Hidden Doors
On Entering Magical Spaces on Campus
On my way to a meeting this morning I ducked into a coffee house I’d never been in. Nestled within a bed of ivy, a nondescript door with a faded sign. I’d noticed it a few times before but never had the time or courage to go in (I work on the other side of campus). The interior of the space was small and charming with a big shiny espresso machine. And to my surprise, working the counter at the cafe was one of my favorite painting students. They introduced me to their coworker, a sociology major who grew up in the Philippines. We talked about Palawan. Behind the cozy coffee area was a window to a sprawling but empty cafeteria that, they assured me would fill up any minute when students exited their morning classes. What about the rest of the building? I wondered. The two baristas told me that the other floors were vacant. After Covid, they just never reopened it. Maybe they were dorms? Nobody remembers. The Cafe is all that’s left.
I got my latte and happily took it to a meeting in the nearby music building, frothy sips and steps in the early autumn sun.
The music building is newer but still has the generic red brick flavor of a state university. I made my way to the top floor for the kind of meeting that happens at universities — collaborative authoring of documents that might help give more structure to other, future meetings. After the meeting, as I walked down the hall with a colleague I asked him if he knew where the recording studio was. As it turned out, at the very moment we happened to be walking by the heavy wooden studio door. The next thing I knew I was in a control room and I felt as if I had been magically transported to Burbank, California. I know recording studios and everything was there: the two lava lamps, a giant red leather couch flanked by strangely tilted walls and even an amiable, highly knowledgable and heavily tattooed recording engineer and an assistant. We talked shop for an hour.
On a good day, the American university feels like this: around every corner is a wonderful surprise. Each turn provides a different experience, a different sight or smell or idea. It’s like being in a weird dream where anything can happen, everyone is an expert and you never really know what remnants or projections of past or future lives you’ll find. These strange magical spaces immediately declare and embody their purpose and power. There’s a greenhouse teaming with lush plants from all over the world. There’s an entire museum of taxidermy animals and bones. There are pole dancers, a nuclear reactor and live grizzly bears (unfortunately no nuclear pole-dancing bears, yet!). And these are just some of the places I’ve been.
But many days are not as good. Students and professors are usually “siloed” in their own departments, buildings and classrooms and so bogged down with meetings and coursework that they rarely have the energy to venture into new spaces and meet new people. Often, it’s unclear if you’re even allowed to be in a particular space and this is true even for professors.
I am embarrassed to say that despite spending a good portion of my life in a touring rock band that was signed to a major label, I have spent very little time in the music building on campus. Many years ago I Googled to try and find photos of the studio but not much turned up, and it drifted from my mind. Besides, universities are for Beethoven — not for Band of Horses or Bon Iver. Certainly not for Big Sean. Right? But the truth is, many creative spaces can often feel a bit inaccessible, even for creators.
How can we break down these barriers? Can I de-compartmentalize my own identity in an institutional context? And perhaps most importantly — how can I get free studio time despite not being a music professor? Ha! These are questions that today I do not have answers to. But I do feel lucky to spend my days in a painting studio within walking distance of so much incredible activity on campus.
This semester, I am spending a lot of my time coming up with ways to create serendipity, to build bridges between disciplines, and make the incredible, magical physical infrastructure of these struggling institutions more visible, more accessible and more contemporary. Here’s to walking through more hidden doors.