This past July, I drove to Nebraska City for a five-week residency at the KHN Center for the Arts, mostly on the same westbound route I took in 2014 when my car was only three years old and I was a decade younger. Memories of a different world surfaced in the oppressive heat as I rattled through the fields of Iowa in that same car full of art supplies. The drive from Chicago took about eight hours and the residency check-in ended at 5pm. Instead of departing early in the morning, I left a day early with one night booked at a cheap hotel near Omaha, where I unloaded several bins of paint, food, and supplies in order to get them out of the boiling heat.
Sweating and still winded, I returned the luggage cart to the lobby and went back to my room. Upon opening the bathroom door, a small orange object caught my eye: a syringe on the floor, under the sink. My mind flooded with images of all the sharps containers in gas station bathrooms across the Midwest. Lost in thought, I slumped on the bed and stared mindlessly at the hotel art which depicted a somber close-up of dry grasslands. A small dark patch came into focus. The canvas was vandalized, a tiny stick figure drawn in pen hung from one of the blades of grass. I reached for my art supplies, conveniently on hand, and painted over the figure by layering the background color until it was indiscernible. While doing this, I remember laughing at the absurdity of spending my evening this way.
In the morning, a cute guy with gauged ears and elaborate tattoos greeted me at the front desk. After I mentioned my art restoration stint, he paused, looked at me doubtingly, and with a smile said “Thank you for your service!” We laughed and talked for a little while before I began the final hour of my journey due south. The sun was growing stronger, and this time I drove towards it. Nebraska City looked so tiny on the map. Indeed, the population is less than 7,500.
The sight of KHN Center’s gorgeous prairie-style residency building changed the entire tone of my trip. I was soon greeted by welcoming staff and an adorable dog, and before even stepping foot in my studio, I felt charmed and inspired by the vast art collection, antique furniture, décor, varied wallpaper patterns, and enclosed courtyard. When the final resident arrived, we gathered with the residency director Amy for a round of introductions. This activity typically breeds awkwardness, but Amy eased it with her warm and casual demeanor. She established a culture of cooperation, mutual care and support.
Some residents were scheduled for only two weeks and some for nearly two months, with room for up to five residents at any given point in time—typically two visual artists, two writers, and one composer. The length of my stay was five weeks; I saw other residents come and go and we quickly slipped into our weekly routines: Monday introductions and grocery runs, Friday goodbyes. Most of the residency was otherwise unstructured, leaving time for contemplation and work.
My apartment-mate Theo was an author originally from Lagos, Nigeria, now living in the United States, a hopeless romantic and a lovely person with an appetite for protein-rich dishes. On the first night of the residency, I opened my bedroom door and was struck by the smell of eggs and fish. He had prepared a popular spicy Nigerian stew and it was all but gone by the time I went into the kitchen. I had the opportunity to partake in some of his cooking on another occasion, and it was indeed delicious.
Theo wasn’t the only Nigerian writer. In fact, there were several uncanny synchronicities and overlaps: two of us with MFA degrees from OSU, two people currently living in Columbia, MO, two who grew up in the same neighborhood in NYC, two writers from Nigeria. These and other facts came up during various casual gatherings and outings, especially the night when Dan, the composer in residence, proposed meeting around the courtyard fire pit. It took some office paper and a wooden plank to get the fire going. Soon enough, we were all drinking under the stars, talking about our love lives and the pros and cons of online dating.
During the day, the same courtyard buzzed with life. It truly felt like we were out in the country. Giant black wasps with iridescent blue wings hovered near a wall. They looked otherworldly, frightening, and beautiful. A quick online search eased my anxiety as I learned that they are similar to mud daubers and not at all aggressive. Everything at this residency felt enchanted, so many mysterious and lively creatures. On an exceptionally hot day nearing 100 degrees, I saw paws and a tail under my car—an orange tabby lying motionless on its side. I worried that the cat may have died in the extreme heat, but it ran off as I approached. The next morning, I opened my curtains to find the same cat perched on a wall in the courtyard, staring directly at me.
These encounters stirred my curiosity and imagination. I found myself motivated to work, quickly developing daily routines and habits: writing in the bedroom, reading and sketching in the courtyard, exercising and painting in the studio. The residency accommodations were truly conducive to a creative life. The building housed two shared apartments on the first and second floor, each with one writer’s studio, a kitchen, a dining room, a living room, and two bedrooms with their own separate bathrooms. On some days, as I walked through the hallway, I could hear Theo soaking in his tub and singing Lana Del Rey songs at the top of his lungs. It made me smile.
Across the central courtyard, repurposed garages served as visual art studios. Raw and caked in paint, years of use made their history palpable and ideal for getting messy without worrying about spills or stains. I noticed that the concrete floor was intentionally slanted downward approximately six inches toward the garage door, probably for water runoff during car washing. My ink process requires a level surface; I’m glad that I brought pre-made pours! In addition to the apartments and studios, the building also housed a gallery, a couple of offices, a composer’s apartment, and a laundry room in the basement, which also had a TV room and a large conference room with round tables and a pair of creepy taxidermy otters climbing a log.
The main hallway, staff offices, and gallery—with a haunting and beautiful exhibit of David Jacobo’s photographs—were open to the public during typical business hours. Visitors strolled in to see the exhibition and read about current residents. This was the same space where we gathered every Monday to greet incoming residents, and where our Third Thursday public event took place. Locals and people from nearby cities attended the event where we shared our work through readings, presentations, concerts, and open studios. Throughout the rest of the month, we took it upon ourselves to invite each other for private in-progress feedback and studio visits, hosting our own readings, dinners, and courtyard gatherings.
I didn’t spend much time outside the residency grounds other than going for grocery runs and the occasional walk to the pharmacy or the taco truck. On our first group errand to the grocery store, I bought some house-made bread which turned out to be atrociously sweet and mushy—I couldn’t finish even one slice, which is exceptionally rare for me as I’m not a picky eater. I threw the rest of the loaf in the freezer, basically out of sight. That same store had clerks who followed me to my car and helped arrange grocery bags in my trunk. It was somehow both charming and creepy at the same time.
On Thursday afternoon, while I was lounging in the courtyard and lamenting bad bread to another resident, the director Amy informed us about the farmers’ market whose tents were visible in the distance from our front door at that very moment. Armed with shopping bags and ready to find some bread, a few of us walked to the market together. At the entrance, a resolute saxophonist squealed out some vaguely familiar songs. It was paradise; I discovered that most vendors coincidentally sold baked goods, including sourdough, one of them even grinding her own wheat flour. I bought several delicious loaves and in desperation probably ate more calories that week than I did in the preceding month. At the same market, I also found an assortment of homemade jams: rhubarb, chokecherry, wild plum, elderberry… A middle-aged couple sold only fresh microgreens and cherry tomatoes because it was too early in the season for their main crops. As I approached their tent, I was charmed to see them eating popsicles together in 90-degree weather. Other vendors sold things like soap, candy, and jewelry. Only a few people had vegetables, but who needs vegetables when you have good bread?
This was the kind of town where the best fresh eggs are available at the local hardware store, and where everyone chats you up, even the pharmacist at the major pharmacy chain. I met some lovely people around town and learned some confusing expressions, like “I went with him,” when referring to a person someone dated. Despite the warmth, Nebraska City definitely had a conservative streak too, most notably in the suddenly disappearing sidewalks, as some residents refused to pay maintenance for this common good, while others explicitly deterred strangers from their lawn with a sign. For fear of retaliation, we walked on the road. Nebraska was not even part of the confederacy, yet at least one neighbor had the flag in his garage. Most of us at the residency were quite obviously outsiders. People stared at us and we stared back—some curiously, some fearfully.
Despite all this (and other) nonsense, we did find some local gems worth visiting—all of them within walking distance of our building. One was the Pioneer Theater, which in July had a daily screening of Christopher Nolan’s Odyssey. Theo was very excited about the movie and three of us ended up seeing it together. I also recommend the City Tap House, with self-serve beer on tap by the ounce and excellent individual-size pizzas. Their bartender even made a surprisingly good dirty vodka martini—many places back home mess this one up.
Nonetheless, I spent most of my time following my routines in quiet solitude, with the exception of one Friday evening when I heard a few loud police sirens zoom by. This wouldn’t have been notable in Chicago and it didn’t even enter my consciousness until I realized how rare if not completely absent police sirens were in Nebraska City. Theo and I were the only people in the building at this point, and he was so engrossed in writing that he didn’t see my texts or notice the shelter-in-place message from staff, who were gone for the day. All the other residents had finished their terms and already left town. Later that weekend, I read the news about a SWAT team trying to coax a fugitive out of a house down the street!
After the astonishing feat of eating three entire chickens and a couple dozen eggs in one week, Theo departed on a Friday and left behind a half-empty container of protein powder and a large bag of untouched sweet potatoes, the sight of which made me miss him. My new apartment mate Jess arrived the following Monday, and we soon began having warm conversations over lunch and tea in the dining room. It never ceases to surprise me how much the vibe can change with a new mix of personalities, whether it’s at a residency, in a classroom, or anywhere. As the days passed, everyone overlapping with my stay at the KHN Center was so lovely and thoughtful, and I felt fortunate to meet so many extraordinary humans. Jess, an architect and a poet, shared some devastating poems during a casual gathering in the upstairs apartment, where visual artist Lynn Kim and writer Sara Son had food parties practically on a daily basis. On one occasion, we all gathered at their place to participate in their feast. Other lovely residents were visual artist Diana Schmertz, whose work focuses on social justice; queer writer and artist Ernest Ohia, who read us a gutsy poem that can speak; composer Sarah Kit Boyle of the indie chamber pop band Sugardeer; visual artist Giovanni Valderas, whose recent work addresses gentrification; and writer Teresa Carmody, who shared an elegant work in progress weaving and queering the spiritual and social connotations of the Trinity nuclear test site—all worth checking out and following.
In the KHN Center for the Arts, Nebraska City has a significant sanctuary for friendship, creativity, and magic. I ascribe a big portion of its character to Amy, who set the convivial tone from the beginning. During my five-week stay, I finished 16 pieces and started working on several more, some directly influenced by things I encountered in town. And while working, I inexplicably listened to every Elliott Smith album on repeat for the full five weeks of this residency. This detail is still a mystery to me because I was never a die-hard fan, though I liked his music. I somehow feel that this Elliott Smith spell was cast in that hotel room near his birth town, Omaha, dissipating only after I arrived back home in Chicago.
