Reflecting on a Life in Art: A Conversation with Jean Ann Durades

The longtime Mia Guide reflects on her path from Chicago to Minneapolis, a lifetime of art collecting, and the lessons she’s learned.

Jean Ann Durades at home.

Photo: Maryam Marne Zafar

For more than 25 years, Jean Ann Durades has brought warmth, candor, and deep cultural insight to her work as a guide at Mia. Born and raised in Chicago, she came to Minneapolis in the early 1980s for a job and stayed for the opportunity to connect people to art and to one another. In this wide-ranging conversation, Jean Ann talks about her early influences, her love of travel, her expansive personal art collection, the importance of mentoring others, and, as she puts it, always keeping “your thinking and listening caps on.”

When did you join Mia, and what brought you to the museum? I joined in 1998. I was trained on that first Jacob Lawrence exhibit in 1998, but the [Collection in Focus] program itself didn’t start until January of 1999, with training for the Africa collection, and I was in that first program.

You were born and raised in Chicago. What was that like for you growing up? I was born in Chicago, raised in Chicago, and went to an all-Black elementary school that set me up for success in my all-white high school and college.

My father was a mail carrier, and he had a route in Beverly Hills, Chicago, which was the wealthiest area in Chicago at that time. My father verbalized what he thought was right and brought those values home.

I remember I emulated the rich white girls—not the poor white girls. The rich white girls wore pleated plaid skirts, so I wore pleated plaid skirts. They wore hand-sewn loafers, and I wore hand-sewn loafers. The wealthy white girls carried Indian-style purses, so I got on all the buses and transferred—I don’t know how many times—to get to that area where I could buy one of those purses. Now, it was okay having those hand-sewn loafers, but the girls would take the heels off so they were completely flat. My mother dared me [to do that]. The heels stayed on.”

Joaquin Durades, husband • Jean Ann with her husband's Cuban family.

Photos: Courtesy of Jean Ann Durades

How did you end up moving to Minnesota?

I came in 1983—July 1. My job [with the YMCA] brought me here. I either had to come here or not have a job, and since I hadn’t looked for another job, I thought it best that I come here. I worked for the YMCA for 27 years, 22 of them as a national field consultant. I was the first Black female hired as a field consultant by the national YMCA. [Editor’s note: Jean Ann was inducted into the YMCA Hall of Fame in 2019—one of 10 females since 1985.]

Minneapolis was a shock at first. “Minnesota Nice,” you know—you scratch the surface and it’s something else. In Chicago, there were at least a million Black people, and you didn’t have to deal with whites unless you worked with them. Up here, I had to deal with them. But I had more opportunities here than I had in Chicago. I don’t think I would have been selected to be a guide or a docent there—there were too many people who already had prestige and connections. When I first came here, it was difficult finding any place where there were Black people. I could go a week or more without seeing another Black person. But I’ve always lived in mixed neighborhoods. My first apartment here was right down the street from the museum [on the southeast corner of Franklin and Third Avenues], and it was my favorite apartment I’ve ever lived in. It had archways, a patio, built-in bookshelves—it wasn’t just a box like the other apartments I’ve lived in, including the one I live in now.

Jean Ann at the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign, dorm roommates (Jean Ann is on the second row, 4th from the right).

Illinois Urbana-Champaign, class picture • At her first job at the YMCA.

Photos: Courtesy of Jean Ann Durades

Jean Ann with her AKA sisters (Alpha Kappa Alpha, a Divine 9 Black sorority) from college at their 50th sorority anniversary.

Photos: Courtesy of Jean Ann Durades

How did your early life influence your love of the arts?

I didn’t grow up with that—those were adult interests for me. My two good friends and I would hang out together. We’d take buses downtown to go to jazz clubs or the theater. That’s how it started. I went to the opera, the symphony, the theater—all the time. That was my regular thing.

I started collecting art in 1957. A group of us drove to Washington, D.C., and then to New York. One of the women knew an artist, and we went to his studio—that’s when I bought my first piece. I think it was Al Hollingsworth. He was part of the Spiral [collective of Black artists]. I have about five of his pieces now. Over time I’ve collected more than 200 works. Nearly everything has a story.

Jean Ann at The Metropolitan Museum of Art and at a NYC apartment.

Photos: Courtesy of Jean Ann Durades

Jean Ann's hallways and living room, filled with African American and Native American art.

Photos: Maryam Marne Zafar

I’ve even kept a notebook. People have come over and chosen pieces they want, and I have a friend who will distribute everything after I die. I tell them, “I’m not going to die any sooner or later because you pick something, but if you don’t pick, you’ll miss out.”

Do you have favorite exhibitions or artists you’ve worked with at Mia?

Beauford Delaney. That was easy to answer. I loved his work—his use of color, his adoration of paint, the way he used yellow. His yellow abstracts are just gorgeous. Also Hearts of Our People. I loved that exhibit—talking about the artists, about the Native American world and how it conflicts with other worlds.

Are there particular pieces in the museum that you always return to? The Ife head is one. Another is the bust of Cleota Collins by Henry Bannarn. I also love the two guardians of the temple—the Japanese kings—because they’re so big and strong. I love the [Chinese] bronzes and the Chokwe people.

Shrine Head (Ifé), 12th-14th century • Yoruba artist

Terracota • Gift of The John R. Van Derlip Fund • 95.84

Cleota Collins, 1932 • Henry Bannarn

Plaster, pigment• Gift of Funds from the Decorative Arts, Textiles and Sculpture Affinity Group • 2001.64

What We Want is Free, 2020 • Jeffrey Gibson

Acrylic on canvas with glass beads and artificial sinew inset into painted wood frame.

Gift of Funds from Mary and Bob Mersky and The Jane and James Emison Endowment for Native American Art

Photo: Courtesy of Minneapolis Institute of Art

I admire Jeffrey Gibson—he seems to be cool and in touch. I love What We Want Is Free—that message stays with me.

You’ve mentioned being active outside the museum too. How have you stayed connected to the arts community?

I’ve always loved theater and dance. I used to usher for six or seven venues because it gets expensive to go to all the shows. I finally gave up most ushering, except for Ten Thousand Things. I still do that because I love that theater.

And I love music—jazz and classical are my favorite genres, and I love going on jazz cruises. People ask, “What do you do on a jazz cruise?” You listen to music and learn about music and musicians. Everybody is on a jazz cruise for the same reason, so therefore conversations are never awkward, which I think is pretty fabulous.

You’ve also been a skier for decades, right?

I’ve been skiing for 60 years. I started in 1959. I’ve had a few injuries. A big guy ran into me on the slopes in Colorado and knocked me down—I tore my rotator cuff and had to have surgery. So now I have a ski shoulder. Later I tore the other one playing tennis—so now I have a tennis shoulder too. I gave up tennis in 2010 after the doctor told me, “You can play, but if you hurt it again, you’ll need a new shoulder.”  I didn’t want that to happen, so I stopped playing tennis.

You learned to drive at 50. How was that experience?

Learning to drive at 50 was a big deal. I drove for 40 years. I’ve now stopped driving, and that’s hard. The issue now is how to get people to help me out——and how to get up the courage to ask. That’s hard for me because my father taught us to always be able to take care of ourselves.

You’ve traveled a lot too. What are some favorite memories?

Oh, I’ve been everywhere. I went to London and Paris on arts and culture trips. I’ve been to South America, to Colombia, Argentina, to Chile—I skied in Chile and Argentina. I’ve been to a number of countries in Africa to learn about the people and their cultures. And I love Whistler, Canada. I celebrated my birthday there this year. I turned 94. I went by myself, just walked around the village to see if anything had changed—and it hadn’t—and went to my favorite restaurant. And then I took a jazz cruise afterward. That was my expensive but glorious birthday—and I lost my cell phone and tested positive for COVID just to prove it.

Handmade birthday card by Ann Isaacson

Photo: Maryam Marne Zafar

What’s your philosophy about traveling alone?

You can’t wait for others. I have a separate fund I use for travel, so I always have the means to travel when I want. You’re born alone and you die alone, so you might as well do the things you want to do alone, if you have to. I wish more women would do that. I think more and more, they are beginning to. I still know women who won’t go anywhere without their husbands or boyfriends or special people. I tell them, “Go anyway.”

What legacy do you want to leave?

I’ve mentored young women for years. One of them is 77 now—I’ve known her since she was 10. I like mentoring people. I have a line of people waiting to be mentored. Some of them I started with when they were in elementary school, others in high school. I also mentored international students at Macalester through their host family program. I’ve had students from South Africa, the Netherlands, Pakistan—so many places. It’s been very rewarding.

I want women to think for themselves and be who they want to be, and to be the best that they can be. It’s important to look out for yourself in addition to others that you care about. I want to leave a legacy of appreciation for art and culture—and a passion for people.

I’m trying to organize my life for when I’m gone. I’ve donated my books, and I’m asking my friends to come by and pick out art objects they like, and all of this is being catalogued by a friend. I guess I think an important part of my legacy is that I will have given away things that I love. I don’t want to sell anything—I just want to be able to give my things away—the things I loved to people who will also love them.

Jean Ann with her favorite painting, The Red Dress.

Photo: Lyn Osgood

What do you want visitors and other guides to take away from your work?

Always have your thinking and listening caps on, and don’t be afraid to step out. I want people to know the whole truth, not just the pretty parts.

When we had the Giants: Art from the Dean Collection of Swizz Beatz and Alicia Keys exhibit, I wanted people to understand the underlying drama that was underneath what the actual piece seemed to be saying—because there was drama under all of that. When I was talking about that piece with all of the bullet holes, I wanted people to understand that those bullet holes weren’t for decoration—they were from bullets. I wanted people to know there are different experiences in life for Black people and white people, and that—no matter how similar they are to some other groups’ experiences—my experiences as a Black woman have been different.

How do you stay hopeful in challenging times?

I don’t think you have to be hopeful, but you keep doing what you can to make things better.

We don’t know how long we’re going to be here, so we have to make the best life we can. I try to make friends with everybody because I think we’re all important—even though we might not do things in the same way as others.

I guess I’ve grown stronger in understanding myself as a Black woman, and in where I fit in the Black community and the larger community.

I just want people to be honest, to tell the truth, and to care about others.