Heading for the kitchen closet, I took the local phone directory off the shelf. Nowadays, it covered less territory, but there were a dozen or more galleries only miles away. I’d been to most of them—for other artists’ shows or to try and sell my work. Photography wasn’t as popular as big oily canvasses right now, not as popular as multimedia displays, installation art, computer or digital work. A few new galleries caught my eye, but eventually I slammed the book shut, went into the bedroom, and threw myself on the bed. The plaster above the bed had been redone and I stared up at pure, smooth white. I’d never have the nerve to hang more than a light fixture up again.
Later, I picked up the phone and dialed a number I’d kept in my wallet for years. I knew it by heart though. “Hal Hart? Dad?”
“Violet?” he said, his voice sounding old and only faintly familiar, but oddly not surprised to hear from me. “Is it Bunny? Is she okay?”
“Mom’s fine. I’m calling about me.”
“You?”
“I know, Dad. I know.”
He sighed heavily, but it sounded like a sigh of relief. “Oh, Violet,” he said.
I was headed toward Belle Isle a few weeks later. It was a bright early November day, better than any I could’ve hoped for. Stan, the porter, was waiting outside the DYC.
“You wanted the drinks tent, right?” he said. “Checked it out last night and set it up this morning. Nice and clean. No mildew, no stains. Like you asked for.” He jiggled the change in his pocket, waiting for a response.
“Thanks. The other tents are too big.”
I didn’t want the crowd, if the term wasn’t too optimistic, to seem small, the space too big. I’d found, over the last weeks, that art shows were difficult to plan for—especially Belle Isle’s first; you never knew who might show up. Most of the flyers I circulated might have found their way into the trash after Monday’s storm. I’d also posted information on Detroit’s many Internet sites—if anyone read them—on various Facebook pages and Twitter, and in the free newspapers.
“You wanna follow me over there?” Stan said, getting into his Jeep. “’Course you know where it is. Right?”
Nodding, I climbed back into the car and followed him to a parking space near Derek’s former site. I walked, pulling my super-sized portfolio on wheels behind me. Parts of the site looked undisturbed, but most of the grisly items were gone. The drinks tent, used at outdoor weddings, was already set up. It was fairly small, but again it’d be better if the tent looked crowded.
“Want me to help you set ’em up?” Stan asked. “The pictures?” He rubbed his hands together enthusiastically.
“Thanks, but I have a couple friends coming to help. I wasn’t sure if you’d have the time.”
“Well, if they don’t show, you got my cell. I’ll be tooling around here today, tidying up for winter. We don’t have any other special events scheduled.” He looked curiously at the first package I was about to unwrap. “Are you showing pictures from weddings you photographed on the island? Drumming up business?”
“Not this time.”
If he saw what was in the packages, he might not be so willing to help, so solicitous. A taste for cadavers was probably acquired. I’d only won over the DYC director after a week of haggling, offering to photograph their annual ball for free, offering to help them with their next brochure. He was none too happy about it even now, but here I was. The weekend weather was supposed to be perfect. Good for football or cider mills, the forecaster said. Maybe one of the last warmish weekends this year. Thanksgiving was only a few weeks away after all.
“Hope it goes well,” Stan said, starting up his Jeep. “Be nice to see the island put on a big event. Detroit could use something special.”
“Me too,” I said, hand-visoring my eyes and immediately flashing to Bill’s face on my bed. “I could use it too.” The sun nearly blinded me. “But let’s not get our hopes up.” In my whole life, had my hopes ever been up?
I unzipped the attaché holding the placards to accompany each of the bodies, ones giving the date and cause of death but not the name. The priest had been right. It wasn’t photojournalism to make it clear how these men died. It was necessary. I took their pictures because of the way they died. How could I ever have thought of denying it?
It’d struck me for the first time last night that almost none of the men had a spouse or partner. Parents, friends, siblings, but few wives to mourn their loss. Except for Pete Oberon, the firefighter, and the bartender, Willis Dumphrey. I thumbed through the contracts to be sure of it. Did being alone make you more vulnerable to death at a young age? Did wives help bar the door to death?
Derek Olsen’s photograph was on top. I’d decided to include him only a week ago.
“I hope you’ll include Derek. I’m sure he’d want to be part of it,” Susan Olsen said, surprising me when we’d had lunch. “I know it sounds odd, but I’m certain of it. Does his being white matter?”
I shook my head. His death was in keeping with the others. He was part of the project—black or white.
“Maybe you’ll get a bigger crowd than you think,” Stan said, breaking into my thoughts now. “I can get a bigger tent up in a couple hours if need be.”
Stan wanted to be part of it too. Detroiters wanted to be around if something good was about to happen. Good wasn’t the normal for Detroit.
I smiled. “Let’s wait and see. Seems like bad luck to think too big. I’m the pessimistic sort.”
In the distance, I saw Di’s Mini Cooper rounding the bend. “Oh, here they come now. My help.”
“In that toy car?” Stan said. “You might need a burlier man than what’s inside that little vehicle for this job.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, heading out to the road to meet them. “I’m used to taking care of myself.”
Detroit City Paper; November 1, 2011
Raising the Dead
The Photographs of Violet Hart
The days of photographing majestic, snow-capped mountains may be gone. Perhaps such photographs no longer hold our interest or tell our story. Artists, or photographers in this case, are forced to look in other directions for their subject matter. Some choose to photograph children dressed as animals. Others take pictures of naked people, tattoos, or car crashes. Fresh subject matter is not easily come upon in our selfie, YouTube, digital age.
In the case of Violet Hart, a Detroit photographer, pictures of dead, young black men captured her interest. Apparently no local gallery was brave enough to mount her show, however, because she’s done it herself, saving the cost of a middleman, but marginalizing public access and ultimately the response. Finding one’s way to a white tent on Belle Isle takes more work than cruising galleries in tony suburbs. You’d be a fool not to seek her little tent out, however. This is a show that reveals today’s Detroit more effectively than photos of its bombed out buildings, its assembly lines, or its celebrity musicians and athletes.
Although the twelve black (and one white) men Ms. Hart has photographed are not named, the cause and date of their deaths are provided. All of the men died over the last eight months. I wonder if Ms. Hart knew how quickly the number of photographs would mount. The causes of death encompass the sorrows of our age and city with great effect.
Will anyone buy these photographs? Is it an unseemly subject, inappropriate to some? Should anyone be allowed to exhibit photographs of young dead men, many who’ve died tragically? Well, their families say yes and have given their approval to Ms. Hart’s exhibition. Few people denied her a photograph once they saw her work. It is that remarkable.
The art community should be behind Violet Hart too because her exhibit is splendid. Each of her subjects is imbued with a dignity they may or may not have possessed in life. And the mortician who dressed them, William Fontenel, now deceased and tragically one of Ms. Hart’s final subjects, put these young men on the path to stardom by dressing them so movingly, with such panache. Ms. Hart’s artistry is evident in every photograph;
her technique superb. I haven’t been as moved by a photo exhibit since I first saw the work of Helen Levitt many years ago. These pieces belong in a museum—and I hope they find their way there.
Even though summer is over, make your way to Belle Isle quickly. The autumn leaves make a fitting carpet, the wind blows in from the Detroit River, the boats are disappearing from their moors. Winter will come quickly now and the exhibit will be gone. New York calls.
Amanda Rush
City Paper Arts Reporter
Patricia Abbott is the author of the acclaimed novel Concrete Angel, and has published more than 100 stories in print, online, and in various anthologies. In 2009, she won a Derringer Award for her story “My Hero”. She is the author of two ebooks of stories: Monkey Justice and Home Invasion (through Snubnose Press). She is the co-editor of Discount Noir (Unteed Reads). She makes her home in Detroit.
Visit her online at pattinase.blogspot.com and follow her on Twitter at @Pattinaseabbott.
My heartfelt thanks to my husband, Philip, who read this book countless times, always assuring me it was a worthwhile project. Boundless gratitude to Anca Vlasopolos, who encouraged me with her enthusiasm for the story. Appreciation goes to my children, friends, and the writing groups who have supported me on the long road to publication. Special thanks to Clair Lamb for her invaluable editorial assistance. So too, Robert Hensleigh, who educated me on the Deardorff camera and other aspects of photography. Thanks to Dorene O'Brien, Dennis James, and Barbara Grossman who read SHOT and offered encouragement. To Jason Pinter, you made it happen.
But most of all I want to thank the City of Detroit for providing me with a rich, fascinating, unique, and mercurial source of inspiration.
I began writing SHOT IN DETROIT in 2007, long before the recent (and hopefully permanent) resurgence began. Over the four decades before this, Detroit went from boasting the highest rate of home ownership in the nation to suffering the highest rate of home foreclosures. Many scholars date Detroit's entrance into the Great Recession to about 2001 so that by 2007-08, an overwhelming number of Detroiters were threatened with or had already experienced the loss of their home. Many had also lost their job, their family, their self-esteem. School population plummeted as families who could afford to leave did, depopulating a sprawling city that made the provision of city services even more difficult. In 2007 only 25% of Detroit students entering public high school graduated.
Although I spent 45 years living within a mile or two of city limits, my life has been one of comparative privilege. I have never experienced what so many Detroiters endure: poverty, crime, illness, decay, neglect, despair, and worst of all, hatred. This concerned me daily in writing this book. Did I dare to even try to imagine the life many Detroiters live? As an older white woman, can I be credible and not give offense in writing about what I only know as an outsider? And the concern grew as my central theme: the death of young black men appeared more and more in the news. How could I talk about the idea that black lives matter without being either self-serving, callous, or cavalier?
I hope I have succeeded in a small way in capturing something of what went on in Detroit in 2011. Most, but not all of the deaths of black men discussed in SHOT IN DETROIT, were similar to ones that actually took place. The central premise: that of a female photographer taking photos of dead black men mirrors a photographer in Harlem only in the broadest strokes. Everything personal about Violet Hart and Bill Fontenel in this story is strictly fictional and written with the greatest affection.
You will find many Detroiters who despair for Detroit but never one who doesn't care about it. It's that kind of town.
Patricia Abbot, February 2016
The following is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in an entirely fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 by Patricia Abbott
Cover and jacket design by Georgia Morrissey
Interior design and formatting by:
www.emtippettsbookdesigns.com
ISBN 978-1-940610-65-8
Library of Congress Catalog Number:
First trade paperback publication: June 2016
1201 Hudson Street
Hoboken, NJ 07030
www.PolisBooks.com
Table of Contents
Praise for CONCRETE ANGEL by Patricia Abbott
Title Page
About Shot in Detroit
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Epilogue
About the Author
Acknolwedgments
Copyright Notice
Shot In Detroit Page 27