
Depth Perception VI

This was a lot of fun to paint, and waaaay out of my comfort zone. If you know my work, you know what I mean. I’m a lot more comfortable painting rocks and trees inaccurately than I am doing the same injustices to the human form, but there they were, pouring themselves into their music for us only a few feet away. What could I do? I did my best. And this is where it landed.
It’s especially meaningful to me as I’ve painted at live events while dozens, possibly hundreds of musicians have played nearby, but never a group of musicians I’ve known as long as these guys. Usually I just paint whatever I feel like, flowing water, waves, etc, but today I felt like painting these guys while they did their thing. Our friendships go back over 25 years, long before, they played music together, before they formed Huckleberry Flint and proceeded to sell out shows. Long before two of them got the wild idea to figure out how to make chocolate from scratch and winning awards and selling chocolate all over the world as Dick Taylor Craft Chocolates. They even hired my oldest daughter and now she always smells like chocolate, and if we shake her hard enough, little bits of chocolate fall out of the hems in her shirt, and we laugh and make cookies. So yeah, this wasn’t just a painting of a band, this painting is a snapshot in time of friendships that have been forged over a lifetime.
Will this be your first?
That was my stupid question for them
I’m not very good at this
They were really quite beautiful together
A perfect couple
Watching the sunset
Clearly expecting
A green flash
I’d just finished this painting
And drinking 3 beers
That’s not the usual
During the course of a painting
But friends had joined me today
And it sometimes goes that way
Words of wisdom
Spoken by an old friend:
“Nothing is better than a two beer buzz”
Truth
It doesn’t get better
Only more difficult
To ask the right questions
This child would not be their first
Or their second
Or third
I don’t remember now
But it was maybe their ninth
Or thirteenth
Something that would make you wonder
If they were much, much older than they looked
So I asked if it was true
That it got easier after the third child
(You can’t ask that of too many folks these days)
They said absolutely
3 is the hardest
After that it gets easier and easier
As they start to raise each other
That’s how they could leave the other 8 or 12 behind
And relax into the sunset here tonight
The team was on top of it at home
Building themselves some dang quesadillas
I’d only had three kids
The most challenging number
Now verified
My folks had three
And I was the last of them
Same for my wife
And I can confirm
That we are two of the most difficult people
You’ll ever meet
Aside from my mom
Who was the first of two
And was also the pinnacle
Of difficulty
She recently walked off into the sunset
I said my goodbyes
Through salty tears
She told me to get off her cloud
So with my feet planted back on the ground
On the edge of this cliff
With the mother and father
Of a small nation beside me
And a setting sun before me
I don’t remember
If there was a green flash
But I knew
I had three kids at home
And three beers on the cliff
And that was enough for me
We met when we were older, when we had more swagger, and we stood a little closer to the throne.
But we had a falling out between us, we’re artists, and we’re awkward, this is widely known.
The fault was all mine, that’s what I’ve been told, but it could have been yours and yours alone.
Years went past, we lost too much, loved ones, and our youth, a wife, and a home.
There’s no point blaming each other now, we’re brothers, and anyway, our conflict was overblown.
So today we stand here side by side and harvest the morning colors from the intertidal zone.
This was the shore that shaped your soul, the same but different to the one that shaped my own.
So at noon oh two and not a minute later we’ll drink down our beers and let our differences sink like a stone.
I could go on about it but the next beer’s getting warm and we’re near the end of this poem.
By night we’re half-drunk on the edge of a cliff, what the hell and how far can our troubles be thrown.
So I’ll leave it at this, you clear-eyed disaster and paint flinging bastard, my respect for you it has grown.
It’s not a secret at all, it’s friendship, it’s clear, like gin in a jar, so drink deep and don’t go it alone.
*Dedicated to my buddy Spencer Reynolds, who showed me this spot and brought the beers.
Chains of oppression
Forged of human weakness
Masquerade as strength
Behind machines
With a thousand different ways
To spill blood
A chain of command
Sends a child
To destroy a town
That could have been his own
And it may just break that child
Or may by him be broken
He stands beside the caravan
Shaking beneath the weight
Of what he’s about to do
To the city that rises
Like flames
Beyond the rolling hills
He’s been told they have strayed
Lost their way
And need this show of power
To be brought back to the fold
United again
He believes
In better days ahead
But his body is weak
From hunger
And he remembers his home
His grandmother
Strength masquerading as weakness
Her kitchen full of the aroma
Of fresh baked bread
And her frail arms
That could hold the whole world
Or just him
And him alone
Above her table hung an embroidery
“Give us this day our daily bread”
That would bounce crooked on its nail
Every time he ran out the backdoor
And down the wood steps
Into the rolling hills
Beyond
Standing on this hill now
He’s suddenly struck
Not by bullets
But by the memory
Of his grandmother’s voice
Speaking softly over him
Of the Shepherd that leaves
The flock to save one lost sheep
And in one final act
Of holy defiance
He drains the fuel reserves
And watches the river
Spill its bloody rainbow
Into the roadside ditch
Before he looks to the sky
Lays down his rifle
And walks slowly
Into the rolling hills
Beyond
Where he waits
For their bullets
To carry him home
The chain of command
Has broken this child
But for him
And him alone
The chains that once bound him
Have been broken forever
In that roadside ditch
Where they lie
—
Sure, this was inspired by reports of young Russian soldiers abandoning their posts in Ukraine, but it could also be about any soldier finding themselves caught between obeying orders and taking innocent lives. Or any of us caught in that awful space between what is expected and what is right.
When I came across this painting by Konstantin Korovin, a Russian Impressionist from the late 1800’s, it struck me as a beautiful reminder that even though war is inevitable, we all look up at the same sky and ultimately only war against ourselves.
Let mercy be the rule.
We talk a lot these days
About the Endings
Put your boots on
When you enter the kitchen
And step carefully
Through broken china
Sometimes the Ending
Is only a burnt tortilla
With the face
Of Jesus
But mostly
We talk of the Endings
In low tones
Fearing the unknown
We speak of lives lost
And suffering to come
As if these things
Aren’t just variations
In the rhythm
And the beat
Goes on
Maybe we can only know
Some tragedies
Of the Endings
After they’re over
Through songs left unsung
And artwork left unfinished
And books left unwritten
The collective works
Of broken souls
In burned out mobile homes
That would have let the rest of us know
That we aren’t alone
And that we’ll always have a home
To go back to
Damn it
The world cannot end today
We’ve still got work to do
And as much as we talk
About the Endings
We never really know
Where or when
We will see
God’s face
Again
When two bodies collide
There will always be
A fault line to find
In you or in me
But not now
For today we are lovers
Folded one around the other
Cliffs and chasms
Metamorphic
And sedimentary flesh
Thrust like beating hearts
Love is a precipice
We stand on the edge
And as we spill over
We fall into the wind
And rise like mountains
On the updraft
And from these higher heavens
We wonder at all the gems
Glowing like children
Pouring out from the earth
Below
Time is a water-wheel
And we’ve gone around the bend
Water spills out
And down the creek
To the oceans to the clouds
And back for another spin
Looks like we’ve got a whole new chance
To do it all over
Again
Our last turn was dripping
Into an empty room
Full of whole new ways
To put each other down
Busted neon
And a broken tune
Perfection left the practice
All in a ruin
Yet water takes the form
Of the vessels that hold it
The river is the shape of the valley
And the poem is the shape
Of the thoughts in the mind
Of the one who thunk it and told it
So we’ve got another year ahead
To take this water
And mold it
Let’s think some higher thoughts
Of garden plots
And fresh laid eggs
Or just getting along and getting by
With our feet in the dirt
And the only division
Is the line between earth and sky
Let’s hold this year’s water
In better jugs
And nicer buckets
Or even that fancy pitcher
That your grandma left to you
Yep, that one
The one that’s hard to reach
The one up in the back of the highest cabinet
The one that’s shaped like a chicken
And makes you laugh every time
It may not work at all
But it might be
Worth a try
You never really know
Who they bring along
What ghosts are riding shotgun
Talking
And drowning out the song
But everybody here
Knows that ghosts can’t swim
Cold water to them is searing heat
And anyway
They can’t even stand
A bit of sand on their feet
The ghosts just stay in the cars
Angry at the stars
And their children here below
Made of countless planets
That stick between their toes
So in the cars they wait
Grumpy
Listening to AM radio
While the real people
Laugh and play
Real smiles on real faces
Beneath a bluer sky
Better times
And better places
So linger a bit if you will
Lend that wax to the stranger
Crack those jokes
And hide those beers from the ranger
Take it easy
And take it slow
And don’t be in such a hurry to go
Because it’s never really known
Just who’s waiting for your friends
On their lonely ride home