Our funder and parent organization adopted a new tagline last year, "Real places telling real stories," and I've been thinking about the implications for my work with the Trail as I promote and interpret this part of West Texas. I suspect this will be a running discussion with myself this year, so this may be the first of many entries in the weeks ahead. Feel free to scroll through to my pictures from the holidays if you're yawning already...I don't mind.
"Real places telling real stories" requires the intersection of two concepts I worked through as I stitched--being true to and deepening narrative while conveying a sense of place.
The earliest memory I have of this intersection of narrative and place was reading my beloved Betsy-Tacy books, Maud Hart Lovelace's series of children's books, illustrated by the genius Lois Lenski. The girls and eventually, their friend Tib lived in Mankato, Minnesota, mapped by Lenski and called "Deep Valley." A gussied-up map by Lenski is here. Inside the front cover of the early print editions I read, Lenski created simple charming drawings--maps, really--of the small-town, turn-of-the-century places that were critical to the imaginations of the three little girls and their readers. I spent hours looking at these simple drawings, reading and rereading the text and imagining how "Deep Valley" must have felt to those girls, and how I might feel to be there myself.
I guess I wasn't surprised, and was a wee bit horrified to see "Deep Valley" interpreted and "made a place" for tourists. I'm torn...I give a thumbs up to the community for creating an economic driver for tourism as I suspect there are many middle-aged women and their daughters and granddaughters willing to make the pilgrimage to Mankato for a bit of Betsy-Tacy memories. And yet, is it really any more a place than where the created-for-market American Girl dolls supposedly lived? What a shame that our imagination is now nailed to one very specific vision...though they are perfectly charming places, they are so specific. I guess I liked my own vision of "Deep Valley" and it rings truer to me than the "real" "Deep Valley." And yet, this is very, very close to one legitimate way--walking tours, interpretive guide flyers, etc--I might develop to interpret or promote one of my communities.
So where is the "real" in "real places?"
Back to artwork and stitching:
Most of my early work was about place, solely about place. And roadside america places--Texaco stations, Dairy Queens--those public spaces that were about mood and light and unintentional theatre, such as the choreography of tired gas station attendant pumping gas and wiping windshields at the end of his shift, or the parade of characters ordering dipped cones and banana splits on a warm summer night. What was important to me was exploring the question, "how did it feel to be there?"
I even did some maps, including a "Map of Great Pies," hand and machine-stitched pie vignettes on handpainted silk. There was the blueberry pie from my Grandmother in Michigan, who'd give us buckets and tell us to go gather berries. There was an homage to legendary Route 66 diner pies and reststops, and there was a road between them, the road that connected them physically and thematically. It was a cute piece, about having fun and honoring PIE (and what could be greater, really?!) and led me one step closer to visual storytelling and narrative.
I stitched a tiny map of the civil rights work of Diane Nash, honoring her courage and the importance of her work in the early student protests, including the lunch counter sit-ins and the Freedom Rides. The map of the south, with her portrait and geographical links to her story formed the basis of the piece.
The bottom line here, is I added my own views, story, vision, narrative to those places.
I do it every day in Van Horn. As I go about my day I am engaged in the conscious and unconscious process of personally mapping this town. The mornings I run, I leave my apartment and get in my car for the cemetery, noting if Janice's car or that big guy's car, or the old guy's car is parked at the hardware store. That tells me who's working there today.
I cross Broadway and look to the right. Have Robert and Nada arrived for their day at the Museum yet? Is there car parked behind the building?
Ahead, there's the train tracks, and if I'm early, I see the railroad workers standing around.
Swerve to the left and cross the tracks, turn left, and there's the house with the chihuahuas always out. Watch for them. They're always running loose.
A block or so down to the west is the house, where I suspect squatters take up residence. Most times it is abandoned with broken out windows, but sometimes a big dog is chained in front. Across the street, as I turn north, there's the sturdy adobe long left on its own. Windows and doors are wide open to the elements; I always give it a quick glance wondering how many animals must take refuge there for the night.
Turning north, there on the right is the house that brings out their homemade Holly Hobby Christmas displays. I like them, though they're quite shabby. At least someone cared enough to make something, not buy something.
One more block, there's the trailer with the car-chasing dog...will he run today? And then the trailer with the horse barn in back. And then there's the cemetery, and I'm ready for my run. In the five minute, one mile drive a whole host of stories might present themselves.
Larry McMurtry stayed for a time in Van Horn, as one of his novels was filmed here. He wrote, and I'm paraphrasing and taking a few liberties with his words, that Van Horn felt like a place you might get murdered..that is until he met one old waitress that humanized the place for him. For Van Horn and its blight, its neglect, its struggle to believe in itself...it really needs story to feel comfortable to outsiders.
Lots of "real" stories happened here--Van Horn has always been a place people pass through--Apache, stagecoach riders, early ranchers, refugees from the revolution in Mexico. Van Horn is rich in story. The cemetery is rich in story, yet some locals do not want it opened to outsider use. Part of my work here is to listen and to respect those wishes, and see if there is some intersection between their care and protection of that place and the telling of Van Horn's stories. What we want is a way for outsiders to understand and appreciate the place Van Horn is and was, enriching the visitor's experience, and hopefully help the town believe in itself in the process.
Yesterday, I spent constructing a draft flyer interpreting the gorgeous and unspoiled Hwy 54 for the motorist and the cyclist. Monte spent hours building an elevation graph based on data from Google Earth and he helped me make sense of Publisher and my extremely limited graphic design skills. (He's great.) My goal: encourage visitors to take the time to explore that stretch of highway. And yet, here is a conumdrum for future thought...though history happened here (the last Indian battle in Texas, a current-day spaceport, deep ranching history, ancient coral reefs and geological history) at its core, the land on Hwy 54 is still very much frontier. If I map it, will I destroy the visitor's sense of exploring uncharted space or will I enhance it? Will I "Betsy-Tacy" it out of its charm? Or will it provide a gentle nudge for someone to get out and see it for themselves.
These are the questions on my mind today....
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