The city of Santa Fe has rules.  

It is an old city with the oldest church in the nation. I could feel the history there. This is a rare feeling for a West Coast American.

The air is thin at this high elevation. I felt things were surreal bordering on the mystical.

What do people do here—I found myself wondering. 

I couldn’t see signs of industry.

When I met a government official at the hotel, he said their industry was art.

That made sense. I had glanced over the many art shops because it seemed to rich for my blood, but there were so many of them they must be doing some business to stay open.

The thing I noticed about this NEW Mexico culture—unlike the OLD Mexico I was familiar with in California—is their buidings were very plain. Pueblo style, slightly melted squares of adobe mud. 

Now, the old buildings I could believe were original pueblo style.

But the parking garage?

I learned that this was the rule. This style of architecture and no other was permitted in the whole area. More than a hundred years ago, the city had decided to have only this pueblo style for anyt building.

It gave a peace to the eye as I looked over the downtown streets. No jarring corners or edges, smooth and neutral color.

It blended in with the trees in a comfortable way.

How startling for a town with so much art, to choose this conformity.

I’d always thought of artists as eclectic, and messy. Bright colors, things that caught the eye. 

Not here. The town had chosen a strict style. 

Could it be that the discipline placed on the city cramped the artists possibilities? I would think that artists would avoid these kind of rules.

And yet, the culture and the business of the town proved me wrong. The artists came and created there, were drawn to it. Perhaps the constraint inspire the art, like a poet might choose a tiny Haiku to express a large idea.