There’s an interesting area in Santa Fe called Canyon Road. On both sides of a narrow street, sit adobe buildings that serve as art galleries. Now, Pat is an accomplished weaver, but Rat, Mary, and I barely survived junior high art classes. Our talent pretty much peaked when we made seed and pasta plaques at Harriet Hesslegrave’s summer art program in Fredonia; we were probably eight or nine.
One of our early stops was to check out some modern art etched into mahogany. The colors were brilliant and the price tags sky high. The dapper Gallery Greeter Guy was a young, tall chap with a fake French accent (Rat’s expert opinion; after all, he took Intro to French at Fredonia Junior Hgh School when he was 14.) He explained the artist’s skill, speaking so quickly and Frenchy that I had no clue what he was saying. I liked the paintings, but Mary and Rat were more interested in critiquing Greeter Guy’s necktie, a red and yellow sunflower print that they determined was not apropos for the job of mumbling about fine art.
Next up, was a cool vintage western shop. The friendly Gallery Greeter Gal was loaded down with more turquoise jewelry than I’d ever seen on one body--clunky, chunky, gaudy turquoise and silver draped around her neck, clamped up and down both arms, and hanging about six inches from her ears--and she had a braid running down past her butt. A walking masterpiece if I’d ever seen one. Mary and I liked the painted cowgirl boots and fringed, beaded cowgirl jackets for sale, but since we haven’t entered any rodeos recently, we passed on making any purchases. Rat bought a couple of vintage black and white postcards for about a dollar apiece. At last, there was a serious buyer among us!
Another place we liked had mostly acrylics, shown by a woman from Iran, who was gracious but suspect of the Kansas amateurs as she followed us from room to room. There were some fine paintings of aspen, horses, and odd-looking men and women who had the slicked back hair of 1920’s gamblers and their molls. One large, bizarre painting begged for analysis. It was filled haphazardly with bright, miscellaneous images: a rainbow, fish, birds, a naked man and woman in the bushes, an American flag, a long-haired man, among them. Who better but the Flaming Bore to explain this work of modern art.
“Okay, I believe this is a religious piece,” I expertly speculated. “We have Adam and Eve, of course, and the rainbow and birds and fish symbolize Noah’s survival of the flood. That long-haired guy lying below the flag means that Jesus loves Americans.”
“That’s not Jesus,” Mary said. “That’s a hippie.”
“How do you know?” I asked.
“He’s wearing a brown leather belt,” she correctly pointed out.
“Well, maybe this means Jesus was a flag-waving hippie.”
The Gallery Greeter forced a smile. (“Crazy Americans.”)
I lost track of how many great galleries we hit up that afternoon. We also saw sculptures (including the stoned lady in repose, above), weaving, pottery, fountains, antique furniture--just about every type of fine art imaginable. Well, I take that back. There WAS one medium missing. Perhaps Rat and Mary and I need to test out the market and see if Santa Fe is ready for seed and pasta plaques.
3 comments:
My favorite art gallery venue in New Mexico is Taos. That is where Georgia O'Keefe has her Gallery. But we last went there about 9 years ago and it was during the corn festival. I saw this as sort of like the Corn Palace in Iowa. I was wrong!! These were Indians who still worship the God of Corn. It was a week long mescal loaded, mushroom smoking crowd. They all had low riders and after dark it became exceedingly scarey. When we noticed the crowds thinning out, we returned to our hotel--now this is the Hyatt Regency--and to our surprise, the parking lot was full of corn husk burning, shall I say smoking natives, partially dressed and painting with some lurid blue phosphorescent paint on each others bodies. I got the strong feeling it was about as safe as a La Raza meeting in LA during August. The next day all the doors of the upscale galleries that sell junk similar to those you mentioned had their doors painted blue. This meant don't loot them because they sold Indian made artifacts. Now, my thoughts of loving to retire to the artists' colony in Taos flew right out of my head. Still one of the most mystical places I've ever been though. And should my son ever manage Philmont, I might reconsider and just stay home during the corn festival.
(a braid running down past her butt)That is art! ;)
I love art and it sounds like you guys got to see some good stuff. I wish I had a huge house to collect different pieces and have rooms with themes.
I drove right through Taos without stopping. I wanted to get into the mountains. But now, Literary Diva, I know why my brother and his wife like returning there so often...ha!
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