It was the art that surprised me the most. As I drove the 60 miles from Palm Springs to Wonder Valley, I passed a towering bronze brontosaurus, a stop sign resloganed IT’S YOUR DECISION, and an enormous rusty pinwheel that looked like the abandoned toy of a giant. I had expected to see spiky yuccas and old-timey saloons in the former frontier towns that border Joshua Tree National Park. But the sculpture, mixed with miles of sunbaked sand and hand-lettered WELCOME HOME, TROOPS signs—a reminder of my proximity to the country’s largest Marine base—created a kind of surreal Where the hell am I? moment.
I was on my way to meet Alison and Jay Carroll, two recent desert imports hosting
a release party for their new lifestyle brand, Wonder Valley, and its flagship product: a bottle of grassy green olive oil. The dinner is to be held in two cabins owned by artist Jack Pierson, known for his no-frills photographic portraits and word sculptures made with found objects, and it is to be made delicious by Zach Jarrett, chef de cuisine at L.A.’s unflaggingly popular Sqirl restaurant.
“The California ideal of reinvention and experimentation is very much alive in Wonder Valley,” Jay tells me as we watch the sunset intensify, the sky as vivid as the slice of blood orange floating in my cocktail. “There’s an openness in the desert that’s liberating.”
“There’s just room to create, to think, to contribute,” Alison adds. “It really drew us in.”
That freedom, they say, inspired them to build on Alison’s expertise as the former marketing director for the California Olive Oil Council to create their own oil, but also to dream bigger: They have visions of a desert-inspired brand that will include housewares, provisions, and other sundries.
They’re not the only ones who feel this way. The guests who trickle in as the party kicks off—a parade of photographers, sculptors, and writers—are part of a new wave of creatives that spend at least half their time working and living in the desert.
“You can buy property for $6,000,” says Sue Wu, a writer who lives here part-time with her boyfriend, sculptor Alma Allen. “That’s totally appealing as an artist. But you also have to figure out ‘how do I get water?’”
The payoff seems worth the hardscrabble environment. As the dinner builds from creamy fava bean hummus to grilled quail to oil-filled avocado halves, I talk with several photographers, a self-described spiritualist, and a handful of other artists, all of whom touch on a similar theme. “There’s something about looking at this flat, unchanging environment,” says photographer Brendan Pattengale. “There’s nothing to interrupt your thoughts, which leaves all this space for creation.”
It all sounds a little woo-woo, but after a few days here, I get it. I feel loosened in a way that isn’t just about being unshackled from email. There are no billboards, no
boutiques, no trendy restaurants. Just mind-clearing vistas, unfettered time, and zero expectations. Consider artist Laurel Seidl’s Glass Outhouse gallery, one of my stops along the way. Beyond a low-slung house, there’s a xeriscape of colored bottles, toy skeletons, and tin-can robots that would make Tim Burton salivate. Inside, I find striking black-and-white portraits next to plastic flower mosaics so kitschy I wonder if they’re a joke. (They’re not.) But out here, genius and cornball literally sit side by side. There are gun ranges and sound baths. There’s room for everyone.
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