a dash of ash

november 12 2020

There’s a bookstore in downtown Detroit called John K. King Rare & Used Books. As soon as you walk in, the smell of the pages from each old book morphing together overcomes you. The store is located in a former industrial glove factory just off of the freeway, consisting of four floors packed to the brim with books of all shapes, sizes and genres. Because it is a former factory, there are large industrial-scale windows that open up to air it out on a cool fall day. The old-fashioned light bulbs within each aisle of shelves have a string attached to click them on whenever necessary. The dimly lit stacks transport you to a dimension of literature. The building seems to have a soul of its own, the creeks of the floor serving as a notification of satisfaction that it is filled with beautiful literature, and appreciative individuals. The classics are located on the first floor near the front desk; one could spend hours simply sifting through them with admiration of the results of a vast amount of hard work and effort located in one place. However, they have almost every genre of book one could even imagine: one floor consists of written dramas, works that analyze those dramas, and biographies of the playwrights of many of those dramas.

Although the first floor is usually bustling between the closeness of the shelves, the front desk, and the many customers that visit, once you reach the upper floors, the atmosphere drastically changes. Other than a single employee, you may find two or three other individuals on that floor searching for literature. Taking that into account, the silence is deafening in the best way possible. There may be a ruffle of pages, or a creak of the floor, but other than that, you would not be able to find another individual within the neatly backed shelves. Although it may be overwhelming, the store is organized in a way that it is not painstakingly difficult to search for authors or titles, and in fact, searching with nothing in mind is enjoyable.

The first time I walked into this store was with three of my closest friends. I had planned to take my senior photos in Downtown Detroit, and when searching for “artsy” locations, stumbled upon this store online. After calling them to confirm that we could use the space, we ventured downtown the next day. I had commissioned my friend Hannah to take my senior photos, as she hoped to continue on with visual arts as a career in the future. So, while we wandered the stacks of books, searching for the perfect lighting and angles, the other two friends we went with found themselves discussing philosophy with one of the employees on a completely different floor than us. It’s so easy to get caught up within the shelves of books, and with just the sight of so many masterpieces in one place, you can’t help but start to converse about the thoughts and theories present in many of them. After spending several hours wandering somewhat aimlessly through the endless shelves, we decided it was time to move on to our next destination. However, when leaving, I knew that I would return.

Sure enough, Hannah and I have returned several times over the past year, discovering new corners of the store and discovering many more books to purchase. Over time, we have brought different friends with us, introducing them to a little-known corner of Detroit that we like to call our own. Each time we visit, I make it a point to buy used editions of books that I have always hoped to read. I have purchased classics such as Catcher in the Rye and Great Expectations, but also works lesser known such as The Confessions of Jean Jacques Rousseau. It has reached the point where I cannot count the amount of literary works I’ve purchased from this store, but I could pick them out from my stacks of books back home. When I open one, I’m transported back to the moment I picked it up at the store. I believe that books are just as interesting as we are as humans. Each book has not only a story within it, but also a history. It could have been adored by someone, or it could have sat on a shelf, lonely for years, until it was decided that it wasn’t needed any longer.

I believe that I am a very spiritual person, not necessarily in the religious sense, but in the existential sense. I like to think that inanimate objects have souls; history shapes a person, why shouldn’t it shape an object? In my opinion, it certainly does. When thinking in this mindset, I can’t help but think of how much soul and history is inside of that single old factory building off of West Lafayette Boulevard. The infrastructure itself seems to come alive with every creak and shuffle throughout. Not only does each book have of history of its own, but the building does as well. When sifting through the seemingly endless stacks, this history facilitates the capability to get utterly lost in thought when you’re there.

This single store has prompted me to become a more pensive individual, constantly considering the history of people, as well as the history of things. It’s important to think of the history of all things, not only does it exercise the mind, but it interests it. I have been deeply interested in literature since a young age, and this store simply furthered that passion for me. It’s important that when we find unique places such as this, that we don’t take them for granted and that we become appreciative of them. The abundance of history we are exposed to on a daily basis often goes unacknowledged, when in actuality, everyone and everything has a story, and the knowledge of that story can expand our insight on the world itself so greatly. By appreciating the history behind everything, one’s broad-mindedness is expanded, as it trains the brain to automatically consider all aspects of one’s past, which is important when connecting with people: the consideration of their past.

Although the bookstore holds a part of my heart, my favorite place in the world is located right off of Woodward Avenue in Midtown. The Detroit Institute of Arts is arguably one of the most elegant establishments I’ve ever been to in my life. With the sleek, crisp white aesthetic, and masterpieces from some of the most well-renowned artists on earth, the entire establishment is breath-taking. Within any exhibit you pass through, the serenity of the quiet is overwhelming. Besides the occasional click of a heel, or the murmur of those discussing the art, there is an eerie silence that leaves one with nothing to hear but their own thoughts pondering the artwork. With benches and other seating scattered throughout the building and exhibits, the museum invites each and every visitor to take the time to stop and truly look at the art and see it. Even some of the benches themselves are considered works of art, accrediting the artists with plaques above them on the wall.

The impressionist corridor is by far the one that I visit the most. I could sit there for hours and admire the works of Van Gogh and Degas, amongst many others. I believe that the majority of these pieces are inspirations within themselves. Having just found my knack for writing recently, I didn’t seize the opportunity of writing in this space, despite the fact that I was flooded with inspiration every time I set foot in the building. However, in my opinion, I certainly used this space to read. The use of the word read, in this context, however, is not that of the conventional type. I believe that a person is able to read into visual art, gaining similar insight as they would from a work of literary art, just using a different method to gain that knowledge and mindset.

The first time I remember visiting the DIA was the summer between fifth and sixth grade. My aunt was visiting from Utah, and decided it would be a fun outing for us. My entire family piled into the car and made the drive downtown. At the time, I didn’t really pay any mind to the artwork, I was just enjoying my time with my aunt. She is one of the most creative and talented individuals I’ve ever met, and she was my inspiration as a child-I really looked up to her, mostly because she didn’t even realize she is as talented as she is, she just was. In ninth grade, we took a field trip to the DIA for art class, and of course, the experience was completely different, as I had to follow around a group, and wasn’t able to roam wherever my heart desired. However, it’s always held a special spot in my heart due to the happy moments I shared there with my family. I remember, for several birthdays my mom would ask “It’s your day, what do you want to do?” and I always said the same thing “Visit the DIA.” And each year, for whatever reason, it just never worked out.

Eventually, I was able to visit several times in my high school years. When my friend Hannah took my senior photos, I was able to choose wherever I wanted to go, and because we went to downtown Detroit, the DIA was on my list of locations. We ventured into the building, and spent what seemed like hours, looking for photogenic corners, of which there were many. For my eighteenth birthday, my mom didn’t even have to ask what I wanted to do: she knew the answer. I woke up at what seemed like dawn, got ready to go, and met a few friends, making the long drive downtown. The three of us spent all day in the museum. This birthday was probably the best one yet, not only because I got to spend it with two of my closest friends, but also because I had the opportunity to spend it in my favorite place. This trip was different from prior visits because I actually took the time to analyze the different works of art. It may sound pretentious, but I look back on the many in-depth discussions that the three of us had had on the different exhibits and I realize that in that moment, everything else seemed to fade away. It seemed to be just the three of us, in a fortress of masterpieces, alone with artifacts of worldly cultures, surrounded by mere fragments of the thoughts of creative geniuses.

The recognition of different forms of art is an important insight that many people disregard. Although literature is a prominent form of art, visual arts can also be read in a more figurative way. There are many similarities between written and visual art when the two are compared. Each can be interpreted upon techniques the artist uses, and connections can be made by the audience. As much as literature can be used to prompt writing, visual art can be drawn from as well. It is important to acknowledge that some realization in regard to the inspiration drawn from different forms of art doesn’t occur until a certain point in one’s life. For me, I began writing in the early hours of the day I left home to start my new life here in Florida.

Looking back, I took several moments of inspiration for granted. Taking this into mind, rather than blame myself and look back with regret, I will use this to my advantage and utilize every moment as an inspiration. This is a lesson that is to be learned over time, although I have come to the realization that every bit of inspiration should be taken to heart, I am conscious of the fact that there will still be moments of inspiration that I will not be able to fully grasp until a later time. Despite the fact that spurs of the moment are often the cause of inspiration, it should not be forced upon oneself. The significance of this particular moment proves that the concept that inspiration cannot be forced, and should be consciously seized.

xoxo, Ash