Still Life with Three Donuts
Stairing Out to Sea
Dielectric Union
Morning to Remember
Walking a Fine Line
My work takes me to remote locations way off the beaten paths, other times it sends me right into the most crowded shoulder to shoulder tourist zones you can find. The further out you go, the less rules there are telling you where you can and cannot go. For the protection of the habitat, for your own protection, for the protection of the sign-maker’s job- there’s always someone or something to protect the closer you get to town. I joke, but I do understand. We humans are indeed part of the natural landscape, but we are also a powerful force when we congregate in masse, and will often unwittingly destroy the beauty that first drew us to a place.
It had been too long since I’d visited this particular state park, and I thought I’d be spending this day painting in the solitude that I remembered here on one of Southern California’s last undeveloped stretches of coast. Instead, I was greeted by an endless stream of daytrippers much like myself making our way along the network of roped-in trails to a series of designated viewpoints too small to accommodate the volume of visitors jostling for the view.
Out of respect, I set up to paint just outside the railing, literally standing awkwardly on the poured concrete footing of the railing so as not to block anyone’s view, but also to avoid setting a bad example by walking out onto the sensitive terrain. I thought it was an excellent solution. Instead of gratitude, I found myself one sarcastic remark away from being rewarded with a $400 fine by a volunteer ranger. It took great effort to keep it zipped, but I managed.
By the end of the day, I’d walk a fine line on the razor’s edge of park rules and regulations, bluffing my way through 2 more interactions with park authorities (did you know it’s against park rules to eat chips and salsa in the parking lot? When I learned this I was very glad that I had kept the beer out of view) and would find myself eager to return to urban civilization where one can unwind and relax.
All this outdoors and nature stuff can get pretty stressful sometimes.
Endangered Spaces
It had been a long time since I’d explored these trails. I don’t recall them being quite so constricting. I was hoping to find a little nook in the sandstone with a view and some shade. But it was not to be, you can’t step foot off of the clearly marked paths here, without risking fines. These cliffs erode at the slightest suggestion and the hardy coastal scrub can only handle so much trampling before giving way to bare dirt and accelerating the pace of erosion. I’ve seen this elsewhere like up in Monterey while researching some historical images that showed popular tourist destinations covered in soft grass with just an occasional rock or boulder scattered about- now they are nothing but rocks and boulders with a bit of iceplant here and there in the awkward places- still beautiful, and if you hadn’t known how much we’ve changed the landscape by admiring its beauty, you’d never even think of how it may have been.
The irony is the folks coming here to get away from the urban madness are doing so in a park with more restrictions than an average shopping mall. It seemed fitting then that this painting location featured a steady stream of teenage girls taking selfies, having me take their selfies, talking about their selfies, good grief… where is the food court already? Oh wait that’s right, no food allowed here. Really. It’s a rule I found out later. One group of girls sat on a nearby bench talking for almost an hour weaving a conversation of spanish and english and laughter. As this painting neared completion one of them became very excited, “Oh my gosh, this was sooooo amazing watching you. I’ve never seen anyone, you know, paint, like, what they see, you know? I don’t know, it just makes me feel soooo calm, you know?”
I do know, and it does make one feel calm, and I am very glad she noticed.
Succulents, Rust, and Enlightenment
Sometimes it’s cactus
Sometimes it’s a rusty barbed wire fenceAnd sometimes it’s just plain old self-realizationStanding in our way
Guns and Flowers
A brief stopping point in the middle of one of California’s Coastal military bases. Access is difficult in these zones so my only option was to pant from a roadside viewpoint- just a quick row of parking spots for travelers to pull off the highway and snap a photo or two of the sunset, or themselves, or both. There wasn’t a whole lot of room to explore, just a narrow fenced in strip around the perimeter of the carpark. I contemplated painting the cars themselves and thought better of it as this place is really defined by the open space carved out for military purposes and not so much a civilian destination. Miles of rolling hills, many now alight with blooming mustard flowers of spring, have been left in a more or less natural state here, free from the certain development that would cover this prime coastal real estate with just so much of the same as everywhere else, and for this, I salute our armed forces. Speaking of the military, those helicopters are loud. The first 45 minutes were fairly quiet while painting, but then came the thundering skybirds in steady and rapid succession for the remainder of the session. I had the distinct sense they had noticed what appeared to be a very curious hobo lurking near the carpark with an odd array of equipment strewn about the ground around him. I’m never quite sure how my program looks to an outside observer, especially from the air. But either way, I could see them staring out as they circled periodically. I waved a few times, but never saw my gesture returned. It’s quite possible, and highly likely they were just doing their flight practice and training completely oblivious to me down below, but either way I was glad of their presence, as it gave me ample opportunity to observe their hovering forms in the sky and sneak one into this painting of an otherwise idyllic pre-development scene of coastal southern California.
The Way it Was
I was asked to paint this iconic Southern California cove the way it was before the highway and houses came along, without any signs of human presence. It would require some careful editing of the devoloped landscape.
Speaking of careful handling of the landscape, it would also require some careful stepping through a plant rehabilitation zone well off the main trails. I would ordinarily
avoid such questionable practices, but when the state park folks decide inexplicably to lace the entire hillside with trails and NONE of them lead to the rim of the bluffs that
overlook this whitesand beach and scenic headland I can only scratch my head in wonder. Give the people a trail and they may well stay on it if you ask them too, but take away the trail and you’ll fight a losing battle with the masses intent on finding their own path to the view.
I try to be good, really, I do. It was quite a tip toe, avoiding stepping on any sign of life as I picked my way through the scrub and out onto the rim, finding a nice clearing between some high shrubs that would conceal me nicely from the eyes of all, especially the eyes of the rangers, and double especially the eyes of the ranger that I had just asked about which trails would lead to a good view of the headland.
She gave no good answer so I did what I had to do… not to make anything more or less of it, it’s just the way it was that day.
-Entry on May 4, 2018
Drip Castles
I was scheduled to do some live art today at a local event here in Humboldt, a culinary event celebrating… well, Spam, of all things… but also with some live music so I figured I’d zone out, angle for some free beers (which were kindly provided) and figure something out as I went. Shortly before heading out the door, I learned of the passing of one of the greatest surfing artists of all time, Chris Lundy, after a long battle with brain cancer.
I never met the man, Chris Lundy, but I’ve been met by his art many times over the years. It’s an experience. It rushes up to meet you face to face with a spray of salt and mist. Electrifying, and dazzling, somewhat disorienting. Like a seriously complex jazz number made of water frozen in some off-beat time signature that only the great jazz minds can comprehend.
I’m on the outside of this jam session. A good old punk rock 4/4 guy standing in the back of the hall, admiring the real magicians who can play along to this strange melody- artists like my friend Spencer Reynolds, who seems to have studied the genius of Chris Lundy’s songs and internalized their syncopated rhythms. He’s one of the only artists I know of, who could jump into a Lundy performance and play along, adding to the song in his own way, without distracting from it all.
It’s appropriate then that as I painted this piece thinking of Chris Lundy, praying comfort for his family and friends in their time of loss, that this personal meditation on his visual music contains distinct undertones of the work of my friend Spencer Reynolds. Not that this painting of a wave cracking on a white sand beach in a slightly different dimension does either of their work justice, its just a sort of personal homage to two amazing artists, one of them gone from us too soon. The other is only in Oregon.
Look them both up if you aren’t familiar. You won’t regret it.
Who’d a Thunk?
Poppies and Pointbreaks
He’d laugh this little howling cackle that pulled you into his slipstream as you made your way along the path, down the makeshift rope, repelling into the cove below that you’d never seen breaking before and now was suddenly cracking it’s sonic water booms on the reef below. Everything made him laugh. And almost everything he laughed at led you to math, calculating the odds of survival. ⠀
⠀Some friendships are like this.⠀⠀He led me to a burning mountain.He led me to wildcats prowling in broad daylight.He led me to a cabin where I spent long evenings watching dragons in the heavens war against the winds on earth below while Jack Kerouac sat on the recliner by the lampstand fearing the dark.He led me to the psychic who knew more of me than I even know and probably still has all the secrets she summoned from between my words dried out and saved in glass jars for seasoning on vegan tacos for the next visitor she entertains.He led me to the Captain who loved her and didn’t speak much because she already knew his words anyway.He led me to high ridges with views in all directions.He led me to a trailer where a Stranger poured me a glass of bourbon and shared Her cigarettes in the dark. ⠀⠀Her name was California.⠀⠀She led me to fields of poppies glowing red with love for all and none.She led me to highways that carry hearts to heaven and hell.She led me to destinations even deeper still.She led me to kelp beds anchored to the skulls of conquered peoples.She led me to endless lines of barbed wire fences that scraped into my flesh and instead of bleeding the wounds poured out cheap wine and could only be bandaged with brown paper sacks.She led me to the top of the steeple of the first mission on her skin where the air was as thin as the plot in these verses and where the smoke has been rising since it was burned to the ground in 1775.She led me to her far north where the trees were once taller than any lie ever told.She led me to a path on the edge of a cliff following a friend as he laughed his way down the mountain. ⠀⠀And she led me home.⠀
Chromatic Water Theory XI: Drum Solo
Chromatic Water Theory X: Under the Moon
Chromatic Water Theory IX: Harmonics
Back to the Mothership
“GROUNDWATER” @Morris Graves Museum of Art | March 31-April 29
“GROUNDWATER”
Upheaval
Now and Then
Silent Waters
Bench Warmer
Ghosts of 1963: Salvador Dali, His Wife, The Witch, and an Absolute Bomb
While researching reference material for this studio work, I came across a photo of Salvador Dali and his wife, sitting on that boulder beside the dying snag of cypress in the center of the painting. Look close and you’ll see them.
A lot has changed since they sat there in 1963. The grass is gone, trampled by tourists revealing an even greater boneyard of white granite.
And the tourists. Oh my. I’m not knocking them, I’m one of them when I’m here, marveling at this wonder of nature. But when I tried to paint a small study here, just a few steps from that boulder, there were so many people there that as soon as I set up my gear to paint, I was surrounded by a crowd of onlookers asking questions, poking at my wet paint, smiling, nodding, taking photos, you name it. It was nuts.
I keep a pair of headphones in my gear for tuning out distractions in times like this. Even that wasn’t enough. They kept coming on, crowding around and asking questions that would sadly not be answered today. Out of survival, to create some mental space and focus, I did what I had to do. I started singing. Loudly, and badly. Punk rock songs from my youth on full blast, for the world to hear and withdraw from in embarrassment. It
worked. I had a great time that day.
Afterwards I hopped a fence to sit on that boulder and eat a peanut butter and jelly
sandwich while pondering whether Salvador Dali would have liked 80’s punk rock or not. I may never know, but I’ll ask him if I ever make it back to 1963.
And a painting like this deserves a poem as well I think…
Pay the toll⠀
A piece of your soul⠀
And leave it there as a sign⠀
A cardboard box⠀
Full of rocks and socks⠀
From which we will rise in their mind⠀
Extrapolated⠀
And captivated⠀
Forever to walk this lonely line⠀
They’ll see us standing⠀
Calling out in the night⠀
With bare feet wet from the brine⠀
They’ll slow to a stop⠀
They’ll wonder how⠀
The water and ethers combined⠀
If they listen we’ll say⠀
It was because we payed⠀
The guard at the gate to get by⠀
⠀
So heed my words⠀
And stare straight ahead⠀
For it’s from this earth you were made⠀
You belong on it truly⠀
Its dirt is your body⠀
And these guards are made only of shade⠀
⠀
You’re a plumber⠀
A builder or an electrician⠀
Whatever it takes to convince them⠀
To let you pass⠀
Without taking your cash⠀
It’s not the money it’s the darkness it gets them⠀
So give them only a nod⠀
A two finger wave⠀
And a subtle but sure acceleration ⠀
With confidence high⠀
Drive right by⠀
Subterfuge will be your declaration ⠀
That you belong in their night⠀
But this day is all yours⠀
Like Dali, and Griffin, and Vincent⠀
Masters of sight⠀
Pursuing their vision⠀
Trespassing all baseless tradition⠀
Their work lives on⠀
But they are gone⠀
At rest and free from earth’s friction⠀
⠀
So when the future arrives⠀
And they ask our ghosts why⠀
We’re still here and still walking this path⠀
We’ll tell them plain⠀
We believed the guards⠀
Who said we’d have to pay to get past⠀
⠀
So stay free in the sun⠀
And when the day is done⠀
Just move right along down the line⠀
And pay not a dime⠀
To the liars in wait⠀
Who seek to trap you in debt for all time⠀
Not California
It’s pretty hard to get me to paint anything but the California coast. I have a list of commission requests that I try to get to in the studio each year, but often they get pushed back, sometimes a few years if they aren’t requesting a California location. Not sure how this commission snuck onto the easel earlier this year, but glad it did, it was nice to change things up a bit.
Plus, snow!
We don’t see much of that stuff on the coast here.
Over the Waters
Painted live, (start to finish and without a plan) at the Arcata Theater Lounge a few months ago. I began this one in black and white, accompanied by a piano soloist, with black and white surf films playing on the screen behind the stage. Never felt so classy in my whole life.
Over the Moon
A slice of California, a view from an elevated state… It’s not always outdoors and in the wind, this one was done late last year in the studio, but a painting like this doesn’t happen without spending some serious hours, days, and years of, well… “researching the topic.”