The daily digest of Twin Cities culture | Secrets of the City

Richard Johnson’s photos of weathered storefronts, thrift-store castoffs, and tattered religious iconography in northern Minnesota serve as an astute chronicle of the erosion of small Midwestern towns. He grew up in Cloquet, which he describes as “an OK place,” one with “a slightly higher-than-average number of churches as well as per-capita consumption of distilled spirits, and the distinction of lending its name to a big forest fire.” After developing a severe allergy to chemicals used in processing film, for years Johnson turned to collage instead. (Happily, digital photography eventually allowed him a chemical-free way to return to the craft.) “I was an inveterate collector of ephemera anyway,” he explains. “I haunted flea markets and rummage sales for old books, magazines, marbled papers, objets de junk, and assorted crap.”

Not one to merely dabble, he dove into the medium, producing a large collection of gorgeous, offbeat assemblages. “I used so bloody much rubber cement that I began experiencing peripheral nerve damage. I kid you not, the tips of my fingers developed a constant tingle. God only knows what it did to my brain.”

The stuff certainly didn’t detract from Johnson’s eye for imagery. His work, whether in collage or photography, packs a visceral punch, one that reflects the artist’s wry humor and keen insight.

Originally appeared in issue 20.1 of access+ENGAGE.