The post-industrial detritus littering the dusty track to Larry Sparks’ hideaway cabin hints at the visual circus ahead. After following the typical country-road directions—turn left at the cattle guard after the curve, head through the open gate, don’t follow the fork to the red-roofed house—I come upon a lurking old fence post patched with retired license plates, all nearly hidden among the sagebrush, spindly cholla cactus, and rioting autumnal chamisa in full bloom that blanket this stretch of inclined mesa land between hills and valley.

Closer to his place, more of Sparks’ treasures appear, mostly unidentifiable scraps of rusty steel, piles of inch-and-a-half rebar, and various other industrial leftovers strewn about in a seemingly random distribution that blurs the boundary between junk and scrap pile. My car scrapes front and rear as it broncos up the trucks-only final hump into Sparks’ driveway, where I stop beside a—parking meter?

Visual humor is one of my favorite things, and Sparks’ place serves up more jokey riffs than a late-night talk show host. They’re all based on juxtaposition and context and discovery. But not all of this stuff nailed, screwed, glued, and otherwise affixed to every vertical surface of the cabin, along with some horizontal displays, is meant to be funny. Sometimes it’s just fascinating, intriguing, cool. I often found myself saying, “Oh, wow!” during my visit with Sparks.

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