Yesterday I wrote a eulogy for my dear friend Tony Reeve, who passed away in London on October 30. As a result of this, I heard from several other friends yesterday who had, themselves, lost someone close quite recently, and two of those deaths were the result of suicide. A couple of my correspondents said something along the lines of: “I wish he would have told me.” And I wish he had.

Tony didn’t commit suicide in the conventional sense. Rather, he made a clear and lucid decision to fight on no longer, and he was a fighter. After many years of risky operations, long stints in hospitals, chronic heart problems, and appalling eyesight, he didn’t want to have to shoulder up against the pain anymore.

A typically self-depricating self portrait by Tony Reeve

Using cartoons and satire, Tony waged a witty and subversive guerilla war against a world that had presented him with an awkward and failing body, and he won many battles. In chess, a good strategist knows that the best course of action is, occasionally, to resign before being crushed. The losing player might have been able to drag the game on for a few more moves, all the while knowing that annihilation is inevitable. Rather than beating your head against the wall for those extra moments, it is sometimes more gracious to admit defeat. That’s what Tony did, and I admire him for it. There is a point at which the small amount of hope offered by yet another heart surgery can no longer outweigh the guarantee of pain and discomfort which will definitely come later. While some close-minded people with extremist religious views will regard this act as a sin it is, in fact, an example of a thinking person taking dignified control over the end of his own life; a deed both courageous and honorable.

Intentional suicide visited upon oneself as a result of loss, unbearable sadness, fear, desperation, depression, or despair is another issue entirely, and I do know what it is like when you feel you have nothing left to lose. Less than a decade ago I realized that I would never see my adored mother again; my father remarried and moved far away; my rock ‘n’ roll group about which I was once most passionate had disbanded; difficult clients and relentless deadlines caused me to lose faith in my career as an art director; I was suffering from chronic health issues, possibly a result of inhaling smoke and chemicals as a 9/11 eyewitness; and my romantic partner of 12 years had shacked up with some guy she met in a New Jersey bar. I felt there was nowhere to look except down, but I didn’t. Somehow, I looked up at the night sky instead, and thought: “Really, what else have I got to lose?” It is in those moments that we can shatter what little remains of our lives, or dig deep into our heart or our soul—if you believe in that sort of thing—or if you prefer, quote a favorite Joe Strummer lyric, rouse up that last bit of defiance and anger that’s been skulking at the base of your spine and dare yourself to do something truly bold. If you really have nothing left to lose then why not risk everything on the big gamble? Whatever happens, it hopefully won’t be quite as bad as being dead.

In 2004, with my prospects looking worse than Bleak House, I sold my share in my condo—too cheaply I might add, but I wanted out right then and there, and in my experience a decent amount of cash in hand today is usually a lot better than “maybe more cash” at a later date. I put 99% of my possessions in an industrial storage joint in downtown Jersey City and announced to a few close friends that I was voyaging into the deep desert on a journey of discovery, never to return. At age 42.

To my considerable surprise, my great friend and former bandmate, Anne Husick, announced right back at me that she was going along for the ride, to keep me company and offer moral support. So we put my sweet cat, Bonnie, into a spacious travel box with plenty of comfy towels, selected one favorite bass, one favorite guitar, one computer, a few treasured books and mementos, stuffed all of them in the trunk, slapped Springsteen’s “Badlands” into the CD player and left New Jersey forever, very late on a cold and rainy January night.

For some reason, Tennessee never fails to cheer me up. By the time we were on I-81, headed towards Nashville, things were already starting to look brighter. A light dusting of snow lay across Civil War battlefields, the air was crisp and clear—like cellophane stretched over a bell jar—Bonnie was dozing in the back, Anne was trying to decide which CD to play next, and I began to fully understand, rather than just know, that there is a big world out there with endless opportunities for adventure and advancement if you can just open yourself up to them.

We spent a leisurely five days driving to Arizona, visiting Knoxville, Amarillo, the Texas Panhandle, Truth or Consequences—where Anne had an old musician friend—and Roswell because, of course, we both just had to see the fabulous and wacky UFO museum. On the long, fast run down I-10 from Lordsburg, we saw the very first green highway sign for Tucson, and when we crossed into Arizona we stopped at that first rest area, the one with the big state flag waving in gentle winter sunshine, and a hard-to-miss metal sign warning of rattlesnakes. In 120 hours I had shed my own skin, looked under a big metaphorical rock, turned over a number of leaves, rebooted my personal onboard optimism device which had been malfunctioning for some long time, and was officially ready to kick start a new life. I thought it was going to be the hardest thing I had ever done, and although it would, in time, have the biggest and best of repercussions, it really wasn’t that hard. I was suddenly at home in a new place that I knew very little about. I did have a couple of friends in Tucson, and I also knew that in a few weeks the world’s largest gem and mineral show would open up for business. How much more inspiration could a rockhound hope for?

I had a little cash, a reasonable amount of determination, and a fanatical dream of complete freedom and total artistic control over the rest of my life. If I failed I would fail spectacularly, and find myself just as miserable in Tucson as I had been in the New York Metro Area, but that was not to be the case.

I moved into a diminutive hotel suite with an in-room bar (very chic, I thought) and spent my first week in Arizona overlooking a lovely swimming pool with palm trees. It was a long way from oily, snowy, and noisy Jersey City. I soon found an unspeakably cute 1930s adobe house sporting a charmingly crooked red tile roof, in Blenman, with a rental fee that was one sixth of my mortgage back in the big, bad city. My simple but glorious residence had an actual driveway in which I could deposit my car anytime I felt like it, without feeding a meter. Cactus, lizards with black collars around their necks, and hummingbirds, populated the modest garden and—eureka!—I was walking distance from Casa Video.

I bought a used TV at Goodwill for ten bucks, hooked up the Internet and immediately began to immerse myself in all local goings-on of note, by way of the Tucson Citizen (and look where I am now!) and the Tucson Weekly. In fact, I’d only been in town for a couple of weeks before my first “Letter to the Editor” was published by the Weekly. It was, of course, political in nature, and somewhat scathing regarding certain issues related to the fake science of Creationism. “I see you’re settling in quickly,” a local friend remarked, who does not—in any way—share my political views, but who did read the Weekly and did seem fairly pleased that Arizona had adopted me.

Consider: The much-loved French artist, Henri Rousseau, also known as “Le Douanier” (the customs man), was 49 years old when he decided to give up his establishment job as a tax collector in Paris and go for it as a full-time painter. How bold is that, and how much richer is the world for having his heavenly The Dream (1910) to puzzle and delight us today?

So, my point is this: If things get so bad you feel that you need to end your life, do something even more drastic. Living is the only real adventure we have and if there is nothing left to lose then why not jump, and dare to do the thing you’ve always wanted to, but never thought you could? Tell a trusted friend that you cannot go on, as is, and if you are very lucky—as I was—that friend might exclaim: “I’m going with you!”

It is never too late to start over and, really, the worst thing that can happen is you just end up back in Jersey City.

“When you’re at the end of a dusty track,
With no hope, or desire, to turn back,
And you realize deep in your heart you’ll never be a hero,
There’s only one thing left to do,
Reset to zero”

— From “Reset to Zero” by Geoking

In memory of Tony Reeve who, right up until the end, was a hero in his own life. Joseph Campbell would have been proud.

* * *

The author wishes to thank Arabella McIntyre-Brown for making copies of Tony’s artwork available

Text and photographs © by Geoffrey Notkin
Illustrations: “Gravity” and “Self Portrait” © Estate of Tony Reeve
All rights reserved. No reproduction without written permission
“The Dream” (1910) by the great Henri Rousseau. Ca marche bien, Monsieur le Douanier!

During filming of the final Season Three episode—a couple of weeks back—I arrived at our hotel late. The sun was going down and we’d spent a hot and difficult day shooting in the desert. As I cleaned out my truck in twilight, I heard someone murmur quietly, and under his breath: “Look it’s the Meteorite Man.”

Even though I was tired and a little cranky, I stopped what I was doing and turned around to say hello. Here was a very well dressed older gentleman and his wife, out for a sunset walk. Taking the air, one might say. The gentleman was a fan of my show, Meteorite Men, asked if we were filming in the area, and when the new season would air. I replied that we were filming in the area, and that the new season would start in November on Science. I then asked him where he was from and he said: “Nowhere.” I thought the man was being glib until he added that he and his wife were both retired and now permanent RV-ers. They wandered the country, spending a month here, a week there, and generally taking their own sweet time to see things that interested them. Apart from the appalling cost in gasoline, it seemed a very attractive lifestyle choice. While I could immediately relate to their peripatetic nature, I felt somewhat envious that they were able to see things at their own relaxed pace, because when we are on the move, we are really on the move, and there is no time for sightseeing.

We began filming for Season Three of Meteorite Men in late June, just in time for the big burn, exactly as we did last year, even though we all hoped we would start earlier and avoid some of the summer heat, but we have to deliver the shows when they are needed. This time around I saw seven countries, six states, many airplanes, many meteorites, two eagles, two sunburns, two near cases of dehydration, two quite severe cactus-related injuries, one amphibious vehicle, one giant nest full of giant storks (and I mean giant), one broken toe, one concussion, one Russian cop who looked exactly like Benny Hill, and plenty of other amazing sights.

Steve and I returned to a couple of favorite sites where we’ve hunted in the past, and also broke exciting new ground, visiting some meteorite locations, and even a country or two that we’d never seen before. We continued to receive valuable academic help from the Center for Meteorite Studies at ASU, and the University of Edmonton in Alberta. The highlight, for me, was doubtless working with our new off-road recon truck, “The Mule.” In an earlier and simpler form it’s been my meteorite hunting vehicle for years, and has actually already appeared in several episodes. But, for our third season we thought the MM needed a rougher, tougher, go-anywhere vehicle, and “The Mule” was born. All-Pro Off Road made the crash bumpers and bed rack for me, my friends at Dan’s Toy Shop put the whole thing together, and 1-Day Paint and Body in Tucson, mixed the color for me specially, because I can be a bit nitpicky about such things. In fact, the story of desinging and building the Meteorite Men truck is so much fun it should probably have its own blog entry later on.

So, here I am back in my office with a broken toe, looking forward to seeing what post-production has done to the new episodes. We had a great team this year. Executive Producer James Rowley directed the first four international episodes, and Jeff Fisher handled the other four. Nice guys, and smart. Our director of photography, Per Larsson, has won two Primetime Emmys and pretty much invented Amazing Race, so I expect the look of the show to be nothing short of dazzling and spectacular. For the last few episodes we were lucky enough to work with cameraman Joe “Boots” Parker, who not only lives here in Tucson, but is a former U.S. Army Ranger, and a wildlife photography specialist. What a superb choice he was for us, and I made a new friend in town. Senior Producer Sonya Bourn returned to keep the entire box of monsters on the road and relatively injury-free, once again, and is the only member of the road crew who made it through all three seasons.

Good people worked hard, traveled far, and brought their expertise to bear. Meteorite Men Season Three will premiere on November 28 at 9 pm on Science. Did we find something rare and amazing in every episode? I really can’t remember. Or, if I can, I am proably not supposed to tell you.

Tune in and find out. I think I can promise you one thing—you won’t be bored.

Text © by Geoffrey Notkin. Photgraphs by Suzanne Morrison © Aerolite Meteorites LLC
All rights reserved. No reproduction without written permission.

I first became acquainted with the work of the great, enigmatic American artist Robert Smithson while attending New York’s School of Visual Arts during the 1980s. He was fascinated by geology, maps, landscape, earth moving equipment and enjoyed relocating piles of rocks and dirt into fancy galleries. I liked him immediately.

Robert Smithson was born in Passaic, New Jersey in 1938. His father was a natural history enthusiast who built his own small museum, and young Robert planned family vacations (as did I) to include such wonders as the Grand Canyon and Yellowstone National Monument. In 1948 the Smithson family moved to Clifton, NJ and Robert fought the boredom of suburban life by making frequent visits to the American Museum of Natural History and studying at the Art Students League, both in New York City.

As Eugenie Tsai wrote in a collection of essays on Smithson beautifully presented by the Museum of Contemporary Art in Los Angeles:

Robert Smithson is perhaps best known as a pioneer of the Earthworks movement and the creator of the iconic Spiral Jetty (1970). However, his involvement in the development of Earthworks is only one of his many contributions to postwar American art. One of the most important concepts Smithson advanced was that of the “site,” a place in the world where art is inseparable from its context.

Smithson picked Rozel Point, a remote spot on the north shore of the Great Salt Lake, Utah for the location of the Spiral Jetty. Over 6,000 tons of basalt rock and boulders were moved into position by dumptrucks in order to fashion the elegant spiral. At the time of construction, the water level was rising and Smithson knew his most ambitious work would soon be entirely—and intentionally—submerged.

I learned from the Dia Art Foundation’s SpiralJetty.org website (Smithson’s estate left the Jetty to Dia after his tragic death in an airplane accident in 1973) that, during the past few years, the water level had subsided enough to make the Spiral Jetty temporarily visible again. I so wanted to visit the site that I had once even suggested to a group of scuba diving buddies that we plan a dive trip there (that idea was met with considerable laughter). Now, after 25 years of daydreaming about the Jetty, it seemed I might at last be able to see it.

Rough road to the Jetty

I telephoned the Golden Spike National Historic Site, the nearest sign of civilization to the Jetty, and spoke with a charming park ranger named Grace, who was most encouraging and assured me that “Now is an excellent time to visit. The water levels are very low.”

I chose Thanksgiving Day for my personal pilgrimage. I have to say the timing was partly convenience and partly strategy. I happened to be within striking distance of the Jetty in late November, and I also figured it would be pleasantly deserted on America’s most family oriented day. The long trip from Salt Lake City is not really that far in terms of miles—my roundtrip mileage amounted to about 220—but it is a little tricky to find your way. There is a lot of travel to be done on gravel roads, while following directions (very kindly supplied by Dia) along the lines of: “Drive 1.3 miles south to a second fork in the road. Turn right onto the southwest fork, and proceed 1.7 miles to cattle guard #2.”

My rental truck had already suffered one flat tire before departure for the Jetty. At that time I unhappily discovered that the rental company neglected to include a jack with the vehicle. Just a small oversight. I was able to borrow a jack from a colleague (it didn’t fit but we made it work anyway), but only for the duration of the tire change. There were now no tools of any kind in my truck and if I had another flat on Thanksgiving Day, on a dirt road somewhere northeast of the Great Salt Lake, there would be no help on the way.

It was a lovely drive, and chilly. The air felt clean and clear and winding dirt roads were surrounded on all sides by green and sculpted mountains. At some point I realized that the extensive lowlands I’d been traveling through for hours were all once part of the lake, an indication of the great changes that northern Utah has seen over the millennia.

When I rounded Rozel Point the road became so rough I had to leave the truck and hike it. Normally I would have barreled through, but I wasn’t taking any chances without that jack. My first view of Spiral Jetty, lying grand and still against a vast table of white salt, was much the way I felt the first time I saw the actual Mona Lisa or the Golden Gate Bridge. These are images so firmly implanted in the collective unconscious that gazing upon them in real life can be rapturous and slightly unsettling, as if they are vespers from other dimensions that have crossed over into our reality.

The lake had receded far indeed, leaving the Jetty starkly stranded on expansive salt flats. The sky reflected perfectly in the distant waters, creating a seamless chrome-like backdrop. And the whole place was blissfully deserted. I passed a couple of happy hours taking photos, and walking the spiral inside and out. I didn’t want to disturb Smithson’s greatest work, but I did want a souvenir, so I filled a small vial with white sand from the shore next the Jetty.

As I began to contemplate heading back to Salt Lake City, a Land Rover pulled up and parked on the shore. Four people and two dogs piled out, happy and laughing. At first I was slightly disappointed that my reverie had been disturbed, but I quickly revised my opinion: How wonderful and surprising that I’m not the only art enthusiast who is a big enough nut to come all the way out here on Thanksgiving Day. So I went over, said hello, and received a most generous invitation. But that’s a story for another day.

I remained by the Jetty, and the hills above it, almost until sunset. During my slightly melancholy drive back to Salt Lake City and a lonely and empty motel room, I realized very clearly that one of the most memorable days of my life was drawing to a close. A dream come true; a solitary journey into the wilderness for a unique and truly happy Thanksgiving Day; and a close encounter with the progeny of one of the Twentieth Century’s most puzzling and original artists. All things to be thankful for.

To learn more, I recommend the exhibition catalog Robert Smithson (2004) organized by Eugenie Tsai with Cornelia Butler in association with The Museum of Contemporary Art, Los Angeles, published by the University of California Press.

Photographs © by Geoffrey Notkin. All rights reserved. No reproduction without written permission.