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Cheap rent, warm sun and clean air are just some of Quartzsite's attractions. Winter residents also enjoy an easy and active social life: evening bonfires, potluck dinners, dirt biking, rock hounding, panning for gold (and finding it), plus more dances than you'd find in a teenager's calendar. In February Quartzsite plays host to the largest gem and mineral exhibition in the country. And there's an abundance of flea markets, where a person can buy, among other things, crocheted cowboy hats, petrified dinosaur manure, pet ID tags, Whitt's "hillbilly" billfold and racoon-penis earrings...
...detectors, black-sand magnets and an instrument that separates gold flecks from gravel. ("You run water through it, and the gold walks up the veins into your little catchall. Just walks on up like it has a mind of its own.") "Folks around here like to dig in the dirt...
Benton's own abstract paintings may not have been quite up to the level of Macdonald-Wright's, though it is difficult to judge them fairly, since he destroyed so much of his early work "to get all that modernist dirt out of my system." But it was abstraction that underwrote the system of Benton's later figurative paintings -- an abstraction based on bulging, serpentine figures derived from Michelangelo. From him, and from mannerist sources like Luca Cambiaso's block figures and El Greco's twisty saints, Benton assembled the theory of kinetic composition that would eventually alter the walls...
...below, a black Jeep starts up the dirt road leading to the hilltop. Three alchemists, led by the inestimable Bernard, have come for a meeting. "At least there's one cook that ain't wired to the max," Big John concedes. "He never touches the Product." It shows: most illegal drug chemists, awash in dollars but their brains stewed by fumes, seldom pay attention to the little touches that transform banal consumer goods into personal statements of good taste. Bernard has 14-karat-gold-plated wheels on his favorite Corvette, and he gave a designer team jacket to the fellow...
Wary eyes have been watching cars below wind up the dirt road and turn off to a ramshackle pig farm in the next ravine. Finally a Cadillac with four men inside bumps along the track. The presence of guards at a pig farm, waving visitors through, confirms the group's suspicion that a batch was brewing, its odor lost in the waft from the barns. "Don't ask me; it's not mine," Big John says. "That's a bunch of Mexican nationals down there, and I'm not of a mind to visit...