CONTEMPORARY EXPLORER

  I turned the corner and there it was waiting like a siren. Always within, the desire to open a small business. People would come to me, buy goods and know me by name. Then you think about what you have now, the risk, the small rewards and long hours. The desire still flickers in you, but you drive on…

  Sometimes it’s the simple things you pass in life, a reflection in the window or mark on a wall, that give you peace in the city. The time to reflect and find yourself again…

  I traveled south through the Sonoran desert with my camera following the old route to Tucson along the Mexican border. The sight of a large adobe plaza and church in a nearly abandoned town stopped me. I heard of this place before, a place called Ajo. Some say the Spanish named it. Others the Tohono O’odam people who prized the red pigment (O’cho) found here they used for paint. It wasn’t the pigment though that fueled the once boom here, it was copper. Veins ran deep, before the desert took them away. In the plaza, a small group of men sat at a table, sharing coffee, chat and the morning news. I leaned against my car, thinking I should approach. They maybe knew the legends of ghosts in the abandoned mines, the secret aquifer water holes that allowed the Indians to live here. The source of the desert North wind which blew so hard. The people left in this small away town, quieted by time. I turned to look at my car, there were still many desert miles to travel. Each one later telling

  Stairway 6 stood in the far corner of the parking garage. No one ever used it, but there was art there. Garages are enigmas of convenience. They are mysterious, unliked and like a puzzle.  Some garages have ruined the looks of downtowns, every city seemed addicted to building them, often at the cost of classic architecture and districts. Still others are useful appendages of buildings such as malls and mega offices. Affording convenience and entry. No one really likes them though. Seemingly not even the contractors who build them. Almost to the one, they show roughness in build, unfinished concrete walls, marks here and there. Still if you look close enough, you can find a certain art, born out of the imperfectness. Viewed as a whole they overwhelm. Only in study of small portions do these visions of art emerge, even in a simple stairway.

  To often we quickly pass through small places without stopping to enjoy the notes of their  (Studebaker door and hood)