Category Archives: Brenda Roper

Beauty Betty Bingo: Still Developing


Several months ago I was invited to create a piece about my relationship with my mother for an exhibit curated by Esther Hong that opens Friday 9.4.15 at the International Gallery of Contemporary Art (IGCA) in Anchorage.  My old stomping grounds. How could I refuse. Grateful for the invitation. Grateful for the inspiration and creative direction.  Now what –?

Beauty Betty Bingo –that much I knew. Maybe a hand of euchre or two. Are those special cards or regular? I really didn’t know. Later my family laughed when I told them I went on Amazon trying to buy a Euchre deck. I checked Walgreens and CVS too.

It’s a Michigan thing.

Since January I have been working with natural linen, pieces of canvas, old and new photographs, negatives and discarded silk in the vein of a Primitive Seamstress.  I decided to continue with this materiality. Initially cutting and stitching all these disparate materials together as some kind of scroll. Attach them to an old wooden rolling pin. What about that vintage potato masher?  That might be cool. We ate a lot of potatoes growing up –I’ve been wanting to do scrolls with rolling pins for years. . .but alas it was not to be. A friend made a suggestion and the idea developed. Bingo! As it does. Literally. Art morphs.


 Somewhere in all this stitching my stepfather died. The family gathered.

There were decisions to make in the execution and later in the installation.  The negatives made it too stiff for rolling but not for hanging and so hang they will but by line or by chain or some cool miniature hardware that would make it look –well finished? I tend more toward the conceptual. Lots of undone and nothing exact so I let that go. Clips and clothespins.  Keep it simple. Keep it real.  The theme of a photograph still developing. Our relationship still developing.  Love you mom and so happy you’re still here and alive in the world.  The clothesline works to represent both the rural America of my childhood and the line where photographs are hung to dry in a darkroom.  So many metaphors.  Memories. The tangle of threads. A button. A live birth.  A game of cards. A gamble. Stitching a life together. Love. The beauty. All that laundry.


I hope you can make the opening –and if you do–Thank you!!

Brenda is a visual artist and occasional poet currently living in Santa Fe, NM.  Her piece: Beauty Betty Bingo: Still Developing is part of an invitational group exhibition opening at the IGCA this week in Anchorage, Alaska.

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Leaves of Grass: Water, Field, Canyon, Cattail


One hour to madness and joy! O furious! O confine me not!
(What is this that frees me so in storms?
What do my shouts amid lightnings and raging winds mean?)


O the puzzle, the thrice-tied knot, the deep and dark pool, all
untied and illumin’d!
O to speed where there is space enough and air enough at last!
To be absolv’d from previous ties and conventions, I from mine and
you from yours!

To find a new unthought-of nonchalance with the best of Nature!
To have the gag remov’d from one’s mouth!
To have the feeling to-day or any day I am sufficient as I am.


O something unprov’d! something in a trance!
To escape utterly from others’ anchors and holds!
To drive free! to love free! to dash reckless and dangerous!
To court destruction with taunts, with invitations!
To ascend, to leap to the heavens of the love indicated to me!

To rise thither with my inebriate soul!
To be lost if it must be so!
To feed the remainder of life with one hour of fulness and freedom!
With one brief hour of madness and joy.

Walt Whitman (condensed version)


She stood in the arroyo and cried.

Sat on the long bench overlooking her childhood –so much memory in rural

in field

the early desert days 17 years ago + 15 before that and who she was then

in canyon

the map rolled open before her

the mountains

the men

the fork in the road


the hummingbird demands attention and why not . . .

such beauty in flutter

the hike the pond the bath

flow together weave and stitch and surrender

a dive into water  opens the heart

and when the head rests floating the body floating the sound of bullfrog croak

a duck a bird a wind through long grass and cattail


a life –and lichen

Cliff River Springs

Brenda is a visual artist and occasional poet currently living in Santa Fe, NM.  Her piece: Beauty Betty Bingo: Still Developing is part of an invitational group exhibition opening at the International Gallery of Contemporary Art (IGCA) in Anchorage, Alaska on September 4th.

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Happy Holidays!! — ART retreat & Adventure

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Happy Holidays!! to ART & Adventure

As the end of 2014 draws closer to Solstice and the days so dark I find my voice on this blog after a long hiatus.   A resolution to bring it alive in 2015.   A toast to new adventures in art and travel and living beyond my zone of comfort.  In all things.  Lions and tigers and bears oh my!!  And all that jazz.

I went camping in Big Bend National Park over Thanksgiving.  A solo 1,400 mile round trip road trip from Santa Fe in my trusty white subaru.  It was all good –from the colorful pink garden courtyards and pink patio of  Eve’s Garden Bed & Breakfast in Marathon (after a very uninspiring drive from Carlsbad, NM to Fort Stockton, TX) to the gathering of Javelinas around my tent on that first morning at Cottonwood campground.  Apparently they like to graze.  Docile animals. Thank you.  The park is long on vistas and fantastic hiking and Ocotillo.  A highlight was the natural hot springs beside the Rio Grande in the Hot Spring Historic District and that rowboat to Boquillas, Mexcio.  So glad I brought my passport.  I will long remember the color of green.  Lime.  And in the glory of the moment walked right past customs until reminded by a friendly voice “señora. . .”  Here are a few images to bring you closer to my experience, including the chairs in the church above:

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I am a visual artist.  I collect vintage linens and barbed wire and abstract domesticity in a variety of ways.  I am an explorer and adventurer of spirit and okay– an occasional poet.  I have journals under the bed from when I began writing them at 14 (years old) –a long time ago.  Trust me. All those words.  All those feelings pushing their way forward.  Not on the most direct route but on a path none-the-less.  Which brings me to present.  Time. Not in the way of Santa down the chimney put it in my Christmas stocking but maybe it’s the same.  Present time.  All wrapped up in ribbon.  I do love them.  Presents.  Such joy in the gift.  A gracious acceptance and childlike innocence in finding something at your grown up door or mailbox or a card from a friend of long ago.  Thank you.

And so it comes to this.  I am artist who works primarily as  Girl Friday/Personal Assistant.  Walk the dog, carry the books up three flights to storage, run an errand, pick up the mail, check the house, rack the leaves, document your estate, pick up a prescription and a bag of chocolates, etc.  Whatever it takes to earn the rent.  That’s me.  I don’t mind and I’m grateful. Truly.  But at some point I fall away.  The art undone.  The path disjointed.  Too much time passing.   I wake unsure of the day of the week or date or the obligation and remind myself it is Thursday, focus. Etc.  And so I create an artist retreat for this artist occasional poet person that is me and here I am putting it out for donation.  For support.  A request.

I am driving nearly 1400 miles (one-way) from Santa Fe to the Florida Panhandle to spend the month of January in a retreat to art.  Off-season exploration.  A new foray.  A structure of unobstructed creativity.  Goals with a bike on top of a car with 183,000 miles (go Subaru!!).  Bringing the title just in case.  Pack my new & basic Janome sewing machine.  I’m just learning.  My recycled linens and barbed wire, and photographs, and thread.  It is my intention to make 100 or 1000 6″x8″ linen pockets (stay tuned).  To stitch and stuff and blog about it here.  Dangling threads. Primitive.  Unexplored and sometimes the unknown is the only way.  Through. With scissors and bobbin and heart.  And sandy feet and eyes wide open from the emerald shores of winter.

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If you’ve stayed with me this far I have a final request.  An opportunity.  For all.  In the past month I have opened my studio for the holidays in the spirit of invitation and show and tell.  I am subletting my one room casita to help finance my retreat (it just fell through but I have faith) and I could still use a little gas money despite the drop in prices.  Thank you.  A little help for the time not working.  For the just in case.  For the return. For the inspiration and leap of faith.  For the belief that art matters.  And so I ask for your support and donation.   Think of it as an exchange.  A gift that goes both ways.

  • For any donation of $25 or more I will send you a hand-made artist card
  • For any donation of $100 or more I will send you an original 11″x14″ matted print ready for framing
  • For any donation of $200 or more (if you have deep pockets of generosity) I will send you one of my 12″x12″ painterly photographs

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Paypal is preferred.  Please include your correct mailing address.  I have included a link below but can be found here to  If you prefer to mail a check you can send it to Brenda Roper 991 1/2 Don Manuel Street #B, Santa Fe, NM 87505.  Gifts will be sent as received.  If I am out of stock (due to travel) fulfillment will be made upon my return to Santa Fe in February.  If you have any questions or concerns please feel free to contact me.  Thank you forever and in advance.

Happy Holidays and best for a joyful 2015!!


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Dogs and Connection

Spring is a blustery time.  A time of longing and too soon and still cold and then the phone rings and the cat steps out of the cupboard and well it is no ordinary Saturday.  I have been dog sitting the past few months.  Part of my new Girl Friday/Personal Assistant duties even though not on my original “task list” –who knew I had such capacity to love given my solitary track record and the great distances between my two legged relationships .  So thank you life for giving me other people’s pets to love.  And there have been a variety:  Labradoodle (very regal), Corgi (energetic) and now two Bulldogs I’m not quite sure how to describe.

Almost reptilian their weight low to the ground.  That under bite so hillbilly dental and pushed in (lovable) face that looks up with longing and rests easily on the top of my foot.  Their coat beautiful and buff.  I listen to them lick themselves clean like a cat.  And they snore and snort all through the night.  I contemplate changing rooms though imagine they would simply follow me so I stay put.  Adjust.  When I wake in the morning there they are.  Waiting (heaven only knows how long) for me to wake too.  Ruby does a little dance and so suddenly I am dancing too.  Around this borrowed bedroom in leaps and circles, and even Ace does a little thing with his front paw.  All so happy.  The other dogs on my watch have the same routine.  Wait patiently beside the bed. For my eyes to open.  For my voice to call their name.  To begin again.  Good thing I’m a morning person.  All this unconditional adoration before coffee.

And what’s not to love about them too when they ask so little of you, a walk in the arroyo, a belly rub, a few tender words, give the dog a bone.   Ruby Tuesday and Ace is the Place and the Rubicon and well there is no judgment in their eyes. Not even walking on dog slobber while I’m trying to cook dinner is too annoying.  Minor on some level – compared to sleeping in the wet spot–though I do go in search of slippers.

 And today a big wind blows.  The weather nemesis that is Santa Fe in spring.  Thirty-six degrees before wind chill.  I go on a walkabout to explore trails on the north side of Hyde Park Road.  Invigorating.  Love every minute.  The you are here trail number scratched out at every sign.  Who does these things? The Buddha on top of the ridge.  Dust billows in the valley.  A man who forgot his hat.  I lost in nostalgia from a phone call that crossed 30 years to ring that morning.  The voice a connection that lights you up like Christmas.  Puts you back together in a way you forgot you were broken.  I barely 19.  He saw me like an x-ray.  All of us:  from Ohio and Michigan and Minnesota.

All broken and brilliant, hopeful and strong.  Dancing our dreams at the 3.2 bar and hiking our way through the Rockies. He told me you haven’t lived long enough to look back on your life.  And now I have.  I could spend the rest of my life having that conversation.  So there it is –come full circle.  This voice from the past holding my letter in his hands.  A spring blizzard raging.  He 30 years sober and married.  Made a good life.  I so certain he had walked off the edge a long time ago cannot even describe the elation.  Thrilled he is alive and well.  Thriving.  Somehow this gives me permission for happiness too.  For success no matter the failures or judgments.  What joy to stand visible in the eyes of a beholder who saw you the first time your world cracked open.  And yes, I do normal well I tell him.  We laugh.


The wind whirling so strong now.  It whistles and bends low then flares up like fire.  All the ghosts are flung out of hiding.  I hear them skipping across the roof and against the windows and imagine my ristra has blown off the side of the house again.  Chile seeds scattered like pearls.  Like today.  Gifts come when we least expect them.  Pick them up and put them in your pocket.  For safekeeping.

We all sleep at the base of the volcano Sage.

When not dog sitting or running errands for other people Brenda works in her home studio painting abstract shapes on small canvas and writing the occasional poem.  Her work can be seen at the new Kristin Johnson Fine Art Gallery in Santa Fe or on her website.  Studio visits welcome and by appointment.



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Art on the Fence

I have a new address and a massage scheduled for Valentine’s Day.  No gelato.  A raven hangs from the ceiling.  Faux leather couch and Victorian chic mingle beneath the skylight.  Art on the walls, under the bed, inside the closet and on the coyote fence “Family Tree”.  Outside and unprotected and I enjoy the view over my computer and out the window.  Today snow on the edge of the canvas.  It will weather.  I will weather too.  Too weather will I on the edge of the snow covered canvas.

Yesterday I went to the laundromat.  Hmmm.  Finished “Gone Girl” and watched the clothes go ‘round.  A crossing to another time.  In life.  Like prison or welfare but really only a place off the side of the road.  Not an A ticket but not lock down.  Quarters and baskets on wheels and people in sweat pants.  A family.  Not sure I’ll return but my clothes are clean.

At my new address the freezer is broken so I buy cake.  Chocolate divine.  Earl Grey tea with cream.  A gas stove cooks the coffee thick and black as I listen for the sound of perfection.  Stove top espresso.  Still working it out.  I get nervous when I have too much food in the refrigerator.  Called the GE repair man. Organized the studio and ready to mess it up with painting over paintings.  Gesso and begin again.  Me too.  Too again begin. Tabula rasa.

Bought a ticket to a beach today.  Florida.  Girlfriends.  April.  Not Key West but key enough sand and art museum Ringling and Dali and Contemporary Fine.  Not sure I can afford to go but I go anyway.  Cannot afford not to. Go. Better motto.   Odd jobs find me and thank you.  Dog sit cat sit see Spot run.  House tending people tending no groceries.  The Pope resigned.

The Year of the Snake.  Cancer Dog.

Travel is good.  Friendship and barefoot sunsets with wine.  Perspective and spring all at once.  I walked a new direction from my new address.  Today. South and west instead of north and east.  The fine art of geography and a view of the mountains. Stone wall.  Cold wind.  Sunshine.  Winter refreshing sit in the yard for a minute.  No more. New door.  My mailman is Pearl.  Netflix arrives.  A sad story.  A disturbing book.  Bestseller.  Hmmm.


What do you want to read in your Hallmark greeting on Valentine’s Day?


Brenda is a visual artist and occasional poet who works at a variety of  day jobs.   Her work is currently on display at the new Kristin Johnson Gallery in Santa Fe and has  been accepted into the Miniatures Show at Metallo Gallery in Madrid.  Opening reception May 4th.  Studio visits welcome and by appointment.

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endings, beginnings and 9 degrees. . .

I just finished the bag of sea salt & vinegar potato chips I purchased on Labor Day weekend –they expired at the end of the year.  Washed down with a bottle of winter brew dark beer still in my refrigerator from the holidays because everyone drinks wine instead.  Me too but today it felt right.  One beer.  Late afternoon.  Sunday football I do not watch though I know the Broncos lost and a friend is rooting for Seattle.  And though sunny outside it is well below freezing.  A day worthy of the bomber hat and big boots.  The beer, the salty potato chips, the rest of the Trader Joe’s chicken salad with cranberries and all those calories (justified) because I am moving.  Across town.

Pulling out the stove in one house to clean and pulling out the stove in the other.  To clean too.  Apparently something built a nest beneath the stove top, and between the wall and the oven since the last tenant.  Or maybe the last tenant never cooked and those curled up leaves are from a former former tenant who had a little grow operation.  This might explain the problem with the deadbolt on the front door and the reason it was not working yesterday.  Or the fact it was 9 degrees.  Or operator failure.  Or because the doorjamb has been pried open with a crow bar so many times the entire door is broken inside, but the landlord wants to make it right.  Has. Lovely people.  Thank you.  — still I’m pushing for a new door +  a screen door too.  With a little eye hook.  For summer.

It is a sweet little loft casita.  I will be happy there.  A gate for greeting.  A chile ristra against the adobe.  The light is fantastic and I have my own yard and coyote fence, for privacy and entertaining.  Don’t laugh.  I do occasionally invite friends over.  That said I like that it is on a one-way alley and not exactly easy to explain the exact location or how to drive to arrive.  The wall outside my kitchen window is built of stone.  Picturesque.  It feels country European to me. I  pretend I am near the vineyards of Tuscany though happily in Santa Fe.   South Capitol.  I will plant sunflowers and geraniums and sit beneath my umbrella to bask in their beauty.

Leaving El Zaguan is not without pangs of “will miss you” –the most charming apartment and compound ever, creative neighbors/friends, fantastic staff who leave little gifts outside my door:  firewood, rusty metal, boxes, a painted glass, vintage linens, donuts and books and clothes. . .good memories.  It has been fun and fruitful and I am happy for the experience(s).  Did I sit on the porch swing often enough on summer Sunday afternoons?  Walk around the garden?  Look at the stars?  For those creative types looking for an artful life in 500+ square feet I hope you consider applying to the Historic Santa Fe Foundation.


Life and the New Year are filled with a celebration of  endings and beginnings.  One job ends another door opens.  That kind of thing.  Change and poetry and art in new places.  Four of my 12”x12” oil on canvas will be part of the small works room at the new Kristin Johnson fine art gallery located at 323 East Palace in Santa Fe (across from La Posada).  I hope you can make the New Year’s Opening Reception this Friday January 18th from 5-8pm.  The gallery features a fantastic selection of contemporary fine art including abstract expressionism, encaustic and photography.  I am thrilled to be a part of this great addition to the Santa Fe art scene.


On the writing front I  rekindled a poetry group after a long hiatus.  Actually a resurgence of the one from Alaska.  Just Mike and I at the moment.  Trusted friends. We miss you Jim.  Perhaps inspired by the combining of art and poetry in the Odes & Offerings exhibition of last spring or the current Voice to Image exhibit at Vivo Contemporary where Mike (Burwell) responded to the work of Ro Calhoun and read his poem at the opening last week.  Or perhaps it was simply time to begin again.  The poem I brought to the table, begun in May 2011 and untouched until a few weeks ago, is a long two page ramble peppered with memory and lyricism, about meeting my biological father.  Maybe I’ll read it at the upcoming reading at El Zaguan –the 2nd in a series of on-going readings by writers/artists in residence.  Sunday afternoon January 27th, 2013.  545 Canyon Road, Santa Fe. Free and open to the public.  Time TBA.


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Merry Christmas card & Happy Holidays –!

BELIEVE in possible. . .window
Christmas tree in store white
magic lights do glow and outside
a snow angel or two.  Jingle bell
the cathedral rings long. Then try
the road less traveled by. . .
 HAPPY Holidays jingle JINgLE
solstice sweet holy Hallejulah
JOY to fire light the world on
and fly our singing hearts oh!
wings of peace away fly away to
territory untethered. . .cloud
snow star memory tear whisper
kiss kind friendship into a New Year!
Peace and bliss and possible. . .

Merry Christmas & JOYful

ode to snowflakes

tree lights song. . .
all the stockings are hung by the
Chimney with care. . .ice skates,
brick cardboard fire place hot
cocoa and orange memory. Santa 
cookies sugar and icing. Nuts in
a bowl for cracking.  A box of
chocolates.  Poke.  A carrot for
Rudolph up on the rooftop and sing
Frosty the Snowman and Dickens. . .
it’s a Wonderful Life White Christmas
–peace on earth goodwill toward men

and woman.  Sweet clementines


In the bathtub on Saturday it comes to me a calling for wilderness.  A sojourn walkabout drive all the way to South America across many borders.  Across the portrayed realities of gunman and drama and fear.  Into the possible the unknown the joyful abundance of challenge and shift and belief.  To experience the tides as they rush in than out.  Toe heart rushing through and away and over flowing the river floods and bleeds no bandage thick enough to sustain the violence say push push believe drive go open up gratitude kind truth like a Hallmark Card.  Put down our weapons of mass destruction drone nuclear cold war pharmaceutical economy and help the butcher’s son the widow’s daughter.  Make room for those who need.  And that is all of us.  All.  Sweet juice dribble down our cheeks over our lips to love.


Brenda Roper is one of 6 writers and artists currently living in the oldest artist colony on Canyon Road in Santa Fe.   Her work forthcoming in Cirque the Solstice Issue #7.

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The night before and the water poet

I set two alarms for my 4:30am wake-up call.  On my way to Michigan and thinking of Mexico. On my way to Michigan to celebrate my sister Kelly’s 50th birthday.  Here she is finally showing off her great legs.  Sometimes it takes that long to recognize our assets.  On my way to Michigan to see. . .we are family. . .I’ve got all my sisters and me. . .

Happy Birthday!!

and contemplating the election, forced to admit my not voting will not make the paradigm shift necessary for change — so I will cast my ballot as I have cast my ballot since I was old enough to do so. . .I tell a friend at least our vote counts in New Mexico where it fell fallow all those years in Alaska.  Be the change and books not bullets and shit. . .

and contemplating the change in the weather as I pack an umbrella and too many sweaters and realize all my shorts have holes in the pocket.  oh well.  but it is Mexico on my mind so I send off requests for rentals as if I can make it happen.  Necesito estudiar espanol cada dia. Repetir.   How to climb out of the box and into the possible.  Dream. Action.  Take 2.

and contemplating “otherness” –and wildness and writing poems that reach beyond wisteria and looking out a window and laundry.  How to articulate still life and inbetween and before and ever after.  How to become Gary Snyder’s water poet who stayed down six years fearless of seaweed criss-crossing the mud or perhaps a mind poet who stays in the house with no walls who sees everywhere and all at once.

Go well. Travel well.  Dream of the possible (to make it so).




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Family Secrets Redux –studio preamble

Pandora radio and Monday morning studio too quickly the day job announces time for departure.  I drag myself out of my apron.  Wash off the medium.  Unplug.  Recap.  Shift into 2nd gear.  Grab the I’m here for you happy mask and the car keys.  Close the door.  But today I long to stay.  Here.  The music.  The breeze through the door.  Quiet on Canyon.  Ideas and tasks and lists ado.  and now –36 hours later  I am up long past my usual bedtime.  Studio.  Music.  Door open to the night.  Moon whispers nearly full.   Open a bottle of red.  All the family (portraits) ready for hanging, the dresses darned and adorned and shifting as Family Secrets Redux prepares to launch into Santa Fe. Six years after a solo exhibit at IGCA in Anchorage, Alaska, seven years after Bolton Hill/MICA where dresses and other objects of the feminine domesticity came knocking.

I left for Mexico the following day.  It was February (06).  And a review in the paper found me checking internet a block from the beach.  Bearing witness, searing emotion, and the like.  More overt than my awareness.  Amazing the power of creativity:  telling a story far beyond our conscious intention yet exactly right.  That was then.  I won’t bore you with the details.   It returns changed, recycled –some pieces retired, published, sold, tossed in the dumpster (shh –we do that sometimes) and others introduced.  Happier.  Redux.   Time passes,  secrets unravel, change hands, reveal, revel.  Life moves on and forward and opens.  Up.

Such a tingle putting oneself into public view.  On display for company or candlelight.  Play the game board one and two.  Titles to title and prices to note.  The value is priceless but still a few will hang with dollar signs.  Just in case.

Our hearts dangle from the ceiling.  A dress on the wall.  On canvas.  Tiptoe past the portraits and “may I please be excused” on our way to a bedroom shared with sisters.  Nose in a book fast forward.  Such joy in the making.  Barbed wire not too fussy.  The healing healing and the knitting grows to include women I’ve met along the way.  A row of orange and yellow green and red ribbon.  Rose and Portia join hands.  Others die into each other.  Grief.  A hand across your face.  An unkind word.  Or moments of celebration.  A special dinner, a special dress, an occasion.  Maybe he brought you a flower or a child was born or graduated or a new job or a compliment day to yourself bubble bath no one knocking at the door.  Let you be.  Took you dancing.  A new appliance or fish on Friday you did not cook.  A ride in a convertible top down singing to the county fair with friends.  A kiss.  Memories and more to come.

The feet on the ironing board walk forward “one step at a time” to somewhere new and unknown and possible.

Some secrets unravel into a better place.  Of peace and identity and calm and thank you.  Others still in the basement poking in the night.  Remain to be known or not. Known.  Intuit.  Too much to articulate so let art tell the story.  Tell the tale.  A bit of myth.  Of suppose and mystery and maybe.   Of family secrets not always my own but yours or theirs or hers that girl standing at the grocery checking out your organic goods. . .ours.

Brenda is one of 6 artist/writers in residence at El Zaguan/545 Canyon Road/ Santa Fe.

Her solo exhibit Family Secrets Redux opens Friday August 31, 2012 at 5pm in the El Zaguan Gallery – home of the Historic Santa Fe Foundation.  Free and open to the public



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Intermezzo II –Gustavus C-47 series

November 1957 – A C-47 transport plane went down on the southeastern tip of Glacier Bay National Park (then a National Monument) during a snowstorm.  Four Alaska Air National Guardsmen were killed.  Three others walked away.  50 years later I walk down an obscure trail through the rainforest and see the wreckage, reclaimed by the understory and orchids.  The brilliant colors, the graffiti, the story preserved. I found it fascinating.

SIZE:  13″x13″ with frame
MEDIA:  digital photo, acrylic and found object mounted on painted panel

The 7 photo assemblages in this series are original photographs by the artist (Brenda Roper) taken July 2008  on a trip to Gustavus & Glacier Bay National Park in celebration of her 50th birthday and bon voyage (after 20 years of living in the far north).  Brenda relocated to Santa Fe where she “assembled” these as an Artist in Residence at El Zaguan.  With the closing of Virtu Gallery (Anchorage) they recently traveled back down the Alaska Highway.  Full circle it seems.

Now showing as part of  Zaguanistas:  Intermezzo II   –a group exhibition with works by Billy McLane, Bethany Orbison, Max Carlos Martinez, Adam Eisman and Brenda Roper

Price:  $300/each or make offer for the series (7 pieces)

Please stop by 545 Canyon Road

Open most weekdays 10 to 4pm/Friday evenings 5 to 7pm/Saturday 11 to 4pm

Studio visits by appointment

Summer ART Sale –$200/special price on limited 12″x12″ paintings

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