Past Lives and Imaginary Coffee Dates

Welcome to the very first edition of The Pink Teacup, my imaginary cafe where I meet a friend for coffee (you) and we talk for hours about art and life and no one cares that we’re hogging a sunny table by the window.

The last two weeks of stalling have revealed to me that I find the idea of writing my ‘first post’ here on Substack slightly terrifying, so I’ve decided to pretend that you and I have just carried our coffees over to our table by the window, thrown our coats on the empty chair between us and have finally sat down.

So nice to see you, I say. Yes, you say, you too.

You know, you add, I’ve never asked you how you wound up moving from the big city to Taos, NM—what’s the story there?

How I Landed in Taos, New Mexico

After twenty years of city living, my husband couldn’t take it anymore. The density of humanity, the rushing, the traffic. The. Noise.

Because I love New York City and because my life at that time revolved around taking care of my parents, I just ignored him for a while to see if he meant it.

He meant it.

Okay, I told him, let’s look. But I have a lot of requirements about where in rural America I’m willing to live:

1. I wouldn’t go back to New England, because I couldn’t take the winters. The low sky, the wet cold, and—contrary to how people in New England love to say that they could only live somewhere with 4 seasons—they don’t. There is no Spring. Winter pretty much keeps going and then suddenly it’s summer. Okay, there’s five minutes of Spring. Okay, maybe ten now with climate change.

2. Also, I need culture. An art scene of some sort. And politically, I refused to move to what I ungraciously called, “Trumpety-Trumpville.” Those two requirements eliminated even more places in rural America. A lot more places.

3. I didn’t want everyone to be white. For 20 years we lived in Hudson County, NJ right outside of NYC in a working-class immigrant neighborhood where people were from all over the world. English was not the first language of my neighborhood and I loved being immersed in the diversity of the NYC area.

4. My husband was imagining living in the middle of nowhere, but I knew I couldn’t do that. I can live rurally, I said, and I love you, but I can’t live somewhere where I have to drive 45 minutes to have a conversation with someone other than you.

So, having reduced my rural options to a small handful of places in the entire country, and after my parents passed away and my life no longer revolved around caring for them, I suggested we check out New Mexico.

I suggested New Mexico because I had lived in the Manzano mountains outside of Albuquerque in my late twenties in an old stone two room house with dirt floors, no running water, and iffy electricity.

It was in a tiny old mining village and the inhabitants were either drop out hippies or centuries-long standing Hispanic families. I paid 90.00 a month for rent. It was, in many ways, the best place I ever lived. It was also, in many ways, the most dangerous place I ever lived. But still. It was Magic.

My little stone house in the Manzanos, east of Albuquerque. That’s me by the front door.

The Hunt

We started our search in Santa Fe because, of course, it has a sizable art scene, but that still felt like too much city for J. and he was getting depressed.

We’re never gonna find a place we both like, he lamented in our very trendy right-off-Canyon-Road Airbnb.

Yes, we will, I said. I don’t have to live in Santa Fe, I can just visit Santa Fe. And don’t worry, I promised, you’ll love Taos.

And he did. We both did. I hadn’t been there in over 20 years, and it had grown, but it still had it’s vibe—a little bit funky, very tolerant, rough around the edges, and full of spirit, art, and culture—all surrounded by the immense physical beauty of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.

A realtor showed us about a dozen properties and they were very pretty and all very fancy but not ‘us.’ At each house I would say, “Where would my studio be?” because I’m not a set-up-a-table-in-the-corner-of-the-guestroom kind of artist.

My studio space in NJ was big and full of light and I was determined that in this move, I would not go backwards.

But at the very end of that visit, our realtor took us to a funky building that the owner had renovated himself, and it’s like we came home. I loved every design decision that the guy made—it was wide open in a contemporary way like a loft with lots of little industrial chic touches, but it was very rustic and simple as well because it was an old historic adobe building.

The Weird Thing

The main living space is big and open because it started off as a dancehall and a bar back in the day— there’s even a stage area that the previous owner restored. And the back of the house is kind of a separate apartment where I always imagined the original dancehall owner lived. (This area is now my studio.)

And then, because J. needed a lot of space to work on his vintage motorcycle collection, we bought a very dilapidated old adobe building across the street to become his garage and workshop.

And that building had ALSO been a bar and dancehall.

Word has it that the patrons of each of these establishments would come out to the middle of the street on a Saturday night and fight about which one was better. (The tax assessor actually told me that last tidbit.)

But that’s not the weird thing.

The weird thing is that our row house in NJ was also a bar and a dancehall back in the day.

So we’ve actually now been the owners of three old buildings that were bars and/or dancehalls.

Although we don’t remember any of it, clearly the two of us had something to do with bars and dancehalls in our past lives. I mean, what other conclusion can a person come to?

How about you—what’s your moving story? Or your staying story? Leave a comment, I’d love to hear!

What I’m Working on Now

Last weekend, I took a little workshop on using a felting machine called “Thumper 2” at the most excellent New Mexico Fiber Arts Center.

The class was a training in how to use the machine versus a class in making a particular something. But I managed to sort of make a particular something because when it was my turn to use the machine, I quickly laid down my own strips of very slightly needle-felted wool onto to my allotted batt of Churro wool. This small act transformed a simple test sample into a little bedside rug for my hub. He loves it.

It’s shape is a little too square and the edges a little too wonky, but I love the uneven stripes. And my motto when taking a workshop is not to hope to make something great, or even good, but to push everything as far as I can to maximize the learning. Anything worth saving is just a nice surprise. So this was a nice surprise.

After a sleepless night of obsessing on all the things I might create using this strange machine, I think I may need to rent it for a day very soon before I forget how it works.

OH! Here’s a little video of the Thumper machine in action:

Wacky right?

What are you working on this week? It doesn’t have to be art or something creative. Whatever it is, please share in the comments, I’d love to hear.

This Week’s Inspiring Artist

I first saw work by Los Angeles artist Henry Taylor at the 2017 Whitney Biennial. For me, his work was, if not the best, then one of the best in that entire show. And now I see that he’s just had a solo show at the Whitney Museum that ended on January 28.

I’d have really really loved to see that show. Sigh. I can’t find an image online of my favorite painting of his from the Biennial—it was a guy in front of a barbecue and it was amazing. My friend Rob, who is extremely hard to impress, was looking at it with me and his wife. He turned to us and said, “It’s a masterpiece.” and walked off.

Yes, I thought, he’s right.

So interesting to think about what constitutes a masterpiece in contemporary art. We all think we know what a masterpiece is from the past….uh oh, I think I feel a newsletter coming on…

In the meantime, here’s a powerful image of a different Henry Taylor piece that I think is in the permanent collection of the Whitney now. You’re welcome!

Henry Taylor: THE TIMES THAY AINT A CHANGING, FAST ENOUGH! 2017

Hey, I love that you read all the way to the end. Please share any thoughts in the comments! I so appreciate your interest, it means the world to me.

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