsible for many of them who lacked common city sense and planned to walk across town on winter’s night, carrying expensive equipment, fueled by a quest for adventure, eager to test boundaries of fear. For the ones who came proper, who called in advance, who stayed long enough to gain perspective, we broke bread with them and talked late into the night hours, explaining the contradictions and misconceptions that we lived with day in and out as default city ambassadors. Sometimes we formed enduring bonds. But many of these investigators were so rude and offensive, they never made it past the doorstep.
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For the international media, we were a bit like a tourist board, showing people around, telling the stories of our native citizens. Sometimes these outlets implored budding writers like myself or photographers to work on their projects, and they contracted local artists to create designs. I worked hard on these pieces, worried that my suburban upbringing would make me an outsider journalist, too. After several years of Detroit-city living, I eventually grew confident in my voice and the ability to convey the attitudes of those around me.

This path allowed me to write for audiences worldwide, including Italian, German and Japanese readers, trusting foreign editors to properly translate my words. I published my first international piece at 22 and was thrilled to have my name translated into German and Japanese. I eventually wrote a column about Detroit arts in an Italian magazine.
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Generally, these outlets claimed to be operating on a shoe string, unable to pay local talent. It always struck me as odd that the funding existed to produce such grand projects that included a budget for travel, and expensive paper stock with thick satisfying binding, but that they didn’t value the very sources who provided them with truth to drop a few thousand dollars on us. Eventually, I stopped participating in the act of free labor, unconvinced that I was doing my city justice by the mere act of signing my words over to foreigners, while domestic media paid me.

Around that time, I saw the Detroit obsession up close at Love Parade in Berlin as vendors sold T-shirts reading, “Deetroit is everywhere.” In Europe, Detroit’s influence was everywhere. At home, Detroit was alone.

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While it made sense for those who sold records in those countries to grant interviews to magazines, this direct connection had nothing to do with other local characters who became involved. I wondered what they stood to benefit from telling a story in a language that wouldn’t be their own, and that would reach an audience they would never know. It was National Geographic on repeat. These visits forced me to address the purpose of travel journalism and the fine line between exploitation and thoughtful observance. A few excellent pieces, reports and films came out this era in the 80s and 90s, but most of them were pure crap.

Who really clarified this point for me was my good friend Michael Banks, whose record label Underground Resistance frequently declined participating in these sort of projects. That didn’t stop hungry media outlets from knocking on his door, brashly pompous on what they had to offer — a chance for people to tell their story freely. As if we didn’t know how to tell our own stories. Banks described it as the urban safari. While some of these efforts were genuine, he had a point. Why should he give his story away to people who had nothing to give in return?

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What has changed in recent years is that this mentality has come home. American media are paying attention to Detroit for the moment, suburbs and city. For years, Detroit was forgotten by American audiences, unless Eminem or Robocop was involved, but now that we have become the symbol for American failure the romantic destitution has reached inside our own media outlets, where the coverage is apparent.

While it’s refreshing to see people that people are thinking about Detroit deeply, I wish that it would play out in the terms that Banks had advocated back then. On many occasions he agreed to interviews on one condition — that media sources agreed to return to the community. What he wanted them to do was to provide copies of their projects and give presentations to local Detroit school children. He wanted these truth seekers to show Detroit’s future that there was someone out there that cared about them and their lives, who had interesting stories to tell them, too.
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What it comes down to is that yes Detroit has it’s fair share of stories rooted in turmoil of a troubled past riddled by racism, classicism and isolation. And indeed Detroit has stories of redemption, survival, and inspiration. But who are we really trying to tell?
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For evidence on the onslaught see the following:
Time Magazine: Letter from Detroit
Guardian Magazine: Time Magazine Sets Up in Detroit
Huff Post: Detroit Overrun with Lazy Journalists
Viceland: Something, Something, Something from Detroit

For Gotryke Detroit coverage:
Detroit, I Want to Come Home
Eating Crepes in Detroit, Watching the News Go By
Obama to Detroit
The Calm Before the Storm: General Motors & Detroit

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