MAKING THEMSELVES AT HOME

In 1971 report the horses “were always there.” Espinoza was born about the same time the federal law was signed, and she remembers, as a small child, delighting in seeing established bands of horses along the riverbank. Officials from the two Native American communities, the forest and state agencies are meeting to figure out what to do with the horses. Some insist the horses are feral, not wild, and consider them a nuisance. The animals, Hanna points out, defecate along the riverbank, blaze trails in the desert, occasionally wander on public roads and compete with cattle and wildlife for limited food in a drought-devastated landscape.

Hanna is in a difficult spot because he must take into consideration the concerns of all the stakeholders in his district bordering the Salt River, including ranchers and birders and bureaucrats — who view the horses as removable pests — and tubers and kayakers and hikers and photographers and campers who treasure them.

The 1971 federal law, in the meantime, has been watered down in ways that harm the wild horses it was intended to protect, the investigative-journalism website ProPublica reported in the fall of 2012. Wild mustangs thought to be protected under the 1971 law are competing with cattle for limited water and grass on public lands, and tens of thousands have been rounded up by federal officials at great expense and penned and adopted out or sold under suspicious circumstances, ProPublica reported. “For the humans involved, it’s a sweetheart deal: fewer wild horses drinking less water!” Andrew Cohen wrote in a 2012 article in The Atlantic.

OPPOSITE PAGE: When the sun is at its hottest, the horses stay near the cool water of the river, but Taubert says this group wandered about a half-mile from the water to graze on an ironwood. “They seem to feed mostly on the trees,” he adds.

For America’s wild horses, Cohen writes, “it’s a looming catastrophe.” The ProPublica series has sparked an ongoing federal investigation of wild-horse management on public lands. But as the investigation continues, the problem balloons. Federal officials have rounded up so many wild horses that more of these animals exist today in pens and corrals than roam free on public lands. And because penned animals are far more expensive to care for than free-roaming animals, there’s been a budget crunch and a push to reduce the population of penned wild mustangs. According to a loophole in the 1971 law, wild horses that have been offered for adoption three times and, for various reasons, have not been adopted can be sold by federal officials for $10. Horse advocates fear that despite assurances by buyers to the contrary, many of America’s “protected” wild mustangs have been slaughtered.

In 1995, the Salt River Pima-Maricopa Indian Community passed its own ordinance to protect its wild horses from “capture, harassment, starvation or death” and maintain them as an integral part of the natural system on community lands. The law provides for humane thinning of the wild herds (euthanasia of the sick animals, adoption to carefully selected homes and birth control of mares) if overpopulation is a problem. The wild horse numbers have been reduced from about 400 to 180, according to the community newspaper. Unlike the Salt River horses, this group of protected horses doesn’t crisscross borders.

The Salt River Pima-Maricopa Indian Community doesn’t protect the itinerant Salt River horses that are the focus of this story unless these horses wander onto community lands. The moment the Salt River horses leave community lands, they are no longer protected.

As my kayak tour with Netherlands and Pisa draws to a close just above Granite Reef Dam, the water is shallow and still. Cicadas sing as we paddle toward the shore. I ask Netherlandserlands why she cares so much about the horses, and she says: “They enrich our lives.” I think back to a moment on the river, when we saw a man loaded with camera equipment standing on a bluff. “Any good pictures?” I called up to him. He seemed jubilant.

“Eagles and horses,” he called back.

Netherlands and Pisa say goodbye, and Netherlands stows her kayak in her truck. She munches pensively on some dried Trader Joe’s coconut, then walks toward the river. She picks her way through a thorny mesquite thicket, a metaphor, I think, for the path Netherlands has chosen as an activist. Her activism is tinged with her sense of urgency. In the early 1900s, she says, Arizona was home to some 20,000 wild horses, but now their numbers have dwindled to about 500. She has rescued a few wild horses, gentled them and adopted them out. She says she doesn’t seek donations for her advocacy group, Respect 4 Horses, and funds her activism with her rental income from real-estate properties.

We stand on the sandy riverbank, and Netherlands spots another band of horses wading on the opposite side of the river. In the gold patina of late afternoon sunlight, the Salt River horses snort with contentment. We hear the sound of hooves on river rock. AH

www.arizonahighways.com 45

MAKING THEMSELVES AT

When surrealist artists Dorothea Tanning and Max Ernst moved to Sedona in 1946, it was a small town, home to 500 residents, if that, with a general store, a post office and not much more. But that didn't stop the sophisticated couple from sinking roots and building a home where they could paint and sculpt in peace, inspired by the red-rock landscape and Native American culture.

>>> BY NORA BURBA TRULSSON

HOME

THE HOUSE IS still there, down the twists and turns of a narrow road, within walking distance of uptown Sedona. You can't see much of it from the street. Junipers and brush hide the house, and it looks much different now than it did when it was built in 1946. It's been sold numerous times, expanded, modernized. The studio's long gone.

The house, though, is a special site, a vortex of history and art, built by surrealist artists Dorothea Tanning and Max Ernst as a retreat where they could paint and sculpt in peace, inspired by the red-rock landscape and Native American culture.

The couple's path to Sedona, a place they first visited in the summer of 1943, has as many twists and turns as does the road to their home. Their trajectory zigzags between the Midwest and war-torn Europe, then ricochets from New York to Los Angeles. Their sojourn to Sedona also is the story of two very strong individuals who were meant to be together.

Born in Galesburg, Illinois, in 1910 as the middle of three sisters, Tanning had, by all accounts, a solidly middle-class, Midwestern upbringing. At a young age, she aspired to be an artist, and she once rented a cabin by a lake so she could be alone with her art - a decision that no doubt raised eyebrows in the 1920s, especially in a town dotted with churches. Her family went along with her headstrong proclivities. “The family believed that art and culture were important,” says Tanning's niece, Mimi Johnson, a New York-based performing-arts administrator. “They were supportive. Her father, who was a postal worker, sent her money when he could.” After a stint at Knox College, Tanning headed to Chicago, where she spent hours at the Art Institute. “She was a sponge,” Johnson says. “Dorothea absorbed everything, observed everything and spat it back in her work.” By 1936, Tanning was in New York, working as a commercial artist and pursuing fine art, when she saw an exhibit of dadaism and surrealism at the Museum of Modern Art. The show changed her life. “Here in the museum, is the real explosion, rocking me on my run-over heels,” she wrote in her autobiography, Between Lives. “Here is the infinitely faceted world I must have been waiting for.” In 1939, on the eve of World War II, Tanning traveled to Paris to meet some of the surrealists, taking letters of introduction to artists Yves Tanguy, Pablo Picasso and Ernst. Because of the annual summer exodus and wartime anxiety, Paris was empty. Tanning returned to New York without meeting the artists, but her luck changed when she signed with the Julien Levy Gallery, a cutting-edge firm known for representing avant-garde artists.

Sedona is a long way from Germany or Chicago, but that didn't stop Dorothea Tanning and Max Ernst from settling down there - in a house they built themselves - after World War II.

While Tanning was exploring her earliest artistic expressions, Ernst already was a star - first in the dada art movement, then in surrealism. He was born in Brühl, Germany, in 1891 to a devoutly middle-class Catholic family. Inspired by his father, an amateur artist, Ernst took up painting at a young age, then studied art history and psychology at the University of Bonn. He served in World War I, married and had a son, Jimmy Ernst, who emigrated to the United States as a young man and also became an artist.

Always a bit of a rebel, Ernst left for Paris in the early 1920s and became immersed in the bohemian lifestyle of artists, writers, poets and filmmakers, working and socializing with a circle that included Joan Miró, André Breton, Paul Éluard, Alberto Giacometti, Luis Buñuel and others. His work was exhibited widely.

With piercing blue eyes, Ernst was charming, handsome and mesmerizing, which didn't make for great husband material. He had numerous affairs, many with boldface names of that generation: singer/actress Lotte Lenya, Gala Éluard (who later married Salvador Dalí) and artist Leonora Carrington. "My grandfather loved beautiful women," says Amy Ernst, Jimmy Ernst's daughter, also an artist in New York. "He put women on pedestals." It was yet another lover, arts patron and heiress Peggy Guggenheim, who helped Ernst come to New York in 1941. They married a year later.

New York during the early 1940s was a hotbed of exiled European artists and intellectuals, many of whom orbited the Julien Levy Gallery, where Tanning showed. Guggenheim, with a major collection of modern art, also was part of the scene, but on a whim, she decided to search for a locale besides New York to house her collection.

With Ernst and his son, Jimmy, in tow, she headed for San Francisco and Los Angeles. Driving back, they crossed Arizona, where Ernst bought every kachina at a Grand Canyon trading post. In his autobiography, A Not-So-Still Life, Jimmy Ernst wrote: "On a late afternoon, we got out of the car to watch a gigantic rattlesnake crossing U.S. 66 just outside of Flagstaff, Arizona. As Max looked up at nearby San Francisco Peak [sic], he blanched visibly, his face muscles tightened. The mountain's green tree line abruptly gave way to a band of bright-red rock beneath a peak cap of sun-created pure magenta. He was staring at the very same fantastic landscape that he had repeatedly painted in Ardèche, France, not very long ago, without knowing of its actual existence. That one look was to change the future of his life in America."

The trio returned to New York, where Guggenheim decided to curate an exhibit of work by women artists, enlisting Ernst to help find the artists. In 1942, he went to see Tanning's work at her studio for inclusion in the show. They played chess. He came back to Tanning's with a suitcase. Guggenheim was not amused.

Tanning and Ernst took a trip to Sedona in 1943, inspired by Ernst's previous visit to Arizona. "They each rented cabins in Oak Creek Canyon," Johnson says, "because they were not married at the time." In fact, both still were married - Ernst to Guggenheim and Tanning to her first husband. Guggenheim, to partially assuage her humiliation at her impending divorce, penned a scathing memoir with thinly veiled references to Ernst and Tanning that was widely read in New York art circles. Between the memoir, a bout of encephalitis that Tanning suffered and a desire to live in the West, Ernst and Tanning moved to Sedona for a fresh start in 1946, subletting her New York apartment to Marcel Duchamp. As soon As their divorces were finalized, the couple got married in Beverly Hills in a double ceremony with photographer Man Ray and dancer Juliet Browner, longtime friends.

At the time, Sedona was a small town, home to 500 residents, if that, with a general store, a post office and not much more. Shopping or going to the movies meant trekking to Flagstaff or Cottonwood. Sedona's appeal as a tourist destination was yet to come, and Ernst and Tanning, along with artists Robert and Mary Kittredge, essentially made up the town's nascent art colony.

Using Tanning's savings, the couple bought land from Charlie Brewer and began building a modest cabin, naming the property Capricorn Hill. There was no water or electricity at the time. They chased off Brewer's cattle and dealt with rattlers, scorpions and oppressive heat. "I've always thought of my aunt as so sophisticated and glamorous," Johnson says. "It's hard to imagine the woman I knew basically camping there in Sedona, but all they needed was love."

Eventually, electricity and water came to the house, which they expanded. Ernst had a small studio in the back; Tanning painted in the main house, listening to Igor Stravinsky on their phonograph. Their work took inspiration and hues from the desert landscape, as well as from Native American imagery. The house was adorned inside and out with bas-relief sculpture, paintings and collections of indigenous art. Tanning did one of her most famous paintings there, Self-Portrait, an image of a small figure in a vast desert, while Ernst also created his most iconic sculpture, Capricorn, in Sedona.

When they weren't immersed in artwork, they explored, boating the Colorado River or traveling to the Hopi mesas. They were also visited by friends from the art world, passing through on their way to New York or Los Angeles. Visitors included artists Tanguy and Duchamp, choreographer George Balanchine, and photographers Lee Miller and Henri Cartier-Bresson. The poet Dylan Thomas became enamored with the Bridgeport Tavern in Cottonwood when he visited Ernst and Tanning. The couple also participated in Hans Richter's avant-garde film 8x8, which was partly filmed in Arizona.

Ernst and Tanning mingled in the local scene, mentoring sculptor Nassan Gobran, who came to teach at the Verde Valley School and later founded the Sedona Arts Center. Ernst and Robert Kittredge - perhaps on a lark - entered artwork in the 1951 Arizona State Fair. Each took home a ribbon.

"They liked their anonymity in Sedona," says Amy Ernst of her grandfather and Tanning. "They stayed there because they were fascinated by primitive cultures and by the landscape. For them, the Southwest was a mystical place."

During the years they lived in Sedona, they made numerous trips to New York with a trusty Ford and a trailer filled with art. They also spent time in France, a place where both felt their art was most appreciated. In 1957, they decided to move to France permanently. It was there that their artwork received even more international recognition.

They sold the Sedona house to Jimmy Ernst, who lived there with his family in the early 1960s. "My father worked in the studio out back," Amy Ernst says. "At one point, the federal government told him that the studio's broom closet was on government land and they wanted him to move the studio. Dad refused and simply chopped off the broom closet."

Tanning gave a piece of the land to her sister, Mary Louise John-