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| CLIFF'S GAS DIESEL, Holly, Colorado; U.S. Highway 50 acrylic 8 3/8 x 26 x 4 inches |
Holly, Colorado was the last town before crossing over
into Kansas on east bound U.S. Highway 50.
The plan was to a camp north of Stockton, Kansas so I could drive with
sunrise back into Colorado. Exhausted,
I stopped at a closed filling station to examine a map. Turning around, I searched for a road I failed
to spot. At that hour, the highway
hosted only intermittent trucks. In an area
of fog I saw the turn off. The methane
fog filled with dust driving in a land of feedlots. With each and every turn I wondered if I was
getting any closer. The road came to a
tee. On the left, there was a hollow of
trees. A lane straight ahead led to a
house and other structures that hovered around a small porch light. I turned right. Headlights highlighted insect collisions when a
sense of destiny began to settle in.
Continued travel on gravel only led deeper into starlit fields with a moon
that would soon slip behind the horizon.
It was nice to be on the highway heading back to a
rest area I past just before leaving Colorado. Although the plan was to camp, sleeping in
the car was not impossible. By folding
the backseats forward, the trunk could accommodate 8 foot lengths of molding,
it seemed like a sleeping bag could also fit into that space. With part of the bag encased in the hollow of
the trunk, getting in was a bit tricky. Climbing through one of the back doors, I slid
into the sleeping bag. With my feet in
the trunk, I embraced starlight from the calm of my pillow. Although more comfortable, the car provided a
private viewing of the nighttime sky that a tent denies. It was nice to no longer be moving. I settled in listening to the sound of
crickets and other travelers pulling in.
With a sweep of idle headlights, car doors opened and closed. Restrained voices trailed off; time acquired
the weight of late arrival.
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| CLIFF'S GAS DIESEL, Holly, Colorado; U.S. Highway 50 (Left Side Detail) |
I arrived by morning light. The main street was off the highway as many
main streets are out on the open plains.
Back on the highway, CLIFF’S GAS DIESEL was surrounded by piles of
tires. It was hard to tell exactly what
Cliff did. Outdated pumps stood in front
of a rundown building, yet his business seemed to carry on. I liked the station’s architecture. It reminded me of a time when I enjoyed the
highway as a child. To say I like
something implies a preference for the subjects I select.
While that may be true, it doesn’t happen in the ways you might expect. I like everything. Every place has moments, and one of those moments was a moment when I happened to be somewhere. That may sound egocentric, but the only moment I know is the one I’m living in. I realize dawn has come to Holly many times before, and that morning is an ordinary affair, but it is that common occurrence that seems to be so rare. Instead of trying to create or capture the spectacular, I am thoroughly invested in minor events. And since life is always happening, it doesn’t matter whether I am standing by a pile of tires or overlooking a vale of the Great Basin. The same light that revels in sedimentary uplift sparkles in bits of broken glass and the asphalt patina flash that skips past fast food carcass discards along an open highway. Feel the exhilaration in a swirl of rough and dusty leaves kicking up ruts and sailing across puddles permanently plaguing the bend of an alleyway.
With the filling station withstanding the ravages of time, I thought it might be nice to capture the historic nature of the place. Of course, that could easily be achieved by using color. Although color generally belongs to the realm of painting, I thought I would paint the station in shades associated with photography. And although we see in color, thoughts of yesterday can be layered in shades of gray. That is not to say that memory is colorless. It is just that the paper trail of the past includes books, newspapers and magazines printed in black and white. Photography dated parents and grandparents while still young in pallid shades of gray. In that mix fell sepia prints. Painting in shades of photography plays into a placement of frames on a desk, mantle or shelf. Though not portraiture, landscapes have a capacity to spark hidden bits of consciousness. Simple sights or sounds may remind us of other times and places. Nostalgia is a riddle of the familiar. The frame is reminiscent of snapshots, the evidence of a planned vacation, except no happy couple stands in front of an exquisite destination. It is the domain of place, any place that is so compelling. Another day arises on a highway in the town of Holly, Colorado. As dilapidated as the filling station seems to be, CLIFF’S GAS DIESEL is still in business. I could hear work going on in the garage as I got into the car ready to hit the highway.
While that may be true, it doesn’t happen in the ways you might expect. I like everything. Every place has moments, and one of those moments was a moment when I happened to be somewhere. That may sound egocentric, but the only moment I know is the one I’m living in. I realize dawn has come to Holly many times before, and that morning is an ordinary affair, but it is that common occurrence that seems to be so rare. Instead of trying to create or capture the spectacular, I am thoroughly invested in minor events. And since life is always happening, it doesn’t matter whether I am standing by a pile of tires or overlooking a vale of the Great Basin. The same light that revels in sedimentary uplift sparkles in bits of broken glass and the asphalt patina flash that skips past fast food carcass discards along an open highway. Feel the exhilaration in a swirl of rough and dusty leaves kicking up ruts and sailing across puddles permanently plaguing the bend of an alleyway.
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| CLIFF'S GAS DIESEL, Holly, Colorado; U.S. Highway 50 (Right Side Detail) |
With the filling station withstanding the ravages of time, I thought it might be nice to capture the historic nature of the place. Of course, that could easily be achieved by using color. Although color generally belongs to the realm of painting, I thought I would paint the station in shades associated with photography. And although we see in color, thoughts of yesterday can be layered in shades of gray. That is not to say that memory is colorless. It is just that the paper trail of the past includes books, newspapers and magazines printed in black and white. Photography dated parents and grandparents while still young in pallid shades of gray. In that mix fell sepia prints. Painting in shades of photography plays into a placement of frames on a desk, mantle or shelf. Though not portraiture, landscapes have a capacity to spark hidden bits of consciousness. Simple sights or sounds may remind us of other times and places. Nostalgia is a riddle of the familiar. The frame is reminiscent of snapshots, the evidence of a planned vacation, except no happy couple stands in front of an exquisite destination. It is the domain of place, any place that is so compelling. Another day arises on a highway in the town of Holly, Colorado. As dilapidated as the filling station seems to be, CLIFF’S GAS DIESEL is still in business. I could hear work going on in the garage as I got into the car ready to hit the highway.
