I try to keep my ear pressed to what’s essential: the nightly swoop of the stars. The daily luxury of clouds. Cottonwood, rabbit, rock. Piñon, opuntia, hummingbird.
I’m curious about scale: of time, of matter, and the patterns of the rhythms that make up a life and an epoch. I’m curious about the microscopic chemical whispers which incant the spells that conjure the world – the trees and oceans and great geological bloom of stone and soil. I’m also curious about the awful vastness of space – that primordial womb of creation. Art, science, and spirituality are all important to me.
I’m interested in story, in food, in friendship. In the strands of interconnected relationships that make up the human and more-than-human* communities we require. I’m curious about how we can re-weave the web of culture so that we can cast the magnificent net of it across what’s truly most important.
*to borrow David Abrams’ lovely term
Amie Tullius is an essayist, fiction writer, and art writer. She is interested in aesthetics of kindness, space, connection, objects, effort, and movement. She gets caught up in internal and external vastnesses. Time is one of her biggest muses and terrors; place is one of her great passions. Her writing has been featured in Hyperallergic, GOOD, and an array of publications around the West. After finishing an MFA in Writing from California College of the Arts in San Francisco, she moved to Utah, where she worked as a gallery director; a board member and collaborator for a dance/design company; and as a freelance writer. She moved to Santa Fe in 2018 to take over as director of a contemporary art gallery on Canyon Road and fell in love with the mountains, history, and cultures of New Mexico. She is currently working on a book about place and how our bodies keep time.
the view from here
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