The first day of August found me meandering along a razor-thin road that snakes alongside the edges of the Black Canyon of the Gunnison – a gash in the Earth the depth of the Empire State Building. Paonia-bound, I had no clue about the place I’d soon arrive in. A stranger to this part of Colorado, I imagined Paonia to be a one-horse town with almost no amenities. I predicted I’d be in the desert for a month, communing with lizards and dry heat. After I rolled into town alongside a sprawling orchard, I parked outside a light-green adobe building with a circular door that seemed to be lifted straight from Bilbo’s house in Lord of the Rings. I wandered into the courtyard and peered into the building – an auburn cat darted through a small door and nuzzled my leg, claiming me as a friend. I looked around and noticed a lovesick, road-worn guitar hanging on the side of the building and walked over to examine it more closely. On the headstock was blazoned the name of someone who’d had a significant role in my life, and I took it to be an auspicious sign that I’d found the right place at the right time.
The program manager soon greeted me, helped me unload, and I cozied into my new home for the month. I’d never had a room of my own this big in my entire life – a large oval window looked straight into the canopy outside, and I had my own claw-foot bathtub and guest room. So spacious! I could leave my guitars anywhere! A sense of restfulness and wonder sparked delight in me. I hadn’t travelled this far since the pandemic hit and the amount of newness in the day was off-the-charts compared to the banality of life during most of covid.
This past year and change has been a challenging time for all, and specifically for artists whose practices depend on communal gathering. At such a monumental time in human history with a global pandemic, the climate crisis, drastic social and racial inequity, lives lived ever-increasingly online, an imperial economic system hungry for infinite growth on a finite planet, and disinformation abound, the act of creating can become a revolutionary act that ties us back to our communal roots as human beings – back when the equivalent of Instagram and Twitter was sharing stories around a campfire. At Elsewhere, I wanted to write songs that above all, tapped into the deep well of grief that 2020 familiarized us with. And after a tough introduction to New York City during covid winter and a couple of personal losses, I was looking for a place to rejuvenate and gain new perspective on both my songwriting practice and my life. Elsewhere was the exact salve I needed.
The days started to unfold in a gentle rhythm as my co-residents arrived: wake up, write, coffee, write, lunch, walk, chat, cuddle with Tomatoes (the previously mentioned auburn cat), write, cook, relax. Adventures dotted the days with wild mushroom hunts, mountain passes, concerts, farmers’ markets, fresh peaches, figure drawing, hikes to canyons, and some slammin’ breakfast burritos. All amid the backdrop of the high peaks surrounding the North Fork Valley. It seemed to be a utopia, and coming from NYC, I was almost suspicious of the pure kindness and generosity of every local I met. Though of course, the town was not untouched by the challenges of our time – the wildfire smoke that was teeming across the country from Oregon and California drifted into the valley every so often throughout the month. Some mornings, I woke up to a red sun and a scratchy throat. We residents continued to make, mixing in colors and stories from our daily experiences in Paonia. As one of my co-residents drew pictures of imaginary insects that might evolve after the Anthropocene’s demise, I wrote songs that mixed heartbreak with wildfire, forgiveness with leaves, and love with butterflies. I challenged myself to write a song each week-day while I was here and ended up with a handful of new, mountain- tinged stories to go home with.
I’m writing to you now from my significantly smaller Brooklyn apartment, where the guitars are tucked neatly together on a small rack rather than splayed throughout my studio, and the soundscape is punctuated by traffic rather than afternoon thunderstorms. The spaciousness of the days at Elsewhere ring through my mind with a crystalline quality that I hope will stick around. I’m grateful for the time, space, and perspectives that my time Paonia gave. Thank you, Elsewhere!
With love, Eliza