Crop circles formed in front of me as the sun started to set in the Mojave desert. Mosaic couches and broken doll faces are scattered in amongst the tumbleweeds.
The ghosts stand eerily erect for their eternal Last Supper. I walk next to them, touch their white skin, ponder the meaning of the tableau that is somehow perfectly positioned out here.
A colorful artists palette is extended outward, seemingly beckoning me to grab a paintbrush and give life to these haunted and colourless ghosts. I can almost hear their cries in the night wind.
The gas mask is pulled out and strapped on, my own art, if you will, is being shown. I wrap myself in against the figures and rest my head. Lightning pierces the clouds overhead and illuminates the night sky, thunder shouts down it’s mighty roar. The broken doll faces turn their eyes towards the heavens in response.
The Belgian artists that came from Europe in 1984 to create this mysterious place of inspiration should know that they have succeeded on every level.

Wench, bring my ale, what say you?

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