A Haunting Homecoming: When Art and Childhood Collide
Nicholas Harper • July 23, 2025
Market of the Beast Dark Art Market
The Minneapolis sky was a perfect, crisp blue, a shade my Catholic mother would affectionately call "Mary's Blue." Perfectly pillowed clouds danced in the distance, a serene backdrop to a profoundly nostalgic moment. There I stood, in the heart of the Hollywood Theater – not just any theater, but the historic Hollywood, the legendary Hollywood, the fabled Hollywood. The very same Hollywood that, until recently, had languished in dilapidated silence.
Decades later, I found myself back in this sacred space, a witness to its glorious rebirth. The theater had endured years of decay, patiently awaiting the love and substantial investment needed to reclaim its former glory. A quick walk through confirmed it: she was back, in all her majesty. No longer primarily a movie house (though they do host screenings occasionally), it’s now a versatile rental venue. And on this particular Sunday, I was participating in one of its new chapters.
While the load-in itself is never glamorous, I genuinely love the process of building out my booth. It’s like breathing life into a miniature gallery. My secret weapon? A meticulous layout planned and photographed in my own studio the night before. Today, however, presented a delightful curve ball: a corner spot! My initial design hadn't accounted for this, but it was a fantastic problem to have. More wall space meant more visibility, and I could open up one corner of my 10x10 foot "sacred space" for better foot traffic. Sacred space, you ask? Absolutely. For me, galleries are temples, holy ground where the human soul reveals itself. My booth was no less.
There’s something truly invigorating about seeing a line to get into an art event. This is how it should be! Art, in all its forms – whether an intimate gallery opening, a bustling market, or a grand fair – is one of culture's greatest gifts. It’s where countless hours, days, even months of solitary creation finally meet the public, a moment of profound communication and celebration. So, yes, the anticipation, the desire to be first in line – I applaud it wholeheartedly.
It brings to mind other lines: the immense queue for the Van Gogh exhibit at the MIA when I was a child, stretching through the museum and down the block; the lines for fashion shows during Fashion Week, immortalized in the BBC documentary The Look; even, if I’m honest, the lines for Cabbage Patch Kids in my youth or the recent frenzy for tech gadgets at Walmart. Okay, maybe not all lines deserve equal reverence. But for the arts? I’m all in!
This was Minneapolis’s first Market of the Beast, and while the market for dark and haunting art, and oddities, is rapidly growing, a new event in a new city always carries an element of uncertainty. Yet, the organizers had done their job exceptionally well. I’d seen promotions plastered across multiple social media platforms, and coupled with word-of-mouth, the turnout was a massive success. Did I mention the line to get in?
From 1 PM to 6 PM, it was a near non-stop flurry of conversations about art, answering questions, and, of course, selling. As someone relatively new to the fair circuit – this was only my fourth event, and my first indoor market – I wasn’t sure what to expect regarding sales. I’d brought my most signature, often larger and more intricate, pieces (reflected in higher prices), alongside smaller works and, a new addition, signed prints in three sizes.
As the market wound down, I took my time breaking down my booth. Other than the organizers, I was the last artist to leave. I wanted to savor every last moment in the venue that had delivered so much magic in my childhood. I also had the chance to chat with the woman who now manages the theater. It turned out our paths had crossed many times before – which, considering where we were standing, made perfect sense. Northeast Minneapolis, if you know it well, has a curious way of weaving divergent paths back together, facilitating the oddest connections, not over months or years, but across decades.
And so, to the universe, thank you for a truly magical summer Sunday afternoon in NE Minneapolis!
TRADE SECRET
What Comes First? Ah, the age-old question: What came first, the title or the painting? For every artist and every piece of art, I'm sure the answer is different. For me, it changes almost every time too, unless I'm working on a series like my "Nocturnes"—a collection of ambient and minimal landscapes. When I approach a blank canvas, one of two things is usually true. Either I have a crystal-clear idea of what I'm painting, down to the meaning of every element, or I just go with the flow, letting the forces of inspiration do the heavy lifting. The muses never explicitly share their thoughts, so sometimes I'm left to wonder about a painting's meaning myself. Of course, the truth is never so black and white; each painting is a combination of these two scenarios. No matter how well-defined an image is in my mind, once I'm at the easel, the painting takes on a life of its own, and those pesky forces have their fun if they feel the need. I'm reminded of the quote by Salvador Dalí: "If you understand your painting beforehand, you might as well not paint it." And while I see the merit in this, I also enjoy having a bit of a roadmap, especially for my more elaborate portraits. But once the painting is finished, that’s when the real fun begins: the interpretation. It's not uncommon for me to find new and deeper meaning in my work after the varnish has dried, the frame is on, and it finally hangs under a proper light. It's only then—when the final piece stands miles away from that initial thought or doodle—that it takes its first breath. And it's at this point that some of my works are truly christened. That was exactly the case for my portrait, which I named Thea.
When A Volkswagen Is My Best Option With sweat pouring down my forehead I position the canvas, it’s framed in one-inch pine trim boards and leaning against my candy apple green Volkswagen Super Beetle. The hot summer sun bounces off the chrome of that finely designed German auto, casting glares and glints in my eye. I struggle through the 95-degree heat. But it’s not the heat that will get you, it’s the humidity. So they say.
It all began about seven years ago. My trusty, weekly afternoon ritual of dining on the go was in a bit of a crisis. My favorite parking spot, once a haven with a magnificent view of the Minneapolis skyline, had slowly but surely succumbed to nature's relentless creep. Trees and foliage, like an incredibly slow-motion documentary, had gradually devoured the once-stunning panorama. And it wasn't just nature. The parking lot, despite its generous number of spaces, had become a hot commodity. What was once a quiet escape for me was now a bustling hub for countless others. Finding a decent spot, especially one that still offered a fleeting glimpse of the city, had become a premium. Not to mention, it brought out one of my biggest pet peeves. When I settle in for the occasional meal in my car, I crave the simple pleasure of having the windows down, letting the glorious summer breeze waft through. Summer in Minneapolis is, after all, a precious, fleeting gift, and basking in that warm air, even when it's 90 degrees, feels like an absolute luxury we should savor and not take for granted. So there I'd sit, windows down, trying to soak in the last vestiges of the skyline before nature claimed it entirely. And then, the parade of pet peeves would arrive: cars pulling in, presumably for the same reason as I, but with their windows sealed shut, AC on high, and subsequently, the motor, often loud and obtrusive, running. So much for my quiet moment of solitude. And don't even get me started on the music that inevitably bled through their glass cocoons. I'd often find myself wondering, "where I might be able to go to enjoy some peace and quiet, yet still enjoy the beauty of nature juxtaposed with an urban skyline backdrop?” I desperately needed to ditch these intruders. These folks were clearly not my tribe, seemingly dependent on artificially controlled climates, constantly distracted by music and news radio and unable to tolerate their own thoughts for a single second. (A bit snarky? Maybe! It’s just that that constant buzz of car motors can really get under one’s skin...😉) Gated Community Then, it hit me! A brilliant idea sparked. I knew of a potentially perfect spot, though I wasn't sure if it would work or if it was even "allowed." But why wouldn't it be? Even if the view wasn't exactly the same, of course I could go; it was open to the public, and it was oh so close. And so, on my last visit to the old parking lot, even before unwrapping my wrap, I turned the car back on, backed out, and said goodbye to the lineup of idling cars. Each was a little micro-environment that had spilled out and, like the shrubbery and trees, slowly overran what once was a perfectly great location to enjoy some peace and quiet, nature, and even the urban city, albeit from a distance. Not that long after, I found myself entering a gated community. No guards, but a gate nonetheless, with rules and specific open hours. Noted. Instinctively, I turned right and drove respectfully, slowly, up a long hill. At the summit, the road curved right, then offered an option to the left. I turned, and there it was—an expansive and incredible view of the city! Even better, there was a large tree off to the side of the one-lane road—perfect for shade on hot days and for cutting the sun's glare, allowing me to fully appreciate the vast, green hill cascading before me. I pulled under the tree, turned off the engine, and... I listened. Moments stretched into long, silent seconds. Nothing. Silence. Beautiful, majestic silence. Except, of course, for a few birds, the rustling of leaves in the surrounding trees, and an occasional plane overhead. But other than that, pure, unadulterated quiet. And the breeze! It swept up over the hill, strong and constant. You could say, I was in heaven. My Tribe But truth be told, I wasn't alone. Far from it. I was, in fact, in the midst of a great throng of people—people of every race, color, age, and gender. There had to be at least a few thousand within throwing distance alone. And they, too, were settled into their own private micro-climates, but car engines, talk radio, and teeth-rattling bass weren't going to emanate from their abodes anytime soon. I was, of course, in the middle of a cemetery. And where the living were concerned, I was absolutely alone. Blissfully so. And the ones underground? Well, let's just say I had found my tribe. I bring this up because the Twin Cities Death Cafe, normally hosted at the Rogue Buddha Gallery on the last Sunday of every month, recently forayed outside of the gallery walls and into a local cemetery a couple Sundays ago. The cemetery walks have become one of my favorite Death Cafe rituals, which take place every summer. As per usual, we met at a designated spot and then dispersed, roaming the grounds either with others or on our lonesome, only to reconvene an hour later to share our thoughts, experiences, and observations for an hour before taking our leave. For me, this is the perfect way to celebrate life, death, community, and summer. And we couldn’t have asked for a better location than Lakewood cemetery in South Minneapolis for that days romp. The Wisdom of Quiet Places And so nearly every week I bring a lunch to this particular spot and enjoy a meal under the tree, watching nature and the city move slowly into the future. I’m reminded by my location that the future isn’t a promise; it’s an expectation. And that, as demonstrated by my old location, even the view can’t be depended on forever. Everything has a shelf life, everything, a “must consume by” date. Where those tall skyscrapers now stand, off in the distance, there once was a building of smaller stature on that plot, and before that building, something else and someone else called it home. And before them, maybe just pure untamed woods and fields visited only by animals and insects. And maybe that’s where it will eventually end up once again, that is, before the next iteration of, well, who knows what, moves in. As I sit in my car, windows down on these beautifully precious summer days, I'm reminded that we only have so many summers left in each of our lives. I hope to enjoy at least another 50 or so myself. (Optimistic much? You better believe it!) So, it's best to take full advantage of them while they're here, not push them away with air conditioning so me thinks. Hmm, there's a weird metaphor in there somewhere—air conditioning metaphorically being a mechanism to push away thoughts of our mortality, our eventual demise. I'll have to work on that one! We also only have so much time to think and be with our thoughts, to figure out who we really are or who we want to become. So why push that away with overly constructed pop tunes or equally manufactured news shows? No. For me, silence is truly bliss. This approach has even seeped into my ritual at the easel, but that’s for another time perhaps. In the End, Live! I should admit, I'm not at this spot every week. No, I've taken to visiting other abodes of the afterlife for my weekly meal. Most don't have a city view, but what they do offer is just as interesting and beautiful. And all of them, large or small, manicured or dilapidated, each and every one offers a glimpse into the future, a prediction with 100% accuracy. Each whispers the words... "This is your future, so take advantage of your present while you can. Every moment you're not dead, live! To whatever extent and in whatever way you can, find a way, no matter how small, to be alive and live!" And so it is that I sit for a few moments each week in various cemeteries, sharing a meal with my tribe, sharing time in their home, and enjoying a little slice of Heaven on Earth while I still can. (To learn more about the Twin Cities Death Cafe at the Rogue Buddha Gallery, CLICK HERE .)