Dining Among the Quiet
Nicholas Harper • August 12, 2025
My Weekly Lunch Date with the Dead
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.)
TRADE SECRET
" All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players." These immortal words from Shakespeare's As You Like It feel particularly resonant when contemplating a painting like Aria. The canvas itself is a proscenium, and in it, a lone figure stands poised for her big scene, her moment in the spotlight. She's about to perform her aria. In the world of opera, an aria is more than just a song. It's a dramatic, emotional soliloquy where a character's deepest thoughts and feelings are laid bare. In this painting, our subject, whose head is tilted with a defiant pride, is about to begin her own. She is the star, the focal point, and yet, she's not quite center stage. She's aligned to the left, and to her right, the luxurious red stage curtain is pulled back just enough to reveal something unexpected: a glimpse of the world beyond the theater's carefully constructed reality. As viewers, we're allowed a glimpse of a truth that lies just beyond her periphery. It's as if a tear has opened in the very fabric of her stage, a tear that challenges the illusion she inhabits. We're left to wonder: Is she aware of this truth? Does she see the world waiting just outside her periphery, a world far more real than the one she's performing in? Or does she knowingly reject it, clinging to the safety and comfort of her artificial stage? Her arms clutch a glass egg, and within it, a crow is visible. The symbolism is rich with paradox. The crow, so often a harbinger of death and temporality, is contained within an egg—a powerful symbol of birth, new beginnings, and creation. In breaking this fragile egg, will she unleash death, or a different kind of death—the death of her ego, her artificial self? She holds it protectively, a gesture that seems to defy the world beyond the curtain, perhaps hoping to control it. There is a connection to be made between this crow and the world just beyond the curtain, linking the physical, artificial world with that of the divine and the transcendent. But crows are not to be trifled with. Known for their devilish intelligence and their long, vengeful memories, they are tricksters and keepers of secrets. The crow within the egg embodies wisdom, mystery, and the potential for profound transformation and rebirth. By holding it so tightly, our protagonist plays a dangerous game and tempts fate. The pressure she applies to protect the egg and control its contents may be the very thing that shatters it, releasing the crow to enact its bitter, never-ending revenge. This tension brings to mind the powerful sentiment of Thoreau who went to the woods so that when he died, he would not discover that he in fact, had not lived. Is our subject on the verge of this realization? Is her inner despair a reflection of a life lived for the stage and the trivialities of an artificial world wrought with distraction, and not for herself? And what of the aria she sings? What is the name of the opera that casts her front and center, so desperate to hold onto the glass egg? What is her character's name? If art reveals something of the viewer, then perhaps we might find a part of ourselves at home on that stage, in her place—careful not to drop the glass egg and our own name prominently displayed on the playbill. A great work of art, I believe, often asks more questions than it answers, even if much is known about the artist's intent. Once the final brushstroke is made, the painting ceases to belong to that artist. It becomes a mirror for the viewer, a canvas for their own stories and interpretations. My hope is that "Aria" does just that for you. That you see something entirely different from what I, the creator, imagined. What title would you give the song she sings? What is the name of her character? And what do you believe is her ultimate fate? The stage is set, the curtain is pulled back, and her story is yours to write. A final thought to consider: what about the crown perched atop the crow's head? It's a detail I have my own meaning for, of course, but the canvas is yours now. What story does that crown represent to you? For more details about "Aria" by Nicholas Harper, Click Here .
"He must not like women." That gem of a comment floated my way at an art fair a few years back, overheard as two ladies analyzed one of my portraits. Their critique? I was "cutting off the women's arms." What they didn't know was that the artist himself was standing mere feet away, silently eavesdropping. Ah, the perks of relative anonymity – getting the unadulterated, unfiltered truth about your work. When I decided to become a full-time artist, to lay my soul bare on the regular, I didn't fully grasp the amount of thick skin I'd need to cultivate. While my mom absolutely loved my art (as is the case with most mothers and their artistic children), the harsh truth is my art isn't for everyone. And, yikes, some people just plain won't like it. It's a lesson you learn quickly, and for the most part, you adapt just as fast. So, when that rejection email from the Great Minnesota Get-Together's Fine Arts competition landed in my inbox, it stung, sure, but the bite was quickly shrugged off. The numbers, after all, tell a story: I've got about a one-in-four chance of getting into the MN State Fair arts competition. Over the past 30 years, I've been accepted roughly once every four or five times I submit. And I've only snagged a spot two years in a row a couple of times. Having been accepted last year, my odds for this year were already slim. This is all the internal monologue I play to suppress that cauldron of boiling rage deep down in my psyche, of course. Really, it's no big deal. You win some, you lose some. Besides, thick skin, remember? 😉 The same applies to art fairs. I'll admit, I was a little spoiled, getting accepted into the first three fairs I applied to this year – Edina, Stone Arch, and Wayzata. So when the "no" letter came for the Edina Fall into the Arts Fair this September, it caught me by surprise and definitely stung a bit. Being on the "short list" (in case someone drops out) feels a lot like getting a hard no but still hoping for a drunk dial. Best to just move on and assume it's a no-go. All this is to say: yeah, thick skin is non-negotiable if you're going to be a professional artist. While you could argue the same for other professions, I genuinely believe the creative fields hit different. They're perhaps a bit more vulnerable. Sure, the head accountant at a firm might face quarterly reviews or criticism for a mistake. But they'll likely never hear that one of their reports is "derivative or lacks originality." And while a CEO might get an occasional derogatory whisper, they're probably not fielding critiques that their "work lacks emotional impact or soul." One of my favorite art school critiques from my days at the University of Minnesota came from a professor who loudly declared in front of the whole class that I was "showing off." Why? Because I dared to draw something with a bit of technical proficiency, while he was pushing Drawing Two towards a more postmodern – and dare I say, ugly – aesthetic. Point is, I don't think many bankers, coal miners, or middle managers get accused of "showing off" for attempting to be good at their job. And don't even get me started on what professions are "essential." But I digress. - While it never doesn't hurt or sting a little to be rejected from a fair or competition, or to hear harsh criticism, it simply comes with the territory of sharing your soul with the world. Just as not every two people are a romantic match, not every soul is a match when it comes to artwork, for any of an infinite number of reasons. And that's why, when someone does resonate with a painting, finding beauty and connection with it, well, that's an unmeasurable gift. As are the lessons an artist must learn about themselves in dealing with both the wins and the losses. I talk about thick skin, but really, it's more about developing an inner peace, trust, and self-worth, alongside an understanding and wisdom about how souls cross – sometimes connecting, sometimes not. So, while that State Fair rejection letter might've stung, I know there's always next year. Same goes for the Fall into the Arts fair. And who knows, maybe, just maybe, I'll still get that drunk dial... P.S. About those "cut-off arms"... Not that I feel a need to "defend" myself, per se, but for clarification: I paint mostly women because I was raised by my mother and surrounded by five sisters – all incredibly creative and influential. My portraits are painted through a lens of magical realism, distorting the human figure to imbue it with allegorical and metaphorical potential. The head, representing divinity and spiritual potential, is elevated on an elongated neck. The arms (not cut off, but repositioned) and hands are placed lower in the composition, symbolizing our worldly nature, thus drawn closer to the ground. The idea is that we, as humans, possess both divine and worldly aspects. When seen from a distance, or from outside ourselves, our lives – much like the portrait – while sometimes seemingly chaotic and wrought with internal struggles, are in a weird and perfect balance. It's from this "1000-foot view" that we can gain perspective on our lives, seeing where we want to go and how best to get there. But that's just my take... Ultimately, what a painting means is fluid. I can tell you my intentions, the symbolism I built in. But once the painting is done, framed, and hung, it belongs to you, the viewer. It's up to you to decide what it means to you, to find your own connection, or even your own critique. And that's a unique part of the artistic journey. To learn more about the painting I submitted to the MN State Fair Fine Arts Competition, Click HERE
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. As a child, I spent countless hours here, utterly transfixed by the stories that flickered across its slowly molding screen. Movies like E.T., Raiders of the Lost Ark, Ghostbusters, and Back to the Future weren't just films; they were vibrant pigments that colored my childhood, imbuing it with flavor and magic. Sure, not every cinematic gem was a masterpiece – I’m looking at you, Breakin’ (though I admit, my friends and I did attempt some cardboard backspins the next day, a brief, fleeting homage). Still, in those days, Hollywood held a magic that feels far rarer now. 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. It was the day of the Market of the Beast, a dark arts market perfectly suited for my most haunting creations. I call them, collectively, "My October Collection" – a gathering of ghouls, mystics, demonesque figures, and magicians. I'd just finished unloading my pieces, and the two-hour countdown to setup had begun. A quick glance at the other thirty artists’ work confirmed it: my art was right at home. 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. The unexpected corner did demand a quick flip of my design and a bit of rushed rearranging, but with moments to spare, my mission was accomplished. Just enough time to sprint to the local store for snacks before the doors swung open. Returning, I was met with a glorious sight: a sizeable line of dozens of hardcore dark art enthusiasts, practically vibrating with anticipation. 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! Even as a gallery owner myself, nothing fills me with more joy (and simultaneous stress) than seeing people line up ten minutes before an opening, knowing I still have forty minutes of work left. But no matter how rushed I feel, the doors always open precisely at 6 PM, and I eagerly, gratefully welcome every single person. And so, with mere minutes to spare, after quick chats with fellow artists, we entered and unveiled our individual sacred spaces to the public. 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. Prints, by far, were the biggest sellers by volume, and I couldn't be happier about that. I’m a passionate advocate for the democratization of art, making it accessible to everyone, regardless of background or income. When I buy original art (which I try to do once a year), it’s almost always through a payment plan. And if an original is out of budget or no longer available, a print is a fantastic alternative. So, yes, prints are my new jam! 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! Cheers!