CONTEMPORARY EXPLORER

  The cold of a Boston winter cuts through you like a knife, making the walk from the office long. I pulled my coat tighter, the sight of South Station emboldening me on.  The station was shrouded in a frosty haze and filled with trains. The grand ones, NE Regional and Acela dominated it. Fast, they would take you to NYC in 4 hours, serve you drinks and new people to meet.  Not so the ones of the MTBA, Boston’s commuter options. The subway creaky and old, locals called the T. Next to it, the commuter train lines sat quietly waiting, with the purple and red set of cars. These were the ones I took, they each had a name, mine the Haverhill Line. I often thought about trips to NYC or DC on the grand ones, but Haverhill Line took me back to Kathy each night. I just called it “The Train”…

  I’ve been struck recently by articles about Japanese photographer Daido Moriyama and Midwest photographer Nathan Pearces. Despite being in vastly different parts of the world, they both jumped off the beaten path to explore mundane places where there was no reason for going. Paul Theroux, the writer, also traveled backroads and prized meetings with people in places forgotten. They all found brief glimpses of beauty and insights that made great art in what others considered banality.

  Gas pumps have been around since 1885, changing much through the years. Invented by Sylvanus Bowser, there were often referred to by his name, still a fixture at some airport fueling hubs. Gas pumps don’t evoke the same fascination they once did. The ring of the bell when a car arriving, the clicking of the numbers, the brightly emblazoned logo of the brand. Modern pumps are called headers and often only vary by the number of different fuels they dispense. All parts mechanically controlled by computer. Usually, you can’t wait to leave their uninspiring and expensive presence. The only saving grace, how quickly they dispense. Older pumps with their colorful character and cranks have disappeared, except in remote or nostalgic places like Route 66. When you're lucky enough to find one, it’s not only the mechanics that enthrall you, it’s their unique art garnered with time. Scrapes, rust and faded colors all pull you in. All treasured memories from times past…

  It is said that if the desert likes your dreams, it will let you stay. If not, it will sweep you away… Perhaps no place reflects this more than Tonopah AZ, a dusty truck stop along I-10 between Buckeye and LA. Over the last 3,000 years it is said that Hokokam, Papayan, Hakataya and Yavapair people have lived in the area, but little remains of there time, save the few petroglyphs in the Saddle Mountains nearby. Once US 80, one of the first cross country roads, went through here. Health seekers and travelers in the 1920’s sought out the warm water wells in the area for their special healing. The native meaning for Tonopah is water. Saguaro Health Sanitarium was built, but now just a fading roadside motel. A local air strip to the east of town anchors planes forgotten by time. Settlers who first came in 1916 found the promised riches in agriculture elusive. Even with exotic approaches, this remains the case today. The only claim to fame the area has is the Palo Verde Nuclear plant, the

  Out front the art all lined up and perfect for the viewing, but there is always the back of the gallery. Where the egos and work of the artists are all stacked up, vying for attention among the trappings of life. A place where showings are plotted, sales confirmed and numbers crunched. All done amidst the crying out of art wanting to be seen. Ode to the back of the gallery where the real art work is done…

  EXHIBIT A - you never know the truth until the end….