We choose to live in a quietly lovely place. Our closest neighbors are deer, javelina and hawks.  So the first thing I notice about a city is the noise.  (I believe there must be an unwritten law stating that RV parks must be placed in close proximity to (1) an airport  (2) a train or (3) a high school with a marching band.)  The constant drone of idling engines is interrupted only by horns and sirens.  Returning to the city, I catch my breath and will myself to readjust to the visual clutter, the ragtag inevitability of many humans living and working in close proximity to groceries, schools and one another. It isn’t the city that is out-of-step: It is I who have, by choice, moved away.

This recurring transition, rural to urban, empty to overflowing, sparse to abundant does more than reconnect me with family, friends and the world outside Far West Texas.  Returning to “civilization” makes me even more attuned to the solitude of the high desert and life in its rugged brown mountains. Traveling reminds me that finding magnificence in the mundane is what I do best. 

I recently spoke at Heritage Auction Gallery to a Dallas group—Texans, collectors and fellow artists—about my art and the harshly beautiful land I paint.  I didn’t exaggerate. The land’s drama speaks for itself. A recent book on the Big Bend relates true tales of death and distress befalling those who underestimate its power. For city-dwellers constantly surrounded by mown grass, nursery-bred trees and rioting petunias, a rambling maze of desiccated prickly pear can offer little in the way of eye candy. A waist-high forest of creosote, a sickly green shrub so competitive that its survival mechanism virtually poisons off all surrounding vegetation simply doesn’t have the universal appeal of pruned azaleas.

Lots of first time visitors to Big Bend leave with a sense of unease, if not relief. Initially, visiting the Chihuahuan Desert is like attending a formal dinner then being presented with your first untrimmed artichoke —you suspect there is something uniquely special inside, but getting to its tender heart may require more effort than you are comfortable with, especially while wearing silk and pearls.  To appreciate Far West Texas, you must spend enough time inside to find its heart.  You must find the Christmas cactus blooming beneath that rock you just fell from, or be around for a sunrise just when a patch of Texas sage is in full bloom.



        TEXAS SAGE AND CHISOS DAWN
                18" x 38" pastel  copyright Lindy C Severns 2010
                    A featured painting at Kiowa Gallery for Artwalk Alpine 2010  for purchase information contact Kiowa Gallery, Alpine, TX  kiowagallery@sbcglobal.net
            See this painting and other Big Bend scenes on my website .

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. In West Texas, beholders must move past time-honored concepts of citified beauty, and with this transition comes awe.