diary

Website: Giancarlo Ceraudo

Morning coffee. Our friend Scott arrived late last night. The weekend lies ahead of us, he stretches for a run, we converse. Photo by: @jeremywadeshockley

Ghost Ranch. The red dirt under my feet was once under the feet of Georgia O’Keeffe & bore the weight of Mr. Adams tripod. A rare piece of earth, drawing artists then, drawing artists now. Photo by: @jeremywadeshockley

  Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter—tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther. . . . Photo by: @jeremywadeshockley

Lone snag. I pull off the highway, my eyes fixed on the horizon, the vast space which easily consumes the skeletal tree. Frame, compose, recompose. Photo by: @jeremywadeshockley

Exploring the city streets. Rachel and I set out on the town, drawn to the warmth of Santa Fe. In the years we have known each other, our lives centered around our home in Colorado, cut into the steep slope of a mountain, hand built. We have paid for this in both time and energy, …

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O’Farrell Hat Company replaced the sweat stained strip of fabric that passed for a hat band on my fedora. Good as new. Hats are big business in Santa Fe. Louie comes in once a week to brush the hats down. Photo by: @jeremywadeshockley

First light. Indian jewelry is sold year round under the sheltered terraza of the Palace of the Governors. Native American vendors from throughout the region brace themselves against the brisk morning air, the sun’s warmth a welcome sight. Photo by: @jeremywadeshockley

A balloon fiesta aficionado takes in the rose garden, Cathedral Basilica St. Francis of Assisi. Santa Fe, New Mexico. Photo by: @jeremywadeshockley