E A R T H
R I V E R
S K Y
A J O U R N E Y I N P H OTO G R A P H S T H R O U G H N O R T H E R N N E W M E X I C O R O B AT K I N S
INTRODUCTION The Journey
The list records moments that had reached a part of me I
Looking over the list I’d just written, it seemed quite simple: a
hadn’t known existed. In my journeys through northern New
few short lines on a page in my notebook, a record of what had
Mexico I sought to make a book of what I found. Now, I realized
most moved me about this place. I closed the book and threw
that it was northern New Mexico that had made me, had
it into my bag. In a few minutes I’d be leaving the hotel for the
defined to myself who I was at this stage of life. The list threw
airport, the end of one final trip to northern New Mexico after
this realization into sharp relief, much like the high desert light
years of searching to find its soul.
does to all it finds on a clear morning.
The day before, I had stood alone inside a church built
I was about to leave New Mexico again, but this time I had
almost two decades before America was a country. It was the
the comfort of knowing that a part of this world, this landscape,
last subject to photograph for my project, and I was struck not
and this light, was leaving with me.
only by what I saw, but also what I heard. Or, more accurately, Tierra Encantada
didn’t hear.
In northern New Mexico, the ancient elements of fire, earth, air
I wrote about that profound silence on my list, along with
and water converge in one place.
other things I’d experienced over the past few years that were
Though desert, the region is defined by mountain and forest,
indelibly written on my memory: morning light spilling across a dirt path; the scent of sage weighing the air after rain fell in
high plateau and deep canyon. The Rio Grande curves like a
the desert; shadows of vigas, or roof beams, laying on an adobe
backbone through the landscape, its route at times cutting a
wall; the sound of the Rio Grande competing with that of the
dramatic eight-hundred-foot gorge through volcanic stone. One
wind through juniper and pine.
constant in this world of contrasts can be best illustrated by the
Road across native land in Taos. 8
9
INTRODUCTION The Journey
The list records moments that had reached a part of me I
Looking over the list I’d just written, it seemed quite simple: a
hadn’t known existed. In my journeys through northern New
few short lines on a page in my notebook, a record of what had
Mexico I sought to make a book of what I found. Now, I realized
most moved me about this place. I closed the book and threw
that it was northern New Mexico that had made me, had
it into my bag. In a few minutes I’d be leaving the hotel for the
defined to myself who I was at this stage of life. The list threw
airport, the end of one final trip to northern New Mexico after
this realization into sharp relief, much like the high desert light
years of searching to find its soul.
does to all it finds on a clear morning.
The day before, I had stood alone inside a church built
I was about to leave New Mexico again, but this time I had
almost two decades before America was a country. It was the
the comfort of knowing that a part of this world, this landscape,
last subject to photograph for my project, and I was struck not
and this light, was leaving with me.
only by what I saw, but also what I heard. Or, more accurately, Tierra Encantada
didn’t hear.
In northern New Mexico, the ancient elements of fire, earth, air
I wrote about that profound silence on my list, along with
and water converge in one place.
other things I’d experienced over the past few years that were
Though desert, the region is defined by mountain and forest,
indelibly written on my memory: morning light spilling across a dirt path; the scent of sage weighing the air after rain fell in
high plateau and deep canyon. The Rio Grande curves like a
the desert; shadows of vigas, or roof beams, laying on an adobe
backbone through the landscape, its route at times cutting a
wall; the sound of the Rio Grande competing with that of the
dramatic eight-hundred-foot gorge through volcanic stone. One
wind through juniper and pine.
constant in this world of contrasts can be best illustrated by the
Road across native land in Taos. 8
9
words of Georgia O’Keeffe, who moved full time to northern New
reaches back ten centuries before the arrival of the Spanish.
streams and distribute it through a highly organized system of
worshipped here, how many couples married, how many
Mexico in 1949. The land here, she said, is “more sky than earth.”
I can see it in the potsherds I try not to step on as I wander
volunteer work under the aegis of a mayordomo, or ditch boss.
children baptized, how many ancianos eulogized.
Like most visitors, I enter the region from the south. After
trails through the landscape. Northern New Mexico is home to
While mountainous, the region is still desert, and water therefore
arriving in Albuquerque, the road leads north, following the route
eight pueblos that remain as vital today as ever, including Taos
forms a particularly vital component. It’s not unusual to drive
was constructed sometime prior to 1815. The distinctive forms
of the Spanish entrada into New Spain that began half a millennia
Pueblo, which is the oldest continually occupied community
behind a pickup truck in Taos, for instance, that has a sign on the
have an organic feel, familiar to anyone that knows the work
ago. Just south of Santa Fe, a formidably steep hill, known as “La
in the country.
bumper proclaiming “El agua es la vida.”
of Georgia O’Keeffe, who painted it a number of times and
The church of San Francisco de Asis in Ranchos de Taos
made the sculpted shapes an icon of New Mexico. Paul Strand,
The adobe architecture common in the region is also a
Bajada”—The Descent, from a northerly point of view—defines
In 1541, Francisco de Barrionuevo became the first non-
the southern border of northern New Mexico. For as long as the
native person to see Taos Pueblo. I wonder what this captain in
product of the Spanish arrival. The Spanish improved upon
Laura Gilpin, and many others photographed the church in the
Spanish have been in the region this volcanic escarpment has
Coronado’s expedition thought, newly arrived from Mexico, as
techniques of building with sun-dried mud bricks already in use
early 1930s, and in 1964, Ernst Haas, a true innovator of color
divided this new world into two distinct halves: Rio Arriba and
he looked at dwellings that rose five stories in some places and
by Native peoples, just as they augmented existing knowledge
photography, made a study of shadows and light cast by the
Rio Abajo: the Upper River and the Lower River. On cresting the
were already two hundred years old when he visited.
of the management of water. As with both, the Spanish brought
setting sun on the warm adobe surface.
In my wanderings throughout the region, it’s not unusual
hill the country’s oldest capital city, Santa Fe, comes into view
On a particular visit I made to the church the annual enjarre,
these ideas that have Moorish and North African roots.
or re-mudding, of the building is underway. Its outer coat of
Like the early Spanish explorers, like Georgia O’Keeffe, I’m
lying before the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. From here to the
to go for the better part of a day without hearing a spoken
Colorado border a hundred miles away, northern New Mexico
language other than Spanish. The town names mostly reflect
an outsider here myself. What my senses take in has a beautiful
adobe is re-applied each June to see it through another year of
exists like an island within the United States.
this Spanish influence, at times containing a dialect spoken
strangeness, one that stands alone amongst my wider travels
rain and snow. I strike up a conversation with one of the workers,
nowhere else but here, a remnant brought from the Iberian
in America. To walk through northern New Mexico is to wander
an engaging fellow named Juan, who tells me that most of his
everything else. Several times, standing in one spot in bright
Peninsula centuries earlier that has resisted change from the
back in time.
volunteer crew hasn’t been seen for a while. Would I like to lend
sunlight, I’ve gazed a hundred clear miles in one direction
outside influences of the wider world.
I particularly feel O’Keeffe’s words of the sky dominating
The physical landscape, too, reflects Spanish influence.
while in another a storm brings a curtain of rain from clouds the color of slate. The dirt I walk on carries a memory of Native America that
10
a hand? Heaven’s Mud
For a couple of days, I put down my camera and pick up a
Most communities in northern New Mexico have a network of
My ears adjust to the silence as I walk forward between the
trowel and plasterer’s hawk—la plana y la coca—and spread a
acequias, or irrigation ditches, that divert water from rivers and
pews. I wonder how many generations of Norteños have
coat of mud, called an alis, over wide sections of the church. An
11
words of Georgia O’Keeffe, who moved full time to northern New
reaches back ten centuries before the arrival of the Spanish.
streams and distribute it through a highly organized system of
worshipped here, how many couples married, how many
Mexico in 1949. The land here, she said, is “more sky than earth.”
I can see it in the potsherds I try not to step on as I wander
volunteer work under the aegis of a mayordomo, or ditch boss.
children baptized, how many ancianos eulogized.
Like most visitors, I enter the region from the south. After
trails through the landscape. Northern New Mexico is home to
While mountainous, the region is still desert, and water therefore
arriving in Albuquerque, the road leads north, following the route
eight pueblos that remain as vital today as ever, including Taos
forms a particularly vital component. It’s not unusual to drive
was constructed sometime prior to 1815. The distinctive forms
of the Spanish entrada into New Spain that began half a millennia
Pueblo, which is the oldest continually occupied community
behind a pickup truck in Taos, for instance, that has a sign on the
have an organic feel, familiar to anyone that knows the work
ago. Just south of Santa Fe, a formidably steep hill, known as “La
in the country.
bumper proclaiming “El agua es la vida.”
of Georgia O’Keeffe, who painted it a number of times and
The church of San Francisco de Asis in Ranchos de Taos
made the sculpted shapes an icon of New Mexico. Paul Strand,
The adobe architecture common in the region is also a
Bajada”—The Descent, from a northerly point of view—defines
In 1541, Francisco de Barrionuevo became the first non-
the southern border of northern New Mexico. For as long as the
native person to see Taos Pueblo. I wonder what this captain in
product of the Spanish arrival. The Spanish improved upon
Laura Gilpin, and many others photographed the church in the
Spanish have been in the region this volcanic escarpment has
Coronado’s expedition thought, newly arrived from Mexico, as
techniques of building with sun-dried mud bricks already in use
early 1930s, and in 1964, Ernst Haas, a true innovator of color
divided this new world into two distinct halves: Rio Arriba and
he looked at dwellings that rose five stories in some places and
by Native peoples, just as they augmented existing knowledge
photography, made a study of shadows and light cast by the
Rio Abajo: the Upper River and the Lower River. On cresting the
were already two hundred years old when he visited.
of the management of water. As with both, the Spanish brought
setting sun on the warm adobe surface.
In my wanderings throughout the region, it’s not unusual
hill the country’s oldest capital city, Santa Fe, comes into view
On a particular visit I made to the church the annual enjarre,
these ideas that have Moorish and North African roots.
or re-mudding, of the building is underway. Its outer coat of
Like the early Spanish explorers, like Georgia O’Keeffe, I’m
lying before the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. From here to the
to go for the better part of a day without hearing a spoken
Colorado border a hundred miles away, northern New Mexico
language other than Spanish. The town names mostly reflect
an outsider here myself. What my senses take in has a beautiful
adobe is re-applied each June to see it through another year of
exists like an island within the United States.
this Spanish influence, at times containing a dialect spoken
strangeness, one that stands alone amongst my wider travels
rain and snow. I strike up a conversation with one of the workers,
nowhere else but here, a remnant brought from the Iberian
in America. To walk through northern New Mexico is to wander
an engaging fellow named Juan, who tells me that most of his
everything else. Several times, standing in one spot in bright
Peninsula centuries earlier that has resisted change from the
back in time.
volunteer crew hasn’t been seen for a while. Would I like to lend
sunlight, I’ve gazed a hundred clear miles in one direction
outside influences of the wider world.
I particularly feel O’Keeffe’s words of the sky dominating
The physical landscape, too, reflects Spanish influence.
while in another a storm brings a curtain of rain from clouds the color of slate. The dirt I walk on carries a memory of Native America that
10
a hand? Heaven’s Mud
For a couple of days, I put down my camera and pick up a
Most communities in northern New Mexico have a network of
My ears adjust to the silence as I walk forward between the
trowel and plasterer’s hawk—la plana y la coca—and spread a
acequias, or irrigation ditches, that divert water from rivers and
pews. I wonder how many generations of Norteños have
coat of mud, called an alis, over wide sections of the church. An
11
alis is a watery mixture of mud with a bit of straw, a final layer to
New York Times lies flat on my lap, unopened. All I can do is
cover the centuries-old adobe bricks.
stare at the remnants of mud on my shoes and smile.
At times I’m high up on a ladder, leaning over with a
Representations of this protector of all waterways in
After stowing my tripod in the car and grabbing my backpack, I start on the steep trail into the gorge with its many
New Mexico can be seen in many petroglyphs close to the
switchbacks. My shadow stretches before me on the path, like
Rio Grande.
load of heavy, wet mud on la plana, my entire existence
Flow State
a Giacometti sculpture cast in dirt, thrown there by an early
held in place by the weight of Juan’s foot on the bottom
I seem to be the only person in Rio Grande del Norte National
morning sun that’s just broken free of the horizon. Fingertips
being relevant. Have minutes stretched to hours, or have
rung. I listen to him tell me about another church not far
Monument this cold November morning. Driving in through
of sunlight reach the cliff on the opposite side of the river,
hours collapsed into minutes? I can’t say, being lost in this
away that had a bucket of sparkling mica thrown into the
darkness I haven’t seen any other vehicles, either on the road or
exploring its crenellations tentatively at first, then slide down
extraordinary moment.
wet alis mixture, making the church appear to glow on clear
in the parking areas.
the stone face toward the river. The light seems to be seeking to
Two hours earlier I had left my hotel after discovering that
nights with a bright moon. I tell Juan that he must be a true
How long I sit by the river is hard to say, as time has stopped
27,375 Moonrises
touch, as I soon will, the water and feel its current.
It’s a story fixed in the firmament of the history of photography,
Over the next mile and a half, I descend eight hundred
adobero, a master of the art, craft, and science of adobe
a Starbucks card makes a great windshield ice scraper. The
work. “No,” he protests, “I’m just an hormiga, one of the ants
coyotes I heard throughout the night were quiet, asleep, I
vertical feet to reach the Rio Grande. The loose gravel of the
a story every photographer has read a hundred times. Ansel
who crawls over the church.”
imagined, along with the rest of Taos. Still in the grip of night, I
trail demands my full attention so as not to slip, and I remind
Adams, traveling through northern New Mexico on a late
had felt as if I were driving through a negative image of the town
myself to pause frequently and bring my awareness back to my
October afternoon, enters the Española valley a few miles west
after yesterday’s high desert brilliance.
surroundings and the beauty it offers.
of the Rio Grande. He sees the moon rising over the Sangre de
After the second day, I join my new Taoseño friends for a Bud in Juan’s basement. I listen to their stories and laugh along with
Now I’m alone with the ravens, looking down from the rim
them, tired and dirty, but happy to be with such good company.
Cristo Mountains in the distance, then notices something that
The only other human company I’ve had all morning has
As I sit, something keeps running past my head in the window
of the gorge at La Junta, where the Red River joins the Rio
been my shadow. At the trail’s end, I’ve entered another world,
causes him to abruptly stop, jump out of his station wagon, and
behind me, and I turn to see a playful goat in the yard outside.
Grande (La Junta is Spanish for meeting), and wait for the light
where Ponderosa pines create a shaded area around a natural
set up his 8x10 view camera.
Juan tells me I’ve really helped them out, and I apparently have
to bring the cool blue landscape below to life. The area’s 242,555
spring, and centuries-old native petroglyphs of elk and deer
a knack for adobe mud work. “I mean that, from right here,” he
acres were proclaimed a national monument in 2013 by Barack
prance nearby across a basalt boulder.
says, pounding the side of his fist against his heart.
Obama, and protects a record of 10,000 years of human passage through its landscape.
The next morning I’m on a regional jet heading to LAX. The
12
A small adobe church and village catch the last rays of sunlight, the wooden crosses in the camposanto on fire with the waning light. He calculates the exposure in his head and
The spring and the great river it runs to are inhabited
makes one photograph. Before he can reverse his film holder
by Avanyu, a horned serpent of Native American myth.
13
alis is a watery mixture of mud with a bit of straw, a final layer to
New York Times lies flat on my lap, unopened. All I can do is
cover the centuries-old adobe bricks.
stare at the remnants of mud on my shoes and smile.
At times I’m high up on a ladder, leaning over with a
Representations of this protector of all waterways in
After stowing my tripod in the car and grabbing my backpack, I start on the steep trail into the gorge with its many
New Mexico can be seen in many petroglyphs close to the
switchbacks. My shadow stretches before me on the path, like
Rio Grande.
load of heavy, wet mud on la plana, my entire existence
Flow State
a Giacometti sculpture cast in dirt, thrown there by an early
held in place by the weight of Juan’s foot on the bottom
I seem to be the only person in Rio Grande del Norte National
morning sun that’s just broken free of the horizon. Fingertips
being relevant. Have minutes stretched to hours, or have
rung. I listen to him tell me about another church not far
Monument this cold November morning. Driving in through
of sunlight reach the cliff on the opposite side of the river,
hours collapsed into minutes? I can’t say, being lost in this
away that had a bucket of sparkling mica thrown into the
darkness I haven’t seen any other vehicles, either on the road or
exploring its crenellations tentatively at first, then slide down
extraordinary moment.
wet alis mixture, making the church appear to glow on clear
in the parking areas.
the stone face toward the river. The light seems to be seeking to
Two hours earlier I had left my hotel after discovering that
nights with a bright moon. I tell Juan that he must be a true
How long I sit by the river is hard to say, as time has stopped
27,375 Moonrises
touch, as I soon will, the water and feel its current.
It’s a story fixed in the firmament of the history of photography,
Over the next mile and a half, I descend eight hundred
adobero, a master of the art, craft, and science of adobe
a Starbucks card makes a great windshield ice scraper. The
work. “No,” he protests, “I’m just an hormiga, one of the ants
coyotes I heard throughout the night were quiet, asleep, I
vertical feet to reach the Rio Grande. The loose gravel of the
a story every photographer has read a hundred times. Ansel
who crawls over the church.”
imagined, along with the rest of Taos. Still in the grip of night, I
trail demands my full attention so as not to slip, and I remind
Adams, traveling through northern New Mexico on a late
had felt as if I were driving through a negative image of the town
myself to pause frequently and bring my awareness back to my
October afternoon, enters the Española valley a few miles west
after yesterday’s high desert brilliance.
surroundings and the beauty it offers.
of the Rio Grande. He sees the moon rising over the Sangre de
After the second day, I join my new Taoseño friends for a Bud in Juan’s basement. I listen to their stories and laugh along with
Now I’m alone with the ravens, looking down from the rim
them, tired and dirty, but happy to be with such good company.
Cristo Mountains in the distance, then notices something that
The only other human company I’ve had all morning has
As I sit, something keeps running past my head in the window
of the gorge at La Junta, where the Red River joins the Rio
been my shadow. At the trail’s end, I’ve entered another world,
causes him to abruptly stop, jump out of his station wagon, and
behind me, and I turn to see a playful goat in the yard outside.
Grande (La Junta is Spanish for meeting), and wait for the light
where Ponderosa pines create a shaded area around a natural
set up his 8x10 view camera.
Juan tells me I’ve really helped them out, and I apparently have
to bring the cool blue landscape below to life. The area’s 242,555
spring, and centuries-old native petroglyphs of elk and deer
a knack for adobe mud work. “I mean that, from right here,” he
acres were proclaimed a national monument in 2013 by Barack
prance nearby across a basalt boulder.
says, pounding the side of his fist against his heart.
Obama, and protects a record of 10,000 years of human passage through its landscape.
The next morning I’m on a regional jet heading to LAX. The
12
A small adobe church and village catch the last rays of sunlight, the wooden crosses in the camposanto on fire with the waning light. He calculates the exposure in his head and
The spring and the great river it runs to are inhabited
makes one photograph. Before he can reverse his film holder
by Avanyu, a horned serpent of Native American myth.
13
and expose a second sheet of film, the light fades and the
sunlight. I set up my tripod, hurrying before the light slid away
his “classic razor cuts,” Faustino also had a consuming passion.
Edge of Light
scene ebbs into darkness.
into darkness.
Working well into his eighties, he began a project that he
Whenever I’m in northern New Mexico, I like to walk through the
named “Going Back Home,” an effort to paint all of the adobe
narrow interstices that are neither day nor night, out alone into
That afternoon Adams made Moonrise, Hernandez, an image that has become an indelible icon in the history of photography.
Faustino
churches found in countless towns in New Mexico’s north, many
the landscape. With only the sound of the wind writing its poem
It was made on October 31, 1941.
“Santa Fe was a place we could only dream about.” I’m sitting
in communities so small they don’t appear on any maps. He
across the desert and the rising tide of darkness about me, I
in the combination hair salon/art gallery of Faustino Herrera
eventually rendered over seven hundred churches. Faustino
think of the words of Walt Whitman: ”These are the days that
and the surrounding landscape, but the church is still there,
de Vargas, a true viejo, or old one, of northern New Mexico.
told me about painting trips he would take to small villages in
must happen to you.” These are the days that must happen to
somewhat hidden from where Adams photographed by trees,
A man of warmth and grace, Faustino is telling me stories of
the mountains on an unmarked dirt road that ran all the way
me, and this is the place in which they must happen.
telephone lines, and development. Extensively remodeled in
his past and what it was like to grow up in El Norte, speaking
to Colorado, his two German Shepherds, Zig and Zag, riding
the 1950s, it’s now used by the Penitente Brotherhood, a lay
quietly in the carpe mañana style that seems characteristic
shotgun along with him.
organization of the Catholic Church, and is surrounded by a tall
amongst his peers.
Time has wrought its inevitable changes on Hernandez
The town of his youth sits in the Tusas Mountains, fifty miles
iron fence.
If we view our unfolding lives as Whitman suggested, as the construction of a great house, I wonder: how many rooms may
I thought of these stories recently while sitting at my desk. A
we find? It’s a question I can’t answer yet, as I’m still searching,
work by Faustino of the church at Hernandez hung nearby, the
still discovering more.
from Santa Fe above the Rio Vallecitos. La Madera had no stores
bright, dancing colors never failing to make me smile. I looked at
few years ago, I saw the October moon ascending over the
and such a small population that Faustino and his brothers
it for a few moments, then went back to the task at hand, writing
a floor of petrified volcanic stone, walls of yellow-blooming
same Sangre de Cristo Mountains and Española Valley. There
would drive into Ojo Caliente seven miles away to socialize and
a check to contribute to Faustino’s funeral expenses.
chamisa and adobe, a ceiling of clouds stained with the magenta
had been over 27,000 moonrises since Ansel Adams made
drink beer on weekend nights. Ojo Caliente. To this day, not even
his most well-known image. At the foot of Black Mesa near
one traffic light. Santa Fe was far away, beyond his wanderings.
San Ildefonso Pueblo, the small adobe church of La Sagrada
What would Faustino have thought of the vertical metroscape of
Familia stands against a row of cottonwood trees lining the
New York or the horizontal reach of Los Angeles?
While traveling a small distance south of Hernandez a
Lately, I’ve spent a lot of time in one particular room. It has
Faustino is gone, but his stories and paintings remain.
light of dusk and a trillion constellations of stars.
Faustino was my friend, and I will never forget him.
It’s a place I’ve been in no hurry to leave.
Aside from his business as a hair stylist and barber, offering
Rio Grande. The crosses there, too, were catching the late
14
15
and expose a second sheet of film, the light fades and the
sunlight. I set up my tripod, hurrying before the light slid away
his “classic razor cuts,” Faustino also had a consuming passion.
Edge of Light
scene ebbs into darkness.
into darkness.
Working well into his eighties, he began a project that he
Whenever I’m in northern New Mexico, I like to walk through the
named “Going Back Home,” an effort to paint all of the adobe
narrow interstices that are neither day nor night, out alone into
That afternoon Adams made Moonrise, Hernandez, an image that has become an indelible icon in the history of photography.
Faustino
churches found in countless towns in New Mexico’s north, many
the landscape. With only the sound of the wind writing its poem
It was made on October 31, 1941.
“Santa Fe was a place we could only dream about.” I’m sitting
in communities so small they don’t appear on any maps. He
across the desert and the rising tide of darkness about me, I
in the combination hair salon/art gallery of Faustino Herrera
eventually rendered over seven hundred churches. Faustino
think of the words of Walt Whitman: ”These are the days that
and the surrounding landscape, but the church is still there,
de Vargas, a true viejo, or old one, of northern New Mexico.
told me about painting trips he would take to small villages in
must happen to you.” These are the days that must happen to
somewhat hidden from where Adams photographed by trees,
A man of warmth and grace, Faustino is telling me stories of
the mountains on an unmarked dirt road that ran all the way
me, and this is the place in which they must happen.
telephone lines, and development. Extensively remodeled in
his past and what it was like to grow up in El Norte, speaking
to Colorado, his two German Shepherds, Zig and Zag, riding
the 1950s, it’s now used by the Penitente Brotherhood, a lay
quietly in the carpe mañana style that seems characteristic
shotgun along with him.
organization of the Catholic Church, and is surrounded by a tall
amongst his peers.
Time has wrought its inevitable changes on Hernandez
The town of his youth sits in the Tusas Mountains, fifty miles
iron fence.
If we view our unfolding lives as Whitman suggested, as the construction of a great house, I wonder: how many rooms may
I thought of these stories recently while sitting at my desk. A
we find? It’s a question I can’t answer yet, as I’m still searching,
work by Faustino of the church at Hernandez hung nearby, the
still discovering more.
from Santa Fe above the Rio Vallecitos. La Madera had no stores
bright, dancing colors never failing to make me smile. I looked at
few years ago, I saw the October moon ascending over the
and such a small population that Faustino and his brothers
it for a few moments, then went back to the task at hand, writing
a floor of petrified volcanic stone, walls of yellow-blooming
same Sangre de Cristo Mountains and Española Valley. There
would drive into Ojo Caliente seven miles away to socialize and
a check to contribute to Faustino’s funeral expenses.
chamisa and adobe, a ceiling of clouds stained with the magenta
had been over 27,000 moonrises since Ansel Adams made
drink beer on weekend nights. Ojo Caliente. To this day, not even
his most well-known image. At the foot of Black Mesa near
one traffic light. Santa Fe was far away, beyond his wanderings.
San Ildefonso Pueblo, the small adobe church of La Sagrada
What would Faustino have thought of the vertical metroscape of
Familia stands against a row of cottonwood trees lining the
New York or the horizontal reach of Los Angeles?
While traveling a small distance south of Hernandez a
Lately, I’ve spent a lot of time in one particular room. It has
Faustino is gone, but his stories and paintings remain.
light of dusk and a trillion constellations of stars.
Faustino was my friend, and I will never forget him.
It’s a place I’ve been in no hurry to leave.
Aside from his business as a hair stylist and barber, offering
Rio Grande. The crosses there, too, were catching the late
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15
Morning light on the trail to Chimney Rock, Ghost Ranch.
Chimney Rock trail, Ghost Ranch.
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99
Morning light on the trail to Chimney Rock, Ghost Ranch.
Chimney Rock trail, Ghost Ranch.
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99
Piedra Lumbre basin.
Ghost Ranch evening.
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103
Piedra Lumbre basin.
Ghost Ranch evening.
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103
Trail worn into the soft stone landscape after centuries of use at the Tsankawi Native American site. Human activity at this location dates to the 1400s.
Inside a cave at Tsankawi. The ceiling is blackened from cooking fires.
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Trail worn into the soft stone landscape after centuries of use at the Tsankawi Native American site. Human activity at this location dates to the 1400s.
Inside a cave at Tsankawi. The ceiling is blackened from cooking fires.
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111
Ladder on La Fonda Hotel, Taos. Such ladders represent a connection between members of the community with the past, the universe, and each other.
The Church of San Lorenzo de Picuris, Picuris Pueblo.
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Ladder on La Fonda Hotel, Taos. Such ladders represent a connection between members of the community with the past, the universe, and each other.
The Church of San Lorenzo de Picuris, Picuris Pueblo.
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131
Winter light on Lucero Peak, north of Taos.
Clearing winter storm, Taos Mountain.
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Winter light on Lucero Peak, north of Taos.
Clearing winter storm, Taos Mountain.
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149
Sun and snow on pine trees in the Sangre De Cristo Mountains.
Winter tree, Taos.
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Sun and snow on pine trees in the Sangre De Cristo Mountains.
Winter tree, Taos.
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151
Snowstorm, Taos Pueblo. 155
Snowstorm, Taos Pueblo. 155
For over two decades, photographer Rob Atkins has embarked on a pilgrimage to document the unparalleled beauty of northern New Mexico that distinguishes it from the rest of the country. From its iconic adobe architecture—a palimpsest of its indigenous origins, Spanish colonial influence, and North African roots—through the high plateaus and deep canyons winding along the Rio Grande, Atkins’s unique photographs pay respect to the sublime beauty of a region that has inspired generations of travelers and artists. Earth River Sky presents Atkins’s physical and spiritual journey through northern New Mexico in a way that only a lifetime aficionado and artistic talent of his level could.
SPECIFICATIONS: Earth River Sky: A Journey in Photographs Through Northern New Mexico | Rob Atkins Photography/Travel | October 2019 Release | $65 | 160 pages | 12 x 9" | Jacketed hardcover 126 four-color photographs | ISBN: 978-1-943876-06-8
$65.00 ISBN 978-1-943876-06-8
56500
Published by Glitterati Editions
www.glitteratieditions.com
Printed and bound in China
9 781943 876068