WALKING WITH TOM AND THE LORD

 Tom Waits is always with us, and he’s especially with me whenever I walk in a garden and I remember his song ‘Way Down in The Hole’ with the lines that run,

‘When you walk through the garden

You gotta watch your back’

As close as I can get to a picture of Tom Waits in a garden.

 

I assume this refers to the Garden of Gethsemane but I think perhaps it applies to walking in many, perhaps most, gardens.

 

         Of course I knew that the Garden of Gethsemane was where Jesus prayed the night he was betrayed by Judas and where he experienced his ‘agony.’  But lately I discovered there are at least four potential locations for the Garden of Gethsemane.  All of them are near the Mount of Olives, but the Catholics reckon it’s the garden at the Church of All Nations built over the ‘Rock of the Agony,’ or maybe it’s by the Tomb of the Virgin Mary to the north. The Orthodox Greeks reckon it’s to the east.  The Orthodox Russians place it in the orchard adjacent to the Church of Mary Magdalene. I think I’ve got that right but I stand to be corrected by true believers.

Now, I don’t imagine I shall ever walk in the Garden of Gethsemane (though I gather there are plenty of bus tours), and for that matter I don’t think I’ll be following Waits’ advice that ‘If you walk with Jesus, he’s gonna save your soul.’ However, I have been walking among sculptural representations of the Lord, in the Desert Christ Park, on Sunnyslope Drive in Yucca Valley, and I have least peered into an artistic representation of the Garden of Gethsemane.  I shall explain.

      Now, one of the things I sometimes think about while walking in gardens, is what’s the difference between a park and a garden: and OK I agree its not one of humanity’s most pressing questions. However the Desert Christ Park had me thinking again.  

The name would seem to define it as a park, but their mission statement reads, ‘To provide a desert sculpture garden of hope, prayer and beauty; by sharing the Peace of Christ through art.’ So does that mean the place is simultaneously a park and a garden.  Maybe.

 

The Desert Christ Park was established 1951 when a single concrete statue of Jesus was placed there.  The statue was by Antone Martin, sometimes described as a sculptor-poet, who looked like this, which is pretty much the way you'd want him to look:

 

 He’d wanted to have the statue installed at the Grand Canyon but the authorities wouldn’t go for it.  However, the Reverend Eddie Garver who was pastor at the Yucca Valley Community Church, and had acquired five acres from the government to form what he hoped would be a Christian theme park (or I suppose garden), was happy to have the statue on his patch.  

 

Over the next decade Anton Martin made many more statues, most of them created in situ.  Jesus is consistently portrayed as a good looking feller, long hair swept back, a beard, mostly with very serious though a smile seems to occasionally to play about his lips. He does, of course, look very white.

 

Many of the statues are part of tableaux; Blessing the Children, The Last Supper, Sermon on the Mount, and of course the Garden of Gethsemane - Jesus on his knees praying, while the disciples Peter, James and John are asleep.  This kind of thing:

 

Though in fact you can’t get very close because of this stern bit of signage.

 

I’ve been going to the Desert Christ Park once in a while for over two decades now, and there was definitely a period when the place went into decline.  The concrete is formed around armatures of rebar.  Some of the ‘flesh’ on the fingers had fallen off in places off over the leaving Jesus with metal spikes for hands.  To be fair this did have a certain grim appeal.

But when I was there a couple of months ago, a lot of repair work had been done, though there was still the occasional chipped or missing nose, which seems forgivable.

     Contemporary and historic photographs show the Garden of Gethsemane to be dense with gnarled olive trees – some of them reckoned to be 900 years old.  And the Desert Christ Park has some glorious olives trees.  

Some of them are also bedecked with wonderful, architectural birdhouses, an idea I may steal for my own unreligious garden.

 

Now in some ways it’s hard to take the Desert Christ Park entirely seriously.  There is something faintly absurd about the enterprise. And Antone Martin is no Michelangelo. But then who is?

 

On the other hand, having walked around and among Anton Martin’s statues, I find it impossible to find the concept entirely ludicrous. The place is rich with belief, sincerity, spiritual commitment.  You emerge, or certainly you can emerge feeling good, feeling charmed and uplifted. I didn’t even feel that I had to watch my back.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

DESERT BEACHES

I’m not surely exactly when I ‘discovered’ the Salton Sea, but I know it was some time in the 1990s and I’d driven out there from Palm Springs, not knowing what I’d find.  Of course the Salton Sea didn’t (and doesn’t) need any actual discovering, though it does seem to be one of those places that’s constantly being reinvented and reimagined.

 

On that day twenty some years ago, I arrived in North Beach at the top end of the sea.  I was part desert rat, part dumb tourist and I found myself in a Ballardian landscape; empty motel, abandoned swimming pool, pelicans on the water.

 

And I especially enjoyed the shuttered North Beach Yacht Club, designed by Albert Frey, which I understand has since been restored at considerable.  Back then it looked like something from the future of the past.  

I thought I’d set foot in one of the most wonderful places on earth.

 

The Salton Sea is a Johnny-come-lately of the California landscape.  It came into existence in the very early part of the twentieth century when canals were built, diverting water from the Colorado River into the dry lakebed of the Salton Sink, and for a while the land became fertile and agriculture thrived.

 

But then the Colorado River burst its irrigation channels and vast amount of its water went into the Salton Basin; a disaster for farms and the farmers who lived there.  It took a while to sort that out.

 

Much, much later, in the 1950s, there was Salton City, intended to be a swanky desert resort, but with water. That worked for a while but then flooding, pollution, and high salinity made the Salton Sea a much less appealing holiday destination.

 

Of course none of this deterred a certain kind of desert lover and desert dweller.  Not so far away from this ‘planned community’ was and is a community of a different kind: Bombay Beach which is a sort of ghost town and a sort of hippy exclave: though now according to sources it’s an ‘art hub.’

So that’s where we went.  We walked on the beach, we looked at the art, we talked to a few other walkers, we observed some dangerous looking black smoke on the horizon. Without being too intrusive we looked at the various curious ways people live there.  It was great.

 

And later, not wanting to do the same old same old, we went to Salt Creek where I hadn’t been before.  It looks like an unspoiled stretch of desert shore, and naturally you want to walk across the sand and shingle and fragmented fish bones to the water.

 

I tried but I didn’t quite make it.  The land seemed perfectly solid underfoot but before long my feet went through the top crust into the mud beneath.  That was fair enough and much as expected, and I could deal with that.  I’d done it often enough before.  But then a little further on my feet through the mud into some hideous black tar. Once your foot went in you needed colossal strength to pull it out against. It was impossible to walk there. We turned back, returned to the sand and gravel, feeling like failures.

 

Pic by Caroline Gannon, as are all the ones below.

And then I looked at my shoes.  They were not a pretty sight.  In fact I didn’t think I could ever wear them again, certainly not to go out to the martini bar I had in mind for the evening.  

So I schlepped to the thrift store in Palm Springs and bought some decent looking shoes that cost all of 3 dollars and looked like this:

And they lasted all of three days before one of the heels came off.

 

The desert, she’s a tough mistress, and very hard on the shoes.

 

COMMANDO WALKING

 I discovered Anaïs Nin the way many people do, via Henry Miller. I haven’t read either of them for a very long time and haven’t felt any need to, but as I recall the attraction of Nin was that really liked and really wanted sex, at a time when few women of my acquaintance felt that way.  Yes, I was young and green in judgment, but at least I never put a birdcage on my head.

 

The one thing I missed at the time as I read Nin’s diary and her ‘erotica’ was that she was a walker, but I know this now thanks to Kerri Andrews’ Wanderers: A History of Women Walking.

 

Andrews writes, ‘For Nin there was an important link between sexual experience, sexual confidence and the development of her literary voice, all of which were bound up with the ways in which she walked through the city.’

 

That all sounds fair enough, but there’s more.  Andrews also writes ‘Walking the streets of Paris in this hyper-aroused state seems to create within Nin an almost-orgasmic connection with everything she encounters ...’

Please note that’s ALMOST orgasmic, or in other words, not actually orgasmic at all, and the paragraph continues, and here’s the beauty part ‘These sensations  are enhanced by way of the state of partial dress, with little by way of underwear, that Nin describes as “walking poor”’  

I missed that at the time and as far as I know I’ve never previously heard that expression.

 

I haven’t been able to find an image of Nin walking poor, or walking any way at all, but here she is as a Spanish dancer.

 

And here she is on one of those quotation sites.

WALKING WITH WELLIES

 

Photo: Caroline Gannon

So we walked, the four of us, Jen, Jonathan, Caroline and me (Caroline took the picture above which is why she's not in it but she's in the one below), on the foreshore of the Thames, between Bermondsey and Rotherhide.  The tide was low but gradually coming in.  It was a short and only occasionally tricky route but it had a lot going for it. I’d never previously set foot on the foreshore, had only vaguely thought about it, but Jen, the instigator of the expedition, was quite the aficionado.  It was a great walk.  And I was glad I had my wellies.

 

The foreshore was full of curiosities, both natural and man made: rocks, oyster shells, eroded bricks, tires, driftwood, and rather less plastic detritus that I’d expected.

Somebody had built a sandcastle,

Somebody had left or lost a boot

 

Of course when you’re on the south side of the Thames you stare across the water at the architecture on the north side 

but there were one or two architectural wonders on our side too, such as this nice bit of streamlined modernity:

 

Now as you know, I’m a great picker up of trifles, or souvenirs, or rubbish, on my walks.  But the fact is, you’re not allowed to remove things from the foreshore without a permit, and we didn’t have a permit so we took only photographs, left only footsteps, as the saying goes.

 

The woman above did have a permit, she said (we didn’t ask to see it) but she also said she hadn’t found anything very interesting.

There was even a sign in one spot, possibly not official, that said, ‘don’t move the stones’ but since the simple act of walking made stones move this was hard to obey.  And you know there weren’t any cops patrolling the foreshore, unless they had some secret and inscrutable method of surveillance.

 

However I did find this:

 

Another Caroline Gannon shot

It was a small glass jar with what appeared to be a wet and tattered five pound note around it, held in place by rubber bands.  

I picked it up and the five pound note looked real enough though probably too tattered to be legal tender. But I removed the fiver and found what appeared to be two genuine and perfectly intact Chinese bank notes under it, also wrapped around the jar.  

Suspecting contraband or, say, a trafficked human pituitary gland, inside the jar (though I suppose a human pituitary gland is a kind of contraband), I opened it up, and as far as I could tell it contained only river water.  What it had contained previously is anybody’s guess. And obeying the law of the foreshore, I wrapped the notes around the jar again, replaced the rubber bands and put it back among the rocks more or less where I'd found it.  It was the right thing to do.  

Nevertheless it’s the kind of thing I’m going to be thinking about for years.  I mean, who wraps English and Chinese bank notes around a glass jar and throws it in the Thames?  If we’d been living in a novel this would have been the start of a great and rip-roaring adventure.  As it was, we went to the pub.

 

       Then we went back to Bermondsey tube station for some fairly hard core Brutalism.  London, she’s exhaustible, innit?