The recent resignation of the revolting Mike Jeffries from the helm of Abercrombie and Fitch, for his remarks about not wanting fat ugly customers in his stores, leaves in question the future of that soft-core gay porn staple of closet-cases everywhere: the Abercrombie and Fitch catalogue.  I was once invited into the office of a client in Louisville, KY to participate in what my brother and I would have called as kids: “Something from Every Page” while leafing through that pruriently beautiful quarterly. The game originally goes back to rainy days in rural Oregon, which can be painfully boring, when my brother and I would resort to playing this “game” with the thick catalogues from Sears or Wards or Penny’s. The rules were simple: each player must pick something from each page of the catalogue before going on to the next. We never got all the way through a catalogue, there were always sections we allowed ourselves to skip, and I don’t believe there was ever a way to win the game. I know now this wasn’t unique to my youth as I’ve met people who’ve relayed similar stories before settling into a game of “Something from Every Page” with the Skymall catalogue or Vogue on long business flights. However, that day back in the 90s when Abercrombie and Fitch was at its peak of popularity and raciness, the obvious twist on the game was to choose “Someone from Every Page.” I didn’t find it the least bit inappropriate or unseemly to be invited into such a private moment; in fact I was flattered to be so entrusted. Frankly I always thought this charming Southerner simply had a genuine curiosity about other people, all people, as evidenced by his selections in the game of “Someone from Every Page” that day overlooking the Ohio River. Why is this memorable? I have asked myself more than once. I think because it’s so rare for a gay person operating in the straight business world to be “invited in” in a way that feels honest. That day I was invited in to talk about beautiful young people beautifully photographed—no harm no foul. He was just a bigger than life free thinking character among bigger than life characters that seem to make Louisville what it is. Funnily enough the infamous CEO of Abercrombie and Fitch Mike Jeffries actually looks a lot like my boss at the time; pasty white and soft, as physically unattractive as his politics. So do I thank Jeffries for the legacy of hotness while at the same time reviling him as a man? Do I appreciate the contributions made to the world by artists and architects who are so often rather despicable human beings? I know that among the few pieces of art that I own, if I don’t already know the artist I avoid finding out anything about them for fear of ruining my experience with the piece.

The first lesson one must learn before spending any time in Louisville is the “correct” lazy southern pronunciation of the name: (Loo-vull). Kentucky was the first slave state that I ever visited and the only one in which I’ve spent significant time, beyond a couple of visits here and there to places like Atlanta, Savanna, Oklahoma City, various points in Texas if it counts, and Florida which hardly does. In that regard it was an eye opening experience—things really are different in the South, and not all for the worse. My entre to Louisville in 1990s was through Cincinnati and most trips included a stop in both cities. The contrast is sharp here. Cincinnati likes to pretend that it’s an extension of New York City—after all it’s in the same time zone—while falling far short of the mark, and leaving the scars of a major inferiority complex. Louisville on the other hand doesn’t seem to define itself relative to other places, is proud, perhaps passively, of its own southern heritage and for the most part reflects the better aspects of what that means. Both had experienced decline from former glory days, though Louisville probably had less far to fall, and therefor suffered less of a post-industrial hangover. It was work as a landscape architect that took me to both towns, yet over the course of 10 years, with a large project in each town, I came to dread traveling to “Cincinasty” and to mildly love Louisville, where the gay bars at least were much more fun.

It hasn’t been my intention or desire to write about work in these (essays), at least not directly. It’s been an imaginary line for me as a writer to date and I only cross it with great trepidation. I have not extracted myself from the profession entirely, making references to people tricky, and I have no interest in writing fiction, or incurring the anger of former clients and associates. However, it was always inevitable that line would be crossed in writing stories about places, given what I did for a living for the past 25 years, and ten of those years were focused upon the Midwest and Louisville. It never occurred to me to ask my three bosses when I started my career in San Francisco in 1989 why the projects were somewhere else. It seemed normal then. I didn’t know the difference between a fledgling design firm (what they were then) and an international one (what they said they were and only became later). It also never occurred to me back then that where the partners were from had any bearing on where the work was. I should have figured it out when we won the Eastbank Esplenade project in my own home town of Portland. The three partners were all from the south: Georgia, Tennessee and Texas. A sprinkling of “hometown advantage” would seem to play into how large design projects are awarded. Knowing place is after all inherent in what we do, until of course we work in China.