Phalle, a quasi-tree sprouting from the flats called “Metaphor: Tree of Life.” A few miles away a Middle Eastern fantasy, a white building with gold onion domes on each corner, sits near the lake like a casino without neon signage. I want to be challenged by the land, to find out how little I need to survive.īut where I want to gauge the distance to the horizon and gather the space inside, Karl Momen has placed a sculpture that reminds me of Niki de St. There’s emotional resonance in the dry lands, something about not having enough, an uncertain emotional supply. I live on an island in Chinook lands, temperate rainforest with alluvial soil known for its fertility. It’s so different from my home in the Pacific Northwest. I’m drawn to the desert, the feeling of nothingness.

Heavy steel cars, rounded fenders and fins, hubris, the wholesome self-satisfaction makes me hear John Trudell singing about Elvis, “You take Pat and his white bucks singing love letters in the sand, Hell, man, what’s real here?”

Before us lie miles of pavement, emblematic of the new interstate highway system of the 1950s.