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We spent the final night of the road trip in San Carlos. Today we’ll drive to Todos Santos, completing our 7000 mile meander. We were drawn to San Carlos for its name, not because we knew a thing about this small dot on a map facing a huge inland waterway. Perhaps we could recommend it to my papa, Carlos, or perhaps he has already seen it. In any case, its a waypoint that could reduce the six or seven hour drive from Laredo to TS by half. We rolled in with the dusk and parked by a bright orange palapa restaurant/hotel under construction, with a small parking pad facing the sea. Inches from the water, we gleefully watched the sun drop. Actually, we were looking for milk at that very moment, happy to be on our feet. I was satisfied to watch the orange glow of the setting sun on Michael and Jake’s faces. Already we love this place, with its pongas (skiffs) beached right beside waterfront homes. Down the beach there’s a fleet of very salty and rusty sardine seiners.
Raul, the maitre’D of Mar y Arena welcomed us to park here and told us that the vast inland waterway fronting San Carlos is Baja's biggest Gray Whale nursery. We decided to visit with him over a drink. Raul described the friendliness of Gray Whales, how you can touch them from a boat, how they fast till they return to Alaska in summer to feed on crill. We could sit there for hours. But after an appetizer of deep fried tortilla chips and salsa and a glass of wine, I just wanted to lay down and listen to the sea. With the windows open, and a gentle breeze rocking our tin cradle like the boats around us, it was a delicious night. I slept like a puppy in dreamy spells. I woke to Michael and Jake running around the beach like fireflies, followed by puppet play on the nearest structure. They were wired up on football, headlamps, open sand and filling dinner of chocolate clams. I fell asleep again and woke to waves and rain. Michael was lowering the skylight and talking about a white horse he saw running on the water.
I had wild dreams of hiking with Michael to a remote fish camp and then clawing hand over fist up a mountain to sit on a high ridge where we watched a wolverine chase a wolf. Then we slid down the mountain in search of a cabin where I heard someone had been living. We slogged through frozen grass and snow drifted trails to a clearing. There was a half-constructed home on a platform littered with smoking sculptural effigies, scarecrows to some identity the squatter had abandoned perhaps a day before. I was concerned that he had take his own life.
In the light of day, my head has turned 180 degrees back from my strange dreamtime. Michael and Jake are simplifying proper fractions. We’ve had breakfast and soon we’ll roll. I see a small white boat bobbing on the horizon. Is that the thing Michael thought was a horse?
“I tell you guys, boats don’t run! This thing was running like a spirit on the sand.”
Jake tackles him, laughing. He’s so excited to get to Todos Santos. He’s put his best button down shirt.
Raul, the maitre’D of Mar y Arena welcomed us to park here and told us that the vast inland waterway fronting San Carlos is Baja's biggest Gray Whale nursery. We decided to visit with him over a drink. Raul described the friendliness of Gray Whales, how you can touch them from a boat, how they fast till they return to Alaska in summer to feed on crill. We could sit there for hours. But after an appetizer of deep fried tortilla chips and salsa and a glass of wine, I just wanted to lay down and listen to the sea. With the windows open, and a gentle breeze rocking our tin cradle like the boats around us, it was a delicious night. I slept like a puppy in dreamy spells. I woke to Michael and Jake running around the beach like fireflies, followed by puppet play on the nearest structure. They were wired up on football, headlamps, open sand and filling dinner of chocolate clams. I fell asleep again and woke to waves and rain. Michael was lowering the skylight and talking about a white horse he saw running on the water.
I had wild dreams of hiking with Michael to a remote fish camp and then clawing hand over fist up a mountain to sit on a high ridge where we watched a wolverine chase a wolf. Then we slid down the mountain in search of a cabin where I heard someone had been living. We slogged through frozen grass and snow drifted trails to a clearing. There was a half-constructed home on a platform littered with smoking sculptural effigies, scarecrows to some identity the squatter had abandoned perhaps a day before. I was concerned that he had take his own life.
In the light of day, my head has turned 180 degrees back from my strange dreamtime. Michael and Jake are simplifying proper fractions. We’ve had breakfast and soon we’ll roll. I see a small white boat bobbing on the horizon. Is that the thing Michael thought was a horse?
“I tell you guys, boats don’t run! This thing was running like a spirit on the sand.”
Jake tackles him, laughing. He’s so excited to get to Todos Santos. He’s put his best button down shirt.
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Baja's Hwy 1 weaves in and out of mountains and desert, highlands and shore. Yesterday we crossed from central Baja to the Gulf of California; today we cross back to the Pacific. Along the way we are enjoying the most beautiful landscapes we’ve seen in Baja. In Baja Sur, from San Ignacio south, everything we’ve seen is worth returning to and recommending for future visits. With its cowboy culture and mountain chapel, San Ignacio, at the southern edge of the Reserva, charmed us upon entry. We were greeted by a smiling cadre of religious penitents on horseback waving images of the Virgen of Guadalupe. I remembered that Guadalupe’s Saint’s Day, December 18, right around the corner, marks the beginning of Catholic rituals surrounding Christmas. Next stop was Santa Rosalia on the Sea of Cortez, easily the most fascinating port city I’ve visited on Baja. Clapboard wooden buildings of the sort I have seen in many mining communities and masonry buildings with unusual Victorian lines including pitched roofs and divided windows like old train stations distinguish this town. Its a bit too gritty to be cute, but I love that non-touristic charm. We had delicious tacos de carne at a street stand while a young man who spoke excellent English (and had lived in Oregon for many years) washed our rig for a few bucks. A small mutt waited for fatty tidbits at our feet. Jake spontaneously named him “Tigger,” after his tawny stripes, and as we walked back to our camper, he described his vision for a dog orphanage in Mexico, where dogs would be fed and trained so they’d be more adoptable.
In the peak of the days heat we pressed on to Mulegé, exploring a few side roads and taking a few tight turnarounds in search of beach access to the Bahia de Concepcion. Sadly, in the heat of day when if roll down the windows, you are punished by sewer stink blowing back along the sides of the rig. A fault of design, and a sign that its time to dump. Eventually we rounded a turn above the Playa Santispec and drew in our breaths. It is the most perfect little cove, complete with small salty sailboats and a palapa restaurant on a firm crescent of white beach, sand as soft as confectioner’s sugar, overlooking Punta Concepcion. Its all you dream of for beach camping except that the restaurant (and the showers) were closed and there were no utility hook ups which we sorely needed. At this point we hadn’t showered since San Diego and we were all fantasizing about how much soap and hot water were would pump down the potty pipes as soon as possible. We wandered around the beach in a daze till we all became a bit cranky at the thought of piling back into rigotini. But we did, and followed Sheryl’s suggestion to stay at La Serenidad. Here we found the first full hook-ups since Oregon. They must exist in California, but not in the Sonoma, Monterey or Joshua Tree of this tour. So it was with a big sigh of relief, like a druggie needing a fix, that we plugged in to water, power and potty pipes.
On the drive from Mulegé to Laredo, the desert is a happy, leafy green, a lush medly of cacti and shrubs. Morning fog moistens the landscape before it climbs up to La Sierra de la Giganta, a purple-blue spine of mountains that runs all the way down to La Paz. Clouds of grasshoppers puff out of my footsteps. Red rock, yellow-green grasses and rolling lowlands provide variety, color and intimacy… a little strange and very intriguing to this Alaskan, like the backside of an embroidery featuring knots of green shrubs and loose threads of vertical cacti. And it has just started to rain.
Crossing over Baja again, from Loreto to Constitucion, the mountains are rain-eroded and very green, my image of Chinese mountains, wearing shawls of mist. Caves pop in an out of view, some big enough for roadside altars for those killed in car wrecks, most too high and small to enter except in the imagination. The road unspools to the west, opening into vast plains like the Midwest. Huge thunderheads are piled up overhead, and we’re dazzled by intermittent showers and then fields of corn.
In the peak of the days heat we pressed on to Mulegé, exploring a few side roads and taking a few tight turnarounds in search of beach access to the Bahia de Concepcion. Sadly, in the heat of day when if roll down the windows, you are punished by sewer stink blowing back along the sides of the rig. A fault of design, and a sign that its time to dump. Eventually we rounded a turn above the Playa Santispec and drew in our breaths. It is the most perfect little cove, complete with small salty sailboats and a palapa restaurant on a firm crescent of white beach, sand as soft as confectioner’s sugar, overlooking Punta Concepcion. Its all you dream of for beach camping except that the restaurant (and the showers) were closed and there were no utility hook ups which we sorely needed. At this point we hadn’t showered since San Diego and we were all fantasizing about how much soap and hot water were would pump down the potty pipes as soon as possible. We wandered around the beach in a daze till we all became a bit cranky at the thought of piling back into rigotini. But we did, and followed Sheryl’s suggestion to stay at La Serenidad. Here we found the first full hook-ups since Oregon. They must exist in California, but not in the Sonoma, Monterey or Joshua Tree of this tour. So it was with a big sigh of relief, like a druggie needing a fix, that we plugged in to water, power and potty pipes.
On the drive from Mulegé to Laredo, the desert is a happy, leafy green, a lush medly of cacti and shrubs. Morning fog moistens the landscape before it climbs up to La Sierra de la Giganta, a purple-blue spine of mountains that runs all the way down to La Paz. Clouds of grasshoppers puff out of my footsteps. Red rock, yellow-green grasses and rolling lowlands provide variety, color and intimacy… a little strange and very intriguing to this Alaskan, like the backside of an embroidery featuring knots of green shrubs and loose threads of vertical cacti. And it has just started to rain.
Crossing over Baja again, from Loreto to Constitucion, the mountains are rain-eroded and very green, my image of Chinese mountains, wearing shawls of mist. Caves pop in an out of view, some big enough for roadside altars for those killed in car wrecks, most too high and small to enter except in the imagination. The road unspools to the west, opening into vast plains like the Midwest. Huge thunderheads are piled up overhead, and we’re dazzled by intermittent showers and then fields of corn.
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Passing through vast rugged desert yesterday, it seemed to dry to support industrial agriculture. So I was surprised to suddenly find endless acres of peppers which gave way to strawberries and then high tunnels of tomatoes. We’ve heard that this is the tomato production capital of the world. And then its back to broad, brown stretches of desert again, as far as the eye can see.
We slept sporadically last night, hunkered down in a barren clay lot behind a roadside motel. It wasn’t what we planned. But the sun was going down and we had limped into a hardware store in search of gas a few kilometers back. We were fortunate to find that a couple gallons (in Kirkland gallon water jugs) for bush prices – about $7 each north of Guerrero Norte. Parked for the net, we pulled down our window shades and made dinner: burritos with cheesy eggs, salad mix and potatoes. Not my best, but it filled the hole. In fact, we were thinking that Guerrero Negro was the “hole.” We look around at the bleak feeling that supports its reputation for narco traffic and a large military presence.
An unusually large quantity of late night dog caroling and several streetlights beaming in kept us punching our pillows. When that diminished by dawn, we were awakened by rounds of bugle practice from the military base. Still, we’re in good spirits today. It was hard to hold a grudge against the dogs. Their fearless leader, a small fuzzy white mutt wooed us with big brown eyes this morning. And we replied with a quantity of crackers, which earned the cutie a new name. Jake wishes we could take him home.
The best thing about camper travel is the constancy of knowing you have a cozy place to relax and lay your head when needed. Camper travel takes a lot of the stress out of sleeping at night, for example. I always sleeper lighter in a strange bed.
Back on the open road, we are surprised that Reserva de la Biosfera el Vizcaino is the most barren stretch we’ve yet driven. Flat, sandy, marked by only by a few machete-weilding road workers. Now that we’ve passed through the cute mountain town of San Ignacio, the landscape brightens with green and large cardon cacti. The road, freshly paved, swirls around small hills between larger azure mountains.
We slept sporadically last night, hunkered down in a barren clay lot behind a roadside motel. It wasn’t what we planned. But the sun was going down and we had limped into a hardware store in search of gas a few kilometers back. We were fortunate to find that a couple gallons (in Kirkland gallon water jugs) for bush prices – about $7 each north of Guerrero Norte. Parked for the net, we pulled down our window shades and made dinner: burritos with cheesy eggs, salad mix and potatoes. Not my best, but it filled the hole. In fact, we were thinking that Guerrero Negro was the “hole.” We look around at the bleak feeling that supports its reputation for narco traffic and a large military presence.
An unusually large quantity of late night dog caroling and several streetlights beaming in kept us punching our pillows. When that diminished by dawn, we were awakened by rounds of bugle practice from the military base. Still, we’re in good spirits today. It was hard to hold a grudge against the dogs. Their fearless leader, a small fuzzy white mutt wooed us with big brown eyes this morning. And we replied with a quantity of crackers, which earned the cutie a new name. Jake wishes we could take him home.
The best thing about camper travel is the constancy of knowing you have a cozy place to relax and lay your head when needed. Camper travel takes a lot of the stress out of sleeping at night, for example. I always sleeper lighter in a strange bed.
Back on the open road, we are surprised that Reserva de la Biosfera el Vizcaino is the most barren stretch we’ve yet driven. Flat, sandy, marked by only by a few machete-weilding road workers. Now that we’ve passed through the cute mountain town of San Ignacio, the landscape brightens with green and large cardon cacti. The road, freshly paved, swirls around small hills between larger azure mountains.
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We are bumping along a dirt track at ten miles an hour through clouds of thick red dust. Last night, this road irritated me immensely. I watched a film of dust settle over everything in the cute little camper and practically cried. Michael was testing my mom’s theory of going as fast as possible, to see if it made the trip less bumpy. He was exhausted and we were anxious to find our campsite for the night because we have no running lights on the vehicle. Also the dashboard panel light is not working. We seem to blow a 15 amp fuse as fast as we can install one in the box just below the steering wheel. Sixty-five dollars and one hour into it, Hi’s Auto in San Dielgo couldn’t figure it out either. They offered to jerry-rig a new wire on the outside of the vehicle, but we declined. We can figure it out with Papa and Carl’s help in Todos next week. For now, we are obliged to drive
only at daylight. But that’s safer anyway. The main roads are notoriously dangerous at night, with unfenced cattle meandering through your headlights and truckers and busses passing you on double lines and tight curves. So we were following Sheryl’s suggestion to stay at the Old Mill south of San Quintin. We didn’t notice till we hit the dirt track that her directions said it would be four + miles long. Of course, it was worth it. Old Mill overlooks the most beautiful stretch of coastline I’ve seen on Baja in my explorations to date over the last ten years. Granted, this trip is really the beginning of exploring Baja. For the most part, I’ve hung around Todos Santos and Cabo. At San Quintin, the compacted red earth crumbles gently into a flat silver bay wrapped with mountains like a chocolate chip cookie melting into a cup of milk. It always amazes me to see a stable coast line, one that rests and melts languidly into the sea. I expect the ocean to be hungrier, to nip and gnaw at the land, recreating it constantly as I know it to in Alaska. At the sight of this sleepy, silver sea my body instantly relaxes. My shoulders drop like the sides of mountains wrapping this bay. The sun is setting and a swirl in the satin water reveals a drop in the tide. I feel boulders of worry roll down my back, dust dropping to my feet in this amber air. I remember now that I was really nervous about crossing the border. I’m not sure why exactly, because we had everything in order – our passports, car insurance and even a notarized letter from Kurt stating his consent to Jake’s travel across the border with Michael and I. We drove an hour and half east from San Diego to Tecate because we heard it was less hassle than Tijuana. We filled up with gas, we changed US$400 and I held our documents in my lap. We must have been holding our breaths, too. Following signs, we drew into a lane marked "nothing to declare" (such as quantities of cash exceeding $300 per person, or guns which, several signs stated boldly are illegal in Mexico) and rolled slowly forward. A few locals leaningon the lane’s canopy poles chatting with eachother and smiled at us. There was not a guard in sight. We were shocked, released our collective sigh and then began laughing hysterically all at once when Michael exclaimed, “Is that it?!”
For the next several miles we lean into our seats surveying the flocks of small shops--loncherias and dulcerias—as if they are as temporary and unreal as a dream.
We strike smooth pavement at 9:30 am following breakfast and a game of catch. Our gypsy wagon heaves a creaky sigh as it rolls onto the road and Jake pulls out his science textbook. He also pulls down the window shade also, a habit of his which I resent. Perpetually hot since we left Alaska, he’s worried he’ll melt in the sun and thus blocks out the landscape. But the sun shines in straight ahead and I can’t help suggesting he lift the shade and settle his eyes (and his stomach) on the horizon ahead. He’s as stubborn as a baby mule and begins braying about his “sucky handwriting on this damn bumpy road!”
Schoolwork and driving don’t mix well, we’ve observed. Jake typically explodes with a litany of nasty curses as soon as we hit another bump. This is followed by curses on socialist countries like Canada and Mexico, who don’t put more money into roads. 7000 miles into this routine, we’re past laughing and simply suggest he wait to work when we’re parked. But he wants to get his work done NOW! So he badgers on, torturing us with his ranting. Its definitely been the hardest part of our trip. Who would have guessed that we’d be begging him to cease his schoolwork and just look merrily out the window?
Its hard not laugh as we pass a truck piled high with a complete set of furnishings for a house or two. Because its not orderly, more like a dagwood sandwich with mattresses interspersed between bits of lettuce and tomato and couch legs poking up like toothpicks. Dining chairs tucked into ropes face out, poised for hitchhikers. “And he’ll be passing me in a mile!” Michael adds.
Up ahead is a military checkpoint. Jake dives into the upper bunk to survey the scene. Its so strange that we rolled through the border without incident, no law enforcement when you want there to be—I mean, a child could easily be abducted into Mexico--and yet every 300 km we are randomly pulled over at these checkpoints and cross examined by a few smooth-cheeked boys carrying automatic weapons. The examination, fortunately, is always brief.
“?Adonde van? Tursimo? De vacaciones?”
One simply smiles and nods her head and gets waved through by a large gun.
“%&#@ This is one barren, scabby landscape,” says Michael, who is processing a steady stream of epiphanies as he drives, “and some tight roads with no shoulders. Huge truckers on you’re (@#*!) Unbelievable!” He shakes his head as we pass a caravan of bikers. With thin tires and heavy panniers, they are either bare-back, spraying sweat or swaddled under hoods and hats and vests. Who would want to bike these roads, I wonder. The sort of person who is a real over-achiever and maybe doesn’t have enough time for a vacation. Someone who is addicted to pedaling through life every second to maintain momentum, and needs to cramp up completely before he can relax at the end of a day?
“And its so dang curvy that I can see why it takes seven hours to go 180 miles s!@%!”
I take a lot of deep breaths and tap away on my computer, half-spectator, half-participant as if I were nervously sending morse code messages to a foreign office.
only at daylight. But that’s safer anyway. The main roads are notoriously dangerous at night, with unfenced cattle meandering through your headlights and truckers and busses passing you on double lines and tight curves. So we were following Sheryl’s suggestion to stay at the Old Mill south of San Quintin. We didn’t notice till we hit the dirt track that her directions said it would be four + miles long. Of course, it was worth it. Old Mill overlooks the most beautiful stretch of coastline I’ve seen on Baja in my explorations to date over the last ten years. Granted, this trip is really the beginning of exploring Baja. For the most part, I’ve hung around Todos Santos and Cabo. At San Quintin, the compacted red earth crumbles gently into a flat silver bay wrapped with mountains like a chocolate chip cookie melting into a cup of milk. It always amazes me to see a stable coast line, one that rests and melts languidly into the sea. I expect the ocean to be hungrier, to nip and gnaw at the land, recreating it constantly as I know it to in Alaska. At the sight of this sleepy, silver sea my body instantly relaxes. My shoulders drop like the sides of mountains wrapping this bay. The sun is setting and a swirl in the satin water reveals a drop in the tide. I feel boulders of worry roll down my back, dust dropping to my feet in this amber air. I remember now that I was really nervous about crossing the border. I’m not sure why exactly, because we had everything in order – our passports, car insurance and even a notarized letter from Kurt stating his consent to Jake’s travel across the border with Michael and I. We drove an hour and half east from San Diego to Tecate because we heard it was less hassle than Tijuana. We filled up with gas, we changed US$400 and I held our documents in my lap. We must have been holding our breaths, too. Following signs, we drew into a lane marked "nothing to declare" (such as quantities of cash exceeding $300 per person, or guns which, several signs stated boldly are illegal in Mexico) and rolled slowly forward. A few locals leaningon the lane’s canopy poles chatting with eachother and smiled at us. There was not a guard in sight. We were shocked, released our collective sigh and then began laughing hysterically all at once when Michael exclaimed, “Is that it?!”
For the next several miles we lean into our seats surveying the flocks of small shops--loncherias and dulcerias—as if they are as temporary and unreal as a dream.
We strike smooth pavement at 9:30 am following breakfast and a game of catch. Our gypsy wagon heaves a creaky sigh as it rolls onto the road and Jake pulls out his science textbook. He also pulls down the window shade also, a habit of his which I resent. Perpetually hot since we left Alaska, he’s worried he’ll melt in the sun and thus blocks out the landscape. But the sun shines in straight ahead and I can’t help suggesting he lift the shade and settle his eyes (and his stomach) on the horizon ahead. He’s as stubborn as a baby mule and begins braying about his “sucky handwriting on this damn bumpy road!”
Schoolwork and driving don’t mix well, we’ve observed. Jake typically explodes with a litany of nasty curses as soon as we hit another bump. This is followed by curses on socialist countries like Canada and Mexico, who don’t put more money into roads. 7000 miles into this routine, we’re past laughing and simply suggest he wait to work when we’re parked. But he wants to get his work done NOW! So he badgers on, torturing us with his ranting. Its definitely been the hardest part of our trip. Who would have guessed that we’d be begging him to cease his schoolwork and just look merrily out the window?
Its hard not laugh as we pass a truck piled high with a complete set of furnishings for a house or two. Because its not orderly, more like a dagwood sandwich with mattresses interspersed between bits of lettuce and tomato and couch legs poking up like toothpicks. Dining chairs tucked into ropes face out, poised for hitchhikers. “And he’ll be passing me in a mile!” Michael adds.
Up ahead is a military checkpoint. Jake dives into the upper bunk to survey the scene. Its so strange that we rolled through the border without incident, no law enforcement when you want there to be—I mean, a child could easily be abducted into Mexico--and yet every 300 km we are randomly pulled over at these checkpoints and cross examined by a few smooth-cheeked boys carrying automatic weapons. The examination, fortunately, is always brief.
“?Adonde van? Tursimo? De vacaciones?”
One simply smiles and nods her head and gets waved through by a large gun.
“%&#@ This is one barren, scabby landscape,” says Michael, who is processing a steady stream of epiphanies as he drives, “and some tight roads with no shoulders. Huge truckers on you’re (@#*!) Unbelievable!” He shakes his head as we pass a caravan of bikers. With thin tires and heavy panniers, they are either bare-back, spraying sweat or swaddled under hoods and hats and vests. Who would want to bike these roads, I wonder. The sort of person who is a real over-achiever and maybe doesn’t have enough time for a vacation. Someone who is addicted to pedaling through life every second to maintain momentum, and needs to cramp up completely before he can relax at the end of a day?
“And its so dang curvy that I can see why it takes seven hours to go 180 miles s!@%!”
I take a lot of deep breaths and tap away on my computer, half-spectator, half-participant as if I were nervously sending morse code messages to a foreign office.
- Published on
Tropical warmth and sunshine of San Diego welcome me back to the USA. I'm still time-traveling. Parts of me are arriving from France. Two days ago my body arrived; this morning at 6 am my brain landed on the bed at Padre Trail Inn and began racing around the room. I guess its on Paris time, meaning its yesterday to this part of me and time for afternoon tea! There's a list mounting in my mind. Random things. The pile of to-dos I want to complete for Bunnell before crossing the border and potentially being incommunicado for the week as we drive the length of Baja to its tip, and complete this chapter.
Items great and small flock between my ears-- the usual chickens: poster and press release sorts of small stuff for upcoming events that I can provide for Adele as she drives the day to day operations in my absence. And then there's the bigger creatures, and the ark itself which rises with a tide of possibilities, even in my absence from Homer. I am excited that Bunnell just received our first NEA grant of 10,000 which I submitted in August to support our growing Artist in Residence program. But its small in comparison to the ArtPlace dollars of $100,000 we solicited in November, with a letter of interest submitted in November. That plan expresses our bigger dream of cultivating vibrancy in Homer in the form of a vision for neighborhood improvements lead by artists in residence, addressing everything from landscaping to public art, from Bunnell to Bishop's beach, from pedestrian safety to educational workshops that engage the community in this act of "creative placemaking". Bunnell is leading change, cultivating vivacity in Alaska. And where am I?
Basically, 'creative placemaking' has filled my head and guided my investigation from Homer to here, from early fall to mid-winter, from where am I coming from to where am I going? One of the reasons to embark on this journey that is harder to reckon with than "because I can," is that after 20 years at Bunnell I want a little breathing room. And much as I dreamed and feared, when I step outside of it, I can see lots of possibilities. For Bunnell and for myself. Actually, I can see that Bunell IS a breathing room, a room whose door swings regularly, inviting daily waves of fresh salt air. And its growing beautifully with a very dedicated Board and an extremely capable acting director, Adele. As Artistic/Executive Director, I have had a very cool job there and I know it. Still, I wonder what it would be like to grow into some parts of myself more fully. Time away from the job allowed me to building a website in mid October. That has been one of the most rewarding things I've done on this trip. I feel more empowered as an artist- not just because of the many affirmations and inquiries about my artwork that the site has elicited. I actually made a place for myself, a gallery that is accessible almost anywhere. It makes me want to paint like crazy.
Visiting numerous culturally vibrant cities as small as Samois and as big as San Diego has also helped me see that I am as mobile as my web-gallery. I am game for art-gardening in many contexts. I go right to Old Town, Anywhere and look at what's happening and what space is available. I see tons of possibilities everywhere. I see where there's fertile soil and lots of galleries and also where there's big empty compost bins. Generally, I'm attracted to the latter. A "compost bin" is generally a well-situated space, usually an old building that has charm and needs work. It may be large or small. Its gotta be at least 1000 square feet, and up to 3,000...Around it I'm looking for greenery: cafes and record stores, activity and accessibility... lots of people, good traffic flow, a variety of ages, and a lack of pretension. Even some hunger can be good. I'm talking about cultivating a place where people want and need to feed.
Items great and small flock between my ears-- the usual chickens: poster and press release sorts of small stuff for upcoming events that I can provide for Adele as she drives the day to day operations in my absence. And then there's the bigger creatures, and the ark itself which rises with a tide of possibilities, even in my absence from Homer. I am excited that Bunnell just received our first NEA grant of 10,000 which I submitted in August to support our growing Artist in Residence program. But its small in comparison to the ArtPlace dollars of $100,000 we solicited in November, with a letter of interest submitted in November. That plan expresses our bigger dream of cultivating vibrancy in Homer in the form of a vision for neighborhood improvements lead by artists in residence, addressing everything from landscaping to public art, from Bunnell to Bishop's beach, from pedestrian safety to educational workshops that engage the community in this act of "creative placemaking". Bunnell is leading change, cultivating vivacity in Alaska. And where am I?
Basically, 'creative placemaking' has filled my head and guided my investigation from Homer to here, from early fall to mid-winter, from where am I coming from to where am I going? One of the reasons to embark on this journey that is harder to reckon with than "because I can," is that after 20 years at Bunnell I want a little breathing room. And much as I dreamed and feared, when I step outside of it, I can see lots of possibilities. For Bunnell and for myself. Actually, I can see that Bunell IS a breathing room, a room whose door swings regularly, inviting daily waves of fresh salt air. And its growing beautifully with a very dedicated Board and an extremely capable acting director, Adele. As Artistic/Executive Director, I have had a very cool job there and I know it. Still, I wonder what it would be like to grow into some parts of myself more fully. Time away from the job allowed me to building a website in mid October. That has been one of the most rewarding things I've done on this trip. I feel more empowered as an artist- not just because of the many affirmations and inquiries about my artwork that the site has elicited. I actually made a place for myself, a gallery that is accessible almost anywhere. It makes me want to paint like crazy.
Visiting numerous culturally vibrant cities as small as Samois and as big as San Diego has also helped me see that I am as mobile as my web-gallery. I am game for art-gardening in many contexts. I go right to Old Town, Anywhere and look at what's happening and what space is available. I see tons of possibilities everywhere. I see where there's fertile soil and lots of galleries and also where there's big empty compost bins. Generally, I'm attracted to the latter. A "compost bin" is generally a well-situated space, usually an old building that has charm and needs work. It may be large or small. Its gotta be at least 1000 square feet, and up to 3,000...Around it I'm looking for greenery: cafes and record stores, activity and accessibility... lots of people, good traffic flow, a variety of ages, and a lack of pretension. Even some hunger can be good. I'm talking about cultivating a place where people want and need to feed.
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I am excited to visit a zoo I’ve read about as a child. Growing up without tv, my parents made sure we knew contemporary culture from radio, books and periodicals. We always had National Geographic. I remember that when a big story came out about the San Diego Zoo, I was up to my heart in panda infatuation and primate fascination. I loved to know that there was a zoo without cages, more like a sanctuary for animals. After visiting some pretty cool zoos in places like Milwaukee and Anchorage, I expected the San Diego Zoo to be more avant-garde. But I guess it lead the charge over thirty years ago by building animal habitats that have been emulated by so many zoos today that the look of this zoo is what we think of when we think of a zoo—sculpted rock and water features, natural-looking barriers like ravines and subtle net to contain animals, not the obvious offense of jail-like bars. It all began at San Diego Zoo, and it continues today with some of the largest and most innovative “cages”.
My favorite device San Diego Zoo uses is attraction. Habitats for birds without cages maintain bird residents by providing such good quality of life that, according to one guide, “even local birds move in here.” One of the coolest devices to improve elephant habitat here is an acacia tree planted on top of a giant man-made “trunk” that resembles a tree, but also functions for animal training and scientific study. The tree will grow over creating a shade enclosure that looks like the real thing. But of course, the elephants know its not. sA good zoo basically does a good job of making humans feel less barbaric. And teaching habitat conservation. Education is the real value of zoos; zoos spark the passion of children. As one African scientist said (I’m sorry I don’t remember his name), “We protect what we love. We love what we know. We know what we are taught.”
My favorite device San Diego Zoo uses is attraction. Habitats for birds without cages maintain bird residents by providing such good quality of life that, according to one guide, “even local birds move in here.” One of the coolest devices to improve elephant habitat here is an acacia tree planted on top of a giant man-made “trunk” that resembles a tree, but also functions for animal training and scientific study. The tree will grow over creating a shade enclosure that looks like the real thing. But of course, the elephants know its not. sA good zoo basically does a good job of making humans feel less barbaric. And teaching habitat conservation. Education is the real value of zoos; zoos spark the passion of children. As one African scientist said (I’m sorry I don’t remember his name), “We protect what we love. We love what we know. We know what we are taught.”
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My last day, my sister advises as I pack her sons's things for Mexico. In just a week I will see him in at my parents' house in Todos Santos. her son and his father will join us for three weeks. Its very hard to think of my sister alone during the holidays.
I understand her wish to send them off for a nice family vacation while she recuperates. With a few weeks of quietude, with with frequent physical therapisy and daily home health support she will continue to improve steadily. It may be helpful without the constant distractions and demands of her family. Its just very hard to think of her home alone, without the impish smile and rose petal cheeks of her little bouy throughout the day. I remind myself that she has progressed immensely in the last three weeks and that three weeks to convalesce at her own pace will be healing. I'm glad that I could spend 2 weeks at this critical time. I will continue to send her healing energy every day. I will think of her in her beautiful place. The Siene is lovely at sunset. Here, shouldered by two small islands by Samois. Its a painting....
I understand her wish to send them off for a nice family vacation while she recuperates. With a few weeks of quietude, with with frequent physical therapisy and daily home health support she will continue to improve steadily. It may be helpful without the constant distractions and demands of her family. Its just very hard to think of her home alone, without the impish smile and rose petal cheeks of her little bouy throughout the day. I remind myself that she has progressed immensely in the last three weeks and that three weeks to convalesce at her own pace will be healing. I'm glad that I could spend 2 weeks at this critical time. I will continue to send her healing energy every day. I will think of her in her beautiful place. The Siene is lovely at sunset. Here, shouldered by two small islands by Samois. Its a painting....
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“Horses are sad,” Jiggy said. He peered over the edge of the tub at a horse he’d tossed down to the tile.
Since I gave him three small plastic horses at bath time almost 2 weeks ago, Mama, Papa and Jiggy horse have had many falls and many ambulance rides. Tonight, I am happy to hear “Horses are NOT sad. Horses are playing.”
Jiggy likes to plays with a tiny toy animal each morning. Elephant is hurt. He lays Elephant in the back of an 8 inch wooden flat-bed style truck. She is elevated carefully on a dais of colorful wooden blocks. “She goes to hospital!”
At the hospital she is fixed. He has removed the doors from Jake’s old Playmobil food truck. He places one white door beneath her spine and another on top of her. “She is not hurt!” he advises and drives her back home, sirens blaring. He resists going to the crèche until I advise him that I will watch over Elephant and make sure she is not hurt. A small Playmobil boy rides beside her.
As auntie-nanny I enjoy Jiggy’s routine. My sister has structured it beautifully and peacefully. After crèche, we walk downhill slowly. He is very observant. Every puddle must be stomped. Every raindrop tasted. Errant leaves must be tucked into bushes, sticks stashed (for later retrieval). He stops to listen for birdsong, cars, the sound of running water. He loves the Lavior, the wash house, a beautiful arched stone structure over a wide trough of water where laundry was washed for perhaps hundreds of years. Jiggy is the only customer today. His leaves are washed and waved away. A few feet farther down the road he watches them pass through the sewer. “Au revoir!”
Outside of Jiggy’s routine, helping with meals and laundry there’s not much else I can accomplish. When Jiggy is at the crèche I go to my yoga mat. My sister and I have long chats and cook and organize things. We have a petit ballade, meandering through the village. Late at night or early in the morning In snatches, I soak up Sons and Lovers, savoring D.H. Lawrence's language, at once lush and plain, his imagery, so detailed and intimate like this home... a boy peeks around corners, listens intently in in small stone house, cozy and very contained, where sound echoes and windows steam. Then, shutters open, cool air rushes in and the day begins.
Since I gave him three small plastic horses at bath time almost 2 weeks ago, Mama, Papa and Jiggy horse have had many falls and many ambulance rides. Tonight, I am happy to hear “Horses are NOT sad. Horses are playing.”
Jiggy likes to plays with a tiny toy animal each morning. Elephant is hurt. He lays Elephant in the back of an 8 inch wooden flat-bed style truck. She is elevated carefully on a dais of colorful wooden blocks. “She goes to hospital!”
At the hospital she is fixed. He has removed the doors from Jake’s old Playmobil food truck. He places one white door beneath her spine and another on top of her. “She is not hurt!” he advises and drives her back home, sirens blaring. He resists going to the crèche until I advise him that I will watch over Elephant and make sure she is not hurt. A small Playmobil boy rides beside her.
As auntie-nanny I enjoy Jiggy’s routine. My sister has structured it beautifully and peacefully. After crèche, we walk downhill slowly. He is very observant. Every puddle must be stomped. Every raindrop tasted. Errant leaves must be tucked into bushes, sticks stashed (for later retrieval). He stops to listen for birdsong, cars, the sound of running water. He loves the Lavior, the wash house, a beautiful arched stone structure over a wide trough of water where laundry was washed for perhaps hundreds of years. Jiggy is the only customer today. His leaves are washed and waved away. A few feet farther down the road he watches them pass through the sewer. “Au revoir!”
Outside of Jiggy’s routine, helping with meals and laundry there’s not much else I can accomplish. When Jiggy is at the crèche I go to my yoga mat. My sister and I have long chats and cook and organize things. We have a petit ballade, meandering through the village. Late at night or early in the morning In snatches, I soak up Sons and Lovers, savoring D.H. Lawrence's language, at once lush and plain, his imagery, so detailed and intimate like this home... a boy peeks around corners, listens intently in in small stone house, cozy and very contained, where sound echoes and windows steam. Then, shutters open, cool air rushes in and the day begins.
- Published on
At the end of my first week in France, my sister has improved tremendously. She is walking around about half of each day now, and laying down for frequent rests. We take a short walk of about 20 minutes each day. Her confidence grows with her mobility. She is sleeping better, next to me, upstairs near Jiggy. At night, when he wakes with a cry, instead of replacing her, I am her back. I pick him up and she stands near to nuzzle him and ask what’s the matter.
Jiggy is also doing very well. We play every morning in his little room when he wakes. “Ashee! Come play!” He shouts, pointing to wooden blocks and trains, puzzles and a tiny magnetic fishing pole with magnet-fish. He natters away in French, with an occasional quotation. “You’re breakin’ my heart!” (Ceclia, Simon & Garfunkel). He loves to dance. Holding one hand over his head like a flamenco dancer, he stamps his feet and shouts, “Django Rienhardt!”
Yesterday, my brother-in-law took me to Paris. We brought Jiggy to the crèche at 9 and sped off to the train. From Fontainbleau it was one-half hour to the grand train station, Gare de Lyon. There, we had a petit dejuner at Le Tren Bleu. Colorful, detailed frescoes on the ceiling and walls indicate all the destinations of the station. By 11 am we descended about four stories underground to the “meteor” (fast train) to shoot over to Madelaine, a cathedral situated in the heart of a chic shopping district, near to the Musée Pinacotheque see a terrific show of Hiroshige's influence on Van Gogh. Amazingly it is the first show in Paris to directly address the profound influence of Japanese printmaker Hiroshige on Van Gogh. Although Hiroshige’s influence extended to several other contemporaries of Van Gogh, perhaps his influence was greatest on Van Gogh, who saw Japan in the landscape of Southern France and adapted Hiroshige’s compositions, his marks and his palette. For me, the exhibit was a revelation. I loved to see how Hiroshige drew rain as long diagonal marks, and how an Gogh adopted that method of notation. He also borrowed scenes directly from Hiroshige, recasting them with French figures, landmarks and motifs. But for me the real excitement was exploring the root of my mark-making inspiration. As Van Gogh expanded upon Hiroshige’s calligraphic, gouging marks, I am inspired by Van Gogh’s physicality and strive for a mark, a brushstroke that relates to the whole canvas. At the same time, I look for a certain formal quietude in my paintings. I look to Hiroshige’s elements (horizon, mountain and water bound or bordered by rich, dark blues to reinforce my framing like a stereoscope.
After lunch at a typical brasserie/café we shopped at Fauchon. This tea shop also features decadent gifts in chocolate, marzipan and a variety of specialty foods. Amidst a dizzying concentration of mirrors, pink bows, gold and black tins and fluorescent marzipan, I ticked off my sister's holiday shopping list. Personal shopper in Paris? Not a bad occupation for an afternoon.
When we returned at 5 pm she was radiant and rested.
Jiggy is also doing very well. We play every morning in his little room when he wakes. “Ashee! Come play!” He shouts, pointing to wooden blocks and trains, puzzles and a tiny magnetic fishing pole with magnet-fish. He natters away in French, with an occasional quotation. “You’re breakin’ my heart!” (Ceclia, Simon & Garfunkel). He loves to dance. Holding one hand over his head like a flamenco dancer, he stamps his feet and shouts, “Django Rienhardt!”
Yesterday, my brother-in-law took me to Paris. We brought Jiggy to the crèche at 9 and sped off to the train. From Fontainbleau it was one-half hour to the grand train station, Gare de Lyon. There, we had a petit dejuner at Le Tren Bleu. Colorful, detailed frescoes on the ceiling and walls indicate all the destinations of the station. By 11 am we descended about four stories underground to the “meteor” (fast train) to shoot over to Madelaine, a cathedral situated in the heart of a chic shopping district, near to the Musée Pinacotheque see a terrific show of Hiroshige's influence on Van Gogh. Amazingly it is the first show in Paris to directly address the profound influence of Japanese printmaker Hiroshige on Van Gogh. Although Hiroshige’s influence extended to several other contemporaries of Van Gogh, perhaps his influence was greatest on Van Gogh, who saw Japan in the landscape of Southern France and adapted Hiroshige’s compositions, his marks and his palette. For me, the exhibit was a revelation. I loved to see how Hiroshige drew rain as long diagonal marks, and how an Gogh adopted that method of notation. He also borrowed scenes directly from Hiroshige, recasting them with French figures, landmarks and motifs. But for me the real excitement was exploring the root of my mark-making inspiration. As Van Gogh expanded upon Hiroshige’s calligraphic, gouging marks, I am inspired by Van Gogh’s physicality and strive for a mark, a brushstroke that relates to the whole canvas. At the same time, I look for a certain formal quietude in my paintings. I look to Hiroshige’s elements (horizon, mountain and water bound or bordered by rich, dark blues to reinforce my framing like a stereoscope.
After lunch at a typical brasserie/café we shopped at Fauchon. This tea shop also features decadent gifts in chocolate, marzipan and a variety of specialty foods. Amidst a dizzying concentration of mirrors, pink bows, gold and black tins and fluorescent marzipan, I ticked off my sister's holiday shopping list. Personal shopper in Paris? Not a bad occupation for an afternoon.
When we returned at 5 pm she was radiant and rested.