A Ruined Chapel in the California Desert

Beyond the typical “I Was Here” announcements and the profanity left by PHUX; also disregarding the unfortunate pictures of women with no features beyond vulgar lips and distorted breasts, is there anything deeper here — anything of significance?

There is no public history — nothing in newspapers or anthropology journals to enlighten us. We might interrogate the memories of outlaw artists and their ecstatic followers, but they have gone. Only ashes from their fires remain. Nevertheless they passed-down to us hundreds of improvised illustrations. Our task: to extract meaning from the artwork, if any is to be had.

It is an enormous structure with a footprint as sprawling as a corporate warehouse — with wrap-around loading docks now defunct. Before the artistic bonfire blew through the place, it appears a flood struck. Wind has removed half the roof. Plumbing, wiring, doors, windows, floor coverings — all have been scavenged and carried off. Abandoned concrete slabs are in vogue in this vicinity. The phenomenon has spread widely: you will find nearly every abandoned building within fifty miles has become a medium for outsider-art. This location stands above all others, becoming a type of Rome or Jerusalem for the desert hipsters.

Despite being similar to urban graffiti, I believe these markings fall outside that genre. Robert Crumb Wannabes and Picasso-Imitators practiced inside this building. We find cogent messages amidst the chaos. One theme dominates: “Boundaries are Meant to be Manipulated.“ I found these words inscribed in several places within our rough tabernacle. Not destroy or pull down boundaries, instead the participants simply want to stretch and distort them — to bargain with the mainstream, to deceive and maneuver against it (probe its limits) without puncturing anyone’s cocoon.

Perhaps that is a central motivator behind the creations we see.

But also consider the influence of geographic setting.

The ruin sits not far from the Salton Sea. Prolonged drought has sped-up evaporation from the surrounding basin. Ocean-levels rising steadily adds salt to reservoirs. Humans reach deep underground to pump fresh-water for agriculture. More crops drink, more fertilizer gets scattered, and more pesticide coats the shores of the inland sea. Airborne arsenic and DDT aggravate lungs and human sinuses. It gets so bad ghost towns form — later to be re-inhabited by drifters, squatters and renegade painters.

While roaming I notice a strange depiction: two hands putting a writing instrument in a stranglehold. Above this image I find:  Birth — Work — Death. Then the question appears in longhand: “Are you just a human resource?” 

Nearby I find: LOVE MORE.  Then a related suggestion appears, posted by apeshit propaganda:

LESS WORK  Φ  MORE LIFE

Realism shows up just once — in a picture of a ceramic bowl with steam rising, entitled: “SOUP.”  Its medium: thick house-paint, applied to the inner metal surface of a gutted breaker-box. The creator wrote a dedication beneath his sketch: “FOR MY FAMILY.”

Our last photograph delivers a forthright message — projecting from a jumble of deconstruction debris on our extreme right. It shows a proverb apparently aimed at women in heterosexual relationships:

“There’s a difference between Control and Support; don’t let him tell you otherwise.”

This wisdom comes from THOUGHTSBYCHAOS, on whose behalf I have corrected some spelling and cleaned up syntax.

In the far background, we find a drawing of a creature from an unknown mythology. It depicts a snake — off whose body numerous penis-shaped objects are dangling. The beast has the head of a domestic dog, with characteristically floppy ears and round baby-eyes. Two yellow daisies grow from the top of its skull. The flowers appear in the same slots where antennas would normally be placed on an insect — or a robot.