He who has experienced solitude shall not easily become a victim of mass persuasion.
                                                                                                                   

                                                                               -A. Einstein

   What, exactly, defines art? I am familiar with the typical definitions of course, but doesn't that define only typical art? Where, for instance, do we draw the line between art and graffiti? Is it graffiti only if it is rendered on something that is owned and treasured by someone else, or does an abandoned building in the middle of nowhere count as well? At what point do we accept graffiti as part of the urban landscape, a viable form of art that deserves a place in our culture? Do we ever welcome it, or is it always a blight on the landscape? If a significant number of people dislike a public piece of art, does that make it graffiti? I once heard music defined as "the poetry of the people"; measured by the same yardstick, is graffiti the artwork of the people?

   All these questions come to mind because I have recently realized that some of my favorite photos, popular among viewers as well, contain an element of graffiti. So, does this mean I am promoting graffiti as an acceptable thing by photographing it? Most of the structures in these photos are far outside of towns and are obviously abandoned, but probably still do technically belong to a property owner somewhere. Is it o.k. as long as it's "artistic" tagging, but not if it is "ugly" tagging? Who is qualified to make that call? Certainly not me, even with years of art training under my belt.

   I think we can all agree that two or three letters scrawled on the side of a city library is graffiti and not to be tolerated, but what if the midnight artist rendered a beautiful portrait of a famous author along with his or her initials? Does that then become public art? What if the powers that be painted a bad piece of art on the same wall to cover the uninvited portrait; does the new painting then become graffiti? If a community mural is altered or covered with new artwork without the consent of the original artist, is that vandalism?

   On a section of old Route 66 between Amboy and Chambless, CA there is an embankment where generations of travelers have left messages written in rocks, sticks, bottle caps and other roadside detritus. S+S proclaim their love from inside a rock edged heart, while Asia says just that; "ASIA". Is it a person or a geographic designation? We'll never know, and for myself, I prefer it that way. The mystery is part of the beauty; so, are all these people vandals tagging the highway with graffiti, or are they artists participating in an interactive highway art installation? Perhaps, you say, it's not graffiti because of it's transitory nature. After all, rocks are a natural element easily removed if desired; but do we really desire their removal? What about the petroglyphs left by early man? Technically that is probably graffiti too, but think how much of our history as a species would be lost without those simple "tags" left by our ancestors.

   I think it is safe to say that art is a constantly changing concept that adapts itself to the times, and what is art today may not be considered as such down the road. Art revolves around symbolism, and the definitions of symbols are constantly changing. What is arguably the most hated symbol in recent history was known in Native American culture as "whirling logs". It was a traditional symbol used in sand painting, rug and basket designs, and in jewelry designs. After it was hijacked by the dark side prior to WWII, the tribes stopped using the design (incidentally leaving us with a pretty good way to date native designs to pre or post c.1940). This is just one of many such examples, but I'm sure you get my point.
   So, will I stop shooting graffiti covered buildings in the interest of preserving art in it's purest form? Not a chance, my friends! Will I make postcards out of hateful messages scrawled on buildings and scratched on windows? Not a chance, my friends! I guess we each have to draw our own line in the desert sand and let others choose whether to step over it or not.

   Peace!         -Lynn

           

                                                     
                                                        Not all who wander are lost!

   I was born in Paradise, a small town in the foothills east of Chico, CA in a house amidst the pines. From there my family moved to another house among giant trees, this time in the tiny mountain community of Zayante, where the trees surrounding us were redwoods instead of pines. One winter of living in a home where the deck pilings were a target for the huge trees wallowing down the rain swollen creek below was enough for Mother, and the following summer we moved down the mountain to the (then) small and sleepy town of Santa Cruz, on the coast of California's Monterey Bay. Although it was my parents' choice to live where we have, I've quite happily spent most of my life either in the mountains or along the seashore, and I love them both. Anywhere I can be outside of four walls most of the year gets my vote; so why is it that I feel so strongly drawn to the desert country?

   Whenever I pick up a U.S. map, my finger goes to the southwest like a divining rod to water; I don't really know why. I know that I feel like I can really breathe there, but I feel that way in the mountains too. I'm not talking about physically breathing, although that is easier in the dry air as well, but more in a spiritual or psychological sense. When my husband Joe and I were photographing late model stock cars for a living, he once commented that their beauty lies in their violence. If you have never had the privilege of seeing these cars race, let me explain what he meant by that. The late models are very powerful, very lightweight cars that make upwards of 1200 horsepower and when they race on a 1/4 mile or 1/3 mile dirt track they are truly a thing of beauty. What Joe was referring to with his comment is how the cars are so powerful that they "stand up", lifting anywhere from one to three wheels in the air as they fly around the oval track, twisting the frame violently in the process. We've seen them do this for almost a full lap at a time, sometimes even longer, so we know that the violent can also be beautiful on occasion. Don't misunderstand me.. I am not an advocate of violence, it's just that some violent things can also have an innate beauty to them. The desert is like that; the contrast of triple digit temperatures in the day and near freezing temperatures at night could be viewed as a type of violence, without adding in the lack of water one minute and flash flooding the next, with nary a cloud in sight.

   The desert is without doubt a harsh and unforgiving environment, but it is not without beauty to temper the violence of it's extreme nature. Even on broiling days, there are the brilliant pinks and golden yellows of cactus flowers. The heat haze paints the distant mountains and sage in soft purple and grey pastels. Distance is deceiving; the faraway snowy peaks seem within walking distance and many a desert visitor has been led to their death by that deception. The desert is tricky as well as fascinating. The landscape seems a barren wasteland to most, but those who look closely see numerous forms of life that have adapted to life in the desert. A wide variety of creatures hide underground and in rocky crevices during the blasting heat of the day, but the place comes alive at sunset.

   Have I mentioned the sunsets? A truly magical thing happens as the sun drops to the distant horizon. Suddenly those dusty grey shapes in the distance become gilded in hues of gold and scarlet and lavender. The sky gradually becomes a luminous blue stairway to the heavens and tiny pinpoints of light appear, singly and then by the thousands; and unlike the light-poisoned metropolitan areas they go all the way down to the horizon where a thin wash of heliotrope still lingers, reluctant to relinquish it's hold on the day.  And it's not just glittering stars that appear in the desert night skies; other strange and wonderful things reveal themselves to those who remember to look up. Comets, falling stars, satellites, military aircraft that "don't exist", and strange lights that can't be categorized all illuminate the magnificent void above us. In the vast unlit areas of the southwest all these magical, mysterious objects suddenly become visible to the eye without additional aid. If you are lucky enough (or plan well enough) to have binoculars or a telescope, you will discover a whole new world splashed across the incredible night sky overhead.

   While you look wonderingly above you, the desert floor  begins to swarm with activity around you. Small rustling sounds in the sage nearby leaves you guessing, while the staccato yips and cries on the night breeze are more recognizable. Coyotes are viewed as dangerous pests in cities, but their chorus is a perfect musical accompaniment to the night out here on their own turf. The light breeze that carries their song is a welcome relief to the overpowering heat of the day, and the temptation to stay up all night is strong.

   Dawn in the desert is cold and sharp, and breathing is as painful as it is exhilarating. Starting from a faint blue-white glow the horizon line slowly takes on a soft golden hue, which then becomes a rose colored wash extending further upward toward the retreating stars with each passing minute. The rose soon morphs into a more vibrant crimson hue which transforms into an orange-red tint, then a liquid tangerine which in turn becomes a searing orange ball of flame as the sun rises above the distant peaks. Another day is born; the mountains far across the valley floor take on the mauve tone they wear in the light of day, the last remaining critters of the night return to hiding, and waves of heat can be seen building before your eyes.

   Daytime in the desert can be temperate in winter and the transitional seasons but is blistering hot during the summer months, and summer lasts longer here than in most geographical areas. Everywhere you look you can see decaying signs of hearty pioneers who took on the harsh conditions in search of a new beginning. Some came to start over, others were running away from something; many were heading west and, for myriad reasons, never
made it any further. Untold numbers followed the siren song of a golden temptress and spent years searching and digging in the dry, scorching hills and valleys; but gold is a fickle mistress and most who came to these arid hills, accompanied only by their complacent burros, left empty handed. Many of them never left at all, finding a lonely resting place somewhere out there under the blazing sun. To this day the amiable descendants of miners' abandoned burros mooch around the gold rush town of Oatman, AZ, and are a tourist favorite.

.
   Commonly visible throughout the desert country, abandoned cars, cabins, houses, mines, and often entire towns attest to the spirit of the early pioneers. They were a hardy breed who believed they could conquer the hostile climate, and some succeeded. Scotty's Castle in Death Valley is proof of that, but many (perhaps most) fell short of success. The desolate, abandoned ghosts of the silent desert are part of what makes this territory so mysterious and compelling. Within every one of these tottering structures, with windows like blank staring eyes, lies buried a story of someone's hopes and dreams. Was that dream ever fulfilled? Was this just a stop on the road to a better place, or was this dismal shack where the dream ended? Did the dreamer move on, or are they entombed somewhere under a broken cross concealed by decades of shifting sand? In some cases the story is known and a little research will yield an answer; in most cases the closing line of the story will remain forever a mystery, known only to the ghosts of the desert.

   Those of you who have driven this lonesome stretch of old Route 66 have seen the rusting hulks of Model-T's and other vehicles alongside the road; each one is a tribute to the undying American belief that we can make things better if we just take the bit between our teeth and go for it. Some of these early travelers merely exchanged the dust of dying farmland for the dust of the desert, while others passed through to the "land of promise" farther west. Many of us are the descendants of those early pioneers, as is my husband. My family came west later, but over the same inhospitable route as these earlier pioneers. There were roads then but not a lot of bridges, and it was a long, hot, dusty journey punctuated by flash floods and dust storms; I remember my grandmother telling tales of that trip!

   So as I sit here in the sticky, humid, sweltering 105 degree heat of a record smashing coastal heat wave, I still yearn for the desert. So many times I've heard the joke "but it's a dry heat"; those of you who live in an area with lots of moisture in the air know it's true... there is a difference! While I may not fully understand my desire to be in the desert, I do know that a preference for dry heat is not the reason; there is much more to it. I think it is really a combination of things, but mostly my enjoyment of open spaces and untold possibilities. Like those earlier desert dwellers, I see beyond the heat and emptiness to what lies within the heart of the desert; the vast spaces that compel you to venture ever further, seeking you know not what. The mystery and enchantment of fiery colors against pastel hues; the perception that sunrise and sunset are both a beginning; the feeling that no matter how solitary your journey you never walk alone, for the ghosts of those gone before walk with you; these things will continue to draw me back to the enigma that is the Great American Desert until one day I, too, joyously join the spirits on the night wind.



   Be well, my friends, and live the life you deserve!        -Lynn    
 

   She was almost a ghost when the Guardian Angel of Route 66 came forward to save her, and it has been quite a ride for both of them ever since.

   Sitting astride the longest remaining stretch of the original US Route 66 lies a town that has, in a secular sense, been reborn. Located on the former site of an early settlement of the Havasupai people, it later became a stage stop on the Mojave Road. The name Prescott Junction was coined when the Arizona Central Railway Co connected it's Prescott feeder line to the
Atchison Topeka &
Santa Fe Railway mainline, which had reached this point in 1882. This information is of particular interest to my husband Joe and myself, as his great great grandfather on his maternal grandfathers side, Col. Henry Clay Nutt (1833-1892) was on the board of directors of the AT&SF Railway. He was also a major player in pushing through the legislation that allowed the southern spur of the railway to be built in the New Mexico Territory. The fact that Joe's ancestor was instrumental in the opening of the southwest territories to settlement is a matter of great pride for both of us. Joe is currently in process of adding Nutt to his surname, as he has always felt a very strong connection to that part of his heritage; perhaps the ever-present call of the desert originates there. Our later travels will take us to Nutt Mountain, which is located a few miles from Nutt, NM. We will also visit the Mt. Nutt Wilderness area in Arizona, which is just about 100 miles from the town which was re-named Seligman in 1886 in honor of Jesse Seligman of the JW Seligman Co. of New York, which had helped to fund the rail lines in this area.

   In 1891 the rail line replaced the inefficient Prescott feeder line and the junction was move northeast to Ash Fork. Seligman became a switching yard and shipping point for local cattle ranchers. The economy was boosted somewhat by the fact that this terminal was used as an overnight stop by the crews as they switched teams between Winslow and Needles, CA. The crew members rented cottages, shopped in local stores and even attended sporting events at the town's school. Some old-timers in the area tell tales of long time friendships forged between locals and railway workers, many of whom
considered themselves residents and became like family.
   In 1926, portions of existing roads between Chicago and Santa Monica were pieced together to form US Route 66, a move designed to make it easier for people to drive across the country uninterrupted. Up until 1933 the original roadway paralleled the railroad tracks through Seligman, but as train travel slowed and auto travel increased the highway was re-routed one block north to its current location.

   Route 66 continued to play an important part in Seligman's growth as an overnight stopping point for travelers chasing the California Dream. From the highway's inception in 1926 until it was bypassed by Interstate 40 in 1978, this section of the Mother Road carried Americans from east to west by the thousands. Refugees from the
devastation of the dust bowl chugged through in Model T Fords with their entire lives strapped to roof and running boards throughout the 1930's. In the early to mid 40's huge military convoys moved soldiers and the trappings of war back and forth across the desert, but it wasn't until after WWII that tourism really took off. Returning veterans flush with cash bought cars and the era of auto tourism and the family road trip vacation began. Many of those same veterans had fond memories of getting off the train here to march up and down the main street of town to stretch their legs as they headed across country prior to shipping out, and that drew them back here in droves. The southwest immediately became a popular destination and the quiet, dusty towns along America's Highway began to boom. Indian trading posts popped up every few miles and every wide spot in the road filled with motor courts, gas stations, cafes, and
enough curio shops to choke a horse. You can still see the sun-bleached remains today.

   Seligman was no different from other small communities in its appetite for growth. In 1966, the decision was made to widen the highway to four lanes to handle the increased flow of traffic. This was quite a project, as some buildings sat directly in the path of the added lanes and had to be demolished and re-built further back. The town continued to prosper until 1978, when the opening of Interstate 40 just two miles away shut off the flow of cars like the closing of a floodgate. When the railroad decided eight years later to discontinue using Seligman as an overnight stop for their crews, the combined drop in income proved disastrous to the small, close-knit community. Businesses began closing doors and shuttering windows along the previously busy main street, but the residents turned out to be a tough and resilient breed; desert dwellers have to be just to survive, let alone prosper in this harsh but beautiful climate.

   The town took another hard hit in 1984 when passenger trains ceased to stop there, leaving only freight and through trains thundering past on their way to enrich other towns. The Seligman community stubbornly refused to give up on their home and fought valiantly for economic survival, but their tenuous hold was slowly slipping away when one man, second generation barber and lifelong resident Angel Delgadillo, stepped up to the plate. Delgadillo's family had emigrated from Mexico in 1917 for his father's work. Angel was
born in Seligman in 1927, and he and his siblings grew up in a house right beside Route 66 near the edge of town. You could say that he grew up with the highway and had a front row seat to the parade of history that passed along it. He still does today; at age 90 he is still active and cutting hair for those lucky enough to have good timing. His barber shop, which was his father's before him, is today filled with old photos and memorabilia and is a popular stop in Seligman. Back in 1987, however, he was just a guy who believed that Route 66 could again be a major tourist destination if people could just be reminded that it hadn't disappeared with the advent of the interstate highway system. With this in mind he organized a meeting with other like-minded folks from other towns along the highway at a local restaurant, the Copper Cart, and the Historic Route 66 Association was formed. Together these creative visionaries planned, pushed and prodded until the State of Arizona dedicated the section of 66 from Seligman in the east to Kingman in the west as "Historic Route 66", a designation today shared by all remaining sections of the original US
Route 66. The plan succeeded beyond anyone's wildest dreams; when Angel and his wife Vilma first put a few memorabilia knick-knacks for sale in their barber shop, the modern era of Rt. 66 tourism was born. The tourists came, and the towns along the route experienced a revival that continues to this day. For it's part in the restoration of the Mother Road, Seligman today holds the title of "The Birthplace of Route 66".
   When we were there this last time, in July of this year, the town was bustling with tourists and Route 66 aficionados from around the world. I heard more languages spoken that day than one would in the lobby of the United Nations Building. People milled about inside and in front of every building, and selfies were being take
n every two seconds. A band played for an appreciative audience of foot tappers outside the Snow Cap Drive- In. This iconic eatery, built in 1953 (mostly of scrap material from the rail yard) by Angel's late brother Juan Delgadillo (1916-2004), is still owned by his family. Juan's famous sense of humor is reflected in menu items that include "cheeseburgers with cheese" and "dead chicken". The entry door has two knobs; the one on the right is a dummy and the one on the left gains you entry to the counter area,
where hundreds of business cards in a cornucopia of languages from all over the world hang from walls and ceiling (no, I didn't, but I will next time!).

   I was surprised to see that even our 1977 GMC Classic motorhome, parked in front of the "Rt 66 Hippie Cricket", a quirky shop with a bright yellow and orange vintage Volkswagen Beetle with a

toilet on the roof in the front yard, was attracting it's share of "photo ops" from other tourists. Seriously ... a VW Bug with a toilet on the roof ... and people are taking pictures of our motorhome! I love this place! People who come here truly appreciate vintage things. Nostalgia is King!
 



I'm telling you, this town was really hopping! It was around 104 degrees Fahrenheit that day and the crowd around the soda fountain and gourmet coffee bar was far too thick to navigate (I'm guessing iced coffee was far outselling hot), so we wandered on down the street.  Strolling through the historic buildings brimming with unique shops and cafes, diners and museums, was a wonderful way to fill several hours; truthfully, I could have stayed for days, and in future trips I may do just that. The beauty of this place is that all these businesses are locally owned, and while all are based on nostalgia, each one shows you the specific perspective of it's owner or owners; most all of them are eclectic, quirky, and just plain fun! It is the land of cute sayings on everything from t-shirts to magnets (my favorite was "I'm pretty sure my last words will be 'Hold my beer and watch this!'). There are no big box chain stores here, no every-flavor-as-long-as-it's- vanilla shops. There are a couple of "primary-color" gas stations and a "green-and-yellow" sandwich shop at the I-40 off-ramp and at the edge of town, but not here in town, and that is exactly how I hope it
stays.
   The town of Seligman is widely recognized as the inspiration for the mythical "Radiator Springs" in the animated Pixar movie Cars, and cars are indeed the name of the game here. (A less widely known fact is that the scene in "Cars" where the town disappears off the map after the interstate passes it by is based on Angel Delgadillo's description of how the 9000 cars passing through downtown Seligman
daily in 1978 literally stopped overnight when I-40 opened).

   The ever-present reminders of the
American car culture's influence on this stretch of highway includes the neon shrouded retro-style motor courts still functioning in their original capacity today, as well as vintage gas stations and cars of every era and style. Old road signs, oil cans and advertising art pay homage to cars and motorcycles in every shop and on every corner. The town hosts many rallies and car club events and fun runs every year, some drawing over 800 cars each year. Harleys and Indians rumble through town on a daily basis, leather clad riders flashing upside-down peace signs at riders on late model japanese bikes, the universal signal for "it's all good, Bro". International tourists "get their kicks" in vintage corvettes and t-birds rented from boutique rental companies, and everyone makes a pit stop at the Roadkill Cafe, who's motto is "you
kill it, we grill it", for a Splatter Platter or Swirl of Squirrel plate.

   Thanks to Angel Delgadillo, often referred to as "the Guardian Angel of Route 66" or "the Father of the Mother Road", Seligman and other towns along the original highway have survived and prospered as examples of Main Street America as it used to be in a simpler time. These neon-lit meccas of nostalgia have been embraced by new generations of young artists and merchants who bring their own quirky twist to the beloved age of the automobile. Young and old exist side-by-side, linked forever by their love of the Mother Road. Old-timers tell stories of the old days to the young folks, who will one day pass the legacy on to their children and grandchildren, who will in their turn become the keepers of the neon flame; and they will share the love with the tourists who will continue to follow the siren song of the legendary 66. Fortunately for us all, the legend has become too big to be stopped by a six-lane, and we owe it all to one stubborn man and his family and friends, who refused to give up on the towns that they loved and called home. If only there were more "Angels" in the world!

 Be Blessed, my Friends, and let the angels in!             -Lynn

   Peace... comes within the souls of men when they realize their relationship, their oneness, with
the universe and all its powers, and when they realize

that at the center of the universe dwells Wakan-Tanka,

and that this center is really everywhere, it is within

each of us.

                                                       -Black Elk

   In my early school years I was informed by a well-meaning teacher that I was wasting my time daydreaming and building castles in the air, and I needed to do something more productive with my time. It wasn't until many years later that I realized there's nothing wrong with building castles in the air; that's where they should be. The trick is to build a sturdy foundation under them and transform them into reality. After all, you have to start somewhere; and for that matter, is daydreaming all that different from planning?

   We hear all the time how life is a journey not a destination and that is very true as far as it goes. The part that particular maxim leaves out is how we have to accept that when we reach for the far horizon we will never quite grasp it because the horizon is always just a little further ahead of us, and that's o.k.; it keeps the journey fresh and exciting. If we accomplish every goal we set for ourselves, what is left? Do we sit around gloating for the rest of our lives? Is that really what you want to spend your Golden Years - the only ones to really belong to you since you ran barefoot and carefree through the backyard sprinkler - doing? Me either! I want to always have at least one more thing I want to accomplish in life. I don't want to MAKE a bucket list, I want to LIVE it!
   I  leave you with a quote from the great Hunter S. Thompson (although I've seen various versions of it attributed to others) from his "Gonzo Papers", later published in book form as "Gonzo":

   "Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up , totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming "Wow! What a ride!"

   Some of the alternate versions will have you holding a glass of whiskey, a cigarette, or chocolate; whichever version you prefer, let's all get out there and mix it up a bit. I've done my level best to prove that long-ago teacher wrong, but I could use some help.
 See you peeps out there somewhere near the distant horizon!        -Lynn


     
*** Visit us on our facebook page (LnJ Photo Nomads) and at youtube and vid.me ***