A writing prompt asked recently, “If an artist did a painting your life, what would it look like?” I responded that my painting would probably contain a box with lines squiggling out of it on all sides. Why a box? I am pretty self-contained, and I spent my youth trying to color inside the lines. But I ever-increasing moments of reckless abandon that pierce the lines.
The architecture of New Mexico is full of wonderful lines and angles. So many urban lines and angles anywhere else seem cold and oppressive. But here their organic origins—both old adobe and the new fake variety—lend a softness, a gentility and warmth unknown to steel. What would a painting of your life look like?