I placed, photographed and documented #73 at the dead end of street. It happened to be at a lonely wooden barn almost fallen to ruins. There’s nothing unusual about a barn, completely falling apart, in a rural area. It’s just that this one is located in an established community of homes that are well taken care of. It was as if most of the people living around here just established their homes around the small barn which eventually became useless.
It sort of reminded me of some of the lifestyles of my home bound patients. Lifestyle’s around them evolve and revolve while theirs is pretty much at a standstill. Reliving all their memories with the sound of the ever present TV in the background - one of the few constants of their lives. The drama in their days consists of a storyline on "who done it" show. As meals-on -wheels arrives, they watch cooks conjuring up and tempting them new dishes that they will only be able to dream about during their afternoon nap. These dishes will always be full of taste and exotic ingredients that will be fuel for their imaginations unlike the unseasoned meat, potatoes and vegetable just brought into their home by a smiling and caring volunteer. However, the warmth of the volunteer, unlike the TV, will be the food for their soul.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Thursday, January 6, 2011
256E - 200 South Pima, AZ November 24, 2010
My last cowboy and indian icon art piece placement of the day was on one of the busiest streets in the small town of Pima. What I mean by busy is that a vehicle may drive down this stretch steadily every 5-10 minutes. It lead directly on to Hwy. 70.
Not too far from Hwy. 70 is a small, abandoned, plain, wooden house with shingles on the roof that look like they are about to crumble off. The door at the main entrance was missing its bottom half. I placed, photographed and documented #71 on the wooden floor inside the main entrance.
It surprised me that this house wasn’t vandalized. It was not far from a school and had been obviously empty for some time now. Kids in the country get bored as easily as city kids and an abode like this could be a target for harmful, mischievous adventure.
Perhaps the house is haunted. Maybe none of the local kids want to go near it out fear of being visited from the other side. All I knew, I wasn’t going to hang out there any longer to find out. Who ever’s spirit may be dwelling there now, please tell my grandparents I said, "Hi."
Not too far from Hwy. 70 is a small, abandoned, plain, wooden house with shingles on the roof that look like they are about to crumble off. The door at the main entrance was missing its bottom half. I placed, photographed and documented #71 on the wooden floor inside the main entrance.
It surprised me that this house wasn’t vandalized. It was not far from a school and had been obviously empty for some time now. Kids in the country get bored as easily as city kids and an abode like this could be a target for harmful, mischievous adventure.
Perhaps the house is haunted. Maybe none of the local kids want to go near it out fear of being visited from the other side. All I knew, I wasn’t going to hang out there any longer to find out. Who ever’s spirit may be dwelling there now, please tell my grandparents I said, "Hi."
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Pima Cemetery Pima, AZ November 24, 2010
Today I drove the back roads back to the hospital after visiting one of my patients in Pima.
I often enjoy doing that because it helps me scout out new locations for my cowboy and indian icon art pieces. Since I happened to be nearby, I went on a brief exploration of the Pima Cemetery which was established in 1879.
The most interesting grave site I came across was that of Sandoval family. Not only was a an image of a John Deere tractor engraved on the headstone, there were at least a hundred toy pick-up trucks, tractors, cars and trailers lined up in neat rows next to a dozen vases of silk flowers. Most of the toys emulated the John Deere name brand.
Since I am working with toys in this art project and a few others, of course the grave site beckoned me to leave one of my cowboy and indian icon art pieces there. I placed, photographed and documented #72 between the last row of silk flowers and the first row of farm toys. It appeared to be at home next to the rows of other toys.
Then I wondered, are the toys a part of a collection of the deceased or had other folks placed them there in homage to the deceased? I envisioned my future grave site. A pair of old cowboy boots filled with flowers and HUNDREDS of plastic cowboy, cowgirl and indian figures - new and vintage, large and small - all over and around my grave site. Pounds and pounds of colorful plastic molded into action figures of the Old West. At least it wouldn’t be difficult to find. The plastic images would exist longer in the universe than my flesh and bones ever would. Long live, art. Long live, art.
I often enjoy doing that because it helps me scout out new locations for my cowboy and indian icon art pieces. Since I happened to be nearby, I went on a brief exploration of the Pima Cemetery which was established in 1879.
The most interesting grave site I came across was that of Sandoval family. Not only was a an image of a John Deere tractor engraved on the headstone, there were at least a hundred toy pick-up trucks, tractors, cars and trailers lined up in neat rows next to a dozen vases of silk flowers. Most of the toys emulated the John Deere name brand.
Since I am working with toys in this art project and a few others, of course the grave site beckoned me to leave one of my cowboy and indian icon art pieces there. I placed, photographed and documented #72 between the last row of silk flowers and the first row of farm toys. It appeared to be at home next to the rows of other toys.
Then I wondered, are the toys a part of a collection of the deceased or had other folks placed them there in homage to the deceased? I envisioned my future grave site. A pair of old cowboy boots filled with flowers and HUNDREDS of plastic cowboy, cowgirl and indian figures - new and vintage, large and small - all over and around my grave site. Pounds and pounds of colorful plastic molded into action figures of the Old West. At least it wouldn’t be difficult to find. The plastic images would exist longer in the universe than my flesh and bones ever would. Long live, art. Long live, art.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Willcox Livestock Auction Willcox, AZ November 18, 2010
It was Thursday. This is the one day of the week when ranchers from several counties in Arizona and New Mexico bring trailers full of cattle to sell to wholesale buyers from the city. If I’m nearby, because I had to visit a patient or two, I’ll stop by the auction to visit my friend Terry Burgess who works in the sales office.
Terry is a widow and semi-retired rancher who lives about 10 miles down the road from me on a 40 acre spread. She grew up on a ranch that was very remote. During the school year, Terry stayed with someone in town and only traveled back to the family’s ranch on the weekends. The list of the cattle and horse organizations which is active in is
endless.
Terry’s father, Claude McNair was inducted into the Willcox Cowboy Hall of Fame in 1972. This year, Terry was inducted into the Willcox Cowboy Hall of Fame. The only father and daughter to hold those honors in the Hall of Fame’s history. Terry has been only the 5th woman to ever been inducted.
I placed, photographed and documented #67 in a corner of one of the back corrals. One that had very few cattle in it. Unknown to Terry, I dedicated the placement of #67 to
her.
When I have those days when life is so overwhelming that I don’t even feel like getting out of bed, I think of women like Terry. Another one of my heroines will always be Dale Evans. She once said, "Cowgirl is an attitude, really. A pioneer spirit, a special American brand of courage. The cowgirl faces life head on, lives by her own lights, and makes no excuses. Cowgirls take stands, they speak up. They defend things they hold dear." That’s Terry. That’s my girl!
Terry is a widow and semi-retired rancher who lives about 10 miles down the road from me on a 40 acre spread. She grew up on a ranch that was very remote. During the school year, Terry stayed with someone in town and only traveled back to the family’s ranch on the weekends. The list of the cattle and horse organizations which is active in is
endless.
Terry’s father, Claude McNair was inducted into the Willcox Cowboy Hall of Fame in 1972. This year, Terry was inducted into the Willcox Cowboy Hall of Fame. The only father and daughter to hold those honors in the Hall of Fame’s history. Terry has been only the 5th woman to ever been inducted.
I placed, photographed and documented #67 in a corner of one of the back corrals. One that had very few cattle in it. Unknown to Terry, I dedicated the placement of #67 to
her.
When I have those days when life is so overwhelming that I don’t even feel like getting out of bed, I think of women like Terry. Another one of my heroines will always be Dale Evans. She once said, "Cowgirl is an attitude, really. A pioneer spirit, a special American brand of courage. The cowgirl faces life head on, lives by her own lights, and makes no excuses. Cowgirls take stands, they speak up. They defend things they hold dear." That’s Terry. That’s my girl!
Stewart Family & Community Education Center Willcox, AZ November 18, 2010
One of the reasons I’m attracted to placing my cowboy and indian icon art pieces in old abandoned homes is because of stories I’ve heard from my patients. Most of the patients I have in home health and hospice are elderly. When they are reminiscing, while I visit by their bedside, childhood homes are a frequent topic. Some of the tales of the past will include their experience of returning to the rural home they grew up in. The majority of these folks will share how sad they felt when they visited an abandoned rural home of their childhood. The placement of my art pieces (made from children’s toys) in abandoned houses gives new life, hopefully, to childhood abodes that are no longer useful to anyone else.
The Stewart Family & Community Education building on Ft. Grant road came to mind.
When I walked through the tall grasses around the building, I came across a fallen, wooden sign with peeling paint which read, "4 H." The back door was wide open. Once inside, I noticed the front room - of the two room abode - had books laying on the floor.
The books were filthy so I decided not to examine any of them. It was obvious that this building once served to educate the local, young whipper- snappers.
All that was left in the back room was a large, old, white kitchen sink which had two sets of drawers underneath it. Standing next to it, was a small, unpainted, wooden table. Upon opening one of the drawers under the sink, I found nothing.
I placed, photographed and documented #69 on the level portion of the sink which appeared to be for food preparation. I exited out the back door and slowly walked to my car. I hoped to find other refuse amongst the tall grasses which might give me a clue or identification of the folks who once came here outside of the Stewarts. I arrived to my car and had found nothing else.
While I sat in the car and started up my engine, a feeling of peace came over me. Then came the satisfaction of knowing that I got to pay tribute to an old, wooden building which was once the center of learning and companionship to rural children who were now grown-up and reminiscing back to a time when they gathered there for companionship and to hone their agricultural skills. A time when someone prepared snacks for them on that kitchen sink. A time when they looked ahead to a life of discovery and adventure. Now those memories are faint and illness may be dominating their lives. The memories of the past now soothes the hints of pain associated with movements of their aging bodies.
Thank goodness for the blessing of our memories - we are forever young.
The Stewart Family & Community Education building on Ft. Grant road came to mind.
When I walked through the tall grasses around the building, I came across a fallen, wooden sign with peeling paint which read, "4 H." The back door was wide open. Once inside, I noticed the front room - of the two room abode - had books laying on the floor.
The books were filthy so I decided not to examine any of them. It was obvious that this building once served to educate the local, young whipper- snappers.
All that was left in the back room was a large, old, white kitchen sink which had two sets of drawers underneath it. Standing next to it, was a small, unpainted, wooden table. Upon opening one of the drawers under the sink, I found nothing.
I placed, photographed and documented #69 on the level portion of the sink which appeared to be for food preparation. I exited out the back door and slowly walked to my car. I hoped to find other refuse amongst the tall grasses which might give me a clue or identification of the folks who once came here outside of the Stewarts. I arrived to my car and had found nothing else.
While I sat in the car and started up my engine, a feeling of peace came over me. Then came the satisfaction of knowing that I got to pay tribute to an old, wooden building which was once the center of learning and companionship to rural children who were now grown-up and reminiscing back to a time when they gathered there for companionship and to hone their agricultural skills. A time when someone prepared snacks for them on that kitchen sink. A time when they looked ahead to a life of discovery and adventure. Now those memories are faint and illness may be dominating their lives. The memories of the past now soothes the hints of pain associated with movements of their aging bodies.
Thank goodness for the blessing of our memories - we are forever young.
Helicopter - Hwy. 70 Eden, AZ 11/16/10
Not too far from the Glenbar Cotton Gin and the Taylor Freeze (Home of the big "T" burger) is a helicopter sitting in solitude next to the railroad tracks. On my travels to and from Globe, Phoenix and numerous patients’ homes, I noticed that the flying machine has never been moved for at least 3 years. I stopped and parked my car near the railroad tracks. It didn’t have any sort of doors and the weather had taken its toll on the helicopter’s interior. After I wallowed through tall weeds, I placed, photographed and documented #68 what one could call the chopper’s dashboard.
Old West art and aviation - an interesting mix. As I drove away, something inside (growling stomach) harkened me to the Taylor Freeze. Well, one couldn’t drive back to Safford without a Big T burger. Can one?
Old West art and aviation - an interesting mix. As I drove away, something inside (growling stomach) harkened me to the Taylor Freeze. Well, one couldn’t drive back to Safford without a Big T burger. Can one?
Corner of McDowell Road & Ward Canyon Road - Clifton, AZ November 10, 2010
It was very windy but the sun shown as bright as a new copper penny. I placed, photographed and documented #62 right below a YIELD sign at the corner of 2 crossroads. The patient I was visiting was in a elevated "subdivision" in Greenlee county- very scenic and desolete. From where could stood, I could see the mauve shadings in the rock at the cooper mine. The muted colors of stone were the contoured plateaus left after all the copper and minerals were removed, processed and shipped all over the world. Thus leaving a huge man-made sculpture which will never host any living flora or fauna again.
One person, driving by in early model Ford van, saw that I was out of my vehicle exploring the area dressed in a skirt, blouse, cowboy boots and my white lab coat. He automatically assumed that my transportation was completely incapacitated. I reassured him otherwise. Just grateful that he was a friendly type and not some loner living alone in the hills because he has strong disdain for other human beings and harbors dreadful, harmful thoughts towards all others - especially conceptual artists who also happen to work in the medical field. What I won’t risk for my patients ---- and art!
One person, driving by in early model Ford van, saw that I was out of my vehicle exploring the area dressed in a skirt, blouse, cowboy boots and my white lab coat. He automatically assumed that my transportation was completely incapacitated. I reassured him otherwise. Just grateful that he was a friendly type and not some loner living alone in the hills because he has strong disdain for other human beings and harbors dreadful, harmful thoughts towards all others - especially conceptual artists who also happen to work in the medical field. What I won’t risk for my patients ---- and art!
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