I am sitting on a bed at Mabel Dodge's house. I should be conversing with the spirits of Willa Cather, D.H. Lawrence, Alfred Stieglitz, Carl Jung, and of course Georgia O'Keeffe. In this small adobe room I can see the giant wood rafters, and slide my feet over polished wood floors covered in native rugs. The walls have a funny way of holding the light and casting shadows. It is as if the light doesn't bounce off of the walls but gets sucked into them. These floors have seen so many ghosts and inspired so many artists and intellectuals. I love it here, despite myself (the one that refuses to like what so many others have liked). It is not the overdone glitz for the tourists that I admire, but the subtle creep of the light over flat surfaces, the giant brightness of the flowers against the big blue sky, and other visual feasts I can try to photograph but must save in my mind. You can see everything around you as you drive. The plains of sagebrush green on blue green marching like an abstract painting towards a blue gray sky. Photos cannot hold it, they do not see it in my eyes. So I hope those spirits rub some of their magic into me as I sleep here. What dreams will I have? I know I am waxing romantic, but it is hard to not do so in this place. So tonight I send this out to all of you, fellow creatives. So that the conversations once begun in such places does not die out in isolation. Maybe we can all carry it, sit for a late drink face to face by the adobe fireplace under the star filled sky. I can hear the wind whipping as it does through the cottonwoods, rustling them for tomorrow.
-The Corby