About halfway from Phoenix to Laughlin, on scenic route 93, Mare and I pulled the bike
into the parking lot of the only gas station and store for miles. She spotted
a nearby trailer filled with artwork, and we wandered inside. A weathered woman followed us and said, “He ain’t
here, and I don’t know how much he wants for that junk. There ain’t
no price on nothing.”
“This stuff is neat,” Mare said. “Where’s
the artist?”
“Probably
out at his shack, about two miles off the highway on a rough road.”
“What is
this place?” I asked.
“This is
Nothing, Arizona, and only four of us live here.”
Curious to meet
the artist, we drove the twisted, rutted dirt road that crossed dry, sandy washes, and finally reached a square cement structure
standing next to a rusted camper. Our approach roused two mutts that started
to bark before a slightly bearded old man with scraggly gray hair appeared. George
Brucha was short and thin, and wore a pair of glasses with only one lens, for his one eye. After a few uncomfortable moments,
he said, “Nice Bike. What do you want?”
Mare said, “We
saw your art at the store. I might want to buy a gift for a friend.”
“Well, come
on. I’ll give you a tour since you came all the way out here.”
George Brucha
showed us several outdoor sculptures. One was a piece of weathered wood that
stood upright and resembled a dolphin. Another was a robot made from discarded
hubcaps, license plates, rusted wire, and springs. He explained, “I use
whatever object I find and make something beautiful out of it. I live my art
seven days a week, twenty-four hours a day.”
For some reason
we were overcome with emotion when we stepped inside the cement shack of this hermit artist.
A blanket served as a door and it was relatively cool inside the small room.
Paintings covered the walls.
In his tiny
home, Brucha explained that living simply and at his own pace allowed him to use all his time and talent toward art. “I’ve lived in this old power company line-shack for twenty years,”
he said. “I thought you were a friend bringing water when I heard you coming.
I ain’t got no electricity or running water. Sit down and I’ll show
you my paintings.” We sat on a log while George lit a candle.
He showed us many
paintings on canvas, on pieces of wood, and on old car parts, while he grew more animated sharing the meaning of each. He
said his artwork was therapeutic, and told us he is a recovering alcoholic originally from Pittsburgh, where he grew up in
an orphanage. He lost one eye at the age of two from an acid spill, speculating that it was an intentional act by his stepmother,
since he became a ward of the State after recovery from that gruesome episode.
“I was so
poor, he said, “that whenever I got a piece of paper, I drew all over it, front and back, because I never knew when
I’d get another one. I almost killed myself with alcohol. I left and traveled the back roads of this country and haven’t been back since.”
George quit
drinking in 1975, and started painting on discarded wine bottles, as he could afford nothing else, and painting on canvas
intimidated him.
“What
type of person is the gift for?” he asked.
Mare said, “It’s
for a white woman, who after living several years on an Indian Reservation, is getting married.”
He retrieved a
sculpture of an old, metal brake line painted to look like a peace pipe. It was
attached to a cholla cactus skeleton, mounted on an old board painted with Indian designs.
Colorful feathers were tied to each end.
It was perfect,
and Mare gave him ten bucks for it. He told us to each pick one work of art,
except for the painting of his friend Nick, who was a roaming alcoholic that George housed for a spell. Mare chose a painting of an Indian woman, and I chose a skeleton head painted on a piece of wood. The art hung out of the bike’s saddlebags.
Brucha wouldn’t take any more money, so I gave him a flare and roll of electrical tape. He said, “Thanks, come back anytime.”
On the ride out
I remembered a sign back at the store that read:
“ TOWN OF NOTHING, AZ, Founded 1977, Elevation 3280. The Staunch Citizens of Nothing are full of hope, faith, and believe in the work ethic. Thru the years these dedicated people had faith in Nothing, hoped for Nothing, worked at Nothing, for Nothing.”
We made it to Laughlin, but the highlight of our trip was out encounter with the artist of Nothing.
(Ron Mitchell is a free lance author. His articles appear
in many national publications. This article was previously published in ARIZONA HIGHWAYS. Ron and Marilyn enjoy
life and travel and have way too much fun for any one couple. You will meet them on our trip to Egypt.)
