I've traveled much into and out of Memphis because the Center for Southern Folklore abides there. Its abiding presence, Judy Peiser, is a multimedia Canute forbidding waves of modernism to submerge her native region's folklore, and she's winning. So is the Brooks Memorial Gallery, and the nearby Memphis Academy of Art.
The two of them work a lot together, and both share some city beautiful green acres that were the Chicago World's Fair's gift to many midsized American cities.
There's no telling what kind of surprise the Brooks has in store for its patrons--so I always scan its schedule to justify a fast flight to Memphis. Where else, besides its solid, comprehensive collections or in a beautifully integrated new wing, can you come upon shows as diverse as Rhodesian sculpture, the annual Mississippi Valley craft exhibition, and a circulating exhibition on Memphis historic architecture. I think it also has the largest cache of Carroll Cloar, that Wyeth of Magnolia country--a particular personal favorite.
It also has an ear out for perky tunes. One fall evening when I was waiting for a generous PR person to give me an after-hours sneak preview of the crafts show, I heard the strangest jazz coming from the outdoor bowl next door. That's how I first learned about Elbert Hubbard, Memphis mellow jazz flautist who confounds musicologist and disc jockey alike with his unique meld of Indian and jazz traditions. Red Indian, I mean.
The academy keeps the Brooks funky, with exhibitions like a Levi Strauss-originated international competition on the art of denim. The higher jeans. I love Memphis. I love its catfish. I love its river. I love its Brooks. In June, or any other old oleander.
--from 20 Museums You've Never Heard Of/Horizon Magazine 1981
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