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Palm Springs, Rancho Mirage, 1000 Palm Canyon, Indian Wells...for anyone who has ventured to these wealthy, celebrity-rich towns, the image of a lush green oasis surrounded by brown desert immediately comes to mind. The extraordinary Shangri-La that has arisen here, festooned with world-class golf courses, exclusive, gated communities and lush, heavily irrigated subtropical plantings, has the intended effect of not simply keeping the desert at bay but subverting it altogether.
Perhaps because of all the geographical settings we inhabit on earth, the desert most resembles an open canvas or perhaps because we feel threatened by it's abundant nothingness, we have often imbued our occupation of this challenging terrain, particularly here in the American west, with escapist fantasies applied with the boldest of brush strokes. Witness Las Vegas and to a lesser extent Palm Springs. If the latter represents how escapist fantasy is played out in the desert of the Colorado, than the small towns of Yucca Valley, Joshua Tree and Twenty Nine Palms, less than an hour's drive north, depicts what happens when the euphoria subsides and denial is besieged by reality. Here, in the desert of the Mojave, one discovers a more sober, less fanciful occupation. One devoid of obfuscation.
The paucity of water, political clout and money necessary to obtain more of it, has made for an uncomfortably direct interface between Man and desert. The exotic thirsty horticulture used elsewhere to soften the architectural shortcomings of the home and make for a natural tie down to it's immediate surroundings are not easily realized. In the absence of these trees and shrubs a gracious segue from home to garden to beyond is denied. The beyond, in this case the great vacuum of the Mojave, swallows up home and garden alike.
This remote stretch of the desert has long been a safe house for those whose edges are a tad rough for society. Survivalists, Patriots, and their like abound. The sense of alienation is palpable. Given the relatively low crime rate of the area, the seemingly ubiquitous home alarm systems suggest an unusually high degree of paranoia. Has this land of brightest light become the ultimate haven for the darkness of the human soul?
Our gardens represent our connection with nature. Given what I found in these towns and the homes and gardens they contained, the language of the desert is comprised of words that torment our tongues. A visitor is left to reflect on the shortcomings of our efforts here to meet the desert on it's own terms. Yet the folly of our endeavors basks in the most glorious light imaginable, leaving one pondering; Is it by irony or grace that the inadvertent surrealism of man's efforts here to make a home for himself only underscores the desert's stark beauty?
Just as it provides little succor for the green retreats we crave, this desert offers scant shade from the loneliness that is part of being human. There are no people in these photographs, just the detritus of their lives---a propane tank, a barbecue, a basketball, a dog bowl scattered across one dusty yard. In this landscape, such objects assume an eerie significance. Even a crack in the street suggests disconnection. In fact, the only thing that seems to connect the objects in these photographs---be they homes, or an absent child's swing set---is space. The space between the objects looms large, simultaneously magnifying their oddness while robbing them of their context. These photographs are my salute to this difficult terrain and the gulf that separates us from it.
Tim Goodman
Berkeley, California
July, 1997
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