On a late January day in 1974 on the mesa outside Cuba, New Mexico, six miles from anyone else, Agnes finished installing the threshold to her log studio. For weeks, the Line had refused to leave her. She would honour it, figure it out, let her body recede. She hadn’t painted in seven years. First, though, she would walk.
She wore a threadbare peacoat from her New York days, rubber boots over work socks, a peasant blouse and the same pair of overalls she’d slept in. The transition from one state to another should be seamless, she believed. Her daily cycle began when the sun went down. After each evening meal, she cleaned her skin with a pungent blend of olive and castor oils. She shivered more than most at this elevation, though in the past she’d had her share of waking up nights in her A
