Stone House photos by © Julie Genser.
Each year, in order to avoid the blitz of chemical crop dusting in McHenry County, Illinois, I make a pilgrimage to the American Southwest, most frequently to Snowflake, Arizona.
My first year, the 27 hours behind the wheel was hell and left even my steadfast and strong husband frazzled and depleted. Though I had spent numerous hours on the phone before our trip researching what I believed would be tolerable housing, each place of lodging I had arranged had proved unworkable. My body was not strong enough to tolerate even minimal amounts of fragrances that are ubiquitous in almost all available lodgings (even the places run by caring and mindful people).
So I ended up sleeping in our car and on porches at the B&B's we had rented along the way. When I arrived in Snowflake I was more ill and reactive to chemicals than ever. I spent the first few weeks in Arizona just trying to recover from the drive. I could not tolerate sleeping inside the guesthouse I had rented so I slept outdoors on a concrete slab under a roof attached to the house. Eventually, I figured out the issue: I was reacting to the fiberglass screens heating up (a.k.a. melting resin) in the intense heat of the Arizona sun. My kind and good-hearted hosts included Melinda and her husband, The Uber man Greg, my hero. Greg took it upon himself to replace all the fiberglass with inert metal screens and I was then able to live indoors. Although I came to love sleeping outdoors in the delicious air with the stars in full view, and I even got used to the coyotes howling as they descended upon a poor, doomed jackrabbit, it felt like a huge milestone to have a safe house my body could actually handle after driving 1570 miles to find it.
Snowflake meant spending time with loving friends and a lot more time in nature. As an unexpected side benefit, I began making art again after a long hiatus. My return to the beginnings of the semblance of an art practice was sparked by a visit from my friend, Steve, who came from the UK to give a talk in Chicago at the School of the Art Institute and decided to make the trip to Snowflake to see me while he was stateside. After being abandoned early on in my illness by long-term friends and colleagues who believed I was suffering from a psychiatric disease and refusing treatment for it, this incredible act of love and support from my friend planted new seeds of hope and changed me. I learned I could be close to the important people in my life in spite of the extreme challenges of EI.
At first when Steve arrived I could not tolerate the fragrance residue from his personal products, even though he knew the drill and had prepared well in advance with scent-free everything. During the initial adjustment period he went through a series of rigorous, odd rituals to make it possible for us to be near each other and facilitate a project we were hoping to accomplish in the three short days he would be in Snowflake. In addition to the endless routines that included multiple bathings, towel-wearings and clothes-changings at my guesthouse, he ended up shaving his head and face in order to remove any and all lingering scent that could not be previously cleared away by his repeated, effortful scrubbings.
We kicked off our project at an abandoned stone house that my friend Melinda had taken me to several weeks prior to Steve's arrival in Arizona. In addition to being my spirit guide and hostess, Melinda and I shared a love for visual things-always digging around for the ones that had metaphorical potential. We never tired of driving around the vast emptiness of rural Snowflake and Concho seeking the next inviting site.
Steve and I were joined by another one of my cherished friends, Julie Genser, whose photograhic eye, and talent as a portraitist also became instrumental to our project. Our first efforts in exploring the abandoned house were mirrored back to us via Julie's camera whose vision I can always trust. Julie's lens set the groundwork for the remaining days of our investigations at the house and formalized some of our hunches while dissolving others. While we studied Julie's photos, we sensed new directions our course might take and saw the blind alleys implied by others. The photos then became a kind of blueprint for the video we would eventually shoot on our final day together.
Steve's three day visit was far too short for many reasons and yet extremely pivotal. Reconnecting to my beloved friend and long-time collaborator reminded me of the path I was on before becoming ill in a life-altering way and the importance of my friend to that journey. At the end of three days of our making various plans, images and eventually a performance/video tape at the stone house. At the end of our three days at the house Steve told me that whether or not what we had done together turned into a project we could put into the world and call art was immaterial and that what mattered is that we had experienced something amazing, meaningful and important in the process. His words spoke for me as well. Our attempts at art making had intersected with something we experienced that transcended our intentions and restored our close connection. We felt the importance of our bond as friends-friends who were force to navigate what was for both of us, life's baffling circumstances.
After Steve's visit, I felt very much renewed. I began to see the AZ landscape and every moment of the day as full of possibilities. And each day that I followed my desires and impulses to make images, I found myself among creative women who encouraged me at every turn. I can never thank Melinda, Marsha and Julie enough. They were there to encourage, make suggestions, lend fabric, give time, carry the camera, offer up props, point out sites of interest, share opinions and insights and show me what they saw through their own eyes as it related to what they sensed I was trying to do. I felt so supremely blessed.
My memories from that first summer are very precious to me. I recall the moments with friends: the instant I laid eyes on my friend Julie for the first time and we both began to cry tears of joy after being phone friends for over two years before we met in person that summer, my daily trek to Julie's house to share wheatgrass and chat under the carport, Julie coming to see my photos and have tea, and the two of us posing together for pictures at the native american ovens while Melinda captured the image of us together.
I recall fondly of Julie, Steen and I at the gorge taking pictures of the petroglyphs and the views, our tasty and leisurely dinner at Steen's house just before the storm rolled in and Julie and I having to get in our cars and drive madly to get back before the roads washed out. I remember finally meeting John, an amazing person who has become so important in Julie's life. I miss Melinda coming over in the morning in her adorable, floral pajamas to chat and have coffee and often bringing me fresh food from her garden and our field trips to find land for Marsha. The presence of Melinda's sister, Marsha, who was having her own severe struggles after a major crop dusting exposure and long drive out from Illinois was another blessing. After a period of some recovery she became our co-conspirator and photographic model. And Greg, always having the brains and humor for solving so many problems with so few solutions. John, Stephanie, Steen, Raeanne, Dawn, Gary, Kathy, the folks at Amelia's. I miss them all.
It's almost spring now in Illinois but today is deceptive. A storm blew through last night and covered everything with ice and snow. The lawn chemical applications, which at times have made me violently ill, started last week right next door. The farmers for miles and miles around in ever single direction will be soaking the ground with weed killer within weeks, and in July the aerial bombardment of corn will begin, and not end until late August.
Is it any wonder that on this day and so many of my days, my heart aches for Arizona?
Each year, in order to avoid the blitz of chemical crop dusting in McHenry County, Illinois, I make a pilgrimage to the American Southwest, most frequently to Snowflake, Arizona.
My first year, the 27 hours behind the wheel was hell and left even my steadfast and strong husband frazzled and depleted. Though I had spent numerous hours on the phone before our trip researching what I believed would be tolerable housing, each place of lodging I had arranged had proved unworkable. My body was not strong enough to tolerate even minimal amounts of fragrances that are ubiquitous in almost all available lodgings (even the places run by caring and mindful people).
So I ended up sleeping in our car and on porches at the B&B's we had rented along the way. When I arrived in Snowflake I was more ill and reactive to chemicals than ever. I spent the first few weeks in Arizona just trying to recover from the drive. I could not tolerate sleeping inside the guesthouse I had rented so I slept outdoors on a concrete slab under a roof attached to the house. Eventually, I figured out the issue: I was reacting to the fiberglass screens heating up (a.k.a. melting resin) in the intense heat of the Arizona sun. My kind and good-hearted hosts included Melinda and her husband, The Uber man Greg, my hero. Greg took it upon himself to replace all the fiberglass with inert metal screens and I was then able to live indoors. Although I came to love sleeping outdoors in the delicious air with the stars in full view, and I even got used to the coyotes howling as they descended upon a poor, doomed jackrabbit, it felt like a huge milestone to have a safe house my body could actually handle after driving 1570 miles to find it.
Snowflake meant spending time with loving friends and a lot more time in nature. As an unexpected side benefit, I began making art again after a long hiatus. My return to the beginnings of the semblance of an art practice was sparked by a visit from my friend, Steve, who came from the UK to give a talk in Chicago at the School of the Art Institute and decided to make the trip to Snowflake to see me while he was stateside. After being abandoned early on in my illness by long-term friends and colleagues who believed I was suffering from a psychiatric disease and refusing treatment for it, this incredible act of love and support from my friend planted new seeds of hope and changed me. I learned I could be close to the important people in my life in spite of the extreme challenges of EI.
At first when Steve arrived I could not tolerate the fragrance residue from his personal products, even though he knew the drill and had prepared well in advance with scent-free everything. During the initial adjustment period he went through a series of rigorous, odd rituals to make it possible for us to be near each other and facilitate a project we were hoping to accomplish in the three short days he would be in Snowflake. In addition to the endless routines that included multiple bathings, towel-wearings and clothes-changings at my guesthouse, he ended up shaving his head and face in order to remove any and all lingering scent that could not be previously cleared away by his repeated, effortful scrubbings.
We kicked off our project at an abandoned stone house that my friend Melinda had taken me to several weeks prior to Steve's arrival in Arizona. In addition to being my spirit guide and hostess, Melinda and I shared a love for visual things-always digging around for the ones that had metaphorical potential. We never tired of driving around the vast emptiness of rural Snowflake and Concho seeking the next inviting site.
Steve and I were joined by another one of my cherished friends, Julie Genser, whose photograhic eye, and talent as a portraitist also became instrumental to our project. Our first efforts in exploring the abandoned house were mirrored back to us via Julie's camera whose vision I can always trust. Julie's lens set the groundwork for the remaining days of our investigations at the house and formalized some of our hunches while dissolving others. While we studied Julie's photos, we sensed new directions our course might take and saw the blind alleys implied by others. The photos then became a kind of blueprint for the video we would eventually shoot on our final day together.
Steve's three day visit was far too short for many reasons and yet extremely pivotal. Reconnecting to my beloved friend and long-time collaborator reminded me of the path I was on before becoming ill in a life-altering way and the importance of my friend to that journey. At the end of three days of our making various plans, images and eventually a performance/video tape at the stone house. At the end of our three days at the house Steve told me that whether or not what we had done together turned into a project we could put into the world and call art was immaterial and that what mattered is that we had experienced something amazing, meaningful and important in the process. His words spoke for me as well. Our attempts at art making had intersected with something we experienced that transcended our intentions and restored our close connection. We felt the importance of our bond as friends-friends who were force to navigate what was for both of us, life's baffling circumstances.
After Steve's visit, I felt very much renewed. I began to see the AZ landscape and every moment of the day as full of possibilities. And each day that I followed my desires and impulses to make images, I found myself among creative women who encouraged me at every turn. I can never thank Melinda, Marsha and Julie enough. They were there to encourage, make suggestions, lend fabric, give time, carry the camera, offer up props, point out sites of interest, share opinions and insights and show me what they saw through their own eyes as it related to what they sensed I was trying to do. I felt so supremely blessed.
My memories from that first summer are very precious to me. I recall the moments with friends: the instant I laid eyes on my friend Julie for the first time and we both began to cry tears of joy after being phone friends for over two years before we met in person that summer, my daily trek to Julie's house to share wheatgrass and chat under the carport, Julie coming to see my photos and have tea, and the two of us posing together for pictures at the native american ovens while Melinda captured the image of us together.
I recall fondly of Julie, Steen and I at the gorge taking pictures of the petroglyphs and the views, our tasty and leisurely dinner at Steen's house just before the storm rolled in and Julie and I having to get in our cars and drive madly to get back before the roads washed out. I remember finally meeting John, an amazing person who has become so important in Julie's life. I miss Melinda coming over in the morning in her adorable, floral pajamas to chat and have coffee and often bringing me fresh food from her garden and our field trips to find land for Marsha. The presence of Melinda's sister, Marsha, who was having her own severe struggles after a major crop dusting exposure and long drive out from Illinois was another blessing. After a period of some recovery she became our co-conspirator and photographic model. And Greg, always having the brains and humor for solving so many problems with so few solutions. John, Stephanie, Steen, Raeanne, Dawn, Gary, Kathy, the folks at Amelia's. I miss them all.
It's almost spring now in Illinois but today is deceptive. A storm blew through last night and covered everything with ice and snow. The lawn chemical applications, which at times have made me violently ill, started last week right next door. The farmers for miles and miles around in ever single direction will be soaking the ground with weed killer within weeks, and in July the aerial bombardment of corn will begin, and not end until late August.
Is it any wonder that on this day and so many of my days, my heart aches for Arizona?