And finally

This is the image that launched the ever lovely Sketches of Winter series more than fifteen years ago. I was photographing La Morada de Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe in Taos when I looked down to see these hardy numbers reach for the sky.

The blotches and darts of spitting snow adorn the buttresses of San Francisco de Asis in Ranchos de Taos. 

Tipi, Ranchos de Taos

It turns out I could have ridden the white horse of winter for another month. Man, I have a lot of snow pics. So, like last week, here are six more contenders for my as yet untitled article for Shadow and Light in January. And like last week, the prose has dwindled to a precious few words.

Inky Shadows, Valles Caldera

Into the Clouds, Los Cordobas

Adobe at Ranchos Plaza

I trust you had an extraordinary Christmas and that 2024 brings you health, happiness and unexpected delights.

Choices Choices

Latch, El Prado, NM

Duet, Brazos Pass, NM

He

Here Lies Bernardo Salazar, Valdez, NM

Wagon Wheel, Ranchos de Taos, NM

Tipis, Llano Quemado, NM

Stuck on you, San Francisco de Asis, Ranchos de Taos, NM

As threatened last time here are half a dozen more candidates for an article that may be titled Wonderland or might become Blanket of Snow. Or none of the above for all I know. It depends on my choice of images. Wonderland cuts a wider swath and could apply to any photograph that screams winter in New Mexico. Blanket of Snow, on the other hand, seems more descriptive of a layer of snow caressing an adobe wall, a roof, or the earth itself. Included here without much hoopla are some from both columns. 

Wonderland Pending

Blanket of Snow, Ranchos Church

Canal and Ice, Martinez Hacienda

As I ponder my subject for the January-February issue of Shadow and Light Magazine I'm looking for something befitting the dead of winter. I’ve been toying with the title Wonderland which to me implies winter. As to this week’s post I had been planning to write about the Lighting of Ledoux, the quintessential launch of the Christmas season in Taos. We still remember our first Lighting of Ledoux some twenty years ago. That year heavy snow had just fallen, and Santa arrived in a horse drawn wagon with a bevy of curvy elves wearing patterned leotards and sporting gold wigs. We turned to each other and exclaimed, “This wouldn’t have happened in New Hampshire.” That was quite true, but I don’t have enough worthy shots to warrant a blog about Lighting Ledoux. Instead, today I offer the first tranche of candidates for Wonderland. I have fodder enough under that broad category to fill several blogs. So, the month of December is in "in the can" in movie speak.

Long Shadow, Brazos Pass

The cabin at Wind Mountain, Taos Plateau

Shrouded, Taos Mountain

Ventana Azul, Torreon Hacienda

In reviewing my cache of winter images, I saw that I could select photographs from at least three series: Adobe and Snow, Into the Clouds and Sketches of Winter. Here are photographs from those portfolios. Toward the end of the month, I’ll select ten or so for the article Wonderland.

Gutsy and Strong

Welcome to the Hitching Post

Framed

I crossed paths with Kristeena Smith for the first time last summer at the Taos Roundup, a western music extravaganza put on by Kristeena and other merchants on Paseo del Pueblo Norte in Taos. I was photographing the festivities, mostly the crowd, when she greeted our friend, Bob Dempsey. Bob, of course, knew Kristeena since he’s the most connected human in the western world. But that’s a story for another time.

Working Hands

Headshot One

Headshot Two

It was a brief encounter that led in two directions, one to have her cut my hair. She was named the Best Barber in Taos for 2023. And two, to take her portrait. Early in our shoot I told her that I favor headshots and prefer open shade like the ones in the doorway to her shop or a single softbox used for the rest. Both provide a soft caressing light. 

What I know about Kristeena is cobbled from what Bob has told me, what I heard while she gave me the best haircut in recent times and during our conversation when I shot her portrait. From Bob I learned that she's in her forties, dropped out of high school, later got her GED and is the single parent of a seventeen year old daughter.

Kristeena filled in some of the blanks for me. She grew up in Redondo Beach, a town I know well. I once lived two beach towns north. She left home when she was 16 and worked in the hospitality industry for many years as a server, bartender, and manager. She told me she made the most money in a dive bar. I can relate. I spent the most money in dive bars. Then at some juncture, she went to barber school where she learned nothing except that she was the only student not afraid to use a straight razor. The fearful ones were all guys. A barbershop chain with a comprehensive training program is where she really learned to barber. She cut hair in or near Redondo Beach and for five more years in wealthy Walnut Creek in Contra Costa County. She told me she couldn’t afford to live there. She relocated to Taos three years ago and opened the Hitching Post Shave Company which earned its Best Barbershop accolades this year. I recalled to Kristeena that ten years ago I wrote about my friend and barber the late Juma Archuletta whom I called The Good Cutter. When Kristeena gave me a most au courant haircut, Bob Dempsey’s French descriptor, she joined Juma in the pantheon of great barbers I have known.

My knowledge of Kristeena is completely superficial. And the arc of her story is drawn from my alleged memory. If the facts are sketchy, the gist, I think, is true. 

She is self-made, self-possessed, entrepreneurial, and brimming with style. And she has a clever game plan that will free her up to enjoy her horses sooner rather than later. I commend her for having a plan and sticking to it. That's rare in itself. In an earlier less enlightened time we’d have called her a helluva broad.

Adobe and Snow

When the snow falls overnight Peggy and I head south to iconic San Francisco de Asis Church (above) in Ranchos de Taos because adobe and snow are a magical pairing. Last Saturday we got 10 inches of wet powder at Casa Immel and hoped the same would be true in Ranchos. Alas, the church received more like six inches which had been reduced to four by mid-morning. Still bands of snow adhered to the rough texture of the mud plaster so there was abundant fodder for my growing adobe and snow portfolio.

But before arriving at Ranchos Church, we stopped across the street to photograph Martinez Hall (above), a onetime movie theatre, bar, and a failed restaurant with the too clever by half moniker Old Martina’s Hall. That was the only clever thing about the failed endeavor which endured several iterations before the owner Martina Gebhardt from Bavaria finely pulled the plug. The old building clutched the fresh snow to its bosom while the nineteenth century wagon with turquoise wheels vied for my attention. The relic was made for the spot color treatment as you can readily see.

After photographing Ranchos Church, we treated ourselves to brunch at the old school Ranchos Plaza Grill which warranted the four- mile drive all by itself. I had Huevos Rancheros Green which came with a homemade sopaipilla and honey for the munificent sum of $9.00. That's the cheapest in greater Taos and among the best. Plus the staff led by our host Lester was warm, engaging, and hospitable. It was just plain fun. The venerable establishment hasn’t been on our radar for some reason but earned its place on our short list of breakfast favorites. And its Carne Adovada is the most scrumptious in Taos according to me. 

What are friends for?

Meryll, Lenny and Steve in the Prosecco Hills.

I’ve been giving a lot of thought to friendship lately. First, I found myself making a list of “best” or “real” friends, a purely gut level endeavor since you can’t really know. The exercise may have risen out of my rekindled friendship with Lenny Levenson in Italy after 39 years. Our instant mind meld and that we could have been continuing a conversation that began in the spring of 1984 touched me. Then on Tuesday last week I had lunch with Mark Asmus to share war stories about our recent trips to Europe. Mark and his partner, Lawrence, were in Paris for a month while Peggy and I hopscotched around Italy for three weeks. All four of us had a hard time of it for similar reasons, not the least of which being jet lagged and having long-lasting colds. Mark allowed that they might not “cross the pond” again. Peggy and I are pondering the same.

Mark Asmus, all 6"-5" of him.

But that’s not the essence of this tale. This is about deep and abiding friendship. I’d suggest that you may not know if the relationship is profound and unbreakable till it’s tested. And you hope it won’t be. Bill Roquemore whom I speak of below, says a real friend is the one who will be at your side, no matter what, in your time of need. When I met Mark Asmus for lunch on Tuesday, we shared that we have lots of social friends but not many with whom we can have full throated conversations. I suspect that’s a universal condition. People with whom you have the confidence to share more than small talk are rare and to be treasured. That’s why Mark and I look forward to our get-togethers so much.  

I told Mark that the previous day I had made a list of people who might be real friends. What’s the adage? “If you have more than one good friend, you’re a lucky person.” There are approximately 700 variations on that nugget, namely that real friends are rare. Count your blessings if you have several. And I just might.

The handsome specimen behind me is Bill Roquemore. You already know the Colonel. It was 1977 so I was a 36 year old Vice President of KFC Corporation while Bill was still in his twenties and already a District Manager in Columbus. He was a star and destined for big things. That white belt is cringe worthy isn't it?

Later that day I got a text message on my cell saying something like “You need to check your mailbox immediately” from my friend of fifty years, Bill Roquemore. I rushed to the post office where I found a yellow card saying I had a package for pick up. But it was after five, so I returned the next morning to find a rather heavy package. Since I knew of no occasions warranting a gift of any sort, I was intrigued. When home I opened the package and found a perfectly packed book, Koudelka Ikonar, Archival Constellations, a monograph of the photographs of the legendary Czech-French photographer Josef Koudelka. In the book was a typed letter from Bill describing the path the book took to reach my hands more than a year later. It was signed “Your lifetime Friend.” In Bill’s elegant letter, he describes the story behind my signed copy of the book. Bill’s son Jonathon, a long-time photography impresario who lives in Switzerland, was finalizing a gallery show of Koudelka’s work at the Photo Elysée Gallery in Lausanne. According to Bill it was the best attended exhibition in the gallery’s storied history. The night before the opening Jonathon had hosted a dinner for Koudelka. At the gala dinner Bill and his wife Tracy spent time with Koudelka whom Bill describes as “a very eloquent elderly gentleman.” He’s 86. Reputedly, Bill calls me “A very elderly gentleman.”

2,500 copies of Koudelka Ikonar were printed, but only 50 were signed by Josef. At the opening Bill and his wife Tracy received one of the fifty prized editions. Knowing my love for photography, Bill requested a signed book for me, as well. Jonathon told Bill that Koudelka didn’t like signing books and those 50 signed editions were it.

Then in Bill and Tracy’s latest visit to Jonathon and his family in Switzerland Bill had a surprise in store. Jonathon handed him a copy signed “To Steve Thank you, Josef” When I read the inscription, Bill’s heartfelt letter and leafed through book I cried like a baby.

Yesterday I learned that Koudelka Ikonar was awarded the Gold Medal for Germany Switzerland and Austria at the International Festival Fotografischer Bilder. So, in Bill's words the book is officially a Collector's item especially a signed copy.

Here's to true friends. 

Mumblings

A last look at Venice

Verona shadows

I have little to say or show this week. I’ve taken nary a photograph since returning from Italy. That’s not quite true. There were wild horses near San Luis, Colorado. So, I’m going to let the keyboard take charge and see where it leads me. I’ve had a story about Lenny Levenson, my friend and co-worker from the early 80s on my mind since we reconnected in Treviso, Italy in November. His story is a book waiting to be written. I’ve encouraged Lenny to write the book but like me he doubts that he has the drive and discipline to do it. But he knows more Levenson lore than I could ever learn. He should decide which secrets to reveal. Besides Lenny’s a natural storyteller and a fine writer. At worst my questions have bamboozled him into doing the research for a lousy blog post.

Italians smoke when they kiss. Bologna.

And vape. Florence.

Italians serve the best steaks in the known universe. Roberto Martone's dry aged steaks at La Trattoria da Olinda in Favaro were unbelievable. Roberto, in his words, works 26 hours a day. He cooked our breakfast, worked the grill at his restaurant till 11pm then drove us in the van to the Venice airport the next morning. The steak was top fiver. Ever.

Want a cab? Bring lunch. Florence.

This isn't Venice anymore, Toto. It's mustangs along the highway in San Luis, Colorado.

In the meantime, here are random musings and images from the barrens of my brain.

Small Works Great Wonders

Peggy presents her work

Sold. Just the way we like it.

We just returned from Oklahoma City where Peggy was an invited artist at the Small Works Great Wonders show at the National Museum of the Cowboy. It was her fourth year in the prestigious exhibition. All the work in the show was extraordinary, which is no surprise since the artists are among the crème de la crème of western painters. And I can’t say enough about the 220,000 square foot museum which celebrates the grand history of the West with special focus on the mythic American cowboy. It should be noted that cowboy attire from boot to hat was practically obligatory at the opening. I skipped the hat part. It musses up my hair.

Peggy with the proud owners of both paintings.

As to Small Works Great Wonders, Peggy’s paintings were luminous and poetic in a way that some of the paintings weren’t despite the skills so evident in the work. Of course, that’s just my very objective assessment. And both sold to a lovely couple from OKC who proudly announced. “We already have two of your pieces and we know exactly where we’re going to hang our new ones.” I find such enthusiasm, even love, for a artist’s work touching and unforgettable.

Peggy and Jane Hunt. Their work is behind them.

The Ivanov Immel Hunt wall in that order.

We've become friends with the Aleksey and Olga Ivanov, artistic and life partners formerly from Russia, who are Peggy's wall mates. Their energetic bronc buster and bison are the first pair on the wall. 

The Ivanovs and Immels at play.

The Albert Bierstadt Glow.

We first encountered Albert Bierstadt's work at the Palm Springs Art Museum 15 years ago. We were amazed that we had never heard of his monumental work and became ardent fans. This the Bierstadt at the Cowboy Museum soared. What a storyteller Bierstadt was. 

                    

Italian Lessons

Murano, the antidote to Venice

Montalcino

It wasn’t till the 18^th day of our three-week power tour of northern and central Italy that we realized that our sweet spot is the serenity of the countryside. Perversely all of our days were spent in cities till a winery tour in the Tuscan hills outside Siena reminded us that we’re at home under big skies with forever vistas. So, we booked our last two nights on a working farm north of Venice. It, too, reaffirmed our love of the high desert where we’ve made our home for twenty years. After a dicey check in, there was no one at reception when we arrived, we entered our second-floor room overlooking the farm and breathed for the first time since October 13. That’s when we knew our bliss in not in the city but in the calm of a village. That’s an awkward realization for an octogenarian who has professed his desire to live in bustling neighborhood in one of the world’s great cities, for complete immersion in city life and language for a full year. After Venice, Verona, Bologna, Florence, Siena, glorious cities all, I’m reassessing the way I want use the rest of my life.  I still crave more adventures, more surprises, more learning, more languages, and most of all new friends who were strangers till we shook hands for the first time. But where those experiences will take place is under review.

The broad Adige River and rainbow, Verona

A Venice Nocturne

The Prosecco Hills between Treviso and the Dolomites

Peggy had wanted to visit Venice with me for thirty years. For her significant birthday, I planned an itinerary the would be the greatest hits of historic Italian cities. I bit off more than we could comfortably chew. Schlepping two much stuff on public transport was a nightmare. The pressure and fatigue of our schedule was debilitating. What we saw as amazing, but fewer stops with more time in each and with much less baggage would have been a better idea. A single rural location or small city with daytrips and some overnighters as we've done in the past may be the ideal formula for a relaxed, creative idyll. We avoided driving on this trip. We'll rethink that, as well. There's a lot of freedom with wheels.

Il Campo, Siena

Peggy had been lobbying to add Siena to our itinerary. The weather had become dank in the north so visiting warmer Tuscany beckoned. Thankfully we opted for four nights in the Medieval city. Our apartment, the least expensive of the entire trip, was perfect but for spotty internet. We were on a quiet street a short block from the center of the city. Everything we wanted to see was less than a ten-minute walk. We were revived by the longer stay and the warm sun. An intimate tour of three wineries in Montalcino capped with a 2014 Brunello Reserva at a one women vineyard and cellar was perfection.