Chimayo in 2010 with sentimentalised angels.

Good Friday:Chimayo pilgrim transport

On-line exhibition of my work

The website is now live at http://www.myfanwyfranksartwork.com/ It is a retrospective exhibition of examples of my paintings and drawings over the years.

The Pecos black and white photographs

The black and white photographs are from what Betsy termed 'the Pecos hiatus', a space in time that changed my direction and my art work for ever. As I trace my art work from its beginnings in order to mount an on-line exhibition, I recollect that this was a time and place from which these photographs are my only visual record.

Oh no: The disneyfication of Chimayo

I was distressed to see the changes that had been made to the Santo Nino chapel. The tiny chapel that was on the wall of the old chapel frontage has been removed. Angels that look like Whimsies decorate the gates and the inside of the chapel. I can't understand why this has been allowed to happen.

Some people think that faith is dead

Interesting when people think religion is dead. Faith is alive in the Hispanic communities of New Mexico in the USA - among people of all ages. Pilgrimage here is something living.

This kind of living faith was also evident in the incredible rescue of the miners in Chile. The kind of get-your-hands dirty miracle that involved God, people's massive good will and technology all together. The Chilean miners and their families exhibited a kind of faith that has nothing to do with being 'moral' but about knowing we cannot stand alone, needing something greater than ourselves, having to hand over the things we just cannot handle to a higher power than ourselves.

Also, in New Mexico in Abiquiu, we stayed last month, in a yurt owned by people of faith, members of a Muslim community who work constantly to encourage dialogue between faith communities.

Song of the river

It is January and there is deep snow. I am 35 miles from Santa Fe and 8,000 feet above sea level. Mid-afternoon is my ecstatic hour before the shift to hell of night. The propane man has not reached the cabin for three weeks. I’ve picked my way across the stones and am sitting on my usual rock, my knees tucked under my chin. I am in the middle of the Pecos River. The heat of the sun briefly burns my face but the banks are festooned with icicles. The heat lets me live again. Soon the sun will disappear behind the canyon walls. I am hungry; today I have eaten a baked potato, my entire food for the day. Hungry has become normal. I am light as air. The rush of the river fills the caverns of my ears as it courses its wild way through the canyon. My heart becomes a bird and soars upward to the blue.