Flow: Walking the Upper Arroyo Calabasas, Northern New Mexico
Since 2008, my home and studio have been in a housing development in the western suburbs of Santa Fe, New Mexico. Through the center of the development runs the Arroyo Calabasas. It’s a dry streambed that fills with water only a few times a year, during the rare storms strong enough to cause a flash flood. The rest of the time, the arroyo is a semi-wild and semi-communal space. It is a path for walkers, horse riders, cyclists, coyotes, deer, and mountain lions. In the last fifteen years I have walked the arroyo hundreds of times; but between 2019 and 2022 I walked and photographed the arroyo intensively and collected the photographs that come together in this exhibition.
For clarity and accuracy, I should add that my work focuses on only a small section of the Arroyo Calabasas, less than a mile at the very upper end of a streambed that continues for roughly ten miles to the southwest until it empties into the Santa Fe River, which then empties into the Rio Grande. But even a mile held enough beauty and drama to keep my attention for three years. This short stretch of ground is constantly transforming as the light and season change and mix with the imprint of passing weather and fauna.
There are also scenes that endure far longer than I would have imagined before I began recording them with a camera. There is a dead cactus that has hung from the arroyo wall by one thin root for over five years and a rock that has rested, precariously, on a tree branch for just as long. The six photographic works of the arroyo in this exhibition are part of what will be a much larger series titled Flow: Walking the Upper Arroyo Calabasas, Northern New Mexico. The main subject of both the series and its individual works is precisely the flow and flux of change and stasis of the arroyo over time.
I am not native to Santa Fe nor to New Mexico, and like many Americans who live in housing developments only easily accessible by car, for years I have allowed myself to remain ignorant of the names of local topography, flora, fauna, and of the particular history of the landscape around my home. I do not entirely blame myself – or others – for this ignorance. I know through personal experience that it requires effort to go against the flow of the automobile lifestyle. It’s not easy to figure out where it’s safe and accessible to walk in a maze of jealously guarded private property or to piece together the local history. I’ve had to consult maps, books, websites, the state library, and public archives. However, the project Flow led me to make the effort. As a result, the way I perceive this landscape – the Caja del Rio, the housing developments, and the arroyo – has been transformed and enriched.
