Return of the Art Shanty Village

If you're suffering from the winter blahs, a trip to the Ice Shanty Village out on Lake Harriet might be just the thing. It's free (though donation buckets are widespread) and it's pretty safe, considering visitors are allowed into the shanties only one at a time. There's a food truck or two parked near the bandstand on shore. And once you're out on the lake you can wander through an assortment of "themed" structures most of which can be fully experienced from the outside.

I have to admit that I didn't read most of the printed signs describing what individual structures were supposed to be exhibiting. The whimsy was obvious and striking; I wasn't in the mood to think too hard about ecology or fake medical cures, and I didn't want to wait in line to go through one of the shacks. There were plenty of little kids already waiting. Nor did I try my hand at the magnetic poetry board, or snag a scarf or hat at the Ice Shanty "digger" store, where such things were hanging on clothes-lines, on offer for free.

During the time we were there, hardly more than a hour, we saw a tremendous ice-dancing performance, and a group called An Opera Theatre gave wonderful renditions of arias by Handel and Puccini to the accompaniment of accordion, melodica, and guitar.

I especially liked the tenor aria, Ché gelida manina. The breezy, romantic tune has been coming and going in the back of my mind ever since, though I only discovered how appropriate it was this morning, when a friend identified it for me and translated the title: "How cold is this little hand." 

You can hear the windy sample I recorded here.

One of the displays consisted of a fake tree with a hanging bird-feeder. A few gigantic paper mache birds on poles were lying around with which you could attempt to extract potato-sized sunflower seeds from the hanging net bags. Sound like fun? 

Our most engaging conversation took place at a less than spectacular display largely consisting of knee-high gondolas stuffed with dried grasses. The young man in charge told us he was a graduate of MCAD who specialized in environmental sculptures made of mud and sticks. Somewhere along the way it occurred to him that creating gardens with live plants would be more fun, and might also be a way to make a living.

I was listening to him as he spoke, but I was also slowly identifying dead plants in his display, one after another: baby bluestem, milkweed, bee balm, common goldenrod.

You can see the prairie plant display in the middle distance

"Do you have any Joe Pie weed?" I asked.

"Not here today, though it's one of my favorites."

"We're birders, and we spend quite a bit of time out in the prairie. That's why we know a few of these plants."

"My girlfriend is a birder," he said. "We were up at a place called Sax-Zim Bog the other day. We saw a few things, but no owls. It's an enchanting landscape. Have you been there?"

"Many times," I said. "We were there two weeks ago. We saw redpolls, pine grosbeaks. But I've yet to see a boreal chickadee."

"We did see one of those, right out behind the visitors' center."

'Oww," I said, "That must have been a thrill. Just this morning we saw a bird neither of us had ever seen before. A black duck. It typically hangs around with mallards, and looks like a very dark female mallard. I've spent thirty years looking at female mallards, saying, "Well, that one looks a little darker. Maybe it's a black duck ....But this morning, it was like WOW. That's a very dark mallard."

Our black duck

"Same with the boreal chickadee," he said. "We kept seeing chickadees and hoping they had those little differences. The auburn streak on the flank. And then we saw the real thing and it was obvious."

"Another thing I've noticed," he added. "The arts community is very supportive and all that, but ... there's also a lot of ego involved. Birders are a much more relaxed and congenial crowd."

Mostly true.

The waste-time machine

The weed display wasn't drawing much of a crowd—the plants weren't colorful and there was nothing much for the kids to do—but we enjoyed both the arrangements and the conversation. 

We continued our wander past the waste-time machine where you sat at a desk and described exactly how you wasted time. It's one of my favorite themes, though I thought it best not to waste other people's time buy writing an essay on the subject myself. We also passed a giant-sized kaleidoscope that you could go into and spin the dial, and a vaguely metallurgical shanty whose import escaped me entirely.  .  

I have no idea what this was all about

  It was a great way to get out on a balmy Saturday afternoon. And walking back to the car through Linden Hills was also a minor treat. There are lots of attractive old houses in that staid and trendy neighborhood. 

"I think Brenda Ueland lived somewhere around here..."