Sometimes, standing alone in my drought-ravaged yard, nursing a tall, exotic, senseless, alcohol saturated cocktail with a fruit wedge, while the sun squints orange through the crisp winter of a short day almost over, I get to grinning about the assortment of creative wildlife and feral artists running unfettered throughout Santa Fe. I see my neighbor, Ross, settling in for an all-night painting session in his modest studio. I hear the whine of a saw across the neighborhood and picture the hot glow emanating from the glass shop up the street. I think of all of the artists, local and learning to be so, toiling away at some small feat, more important just at the moment than anything on earth.
Sometimes, if I'm in a particularly good mood or if I'm on my third cocktail, I get to grinning about all the attention that's currently being paid to artists and creative types-the in-vogue idea that, rather than let these anomalies, malcontents and weirdos die out in the face of predators like rent and health care and Republicans, we ought to
make them the centerpiece of our economy. What an idea! What a fantastic time to be alive and in Santa Fe and to watch it all happen. Then, usually, as the sun sets and darkness settles, I'm reminded of the incredible, baffling disconnect between artists, budding arts entrepreneurs and the government and organizations nominally promoting said concept. The last glow limning the mountains blinks out and I get the same churning clash of horror and expectation in my gut that I used to get as a child whenever I watched
Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom
on
television.
It is as though our wild west art town is in the middle of a once untamed continent and the formerly vibrant blend of species is suffering because of the encroachment of civilization. But wait, Santa Fe doesn't have to be overrun-it can become a nature preserve, not only granting safety to all the creatures threatened by industrialized madness, but allowing those creatures to prosper and offer the world their beauty and their simple wisdom. What's more, the thinking goes, once the preserve is operating in a symbiosis where the animals are free enough and their antics and products support the preserve, the rest of the world will begin to catch on and, in this drawn-out metaphor, begin to construct preserves of their own. It's a brilliant plan so long as the, ah, gamekeepers know how to care for the animals.
In this imagined game of quasi-wild survival, I like to picture the Skeleton Art gallery. The animal metaphor is apt for owner Loren Schoel because, in the course of trying to operate a successful, local art business, he's proven to have the proverbial nine lives of a cat. Although the sort of burrows that one is forced to rent in Santa Fe trying to start up a business selling something as silly as art lend themselves more readily to a mole likeness. In Schoel's case I really think of him as a tuft-whiskered tattooed vole. And I picture Marlin Perkins, the
Wild Kingdom
host, telling the viewers at home all about the travails of Schoel the vole scratching out a life for his family in this inhospitable clime: "The Schoel Vole has been forced into his sixth den in as many years, always having to keep on the move because of predatory landlords, lack of walk-in traffic and the fact that very few people understand just who this plucky young vole is and what he's trying to do." The camera would then zoom in on the Schoel Vole who, in his chattering vole language would say, "Dude, rents in this town are sick, but I've moved to a yurt in the middle of nowhere with absolutely zero amenities so that I can keep trying to sell my pop-art-low-brow freaky kitsch, etcetera, to the good people of Santa Fe from my new store in the utterly odd Design Center. I like it though. I think I fit in here and I'm happy with the way I've outfitted my new digs, kind of Yoda-explosion army bunker."
And you'd have to agree with him. The new store looks good and I hereby publicly apologize for publicly announcing the permanent demise of Skeleton Art in this very column not so very long ago. I had simply forgotten that Schoel, like anyone who can survive and eventually even prosper in Santa Fe, has supernatural powers of reinvention. I will also apologize a little bit (but not much) for comparing Schoel to a vole and for thinking of the Design Center as something of a doomed location. Forgive me, it's personal as I had a failed business located in the Design Center where people would come in all the time and say, "wow, this store would do really well in LA," which I'm sure Schoel hears a lot too. But he has something going for him which I did not: He is not a lazy bastard and he sells incredibly cool stuff. Cooler than ever, in fact, now that he's stocking a considerable supply of creepy, goofy limited edition art toys, skate decks and other global subculture arcana.
I asked Schoel what he would want-as an arts entrepreneur serving an audience that largely isn't here yet-just what a city bent on creating a nature preserve, ahem, creative economy based on innovative artists and art businesses could do for him.
"I've been doing this alone for so long, I don't even know what to ask for," was his first response. But then he said, "What if there were some sort of City-sponsored advertising subsidy that you could apply for if you were a business that fit the economic development plan and you were under a certain income and wanted to get some attention locally and in drive markets?" Whoa. Not bad for a tattooed vole. Maybe he should chatter his way over to the economic development office and the business incubator and ask them if such a thing is possible. Maybe he should ask what kind of tax credits they're planning to offer to advertising-based media that might want to help build the creative economy. Maybe tonight, after the sun sets, I'll keep grinning stupidly into the night, listening to the cries of the wildlife.
