During the 1930s, some New York artists summered in Santa Fe and Taos, imagining a tradition
in which the archetype that, "expresses all that is old, ordered and established," was not about
age, but the maturity of one's vision, dissolved the desert's salts into a rainbow for their pallete.

To the northeast, Pole Mountain rises, Bent-and Carson Peaks
breach the horizon, walled off by the Rio Grande, reaching up
to mountain passes inside the sky.

I'd driven three days from San Francisco, arriving on a cold early Spring morning. "Where's the
town?" I asked my sister, who was living there."It's in that direction." She pointed into the mist.

One bright morning, as if light was bending around itself, the plaza appeared, with restaurants,
art galleries, museums, and a church with the relic of a saint who must have been left behind.