Black Mesa Landscape, New Mexico

A landscape with two addresses

Georgia O’Keeffe’s Black Mesa Landscape, New Mexico/Out Back of Marie’s II does something more complicated than its calm, layered design first suggests. Painted in 1930, it records a view associated with the H&M Ranch near Alcalde, yet its names have repeatedly pulled it towards Taos, Abiquiú, Black Mesa, a studio and the ground behind Marie’s house. The painting is exact enough to retain a particular horizon, but distilled enough to make geography look newly assembled.^[1][7]

Across the canvas, pale sky, distant blue peaks, black ridges, mauve slopes, coral hills and green trees settle into stacked bands. Each band can be read as terrain receding from the viewer, but each also presses towards the picture surface as an autonomous shape. That double action—place becoming pattern without ceasing to be place—helps explain why the work has served so many later narratives: regional landscape, American modernism, photographic comparison, conservation history and, most recently, a reconsideration of whose country it represents.^[9][16]

The current title rightly keeps two descriptions together. Black Mesa Landscape, New Mexico sounds cartographic and monumental; Out Back of Marie’s II sounds domestic, relational and serial. One directs attention towards a distant formation, the other back to a friend’s property and to another painting in a sequence. Neither half is sufficient alone. Their conjunction makes the work a record of looking from somewhere, among people, rather than an untethered emblem of desert solitude.^[1]

The object in Santa Fe

The painting belongs to the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum in Santa Fe, where it carries catalogue raisonné number 730 and accession number 1997.6.15. It measures 24 1/4 by 36 1/4 inches, or 61.6 by 92.1 centimetres, and entered the collection as a gift of The Burnett Foundation in 1997. The museum dates it securely to 1930, during O’Keeffe’s second sustained summer of work in New Mexico.^[1][3]

There is a small but meaningful discrepancy in the published medium. The current Access O’Keeffe record gives “oil on canvas”, whereas the Smithsonian inventory, Tate’s 2016 checklist and museum educational material specify oil on canvas mounted to board.^{[1][10][15][20]} These statements need not be harmonised by guesswork. They may reflect different levels of cataloguing detail, but no accessible object report establishes when, how or why a board entered the structure.

That limit matters because O’Keeffe’s surfaces can tempt technical speculation. The painting appeared in the 2006 exhibition Georgia O’Keeffe: Color and Conservation, and the related publication discusses her fragile surfaces, dialogue with conservator Caroline Keck, use of colour chips and occasional grinding of pigments.^[13][14] Those broader findings illuminate her material seriousness, but they do not prove the ground, pigments, binding media, mounting history or treatment record of this particular canvas. Here, close looking must remain distinct from laboratory evidence.

A title assembled over time

The catalogue raisonné derives the present title from O’Keeffe’s handwritten Abiquiú Notebooks and the work’s backing inscriptions. Yet the same record preserves at least five alternatives: Landscape Near H & M, Ranch, Toward Abiquiú, N.M.; View From My Studio, New Mexico; View from My Studio; Black Mesa; and a notebook entry in which “View from Studio” was crossed out and replaced with “Out Back of Marie’s II”.^[1] Naming was a continuing act of revision.

The reverse makes that revision tangible. One Carnegie label originally read “Taos”; O’Keeffe crossed the word out and substituted “Black Mesa”. A second Carnegie label, written by Alfred Stieglitz, retained “Taos landscape, New Mexico”.^[1] These are not trivial clerical variations. They show that the object circulated while its geographical wording remained unstable, and that the artist’s later correction could coexist physically with an earlier designation rather than erase it completely.

“View from My Studio” also requires caution. In 1930 O’Keeffe had not acquired the Abiquiú house and studio with which she later became identified. The phrase belongs instead to the early New Mexico circumstances around Alcalde and the H&M Ranch, or to later archival shorthand for them.^[4][6] Reading it automatically as the famous Abiquiú studio would transport the painting into a later biography. The shifting titles are most useful when they preserve uncertainty rather than when they are forced into one modern map pin.

The summer of 1930

O’Keeffe first made an extended New Mexico visit in 1929 and returned in 1930. The museum chronology places her with Mabel Dodge Luhan in Taos from June into September, records camping at Bear Lake and a visit to the ancestral Pueblo site at Puye, and identifies time near Alcalde at the H&M Ranch. It groups catalogue numbers 730–739 as landscapes begun around Alcalde, making this painting part of a concentrated local enquiry rather than an isolated scenic souvenir.^[3]

The Library of Congress timeline adds the human texture. Marie Tudor Garland and her husband, the filmmaker Henwar Rodakiewicz, owned the ranch; O’Keeffe visited frequently, met Henwar’s sister Erla and drove in the evenings with Henwar and the writer Spud Johnson. She also travelled into the Jemez and wrote regularly to Stieglitz.^[4] Movement between guest houses, ranch, road and excursion shaped the summer. The painting emerged from a social network as well as a field of coloured hills.

That setting complicates the familiar image of O’Keeffe as a solitary desert discoverer. Solitude was important to her practice, but access depended upon friendships, hospitality, transport and knowledge shared among residents and visitors. Her 1930 landscape is therefore personal without being socially empty. It came from repeated looking enabled by a particular household, and its colloquial subtitle openly remembers Marie. The view carries the trace of a relationship even though no figure or building appears within it.^[1][4]

Marie’s ranch and an inhabited valley

The initials H&M stood for Henwar and Marie. A New Mexico Museum of Art record for Ansel Adams’s portrait of Rodakiewicz identifies their home at Alcalde and notes that they hosted artists including Adams and O’Keeffe.^[5] Historic-preservation research locates the ranch west of the Rio Grande, shaded by tall cottonwoods and surrounded by alfalfa fields.^[6] These details supply a material foreground for the painting’s low strip of green: cultivated valley life lay between the viewer and the distant formations.

National Park Service research later identified the ranch as the viewpoint for several works: New Mexico Near Taos of 1929, Out Back of Marie’s of 1930 and Back of Marie’s No. 4 of 1931. By the late 1990s the property was operated by the State of New Mexico as an agricultural experiment station and was not generally open for public viewing.^[7] The repeated series confirms sustained attention to one outlook, while the site’s later use makes its agricultural character impossible to overlook.

No roads, fences or ranch structures command the composition. That omission should not turn the valley into wilderness. O’Keeffe selected a direction and compressed its visible layers, excluding many signs of habitation while retaining the cottonwood-like green band along the bottom. Selection is part of the painting’s modernism, but so is the point from which selection occurred. “Out back” names a threshold between domestic ground and long distance, not a place beyond human history.^[6][9]

A horizon built in bands

The sky occupies only a narrow strip, an unusual economy for a landscape associated with expansive New Mexico. Its pale blue-grey interval allows the uppermost mountain to breathe, but the land claims almost the entire rectangle. At the horizon, turquoise and blue peaks step laterally across the picture. A pale wedge interrupts one summit, registering light or exposed distance without developing into atmospheric detail. The eye meets the farthest ground almost immediately.

Below it, dark forms arrive in a measured descent: saturated blue, deep teal, navy and black. They overlap like cut profiles, yet their borders are not mechanically uniform. Some edges are firm and continuous; others soften as brushed colour approaches a neighbouring band. A charcoal ridge spreads broadly through the middle, creating a visual hinge. It separates the cooler distance from the warmer near hills while also binding them into a single lateral rhythm.^[1][10]

The lower half expands into mauve, salmon, coral and muted orange. These warm hills appear closer because of their scale and colour, but their internal bands also flatten them into a sequence of nested contours. At the bottom, green foliage forms a thin, irregular register above a pale strip. That narrow near zone works like a ledge: it provides just enough evidence of trees and cultivated valley to make the enormous warm formation behind it seem both distant and abruptly present.

Colour as structure

Colour does not merely decorate the landforms; it tells the viewer how the landscape is organised. Cool blue distances, dark middle ridges and warm foreground hills create recession through temperature and contrast rather than conventional modelling. Yet O’Keeffe unsettles that system. The black band is so visually assertive that it can leap forward, while the large coral slope sometimes reads as a flat field. Depth repeatedly forms and collapses as the eye moves across the surface.^[9]

The most intense opposition lies between coral and blue. They are separated by black, teal and mauve intervals, so the transition never becomes a simple complementary clash. Instead, each intermediate colour changes how the next is perceived. The green trees at the base introduce another temperature and scale. Their small, broken rhythm makes the broad hills feel larger, but the brightness of the green also holds the foreground against the warm mass rather than letting it disappear.

O’Keeffe’s simplification is often described as abstraction, though that word can imply a departure from observed form. The museum’s Modernism Made in New Mexico exhibition offers a more precise formulation: her compositions hover at the surface while remaining responsive to the contours and intense colours of the land.^[9] This painting demonstrates the point. Its bands can be enjoyed as colour relations, but their asymmetry, changing slopes and uneven profiles continually return them to a witnessed terrain.

The format is panoramic, but the view is compressed rather than expansive. The high horizon and minimal sky remove the usual invitation to look through open air. Land rises in tiers until the far peaks touch the upper edge. Because the individual formations have few internal details, differences in height and overlap carry unusual weight. A small dip in a contour can redirect the movement of an entire band, while a narrow sliver of mauve can hold two much larger masses apart.

Across the upper half, contours generally descend from left to right. Lower down, warm hills swell and dip in counter-rhythms, preventing the picture from becoming a geological diagram. The viewer’s gaze can travel horizontally, following colour like a melody, or vertically, jumping from the pale foreground through green, coral, black and blue to the sky. These routes are inseparable. The painting’s order comes from their intersection, not from one privileged focal point.

The absence of dramatic brushwork does not make the surface inert. Within the broad shapes, directional strokes and modulations keep colour from becoming industrially flat. O’Keeffe balances a designed silhouette with the physical variability of oil paint. From a distance, the land reads as a set of clean profiles; closer inspection reveals slight changes of density, touch and edge. The work’s apparent simplicity is consequently an effect of control, maintained across many local adjustments rather than achieved by eliminating incident altogether.

The Black Mesa sketchbook contour

A related drawing in the museum collection provides a useful limit case. Untitled (Black Mesa Landscape), Pelican V Sketchbook, catalogue number 1878, is dated broadly to 1929–1930s. It is graphite on thin, cream, very smooth wove paper and measures 4 5/8 by 7 inches. Its descriptive title was assigned from the image, because no corresponding title appears in the Whitney or Downtown Gallery archives or the Abiquiú Notebooks.^[2]

On the sheet, a very faint line rises from the left, settles into a long plateau and falls by stages towards the right edge. Only a few short marks interrupt the contour. Large areas of paper remain untouched. The drawing shows how little information O’Keeffe needed to preserve the character of a distant formation: not texture, shadow or vegetation, but the particular tempo of ascent, suspension and decline. Empty paper becomes the space against which recognition occurs.

The museum calls it a sketch of Black Mesa from a distance, but it does not catalogue the sheet as a direct study for the 1930 painting.^[2] The relationship is therefore conceptual rather than demonstrably preparatory. Both works depend upon contour selection, yet the canvas builds a crowded vertical sequence and the drawing isolates one horizon. Treating the sketch as a transferred outline would overstate the evidence; comparing them instead reveals O’Keeffe’s capacity to move between radical spareness and chromatic accumulation.

Material evidence and its limits

The picture’s visible surface suggests thin, controlled applications rather than heavy relief. Broad passages retain modest brush variation, and boundaries appear adjusted through neighbouring layers or strokes. Such observations describe effects available to any attentive viewer. They cannot identify pigments or binders, establish whether O’Keeffe worked wet into wet, or reconstruct an order of application. Without object-specific imaging or analysis, the painting should not inherit technical facts established for other works.

The same restraint applies to the mounted support. Smithsonian, Tate and other records explicitly say that the canvas is mounted to board, while the current owner’s core materials field stops at canvas.^[1][10][20] Mounting can alter a painting’s physical behaviour and viewing surface, but the public evidence does not say whether it is original, later or associated with conservation. A responsible account records the disagreement and leaves the chronology open instead of converting catalogue brevity into certainty.

One physical clue does survive in the stretcher documentation. Stieglitz wrote directions for a flat “Marin” frame and noted a silver frame used for a barn in 1932, accompanied by a small profile drawing.^[1] That instruction places presentation within the work’s early life and links it to framing choices made around the Stieglitz circle. It does not establish the appearance of every later frame, but it reminds us that the coloured landscape was conceived as an object with a deliberately managed boundary.

New Mexico modernism and its blind spots

Artists had travelled to and worked in New Mexico long before O’Keeffe’s arrival, and modernist accounts have often celebrated how newcomers transformed its colours and forms. Modernism Made in New Mexico compared her approach with John Marin’s framed panoramas, Marsden Hartley’s Western work and John Sloan’s regional familiarity.^[9] In that company, Black Mesa Landscape exemplifies a modernist solution to scale: it brings an immense view close through cropping, contour and compressed colour.

Yet “discovery” is the wrong historical model. The Rio Grande valley was neither visually nor culturally unclaimed, and the apparent absence of people in the painting does not erase communities from the land. Even the H&M viewpoint belonged to a network of property, farming and hospitality. Modernist form can be analysed rigorously while acknowledging that earlier criticism often treated the Southwest as an available source of renewal for visiting Anglo-American artists. The two lines of enquiry strengthen rather than cancel one another.^[16][17]

This distinction also changes how the painting’s restraint is understood. Its omission of houses and bodies may concentrate attention on geological shape, but it should not be read as evidence that no one was there. A picture is a chosen field, not a census. The canvas gives powerful evidence of what O’Keeffe selected from one position in 1930; historical sources provide the wider setting that selection excludes. Responsible interpretation holds the visual fact and the social history in view together.

The 1931 debut and an emerging series

The painting entered public view in Georgia O’Keeffe: 33 New Paintings (New Mexico), staged in 1931–32.^[1] The exhibition announced that New Mexico was becoming a sustained body of work rather than a temporary detour from flowers, abstractions and New York architecture. Its title presented the region as the organising fact, while individual works tested different scales: distant mountain sequences, close hills, churches, crosses, bones and trees would gradually form an expanding visual vocabulary.

Within that debut, the subtitle “II” signals repetition. The smaller Out Back of Marie’s I, CR 731, places fuller green trees before pink hills and dark mountains; an installation photograph shows it at An American Place in 1931.^[23] Both works carried the alternate description Landscape Near H & M Ranch, Toward Abiquiú, N.M.^[1][23] Their different formats and foreground emphases show that O’Keeffe rephrased a familiar outlook rather than treating one image as its definitive record.

Back of Marie’s No. 4 (1931; CR 793) extends that rephrasing into a panoramic sixteen-by-thirty-inch canvas. Purple-black distant hills descend through beige and cream bands to a narrow line of green trees. Its records preserve Back of Marie’s – New Mexico #4, Back of Marie’s No. IV and Back of Marie’s No. 4, New Mexico, while one Stieglitz label says 1930 and the catalogue dates the work 1931. The variations make “IV” a series marker, not a separate unidentified painting.^[25]

The museum’s conservation record supplies evidence unavailable from reproduction. CR 793 uses processed linen in a one-by-one twill weave over a commercial keyable stretcher, with an oil primer containing lead white and calcium carbonate. Matte, relatively stiff paint was pressed into the canvas texture; later cracking, blanching and frame abrasion record both O’Keeffe’s handling and subsequent treatment. These facts distinguish the work materially from CR 730 even where their horizontal bands invite comparison, and prevent the legacy title from being absorbed as a merely verbal alias.^[25]

Early labels nevertheless continued to generalise the site as Taos. That term could function as a broad cultural and exhibition shorthand for northern New Mexico, even when the immediate viewpoint lay near Alcalde. O’Keeffe’s correction to “Black Mesa” sharpened one form of geographical reference, but the combined title later restored the domestic orientation towards Marie.^[1] The object’s naming history therefore parallels its serial imagery: each version reselects what the work’s location is understood to mean.

Finding the view again

The 2004–05 exhibition O’Keeffe and New Mexico: A Sense of Place paired paintings with photographs of the places from which they developed.^[1][7] This method challenged the idea that simplification made the source untraceable. It also introduced a useful test: which features remain stable enough to recognise after O’Keeffe’s compression, and which belong to pictorial decisions rather than to topography? Matching is interpretive work, dependent on viewpoint, lens, season and later environmental change.

National Park Service assessment found the H&M perspective difficult to reproduce from the public road because the property was not open, although the surrounding landscape appeared substantially recognisable.^[7] That access limit is revealing. The famous view is not a free-floating public overlook; it is attached to land with changing ownership and use. Re-photography can clarify geographical relations, but it cannot simply recover the artist’s exact act of seeing without confronting permission, position and altered vegetation.

A later museum viewshed project made the method more systematic. Researchers documented 28 viewpoints with contemporary photography, used the Dioptra application to record altitude, latitude, longitude and bearing, and combined those observations with geographic-information-system layers concerning landscape and human context.^[8] Including CR 730 in that work gave its visual history a digital extension. The painting’s contours became evidence to be compared with measured sightlines, while the resulting map also made visible the infrastructure and histories that an isolated reproduction can suppress.

The Trust for Public Land explains that the same mapping also became a conservation tool. Its decision-support layer recorded roads, trails, wildfire risk and land ownership so that documented views could inform future protection, while photographer Jamey Stillings described the difficulty of recovering exact angles in altered terrain.^[24] The project therefore joins art history to land management without freezing the landscape at 1930 or implying that visual fame overrides present communities and ownership.

In dialogue with Ansel Adams

O’Keeffe and Ansel Adams knew one another, valued the natural world and worked repeatedly in the American Southwest. The Smithsonian’s 2008–09 Natural Affinities was the first exhibition devoted to pairing them extensively, bringing together 42 paintings and 54 photographs.^[11] The premise was not that painting and photography were interchangeable. It was that each artist used a modernist vocabulary to translate sustained attention to land, light, scale and natural structure.

At SFMOMA, Black Mesa Landscape was paired specifically with Adams’s Winter Sunrise, Sierra Nevada from Lone Pine, California.^[12] Both images organise mountain distance into strongly legible registers, but their media create different pressures. Adams’s photograph derives its tonal structure from light registered through a lens and darkroom process; O’Keeffe’s canvas constructs every interval through selected colour. Comparison makes her coral, turquoise and black appear less like local colour notation and more like an active architecture of perception.

Adams also photographed Henwar Rodakiewicz at H&M Ranch, giving the exhibition dialogue an indirect social link to the painting’s point of origin.^[5] That connection should not be inflated into a claim that his portrait explains the canvas or that the two artists worked there together. It does, however, restore a person to a place that landscape reproduction can depopulate. Photographer, filmmaker, painter and host occupied overlapping networks, even when the resulting works isolate very different subjects.

A provenance record that needs repair

The painting’s secure recent history culminates in The Burnett Foundation’s gift to the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum in 1997.^[1] Before that endpoint, the current online provenance names George M. Harris of San Antonio, a purchase in 1968, Gerald Peters Gallery in Santa Fe and The Burnett Foundation. These names outline a path through private ownership and the art trade, but the dates published beside them do not presently form a possible chronology.

Specifically, Access O’Keeffe assigns 1968 to Harris’s purchase and 1966 to The Burnett Foundation, even though the Foundation is listed after Harris and the gallery.^[1] One of those dates may be a typographical or transcription error, but no accessible authoritative source resolves it. Silently changing 1966 to a more plausible year would manufacture evidence. The correct scholarly response is to preserve the record as published, identify the inconsistency and distinguish documented custody names from an unverified sequence.

This gap is instructive because provenance is sometimes written as frictionless succession. Digital collection records remain living scholarly tools: the Access entry says its core fields were updated and verified in 2026, yet one unresolved conflict remains visible.^[1] A transparent manuscript can therefore improve on apparent certainty without claiming superior facts. The painting’s museum ownership, accession and donor are clear; the intermediate chronology awaits documentary correction from sale, gallery or foundation records.

International titles and travelling meanings

The work has travelled widely in exhibition, including Georgia O’Keeffe: American & Modern in London, Mexico City and Yokohama in 1993–94; Tate Modern, Vienna and Toronto in 2016–17; and the Madrid, Paris and Riehen retrospective of 2021–22.^[1] Each tour placed an Alcalde view inside a different account of American modernism. Repeated international display also stabilised the combined English title even as translation changed its domestic and spatial nuance.

The Museo Nacional Thyssen-Bornemisza rendered the subtitle as Desde la casa de Marie II—“from Marie’s house”—while Fondation Beyeler’s German dossier used Im Garten von Marie II, “in Marie’s garden”.^[18][19] Neither is a literal equivalent of the colloquial “out back”. The Spanish version emphasises the viewing origin; the German evokes an enclosed cultivated space. Translation thus performs interpretation, making the same landscape sound like a vista from a house, a garden scene or ground beyond a dwelling.

The Tate checklist and Spanish museum list also retain different material details: Tate specifies oil paint on canvas at the standard dimensions, while other Spanish documentation has described canvas mounted to board.^[18][20] Such variations reveal how exhibition records condense complex object histories for local purposes. They are valuable evidence, but not interchangeable authorities. Reading them together gives a fuller account precisely because their wording does not coincide perfectly.

From ranch view to postage stamp

In 2013 the United States Postal Service reproduced the painting as one of twelve stamps in Modern Art in America, 1913–1931. The pane marked the centenary of the Armory Show and placed O’Keeffe beside Charles Demuth, John Marin, Stuart Davis, Marsden Hartley, Man Ray, Aaron Douglas, Charles Sheeler, Joseph Stella, Gerald Murphy, Marcel Duchamp and Arthur Dove.^[21] A privately framed ranch view entered everyday circulation as an official miniature of national culture.

Reduction changed the work again. On a stamp, the broad horizontal bands remain immediately legible, while brush modulation, inscriptions and the relation between support and frame disappear. The design’s success at very small scale demonstrates the strength of its large colour divisions, but also encourages emblematic reading. “Black Mesa” can become a compact sign for New Mexico or American modernism even though the full title and history point back to one friend’s ranch and an unstable chain of names.

The Georgia O’Keeffe Museum Archives preserve first-day materials, sheets and related postal documentation for the 2013 issue, alongside records of the 1996 stamp featuring Red Poppy.^[22] That institutional survival turns popular reproduction into an archival subject. It also charts two public O’Keeffes: the enlarged flower and the stratified landscape. The stamp did not merely reflect fame; it helped choose which forms of her work would stand for her within a federal narrative of modern art.

Tewa Country and the problem of possession

The museum’s 2025–26 exhibition Tewa Nangeh/Tewa Country includes Black Mesa Landscape within a decisive change of frame. Co-curated by artist Jason Garcia/Okuu Pín of Santa Clara Pueblo and Bess Murphy, it brings together artists, scholars and culture bearers from Nambé, Ohkay Owingeh, Pojoaque, San Ildefonso, Santa Clara and Tesuque Pueblos. Its themes include sacred space, belonging, identity, ownership and the erasure of Tewa presence from narratives centred on O’Keeffe.^[16]

An earlier museum panel stated the issue in its title: This is Not O’Keeffe Country. Participants Corrine Sanchez, Christina M. Castro and Jason Garcia challenged a familiar promotional phrase because it makes one twentieth-century painter appear to possess a land with thousands of years of Indigenous history.^[17] Applied to this canvas, the critique does not diminish O’Keeffe’s achievement. It changes the scale of the historical account in which that achievement is placed.

Care is still required. The exhibition does not license an unsupported claim that the painting represents a particular sacred site, nor that its formal bands encode Tewa knowledge. Its contribution is historiographic: the land cannot be described as empty, newly found or culturally defined by O’Keeffe alone.^[16] The current title’s possessive associations—Marie’s back ground, the artist’s “studio” view, later “O’Keeffe Country”—can now be examined beside Indigenous concepts of homeland and continuing presence rather than accepted as innocent labels.

How to look at the painting now

Begin with the narrow sky and ask how little atmosphere O’Keeffe needed. Then follow the pale wedge in the distant blue ridge and trace the descending dark contours beneath it. Notice where one band reads as a mountain behind another and where the same edge becomes simply a meeting between colours. The picture’s depth is not fixed. It expands when forms overlap and contracts when coral, black or blue asserts itself as a flat area of paint.

Next, spend time at the bottom. The green fringe is small, but it changes everything above it. It supplies scale, evokes the cottonwoods and cultivated valley around H&M Ranch, and locates the viewer on inhabited ground.^[6] Compare its broken rhythm with the long, controlled slopes of the hills. O’Keeffe did not need to paint a house in order for “Out Back of Marie’s” to remain a view shaped by domestic proximity.

Finally, hold the several names in mind without choosing one winner. Taos belongs to an early label; Black Mesa to correction and consolidation; “toward Abiquiú” to an archival description; “View from My Studio” to a shifting biographical shorthand; and “Out Back of Marie’s II” to friendship and repeated work.^[1] The painting’s visual economy can accommodate that historical abundance. Its layered land is also a layered record of looking, naming, circulating and reconsidering place.