Matt Beard

Better Times

Plein Air painting of Little River at Moonstone Beach on Humboldt County's Trinidad coast of Northern California

Even though the title says Better Times, it’s not a commentary on that time, this time, or any other time we all collectively think of. It’s a quote from the friend who commissioned this painting who had some of his greatest memories here, followed by some incredibly difficult and tragic years. It’s deeply personal and I’ll leave it at that. I only mention it because I thought it was a beautiful thing to have this meaningful place painted for him to remind him of the good times, and that if there were good times back there, then no matter how hard things get in the present circumstances, better times can always come again.

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Two For One

Plein air painting of Dipsea Garens overlooking Stinson beach and Bolinas Lagoon on the Marin coast of Northern California

I was here to paint the view for a couple who were married here. I painted a quick one the night before and seeing how crowded it was here on the covid coast of California, I was very thankful to have permission to park and camp behind this private property’s gate. It’s hectic out there, but it’s as easy as ever on this side. Or so I thought.

It was a long night in the van. When you’re at home and your usual good health takes a wrong turn you can hide out for days at a time under your pillow. You can call a friend for help. You can stand under a hot shower for as long as it takes.

But when things go south on the road, alone in an unfamiliar place, and you’re up all night, sweating ice, and sitting upright in the front passenger seat to keep the sour mess of your soul from creeping up your esophogus, well, at those times you just have to struggle through it. Make the best. Wrap that awkward bag around you and a towel around your neck to keep your head up and hope for a bit of sleep.

It’s kinda like marriage in its own way. Occasionally there’s a long dark night, and if you’re a dense thud of a husband like me, often you just have to struggle along. Work it out with her however you can because just like on a rough night in a van, you are all you’ve got. And in the worst of times you’ll find you yourself aren’t very much at all. But when morning comes and the sun is bright in your eyes through the frosted glass windshield, that’s when you find you never needed to be all that much anyway, you just needed to be there. Going nowhere. Not getting out and looking for somewhere else to go in the cold dark night. Not driving away in a spit of rubber and gravel. Just being there, and being your whole messed-up self in the van, hoping for a better day ahead.

I know I’m kinda off the rails on this sloppy metaphor, but what can I say? I got up, felt okay, cooked up a few cups of coffee and powered through this morning painting of this sanctuary by the sea.

Two trains of thought, one conclusion.

This one is a Two for One.

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Wreathed in Gold

Plein air painting of Stinson Beach and Bolinas Lagoon on the Marin coast of northern California

May. 2020. Arriving late in the day. The winding road to the coast dipped at turns and barreled straight through the blinding sun around each bend- a supercharged conduit for heavy traffic heading both ways in a rush toward whatever version of “stay-at-home” they were playing today.
A motorcyclist behind my van wasn’t having it. He made his move and flew past me and the little hatchback in front of me. I wondered what he was in such a rush for. I wondered what everyone else was so eager for as well. I knew I was hoping to reach the coast with enough time to get a painting done before ending this long drive of a day. I figured if I had my reason, everyone else had theirs too, I just wished they’d be a little less crazy about it on this dangerous road at this dangerous hour of the day.Not even two bends of the road later I had to brake hard to avoid slamming into the hatchback, now at a dead stop in the road. Bits of broken plastic and glass, a twisted strip of metal, and an empty helmet laying on the shoulder told me what I didn’t want to know. As the scene came into focus I saw him up on his feet, trying to shake it off. He looked like he’d be fine, unlike his bike, or his plans for the day. Some quick thinking motorists were already out of their cars, waiving me by, directing the traffic that was already backed up as far as the eye could see behind us.I would paint today, just happy to be alive.I was on my way home from southern California helping my family take care of my dad after some very close calls with his health, and was finally heading home, just stopping here mid-way to paint a piece for a couple that was married on the grounds of this property overlooking this arc of beach, now wreathed in gold in the setting sun.I’d finish this painting, and drink beers, and sing old Neil Young songs to myself while cooking up a roadside pot of ground beef and beans and get myself feeling sick as a dog in a rolling kennel before the night was over, living like a king, with a different sort of crown, made entirely of Still-Not-Dead-Yet.Life is good.

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Trial By Fire V

Painting of a campfire on the beach at night beneath a sliver of a moon

This wasn’t my first time painting live with Luca. Last September I found myself at a beach party in Italy where Luca was playing. (And that’s a whole other story for another time, but for anyone that knows me, you know it takes a minor miracle to get me away from the California coast… ) Anyway, Italian artist Vincenzo Ganadu was at this raging beach party and was kind enough to share a canvas with me and we went to town in a frantic stoke-fueled collaboration while Luca and his band belted out tunes. Neither of us spoke much of the other’s language, but thankfully art and music is a universal language. The Italian surf community welcomed me into their world with open arms. It was clear that as a culture they held a deep appreciation of art and beauty and life. ⠀
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I was inspired to dig a little deeper into some Italian inspiration before painting this one with Luca and I was drawn to the Canticle of the Sun, a poem by St. Francis of Assisi, where he speaks of the sun and the wind and fire as brothers, the moon and the water as sisters. It is a beautiful piece of praise to God that invites us to a deeper connection with the natural world that shapes and sustains us. The idea of fire itself as a brother was intriguing to me- as catastrophic as it is when it devours all in its path, fire is also an essential part of our humanity. It protects us from the cold. It transforms raw ingredients into satisfying meals. It powers the forges that shapes our tools with which we build the world. It illuminates the darkest night. Without it we’d be cold and hungry, stumbling in the dark. ⠀
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These were my thoughts back in May, hoping to find some beauty in the hardships we all are facing. Back then, though, California was not on fire. Now we’re still locked down with the pandemic and choking in smoke and people we know are losing homes, livelihoods and some of them even their lives. This is a terrible time to live through. I started these fire paintings as a metaphorical series, but with actual fires raging now… I think I might go paint some rain instead.

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Trial By Fire IV

Painting of a garibaldi fish

Back in the early days of this global pandemic thing we’re all still slogging through, we saw the virus take hold in Italy. That was a wake-up call. ⠀
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I had just had the chance to visit Italy back in September (which is no minor feat as anyone who has ever tried to get me to leave California’s coast will attest). It was a great trip, with a great story that will be shared in its own time. We met some of the friendliest and surf-stokedliest people I’ve ever met in my life. Even got a bit of windswell one morning and rode a few waves on an airmat, in the Mediterranean beneath the shadow of Ancient Rome herself. Holy moly. Good times.⠀
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So when we saw their country slowly descend into complete lockdown, shutting down all public spaces, my heart went out to all of Italy. When I started doing some experimental live art/live music/live stream collaborations back in April, I knew I’d want to reach out to some friends over there and make it happen. Why not? The virtual door was now open to collaborate across the planet.⠀
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It was an honor to team up with Paolo, who had been out of work as a musician since the pandemic started. He played his heart out one evening from his living room in Italy while I painted the morning away alongside him from my studio here in California. ⠀
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Okay, but why the Garibaldi?⠀
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I wanted to honor Italy with the Garibaldi. Yes it’s California’s state fish, but it was named after the red/orange vests worn by the followers of Giuseppe Garibaldi, the father of modern day Italy’s unification and independence.⠀
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So there you go. Californitalia.

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Trial By Fire

Painting of a wildfire burning a forest and causing a tree to release it's seeds

As we watch the world burn around us, many of us are waking to the reality that we are truly non-essential. As artists, we’ve always known this. You can’t eat paintings. We’ll continue to forge ahead on the fringes while everyone else sorts out the falling chips. Some of us won’t make it. We chose to carve our own paths in life away from the safety of “real jobs” so we’ll get what we deserve in the end. I can accept this. But buried within our need for survival, our need to sell art, there is a pressure to take our art and provide what many people want right now. Diversion. Escape. Idyllic scenes of better worlds and better times.

I don’t think anything sums up my feeling about this better than this passage from the book of Psalms:

By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down and wept, when we remembered Zion.
Upon the willows in the midst of it we hung our harps.
For there our captors demanded of us songs, and our tormentors mirth, saying,
“Sing us one of the songs of Zion.”
But how can we sing the Lord’s song in a foreign land?

There will be a time and place to paint better times and better places, but my heart is not there right now- too many people are hurting too deeply, and my own heart is too heavy. So for the moment, I have chosen instead to paint our world on fire. To meet the flames face to face. To accept them. To find beauty even in this tragedy. Without a forest fire, there can be no forest- the mighty sequoia needs fire to release its seeds and clear the ground for its young. Those three seeds in this painting might be my own three children preparing to take root in a world changed forever.

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This Will Never Shut Down

A plein air painting of Luffenholtz beach from Scenic Drive on Humboldt County's Trinidad coast in northern California

Painted during the first week or so of lockdowns back in March of 2020. Businesses were shutting down. The roads were growing quiet. The air was crowded with questions, but the land and sea had answers of their own. Some things will never be shut down. You can shut your eyes, but you can’t stop the world around you. And the waves keep rolling in, and the flowers keep blooming, and the birds keep flying, and we know deep down that we won’t be confined to these bodies forever.

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Precipice

Plein air painting overlooking Patrick's Point State Park and Agate Beach on the Humboldt coast of northern California

My sister loved this beach⠀
With it’s small rocks worn smooth ⠀
Tumbled in their own strange victory⠀
A full spectrum of color⠀
Joseph’s coat made of earth⠀
No wonder his brothers sold him⠀
Jealousy runs deep in the quest for treasure⠀
What good are these precious stones anyway?⠀
Were they not made to be coveted by thy neighbor?⠀
And yet my sister envied nobody⠀
She saw treasure in the ordinary stones⠀
The ones that are left behind⠀
We didn’t know at the time⠀
She was about to leave us behind⠀
To live our ordinary lives⠀
On the edge of this precipice⠀
It’s a long way down⠀
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When the heavens rage⠀
On the deeper waters⠀
Far beyond the horizon⠀
Venting frustrations⠀
About her people on the shore⠀
And their love of treasure⠀
And their spite for truth⠀
The release of her fury⠀
Sends pulses across the sea⠀
Until the Outburst from above ⠀
Meets the Unmoved here below⠀
Determined to pound rock against rock⠀
To chip away at the rough edges⠀
On a single stone⠀
Swirling in the undercurrent⠀
Because heaven knows⠀
That from the edge of her precipice⠀
It’s a long way down⠀
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And the stones of earth⠀
Were gathered together⠀
On that day when the two became one⠀
And the winds howled and shrieked⠀
Right into the watery womb⠀
A first breath breathed⠀
And sight was received⠀
By the stones that till now⠀
Had only swirled beneath⠀
Full of rough edges⠀
And yet soon to get smashed⠀
And made smooth again⠀
Even now digging in⠀
Scratching into the storm⠀
The earth against the water⠀
In a race toward the shore⠀
Stones lurching upward and looking down⠀
From this watery precipice⠀
And it’s a long way down⠀
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March of twenty-twenty⠀
A sickness is spreading ⠀
Turning our lungs back into stones⠀
We’ve shut the world down⠀
We’ll put it back together later⠀
But nature never falls apart⠀
She lives on her own terms⠀
And she is always open⠀
So here I stand⠀
Painting this beach⠀
That my sister once loved⠀
And all those smooth stones below⠀
Colors blending into one shade of gray⠀
You can see it all from here⠀
Everything that’s coming⠀
And everyone that’s going⠀
I watch my step⠀
On the edge of this precipice⠀
It’s a long way down⠀

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Everyone is Listening

Plein air landscape painting of California poppies at Lopez point over Monterey's Big Sur Coast of Central California

My final painting of this trip. I recently read about the family that home-steaded this place back in the 1800’s and installed a phone line to King City in 1910. One of the kids that grew up here recalled that you could tell who was calling because everyone had a different ring. And when a call was made, all the phones up and down the line rang and everyone answered. Once it was settled who the caller wanted to speak to, the others would go quiet, but still listen in, offering occasional corrections if something didn’t sound right. His aunt Lulu was particularly adept at this art. Awkward and funny, yet understandable. This is a quiet coast. The ocean may roar, but in the spaces between the outposts, the noise of the outside world fades into flowers. I didn’t speak to a single person while painting this one, the only people I saw were in cars moving so fast that we may as well have been in different dimensions. The air was lonely and the light was beautiful. So I just talked to myself on top of the van while painting… and aunt Lulu never had to correct me even once.

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The Dark Watchers

Plein air landscape painting of a dark day at Sand Dollar Beach near Plaskett Creek on Monterey's Big Sur coast of California

Through thickets of poison to a cliff in the wind beneath dark skies, they followed. Not with their bodies, just with their eyes. They call them Dark Watchers, and stories of them in these hills go back generations. If you see them and try to approach one, they vanish into the landscape. I wish I could do that sometimes too, just stand and watch and observe the landscape as I paint it, and as soon as someone sees me and wants to come chat and get-all-up-in-my-business-wanting-to-know-if-I-make-a-living-doing-this-stuff-as-if-that-somehow-has-any-bearing-on their-ability-to-appreciate-what-I-am-doing-right-there-before-their-eyes, then poof, I vanish back into the earth from whence I came. That would be beautiful. When I grow up I want to be a Dark Watcher. And just maybe I will.

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Information Superhighway

A plein air painting of a row of mailboxes beside Highway One along Monterey's Big Sur coast of Central California

I don’t know why, but the thought of a credit card bill, or bank statement, or some foreboding notice from the IRS sitting in one of these little metal boxes getting absolutely gob-hammered by winter storms just seems so absurd and yet so right- as if nature herself was seeking revenge on the entire economic system that invented things like tourists and plastic bottles and junk mail. Just another roadside scene of daily life on the information superhighway.

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Bobcats Don’t Have Tails

A plein air painting of a wildcat on a ridge overlooking Andrew Molera State Park and Point Sur on the central coast of California

For this one, I wanted to return to the scene of the first painting, I felt there was something more to see without trying to get the entire scene all the way to that white mountain. And I was right. As soon as I stopped to set up the easel, I looked back on the path I’d just walked up and about 20 yards back there was a wild cat on the path. Not a big one. I knew they saw a lot of bobcats here, so without thinking I assumed that’s what it was. And of course I had to paint it so I watched it closely; thick paws, big head, and a big fat tail. Not very big, but big enough that I was relieved when it showed no interest in me. Recorded as remembered. Then came the puzzle in hindsight… bobcats don’t have tails. At least not usually. Was it a small mountain lion? Did I just make it up in my head? It wasn’t solved until my host explained they often have bobcats come up to their house and one in particular always seemed interested in their cat, not threatening, just curious through the glass. When their cat grew ill and passed away recently this bobcat was there sitting beside the glass, a calm presence. My hosts puzzled over this bobcat too, because it had… wait for it… an unusually long tail. Feline vindication. Feels pretty good. Thought my eyes and mind had failed me for a minute there.

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This Side of the Cactus

A plein air landscape painting of cactus overlooking Pfeiffer Beach on Monterey's Big Sur coast of Central California

A lonely cypress stands on this ridge, holding on for dear life through every storm and gale it’s seen, and it’s seen a lot of them. It’s getting a good whipping from the north wind right now as I paint this, its roots holding firm and its muscular bows holding back the wind for myself and this happy little cactus patch looking down on one of the most beautiful beaches in all of California. One of the most photographed beaches in all the world, but you wouldn’t know it from here. Nobody goes here. It’s off limits. Private. One jogger wandered up the path while I stood here with my host, and she sent him right back down the hill, thwarting his plan to jog the ridge over to the next state park. Big Sur is a territorial place. Always has been. There’s a lot of it that I’d love to see one day, but find myself on the wrong side of the cactus. On this day though, it was enough to just be out of the wind on this side of the tree, and on this side of the cactus for a change.

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She Called Off the Dogs

A plein air landscape painting looking down on Pfeiffer Beach on Monterey's Big Sur coast of Central California

I only had to walk about a mile and a half down a steep and private dirt road to get to this vantage point of a beach everyone knows, but few have seen from this angle. About half way down, I was greeted by friendly dogs doing their best to act really unfriendly to strangers with funny backpacks walking down their roads. Good dogs. There was a clear point in the road that they did not want me to pass. Step over the line, bark and growl, step back, quiet, repeat as desired. Contemplating the options and the steep hike back up the road, I’d have to just risk it. Right about when I’d worked up the nerve to step over their line and keep walking I heard a voice from behind the fence down the road. She Called Off the Dogs.

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Mountain of Mien Mo

A plein air painting overlooking Andrew Molera and Point Sur with Pico Blanco in the distance on the Big Sur coast of California

Titled after Kerouac’s name for this mountain, a looming white peak visible from the canyon beneath the bridge where Kerouac stayed and wrote his novel, and also visible from this ridge a good distance down the coast. This peak is full of stories. Creation stories. Secret caves stories. Lost civilization stories. Mysterious dark figure stories. Get rich quick stories. Get rich slow stories. Lose everything stories. Find everything stories. Everyone has their own mountain to climb or else cower in fear beneath it. Onward. All of us! Onward.

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22 Miles to Go

Plein air painting of Asilomar beach from Spanish Bay near Pacific Grove on the Monterey County coast of California

A bright morning and a fine start to the last road trip I took before everything got put on hold in 2020. In spite of how the title makes it sound, I certainly did not have another 22 miles to go neither by car nor on foot. It was a short walk from the road and back to paint this one and I was heading another 50 miles or so to Big Sur after this. The 22 mile reference has to do with the distance across the bay to the far-off blue ridge of land in the background, and the collector I painted this for who often paddles that 22 mile crossing for fun. That blows my mind. I get winded just paddling out to a lineup on a chest high day. I guess I will always have another 22 miles to go.

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The End of Love

A plein air landscape painting of Lover's Point near Pacific Grove on the Monterey County coast of California

We knew things were about to get interesting, news of the pandemic was just ramping up in February. And here I was in Tourist Central, painting one of Monterey’s iconic focal points. We were not social distancing. We were in each other’s faces, breathing each other’s breath, like lovers but still strangers from all different parts of the world. The sun was setting and things were about to change. The Distance was about to come to us all – that new cold distance where fear would become an illegitimate surrogate for love.

But I wasn’t thinking about any of that yet, I was headed for Big Sur the day after I painted this, and I was stoked.

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For Those with Ears to Hear

Aerial view artwork of San Simeon point and cove and Hearst Castle on the San Luis Obispo coast of California

This piece gets personal for me. It’s a prominent headland on a stretch of California’s coast that always reminds me of my grandparents who moved somewhere behind those mountains on the right when I was about 10 years old. We’d go visit them occasionally, always bummed that they didn’t have a TV or “anything to do”. We always thought it would be so boring. Looking back, those times with my brother, sister, and cousins where some of the best times I can remember from my childhood. I don’t remember actually being bored even once, we spent the whole time outside exploring, playing, fighting, dodging trouble the best we could. Real life. Our lives. When my grandpa passed away I was about 16 years old. To this day when I think of him (and my grandmother as well) I think of the wisdom of their generation and how once a generation passes, their particular wisdom passes along with them. Some of it is passed down to the next generation of course, but some is sadly gone forever. When I encounter whales in the ocean I have a similar feeling about them- that they have a particular wisdom- one that is beyond our understanding, but also one that could sadly pass from existence one day, should the last of the whales spout its final breath. This particular headland was once a prime spot for hunting whales, so I included one in the painting beneath those mountains on the right, an homage to the wisdom of my grandfather who breathed his last breath in his sleep just beyond that hill nearly 30 years ago. We love you, grandpa.

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The Blessing of the Fleet

Plein air artwork of Trinidad Harbor on the Humboldt Coast of Northern California

Who of us isn’t a ship about to leave harbor? 
When the anchor is pulled 
We’ll sail into a new tomorrow 
As dark and unknowable 
As the deep 
 
Who of us isn’t a ship on the ocean? 
Lines cast and waiting 
To bring in a harvest 
To feed the world 
Maybe today 
 
Who of us isn’t a ship out to sea? 
Sinkable 
Vulnerable 
Driving against the storm 
Or being driven further from shore 
 
Who of us isn’t out there? 
No land in sight 
Bound to consequences 
Of our own decisions 
While provisions run low 
 
The sailors in the street 
And every pirate that you meet 
Every one and all alike 
Need the blessing of the fleet 

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An Invitation

Plein air painting of the beach at Houda Point looking out to Camel Rock on the Humboldt Coast of Northern California

I read the invitation on the last falling leaves of our apple tree.
Fall days like this are the best.“Come as you are” is all it said.So we went.Barefoot and happy.Soon enough I found myself standing on the wet sand while painting this one as this shaded creek flowed out to sea around and beneath my feet, pulling no small part of my life-force from my frozen soles and out to sea with it.Next time I get invited to this party, I’m gonna bring boots.Just in case.

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Rise and Shine

Plein air painting of Humboldt County's rocky Trinidad coast in Northern California

Painted this one on location close to home on a November morning back in 2019. It was one of those days we don’t get very often here, perfect conditions, no wind, crystal clear… just not quite clear enough to see what was about to go down in a few short months.

When I look at my paintings from these days it’s like remembering a different version of myself, stirring a strange nostalgia for simpler troubles before the world turned upside down with disruption.

But the truth is that on this clear morning here in 2021 the light still fills the air around us.

Time to get moving.

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