Harrison Armstrong

MINNEA-LA-POLIS: New York, New York. New York was a crash course in the life of artists in a different setting. Small openings, big openings and museums. A sensory overload – although, useful in trying to comprehend where I stood in a wider contemporary context. Not to mention the influence found in the vast art collection the city holds. This overload was dissipated by the vastness found in the Mid-West. A contrast almost bigger than the sky of Wyoming. But first Minnesota. Minneapolis, St Paul is where I landed. This was simply a gateway into a vastness – even unknown to the ‘Americans’ in New York. Let’s just call them New Yorkers. Once St Paul was behind me the Minnesota roads opened up quickly, highways stretched hundreds of miles. The land only interrupted by red barns. A definitive yellow line lead me across the state. Minneapolis – Hutchinson – Cosmos – Prinsburg – Clara City – Montevideo and then crossed the state line into South Dakota. Revillo and Kranzburg passed quickly and then Watertown. There stood three wisely-aged white barns built with compositional perfection.

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I clipped the edge of Lake Traverse Reservation and was only accompanied by a biker for the miles heading to Aberdeen – where I spent the first night on a pheasant farm. Travel allowed for me to be clear and everything I passed felt like it wanted to be sketched. Barns, farms and more open road. The towns with populations of under twenty thousand were spread within landscapes that felt unimaginable. Badlands National Park – home to prairie dogs and bison who lived on plateaus that dropped into spiked canyons. It was terrain that made you feel very insignificant in its enormity. Rapid city – home to some heads carved in rock and through Spearfish were I crossed the state line and first time zone. Wyoming Welcomes You – Sundance was the first town and this state like the last had landscape so wide yet with its own different characteristics. The land less green. Driving west meant I was directed by the suns descent. Maps were not necessary. If I got lost, drive towards the sun that should send you in about the right direction. In Cody I came across an old man – attached to an oxygen tank – who sat in a diner guessing exactly where everyone who entered was from. Texas – yes, Indiana, yes. I walked in next. He knew I was not American and when I revealed UK, he exclaimed, “UK what’s that” I then said England and he made it obvious he knew that as he mentioned he had just watched the Harry Potter films that week. Dubois – pronounced Dew Boys was where I found my self in conversation with cowboys – I visited their ranch. 400 horses. Felt like a notable experience. Wind River Reservation, then down the Tetons into Jackson. Unfortunately night had fallen so the Tetons are still left to my imagination – described to me by a shop keeper who did not fail to mention she had a cousin in the UK. Her hospitality was lovely! Leather jackets and silver rings. I cut through the south-eastern corner of Idaho where the only building I saw was an old post-office by the Blackfoot Reservoir. An area formally known for its cattle and speed shooting art. I was told a portrait was made with bullets being shot into a metal screen in 45s from 20 feet away – and now the post office sold Jerky – which was advertised by a pleasingly hand painted bright orange sign ‘Jerky Here’ and ‘Elk – Buffalo’. Idaho was short and Utah welcomed me with biblical storm clouds. Mormon country – stories of premarital relations with a certainly interesting procedure. Salt Lake City lead into the Great Salt Lake then the blinding white flats of the Great Salt Lake Desert. Wendover was the last town and the state line of Nevada came next. The Great Basin was an unrelenting passage. Dryer than the previous landscapes. Tumbleweeds which I had thought were film props quickly became a reality as they bounded across the road with staccatoic scrapes – they looked alive but their fragile crisp branches ensured me they were certainly dead. Skulls and snake skins decoratively lined the road. The skulls slender shadows allowed refuge for mice – who cyclically moved around the skulls in time with the suns arcing descent. Isolation intensified and was actualised when I merged onto ‘The Loneliest Road in America’. A winding road – cinematic – that cut through derelict towns. The loneliness was abruptly ended. Bright Lights and high rise buildings grew over the horizon. Reno. Las Vegas’s little sibling. Casinos did everything to draw your attention in an aggrandising way. Smoking was legal inside – they made sure you never had to step outside. These brutal buildings continued for all of Western Nevada – and ended with trees. The Golden State – California. The State Line was perfectly carved by the sheer cliff face of the Casino buildings. Californias arrival was present throughout the drive – becoming more present with every dollar added to the price of a gallon of fuel. Sacramento – Jack Kerouac. Then crossed the Golden Gate Bridge into San Francisco – where I spent a large part of my time trying to find parking and stalling up the steep roads – finding relief at each plateau. South of San Francisco was the Big Basin Redwoods State Park. Though not red anymore. The trees that stretched several metres in circumference and stood a hundred meters tall had been burnt. The forrest fires stained the trees black and clearings on the side of an inclining road showed a mass grave of black lines – it was devastatingly beautiful. I drove through a town which had survived – Boulder Creek. Route 1 took me past golf courses and In n Out Burger chains. Los Angeles revealed itself through signage. Buzzwords made known to the world through Hollywood productions. PCH (Pacific Coast Highway), Mulholland Drive and Sunset Boulevard to name a few. I arrived past midnight. My final stop was an Anselm Kiefer show. The dimly lit hall had several illuminated large scale works. The black markings and vast landscapes and huge sky abstractly seen as a conclusive summary of the imagery seen on my trip – imagery, atmosphere and experience which has naturally weaved its way into my practice.