Andrew Lee Jennings

West of Thirty-Five

Like so many of my generation, I long for a life a7orded by a bygone era. For many years I was incapable of having a daydream that didn’t involve a far-flung country. And yet now I seem unable to fathom one that doesn’t begin and end in the western United States. For most of my adult life, Fort Worth, Texas, was my home and the launch pad for innumerable trips into the West’s wild landscapes and remote outposts; places that serve as a bridge to a world lost to time. The city’s official slogan – ‘Where the West Begins’ – conjures up in me a line of demarcation, a north-south Mason-Dixon Line dividing the Lower 48 into two distinct halves, geographically, historically, culturally, and spiritually. And while many might turn to the Continental Divide as the definitive partition of east versus west, thanks to Dwight D. Eisenhower’s foresight, I believe we can do one better: Interstate 35.

West of Thirty-Five lies a land of contrast. Dry and lush, barren and plentiful, this was the testing ground for the intrepid. A lawless and unforgiving land that rewarded the resolute and those with the tenacity and grit to withstand the wrath of its wild and unpredictable nature. The larger-than-life characters whom we associate with the American West were not an integral part of my upbringing. I wasn’t raised on the writings of Edward Abbey and Wallace Stegner or the folk songs of Katie Lee. Nevertheless, in the West I have come to see myself. I see the opposing forces locked in battle. The warm and hospitable in commune with the cold and hostile. The roar of a flash flood giving way to the soothing susurration of a cottonwood tree. The charm of a well-earned patina around one corner, followed by the threat of imminent collapse the next.

For this project I have turned my camera towards the landscapes west of Interstate 35. Often without a destination in mind, I seek out new roads and unique perspectives by following my intuition and curiosity. And scattered throughout this frontier I discover evidence of long-lost kindred spirits alongside their modern-day stalwarts attempting to carry on their traditions. Where my predecessors slept on bedrolls under the stars, I sleep in my car, often bathed in the fluorescent lights of highway rest stops and Walmart parking lots. But on the good nights, on the nights when I find an unspoiled nook unprotected by a no trespassing sign, I feel at home. Beyond the fields of sagebrush, pumpjacks, and wind turbines, I find a frontier that endures defiant and untamed. West of Thirty-Five I find myself.