ART AT THE RENDON PACHUCO ROOM

 La abuelita, the grandmother, weaver of blankets,

You gaze upon a new day as the moon sets in the west, its incandescent glow and light guides the spirits that once resided in this city of the Angels.

At the turn of the century when this building was built, when this city was abustle with Victorian homes and model A's and model T's.

There has always been an abuelita looking up and to the sky, praying for the souls that keep the night suspended above us. Its black cloak filled with stars, its green ghosts swirling in the early dawn air.

Abuelita, grandmother of the arts, guide our souls to rejoice in the days we cre-ate.

For we are the dawn a dream becoming reality weaving our stories of the past.

Weaving them into place, from order out of chaos, from plurality to singularity.

A blanket carries so much weight. It holds our dreams. But do we often wonder who weaves the blanket, or what they were thinking? La abuelita, she thinks of us when she weaves. It is not so hard to imagine that God is a grandmother. -

Joseph 'Nuke' Montalvo