The day dawns
cloudy, windy and cold. Taos lies in a
dry sage covered plain within the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. The sun peeps out from time to time
illuminating sweeping mountain vistas and dry arroyos. Mist rises from each mountain as the sun
strikes snow, yet clouds obscure the peaks.
Taos draws artists
like a New Mexican mecca. Even I feel a
compulsion to paint or sculpt or draw or perhaps all three intertwined in an
explosion of visual creativity. This could
be downright dangerous; I am a tax accountant. Just think – the Internal
Revenue Code sculpted in your backyard!
I’m flexible; I could sculpt any section you liked. Yet Taos enraptures even me, the one who
couldn’t draw her way out of a paper bag.
No wonder so many artists settled here over the past two centuries.
We first visit
Taos’ oldest church, San Francisco de Asis (St. Francis of Assisi), finding the
large adobe structure closed for winter.
Ugh! But wait – the unlocked
front door opens. We enter and meet the
cleaning crew busy preparing for tomorrow’s masses. Eschewing compensation, they clean the church
each Saturday in a labor of love and devotion.
Moving slowly, mystically, guided by an inner rhythm, they gently and
reverently polish each pew, every surface.
They and their families have worshipped here for generations.
Respecting their
devotion, we speak softly at length with them while they work. One of the women sold candles to the
parishioners for her first job. She was
ten and the church allowed her to keep the profits. She’s been hooked ever since.
The Spanish built
the adobe church in 1815. In continuous
use since that time, the church houses the oldest extant congregation in the
States. The church has two high bell
towers yet maintains the rounded adobe flow, reminding me of Frida Kahlo’s
work. Many Taos artists have painted the
structure.
Once in the late
1960s, the congregants embraced modern technology and plastered the
church. To their abject horror, the
building began to crumble. Adobe has to
breathe. Currently the congregation
re-muds the building every June, using the traditional adobe mixture of sand,
clay, water and straw.
Inside the church,
the congregants have lovingly restored the altar. After careful research, they found recipes
for the original vegetable dyes from the 1800s.
The altar has both painted saints and foot tall wooden carved saints
(Santos). All the saints and deities
look Hispanic.
Taking their
rediscovered dyes in hand, the congregants also carefully refurbished a second
altar. Standing to the right of the apse, the altar depicts eight painted
saints, each in its own 1 foot by 2 foot framed square. St. Francis, tonsured like a proper monk,
occupies the lower two squares surrounding a recessed altar featuring Jesus’
mangled body on the cross. In the right
square Francis holds the baby Jesus, while on the left he holds a skull.
The pope outlawed
tonsuring of monks in 1972. But how
could a real monk not be tonsured? Think
of all the stories you read as a child!
This one papal act explains the entire problems facing the Catholic
Church. Yep. Tonsuring clergy again will solve everything.
The pews sit under
a 40’ tall pine beam ceiling. Where the
ceiling intersects the right wall, we see a stylized wooden rope running along
the crease, traditional for the Franciscan order we hear, although we never
learn why. The building apse leans
slightly to the left, copying the direction of Christ’s head on the cross
(stage right).
As we leave we
glance up to see a painting of Jesus bleeding from His arm and leg wounds. His
arms have sprouted bird feather wings as He flies up to heaven. Jesus’ wounds shoot laser beams at St.
Francis injuring him in the exact same places.
St. Francis recoils. My fellow
animals begin to laugh. I shush them,
attempting to invoke some piety in the lot, an exercise in complete futility.
We exit the church
into brilliant sunlight, blinking like owls awakened startled to the day.
We drive out to
see the Rio Grande. The river begins in
Colorado, flows through New Mexico, then forms part of the border between the
States and Mexico before emptying into the Gulf of Mexico. We expect a small river, gently bubbling
along like an eastern stream, ten to twenty feet below a simple bridge. Our mind’s eye pictures the river’s edge a
soft verdant green, abounding with life, squirrels and birdsong. We discover a bridge spanning a 500 foot
chasm, the river invisible below us. No
green in sight. Locals offer rafting
tours. I’m impressed that anyone crossed
the river before the bridge. You’d spend
half a day walking down, ford the river and take another half day to walk back
up the opposing side.
We park next to
the chasm and hike along the canyon trail (Sven and I motoring along, of
course). The trail never provides any
view of the river. Keith & Bloodroot
wander off trail to see the river, leaving Sven and I trailbound stymied by
rocks and scrub vegetation. Temperatures have climbed the 40s, but wind cuts
through you like a knife robbing you of all warmth, making it feel colder than
Denver at 0˚F. We return to Pearl. I retrace Sven’s tracks carefully, concerned
about damaging the frail, thin desert soil.
Unfortunately, Sven and I have to ride beside the asphalt parking lot
for a while before we find a curb we can cross.
My environment guilt skyrockets as we run over the fragile sparse
vegetation. I hope it recovers.
Following our
aborted viewing of the Rio Grande, we drive a few more miles out to see the
Earthships. An architect from the
University of Cincinnati began designing Earthships in the 1970s, building the
first prototypes in the 1980s. Set out in the Taos desert, the Earthships operate
off of the grid.
Designed to
creatively repurpose as many materials as possible, the Earthship external load
bearing walls use old tires as ballast.
They recycle multicolored glass bottles by carefully cutting them in
half, matching colors and plastering them into walls. Once in the walls, the bottles create a Gaudi
like spray of colors, especially upon catching the light. I am ever drawn to
color.
Hippies build the
Earthships into the earth, each with a greenhouse and complex solar electric
systems. They run refrigerators and
lights on DC charged batteries and computers on AC. The Earthships collect water from winter
snows and use it four times (potable, washing, irrigating and sanitary) before
the septic tank. Although their motto is “Climate Change, Bring It On, We’re
Ready” I foresee trouble when the winter snows stop.
Despite the
computers, the Earthship community feels as though they left our world in the
early 80s, striking out for a recycled utopia.
I smell patchouli. The time space
continuum opens, sucking me into a time warp.
I find myself careening back to the Akron (Ohio) Cooperative Market in
the 1980s. I loved that community which
sustained both single parent me and Bloodroot.
For us, that time is so long gone.
I’ve sold out, gotten real jobs, sent my son to suburban schools and
moved to Denver. I feel odd touching it
again, as if I’ve moved out of time’s flow.
What if I had stayed on the hippie course? Would I have ended up owning an Earthship in
the desert? Would I have spent my life
building community instead of assisting the wealthy in their travels through US
tax land? Would I have made the world a
better place? I wander through the
exhibits contemplating what may have been.
The company adapts
Earthships for any climate and location.
They provide interested people with the knowledge and training required
to construct an Earthship. Building
Earthships costs around $200 per square foot (reasonable Denver price),
depending upon how much of the work you do yourself. Personally, I see Earthships in Detroit. Wouldn’t it be cool to remake Detroit’s
post-apocalyptic squalor anew? Who would
then care that the wealthy had long ago fled to suburbia, abandoning the rust
belt city? With Earthships, we wouldn’t
need any city services. The fantasized
comeuppance tastes so sweet.
The animals
confer. Should we sell our Denver house
and buy an Earthship out here in the Taos desert? Keith would be so happy melding into the art
scene here. But I want to live in the
city. I am also uncomfortable living
with such a dichotomy between the rich white people and the Hispanic poor
underclass. I see no middle here.
After the
Earthships, we again stop at the Rio Grande.
This time, we park Pearl next to the bridge spanning the river
canyon. Sven carries me out to the
middle of the bridge. What a sight! The river rushes along far below us, ever
deepening the chasm. But the cold wind
still drives his chill fingers into me, ramming his way past my warm windproof
coat, grasping at my heart. Fearfully glancing
over my shoulder, I leave the river, motoring back to the car.
Archaeologists and
the Comanche recently found Comanche rock art in the Rio Grande Gorge right
here. The area makes an excellent
strategic camp, providing a place for hiding teepees, abundant water and an
adjacent natural corral.
Back in the Rio
Grande parking lot, we eat lunch inside Pearl, grateful for her heater. Keith and I polish off the remains of
Thursday’s stir-fry, while Bloodroot devours my Taos Inn leftovers, finding the
old chicken far more palatable than I had.
Keith fusses about
the clouds obscuring the peak of the Taos’ Wheeler Mountain. “I’ll never get to
see it,” he groans. At Taos’ elevation
of 7,500 feet, clouds at 10,000 feet will indeed cover mountain peaks of 12,000
feet. Pearl murmurs, consoling him with
the promise of more museums.
Despite our
fervent disavowal of kamikaze touring, we appear to be at it again. The cold
strongly suggests selecting indoor venues.
After a whispered conference with the wind, Pearl turns south toward
town driving up to the Blumenschein house.
Ernest
Blumenschein studied art in Paris and New York, then spent most of his artistic
career painting New Mexico and her people.
We first saw Blumenschein at the DAM in 2008 and fell in love with his
work then, entranced by the colors and lighting.
Blumenschein’s
original adobe house proves far too narrow and small for Sven. Bloodroot takes me in Bess, power-lifting me
up two curved steps (the absolute worst!).
Bloodroot considers all places handicap accessible, given sufficient
force. This may somewhat contribute to
Bess’ repeated repair needs. We ramble
through the Blumenschein house. In her
quest to see all, despite carrying a cripple, Bess knocks down a bit of plaster
surrounding a narrow door. We apologize
profusely to the docent.
Exploring
Blumenschein’s house, we discover his family’s paintings. In 1905, Blumenschein married Mary Greene, an
artist in her own right. Greene won the
Gold Medal at the prestigious Parisian Salon d’Automne, the first woman winning
since Mary Cassatt. We see her work
which mingles flowing art nouveau figures with the hues and faces of the
southwest.
The Blumenscheins
had one daughter, also an artist. Their
bedroom contains twin beds perhaps explaining the sole child.
Are we seeing the
misogyny of the art world here? Everyone
painted, but only Ernest found success.
As a male, he had the freedom to grow and develop his unique style,
while Mary met contemporary expectations, giving up art for marriage and home
life. I must admit that I do prefer his
paintings over the rest of the family’s.
But what would Mary have become had she pursued art instead of
domesticity? Women hold up half the
sky. What do we lose as a species when
we constrain the contributions of half of the people?
After the
Blumenschein house, I hit the wall of fatigue.
We visit one last museum, the Harwood down the street. Collapsed in Bess, teetering between wake and
sleep, Bloodroot pushes me into a room full of seven 10’ by 10’ canvasses
painted various shades of white. Two
thoughts enter my mind:
1) People get paid for this, really?
2) When will I begin drooling?
We descend back to
the street in a creaky scary elevator.
“Enough boys!” I complain, “I just can’t take any more touring.” “Okay, okay, one last stop,” they agree
reluctantly, although time has once again graciously closed everything.
“Just one last
stop. We promise. Drive through touring.” Lacking Pearl’s keys I’ve relinquished
control. The boys strap me into Pearl’s
passenger seat. I try not to drool.
For our last event
of the day, we drive past the Mabel Dodge Luhan house. An eastern banking heiress, Dodge lived in
New York, California and Florence (Italy) befriending everyone including
Gertrude Stein, Alice B Toklas, Emma Goldman, Margaret Sanger, D. H. Lawrence
and Ansel Adams. Her friends and
compadres read like a list of “Who’s Who” of the early twentieth century. Firmly in charge of her own life, she had
affairs with both women and men. She
married repeatedly, finally settling down in a scandalous (for the time)
interracial marriage to Tony Luhan, a Taos Pueblo Indian. Their marriage lasted forty years until death
parted them. In Taos, she built a huge adobe house (now a hotel), shocking the
locals with her top floor glass solarium and shower.
We wander through
town looking for chicken to buy for dinner.
We’re repeatedly directed to the cheapest places, Walfart and a Super
Saver. But we want organic free range
chicken-chickens who we hope had a good life before we eat them. Taos has the same storm drainage idea as
Denver-none. Just tilt the roads and
build high curbs in front of each and every parking lot and the infrequent
rains will run off. Poor Pearl! She rides very low, burdened with her hat,
the 300# wheel chair and the three of us.
“Uff,” she complains to Keith as we scrape bottom once again climbing
out of the fifth poorly designed parking lot.
Despite the damage
to Pearl, we are ultimately successful. We return to our casita with organic
chicken and a bottle of wine. Completely
fried, I nap. Keith and Bloodroot work
together to create a wonderful chicken pesto dish. I am so blessed to live within the circle of
love and happiness created by such kind, caring, capable animals.
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