In a trailer looking south, I can see the little creek that runs behind the Los Molinos Middle School. Behind that school is I99. There is a constant buzz in the air, from truck engines and crickets and sometimes the distant screeches of the school kids at play. My home, the Mobile Mansion was built in 1954 of aluminum siding and a wood paneled interior. It’s front arcs forward like a thing in motion but it has likely been parked in this old orchard for many years. Across from my door, is the tiny creek, the irrigation kind that flows high and deep or muddy and sluggish depending on the needs of the surrounding farms. Large trees flank the shores of my creek. Their graceful branches dip and crease the surface of the passing water. There are always birds here chirping and squawking, buzzing around --great herons and blue jays, woodpeckers, ducks --flying below the tree line and skidding to a landing. I can see a bright orange pylon submerged in the murky brown depths. Its point peeks out. Tiny fish dart in and around the cylindrical body and nibble at the soft algae clinging to its sides.
I spent the early part of this summer on a ranch just outside the sleepy town of Los Molinos, comprised of a few simple buildings and a tiny strip mall set right on Hwy 99. I lived in an old trailer parked in a thicket of ancient prune trees and lanky oaks. On Saturdays I would visit the mall laundry matt that sat next to a bar that stayed open all day. Inside the bright launderette, under the watchful gaze of security cameras and the transparent eyes of dryers, I stuffed my washing (sleeping bag, pillow case, jeans), added a pocketful of quarters, then went outside to sit on a bench and read. One morning a bar patron wobbled out of the bar, lit a cigarette and joined me on my bench. Without introduction, she began a story as if we had been sitting there for hours. In the intimate tone of an old friend she talked of a wayward spouse that moved to Texas and ended up marrying again leaving her nothing but debt. The story went on and on, as if the sound of her own voice alone could restore humor and lessen the murky disappointment. As she talked, I sketched the inside of the matt looking through the window from the bench where we sat.
In front of the White Star Laundromat young families hang out in the heavy southern heat, blasting Spanish music from their parked cars. The moment I step inside the olive green interior, the thick glass muffles the street noise. In the cool air conditioning, I can sit for hours uninterrupted in my thoughts. There is the thump of drying clothes and repetitions of things outside, telephone poles and streetlights, to soothe the mind. They multiply in the reflective surfaces, on the wall length mirror and picture window, merging with the scenery inside.
The "Four Flames" Motel in Durham, NC has seen better days, for sure. I love the textures and colors created as the exterior decays--the peeling blue paint reveals older coats of red and yellow, and the falling paneling lays bare the cinderblock wall beneath. This motel stood as a sort of welcoming landmark near the freeway exit to downtown Durham. I believe it has been torn down. Acrylic on pine panel.
Waiting in Albuquerque airport for a three hour delayed plane, I drew this passenger (bottom image) because she sat uncomfortably on the edge of her seat in her heavy coat and stockings. In the window behind her, the drooping wires of the tarmac seemed to echo her resignation. She never looked my way once as I sat and drew only a few feet in front of her. Above image- a reading passenger sprawls across an empty row of seats, enjoying that rare luxury of having no neighbors. New Mexico. 8" x 8" Oil on panel.
