MK Sturdevant

Paonia’s Night Sky

Full Moon Skiing in January

On this Spring Equinox, the March sun is gaining ground, and us Midwesterners have been busy peeling off layers. But I'm not as excited to to reveal my arms as usual. I miss winter in Paonia. When I reflect on my month-long residency at Elsewhere Studios in Paonia Colorado in January of this year, I realize now, with a bit of distance since I returned home, how crucial that time and place was for my art. In Paonia, I was reconnected with my favorite season: winter. The Studio Apartment was a perfect den of light and warmth and silence in which to write. And the world outside was so quiet, so distilled down to basic elements, that my focus was on target like it hadn't been since the COVID-era began. I wrote probably three-hundred pages of the novel I'm now querying, which takes place in Colorado. I grew up in Colorado, though I've lived in the Midwest for twenty years now. And being there, in cold, snowy Paonia, among the starlit mountains, and sunlit fresh snow, I was brought back to my center and grounded in such a powerful way. I forgot what it feels like to write from that kind of calm. I got to experience writing without interruption, without having to force my writing time into scattered, fragmented sections of time. I was reminded of the night sky while walking in the dark, crystal clear, full-moon evenings. I reconnected with the sound of fresh snow dropping off the boughs of a pine tree. I saw sunlight exacting the hexagonal crystals on morning frost. And because of all that, I was able to create. I look forward to seeing Paonia someday in its legendary splendor of summer and harvest season, too. But for now, profound thanks to the good people of Paonia and to Elsewhere Studios for facilitating such a fertile winter- to date, the most formative time in my career.

Snow Crystals in Paonia

Paonia Cloudscape

Ella Jacobson

I close my eyes and remember the hills and sun of Paonia, nights watching movies and drinking sours and walking up the sides of mountains. Elsewhere is one of the most productive places I worked, with some of the kindest people. It is special, in part, because it offers an opportunity to get out of the usual groove. Go Elsewhere. See what happens.

Viven Wise

Mapping Memories

 Greetings from my January 2022 residency at Elsewhere Studios in Paonia, Colorado! Here I am at the Colorado National Monument.

 I spent the month at Elsewhere making a quilt that I’m calling Mapping Memories (sneak peek)

Inspiration:

In March 2020, I started going on way more walks than I ever had before. And not only that, but I was going on walks primarily within a few mile radius of my home, in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. At this point these walks were generally the only reason I left my house.

I was given a new perspective on the neighborhood; I practiced identifying trees while watching them go from bare to bud to bloom, I noticed details on the sidewalks, and met neighbors. I went swimming in the summer and cross country skiing in the parks in the winter.

These walks were space for me to process the pandemic unfolding before me, and simply to pass the time. Days, weeks and months passed and I barely knew what had happened. A large portion of what is now the past year and a half is marked by these near-daily walks.

I wanted to make a quilt based on these walks - I sorted through photos I had taken and designed quilt squares for each one - drawings based directly on the photos, with the main colors and shapes, inspired by topographical maps and symbols used in maps. I thought a lot about how symbols are used, and what it means to turn a memory into a shape. I thought about the functions of maps, and how this quilt might function as a “wayfinder”. I read about Pierre Bourdieu’s use of the term habitus, and how he used it to refer to knowing a space through routine (like walking!)

I see these quilt squares as a sort of memory map of this time period. A symbol created for each location, my memories embedded in each one:

●     Watching buildings get torn down and rebuilt, with the ghosts of previous buildings embedded on them, a common sight in Philadelphia

●     Sunsets

●     Birthdays

●     Interesting textures that take many passes to notice

Process:

I traced all my drawings onto brown paper and used those as patterns - if the lines were small and straight enough, I would sew the paper directly onto the fabric to try to get the most precise lines that I could. In most cases, I cut out each individual shape and used it as a pattern piece.

A trick I learned for finding color values - take a picture of them in black and white! It’s much easier to tell what is a light, medium or dark shade. Here are all my little color swatches for some of the quilt squares.

Aaaaand here it is! A whole quilt top! The final decision, which was by far the hardest part for me, was deciding what pattern to quilt (the part where you sew all the layers together) everything together with. I played with making samples of a variety of maps - the topography of Philly, the riverways of Philly, the pattern from a sewer grate.

I still couldn’t decide so I took a break and went cross country skiing at Grand Mesa.

Finally I decided to go with a map of the geology of the region. Here’s what it looks like quilted!

Thanks for following along here! You can see more of my things on my website, www.vivienwise.com or look me up on instagram @vivienwise

Abigail Chabitnoy

Art in the Time of COVID: A Month’s Respite Elsewhere

Abigail Chabitnoy, Poet and Print Maker

Virginia Woolf wrote of the importance of a room of one’s own. In the time of COVID, as businesses shutter and offices look for remote solutions, such rooms become harder to find, our homes smaller and smaller, proximity and isolation combatting for first blood. We are cut off from those around us, and so we have time to write but cannot. We are thrown in 24-7 company with those we love typically on nights and weekends and so our attention is stretched and we cannot write. The news seems intent on outdoing itself with each update and so we ask why should we write and we cannot. But we must. It has always been so and we must. 

I left for my residency at Elsewhere Studios a week into the George Floyd protests in Denver, which I was compelled to support in socially distanced solidarity as my residency had already been delayed due to the pandemic, and I had agreed to take necessary precautions so as not to carry any virus to the community that would be my home for June. Eager for this time to work on my next book, a collection of poems that had been accruing even in their neglect for some time as daily demands on my time from work and home took precedence, it was still a strange time to be removing myself further from the world I was in fact trying to understand through poetry. And yet for that very reason it was necessary to do so; it is necessary to continue writing, to continue making art, indeed to prioritize such endeavors in time of turmoil: in order to understand and thus engage sincerely with a world so in need of being seen. 

If this post is off to a somber start, blame it on my inner child. I’ve always been too serious for my own good. My first month-long residency was spent agonizing over not producing enough, of too much time spent simply thinking about the work, reading, and simply allowing myself to be. I came to my residency at Elsewhere Studios with a plan and an elevator pitch for my second book: a consideration of violence and narratives of violence as they pertain to women, indigenous people, and the landscape. In some version, I had intended to focus on how this violence is survived, and while there is evidence on survival, it has assumed more the shape of resilience—of defiance. In this manner, I have come to find beauty too in the strength that reveals itself in such defiance. At Elsewhere, I also rediscovered joy in the experience of discovery, of play, of listening to the work instead of speaking. I put the word “print maker” after my name for the first time. (Or rather, Henry Kunkel did, in preparation for my artist talk, and I’ll be forever grateful that he did.)

In preparation of a month of uninterrupted and COVID-extra-isolated time to read and write, I purchased supplies to experiment further with lino-cut block printing, a technique I’d first tried for a broadside a couple years earlier and had been meaning to return to, but couldn’t quite figure out what to make of it. As part of my residency encouraged the production of a chapbook during my stay, I reconnected with language and the space of the page, the medium of the book, in a renewed spirit of conversation and discovery. The result—in addition to a fully formatted second book manuscript, enough poems leftover to begin a third book when I was ready, and a newly conceived chapbook that returned to the lyric roots of my first book while also conversing with historic source materials—was the beginning of a series of prints and images that were only just beginning related to the violence investigated in my manuscript, as well as how to transform such violence. 

I’ve been asked since the pandemic how I am responding to these bewildering times in my work. I didn’t think I was, directly. It’s not how I approach my work, consciously. But of course I am. These times might be bewildering in their own unique way, but what time is not bewildering? When has art not been a response to our desire to understand and re-vision our surroundings and circumstances? What else is a series of headless women, of open neck wounds that are both the receptacle of violence and the birthsite of the strength to resist those who would make us victims? In a capital-driven society, in the midst of calls for social justice revolution, as a pandemic makes painfully clear the inequalities and vulnerabilities of our current system, it may at first seem natural to question the wisdom of setting aside resources for illogically minded artists to step out of the world for a space and make art. But it’s in the artmaking we teach ourselves how to live. 

I am very grateful for the opportunity to remind myself as much during my month at Elsewhere, and for those community members and conversations I was able to engage with despite the pandemic. It was encouraging to observe how others negotiate this need to be present with this need to step aside and create. And it was rejuvenating to get back in touch with some spirit of play, despite having an inner child that has always thrived on discipline and determination. I’ve already started my next block prints, and can’t wait to see the final results of my chapbook when it’s in print. It’s been said that doctors keep us alive, but artists remind us why we live. So here we are still in the grips of a pandemic, still fighting for a more just and equitable system of living, and we have time to write, and we have no time to write, and we have space to write, and we have none. We cannot write. And we must. 

Until next we are Elsewhere, quyanasinaq. Sincerely, thank you.

Abigails intention for her residency:

We tell stories to survive. In my current project I am revisiting the stories we tell—stories of families and relationships, stories of origins, stories of floods, of beginnings and re-beginnings, of our nature, of our history, of our ancestors, of our language, of our gender roles and societal expectations. And while I am revisiting many of these stories in the context of violence against women, against the landscape, and against indigenous people, I intend for the narrative to ultimately illuminate some manner of path forward, some kind of hope—a survival guide, for how to create our own light, how to survive ourselves.

During the residency, I intend to continue to work my way through the Alutiiq Word of the Week Archive, where translated words are accompanied by micro essays that explore the word in context of the culture. I also intend to continue working through various Alutiiq stories and storytelling motifs, as well as popular Western folktales and superstitions. I would also like to revisit additional Carlisle Indian School records and student accounts, as well as archived interviews with Alutiiq tribal elders to broaden the scope of survival narratives. When asked by settlers if the world would end, the Alutiiq people responded, no. I am choosing, through poetry, to gaze unflinching at the world in all of its complexities, all of its faults and failures, all of its violence and injustice through a lens of survival and resilience, through story, to provide space for a self that is multiple and ever beginning. Because the truth about our stories is that’s all we are.

Chelsea Van Voorhis

To sum up my stay at Elsewhere in a single blog post is nearly impossible, a short novel would be more appropriate. I arrived Oct 2021 with the intent of only staying 2 months, as I type this I am now on month 5 and hired as the Interim Executive Director of the program. Needless to say, my story is long and complicated but I will stick to the highlights.

My medium is wood and I have only ever shared work space with other woodworkers. Being at Elsewhere gave me an opportunity to work and converse with painters, musicians, writers, poets, builders, fiber artists, filmmakers, culinary artists, and more. It was lovely and beneficial to hear what cohorts from a different medium had to share.

A review of hikes I went on: Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park was one of the coolest and underrated national parks, definitely go! Dark Canyon was fine and cold, make sure it’s sunny when you go. Jumbo Mountain is lovely but every single time I hiked it was extremely muddy ha! Grand Mesa was beautiful and a completely different ecosystem than the valley, dress warm. Colorado National Monument was so beautiful, it is not a hiking park, more of a drive, stop, walk a loop, take pictures, repeat but it is worth the trip.

I saved a stray kitten! Paonia is lovely but has a problem with stray cats. One night before a family dinner, we noticed a little white puff ball bouncing around. We named him Rissotto because that’s what was on the menu that evening. I spent 5 days sitting outside and waiting for him to trust me. Eventually I was able to get him to Bark and Bargain, the local thrift shop that is also an animal shelter. This organization is truly amazing! They took care of Rissotto, got him healthy, and then helped find him his forever home. I miss that fluff.

I’m a city person that lives alone so needless to say I was nervous for a lot of reasons. I embraced being out of my comfort zone and went with the flow. Overall the experience was so fun and I made friends that will be in my life forever.

Bill Walker

Elsewhere Studios was my first artist residency. My creative upbringing was far from traditional- I studied sociology and linguistics in school, art was purely a personal pursuit until I threw myself into it headfirst in my early 30s-so I was unfamiliar with what an artist residency was until a friend encouraged me to apply to Elsewhere in 2020. Timing and travel complications had me waiting for over a year to arrive in Paonia, but I was finally able to make my way to the tiny Colorado town in November 2021.

My proposed project was writing a screenplay for my film, but I soon discovered that the residency and the town of Paonia had other plans for me. The three other residents and I discovered we had all arrived following high-stress circumstances. Some of us worked in disaster relief, others had been let go from jobs, many of us had experienced months (if not years) of unstable housing, and all of us were intimately familiar with the hustle of patchworking jobs and gigs together to make ends meet as practicing artists. We found ourselves seeking out companionship again and again-the desire to gather, to laugh, to find ways to connect was strong. And we kept on finding our way there through food and drink.

The shared kitchen certainly helped. It became a sort of HQ for the house. Many ingredients and meals were shared there. Late night tea and early morning coffees were poured (and spilled, whoops) together. We gathered on Fridays with friends to celebrate Shabbat. One cohort was a professional chef and shared with us much of the produce, meats, and cheese Paonia’s farms yielded. The local coffee shop-Espresso Paeonia-was yet another opportunity for us to gather and share a meal or a drink. Many morning field trips took us there in pairs or triads to get our coffee and converse with locals with whom we became good friends. However, among all these many many opportunities to sup and sip together, there was no event more rousting nor joyful than the Hot Brown Competition of 2021.

This became my calling, and it revealed itself to me within mere days of arrival. The second day of my residency was spent chatting with my cohorts, and someone generously offered to make me and the group coffee in the morning. “Ah yes,” I replied. “Hot Brown.” Intrigued and rather disgusted, my cohorts asked for a further explanation.

Hot Brown originated from my hometown at my neighbor Gus’s house, back when I was in junior high. I would go over to his parents’ house often for dinner, as it was a community event. They liked keeping their space welcoming and open-invitation, so every night the parents would cook a big meal for whatever locals felt like showing up, and afterwards, Gus’s mother would bring out a giant kettle filled with what became known as “Hot Brown.” It was hot and-you guessed it-brown, but was not coffee, and not tea. It could be taken black (or brown) or with milk and sugar. We never knew what it was (until many years later I was told it was a powdered chicory drink), so we named it Hot Brown. I took the concept with me as I got older to include hot beverages beyond the coffee sphere. Hot chocolate, teas, coffee, herbal blends, hell even bone broth, all could be considered Hot Brown (as long as it fit the criteria, which you know by now).

I explained this to my residency cohorts with just one addition. To keep up the original mystique of Hot Brown, I explained that a true Hot Brown beverage experience meant that whatever goes into the kettle can only be known by the purveyor of the Hot Brown. The drinkers could never fully know, meaning that each batch of Hot Brown was always unique. This delighted my cohorts, and I was asked to make a vat of Hot Brown to serve at our first Shabbat dinner just a few nights away.

What began as a funny joke snowballed into a full on town-wide battle. What I served that night inspired (in part) the owner of the local coffee shop to begin serving what he called “mulled coffee,” but we all knew was his own take on Hot Brown. I created a Hot Brown Ambassador badge to bestow on a future Hot Brown creator, which would be passed down until the end of the November residency. Elsewhere alumni and administrators became involved. We had group tastings each week and cohort dinners often were paired with a Hot Brown beverage made on the fly. I threw myself into creating awards to be given out at the end of the residency, I made fliers and graphics, we even created a Hot Brown tasting event for the town on the eve of our group show. And then the awards ceremony took place.

The morning of the Open Studios event, I made a ballot box for those who had participated to vote for the four categories-Hottest, Brownest, Proudest to Serve It, and Worst. Seven people had officially made Hot Brown. 15 people at most had tasted the various entries. EIGHTY SEVEN ballots were cast. Needless to say, over the course of the night, there was rampant ballot stuffing, so I made an impromptu fifth award-Biggest Fucking Cheat. Awards were given during a fireside ceremony on Elsewhere’s property and the recipients posed with their spoils. A month of shenanigans came to its close.

I joked throughout my residency that my project was Playing Pranks. Yes, I failed to chip away at my film project, but I realized that having fun and staying connected during my month at Elsewhere was far more important to my long-term creative goals than spending a few weeks with my head down in silence.

Beau Martin

I so greatly loved and cherished my time at Elsewhere.

For some background: I came to Elsewhere as a bit of an outsider. I’m an engineer by trade, and while at Elsewhere was working on a robotic arm that could be used for creative endeavors.

I’ve come to understand my experience at Elsewhere in 3 phases:

1) Decompression. My first week at Elsewhere was delightful. I was enamored by the studio space, enamored by the grand and foreign landscape, and enamored by the stream that flows through the back of the property (which I still think deserves a better name than “the ditch”). I loved how walkable everything was; I could walk five minutes and grab a bagel in the morning. In an almost embarrassingly engineering way, I described it as efficient — everything was just a quick walk away.

That’s not to say everything was rainbows and butterflies. It took me a few nights to figure out how to keep my loft cool, but not cold, at night, accompanied by all the plights of getting accustomed to a new environment (and a new altitude).

Elsewhere was, in this time, appropriately named. It was otherworldly, and any problem or issue existed not here, but in the real world, wherever that was.

2) Nothing here. About a week into the experience, otherworldly went from blissful to miserable. Where were the tools that I was accustomed to? Where were my friends and family? Where was the 24/7 breakfast place where I could get a waffle at 2:30 in the morning?

I felt paralyzed, because I didn’t know if the tools I’d need to accomplish my goal existed in Paonia. Apathy set in — what’s the point of working if these crucial elements are missing?

Not giving up hope, I began to ask around. It felt like the right thing to do in Paonia. Do you know anyone with a lathe (a not uncommon but certainly not ubiquitous piece of shop equipment)?

3) Everything you’ll ever need. It turns out, someone did have a lathe, and a nice one, too! However, that misses the point.

There are always multiple ways to accomplish a goal. That was true for my specific problem — I ended up using the Elsewhere oven, not machine tools, to help persuade two parts together, solving my problem. I was never truly stuck, only butting up against one particular solution path that wasn’t working. Even if no one in Paonia had a lathe, I had everything I needed available to me. 

I wish I could tell you I had this grand realization on my own. Truthfully, it was working with Peter, a Paonianite (is that the correct demonym?) who owned a wondrous assortment of machine tools, that made me realize there were so many other (and frankly better) paths to accomplishing the task at hand. Within an hour of chit-chatting about the problem, we had eight different ways of solving it.

The experience of meeting with Peter began a great period of determination. Nothing was going to slow me down; every obstacle had a solution. More importantly, I accepted not having the perfect solution. I embraced the scrappy, practical answers that moved me incrementally closer to a finished project — whether that be slathering glue on a broken joint or melting plastic parts into submission.

I’m sure countless people have discovered this piece of wisdom before me. It’s one thing to conceptually know it, but another to really understand and internalize it.

Upon returning back to Atlanta, I’ve made relatively little progress. Beyond just being busy with returning home, I’ve been overcome by a familiar paralysis. Now surrounded by multiple machine shops, industrial supply companies and same-day shipping on any product, I’ve been too greatly tempted to perfect, instead of progress. The near-infinite possibilities have not helped me. Somehow when I packed everything up in Paonia, I must’ve misplaced that scrappy determination.

What has all of this taught me? There are some easy lessons: ask for help, don’t get caught up in perfection, etc, but I’m sure the full wisdom of the experience will only reveal itself to me over the course of a lifetime.

I do wonder if there’s a bigger metaphor in all of this. There is, as you might imagine, lots more in Atlanta compared to Paonia — more people, more traffic, more restaurants, more parks, more shops, more pollution, etc. In that list you can see there’s some combination of good things, like parks, and bad things, like traffic. I question whether I’m really getting benefit from the extra good things — do I really need more than one park? I know a couple hundred people in Atlanta — do I get much benefit from the half-a-million to many-million people that live in the city and metro area, respectively. I’m sure I do, but I’m beginning to look at it with a little more scrutiny.

My only wish is that I had more than a month at Elsewhere! 

Nicolei Gupit

“Every voyage can be said to involve a re-siting of boundaries. The traveling self is here, both the self that moves physically from one place to another, following ‘public routes and beaten tracks’ within a mapped movement; and, the self that embarks on an undetermined journeying practice, having constantly to negotiate between home and abroad, native culture and adopted culture, or more creatively speaking, between a here, a there, and an elsewhere.”

Trinh T. Minh-Ha’s Elsewhere, Within Here: Immigration, Refugeeism and the Boundary Event

In the summer, between the second and third years of my Master of Fine Arts program, I came to Paonia focused on concerns regarding my final thesis year and what’s to come after graduate school. My forward-thinking approach to life and work fostered anxieties. I worried myself with endless questions: How do I succeed as an artist at Michigan State University, the research institution where I am pursuing my degree? What happens after I graduate? Will I return to my birthplace of Los Angeles, the city of my formative years? Or will I move to the motherland, the Philippines, where my mother and extended family have been residing for over a decade, to stay close to and care for my elderly mother as she grows older?

In early August 2021, I arrived at Elsewhere Studios by plane from East Lansing, Michigan, after a brief layover in Phoenix, Arizona, and a car ride with the Elsewhere program manager. Only a few days into the art residency, my preoccupations about the future had been subdued, at least temporarily. I’m not sure how that happened, but I suspect it was due to the open-ended nature of the Elsewhere Studios art residency. The residency opened a mental space for art-making with no strict deadlines hovering over me. In addition, what was unique to this experience was meeting a plethora of creative individuals during the residency: my co-residents, Eliza Edens, Summer Orr, and Marcus Rogers; the program manager, Henry Kunkel, and executive director, Carolina Porras; and Paonia locals, many of whom were previous residents at Elsewhere. The welcoming atmosphere that Henry and Carolina created and the kindness that my co-residents extended to me and each other made me feel at ease. I was humbled by their generosity. I especially valued the instances in the studio in which Marcus, Eliza, Summer, and I shared each of our works of art. The living spaces at Elsewhere invited these intimate, vulnerable moments. I look back at these memories with joy.

Paonia and its surrounding areas offered peaceful solitude for art-making as well as a community rich with events to be inspired on a daily basis. To name a few, this included barefoot live music house parties, life drawing sessions on Wednesdays, film screening nights and a Zoom film discussion, Pickin’ at the Park, dance parties, and art exhibitions in Aspen. The film screening of and discussion on Tesoros, written and directed by María Novaro, had me reflect on the meaning of treasure in my own life. The creative and fluid way Novaro uses the film medium, through methods so antithetical to Hollywood, also had me reflect on my own use of video in my work. The live music events were awe-inspiring. They made clear to me the importance of audience participation in all forms of art. It was refreshing to experience the natural connections that each musician or band made with the audience, and how unlike many examples in visual arts, there was active listening and engagement from both audience and performer because both parties were there, in real-time, and the art was their shared experience.

 The other residents and I also organized our own hangouts like trail hiking trips, gatherings over drinks at a local winery, breakfast burrito excursions to Farm Runners, a Wild Wild Country watch-party night, and tarot readings. During my long studio days at Elsewhere, boredom never set in either: Tomatoes, Elsewhere Studios’ very own Tabby cat, gave me company, always around waiting for cuddles!

The expansive landscape in Colorado also made an impression on me and my art practice. Inspired by the scenic bodies of water, I made an experimental video titled Typhoon Survivors that focused on Super Typhoon Yolanda, a typhoon that I had experienced firsthand when it had devastated the Philippines in November 2013. Making the video involved interviewing three Filipina nationals about their recollections of the typhoon. In the video, I wove their personal stories with visual scenes of water. My experience making Typhoon Survivors directly impacts the way I envision my current body of work, as I prepare for two solo shows in 2022.

You can watch the finished video here: https://vimeo.com/589164737/0d123b1931

Eliza Edens

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

Skylar Taylor

The first day that I arrived in Paonia, Henry casually mentioned that many of the artists that do residency at Elsewhere eventually end up coming back to live there. I thought, “It takes an entire two minutes to drive from one end of this town to the other… this place must have something in the air…” And sure enough, not five days into my residency I was already trying to figure out how to stay in Paonia for another 2 months after my Elsewhere time was up. The best way I can describe this place is that magic exists here and everyone is aware of it and doing their part to preserve it. One lovely lady I met told me that if the valley wants me to stay it will make sure of that, but it will only let me stay if I am giving as much as I am abundantly receiving. I am going back to Paonia tomorrow.

Here is a collection of things that enchanted me during my December month in Paonia:

The plentiful routes of land and mountains and rivers that are accessible by a short walk no matter where you are in town.

The persistent remnants of people exuding their hope and light all over the place. Often felt like a scavenger hunt to find the day’s precious offering.

I have never felt more at home in a home than this one. Will certainly be designing my one-day home in reflection of elsewhere’s quirkiness and expression.

ESPECIALLY the Gingerbread House, which allowed me a sacred solitude that I have not had in quite a while. Plus, it was so damn cute. I took a photo of it everyday.

An intermission of other enchanting moments from the Gingerbread house.

And I of course must mention Tomatoes, who was somehow always aware of when you needed a friend.

And not to mention the absolutely fabulous people who welcomed me immediately. Who offered me rich wisdom and taught me how to chop wood, build fires, ski, and honor the seasons changing by swimming in hot springs not too far from town.

It’s nearly always sunny in Paonia- daily walks are a necessity (if not for the sake of mental health then just to at least see how adorable all the houses and decorations are).

Very thankful to have accidentally stumbled upon Elsewhere’s website and to have been allowed to hibernate and dig inside myself in such a place as this one. Thank you for everything, Elsewhere! It certainly was a lot.