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

The people in this photo were impressed by The Rake's depth and breadth of subject matter. Some of them are Twin Citians on vacation; two spend their time now between Tucson and Puerto Vallarta (the Rake began publishing after they left Minnesota, and they have enjoyed their copies so much they are passing them on to other folks, including Canadians); one is a California dress designer who created gowns worn at the Oscars this year and last; one is a painter who spent eight years sailing around the world, and authored a book about her adventures. There's a former

I don’t save many magazine articles anymore (I filled up too many file cabinets that way while working as an Utne Reader editor), but I intend to save Jeannine Ouellette’s very fine feature on the death of the American imagination from the November 2007 Rake.

Jeannine Ouellette’s puzzling article [“The Death & Life of American Imagination”] seems to cite the regimentation of children’s lives and the role of technology as a threat to the development of imagination. As a girl in the ’50s and ’60s, I faced far more restrictions to my imagination and free play than any kid today.

Soon you may be heading off on a thanksgiving vacation. The trip may be short or it may be long. Unless your relations live next door, however, you will have to make that journey in an automobile. These days that will likely mean a minivan or small European "touring wagon" (which Chrysler attempted to call its Pacifica with no luck).

I was going to comment on the recent article on American Imagination ["The Death & Life of American Imagination"], but I just couldn't think of anything to say.

Jeannine Ouellette's puzzling article seems to cite the regimentation of children's lives and the role of technology as a threat to the development of imagination. As a girl in the '50s and '60s, I faced far more restrictions to my imagination and free play than any kid today.

For a guy who spends all year thinking about Halloween, Will Niskanen could hardly be described as scary. Slight and soft-spoken, dressed in khakis and brown loafers, and exhibiting the good manners of a Boy Scout, Niskanen greets me at one of his favorite haunts, Mill City Cafe, pulling out a chair and offering to order a beverage. His studio is just upstairs, so the café is a great place to take a break from sketching skulls and spiders and tombstones.

Once upon a time, the American office was a nightclub with typewriters—at least according to mid-century myths like The Hucksters or The Apartment. Formal dress was mandatory. Client meetings had a two-drink minimum and every plush blond secretary was as tightly tufted as a Florence Knoll lounge chair. On occasion, there were papers to shuffle, bosses to placate, but ultimately all it took to succeed in this hectic but undemanding middle-management Eden was a crisp white collar, a bottle of aspirin, and an aptitude for caustic banter. This was the American workplace.