To celebrate Chandler’s extraordinary life, accomplishments, and legacy, the following public events will be held in Tacoma:
May 12, 4-6pm: “Drawn to Tacoma: The illustrative art of Chandler O’Leary”
Exhibit opening at Collins Memorial Library
May 13, 1-3pm: A Gathering for Chandler on the Old Town Dock
(click here to watch the live stream of this event on YouTube)
The details for these events can be found in this announcement.
Our dear friend Chandler passed away on April 2 from sudden and severe pneumonia. She was just 41 years old, and leaves behind an astonishing body of work as an author and artist. In her short life, she filled countless sketchbooks and created public art and signage, paintings, drawings, textiles, artist books, photographs—you name it, she did it. She did it with passion, dedication, and exquisite beauty. “Artist” barely encompasses all her extraordinary talents, as she was also an engaging teacher, podcaster, blogger, historian, travel expert, story-teller, adventurer, letterer, musician, entrepreneur, feminist, and collaborator.
While Chandler was very protective of her family life in her beloved Tacoma, she was also an incredible wife and mother. Our energy moving forward is directed at supporting her husband, The Tailor, and their four-year-old son. We all have to learn how to move forward without her, somehow.
Hug your loved ones, take a road trip, write your legislators, sketch something beautiful, and raise a glass to Chandler’s memory.
This hidden gem is one that’s been on my road trip bucket list for many years, and when I drove the Loneliest Road two springs ago, I finally got my chance. These strange stone kilns have been empty for more than a century—but thanks to their sturdy construction and the desert climate, they look like they were built yesterday, and are just waiting for someone to come by and stoke the flames again.
When I think of solitude on the road, I’ll admit the last place I’d associate with it is Zion National Park. In the twenty years that had passed since I first visited the park (when it was a sleepy secret), word had definitely gotten out. Nowadays Zion is a lot like the Grand Canyon: there are so many visitors that you can no longer drive the park road in your own car for most of the year, and forget any hope of a solitary moment. On my most recent visit, it worked out that I was there during spring break week for most of Utah’s colleges and universities—needless to say, I rubbed shoulders (literally! The shuttle bus was packed!) with a whole lotta fresh-faced students that day. But a kind park ranger gave me a great tip: she told me that if I wanted to escape the crowds, I should try Zion’s lesser-known sister site: the Kolob Canyons Unit, just forty miles to the northwest.
Reader, she was right. There was nobody there. Not one soul, save the ranger manning the lonely visitor center. So while the hordes teemed in Zion Canyon, I had this view all to myself. It felt like winning a trophy for braving the crowd earlier.
Well, it wasn’t the Loneliest Road, but I certainly had a lonely-road solo drive on the day before I crossed Nevada. I was in southeastern Utah, and I wanted to tick another highway off my road-trip bucket list: State Route 12, which cuts through part of the mostly-wilderness, sprawling, painted-desert expanse of Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument. The highway itself, completed in 1940 by CCC road builders, is legendary—but because of its remote location, I had never managed to get there on one of my previous Southwest trips.
I knew the drive would have spectacular scenery,
and the squiggles on the map promised a fun challenge of curving blacktop.
And I’ve done enough winding desert drives in the Southwest to expect surprises along the way—
—but the road pulled a few fast ones on me, all the same.
I rounded a blind curve to find this fella standing calmly on the yellow line. I screeched to a halt (and thus vindicated myself for sticking to the speed limit), stopping just a foot or two from him, and he didn’t even flinch. Didn’t even move—he made me go around to continue on my way, while he stared me down.
Still, once my heart rate returned to normal, I tried to remind myself that maybe he wasn’t interrupting my solo road trip—maybe I was interrupting his.
If you’re looking for a truly solo road trip experience, look no farther than the Loneliest Road: US Highway 50, where it crosses Nevada. The mostly two-lane road traverses the Great Basin desert, which consists of basin-and-range topography: wide, flat, parched valleys punctuated by parallel mountain ranges.
I wasn’t alone for the whole trip; the secret is definitely out about the Loneliest Road (thanks to Nevada tourism plugging it as a destination all its own), and there were other lookie-loos like me, as well as the occasional long-haul trucker. But because of the geography, what that translated to was little knots of traffic stuck behind trucks on the mountain passes, and then long, long stretches of empty road, like in the above drawing.
I lost count of the number of historic barns and rusted vintage pickups along the way, but that wasn’t unexpected…
What I didn’t expect was having so much roadside reading material! I love documenting my trips through found signage, but I think this place set a record for the most verbage in one, otherwise empty, place.
Even though parks and other road-trip destinations are beginning to open back up, my family and I are choosing to extend our self-quarantine for as long as we can, to help minimize the risk of spreading the virus. But that doesn’t mean I can’t host a virtual summer road trip instead! Since so many of my past road trips have been solitary, this summer I’m going to post a series of some of my favorite solo road trip moments—times when it felt like I was the only traveler for hundreds of miles—and tag the posts with #SummerofSolitude.
Since Memorial Day weekend is the traditional start of the summer road trip season, I’m going to start with an unlikely place to find a bit of solitude: Yosemite National Park. I visited in the shoulder season, when the high country roads were still packed in with snow, but even in the winter, it’s hard to find a quiet moment in Yosemite Valley. Still, I hit the jackpot that day. I spent the previous night in nearby Mariposa, and headed for the park at first light. So when I reached El Capitan and laid eyes on it for the first time, I had a big head start on the other tourists. I had plenty of time to sit and draw and listen to the birds waking up. It felt like such a luxury to get a whole sketch done before I saw another human. By midday the park was pretty crowded, but I’ll never forget the feeling of having Yosemite all to myself.
Though parts of the world are beginning to open back up, travel is still something we’re all doing from the comfort of our armchairs right now (and besides, I am firmly in camp #StayHome for those of us who can, to help others who can’t). So lately I’ve been remembering one of my all-time favorite sketchbook subjects: doors, gates, and courtyards. And this drawing seems to sum up all three.
What I love about drawing a door, other than its own inherent aesthetic qualities, is the fact that it represents a question: what’s on the other side? Long ago I lived in Rome, a city chock full of hidden courtyards and walled gardens—though I spent a whole year wandering (and sketching) every street and back alley, I only ever got to see a fraction of what lay inside the doors that faced the street. It felt like there was a whole separate city behind those doors, and every time I was afforded a glimpse of it, I was thrilled. I’ve felt the same feeling in a few places here in the States—namely Santa Fe and New Orleans—and when I sketched the above drawing, that feeling hit me with full force again. I’ll probably never get to see the inside of this little walled garden, but that doesn’t matter: with the orange trees and bougainvillea spilling over the stucco, it’s enough to imagine the little world that lies on the other side of the door.
I’ve been paging through a lot of my old sketchbooks lately (a sure sign that my wanderlust is flaring up—though this time there’s simply nothing to be done about it), and I keep finding myself drawn (no pun intended) to quiet moments and peaceful, solitary scenes. I’m sure that’s not an accident…but no matter. Whatever the reason, I was pleased to rediscover this moment that I’d forgotten about, when it felt fleetingly like I had the whole world to myself.
Sorry about the non-English post title—I realize it may need a bit of explaining. Italian is my other language, and since we’ve all heard the word “quarantine” a zillion times lately, this title just popped into my head. “Quarantine” comes from the Italian word quarantena, which means a period of forty days. It comes from the fourteenth century, when the city of Venice weathered the Black Death by making merchants wait outside the city for forty days before they could enter, to make sure they weren’t infected with the plague. Well, since our modern collective quarantine efforts are preventing me from visiting Mt. St. Helens for its quarantesima (fortieth) anniversary today, this seemed fitting—if a bit too on-the-nose.
So instead I’ll post a sketch I did around the thirty-fifth anniversary of the eruption (the same day I did the final sketch in this post). I remember marveling at the time that a scene so peaceful could belie such destruction in the recent past (and, certainly, the future to come)—and that seems just a little too on-the-nose right now, too. So instead I’ll just focus my thoughts on the pretty mountain, the pretty lake, the pretty wild irises, and the memory of a pretty perfect morning.