The inner voice where gaps of expression are liberated.
Author: LouLou
I am a creative Nonfiction author, lifestyle columnist, and mob historian. Personally a free-style chef, historic preservationist, trailblazer, swimmer, and manic Rolling Stones listener.
Since 1997 I have renovated historic homes and converted them into vacation rentals.
IT’S UNLIKE ANY OTHER CITY I’VE EXPERIENCED.ย Named the city different, it is also the city difficult.ย She ( I see Santa Fe in the feminine gender)ย has to be treated gently. Herย weather patterns resemble a menopausal woman,her stature demands respect, and she can be congenial and patient.
You can walk this city as if it were a neighborhood. If you do that consistently you’ll meet people, and get to know them. Unless you’re like me, a standoffish fast walker dazed by the outdoors.
If you’re dazed and illusional you can master this city very well, as the drowsy pace and cordiality allow freakishย freedom.ย I ‘ve seen the liberating soul of Santa Fe,ย teenagers racing down the middle of a commercial street one foot on the skateboard, bad-ass bikers talking with bad-ass cops, women with parrots on their shoulder, dogs in baby carriages, cats in a bag, and women on horseback galloping up Palace Avenue.
At night you’ll see raging midnight ramblers dancing on the sidewalk, and all of this is appealing to an LA transplant.ย I have driven in my robe, danced in the street and broken the heels on most of my shoes because of the pot-holes. They are always working on a street, but never the sidewalks. I ‘ve been bounced out of the locals night-howl El Farol for accidently pushingย a dancer, who knew the manager, who came running after me and took down my license plate.
So many of us are loners, the serious kind, that have to be riggedout of our nests.ย Luckily I live on a commercial street and have no choice but to be commercially friendly. After nine years, my seasonal behavior is obvious: sprite in summer, blissful in fall, giddy in spring, and withdrawan in winter. I’ve learned patience,understanding, and adopted a mixture of cultural traditions. I’m close to fifty percent certain I’ll miss Santa Fe terribly when I do leave.
Has living in Santa Feย given me more than I’ve given back?ย Yes, it has and that’s why when I’m asked what’s it like living in Santa Fe, I try to reveal the blessings here and not the beef.
The first gallery opening I attended. Smashing art by Hunt Slonem, photography by Tim Hardy. Conversation, champagne, and what we all need, social engagement. Unlike a concert, or theater performance where you are seated next to someone you know, art galleries are a sensory of interaction with the artwork, the guests, and the elan of the space. Madison gallery was a warehouse, exposed twenty-foot ceilings, enormity of space, and minimalism in furnishings. It feels like an indoor park.
Once a gallery lover, then a gallery owner, and now seeking a job in a gallery. I joined the mailing list of a dozen galleries, realizing resumes are sifted through by AI and not the owner.
My love of photography began at a museum observing the work of Edward Weston. I used this line when selling my photography in Santa Fe” Photography are stories on the wall., not just the photo, the photographer. Of course you can say the same about a painter, but for me, catching a moment in time, that will never be repeated is poetic.
One guest that visited my gallery said this to me, ” Photography isn’t art.” He was famous, not as an artist but the son of John Huston. I cannot recall his explanation, but I have heard this statement several times and that is why there are so few photography galleries.I’d open one again when the if’s are removed.
One of my favorites by Jim Marshall. Jim caught Bob in a private moment, and let him publish it. An early concert, 1963, with already famous Joan Baez.Fuzziness is my fault.
SPACIAL dimensions define a lifestyle. I walked into a room of four hundred and fifty square feet, and begin designing a new nest, where I could rest, write, and regain a root. I brought two suitcases, a box of paperwork, and my laptop. In a tote bag: one coffee cup, a fork, knife, spoon, one bowl one plate, a wine opener, a razor knife, and two scissors.
That was one week ago, today I have a room of Amazon: a, bistro table, two chairs, one bedside table, one dresser, and a free-standing shelf for the bathroom. I’ve never seen a bathroom without a hook, a shelf, a few rods, it’s like a prison bathroom. All of this is what I’ve named experimental living. I have a 16ft POD in a lot in Saratoga Springs, and to transport twenty years of collections and spend months separating, what goes to storage and what I can use made no sense one sleepless night. I’ll leave it there until I am positively positive I’m staying here. I know you are out there, the gypsy wanderers, the unsettled, the ones whose address changes like the seasons.
Choosing to buy furnishings online is cost-effective. If I go into a consignment shop or furniture store, I’ll pull out the credit cards that I’ve sworn off like I have going out in the sun without SPF seventy. This is all the first layer of experimenting with a lifestyle that I lived when I was hey nineteen not seventy-three. Am I proving something to myself? Probably, I deny convention, and ultra comfort because then I wouldn’t think, I’d lay around and be satisfied.
Bedroom, living room, dining room and entry
” The writer lives between the upper and lower worlds, he takes the path in order eventually to become that path itself.” Henry Miller.
I am digging into something unknown, it’s as if someone has taken charge over my decisions and I just met her. Fragments of who I was in Santa Fe, or Saratoga, pop up in the annoying half wall mirror that invades my privacy. I intend to buy a lovely Asian or Moroccan divider to hide myself. I wish there was a mirror to my emotions, so I know what I am hiding, and refusing to face off with. I made a note yesterday in my journal,
‘ I’ve always been a misfit.’ Where I am now, is a succession of experimenting with the unknown, at an age when my peers are in the known.
Just took another walk outdoors, one of ten to twelve every day, to remove the scenery of too heavy unopened boxes, that Simon, my assembler will turn into furniture Friday. He is Russian, and was one of the lucky ones to leave, two weeks before the war began. He can assemble twenty-five pieces in a NY minute.
The outdoors, familiar from twenty years ago, with a whipping gentle wind, sun, joggers, walkers, skateboarders, and surfers pass along, and I feel a newly planted root.
ADVENTURERS IN LIVINGNESS 