The Art at the End of the World Summary
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The Art at the End of the Earth
A pilgrimage (with children) to see ''Spiral Jetty,'' Robert Smithson'southward profound testament to catastrophe.
Credit... Ruddy Roye for The New York Times
We were taking an airplane, I told our children, to come across what I dramatically billed as ''the finish of the globe.''
''Can't we go to a beach?'' they asked. Information technology was February. They were sick of the cold.
I promised them sand and enough of water, but unless things went terribly incorrect, we would probably not be swimming in it.
''Where are we going?'' they asked.
We were flight two,000 miles to see more than half-dozen,000 tons of blackness basalt rocks extending ane,500 feet into the Great Salt Lake in the shape of a counterclockwise vortex, designed by the almost famous practitioner of '70s land art, Robert Smithson.
''It's chosen the 'Screw Jetty,' '' I told them.
I showed them pictures. I admitted that peradventure ''the end of the world'' wasn't the best manner to annunciate what I hoped nosotros would experience, even though previous visitors had described the mural as hauntingly spare, as resembling how our planet might appear post-obit a nuclear holocaust. Smithson's gallerist, Virginia Dwan, said the jetty ''was something otherworldly, but I hesitate to say hell, because I don't mean everybody being tortured and and so forth, merely the feeling of aloneness, and of it being in a place that was unsafe, and something devilish, something devilish there.''
Adding to the excitement I presumed we now shared: The route conditions virtually the jetty were highly variable, which was to say non always roads. The lake's water levels, too, needed to exist beneath 4,195 feet for us to see it, and those levels were partly dependent on snowfall (this winter there was lots) and how much of that snow, by the time we arrived, had melted and sluiced down the mountains — h2o that as well, en route to the lake, could turn the 16 miles of unpaved roads into impassable mush.
Where nosotros were headed, in other words, nosotros might not exist able to achieve. And even if we were, what we traveled and so far to see might not be visible.
''Will there be cyberspace?'' they asked.
I appealed, finally, to their desire to see me happy, a strategy that, thus far in our lives, had failed 100 pct of the time. I told them that, for more than a decade, I'd wanted to visit ''Screw Jetty,'' as though these years of compressed want had become a diamond that I could wink in their faces, my little crows.
This ploy worked as well every bit it always had. They grudgingly accepted their fate. I accepted mine. You cannot sell others on a pilgrimage. You cannot pulsate desire out of nothing. Unlike me, the crows had not once held a piece of the jetty in their hands. It was 2004. I was in Los Angeles. My friend, Christopher James, an artist and Smithson admirer, had been tracking the water levels around the jetty for years. Because, for near iii decades — roughly since the death of its creator, at age 35, in a plane crash — the jetty, except for a few brief reappearances, was submerged. Around 1999, the lake's water started to recede (because of drought) so that past 2002 the jetty could, again, be seen; people, again, could walk information technology. People like James could get in their trucks and bulldoze thousands of highway miles and so through the cow fields and out to the Slap-up Table salt Lake, where the coastline ''reverberated out to the horizons,'' according to Smithson, ''only to suggest an immobile cyclone while flickering light made the entire landscape appear to quake.''
James arrived to find that the jetty's black rocks, following their lengthy submersion, had get coated in pinkish-white salt formations similar barnacles affixed to the hull of a sunken ship. He took i of the salt formations — cracked free from the rock to which it had been affixed — home as a gift. This was how I came to hold not a slice of the jetty, exactly, so much every bit a celebration — the material accrual — of its disappearance. ''Fourth dimension turns metaphors into things,'' Smithson wrote. The salt formation was the size of my fist and weighty, warm and damp. ''Information technology'southward half the size that it used to exist,'' I think James saying. Exposed to the air, and possibly to the dryness of California, he guessed, the table salt germination was evaporating. Within a few months, the time in my manus would cease changing states, conclude its vanishing act and disappear.
We landed in Table salt Lake City. We rented a four-bike-drive vehicle because my hubby, calling ahead to a ranger at the Gold Spike National Celebrated Site, where the asphalt ends and the dirt begins, had been warned that the road to the jetty was ''pretty bad.'' We received a similarly grim prognosis from the rental amanuensis, who, on learning our destination, asked us whether we had checked the water levels. ''I don't think you lot'll be able to meet it,'' he said.
We did not panic. Instead we rejoiced. The natural obstacles on and around which the jetty was built, along with Smithson'south prolific writings, suggest he designed the jetty to be both difficult to reach and hard to run into. He synthetic it during a drought in 1970; he knew the water would anytime rise. While in Rome, in 1961, surrounded past art tourists, he wrote in a alphabetic character to Nancy Holt (who would later get his married woman): ''People want to stare with aggressive eagerness or they feel they must stare in gild to grant approval. In that location is something indecent most such staring.''
An underwater artwork is the perfect remedy for indecency.
On the highway, mountains surrounded us. The crows had never witnessed a landscape like this; save once when tiny, they had never been west of the Due east. I urged them to look out the automobile windows rather than at their phones, and confirm that they were totally undone by the awesomeness. I demanded their indecent staring. But the crows are predominantly city creatures. Nature didn't interest them as much as civilization and its inhabitants did. Nosotros passed an abased amusement park, the roller coaster coiling like a train rails yanked skyward past a tornado. We passed defunct factories that, with their silos and peaks, resembled the Mormon churches we could encounter in the distance, isolated and chalk white against the brown mountainsides in which they were embedded. The billboards advertised Bibles and services you could pay for to deal with local plagues (''FIRE H2o MOLD STORM''). At regular intervals nosotros drove beneath a digital sign that read ''Goose egg HIGHWAY FATALITIES.'' The smaller print told a slightly less cheerful story: ''26 out of 47 Days.'' The landscape thrummed with vastness; other than the highway'southward thin river of commerce, the world exterior our automobile was unmarked and uncontained (and un-time-stamped) by buildings and sidewalks and people.
I could tell: The bigness of Utah was freaking out the crows. They didn't know what to make of such an uninhabited expanse. ''I'm interested,'' Smithson once said, ''in that area of terror between human and state.''
Smithson did not begin his career as an earth creative person; nor, given his intellectually garrulous persona, would he probably wish to be called one. Born in Passaic, N.J., in 1938, Smithson became keenly cognizant of how the local postindustrial landscape — what he described as ''ruins in reverse'' — shaped his sensibilities, equally did natural features like quarries, which he said were ''embedded in my psyche.''
Contrary to popular conventionalities, or maybe merely reverse to my assumption, Smithson didn't extend beyond his New York Metropolis studio to work in the outdoors considering he desired more than space. ''I don't think you're freer artistically in the desert than yous are inside a room,'' he said. In his 1968 essay ''A Sedimentation of the Mind: Earth Projects,'' Smithson noted the importance, to his thinking, of the nighttime drive by a boyfriend New Jersey artist Tony Smith on an unfinished stretch of the Jersey Turnpike, in the nighttime, with students from Cooper Marriage. ''[Smith] is talking about a sensation,'' Smithson wrote. ''[He] is describing the state of his mind in the 'chief procedure' of making contact with matter.'' In the same essay, he noted that Freud referred to this commingling experience as ''oceanic.'' When Smithson get-go started working outdoors, he made boxes and containers to hold, for example, slate from a Pennsylvania quarry, which he then displayed in a gallery. Still, the tension between freedom and restriction remained an exhilarating struggle.
''If art is fine art, information technology must accept limits,'' Smithson wrote. ''How can one contain this 'oceanic' site'?''
Prototype 
Clearly the crows, while lacking Smithson'southward theoretical framework, were asking themselves the same question. One crow remarked fearfully, ''Everything is dead here.''
The littler crow stared out the window and sang a soothing song to itself, the lyrics of which consisted of 1 repeated judgement:
No people.
No people.
No people.
No people.
Earlier visiting the jetty, I was thinking a lot about interior landscapes, those uninhabited places inside of us that cannot be independent (or explained) past any map. Interior landscapes are shaped past all kinds of forces: geographic or familial or cultural or genetic. When I was the historic period of the crows, for case, I lived in Maine. It was cold and nighttime the majority of the time. We were surrounded past ocean that produced food and bracing relief from the almanac calendar week of heat just was otherwise a gray, impetuous slab. People with some frequency were snatched off rocks past waves and drowned. Also, information technology being the '70s and '80s, nosotros could not escape stories of nuclear annihilation, which was a perennial story line for television series and books, many of them aimed at young-adult audiences. Like a great number of my contemporaries, I became hooked on the narrative of nuclear anything, and via that obsession I started to program. Because my home life was stable, I had the luxury of dreaming upwardly very bad situations and strategizing how to survive them. It was every bit if my unabridged upbringing had bred in me a please in destruction's aftermath, likewise as in destruction's problem-solving thrills.
Interior landscapes interest me considering I am not only a parent just also a college professor. I regularly encounter young adults from similarly comfortable backgrounds who seem mentally undone by the often mild daily challenges they come across (balmy compared to a nuclear apocalypse, at any charge per unit). I do non want to make uninformed guesses near why this is the case; I simply want to country that it is the case. Stress, anxiety, unhappiness, they thrive in these young adults. Which has, in turn, made me wonder nearly the crows. How prepared volition they exist to handle daily challenges, both bland and catastrophic? How might I help them cultivate their interior landscapes and then every bit to improve their chances of survival — fifty-fifty happiness? I am admittedly limited by nostalgia for my ain upbringing, which I like to recall has served me decently. Perhaps for no meliorate reason, I've wondered: Are they plenty into their future annihilation? Should they be, as a means to gain present-twenty-four hour period control over the frightening and the uncertain, more into it?
Basically, I wanted the crows to exist more regularly scared.
Merely the crows (and their contemporaries), perchance considering of the future catastrophes they face — those of the global-warming variety, which are non ''maybes'' but ''definitelies'' — seem less receptive to devastation narratives that might shape their interior landscapes. Nuclear state of war was avoidable (or so I optimistically chose to believe), but what they will encounter every bit adults is not. Their interior landscapes, thus, are the only landscapes that may not end in ruin. Those are the simply landscapes over which they may have any control.
On the east-west road — the i that cut through Corinne, the concluding chance for gas — the fifty-fifty emptier terrain became entrancingly beautiful. The waterlogged fields suggested that a tsunami had recently receded, leaving the earth striated by long glassy puddles that acted equally mirrors between the planting rows. What beat past our windows at 80 m.p.h. was land-sky-land-heaven, and soon we didn't know down from upwardly.
The crows remarked, with slightly more enthusiasm, ''It looks like Minecraft out hither.''
The disorientation caused by so much natural beauty clearly explained the abundance of ''DROWSY DRIVERS Adjacent Exit'' signs we saw back on the highway. Or perhaps Drowsy Drivers was a roadside service the state of Utah provided, a type of GPS device you strapped into your back seat then information technology could babble map coordinates to you from the dream globe. Technically, nosotros were driving over a former ocean flooring, or at to the lowest degree this is what we were told at a hot springs by a man with a dread god tattoo on his arm. This, he said, accounted for the water's loftier mineral content. The state around usa was withal saturated by the remainder of that vanished ocean and the life information technology once contained.
Smithson grew interested in salt lakes, in part, because the h2o was filled with salt-loving bacteria that turned the surface pink and sometimes ''the color of love apple soup.'' He started to explore the Bang-up Salt Lake, looking for a identify to brand an artwork, and eventually settled on Rozel Betoken, location of a defunct oil jetty and a scattering of derelict structures, what he described equally ''human-fabricated systems mired in abandoned hopes.''
He chose the location first, without knowing what he would put there.
At the Golden Spike National Historic Site, a ranger gave us a copy of an internet map. He circled the places on the jetty route that he'd heard were flooded, though ''flooded'' proved a relative distinction. The road, even in its driest iteration, was the consistency of moisture cement; it strongly sucked at our tires when it wasn't threatening to slide us into the adjacent pastures. And then we encountered the water, lots of information technology, opaque and brown and quick, traversing the road. It was basically a river made of thick, muscular currents. This water was non legible to me. It wasn't Maine water. Fail to read Maine water correctly, and you could return after circumnavigating an island on pes to find yourself boatless. Fail to read Maine water, and you could swim into a current that — had you observed the lobster pots creating deep Vs of tiny rapids to either side — would require you lot to fight with all your forcefulness to forestall being swept out to sea.
Paradigm
Neglect to read this water, and who knows? My hubby and I eyeballed the inundation. It didn't look impassable; it wasn't terribly broad. I gunned our vehicle; more accurately, I bulleted it. What I didn't conceptualize was the depth of the water, which of course, I should have. The breach was manifestly because of the lowness of this land relative to the state effectually information technology. Our trajectory was sharp. We crashed nose outset into the chocolate-brown. The crows screamed as we surged down and through and up again, back to the semisecurity of soggy landfall.
The crows also actually loved the cows. Cows stood on either side of u.s., then, as nosotros approached the shore, the cows were replaced by moo-cow-looking rocks, sturdy black lumps that grazed on the hillside like the previous cows' petrified ancestors. There was otherwise non a lot of life, unless dead rabbits count. In the road were a decent number of apartment, dead rabbits, which somewhat boggled the mind, given how few cars travel this road. We saw no birds. Bugs did die against the windshield (nosotros thought they were sticky rain); otherwise it was just a pastel-scape of pinky-white grasses and stiff, bleached bushes blown into wild, death-throe shapes, the frosted purple of the salt and sand flats, and far in the distance — more than than a mile from shore, that's how receded the h2o was — the light pinkish surface of the Peachy Salt Lake.
Finally we saw what nosotros'd come all this way to see. Non but was the jetty above water; it looked similar a glyph marooned in a desert. It was smaller than I expected it to be. As well wilier. The jetty changed shape and seemed to actively abound or compress every bit we collection parallel to it, forcing us to constantly recalibrate our perception of it.
In short: Nosotros were not in hell. This was no inferno. The sky was depression and soft and gray-mauve or dark mauve, every bit were the isolated triangular crags of mountains in the distance. ''From that gyrating space emerged the possibility of the 'Spiral Jetty,' '' Smithson wrote. ''My dialectics of site and nonsite whirled into an indeterminate land, where solid and liquid lost themselves in each other.'' The lake, with its pink cast, was difficult to differentiate from the heaven, creating the illusion that at that place was no horizon line. It kind of did feel similar the end of the world, though non in the way I originally meant it. The world hadn't been destroyed; it but dissolved into a combination h2o-gas-solid substance that surrounded us. Salt lakes, I after learned, are also known as ''terminal lakes'' or ''endorheic basins.'' ''Endo'' (from the Ancient Greek) means ''within'' and ''rheic'' ''to menstruum.'' They are self-contained bodies that do not empty into any body of water. They are the cocky-contained end to an infinite ways.
1 of Smithson's favorite words was ''dialectic,'' significant he desired that things exist in productive tension with other things, thereby producing a ''dialectical situation.'' Our situation, vis-à-vis the jetty, clearly qualified as a dialectical one. But what was the ''site'' hither, and what was the ''nonsite''? I'd been reading oodles of Smithson and nonetheless felt confused by these two words that crucially underwrote all of Smithson's earth fine art.
''What yous are really confronted with in a nonsite is the absence of the site,'' he said in a 1969 interview. ''In a sense the nonsite is the eye of the system, and the site itself is the fringe or the edge,'' he said in a 1970 discussion with the globe artists Michael Heizer and Dennis Oppenheim. (If I occasionally tired of Smithson's gnomic tendencies, I was not alone. Oppenheim, in the same 1970 give-and-take, grouched: ''Why practise you bother with nonsite at all? Why don't y'all just designate a site?'') But the most compelling definition, to me, is Smithson's merits that the nonsite is ''based on my experience of the site.'' The nonsite is a drawing or a sculpture or a box containing slate from a quarry. Information technology is the collaborative manual, or so I like to call back, that results when a geographical landscape moves through or commingles with a figurative, human being one.
Sites and nonsites, in other words, involve the equal coaction of consciousness and matter. Which again fabricated me think about the crows and what had thus far shaped their interior landscapes, the ones that might come to play (or interplay) on this trip, equally well as on the vaster metaphorical trip that eventually their lives would incorporate. How might they contain their interior landscape — their evolving selves, basically — and how will they productively, without becoming overwhelmed (or without imposing preconceptions that close down possibilities), bargain with the drench of feeling and data that exists both within a person and without?
Mostly speaking, the crows did not consume traditional narratives. Reading did not interest them. Instead of stories, for example, the crows swallow patterns of being. They watched unpackaging videos on YouTube. They watched other people play video games. They had not been inculcated with a sense of duty to experience ''the end''; ends, for them, don't exist or aren't significantly different from the middle.
(I'm not saying narrative is the superior thought container. In fact, my memory was misled by the ruling paradigm — the 1 on which I was raised — in the beginning of this essay. The souvenir table salt formation James took from the jetty? It didn't disappear. That was just me, or rather my grooming, imposing an catastrophe.)
Also, the crows played Minecraft, which is perhaps the closest analog to the apocalypse narratives of my youth. Minecraft is less a story with arcs and ends than it is an experience consisting of pattern and repetition. It requires planning and involves randomness. In Survival Fashion, you wake up. You work to ensure you have shelter and resources. The sun sets. You lock yourself in your business firm before dark to escape zombies and other monsters that spawn in the nighttime. You slumber. You wake up. You work. The sun sets. You battlement yourself in your business firm. You sleep. You wake up. You repeat. Time is non so much a story line with a first, centre and end equally it is a sequence of actions and events that, shape-wise at least, resemble singled-out circles that stack one atop the other.
In his essay ''The Spiral Jetty,'' Smithson included a listing of materials a person encountered as she walked from the center of the jetty. He demarcated 20 directional points (North, North by Eastward, etc.) The materials view from each point was the aforementioned:
Mud, salt crystals, rock, water.
Mud, salt crystals, stone, water.
The same materials, listed 20 times, the stack of repeated words gesturing toward sedimentary time layers while also, in replicating the many hash marks on a compass, implying the unseen presence of a circle.
Smithson completed ''Spiral Jetty'' in 1970. He died in Texas in 1973, while aerially surveying the artificial lake area where he hoped to build his ''Amarillo Ramp.'' He hired a plane, a pilot and a photographer. The plane crashed. All three were killed. The bogus lake is dry out at present. The ramp, completed afterward his death by his wife and friends, is eroding. The crash site — or maybe it is a nonsite — is a few hundred yards abroad.
Nosotros parked in the dirt lot. We scrambled down the rocky bank onto the flats. The push-pull of negative/positive space made the jetty seem even more kinetically alive and similar the storm its shape resembled, i that messed with the intuitive logic of h2o behavior. The land we'd driven over was filling up with water, while the lake appeared to be elimination of information technology.
We walked the screw many times; we adult individual jetty styles and jetty rules. The crows cutting across the puddled sand between the concentric rings, just I did not, I never did that, I would never exercise that. I walked the line, or rather, the curve. Later we flung off onto the flats. My hubby fabricated minijetties with black rocks he institute in the sand. The jetty, he said, was spawning.
Nosotros returned to the jetty and walked it again. Was it an ancient ruin? Was it the beginning of a new civilisation? Was it an example of, as Rainer Maria Rilke wrote, ''the revision of categories, where something by comes once again, as though out of the future?'' In always existence both, it encouraged temporal slippage. We were non looking at the by or the future; we were in the middle of time. We were at the point of dislocation effectually which salt crystals spiraled upward like a staircase as they grew. The crows wrote their names on the sand, and because there was no rising tide — no bounding main's clock — their names would peradventure never exist erased.
Smithson, in his 1966 essay ''Entropy and the New Monuments,'' mentions a recent electrical coma in the Northeast. ''Far from creating a mood of dread,'' he wrote, ''the power failure created a mood of euphoria. An nearly cosmic joy swept over the darkened cities.'' (When Smithson wrote this, a far more economically destitute New York had all the same to experience the subsequent 1977 blackout, the violent and anarchic results of which would probably non be qualified as expressions of ''cosmic joy.'') When nosotros are in Maine, we often lose our power, and yes, the promise of darkness inspires glee. I gleefully fill the tub with water and the lamps with oil and make sleeping situations nearer to the woodstove. I create in our domestic interior a much more active and dynamic conversation with the exterior, that affair we are so often unaffected by, or only trying, with our business firm, to continue out. And while this skill set has more often than not been of use in places where the ability lines are aboveground, sagging, fifty-fifty in good weather, from tilted pole to tilted pole, the underground electricals of New York are now equally menaced past rise (and descending, into the works) water. My gleeful preparations are increasingly applicative to many more situations, and by that possibility I experience energized. Not because I crave drama or instability, but considering I am rendered, in a kind of trippy and exhilarating style, both indispensable and irrelevant.
Image
At the jetty I became entirely irrelevant, and the result was even more than exhilarating. Smithson, when searching for a framework with which to explore both limits and limitlessness, establish useful the concept of entropy, i.due east., the second law of thermodynamics. Entropy proved intriguing to him considering, as he understood it, free energy was ''more easily lost than obtained'' and thus, ''in the ultimate future the whole universe will burn out and be transformed into an all-encompassing sameness.'' I experienced that ultimate future. I experienced what the planet would be like when nosotros were, every one of u.s.a., gone. I had, before our visit, worried not but about my crows but also about the loneliness of a planet that might anytime have no one to see it, walk through it, feel intense things because of information technology. That is what made my brain and my heart fold in on themselves. Cities, yes, gone; ice caps, gone; simply the beauty of the planet routed through a human consciousness, that's what I couldn't encompass vanishing. This was what, more than my own particular decease, I'd despaired at. Only on the jetty, I understood what Smithson intuited so long ago in Rome: Beauty did not need the states.
''You don't have to have existence to exist,'' Smithson said.
If at that place were a lord's day, it would have been setting. Every bit the sky grew subtly pinker and purpler, other cars appeared: two families, a lone woman and a couple. Some walked the jetty, just others struck out directly for the invisible horizon and soon became tiny black marks floating in the middle of the same-colour altitude. The immature couple stood on the flats and hugged and kissed. The lone woman neatened the jetty; she constitute errant rocks and threw them back within the boundaries, redarkening its outline.
Dorsum in the parking lot, every bit the rain finally started (it had been threatening), we talked to some of these people. All of them were longtime residents in the area. The jetty-neatener said: ''I've never been hither earlier. Today but felt like the day.''
A man told united states that in the summer the lake looked similar the Arctic, considering the sun hardened the salt flats into a pink ''water ice'' crust. Another man told us almost the speed races over the table salt flats, the time records that had recently been broken because, every bit already established, fourth dimension worked differently out here; objects could exist in relation to fourth dimension differently.
The rain grew heavier. Everyone wished everyone else luck getting abode. ''Last week there was snow on all these peaks,'' one man said, gesturing to the many mountains in the well-nigh and far distance. His implication: that snowfall was water now, and it was heading our way.
At dusk the cows were frisky. By the time we reached the river, its flow had more than doubled in width and intensity. Should we get stuck, no i would have been able to get out the car. A person would have been swept away. In Maine I'd learned to await: wait until the current of air dies or the tide recedes. Hang out until the situation improves. But I had no idea if this situation would meliorate. Maybe this, right now, was the best the situation would always be. We took our chances. Nosotros entered the water and sank above the lesser of the doors. The current rocked the machine. We pushed steadily through the churn and up the eroding depository financial institution on the other side.
We quite easily survived.
It got envelopingly dark. We passed the shuttered Golden Fasten National Historic Site. In Corinne, we were stopped at a railroad crossing by a train that moved at a constant, dull speed, as if unmanned and responding to dumb instinct. We all felt dozy yet warning and so pricklingly full of well-existence. Ane crow, back at the jetty, had said, very happily and with evident pride, that they had finally, of this formerly scary place, established a point of mutual connexion, ''This is merely like Maine.'' And the jetty was like Maine, minus the tides. Also unlike the flats in Maine, the land revealed by the receding h2o did non stink primordially, even though at that place were dead things in it. A bird, for instance. It was preserved — brined — and had been artfully abstracted into pieces, all of which were level with the ground that contained them, like fossils in the making. We had traveled all this way to run across something we'd never seen, and what we establish was what we ever saw.
Or maybe the site's forsakenness had softened. The rocks of the jetty were scattering into the lake; like the dead bird, information technology was nearly level with its surroundings. Now that the jetty was visible (and was designated, just after we visited, as an ''official state work of art'' by Utah), more people would travel to come across information technology and walk on it and erode it farther. Already a fuss had erupted about what Smithson would accept wanted to happen to the jetty: Would he want information technology restored? Would his championing of entropic thinking deem the opposite? Like the Bible, his writings help the interpretive bias of the person reading them. I personally feel this quote contains all that need be said on the thing: ''The globe is slowly destroying itself,'' Smithson said. ''The ending comes all of a sudden, simply slowly.''
Back on the highway, we listened to radio news, and the world in general seemed to be in a state much like the jetty route, pretty bad. And however the commonage familial state of equilibrium — our state of ''all encompassing uniform sameness'' — endured. Nosotros passed a DROWSY DRIVERS NEXT EXIT sign, and as if on cue, ane crow fell asleep. The other, littler crow stared out the window, and this time, in a much more chipper tone, and as if he were voicing a pleasant dream experienced by the sleeping crow, sang his same song to the darkness:
No people.
No people.
No people.
No people.
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Source: https://www.nytimes.com/2017/07/07/magazine/the-art-at-the-end-of-the-world.html
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