Come morn, we are out, out, out for the roll toward Phoenix, first stop beautiful Blythe...
|Blythe's finest restaurant|
I slide into a space on Main Street and by foot we cruise this five-block zone once bustling with art galleries, artists, and art collectors.
Many of the galleries are empty and up for lease, devoid of other people and forlorn, a ghost town of sorts.
And no wonder, because you wander in the remaining galleries and get your sensibilities sullied by stale schlock.
|Old Town Scottsdale art scene:|
I find it sad and depressing and were it not for a road trip novel I plan to pen about a semi-starving artist trying to find new markets for his wares, I would boogie this terrain for more pleasant plains.
The only bright spot is a life-size bronze statue of Mark Twain sitting on a sidewalk bench and smirking at the irony of this debacle.