When I was a little girl I thought my Aunt Jenny and Uncle Joe lived a wonderfully worldly life. They were the first folks I knew who had a tape recorder and they were the first folks I knew who had a magazine subscription.
One of those subscriptions resulted in Uncle Joe’s copies of “New Mexico” magazine. When I visited their house I loved looking through the magazines. Adobes, Indians, tourquoise, and farolitos. Red soil, grey-green sage and the sky of New Mexico. Just in case you’ve not yet had a chance to visit – the sky and the land is so beautiful the Santa Fe Opera is one of the few opera companies that perform in an open-air theater. To be in New Mexico after a thunderstorm is to understand why this is so.
The magazines connected Uncle Joe with his ancestry and with times past. For me it was a window to places I might visit.
And visit I have. As a child New Mexico was part of the Southwest Pilgrimage that my family made – from Los Angeles to Las Animas. From California to Colorado. Almost always including a stop in New Mexico.
When I breath the air of New Mexico I breath in the dreams of my youth and the vista brings out the memories of my family from deep in my heart. I am surrounded by a wonderful chaotic recollection that mixes ages, thoughts and times. Memories from childhood, youth and adulthood dovetailing and producing elaborate recollections of the senses and the heart.
As young elder I add other colors to the memories: the colors seem to roam free in New Mexico.
Colors found on a comfortably kitschy coach
or in the patterns on a Chapel in the Cathedral Basilica of St. Francis of Assisi.
Colors that emboldened the potties at the Jackalope Market.
Shoot, even those on the bench outside the Chuck Jones Gallery.
