Dreams Come True, Yes They Do, In Santa Fe...

Friday, March 2

I was second to pick chores, and they all had an additional scribbling ‘empty trash in area’ that seemed odd considering the manager really had plenty of free time. I decided to sweep and mop the women’s bathroom on the pretext that either I would be making it suitable for when I showered later, or would have little to do considering I hadn’t seen another woman yet.

Then I went to town. How odd, it was exactly what I expected. Charming, dark adobe, short blocks, lots of trees, people are friendly and well-to-do. The beads dangling in my car earned me special treatment at the Catholic Church Public Parking lot, as the attendant asked how I managed to get so many necklaces “oh, it was Mardi Gras” I replied coyly, and he held his own chain and smiled “tight.” I could stay as long as I like.

My first stop after exploring the town plaza was the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum.

A short video biography expels some rumors, notably her sexuality, and explains her connection to New Mexico. This struck me for two reasons. One, it was in the same geographical location that I wrote about falling in love with the state, that she did as well. Driving to Taos via Abiquiui, I was delighted to hear that she had felt a similar pull in her soul. She felt at home there. As I explored the collection, I noticed her abstractions and landscapes captured the same powerful cliffs and color that had compelled me to write at length in futile description. Secondly, I was surprised to hear that the assertion in artistic communities that her paintings are sexual was a misrepresentation, supposedly fueled by an exhibit by her husband, the photographer Alfred Stieglitz, which included photos of Ms. O’Keeffe in sensuous poses and in the nude. The photographic portraits, like the rest of his work, were powerful and sincere. This led critics to read her paintings through this lens of her husband. At that point she turned to still life.

I did watch the film, and study her styles, and engage in her lens, for hours, happy to find a new artist, but I just can’t lose the vagina in all those flowers. Her fascination with the layered petals- the fragility and joie de vivre, the velvety swaths of the pistil, and the brilliant light she gives to the center of these organisms, well, I’d be lying if I didn’t see awesome vaginas in pretty much every one. They are celebratory, her paintings, and they are abstract, and if it was all by accident, then wow.

What I enjoyed most about the gallery were the styles she used through the years. The layout was not chronological, the walk begins with her latest abstractions, but the still-life and the flowers were next to the ram’s horns series, and her landscapes. Her ram’s horns are painted like fiber next to a bright flower, and near that painting is a case of decaying ram’s horns, which spookily look like aging juniper wood. I was studying a painting entitled something cryptic when a caretaker walked over and told me she painted it from memory- a storm from the panhandle of Texas. He pointed to her technique of light and layers and energy for how she painted the lightning. Then he walked away. I studied it longer. It seemed she could paint through another dimension, where on a canvas there was time, light, space, and power.

After getting help from another caretaker with an exhibit from a younger artist- prints representing tertiary separation from existing works of art, that at first I was looking at wrong (I was standing too close), then just didn’t get (blocks of grays supposedly marking the opposite of the original), I moved on to The Palace of the Governors.

This museum is the History of New Mexico, and I moved through it a bit faster. The American style museum traced the paths of colonizers over about six hundred years. The region passed through the claims of the Spanish and Mexican forces before the Anglo’s decided to care and take over, and the exploitation of the native tribes was glossed over. I learned that Kit Carson National Forest (with a name like Kit I couldn’t help but imagine a flower-child saving the forest from developers) is actually named after the guy who helped round up about 8,000 of the Indians on that land and send them off to be resocialized and probably slaughtered. And I learned that while Mexico controlled the region, they closed off the New Mexico end of the Santa Fe Trail.

Then I walked across the street to the Museum of Fine Arts, where I had been doubtful about the main exhibit: Science. It just seemed odd, like they were trying to get a larger customer base. But I was pleasantly surprised. The first work is a five-minute video by the brilliant Daniel Kim entitled Genesis, in which a digital illustration of a simple (prehistoric) fish gradually evolves into man. It was beautiful. I discussed the merits and our favorite parts with the caretaker, who especially liked how the head turned just slightly to display more intelligent eyes during the crucial segment of land-appendage development. For the rest of the sequence, you can nearly hold the stare of the fascinating creature.

Then the exhibit continued with mostly mixed-media offerings. At this point, before Leigh Anne Langwell’s ‘Burst’ (which is a stunning photogram of lively microscopic bodies), but after some guy’s expensive series “Genetic self-portrait” I think, something was just off. Art, I am aware, has evolved to incorporate hands-on digital worlds and other interactive arenas. But what’s the problem with enjoying science, in the science museum, as art? Science does indeed have the elements of art- good science is elegant, but you shouldn’t have to make an exhibit for that assertion.

The upper floor held samples of the late great Baumann’s wood-block paintings, which become all the more impressive once the meticulous process of this art is displayed. Wow. Then, a curious wing housed Vices and Virtues, a project for the most gifted of the local high school students. Some were very gifted, some were very good at bullshitting.

After walking around town, to Canyon Road, the super-expensive route of the private galleries, I realized that a major flaw of the city had become apparent- absolutely no diversity of storefront. The city layout was the glorious gluttony of craftspeople. The media ranged from food to metal (there was lots of metal) and even a combination of the two at Tribal Ship Gallery. Oh I kid. But after walking a few miles I was craving a bookshop, even a CVS. And I was craving water. So I walked into the restaurant my Lonely Planet declared the best food in the city (and one of the only restaurants I had seen on the block). They were not serving food yet, so I went to the bar and ordered a water and a glass of wine. I nursed the wine for almost two hours as I sat there rehydrating. Bored, I checked the bar menu and did an actual double-take when I saw that my mediocre Pinot Noir was going to cost me $15. So I decided to drink at least $8 worth of water. The bartender eventually changed my glass so he wouldn’t have to refill it so often. After that I decided not to eat there.

I ate at the Cowgirl Hall of Fame, a really cute bar/restaurant that was jam packed. My server, Mr. Sparkly Eyes Slow Talker, was the best kind of server. I really appreciate when the waitstaff take a little time to chat with their solo customers, instead of dedicating to the other customers the extra time that my solitude somehow entreated them. I tip very well! We struck up a nice banter right away, and he came around to chat whenever he did rounds.

Leaving Santa Fe.

My alarm rang out its detestable midi notes at 6:45, so that I could beat Mr. black cap to the best chore. I did, because it was Saturday and everyone appeared to be nursing their hangovers in bed. Except my neighbor, who sounded like he had tuberculosis and a hangover, so he was probably vomiting and coughing up vital fluids, then expectorating while he smoked a cigarrette. Chore number 18 was not as privileged as I had hoped, because not only did it include the sweeping of the porch and patio as I expected, but the card noted the additional tasks of emptying the dozen cigarette containers, and the smaller dumpsters in the chore vicinity. As the thermometer read 10 degrees while I swept, I was grumbling within minutes for the sorry management and the scrape on my raw knuckles from the cold (which is now a little infected), and in a rare moment of rebellion, I only emptied one of the small dumpsters.

While I fixed myself some breakfast, I was lucky enough to hear the continuous stream of narration that fills the life of one of the guests. She not only kept her own conversation going, but one you held with her would continue after you walked away. By this time I had decided that the hostel doubles as a half-way house to those without the means for a long-term commitment like a lease. And I had begun wondering myself why it is that given this sort of population, why is it so much easier for women to appear normal?

The Lady found a way to Museum Hill, in her unusual manner of refusing to follow the road sign recommended routes, and that early afternoon was spent at the New Mexico Museums of International Folk Art and Indian Art and Culture. Both museums had pleasing layouts and interesting exhibits, although the former was certainly winning for sheer volume of artifacts and space. The Girard Wing housed a collection of folk craftsmanship that rivaled any other collection (in my estimation), especially by diversity and creativity. The wing was set in a spiraling, free form fashion that allowed the visitor to peruse at will and direction without loss. Due to the global scope of the collection, by culture the chronology was apparent but the room was not organized with that order in mind. What really struck me (which means I made a note on it) was the obvious variations in figurines around the world within a particular time frame.

Thus, the resources available- and I would argue religious imagery as well as whether the culture had mirrors were also dictating factors- determined the figurine. Some were clay, some were wool, some were finer fibers, some used dyes, some paint, which allowed recognition by geographical area first. OK, enough with the art, I know.

One of my favorite guarantees of the Santa Fe experience is the dedication of the museum keepers. I've been referring to them at caretakers, although in other cities their only role is guard. These men all worked at the museum because it allowed them to study art and help people with it. At every museum I went to I met and got to know briefly one of the caretakers, whether they were asking me about their favorite installation or letting me know to stand back. The best was mr. ex-chef, who showed me his latest discovery, a painting of the Chinese Zodiac on the side of a play train station in a wonderful diarama, if you could call it that. He told me how much he loved being here, that he was a chef for twenty years, brought a two star restaurant up to a four-star, and hated what it did to the people around him. Determined to get more bliss from life he quit (over the request of his manager to call frozen West Nile Perch 'fresh lake caught") and presumably applied for the musem job. This guy was blissful, what a sweetheart. So I recommend as many museums in Santa Fe as possible, it's a great way to feel the local dedication to art. After museum-hopping I drove to Chaco Culture National Monument, a good drive north of Albuquerque into the desolate plains. Well, I should say I tried. Every road went to dirt a good ten miles before I was supposed to get to the Monument, which meant I turned around twice, then I read the info and saw that it closes at dusk. Very bad planning on my part. I really wanted to see those pueblos, masterpieces of stonework. So I'm sorry to say I looked at the skyline, saw I would have no time to explore and possibly a flat tire (my greatest fear on the road for some reason), and headed north to Colorado.