The delicate visual gift called the horizon is an illusion of perspective that appeals to the edge detection of our eyesight. In the early morning, the desert and its mountains form these color fields out of which blue lines seem to exist. These lines are not meant for me to catch them with anything but my eyesight. They are like ideas better to contemplate than pursue. Like imaginary directions to a place of hope. Or it’s a quiet message telling us how to feel the distances in which we exist.
In Death Valley, forms appear to mimic the hands that sculpted them. As Jean Baudrillard noted in America, “Death Valley is as big and mysterious as ever. Fire, heat, light: all the elements of sacrifice are here. You always have to bring something into the desert to sacrifice, and offer it to the desert as a victim.”
In this strange mirror, a mirage produces a liquid permanence. And this ancient landscape becomes a future landscape as well as a launching point to terrains on other planets, other realities, and other existences, in addition to the seemingly inevitable sacrifice of human existence which as yet does not have the capacity to transcend this landscape. In that way, whenever I go to Death Valley, it’s immensity presses on me and makes me feel like eternity is under the feet of that which it feeds and consciousness appears as some strange simulated virginal sacrifice.
the form of what they were
to meet the light with its ridges
setting the stage
for its transformative