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INTERVIEW WITH E.J. WELLS
1 Many, many moons ago, an unknown hand, began carving something, on the face of a limestone rock. Childlike images and figures with no faces, details weathered by the wind, and cracked by the blind glare of the sun; have been found in the Nevada Desert. Perhaps, it was the desert itself that inspired the artist, on how to leave something with the world. Maybe the artist heard the caress of the wind, and saw how, over time, it moulded the desert with it's persistent touch; the way it made the face of a child shrivel and turn into the wrinkled leathery face of an old man. Did the artist persist, scratching away, leaving this poignant legacy, aware that one day his bones would be bleached, abandoned in this harsh cradle of his birth, the dust of his mortality, scattered to the four points of the compass? That was 3000 years ago, and then the Europeans turned up. They too, scratched away upon the land, in the desert, digging mines, laying the unfortunate seeds of soon to be ghost towns. Pony Express riders, sweated uncomfortably, riding across stretches of desert, perhaps wiping the dust of the aforementioned Native American from a sweat streaked brow; perhaps sheltering in the shadow of a certain rock, where someone had once scratched a series of grooves; like the grooves of a record
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