Linda Victoria

I'm an aging gavacha with enough ability left to use in devotion to the splendor of what remains of the Sonoran Borderlands and its people.  Butchered, mined, drained, scraped, walled off, it manages to endure -- magnificent, mystical, 'full of sound' to those who listen.  In this extraordinary corner of the universe, the threads of prehistory are woven with today and add to the wonder of this semi-tropical desert that exists nowhere else on earth.

What talent I have comes from my Mother, who was a prolific artist illustrator her entire life.  Part of my feeling comfortable with pre-Anglo peoples comes from her, too.  She was born and raised in China to missionary parents and preferred the company of "heathen" Chinese outside the walls of the Christian compound.  She spent the second half of her life in the West/Southwestern US (as have I), devoted to painting 1st Nation Peoples under the name, Original Americans.  Her Anglo blood made her an anomaly, and she died relatively unknown.

My love of Mexican culture began as a child at Olvera Street in downtown LA, then later in the rich multi-racial Low-Rider car culture of south-central LA.  As an artist, I fell in love with the bright colors, graffiti,  and fantastic and passionate images mixed with ancient spiritual elements.  It was during the turbulent 1960s, and the concept of art as a voice for justice began there, too.

All people are created equal... they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights.  You can kill the dreamer, but you can’t kill the dream.  -MLK They tried to bury us, they didn’t know we were seeds.

Today, I step away from the  maelstrom  to grasp for higher perspectives.  As a recovered alcoholic/addict, I recognize how we have devolved into a grossly addicted country.  But I know too, that the Human Spirit can shine most brightly through places it has been broken.  Not just when things hit rock-bottom, but in many situations where life meets death.  Like in the extraordinary acts of heroism in crises and mass shootings.  And in survivors of oppression and abuse who become helpers for others.   And in those risking life and limb to reach for Truth... some survive, some don't.

When all is stripped away, Truth is what's left.  Truth is brutal. It awakens. It forces deep choices necessary for survival.  It's also one thing that can heal wounds and bring people together, or-- drive them irrevocably apart.  To me, Truth is where God becomes visible.  Truth is hard to find here.  "Truth" is codified at the whims of the few, and  the "Will of God" is a weapon.  Meanwhile, Nature bats last, and we are at the bottom of the ninth.  We cannot make honey without sharing in the fate of bees.  We have met the enemy, and it is us.

Living a life with Truth in it is what matters most to me.  My family.  My dogs.  Wildlife in my yard, creative  projects around my  40s  hodgepodge house.  The Serenity Prayer.  Contributing to the preservation of land and community.  Being alone with nature.  The sweet desert air is kind to my joints.  Arizona skies are as dramatic as the land and keeps me connected to our celestial address.  For me, life is a learning experience on a planet magnificent beyond our knowing, and how cool is that?

And, if one keeps digging, the relentless Euro-domination bullshit falls away, and it's a wondrous welcome home.

All life is holy, all life is one.

“There will be four ages, and I will look in on you once each age. At the end of the four ages, I will return.” _White Buffalo Calf Woman

The Gift of the Sacred Pipe By Vera Louise Drysdale (my mother), text by Joseph Eppes Brown.    University of Oklahoma Press, 1984.

The full series of panel-sized illustrations from the book are in the permanent collection at the Aktá Lakota Museum in Chamberlain, SD.  Her paintings are used in their descriptions of the Seven Sacred Rites of the Sioux. It took her over 5 years to complete the series.

Those who live in memory never die.