The Mooring Stone Volume 1

My new zine is now available to buy on my Big Cartel site.

This zine (really a newsprint broadsheet) is all about the Kensington Runestone, which was dug up in a field in western Minnesota in 1889. The runestone tells a fairly dubious story of vikings coming to Minnesota in the 1300’s, and I’ve been researching it and making work about it for the past year. You can read The Mooring Stone from multiple angles, with competing narratives tracing the edges of the newsprint like the runes on the stone itself. Meant to be puzzled over and turned around, this document braids together stories of runestone copycats, portraits from the prairie, salvaged accounts of the runestone's creation, and staged photographic reenactments into a web of unreliable details. $10 shipped.

 

Newsletter

Good Country People

I’m selling a few copies of my zine “Good Country People”. It has 20 photos in it, all about small town museums, roadside mysticism, and the “rural gothic”. The title comes from a story by Flannery O’Connor where a boy pretends to be a bible salesman and steals a girl’s wooden leg. “I’ve gotten a lot of interesting things this way,” he says before running off across the onion field.

Second edition of 24 copies. Printed on newsprint. $20 shipped.

Buy it here.

Photos from Germany

Two years ago I lived in Karlsruhe, Germany, for a summer, making sculptures at the Kunstakademie Karlsruhe with Klasse John Bock. Here’s a few photos from that time, in no particular order.

“The Old West End” is back in stock!

Order it here: http://www.niknerburn.bigcartel.com

All books are shipped directly from me. I usually make shipments on Wednesdays and Fridays. Once you order, you might have to wait a few days for it to ship, but you’ll get a notice in your email once it does. As always, email me with any questions about your order!

There is also a few at Zenith Bookstore in West Duluth. So if you’re in Duluth, support our local bookstore!

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Some new artwork from school

Yes, I’m back in school, teaching and learning remotely during my second semester in the University of Minnesota’s MFA program. Here's a look at some of the recent work I've been making.

This installation has three overhead projectors; on one wall is projected a photograph of a cave and a brushfire. On the opposite wall, the third overhead projector illuminates a moving 25 foot long transparency scroll containing photographs I've taken, images from my family's archives, and photographs from the Hennepin County Library's collection. The scroll follows a loose narrative, sequencing images of young boys playing with dollhouses, dollhouse interiors displayed at the Minnesota State Fair, demonstrations of various crimes by the Minneapolis Police for public education, caves along the Mississippi river, interiors of immigrant settlement houses, and men with hidden faces. The scroll is turned at the viewer's own pace, as a self-guided tour in which any number of illuminated montages and sequences can be made. The scroll ends with images from the demolition of Minneapolis' Gateway District, when this now-vanished neighborhood in downtown Minneapolis was bulldozed as part of a plan to displace the many unattached men who lived in Washington avenue’s many single room occupancy hotels. The “redevelopment” ultimately destroyed nearly 40% of downtown Minneapolis. 

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At the back of the room, I've installed a backlit dollhouse with transparent photographs installed in the windows, which have had their dollhouse glass replaced with fresnel lenses. Fresnel lenses are typically used for magnifying light in large-format view cameras and lighthouses. However, the magnification only works at specific angles - turn your head or pull your eyes too far back, and the backlit image disappears.

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The images in the windows are photographs of men's bedrooms in the old Washington Ave hotels, taken right before the Gateway's redevelopment in the 1960’s. The city government had a variety of photographers document the properties of the neighborhood to help create the political will to demolish the unsanitary buildings. In the photographs of bedrooms, the personal effects of the anonymous men who lived there are arranged like still lifes, with pin-up calendars, dirty socks, and empty bottles scattered around. 

Some of the men who lived in the Gateway had never married, but many had families that they had left behind. Some of these men ended up in the Gateway  because it was in the biggest railroad town between Spokane and Chicago. Others hadn't come from far at all - I read a story of a man who had abandoned his own family in south Minneapolis, then spent the rest of his life drinking in a hotel room by the river, only a few miles away.

This project is partly based on the story of my great-grandfather, Joseph Nerburn, who vanished from the family's North Minneapolis boarding house in 1930. His wife, Eva Brown Nerburn, died mysteriously that same year. Their 6 children grew up as orphans, living at different orphanages across the Twin Cities. The oldest child, Lloyd, eventually became my paternal grandfather (my dad's dad). Joseph's disappearance, and possible involvement in the death of his wife Eva, are enduring mysteries in my family. 

Skipping stones in the driftless

In the fall of 2019, I visited the Crystal Creek Citizen Artist Residency for a week. I wrote this piece as part of the program’s reflection series, and Erin Dorbin also published it on their website. I’d encourage you to read all of the other artist reflections on the Crystal Creek website, also. This is a great residency program for anybody who wants support to pursue their open-ended community work in a really special place.

Above: my makeshift portrait studio on the side of the road in Houston county. I spent most of my residency making roadside portraits for folks in Houston county, setting up in a different county gathering place each day. I hooked my printer up to a…

Above: my makeshift portrait studio on the side of the road in Houston county. I spent most of my residency making roadside portraits for folks in Houston county, setting up in a different county gathering place each day. I hooked my printer up to a deep-cycle marine battery and made prints on the spot for subjects to take home. Sometimes it worked, other times it didn’t; but the emphasis was on the conversations and serendipitous encounters that start to happen when word gets out that an itinerant photographer is printing portraits in the ditch.

In Gore Vidal’s novel, Duluth, he describes a town that bears only a passing and poetic resemblance to Duluth, Minnesota where I live. Vidal's Duluth is situated on the edge of a desert, not Lake Superior. Native flamingos wander amongst Spanish moss that hangs from the trees lining the city's grand boulevards. Simultaneously, the same Duluth landscape in the novel is covered by snow drifts and streets slicked with black ice that send cars skidding. Clearly, his Duluth is a psychedelic sister-city to the real place, with a jumbled mirror image that clearly isn’t meant to line up. Sometimes, the history of Vidal’s deranged Duluth does mirror actual events from the city in northern Minnesota, but it’s hard to tell where the history ends and the myth-making begins.

To top it off, Vidal also includes a few layered narratives; characters in Duluth will die and reappear in a popular television soap opera which characters in the book watch weekly. In one scene, a real estate agent from Duluth (the book) dies after crashing into a snow drift, only to reappear in a courtroom scene in Duluth (the TV program). She pauses the courtroom drama to speak to a bewildered former client of hers through the television, recommending a few new properties that just came on the market. At a certain point, you stop asking which narrative you’re in, and dipping between them becomes a cryptic pleasure. It suggests a parallel world, just on the other side of ours, similar but different, which you can sometimes pass back and forth between without knowing. Reading it was good preparation for spending time in the Driftless.

Mike’s dolls, Spring Grove, Minnesota. “Gotta do something with that high ceiling.”

Mike’s dolls, Spring Grove, Minnesota. “Gotta do something with that high ceiling.”

The word driftless refers to glacial drift; when glaciers pass through a region, they often leave boulders and other debris on the landscape in their wake. Geologists call this drift; since the glaciers that shaped much of Minnesota's geography mysteriously skipped this region of the upper Mississippi, they left behind no glacial drift, hence the name driftless. Why the glaciers skipped this part, nobody knows for sure. Everything that has happened here since then owes a little bit to that early enigma.

Erin Dorbin, my host during the residency week, said that she felt like Houston County had a secret hiding around every hill. As we drove around, from historic societies to obscure roadside monuments to lovingly preserved little prairie churches, I began to sense the same thing. From atop a grassy bluff, looking around with her, I could physically see across the 569 square miles of Houston county, but if I squinted, I felt like I could be seeing the corresponding bluff country of Wisconsin, Iowa, or Illinois. Squinting harder, I could even see the fjords of Norway, the hollers of Appalachia, and the highlands of Laos. 

Even the name of the place itself caused confusion with people back home. I had to clarify that I meant Houston, Minnesota, not Texas. The place is hard to describe--not because it lacks specificity, but because it embodies more specificities than I’m used to. It’s Houston County, sure, but it’s a lot of other places at the same time.

Above: Rushford, Minnesota’s grocery store deli, with portraits of Miss Rushford from over the years.

Above: Rushford, Minnesota’s grocery store deli, with portraits of Miss Rushford from over the years.

One day, I met and photographed a man named Wally operating a thrift store. He had two prosthetic legs. He had lost one leg to the bite of a brown recluse spider, and the other to diabetes. He moonlighted as a karaoke DJ, but he dreamed of becoming a motivational speaker. On that same day, I listened to another man hold forth on the roadside about the simple beauty of Andrew Wyeth‘s paintings. Later, a woman showed me how she could mimic the calls of every owl in North America. 

Later still, I spent an evening in an underground house and listened to a couple reflect on escaping the 1979 Islamic Revolution in Iran. As the light faded from the valley, I stood in the county fairgrounds as a man I met at the library considered the “tension between a historic document and the story that we tell to describe it”. The landscape felt like the biggest library, and I was just brushing my fingers across the spines as I walked down the stacks. High crests and low lands, deep dives and surface tensions. 

Wally.

Wally.

I spent one day photographing in Choice, an unincorporated little place, tucked in a valley that’s fed by a creek. While setting up my makeshift photo studio on the roadside, I met Ilene, who’s lived in Choice for a long time. In this picture, she’s holding a stack of photocopied newspaper articles, all about Choice, that she brought out to show me. In the pile was a framed copy of the 1870 farm census, which showed her homestead as being occupied by a single man named Ole Richardson, as well as “3 horses, 4 milk cows, 10 other cattle, 20 sheep, and 9 swine”. That year, Ole’s farm produced “750 bushels of spring wheat, 400 bushels of Indian corn, 250 bushels of oats, 50 bushels of Irish potatoes, 225 pounds of butter, and 25 tons of hay”. You coulda’ done worse, Ole.

Behind Ilene is the Choice bluff, which used to be decorated with lights every Christmas. People would drive from all over to see. The old Norwegian lady who hung the lights, since passed, used to bake cookies and give away a jar of them to every person who came to see her display. Ilene drove her golf cart back to her house and brought me a small Tupperware of the same cookies. “I got the recipe from her, and she had gotten it from another old Norwegian lady who had gotten it from another,” she said to me. “So Choice goes way back. What else do you wanna know?”

Choice: a town
that has no stores, no post office, no internet searchable census results.
A sign at the bottom of a lush valley
A spot in Minnesota
where aster, bluestem
bergamot, blazing star,
bloom straight
to highway’s shoulder.
-
Rachael Button, 2018 citizen artist in residence

A while back, Ilene told me, the little creek that flows through Choice flooded. It was the subject of much local press at the time, and she showed me the yellowed and brittle proof in her stack of papers. For a brief moment, I could hear the rumble of a distant flood, of conspiring waterways, of the ghosts of glaciers twisting their way down a mighty and mysterious road.

Ilene, in Choice.

Ilene, in Choice.

Hay Bale-isms

Some of you might know that I’m a big fan of hay bales. They’re cute, they’re strange, they’re good, and they’re bad. The Walker Art Center asked me to write about my train of thought for their online magazine, so here’s a piece called “Hay Bale-isms: Settler Nostalgia and the Agricultural Dreamscape”. Read it here.

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Shootin' the breeze with Jes Reyes

I miss the days of artist blogs. Probably because of social media, they’ve become a digital endangered species. This is one of the reasons that I really appreciate what Jes Reyes has done with her Artists I Admire series. She’s turned her website into a really active platform for letting artists (like myself) sound off on their practice, the local challenges they face, and what makes them tick. I was lucky enough to be featured a while back, so take a look.

"The Great American Think Off" Premiere!

It's finally happening! My film, "The Great American Think Off", is showing on Pioneer Public TV!

A made-for-TV version will be broadcast as part of Postcards, Pioneer's premiere locally-produced program featuring the art, history and cultural heritage of western Minnesota. The full film (all 55 minutes!) will be broadcast later in May.

I've always wanted to tell stories that reflect the real people and enlarge the common lives of my home state, so I couldn't think of a better venue for the film's debut. Postcards is at the forefront of documenting the cultural richness of this region, and it's really an honor to have this film included in their lineup this season.

It takes a community to make a film like this. None of this couldn't have happened without the help of Tricia Towey, Christer Bechtell, Carson Davis Brown, Mary Welcome, Bethany Lacktorin, Jais Gossman, Caleb Davis Wood, Kyle Ollah, Anna Simonton, Betsy Buerkle Roder, Ashley Hanson, Chris Schuelke, Patrick Moore, the production and scheduling team at Pioneer Public Television, and, of course, my parents Kent Nerburn and Louise Mengelkoch, as well as all the citizen philosophers who let me into their lives, and the great team at the New York Mills Regional Cultural Center who pulls off such an ambitious event every year. And a huge thanks to the Jerome Foundation and the Arrowhead Regional Arts Council for helping make it happen! Thank you all, so much.

TIMES: See it on Postcards this Thursday, April 11 at 7 p.m. That episode will be rebroadcast on Sunday, April 14 at 7:30 p.m. and on Monday, April 15 at 1:30 p.m. Then, the full film will be broadcast on Friday, May 31, 2019 at 11:30 a.m.

https://twitter.com/PioneerPublicTV/status/1115617112314261507?s=20

If you're not in Pioneer's broadcast region, you can see it streaming at those same times on Pioneer's website (www.pioneer.org/postcards.)