I’m stuck on the words “human interventions in landscape” accompanying Nancy Holt’s early photographic series, “Western Graveyards.” The collection of dilapidated and overgrown burial sites, photographed in 1968, occupies a corner of the exhibition Nancy Holt: Sightlines at the Santa Fe Art Institute.

If you don’t know who we’re referring to when we talk about attracting innovative, young entrepreneurs to Santa Fe, have a look at seven graphic arts students at Santa Fe University of Art and Design. Then ask yourself if it’s telling that they don’t plan to stay on the mesa.

The cast is rehearsing the last scene of Fortunato when I arrive at Teatro Paraguas’ new location, a few units down from its old black-box space in the Agua Fría Village. They’re having trouble finding momentum. Lines are forgotten. Props are dropped. Cues are missed. And the scene comes to a halt when actor Marcos Maez leans against a giant target, only to have it collapse behind him with a rattling crash and the sound of glass breaking.

The Atomic Grill carries gluten-free beer. I learned this back in September, when my baby mama and I moved to Santa Fe. We spent the days looking for work and a rental home, suppressing the dinner urge until late-night, only to discover that Santa Fe late-night begins at 9:30 pm, except at the Atomic. So we go in, expecting your typical diner fare, but what’s this on the beer list? Gluten-free Bard’s Gold.

I caused the 2010 BP oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico. This is my conclusion after speaking with Argos MacCallum of Teatro Paraguas about the company’s reading of The Way of Water, Caridad Svich’s play about four people affected by said disaster.

Sculptor Cannupa Hanska shares a multi-acre compound in Nambé with at least three other people, including his partner (the vivacious Santa Fe DJ and performance artist Ginger Dunnill) and their newborn, Io (pronounced E-O). The main house tells of its prior life as a mill, the remnants of a wheel fixed to the outside and the gears plastered into surfaces in the kitchen.

Two phenomena, other than genre, influence whether or not I’ll attend a music gig. The first and least interesting is the availability of money. The second is an anecdote I heard about Jimi Hendrix: He complained that fans wanted to hear the tunes from his albums, whereas he felt that a recording signifies the end of the artistic process.

The plan: Create community workspaces where young artists can live and work, then run those in conjunction with pop-up shops or galleries, where these artists can sell their work and hold events.

So I’m back at Caldera Gallery, this time for a letter-writing event, in advance of the March 6 elections. I’m sitting across from Houston Johansen, justifying why I’m thinking about abstaining from the vote. Having humored me a conversation on politics as art, he contains his annoyance no more.

Money is a pedestrian way to value art…I mean life…I mean art. I voice this truism Sunday afternoon, walking up Canyon Road with my baby mama. She huffs a laugh, and says, “Duh.” So I’m comp