january 4, 2023
one of my favorite parts about living in a small town is that not every single surface has been power-washed clean of any trace elements of humanity. Most mid-size American cities, especially out West, feel as though they're in the middle of a bleach-wash cycle, systemically rooting out anything that doesn't look like a pre-planned element, eradicating art for the sake of tranquil sterility (and advertising space).
Reno, in the year I lived there, knocked down dozens of small motels to make space for more gray slab 5-over-1s and strip malls, simultaneously eliminating the only affordable places to live in the city and displacing hundreds while also destroying some of the only buildings that made Reno feel like... Reno. Murals in Reno are 50-foot affairs approved by a city planning board that must be as vibrant as possible without actually satisfying anyone or making any kind of statement beyond "respect everyone", and any actual street art is painted-over and the artist arrested with haste. Every fucking city feels like an Instagram-ready backdrop on a movie set, and not a place people live.
On the other hand, small towns where life has remained, feel more human. Lived-in. Yes, that does mean they look messier and sometimes depressing, because life in America is depressing, but it also leads to moments of joy. For example, why bother painting the mountains on a $60-a-night motel? Because we're people and we like to make pretty things, and it's pretty. It's as though the concept of embarrassment at art for the sake of art hasn't quite made it all the way out here yet.
