A collection of images I accumulated during visits to the Southwest over the last fifteen years.
     This selection includes the stark landscapes of stone and dust left by the Anasazi and others; bleak skies and barren earth, the parched ruins of a people who walked away from history and who, a one time, occupied Canyon de Chelly and Chaco Canyon.
     Later generations probably built the Taos Pueblo, that gem of occupied America, where the Native American still lives within the silent whitewash of five stories of thick adobe, where the heat is held at bay and the Indian can still amuse himself at the antics of the white men who come in floods to buy trinkets.
     If it were not for irony, we would all die of tedium.
     The city of Santa Fe is another mine, rich for prospecting the images of current Southwestern cultural artifacts; cactus and chili, neon and peeling paint, the clash of high culture and industrial tourist art.
      I came to visit Ayahuasca shamans come up from the Amazon, to visit the rare book dealers, to be abused by the local tourist art galleries, to talk to authors and physicists, to see the golden explosion of the aspen.
     And yes, I even drank a margarita on the bell tower of La Fonda, the hotel that the Manhattan Project scientists came to celebrate after the nuking of Hiroshima.
     I was not even a year old at the time, and now I wonder, did we too walk away from history.
     The answer is in the wind, whispering to stone ruins in a hard, empty land.