The Good Ol’ Days Ahead

As a kid growing up in the ‘80s, Kmart was a childhood staple where I came from up in Boston. I honestly can’t recall whether I ever looked forward to going there — which leads me to believe that I did not — but it was a definitely a place you’d wind up when you had to get a birthday present for a classmate, or a cheap fishing rod, a pack of Fruit of the Looms, some semi-disposable art supplies, a greatest hits cassette tape, or a bike pump.

It somehow had everything you needed while at the same time having nothing that you actually wanted.

And because of this, through the years, my vision of Kmart tended to land somewhere between comedy gold and epic tragedy. But whatever the case, if you could muster up the willpower to breach the automatic doors and take that first step inside past the air curtain on a hot summer day, well, you were in for a trip on the other side.

But, sadly, those days are over.

Key West — which I’ve always joked is a charming and hilarious time warp unto itself — recently shuttered one of the last-remaining, once-mighty big box retailers in the Key Plaza Shopping Center just a couple of months ago. And at last tally, only three Kmarts remain nationwide — one in New Jersey, one in Long Island and another in Miami. Go figure.

More comedy gold right there.

So now, Kmart will be relegated to the annals of nostalgia — and with that comes the inevitable longing for the past.

Kristian, my son, is an astute student of nostalgia — always wondering what things were like when I grew up and then interested in why and how things changed over time. I suppose it’s an obvious “apple doesn’t fall far from the tree” trope, but it does tend to lead to fun discussions about 89 cent gas, hanging out at the mall, ghost riding bikes down the street, ding-dong ditch, sketchy tree forts, and other coming-of-age normalities that have all but gone by the wayside.

Talking about these things while we sit three across the bench in a period-accurate pickup truck only heightens the excitement — and the longing.

With the recent closing of the local Kmart — which during its final push into obsolescence certainly steered hard into the epic tragedy lane of their storied journey — we’ve talked a lot about the company’s demise being a sign of the times and a victim of the new world of retail.

He often asks what could possibly go in that enormous space next — especially considering the much smaller Sears building in the adjacent and eponymous Searstown Shopping Center still lies vacant some years after they rang up their final closeout Kenmore refrigerator and pair of relaxed-fit Lee Jeans.

I usually don’t have a good answer as his mind wanders toward bowling alleys and arcades and paintball and other things that might well have worked “back in the day”.

But today, as we sucked down after-school smoothies in the strip mall with the old Kmart building looming across the parking lot, my mind wandered and a perfect storm of old ideas, recent revelations, and design daydreams swirled around my mind much like the fruity concoction did at the bottom of my styrofoam cup.

The old sign, which no longer hangs against the peculiarly chosen sage-colored semi-Brutalist building, came back to me almost as a list of individual design elements. Big red blocky capital K, then a smaller sans-serif font (possibly Helvetica?), the whole thing illuminated at night but with one or more letters flickering or maybe even out completely? Okay I see it now.

But what could I see there later?

My mind flicks back to the logo.

Then it wanders to an old idea that I’ve had since college and, on some level, had created in a much more raw, unpolished manner during the COAST Stock Island days when we started as a ragtag artist collective some ten years ago after taking over an old boatyard, which then led to building open-air studios, shipping container workspaces, and erecting a stage made of maritime salvaged materials in the middle of it all so we could host wild underground concerts which still take place in a slightly more polished form around the island during what’s now called the COAST Is Clear Festival and Concert Series.

A wonderful, paragraph-long, rambling sentence right there.

Ah, nostalgia — makes the mind run wild.

The old sign continues to flicker in my head — almost behind my eyelids at this point as I squint to remember.

The M is burning out — the bulbs aren’t at full wattage. The big K flashes and then it says “art” after the dimly lit M void.

Hmm.

Right, you’ve always wanted to have a huge warehouse space with a bunch of artists and a big empty space in the middle that could be used as a working gallery, hangout space, or as floor seating for a night time live-music club. An open floor plan with a bunch of intermingled studio spaces, no real boundaries between them, overlapping music and paint flies through the air — a sweet cacophony of creativity spins through like a waterspout in the summer, and someone is so into building a halfpipe in the corner that they barely notice it. You can be as focused or as far out as you want there. Maybe we knock a few holes —  or a dozen — through the sides of the building and install old-school garage doors like they had at the greasy mechanic’s place down the street.

Someone drives a food truck in through one of the new openings without even asking and serves up free street tacos while a band pulls up in their converted school bus and loads out equipment onto the main stage in the center-back section where you used to buy Barbie Dolls and $89 beach cruisers. At least a handful of the artists in there at that moment have one of said bicycles leaned up against their easel or workbench while another races one across the concrete floor to catch the last of the free wraps before helping his buddy unload in time for soundcheck.

It’s a beautiful chaos, but the dude in the corner building the ramp hasn’t even lifted his head to notice. He’s dead set on installing the coping rail along the top edge of the halfpipe so his crew can get the skate jam going during the show tonight.

A couple of hip traveler types have migrated in — an anomaly in New Town — breaching the old air curtain ingress to ask a few questions about what the hell this place is. They leave 20 minutes later somewhere between slightly confused and thoroughly impressed.

The old sign still flickers in the recesses of my mind. At this point the tired M starts a mildly psychedelic dance as the sun goes down. It’s sure trying to tell me something.

A golden hour wind down and tidy up descends on the building and everyone pitches in to get the collective space ready for the show tonight. Looks like the taco truck is planning on parking here for the duration. Probably not a bad idea considering the Coconut Telegraph is ringing off the hook and the place is starting to fill in with friends and folks — from here and not — who’ve heard tell of a pretty cool happening tonight in the old Kmart building.

Soundcheck is complete and the entrances are manned with our crew of artists and friends collecting a door cover for tonight’s show. At the end of the night, we’ll split the proceeds down the middle with the band. There’s a loose but trusting organizational process to the whole thing and the goal is for everyone to feel good about what we just accomplished today — while at the same time keeping the collective vision funded and moving forward tomorrow.

The show kicks off and the place fills up — gotta be a thousand people in here. Half of them are fully into the show and a few hundred others peruse the studio spaces, grab some street food, or take time to catch up with old friends and new. The skate jam in the corner is going on full tilt with the music seemingly synced up to every drop in, tail grind, and rock-to-fakie.

It’s loud and the air is filled with energy, but both at the level to where it feels like maybe we should turn it up for the finale.

We do. And it was just what the whole place unknowingly needed.

The couple from out of town who were asking questions earlier are right up front — minds kind of blown by this point. They get it now.

The set ends with an extended encore and everything unwinds as it should. By design, it’s not too late and a fleet of $89 rusty cruisers head out to find the end of the road. Others hop into the bed of an old pickup truck and point West. They’ll all probably wind up at Green Parrot in time for the late set across town. 

A bunch of us will hang out here for a bit. I’m not even sure if the skate crew knows the music is done, yet. They hoot and holler and clap their boards off the ramp after each trick is landed. It’s their own after-party over there and others migrate to the corner to join the set.

I take a walk out front and the dancing M has flipped on its head and the sign reads KW ART.

Yeah, that could work.

That’s about as simple as you could possibly boil it down to.

I suck up the last of my smoothie and refocus my squint as we walk to the truck while telling Kristian that maybe we could turn it into a big artist collective, studio space and music venue — he’d seen me do it before and was always out there with me playing in the dirt and skating a ramp that I built for him in the corner just next to the main stage. A tiny little version of Naia was there, too — playing with Barbie Dolls, her legs dangling off the coping rail where the ramp met the stage.

He smiles. “Yeah, that’d be cool, Dad.”

New Town has always needed a bit of new life, much like Stock Island did ten years ago.

And if Key West wants to continue to be a haven for artists and freethinkers then we’ll need to start thinking differently. Stock Island’s tenure as the reasonably-priced option for us to do what we want without anyone bothering us is over and done with. It was fun while it lasted, but the artistic soul got bulldozed out of it before it even had a chance to thrive as a sustainable Safe Harbor for creatives. But rather than keep moving up the Keys, further away from where that rusty cruiser can comfortably take you, why not look into what’s already right here, abandoned, left for dead, relegated to the annals of nostalgia — or maybe just in need of a breath of fresh air?

I know nothing about possible zoning restrictions or code issues, but I can’t imagine it’s all that difficult to set up what is essentially the same business model as a gym membership. Buy a monthly, or annual, membership and gain access to the space and equipment. Ultimately the place would be defined and shaped by those who use it the most. While those who simply dream of making art could passively fund it with their monthly auto payments and promises that soon they’ll start to use it for that project they’ve been wanting to do.

There are loads of other revenue streams to consider — cover charges for events, branded merch, classes and workshops, artists selling their wares with the house taking a cut, food vendor rent, a bar, the list goes on. Higher level memberships could allow some folks to have their own footprint— a secure studio within the larger space.

The building exists. It’s completely empty. It’s wired and plumbed. There’s tons of parking, plenty of bathrooms, ADA accessibility and I’d guess that every other potential sticking point and code issue has already been addressed during Kmart’s decades-long residency.

For something like this, the buildout could and should just be organic and ongoing. The founding crew of artists would have a say in how it would be initially “developed”, but at the end of the day it will always be “a work in progress” — adjusting to the new and evolving demands of those who call it home.

Yes, I’m totally oversimplifying this — and probably being naive with regards to everyone being able to just get along and make decisions collectively — so there would need to be some leadership involved.

And while I’ll always keep my Bahama Village studio — a big part of me is a socially anxious and awkward loner really — I’d still like to see something like this happen on this island. And would be down to help work towards making it a reality in some type of role that best utilizes my skills.

I’ve always wondered where the next spot down here for artists could be — because somehow artists do always find a way to keep creating. And while I generally despise my trips to Publix and Home Depot, sometimes a simple question over an after-school smoothie in New Town can be the spark that turns a touch of nostalgia into an hour-long ramble that ultimately plants the seed for a few people to come together and make something old and seemingly useless grow into something new and relevant.

If nothing else, getting this idea out there into the world will now afford me the ability to get back to work at my own studio for a late night shift where my head is now equally focused and buzzing with ideas.

Feel free to let me know if you think I’m crazy — or onto something.

Or let me know if I missed the news that it’s actually becoming a Target in two months.

Whatever the case, the idea is out there in the crosshairs.