Reading In The Desert (Part 1)
Palm Springs, Police, & Pancit
Last month Traci Thomas and the folks at PAGE BREAK hosted a reading retreat in Joshua tree and I was one of the lucky few selected to join them. So without hesitation I packed my things, hopped on a plane (narrowly evading the ice storm hitting Chicago), and flew across the states to read a book in the desert with a bunch of strangers.
I arrived in Palm Springs a day early, largely to give myself some time to relax and explore. The campsite was an hour away from the airport, so I figured a respite before the retreat was called for. Shortly after landing in the balmy resort town, I unpacked my things, changed, and went straight out to explore.
Downtown Palm Springs consists of a simple squat plaza in between two highways, Palm Canyon Drive and Indian Canyon Drive. The strip vaguely reminded me of Andersonville here in Chicago, because of how kitschy and overpriced everything was. Record slash coffee shops, bar slash lounge, a randomly placed Sephora. I walked aimlessly up and down the stretch, oohing and ahhing and trying to adore the tourist trap without getting ensnared in it. But on a street where all the shops are ostentatious and greedy for your attention, it’s the ones that are boring and ill-defined that tend to stick out. So when I passed by this low-lit jewelry store with no signage, I felt compelled to check it out.
I walked in, and an older couple in the back absent-mindedly waved me in. The store had the charm and layout of an alleyway jeweler. The light was too low for the pieces to shine; gold appeared bronze, silver became tin. The timepieces were a bit gauche; looking like something a timeshare salesman would wear. Nothing caught my eye until I found a string of pearls dangling from the wall. Eighteen inches long, seven millimeters in diamater, and dazzling against the faded ochre wallpaper.
An older woman came from out back to help me try it on. We talked about the shapes and merits, and she tried to oversell me a little on something that I was already intent on buying, when in the middle of our conversation the door opened.
Two police officers came from off the street and interrupted our conversation to do a “check-in”. One white, one latino. The latino one lead the way and domainated the conversation.
The older woman expressed her amazement that they’d come in all of a sudden for a wellness check, I kept my thoughts to myself. I stood right next to them but they didn’t say a word to me the entire time, and instead talked to her, nodding and smiling and asking how she was doing. I was there to be observed, monitored, but not acknowledged.
Their conversation was painful and banal, as racism usually is. Not a single piece of personal info was exchanged, just repetitive “how are you doings” until they were both reluctant to say another word. After their glib exchange of reassurances the cops left. I was angry and humiliated, but also emboldened. No one’s gonna scare me out of looking fresh, especially the police. So I overpaid for a pearl necklace whose clasp broke a week later.
I left downtown Palm Springs and went back to my hotel where I sat by the pool, trying to forget the entire ordeal, until my phone buzzed. I got a text.
Another one of the members of the retreat had also flown in a day early and told me to meet her downtown. I was reluctant to spend another dime in this town, but I was too excited to meet this person to sit idly by. How often do you get the chance to hang out with someone who’s also crazy enough to go on a reading retreat in the desert?
We met at a crystal shop, and perhaps it was simply her vibrant energy (or maybe the crystals?), but the rest of my day was filled with a spate of endearing encounters that started change my mind about this city.
The cashier of the store told us all about hematite and obsidian and all the ways these tiny rocks could help us turn around our lives. Her spiel was effortless, clearly rehearsed, but I could tell from the way she delicately handed me a rose quartz bracelet that she earnestly believed in it’s power.
Afterwards, we stumbled upon a queer art shop run by an ex-Manhattan lawyer. The store was filled with gleaming, rainbow colored wine glasses, golden fruit, and goofy socks with sex positive messaging. Playful, unserious, yet tastefully curated. Walking through reminded me not to take myself or others too seriously.
We talked with the store’s manager about his life as a lawyer, the artist behind the work, and the trajectory of palm springs. I left with a bag emblazoned with “cult leader” on the front, a tote that would soon gain a lot of attention in the days to come.
It was late afternoon, the sun started to dip along with the temperatures, and I’d had my fill of shopping, but my new friend told me that the Palm Springs Art Museum was opening for free tonight to the public. And it’s hard to say no to free.
I didn’t expect a massive, sprawling structure to be attached to such a small town, but the Palm Springs Museum was a goliath. Spanning 15,000 square feet, with multiple floors (and an underground level) the sprawling complex rested at the bottom of a rocky hillside that is attached to the much larger Tahquitz Canyon. The building cooperated rather than competed with the desert landscape, with its rubble textured walls, and sandy brown accents. The color and craftsmanship was endearing, but it’s mid-century modern style reminded me of villain’s lair, or the complex of an aging Hollywood scion.
The first exhibit we saw was that of Howard Smith, a black visual artist of the 20th century. Smith’s career is similar to that of Baldwin and so many other black-american expats, who felt he had to leave his home in order to tell the truth about it. In Finland Howard Smith found fame working with a wide range of mediums: paint, fabrics, metal, to tell the story about what was happening to his people in the states.
The piece of his that I adored most was this little blue bird named Timo. It’s part of his Parvi or Flock series, and though most of his works accompanied an excellent description or backstory, there was little context given to these pieces. Maybe I was drawn to them because the police incident was still fresh in my mind, and I needed a bit of joy at the time. Hard to say. I read the date of creation, saw that it was made in the early 1990’s, and thought about what was going on at the time. The pieces were made around the LA riots in ‘92, maybe they were made the year I was born in ‘94.
After Howard Smith’s exhibit we come across another artist that I soon come to adore, Mickalene Thomas.
Born in New Jersey, Mickalene Thomas is a queer black woman whose paintings and collages are equal parts dazzling and mesmerizing. Her exhibit is paired with another artist I forget, but a theme I do not; bodies, agency, and erotic beauty. The work reminded me of my class I took over the summer about sex and bodies. A visual expression of Lorde’s use of the “Erotic as Power”. Her work requires time to appreciate the myriad of colors and textures. Sequins, black and white magazine cutouts, and the old masters occupy equal space. The piece that commanded my attention most was “le déjeuner sur l’herbe: fort green1”. The dresses of the women and their subtle expression captured a peaceful, fleeting moment that made me wistful, and recall all those summer evenings I spent at the lakefront with my friends.
Our streak of good fortune continued as we left the museum and discovered a night festival going on right in the middle of the street. The sleepy tourist trap of a street was filled with children and families as they rushed through the stalls of donuts, candles, and glassware. It was the “Palm Spring Village Fest” a night market hosted by the city every Thursday Night2.
The two of us searched for a bite until we found this nice little Filipino spot (god I wish I remembered the name). Each of us bought a veggie pancit, lumpia, and a bibingka and for $17 we got more than our money’s worth. Our styrofoam containers were overflowing and nearly bulging from the top. I spilled a little pancit on my shoe as I sat down to eat at the shabby little table next to the stall. The woman next to me noticed me struggling and made more space for me at the table and introduced herself as D, a Palm Spring local. D, was easy to talk to and while we stuffed our faces with pancit (which was good, but not better than the pancit in Chicago), she told us all about her life and aspirations. The summers here were unbearable, but the people were kind. Small-town mentality as she described it. Yet, as much as she loved this place, she told us her dream was to one day pack up her little dog, and drive ‘em both to a place on the ocean. Someplace where the people are just as kind, but the summers are a bit more gentle. Everyday she and her little dog would walk down to the shore, and play in the sand until one of them gave out, but from the way she described her bouncy little partner, it wouldn’t be him. And although the place she described was nameless and ill-defined, I felt I could see it perfectly.
D finished her food and soon said her goodbyes. We wished her the best and thanked her for sharing a table with us and my friend and I walked around a bit longer, looking at the handcrafted picture frames, and churros, and leatherwork. When the sun had fully set, and the adrenaline of adventure fully wore off, we decided to call it a night.
We both had to rest up, because in the morning we’d have to leave for the campsite where the retreat would finally begin.
A reference to the 1863 piece by Eduoard Manet of a similar name
Reminded me a bit of Argyle’s night market in Uptown, although it was thankfully much less crowded.