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| Wheeler Peak, Great Basin National Park, Nevada |
In 2005, my brother Steve and I hit US Highway 50 to pursue
a book devoted to The Loneliest Road in America. The idea came from a conversation that
happened while camping in Great Basin National Park. Painting the highway had been on my mind for
many years, and Steve being a writer suggested turning it into a book. Having parents in Fillmore, Utah and Reno,
Nevada, we grew up with a 500 mile commute between families. I mentioned that in a statement written for an exhibition at Valley House Gallery, Dallas, Texas. There was sometimes an assumption that the title was a reflection on a lonely childhood when
it was actually a description of place. That
is the official name of the highway. Childhood
was how I knew of the Great Basin. I was
never lonely in a car. There was too
much to see for me to be anything but engage.
The sky sailed high above pinion and sage as travel profiled range after
range on a blue horizon. Life got in the
way. The book never happened. Individual passages written for specific
paintings is as close as we got to that compilation. When I wrote the following, my audience
initially seems to be Steve.
Playa
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| Playa oil on canvas 17 3/8 x 7 15/16 inches 2009 |
It has been more than four years since we stopped in the
little valley cradled between the outskirts of Fernley and the bend in the road
known as Hazen, Nevada. I don’t know
where you were or what you were doing while I shot photographs of the hills and
playa that framed the northern view of a land that lead to Lovelock and beyond,
but it was so far away that it was out of view even in the clean crisp air of
an unusually cool June morning. Perhaps
you were taking notes that could describe in concrete detail the memory of a
land I just tried to communicate to you.
I was on the road a couple of months ago and passed this
way. The previous day took me as far as
Bob Scott Summit. Having no desire to
travel the night, I crawled off into a sleeping bag in the back of the Sonata. A starry sky filled the windows of my modest accommodation. What a luxury that was. The city intensifies darkness, burning out nearly
all the shades between black and white, leaving night as subtle as compressed
charcoal. However out here in the
pinion, the stars shine bright, and night is lighter than I ever imagined it to
be, even in the absence of moonlight.
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| Morning view of Austin, Nevada |
I left in early morning starlight and headed for Austin
Summit to capture the rise of dawn. I
got out of the car. I was glad to be
wearing gloves. October had frozen the
shoulder of the road I walked along taking pictures of the pass. Aspen slopes glowed green, yellow and gold, and
the sage was weather-beaten. In Austin,
the first service station hadn’t open yet.
The next station was the only other station in town. Its signage read pay before you pump, so I
stayed on the highway. Just outside of
town, I reconsidered that decision.
Fallon was 111 miles away and there was no warning sign. When you leave Green River , Utah
It was early afternoon by the time I passed by the playa; I
had taken many pictures along the way making my travel time even longer. It was not the same. Two or three drilling rigs now inhabit the
small valley. The reason I am not sure
of the number is I had no desire to document what I saw. I realized that this end of the highway was
filling in. Americans are always looking
for a home on the range. However, because
they want space to be convenient, the city grows out to where the wind blew not
so long ago, unrestrained, kicking and chasing tumble weeds just to disturb the
dust, never ever caring that the dust just wanted to settle down somewhere out
on the playa.
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| Handmade book for Playa 4 1/2 x 3 x 3/8 inches |
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