I grew up in what is sometimes called “The Wild West.” We went camping and
traveling throughout Colorado, Utah, Arizona, New Mexico, Nevada, Idaho,
Wyoming, Montana, Washington and Oregon. Parts of the West are still as they
were when Lewis and Clark and the early pioneers traveled for the first time
over this rugged terrain.
In our travels,
one of my favorite places was Taos / Pueblo, New Mexico. I still have a
turquoise necklace I purchased from a Native American artist for $50. I fell in
love with the artist community and the prolific galleries that dotted the
streets. My dream was to return to live and work there. But you know how that
goes.
According to a
travel guide: “Taos is art. Art is everywhere: on the walls, in the
streets, in the landscape and architecture. There are more than 80 galleries,
museums, two major art festivals, several film fests, a Poets and Story Tellers
festival, and four music fests.”
The grandeur of
the mountains invites tourists and artists in summer and fall, and skiers in winter.
The history of Taos is replete with Native American lore, an actual Pueblo
village, and details about famous artists such as Georgia O’Keefe, Ansel Adams,
D.H. Lawrence, John Marin, Andrew Dasburg and many others.
The broad sweep
of rugged hills and jagged mountains provides year round recreation that has
increased both the size and scope of Taos along with a rise in the cost of
living. But a visit is well worth the experience.
When the word
“wild” comes to your mind what does your imagination conjure up? The word
itself makes me think “feral, uncontrollable;” not a good thing if you’re
trying to harness your skill to describe in words or artwork what you see.
Writers and artists must think in images. If you can’t visualize your subject matter, you can’t describe it or illustrate it.
Writers and artists must think in images. If you can’t visualize your subject matter, you can’t describe it or illustrate it.
Wild is one of
the reasons people throng to Taos. Uninhabitable spacious vistas go on and on
for what seems like forever. The color, the fusion of value and space is
intoxicating.
I have a love
affair with deserts. Teeming with life and color in the springtime and then
withering to prickly dry sagebrush and cactus through the scorching heat of
summer. Tumbleweeds blow across the roadways and line fences with woody
entwined growth. They roam across the desert orchestrated by the wind in a primordial gracefulness; rolling and tumbling, following least resistance.
Taos gets under
your skin. The brilliant sunsets, Native American colors and sounds, the howl
of a wolf or coyote, the fresh air caressing your skin, filling your lungs.
Prickly cacti needle you into submission. The stalwart saguaro look almost
human in the evening shadows.
Taos
by Jillena Rose
by Jillena Rose
Bones are
easier to find than flowers
in the desert, so I paint these:
Fine white skulls of cows and horses.
in the desert, so I paint these:
Fine white skulls of cows and horses.
When I lie flat
under the stars
in the back of the car, coyotes howling
in the scrub pines, easy to feel how those bones
are much like mine: Here is my pelvis,
like the pelvis I found today
bleached by the sun and the sand. Same
hole where the hip would go, same
in the back of the car, coyotes howling
in the scrub pines, easy to feel how those bones
are much like mine: Here is my pelvis,
like the pelvis I found today
bleached by the sun and the sand. Same
hole where the hip would go, same
white curve of
bone beneath my flesh
same cradle of life, silent and still in me.
same cradle of life, silent and still in me.
(Poem copyright
©2011 Jillena Rose all rights reserved)
