Greetings from Alamosa, Colorado in the San Luis Valley. I just ate a cold cheeseburger wearing just my bra in a pinewood log cabin on rural farm land. I can hear the sound of the fan and the women who are hosting me laughing while they drink wine on their porch (their house is the bigger version of mine). I’ve been up since 5am, flew to Denver, then drove southwest to the Valley. I’m here for a week and a day as part of my summer ArtTable Fellowship with Black Cube, a nomadic art museum based out of Denver, for their opening of Orisons, a 160-acre earthwork produced by French artist Marguerite Humeau placed near the top of SFV on a tract of “unfarmable” land.
For the last month, I’ve been interviewing individuals who are either involved with the production of Orisons and/or who live in the Valley and have a relationship with the land. It’s been a whirlwind of massive proportions and I’m just so excited to have landed here, finally after weeks of preparing and research.
The Valley feels similar to the desert floor; and for this reason alone I know I’m meant to be here. That expansive feeling that settles me is here. The San Luis Valley is the size of Israel—which is a strangely specific comparison that’s often made—but it’s a similar shape so it makes sense. This PBS special is fantastic. The surrounding mountains are named Sangre de Cristo which are the southernmost range of the Rockies. The Rockies loom large in the stories my mother told me about her teenage self. On the freeway, I saw a sign for Wheatridge—the neighborhood my mother went to high school in. I texted her a screen shot of my map. She knew exactly where it was which made me happy. Both my parents spent time in Denver in the ‘60s and have always shared vivid memories of the wildflowers, the forests, the skiing, the snow, the drive-ins where you could buy booze to-go. Colorado makes me feel hungover—it’s the altitude but it’s also the brightness of it, like faded film to be perfectly cliche, like I’m driving through my parents sepia photographs that are peeling at the edges. Epigenetic déjà vu.
I stopped at Poncha Junction and stood around with 3 teenagers waiting for another teenage gas station employee to unlock the door. Next parking lot over was a burger stand that blew my mind, run by a guy with an entire poem of Chinese characters on his bicep and who gave me free ice cream for having traveled so far. He came out and chatted with me while my burger cooked and asked me about my day. He told me he was looking for an artist to come paint his truck (any takers?) and to repaint his ice cream sign (below). He’s got a place next door that this artist can live in. So if anybody is looking for a late summer residency in Southern Colorado, I know a guy.
The back door is the front door here. When I dragged myself up the stairs to check-in, one big dog and one small scrappy dog for which the cabin is named, greeted me. A room full of women over 50 looked up and waved. My host introduced her friends, mom, and sister. “It’s girls night!” she said. I was too tired to sit on the porch with them tonight but I cannot wait until I do later this week.
Tomorrow I’m getting up bright and early, having already lost an entire hour to the sky-sprawl that is Colorado, to interview a local birder who is going to tell me the saga of the Sandhill Crane, a distinctive creature of the area, and then a plant specialist who works at the USDA. Other mysteries for tomorrow—what is Mystic Soil? What do the radio stations play? I have two people on my list who didn’t respond to my emails but who are nearby—the UFO Watchtower lady and possibly the only uber driver in the Valley, a man who’s lived here his entire life. I might show up on the Watchtower’s doorstep once a day until I get the interview I’m looking for. I’ve also been told to go haunt around the Gator Farms place (yes there is a GATOR farm here!). Wish me luck.
Recommendations:
The metaphor of a Valley is personal to me. It’s often used to describe times of challenge in the Christian Bible. According to the church, the Valley is the place of darkness, where god takes over and leads. For me, the Valley is a place of brutal clarity, a place for determination and vision to be born. The valleys I love are full of light: all the deserts I love and now this place in Colorado, another valley bathed in sunlight. The church praises the mountain peaks for its role in how we gain perspective, but I’d rather be in the Valley, elbow to elbow with the earth.
Anyway, this guitar is why I love Kevin Morby in the first place (I love guitar solos? I don’t know how this happened to me, I think it was The Carpenters followed by George Harrison’s later solo work lol. Oh wait no, it was Queen for sure. Core sonic memory), and this song CUTS. This whole album has been synonymous with me a. working through unexpected unearthed religious trauma while b. finishing book stuff while c. trying to live my life in these frenetic times. And whoever put this music video together did a tender job featuring another iconic valley, Monument Valley.