Episode 45: Wisdom and whimsy, featuring David Zinn Listen in, Michigan

David Zinn has more friends than anyone can count. It’s a rare condition for someone so “pathologically shy,” so anxious, and so naturally prone to gloom. Granted, many of his friends have yet to materialize, but it’s certain they will appear when he needs them most. He just requires a weather-beaten sidewalk and his wooden box of chalk.

Zinn’s imaginary posse includes countless whimsical creatures emerging from cracks and stumps, sprouting weeds as hair, and teaching life lessons amid their pock-marked surroundings. So what appears to be a three-dimensional flying pig with a balloon (Philomena, for instance) may be Zinn working through an existential crisis on a cracked piece of pavement.

“I am very comfortable using the obstacles of a non-blank canvas to avoid the much more terrifying prospect of a blank canvas,” the artist says. “And it's something I hope I can carry over to the rest of my life. Because I'm sometimes shocked with how much I am still prone to seeing an obstacle in life as an obstacle.

In his art, the obstacles represent freedom from the onslaught of myriad choices a blank page presents. Working with found objects sets the stage for Zinn to make his imaginary friends visible to everyone else. You might catch Sluggo, the stalk-eyed green dude emerging from a snowdrift before it melts. Look closely at an abandoned umbrella and you’ll notice an ideal shelter for Nadine the tiny book-reading mouse. (She’s bit of a mentor to Zinn, the one who helps him figure out why he’s here, and what he’s doing.)

“Since I often don't know the fate of my own drawings, I don't know who is going to see them or what effect it might have,” he says. “So there's a faith aspect of just assuming the best, and that we're living in the best possible circumstances that were available at the time.”

Philosopher Zinn actually graduated with a creative writing degree from U-M’s Residential College and spent much of his career as a commercial artist and designer. Ann Arbor residents may recognize the posters, signage, advertising, and other promotional work he has produced for clients ranging from U-M’s Gilbert & Sullivan society to the shops at Kerrytown. And since 1987, locals have grown accustomed to spotting his colorful critters underfoot, only to lose them again as soon as the elements erase them into the ether.

“People often want to know why I'm not sad that these drawings are destroyed by rain and wind,” Zinn says. “And some people are very uncomfortable with my not-being-uncomfortable about this. But I have found that holding on to things is rarely a source of comfort and ease. That's pretty much where anxiety comes from: holding on to things. Letting go is where you find your ease and comfort, not holding on.”

Long ago, Zinn “let go” of his identity as “Artist” with a capital A. He much prefers the lower-case version, the kind of art that is temporary, outside, and inspired by an existing image. He likens it to pareidolia, the concept of seeing faces in the clouds. He describes his method as “augmented pareidolia,” in which he catches a glimpse of something and “connects the dots.” Pretty soon that big flat weed spreading across the cement is a snaggle-toothed fish accepting a piece of cake from an unflappable mouse. In a boat, no less.

Zinn shares his wisdom with lower-case artists of all ages through Ted Talks, tutorials, and his books, The Chalk Art Handbook, Underfoot Menagerie, and Temporary Preserves. He photographs his work and delights followers on social media with his deceptively cute drawings.

Throughout the pandemic of 2020-21, he challenged himself to draw only on the block surrounding his house. It was a boast he’d been making for years: that he’d never run out of options. And while it turned out to be true, “I’ve been thinking about venturing onto the next block,” he says.

Zinn still has a mental list of spots on his to-do list and has le