Matt Beard

Late Arrival

There’s something about immersing myself in the places where I paint that is hard to describe. It’s not the art studio, it’s a wild world out there and it always has been. The past emerges and mingles with the present. Undercurrents of metaphor and meaning rise to the surface and sometimes I try to venture out of the shallows and get a little swept away when I go to jot down notes afterwards. This was one of those times… ⠀
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I might have been a late arrival⠀
But I’ve been here all this time⠀
I was here when the plates collided⠀
I passed the bread and wine⠀
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I was here when we emerged from weeds⠀
When the heavens gave us fire⠀
When our songs kept our mother awake⠀
When the rainbow held us higher⠀
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Vizcaíno saw me here way back in 1602⠀
He called me by my name⠀
The island of Bearded people it was⠀
And to this day remains⠀
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I saw them come and plant the grapes⠀
To sip the nectar from the vine⠀
Prohibition shut them down⠀
I watched it happen but the idea was never mine⠀
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The sheep were led to slaughter⠀
And silent so was I⠀
When the cotton gin reduced their worth⠀
To diamonds in the sky⠀
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I saw the pigs run feral⠀
Chased off by dogs who fell from the air⠀
The pigs are gone and the bacon fried⠀
You’d never know they were there⠀
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My name is Stanton now and so it was⠀
On the day on which I signed⠀
And gave the land unto the guards⠀
I was ill but I wasn’t blind⠀
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They will keep it from abomination⠀
A trampled barren place⠀
But I’m well aware they’d sell the air if they could⠀
As well as these lines upon my face⠀
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It’s for the good I’m sure they’d say⠀
They’ll save the earth with money⠀
Listen at the gate when I pass in the night⠀
I’m laughing but this isn’t funny⠀
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I did what I must and not without Caire⠀
How I longed for a better hand⠀
It was them and their lawyer’s greed⠀
Or else it was the land⠀
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I’m the homesick Italian that built the Chapel⠀
With bricks of my own red earth⠀
And I’m the one that’s buried there⠀
Whose death precedes his birth⠀
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At the altar I have heard⠀
The mighty man’s confession⠀
And to the courtyard I have marched⠀
In his funeral procession⠀
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I stood last night beneath the moon⠀
Where they’ve sold God for the highest bid⠀
I may have defied their lawyers decrees⠀
Breathing a graven image in the mist as I hid⠀
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From watching eyes I was not seen⠀
Except by the all-seeing lens⠀
To which I danced and jigged about⠀
As one does among their friends⠀
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Today I rise with a mist in my eyes⠀
Tired from last night’s dance⠀
I called out from among these ancient trees⠀
And I answered with a glance⠀
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And here I stood among the saplings⠀
When first their roots went down⠀
The mighty eucalyptus whose beauty invades⠀
Like a king in quest of a crown⠀
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The fox and the eagle and the vanishing trees⠀
The trees they love to rhyme⠀
The eagle loves the fattened calves⠀
But the foxes they are mine⠀
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I might have been a late arrival⠀
But I’ve been here all this time⠀
I was here when the plates collided⠀
I passed the bread and wine

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Left Behind

Plein air painting of a cactus and old buildings on the west side of Santa Cruz island off the coast of California

Beautiful memories, but some days are defined by regrets, just like the cactus in many ways is defined by its spines. ⠀
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To get here required a two hour drive across a private reserve to this far side of the island. I have to give a big shout of thanks to my friends at the California Coastal Commission who heard of my mission to paint the entire California coast and let me tag along on this tour where 25 of us were headed to the furthest point west on this island, about another 45 minutes out from this remote outpost.⠀
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When we stopped here for lunch, I decided to stay behind. This was my opportunity to paint, being that they’d be gone for about 3 hours, plenty of time for a paint session. Not quite enough time to scout views to my satisfaction though, so after a few false starts trying to find a way up the hill for a better view, I settled for this one of the little outbuilding and blooming cactus that I saw from the road on the way here. Only afterward did I see on a map just how close I was to the path I was looking for to get up the hill. That is my first regret.⠀
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Ouch.⠀
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My second has to do with the fact that behind this building, and nestled in behind these old cypress trees is one of the oldest buildings on the island, dating back to 1860. That would have been a neater thing to paint, but I just didn’t see a good angle to paint it from. That is my second regret.⠀
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Ouch.⠀
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My third regret is not seeing the furthest point on the island. This might have been the only opportunity I’ll ever have had to make it that far and see it with my own eyes. Forced to choose between a remote vista without painting, and a just-a-little-less remote vista with painting, it was an easy choice, but not without some pain. ⠀
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Ouch.⠀
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And then there was the cold beer that I accidentally left behind at the cabin that I really would have enjoyed after being left behind by the group to paint this old outpost that was left behind from the ranching era on an island that in many ways was left behind by time itself. That beer would have been amazing. One final regret.⠀
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Ouch. 

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Her Quiet Time

A Plein air painting of the central valley of Santa Cruz one of the Channel Islands off the coast of California

The Chumash people lived here first. The Earth Mother’s name was Hutash, and it was said that she planted a particular plant on this island, from which the people emerged fully grown. They were cold until they were given fire by lighting from that old Sky Snake, the Milky Way, the Earth Mother’s husband.⠀
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The people were fruitful and multiplied. Happily. But their songs and laughter kept Hutash up at night. At last she couldn’t bear the racket any longer and she decided to make a bridge out of a rainbow from the distant peak in this painting all the way to a high peak on the mainland. Off they marched. They were told to keep their eyes on the mainland, but some looked down and became dizzy. The fallen ones were mercifully turned into dolphins by Hutash to keep them from drowning.⠀
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The people continued to prosper on the mainland as well, but now they were no longer so crowded on this island and presumably the Earth Mother finally got some sleep.⠀
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She must have still been sleeping when the Spaniard’s and other European’s arrived, because things got really weird at that point. In a few short generations things grew even more quiet on this island. Disease took it’s toll. The sheep’s wool was rendered obsolete by the Slavemaster’s Friend, the Cotton Gin. The vineyards were thwarted by that Old Grump, the Prohibition.⠀
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A few brick buildings and rutted roads were built, but there is only area in the entire interior valley that sees regular human activity now, and even there it is generally quiet. Access is tightly controlled and looks like it will stay that way for awhile.⠀
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When the old Earth Mother finally awakes I hope the folks who now own most of this island are prompt in cooking her up a nice cup of coffee and explaining to her how they wandered back over that bridge and down into the valley from Devil’s peak. And speaking of her high and beautiful mountain, the island-side foundation of her rainbow bridge, just who named it “Devil’s Peak” anyhow? And where did the rest of her children go? And why aren’t there more songs and laughter? Without them, it seems, she may have overslept.

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Down Harbor Blvd, Just Past the Airport

Plein air painting of the the southern coast of Santa Cruz island in Channel Islands National Park of California

It’s like standing on holy ground. I can’t believe how fortunate I am to be here today. These thoughts are never far from my mind as I stand on the edge of this steep shore cliff and paint the scene before me after a rare opportunity to walk the interior valley of one of Southern California’s more untouched regions that is generally off limits to folks that aren’t scientists, or students, or movie stars, or rock stars, or just plain wealthy. Being that I am none of the above, I know full well that I may never see this place again with my own eyes. Who knows? It’s hard to say. ⠀
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This view was the glimpse of the coast and it’s chalky white cliffs at the end of a 4 mile hike down Harbor Boulevard, just a little ways past the airport where the road ends at one of the fringier edges of the North American continent. Out here, the freeways and concrete and 24-hour rush hours become a distant memory, like those of a dream long forgotten. The natural quiet is powerful, and holds up a brutally honest mirror for our noisy modern souls to reflect upon existence. It’s a beautiful place to paint, far beyond what I was able to convey, but I’m stoked to have taken a crack at it anyway even if this is the only shot I’ll ever get.⠀

Oh, and being greeted with cold beers and the smiles of friends offering a truck ride back to our accomodations where a hot meal awaited only added to the surreal experience. If every day in the life of an artist was like this one, no one would do anything else I reckon. Every path has it’s peaks and valleys though, and this would definitely be one of the higher points on my chosen route. 

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Balance of Powers

Live art of breaking waves and rugged coast

This was painted live at a benefit event for our local hospital’s Family Medicine Residency Program back in July. These live paintings usually auction at events for anywhere from a few hundred to a few thousand on the far upper end. Not that this means a whole lot in the big picture, but we were pretty stoked to witness this one sell at the auction for $11,500. That’s the highest price I’ve seen a painting of mine go for in Humboldt. We thought that was pretty cool.

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Rogue Showers

Plein air landscape painting overlooking Half Moon Bay and Maverick's in the distance on the San Mateo coast of California

Spent the morning sipping coffee with some new friends who ended up buying this one. It had rained overnight and even though the sun was out and bright, every time I thought to hike up into the hills for this view, another shower would come through and soak everything anew. ⠀
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But that was just fine.⠀
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I like coffee.⠀
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And I really like coffee out of an unfamiliar mug. It means new places, new people, new horizons…⠀
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And I especially really like coffee over the meandering conversations that happen after spending the night on a makeshift bed in the middle of an unfamiliar living room with borrowed blankets exactly like the ones we used in my grandparents home long ago.⠀
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Rotating the leaning mug in circles on its edge, nearly empty now, feeling the tile and grout through stone-cold ceramic vibrations over a pause in the conversation as another downpour passes through and signals that it’s time for yet one more warmup. Yes, please. Fill it to the rim, and where were we?⠀⠀
Discussing gardens and children and work and real estate and history and multiple versions of tomorrow- none of which look anything like today. ⠀
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Just one short year ago we could bounce down the road and in and out of each other’s lives, enriching, sharing, cross-pollinating ideas, enjoying our human experience in proximities that feel scandalous by these pandemic standards we find ourselves living now. ⠀
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It’s ok to miss those times and yearn for them again…⠀
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When the most pressing thing in the world was getting to know a generous stranger over another cup of coffee in their home while discussing mountain lions and poetry and the hopefully imminent end of these rogue showers.⠀
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As for this day, the showers lasted longer than they were forecasted. There finally came a good break and up the hill I went. But by the time I finished this one, drops were falling yet again and I had to pack it up quickly to avoid an unwanted soaking.

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There Goes the Neighborhood

A plein air painting of a neigborhood overlooking Half Moon Bay on the San Mateo coast of California

You never know where tomorrow will bring you, which is why these folks commissioned this deck-top view from their home awhile back- so they’d always have this painting, even if they didn’t always have this view.⠀
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But there was more to the neighborhood than the view of the western sky over their neighbors’ houses. There were their neighbors themselves. In small communities and house-lined streets everywhere, neighbors are what makes a neighborhood. Pot-lucks, backyard bonfires, the never-ending dog poop turf wars (if only dogs could read, I’d call them out by name right here and now… aaargh), and just generally being around when a neighbor needs a hand. It’s kind of like family, except without knowing about all of each other’s embarrassing childhood episodes. ⠀
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Anyway, not sure why I went on this ramble, just an aimless stroll around the neighborhood I guess.

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Jim Denevan’s Gift

Plein air painting of Jim Devevan creating landworks art at Cowell's Beach on the Santa Cruz coast of California

Jim Denevan is an artist on a whole different level. Mostly sea level. His medium is the beach. I mean that in a very littoral way. And no, that’s not a misspelling. I’ve been aware of his work for years, but haven’t had the opportunity to watch him at work in his studio until this day when our studios briefly collided in the heart of Santa Cruz . I was in town for a quick visit and looking to paint somewhere along this stretch of coast when I spotted him down there raking sand into perfect alternating spiral patterns (his were far more perfect than my rushed hand was able to convey on my canvas). The minute I saw him and the patterns he was making on the low tide sand I knew I had to paint this homage to a hero of an artist, whose work is enjoyed freely by all who come across it, and washes away daily with each incoming tide.⠀
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I first learned of Jim’s work through the lens of Patrick Trefz. Ever since meeting Patrick back in 2011, I’ve been a fan of his photography and cinema. When he participated in a surfboard art show I put together for SurfAid International in 2012, his entry with shaper Travis Reynolds was unlike any other. Hands-down best of show in my opinion- an eleven foot solid black single-fin log adorned with a singular black and white photograph laid under the glass of a dead bird, lifeless and flightless on the ground, floating on a sea of dead leaves. Maybe not for everyone, but for me, it resonates loud and clear. ⠀
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Anyway, I bring up the Patrick Trefz connection because I’m aware he recently made a full documentary about Jim’s life and work titled Outstand in the Field. I haven’t had a chance to see it yet, but I’m sure it’s worth a watch if you have the opportunity. ⠀
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Anyway, Jim’s presence on the beach when I was here to paint this day made for a super fun painting and is a reminder to me that even as an artist, life is better when enjoying other artist’s work. We all feed each other in one way or another.

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Tomorrow, Today

Live art of breaking waves in a colorful storm

Tomorrow, today, and to be honest, yesterday as well. This was painted a while back in 2019. Nothing too deep, just having fun with the painting and thinking of those moody stormy days when the sun breaks out and the rain is still falling and everything becomes crystals and prisms and beauty. ⠀
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But today, let’s call it a prayer for rain. If the fire paintings I had done back in spring as metaphors for the hardships the world was facing have become all too much like real life now in California and all over the west coast, maybe we can flip the script and send it back the other way. Maybe we can ask for actual rain to put these actual fires out. And maybe the metaphor can work backwards from there and we can see some of these metaphorical fires in our world today quenched as well.⠀
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Just maybe.⠀
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It’s worth a shot anyway.

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Mist and Light

Plein air painting of California poppies on the Big Sur coast of Central Califonria's Monterey County

When ones and zeroes
No longer add up
And the printing press
Runs out of flesh
And the headlines
Have nowhere to run

We’ll pick up the pieces
Build temples of song
Made of discarded words
Metal vowels and consonants
Foraged from fields
Like seed for migrating birds

And the truth that emerges
Will cut to the bone
Like mist
Like light
Like all that we are
And all that we’ve ever known

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A Window of Light

Plein air artwork the coast at El Capitan State Park on the Gaviota coast of Santa Barbara, California

I was supposed to drive a lot further up the coast on this day back in 2019. I didn’t get past this point though. After a few hours in the water, laughing as a handful of us rode these hypnotic little waves spinning down the point, I knew I was going to paint here as well. Made a whole day of it. ⠀

Passing showers were visible on and off in all directions as the sun took its turn occasionally sneaking between the clouds and showering the earth with light. ⠀
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Every once in awhile a window of light would fall in such a way that made everything seem timeless- as though the surfers and the park rangers and the tourists and the railroad barons, and the cattle ranchers, and the Spaniards, and the Chumash who lived in a small village right here were all seated silently, just out of sight from one another admiring the same beautiful scene.

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What Lies Behind

Plein air artwork of the coast at Little Dume on the Malibu coast of Los Angeles County, California

A friend I had just met earlier at an event in San Diego invited me for a rare visit to this exclusive piece of California’s coast. I absorbed it with all my senses as we surfed all morning and I painted all afternoon.⠀
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So what exactly does lie behind these locked gates? Here’s a few things that come to mind…⠀
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There’s bamboo and nasturtiums⠀
Shelter from the wind⠀
The rich and the famous⠀
And a few of their kin⠀
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They’ll question you silently⠀
Check who you’re with⠀
To be sure that you’re nobody⠀
So they know who to dismiss.⠀
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There’s a boathouse on stilts⠀
A pretty woman walking down the street⠀
Surfers walking back up the beach⠀
Blood still dripping from the soles of their feet⠀
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There’s yoga pants and selfies to shoot⠀
A slippery rock holds a sign full of laws⠀
Merely suggestions for the leashless dog⠀
That nearly got paint all over its paws⠀
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There’s fires burning on the higher hills⠀
Smoke blowing out of the canyon⠀
Heroes and children stand watch at the gate⠀
With garden hose, bucket… and shotgun⠀
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There’s black cars with blacker windows⠀
Caviar and music for the blind⠀
Leave your shoes at the door, my friend⠀
All this and more⠀
Is what lies behind

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No Harm, No Foul

Plein air painting of train tracks near Cotton's point on the San Clemente coast of Orange County in southern California

I was thinking this would be a simple little painting to start my day. It was in some ways. But it was also a bit nerve-wracking. Nestled between boulders I painted the morning away, and marveled at just how quiet the trains that run this line have become. I barely heard them coming. The stretched cotton canvas hummed in vibration as they passed by just a few steps away. I was safely out of the way where I stood, but it was startling every time one snuck up on me. At one point I was visited by a security guard for the ex-president’s compound just behind me. I thought I was getting kicked off the tracks, but apparently he didn’t care much what I did. He had a call that some idiot was standing on the train tracks down below (I wasn’t on them, just near them) and he had to respond to it. He made sure I knew it was stupid to be there, and I assured him that I was smart enough to know just how stupid it was, and with that he was off and back to his tea and scones or whatever ex-presidential security guys do when they’re not investigating idiots on the train tracks. No harm, no foul.

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Modern Lines

Plein air painting from under the Trestle at Upper's point on the San Clemente Coast of Southern California

I’ve walked over and beneath this railroad line many a time. I’ve jumped from the tracks to flee the train. I’ve marveled at the burnt beams and wondered that entire trains could be held up by charcoal and memory. Apparently others wondered too, and decided on that eternal Roman upgrade- smooth concrete. Impervious to the hobo’s fire. It’s not the same, but nothing is ever the same. The quiet train, now electric, glides overhead. You don’t even hear it coming, you only feel the ground shake and then it’s upon you. Be careful out there. Write your name on the asphalt with surf wax. Write your name on the concrete with paint. Try not get your name in the papers before your time.

*btw, I didn’t paint my name on the concrete in real life. I’m not that cool. Not even close. But it’s a fun way to sign a painting sometimes.

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Midday Flats

Plein air painting from the point at Lower Trestles looking toward San Onofre on the San Diego County coast of California

The beach wasn’t closed last May, it was a just a terrible run of surf and conditions that kept everyone away. I’d never seen this place so empty. It’s hard to believe this is one of the focal points of surfing in Southern California. But not this day. There was no one. Looking down the coast from here brings back a lot of good memories for me and after a long morning sipping coffee waiting for the last showers to wring themselves out, I’d wanted to come down and spend a whole day wandering and painting here, but the wind had come up and ripped the ocean ragged, making the chore difficult and the inspiration harder to come by. I’m not sure what it was that struck me about this little scene, but in spite of the flat midday light that sought to steal even the shadows out from under the rocks themselves, there was a simple elegance to it that caught my eye. Or that might have been a piece of windblown sand caught in my eye. Or maybe both.

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Inclement

Plein air artwork of the beach at San Clemente looking toward the Pier on the Orange county coast of southern california

For much of this trip I faced inclement weather, and eventually made peace with it by embracing the moody darkness it often brought to a scene, punctuated by the bursts of light whenever the clouds would break. Kind of experimental, and kind of a lot of fun. I had no intention of creating these darker pieces to match our dark times. But as I revisit them, there is something in them that speaks louder to me now than it did at the time. But in spite of the intensity, it’s not the ominous vibes that come through, it’s the hope contained in the light. No storm lasts forever. 

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End of the West

Plein air artwork of the pedestrian overpass at T Street on the Orange County coast of Southern California

It’s the end of the west
It’s the setting sun
It’s a train-wreck that’s only just begun

It’s a crowded bar
It’s the law of the land
It’s illicit activities obscured by hot sand

It’s a war at sea
It’s the first shots fired
It’s victory in sight, though not the one desired

It’s a shift in the wind
It’s an outgoing tide
It’s the last man standing as the captain died

It’s a history lesson
It’s the name of the street
It’s a blank stare from the strangers we will never meet

It’s childhood freedom
It’s only in jest
It’s just getting started but it’s the end of the west

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The Hectic Pace of Modern Life

Plein air painting of VW bus at Old Man's in San Onofre State park in San Diego County, California
Written on April 6, 2020

That title takes on a whole different flavor right now. At the time the world was buzzing away at top speed, except on a bad-surf day on the Southern California coast.

I had painted this scene a few days before (minus the VW), but I wasn’t happy with it, so I returned see a better sampling of local vehicular wildlife. Unfortunately on the day I returned it was so empty I had to wonder if I had missed a memo about a nuclear meltdown underway. But it was nothing like that, it was just a quiet Tuesday afternoon in May.

Everyone must have been busy keeping up with the hectic pace of their modern lives. Or maybe they just looked at the webcams streaming into their living room to tell them there was no waves, and just one van with a bearded dork sitting around on top of it scratching his head and drinking beer- sometimes at the same time even. No matter what the cause though, the effect was that there was no cars to paint at all. So I did the next best thing and painted my dad’s 76′ VW from memory.

I grew up in that van. I was one year old when he got it, and he’s kept it all these years in great condition. My wife and I drove from Long Beach, California to Long Beach, Canada and back in that van on our honeymoon. We lived in for nearly three months. I figured I could bluff a sloppy rendition of it just about as well as I could attempt to accurately paint something else if it had pulled into the lot. I took my time and enjoyed myself, reveling in the hectic pace of my modern life.

Also stoked about my van’s roof platform. Pretty fun to return to a very familiar scene but get to paint a bird’s eye view of it in plein air…

But now our modern lives ground to a halt.

I miss the old days, driving around the state’s coast, staying off the radar as much as possible, avoiding friends and family to focus on painting. What I wouldn’t give to roam freely and avoid you guys right now without this awkward distance being forced upon us. But what I miss more than avoiding you guys, is sharing beers and laughs with you when my avoidance tactics proved unsuccessful. I love you all. Stay safe!

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Oh No, Not Today

Plein air artwork of palm trees in the carpark at San Onofre State park in Southern California

Written on April 3, 2020

You might think this empty parking lot scene is a reflection of our current times, but the reality is that I had planned to spend a day here goofing off after a busy flurry of painting on the road last year. At the time I thought, “I’ll just head down there today for a few waves, maybe see some old friends, who knows?”

But oh no, not today. It was the worst day of surf I’ve ever seen here. And I’ve seen some bad ones and surfed em anyway. I could always paint, but even that was tough. My usual approach to this place is to paint the bustling parking lot full of cars and scattered surfboards. It’s a living piece of California surfing history here. But alas, not today.

And so I present to you here this iconic mecca of carpark surf culture, absolutely empty. 

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Winter in Summer

Plein air painting of Highway One near Carpenteria on the Santa Barbara coast of Southern California

A further experiment in letting the paint run and not developing every part of a painting equally. In this case the showers in the distance were rendered by the unpredictable drips and runs of thin paint washes, with a bit of occasional help from the rain itself. With the exception of the yellow bloom in the foreground, I didn’t want to focus at all on the ground where I stood, and chose instead to put all the attention on the succession of points receding into the distance. An iconic view for those who know this coast. But most know it as a sunnier place. I was here painting in late may, almost summer, but the weather was decidedly winter. What could I do but embrace it?

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A Hard Rain

Plein air painting looking toward the Terranea Resort on the Palos Verdes coast of Los Angeles county in Southern California
Written on March 17, 2020

With my annual spring road trip season hanging in the balance as we all hold our breaths, I’m reflecting back on my tour of Southern California last May. Throughout the trip I was met with less than stellar weather. At first it was frustrating, but later it was liberating as I realized the opportunity that was presented. Even the smallest break in a darkened sky can illuminate the earth and her waters in an unspeakably sublime display of contrasts. A full sun blue-bird day for all the splendor and clarity they offer can never reach these notes. These are the deep notes, reserved for more uncertain times. They resound with humid tension in the air. They urge us to take shelter. I chose to paint this day although it was a struggle against instincts. My van was dry and warm. The edge of this cliff in a brewing storm was not. At each passing drizzle I braced for the deluge and scramble to the van that would follow. But the deluge never came. The forecast called for a hard rain this day, and indeed it fell all over the region, but here in the midst of it, at least on this day, I stood on the edge and sang along, finding beauty in this ominous song. There is always beauty. I pray we’d all find it in our own way as we face the current forecast ahead of us.

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The Beautiful Mountain

Plein air artwork of Belmont Shores area of Long Beach looking toward the Palos Verdes Peninsula in LA county, California

After spending maybe too much time with the painting in my previous post, this was a reaction against that one’s slow and methodical recording of a very technical shoreline. I had to move fast with the setting sun as I tried to just focus on getting some sense of the crispness of color and light that saturated the scene for about 45 minutes.

The name of these shores translates to Beautiful Mountain. Every evening the sun sets behind that distant hill and on an evening like this it’s easy to see why the name was chosen.

As a steady stream of walkers, joggers, roller skaters and scooters buzzed on the path below, a similarly steady stream of characters passed on the path right behind me, some pushing shopping carts full of who-knows what, others pushing fancy baby strollers, and still others pushing nothing but wild ideas- all of them a reminder that this was indeed one of the more diverse and decidedly urban stretches of our coast that I had stopped to paint in recent memory.

A few conversations ensued as occasionally folks would stop to watch. One stands out in memory, a dread-locked fellow that walked past once, then again, then maybe once or twice more before stopping to chat. He’d seen better days, used to do some art himself before life happened to him. I have to say it was a relief to chat about art while painting with someone who didn’t want to know anything about whether the painting was for sale, how much, was this just a hobby, or a livelihood, what would I do for retirement, how could I be so dumb to pursue a risky life path like art, etc… Nope, none of that. He just enjoyed watching the colors move, reminisced about his past, simpler times, his mom, his grandma… but for now just enjoying the moment, watching a bearded painter at work in the sphere of his own world. I think we both left feeling a little better about humanity that day.

Life is hard, and getting a whole lot harder for a lot of us, but if we can slow down and really listen to one another I think we’ll always find that we’re all in this thing together. Life is a mountain we all must climb. And it is beautiful.

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Bird, As a Weapon

Plein air artwork of Belmont Shores in Long Beach on the Los Angeles county coast of Southern California
Written on March 26, 2020

This may look like social distancing in effect, but this was painted on a weekday last May. There were people, but they were moving and since plein air painting is in some ways like a hand-made photograph with a 3 hour exposure, the moving objects (people, cars, etc.) don’t always register.

I grew up near here. Technically in this city, though a few miles from this scene. It’s a very industrial coastline, and one I’ve mostly avoided throughout my adult life until this day. Folks come here from the hectic city to unwind on the beach, or eat at hip restaurants, or deal drugs, or mumble incoherent profanities at anyone within earshot. It’s decidedly urban, and at times urbane, at other times profane. It takes all kinds. Welcome to the beach.

I’d found this perch overlooking this beach bike/pedestrian path. Occasional walkers, joggers and bikers formed an infrequent stream of traffic on otherwise quiet day. But the real action came from the Birds. Not the ones in the air, but from the ones zipping along on this path, being ridden by folks of all feathers and stripes scooting from here to there. Those things were everywhere.

Right behind me, separated by a wall of plexiglass, were the well-to-do afficionados of a beach front craft brewery. I like beer. Standing in the humid sun, sweat beading down my face, lost in the minutae of industry in this painting. That thin plexiglass may as well have been a mile wide barrier of concrete and steel. I wish it had been. I tried not to look back at it, and all those cold beers being swished around. Mmmmm. Beers.

At one point there was a commotion on the nearby pier just out of frame and to the left. Cop cars came driving down the bike path. Dozens of them gathered from all directions. I still don’t know what happened out there. Later that day I saw a news report that a homeless woman was killed nearby, beaten by a scooter, quite possibly a Bird. We… people that is… we can be monsters.

I don’t have any moral to this story, it mostly just breaks my heart. But that is how the day went on this stretch of coast that I mostly only remember from childhood.

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The Deep South

Plein air painting from the border between California and Mexico looking toward San Diego skyline in southern California
Written on March 23, 2020

Looking north from about as far south as you can go on the California coast. The showers that threatened and taunted all morning finally passed, the sun burned the darkened watery grays right off the earth, evaporating in a humid mist rising, an all-hands invite to the impending mosquito feast. Had to paint fast because we were all hungry- me for a sandwich, them for my blood. The showers would move through the city in the distance and even the warm concrete there would be dry again soon, cleaner than before, but still teaming with all the distractions ever designed to suck our blood on a sunny afternoon in paradise.

This was from a year ago… but it’s still true today. These dark times will pass… What comes next is anybody’s guess. I do hope there’ll be less mosquitoes out trying drain us dry though.

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