Visually Speaking is a small reader published on the 40th anniversary of Albuquerque's Public Art program. A series of essays provide context for looking at the city's existing public art and offer a deeper understanding of the situations around which public art projects have been created and consumed. This collection of critical writing explores the “public” in public art and the specific ways in which such projects engage with history, culture, the built landscape, and creative practice in New Mexico's largest city. Visually Speaking highlights public art in our city and engages with it openly, honestly, and creatively. Emphasized in each of these essays is the vital dialogue within any public art process and an invitation to think expansively about the future potential of public art in Albuquerque.

Undark

The sun-bleached stretch of the New Mexico desert known as the Jornada del Muerto — the journey of the dead man — is an unlikely spot for Earth’s premier portal to another world. 

The Revelator

The tiny fish doesn’t reproduce well in years when the water doesn’t flow. Several bad years in a row could push the species closer to extinction.

Paste Magazine

Xu Lizhi left his room—the linoleumed sliver where he had spent nearly three years now, off and on. Its fluorescent lights beating down their sterile sunlight on pages of poetry.

Playboy Magazine

"People do not usually ask of themselves how human they feel. But once you ask this question, maybe you realize that you don’t feel 100-percent human, that there’s a part of you that feels something else.”

The Independent

The adventurers who make their home in a futuristic eco-city in the desert of Arizona have one thing in common: they're almost all under 30.

New Mexico Magazine

The sun gleams off the gilded bands of a white tower as Thea Haver, founder of Modern Albuquerque, leads me through the city’s Highland Business District and a few blocks of old Route 66. Oddly situated at the corner of San Mateo Boulevard and Central Avenue, the 17-story skyscraper juts above its surrounding single-story buildings.

Headspace.com

I was eight years old when my father passed away. I vividly remember the last time I saw him: he was at the hospital, reclined in a bed, offering me a bite of his ice cream. Now and then I regret shrugging off his offer. The next time I saw him he was laid out in a coffin.