Edie Fake likes to paint the impossible.
It’s shown in his work on Chicago’s historically queer spaces, which look like architecture studies on acid. It’s shown in his groundbreaking comic series, Gaylord Phoenix, which follows the titular half-bird-half-man on his journey of self-discovery through sex escapades. It’s moving — and graphic.
“It has kind of a translation into how trans identity is seen in our culture, where at first things seem impossible, but in fact, they just contradict the standard order of things,” Fake said.
In two weeks, though, that impossibility might take on another meaning. As issues of sexuality and gender identity go up to vote in California and across the country on Nov. 5, the LGBT community in Twentynine Palms — including Fake, who identifies as a transgender man — will feel the results.
That might be an understatement, though. All of the high desert, which is part of the typically swing San Bernardino County in California, will feel the impact. On the drive in from Los Angeles, where Fake used to live, to Twentynine Palms, the location of his studio, the tension is visible out the car window.
It’s just one main road, State Route 62, that runs for miles after the San Gorgonio pass. Outside a Rite Aid on the road in Yucca Valley, picketers under a popup tent hold large, pink “Women for Trump” flags. On the next block stands a “Black Lives Matter” sign, equally large but seemingly ownerless. There’s no shortage of Trump or Harris signs, which are sometimes propped up in front of Joshua trees.
The complex where Fake lives is at the end of a long dirt road. There are two small houses and a series of about ten other buildings made of transformed RVs and plywood: studios, libraries, a chicken coop and a rabbit hutch. All of them are interspersed with cacti and the occasional lizard, including the walking labyrinth — a stone maze meant for meditation.
Fake said it was originally owned by a man at the nearby military base, before his partner moved in 30 years ago and transformed it into the eclectic oasis it is today. The mountains behind it seem practically Martian.
On this day in early October, Fake was working on a design for a print of an intricate, psychedelic-looking rainbow. That work is one of the first times his art will be mass-produced, he said. It continues the body of work he created in the mid-2000s, which re-examined city buildings that were frequented by queer people in secret. Pencils, reference books, and color swatches — one of his signature elements — lay strewn in piles across his desk.
Fake had an illustrious artistic career even before he settled in the desert. He started drawing in elementary school and attended the Rhode Island School for Design before making headlines as a member of an entire M.F.A. cohort that dropped out of USC’s art school in protest. His work has been exhibited across the country, and he’s part of an upcoming show in Santa Barbara and a public installation in San Francisco. The back wall of his studio is lined with cardboard boxes containing artwork to ship to buyers and galleries.
Fake lived in Los Angeles, where he found himself frequenting the desert to visit friends, he said. About 10 years ago, he decided to stay.
“It was kind of a temporary experiment at first. When I moved out, I was like, ‘Let’s see what being a hermit’s like!’” Fake said. “It let me focus, and the social life here is much different than a city … it let me make new friendships [and] deepen my friendships.”
He was mostly referring to the tight-knit but vibrant LBGT community in Twentynine Palms, in which he’s very involved. Like Fake, many members are desert transplants who moved to pursue their artistic passions. That includes the filmmaker Graham Kolbeins, Fake’s close friend who founded the 29 Queer film festival. They collaborated on a short film that starred Fake’s chicken, Dr. Eggs.
Kolbeins said that queer people are wary of their self-expression in the area, which has a reputation as a conservative military town. Even so, he estimated that there were hundreds of people involved in the community.
“It’s nice that nobody protested our [29 Queer] film festival, and that was within the realm of possibility,” he said. “We’ve heard from other people that sometimes no reaction is a good reaction.”
Kolbeins said that a queer writing workshop had previously received threats to its security and had been forced to close all but one of its entrances.
Adriene Jenick, Fake’s partner, who’s also a visual artist, said that there hasn’t been as much “belligerence” in Twentynine Palms during this election season. In 2020, it was “pretty bad.”
She hopes that Trump’s visibility is lower because residents in the battleground area are starting to turn away from his more extreme positions.
It could also be because the race is tightening; in 2020, Donald Trump won Twentynine Palms by nearly 5 percentage points, but only 43 more people voted for him over Joe Biden in the 2024 primary election.
Current polling describes a presidential race as essentially a toss-up. In California’s 23rd Congressional District, which includes Twentynine Palms, another close race culminates on Nov. 5 — in the House of Representatives. Jay Obernolte, the Republican incumbent, is challenged by Derek Marshall, an openly gay man who’s running on a platform of LGBT equality.
For his part, Fake is slightly optimistic.
“The queer community is really resilient … I’m not scared of it disappearing,” Fake said. At the same time, he acknowledged that his attitude could change in two weeks.
“We have steady queer drag shows, dance parties, residency. It feels very alive here in a cultural way,” Fake said. “I think that fighting [bigotry] directly is necessary, but also, creating a world that we want to live in at the same time is also necessary.”
There’s another pile on the far end of Fake’s desk, next to a few thumbnails of his work. At the top is a set of archival ink pens. Underneath it is a voter information guide for the 2024 general election.