One fateful day in the mid-1970s I had the extraordinary privilege of being in the same room with both Ansel Adams and Georgia O’Keeffe. They were in Tucson, where I was a student at the University of Arizona, for the opening of the U of A’s Center for Creative Photography. And they were attending a meet&greet in the lobby of the campus’s Museum of Art, right next door to the Art Building, where I spent a lot of time toiling at Painting and Life Drawing and Printmaking and such.

Ansel Adams was cheerful and accessible, a sort of out-of-uniform Santa Claus. Georgia O’Keeffe was different. Dresed in a floor-length black dress, she leaned tripodally on her blackcane, her deep-set eyes wide and glittering, not saying a word. She was tiny and looked quite frail.

But she did not SEEM frail. She radiated Power. Her gaze was like a wide-beam laser. The vibe was of her being all-seeing and all-knowing.

I was there about half an hour and in all that time the dozens of people in the room respected Ms. O’Keeffe’s space and silence. They made up for that soundless proximal vortex by flocking around Adams and peppering him with questions. He held forth jovially, magnificently. Nicest guy on Earth, in his element and in his moment.

Ms. O’Keeffe was in her element as well, in her realm of observation and contemplation. She reigned.

Not So Frail

Needles point to skin and coif. Omnipresence throws them off. For Truth is Power and talent Soars. A sense of Place is Boat and Oars. I owe this Georgia Peach some Soul.