In Honor of America 250, Consider a Land Art Road Trip

As you may already be aware, US Vogue’s December 2025 cover featured Timothée Chalamet, photographed by Annie Leibovitz. But what may have evaded you is that, while Chalamet’s cover appeared to have been captured in the swirl of outer space, the real location of the image was Michael Heizer’s City, an appropriately out-of-this-world artwork hidden deep within the Nevada desert. Within the extraordinary images, Chalamet is shadowed by geometric forms, moving through a landscape seemingly suspended between ancient civilization and science fiction.

The irony at the heart of the shoot lies not just in the parallels between Dune and the design of Heizer’s work, but that, for most visitors, photography at City is prohibited. Leibovitz asked Heizer directly, and it was a mark of their friendship, I was told, that he agreed to allow the shoot to occur. Close relationships with the artist notwithstanding, one of the most talked-about artworks of our time (City took more than 50 years to complete and is breathtakingly vast) is also one of the most difficult to document. In an age when cultural experiences are measured by shareability, Heizer’s magnum opus insists on something unfashionably old-fashioned: seeing it for yourself.

Chalamet with 45°, 90°, 180° at City, 1970–2022, by Heizer, which is owned by Triple Aught Foundation, a Nevada nonprofit. Visits by reservation.

The American Southwest has a way of making scale feel slippery. The landscape seems to stretch indefinitely, the horizon appearing like a cartoon mirage at all times. It’s no surprise that the Land Art movement emerged here. Beginning in the late 1960s, artists abandoned galleries in favour of deserts, salt flats, mesas, and remote terrain, using these surroundings as both setting and material. Rather than making artworks to place in nature, artists such as Heizer, Robert Smithson, and his wife Nancy Holt made nature into the artwork itself.

To me, a road trip is still one of the most appealing ways of exploring the USA. Ever since Britney Spears’ acting debut in Crossroads captured my imagination as a pre-teen, taking in America by road—specifically as a passenger princess—has always been alluring. And, I would argue, the most satisfying way to understand American Land Art is not chronologically but geographically, on a route best accessed by car.

Though we landed in LA, our journey following the movement began in earnest in Las Vegas. Driving from California, we pulled over for such landmarks as The World’s Largest Thermometer, a souvenir store called Alien Fresh Jerky (incredible novelty UFO swag to be scored), and Ugo Rondinone’s primary colored 2016 artwork, Seven Magic Mountains. The latter is definitely not aligned with traditional understandings of the Land Art movement (works made from or complementing the earth around them); instead, it punctuates the landscape with a decidedly human presence, a playful intrusion in dayglo.

Ugo Rondinone’s Seven Magic Mountains.

From there, the route to finding real Earth Art unfolds through Nevada and Utah, before dipping into Arizona. Our first stop—after a largely losing night at Caesar’s Palace—was Heizer’s City. The monumental earthwork is as elusive as it is intriguing. Knowing how lucky we were to have the opportunity to experience it—visitors must book in advance, and numbers are tightly controlled, meaning only about 200 a year have the good fortune—we quickly forgot our Vegas loser’s lurgy. Walking the 1.5-mile-long artwork was a surreal, yet deeply grounding experience. The Triple Aught Foundation, who manage the piece, allots three full hours for exploration; for a five-month pregnant person, as I was then, it felt daunting. But the time was quickly filled—even without stopping to capture iPhone images.

City is made from clay, sand, and rock, all excavated from the innards of the site and reshaped. The intention is for native plants and wildlife to remain undisturbed in the sloping steeps. One feels exposed, out in the elements, seeking shade from shapes that appear like altars or overlooking winding paths that veer high and low. Out of the artwork, the wilderness is primitive; we spot a few hares, hear a coyote. Heizer’s ranch is nearby, down a dirt track, though it’s not currently open to visitors.

After City, and a long meal at a diner to discuss the piece and let the day sink in, we head east into southern Utah. Despite listening to playlists and podcasts, the landscape gradually becomes the main attraction. The scenery begins to resemble a film set: red rock formations emerge from the desert floor, sandstone cliffs glow pink at sunset. We watched Antonioni’s Zabriskie Point before the trip, set in California’s Death Valley. The cliffs we pass feel reminiscent of the setting of the famous dusty orgy scenes, but wilder, in deeper, richer, painterly reds.

Here, Land Art’s influence can be felt beyond the realm of art itself. Take Amangiri, the secluded resort near Canyon Point, Utah. Built around a towering sandstone escarpment that rises through the centre of the property, surrounded by a deliciously cold pool, the architecture was conceived in careful negotiation with the landscape. Driving into the estate down a dirt track, you’re met with concrete walls that frame the space with gallery-like precision, directing your eyes toward geological features rather than distracting from them.

The outdoor terrace of a tented room at Camp Sarika.

Borrowing from the principles of Land Art, Amangiri treats the landscape as the protagonist rather than a backdrop. While we were encouraged to make the most of the hikes, talks, and sprawling spa facilities on offer, the geological surroundings are the main character. The difference, of course, is that where Land Artists attempt to escape commercial strictures, Amangiri has transformed the same desert encounter into one of the most desirable luxury experiences possible. Sitting outside at dusk, toasting s’mores on a small griddle fire while overlooking the desert plains was the perfect American road trip punctuation (particularly after a long, hot steam and sauna). Even with a short stay at the property, you’ll understand why it’s one of the world’s most sought-after resorts.

The outdoor patio of the restaurant at Camp Sariak.

Not far from Amangiri is Heizer’s Double Negative. I first heard about this work when my friend Clara Zevi, an art consultant, posted pictures of herself camping under the stars on Facebook many years ago. She’d taken a similar Land Art road trip with a group of artists when we were 21, and I’d been jealous ever since. “When I went back to normal life, i.e. college, I wrote a paper on Michael Heizer,” she says. “I remember coming back to reality and feeling like I’d had a religious experience I didn’t fully know how to explain.” I know what she means. Double Negative is hard to describe. Fundamentally, it consists of two trenches, straddling each side of a canyon. The work is about what isn’t there, rather than what is. Seeing the scale of displaced rock got me thinking about aliens, and spirituality, and—forgive me for veering into the world of woo—ideas I generally try to scroll away from, like what it means to be human.

Moving swiftly on (and shaking off what must have been impending sunstroke), we got back into the car to head to one of the defining works of Land Art, Nancy Holt’s Sun Tunnels, located in Utah's Great Basin Desert. Completed in 1976, the work consists of four enormous concrete cylinders arranged to align with the sunrise and sunset during the solstices. For decades, Holt’s contribution was overshadowed by her male contemporaries. While Smithson and Heizer became synonymous with the movement, Holt produced one of its most sophisticated explorations of our relationship to landscape. “Sun Tunnels has to be one of the most successful immersive art experiences,” says Zevi. “It’s no frills. There’s no sophisticated lighting or sound installation, you’re just lying (or sitting or walking) in a concrete tube looking up at the sky and out to the desert.” Sometimes it’s seeing your surroundings through someone else’s lens that shapes your experience of a place.

The final destination on our whistlestop tour is, fittingly, Smithson’s 1970 work Spiral Jetty, on the northeastern shore of the Great Salt Lake. The 1500 feet-long sculpture, made of 6000 tons of black basalt rock and earth, juts out of the basin and is encrusted with white salt, having been altered over the years by the salty pink water that used to flow there. For anyone whose understanding of Utah has been shaped by The Real Housewives of Salt Lake City or The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives (a.k.a. me), arriving at the lake feels a little jarring. Maybe it was the buzz of the Dr Pepper-based Swig Dirty Soda I’d downed on the drive, but my thoughts whirled as we walked the coil. The lake that formerly covered the work was far out, glistening nearly out of sight, and the sand cracked beneath our feet. Such a beautiful sculpture, mimicking the swirls found in nature (the cosmos, shells, Fibonacci-following topiary) felt a far cry from the swirl of emotions prompted by my favorite TV shows. Unlike Heizer’s City, which is maintained daily, Spiral Jetty is a living artwork—a stark reminder of how all earth is also changing, before our very eyes.