 It is not Mongolia. This is not a thousand years ago. This is today. This is a vast region of few people, cities or factories. This is the southwest of the United States, today. Its rocks, hacked and torn, are a great skeleton bleached by the sky. It could be a thousand years ago, but this is an ageless, timeless land. It was old when the Spaniards came, old when the Indians came 10,000 years ago. It is old today. Long ago it rose from the sea. It is a land eroded and polished by wind and sand and rain. It is a land where nature remains God, where God is pagan. An Indian chant says, do not despise the breath of your father's but draw it into your body that our roads may reach to where the life-giving path of our son father comes out. In this untamed land of space lives an American painter, Giorgio Keefe. Home is near Abacue, New Mexico. The desert reaches to her door. Like the sea, the desert cleans and polishes. Bones and stones and prehistoric wooden shells. Wind-blown desert seeds drift here to flower and die and grow again. Constantly seeks to find the image of this country. Fair and sensitive to things seen, the artist translates her feelings onto canvas. A moment of time is caught, is transformed into a timeless image. The artist is always searching for that timeless image. The Pedernal, Flint Mountain, an Indian landmark can be seen for 60 miles. The artist sees not only form and space, the artist with the language of vision portrays the essence of this land. A Santa Clara woman once said, I paint my thoughts on my pottery. My thoughts are a person who tells me what to do. And she said, when I was a little girl I watched my mother and learned how to do it. The whole once said, I have always been a poor man. I do not know a single song. The Indians know many songs. That's a suki voice prayed, send forth your breath, your thin wisps of clouds, your masses of clouds replete with living waters, the in prayer, the thunder, the voice above. Again and again it sounds, the voice that beautifies the land.