Another recent one from the Orange County coast. With all the weather and rain, I kept feeling like I was painting up north somewhere. Not the typical Socal Blues anyway…
Rainy Day Melody
While Lovely Rita Was Sleeping
Plein air capturing the early morning marine layer view of the Orange County coast. Couldn’t see much out there in all that wet gray, so I pulled up on the side of the Coast Highway, and set up inside the van to paint the one thing I could see all too well. Since I blocked two parking spots to get this parking meter lined up with my side door, I played it safe and fed both of those hungry monsters all the change I could scrounge up, which only bought me about a half hour. I wasn’t quite done so I spent another 15 or so in front of the expired meters, but thankfully with no sign of the meter maid. Where would I be without her? Right here apparently, in the dismal wet fog of an OC winter morning.
Eating donuts as Jimi Hendrix quotes Bob
Dylan from beyond the horizon through a
Scratchy cassette tape while Lovely Rita
Was counting quarters in her sleep.
Salt Haze
This was a rough one. The coast fog was super thick when I rolled up to paint here, but the sky was blue behind me on the hills looking inland and being only late morning when I was setting up, and with a nice forecast to look forward to, I’d reckoned things would likely clear up shortly. Got a few glimpses of shimmering soft light on the water in the early stages, then full gray out for the rest of the session. “All art is a lie” once again proves true. After packing up and driving literally about 1 mile I drove right out of this fog pocket and into the revelry of a clear blue sky. For the next few hours I painted a different spot and looking back up the coast I noticed my nemesis, this fog bank, never moved. Ah, such is life… And fog.
The Light Contagious
One of the best things about plein air painting all over the California coast is that it requires me to post up and really watch the waves for several hours. By the time I wrapped this one up at sunset, I knew I’d be back the next morning, and where I’d sit in the line up. With the recent rains, it was a gamble of contagion roulette out there with the creek mouth open and flowing to sea. Scored some fun waves, but lost the game of roulette, my throat’s been sore for 2 weeks now.
Still Life: Tower 22 and Red Single-Fin
Twenty-two rules
and too many ways to break them.
We didn’t know any better.
We thought they were only suggestions.
Living Quarters
Yep, an old water tower, a 76 VW bus, or… I guess an actual house fits the bill too. All of them quite livable. But only one of them will get you where you’re going and then strand you there with no way to leave. I’m not telling which.
Subpedestrian Homesick Blues
Sand crabs and square slices of pepperoni pizza- the working capital of days long spent hiding under the pier for shade, and relief from watching eyes. The older kids’ cigarettes smelled funny. Try not to look ‘em in the eye.
Speaking Softly Like Light
Painted this one not too long ago down on the central coast of California. This is the one I did during that video that I posted yesterday from @stwcoalition. They kept telling me to speak up, cause the light wind was muffling everything in the microphone. It was a bit of a challenge to stay focused on the painting and bring it through while talking art extensively with the Save the Waves crew. All in all, a great day at work.
Lunch Bucket
Curb Appeal
You can’t go wrong with coastal real estate in California. This extremely well constructed home, built around the turn of the year is a charming example of Beach Hobo architecture. Well thought out floorplan with charming curb appeal. Great place to raise a family. Seller is motivated.
A Wing and a Prayer
Studio redux of recent live art concept. A few weeks back at a benefit for Standing Rock I painted a different version of a bird swooping down to grab a fish out of the water. In that one the bird was just a dark silhouette and the fish ended up with a non-intentional pacific northwest native vibes. Very Kwakiutl-esque. The end reselt gave the piece a very ominous tone in light of the conflict the tribe is currently facing. Such is art, BUT… since then I learned a bit more about the struggle between an osprey and its prey. Apparently, when a fish is first caught in the bird’s talons its immediate instinct is to dive for the safety of deep water. Powerful swimmers they are, and if an osprey grabs a fish that is a bit too large they have been known to be pulled under by the fish, unable or willing to release their hold, and dragged to their deaths below. This moment takes on a whole new meaning when understood in that light, so I figured it would be worth a reworking. Here’s to hoping the Standing Rock fish was underestimated by the DAPL bird.
High Tide: Empty Lot
Nightfall
Before there was light⠀
There was water⠀
And before there was life⠀
The water broke⠀
Staring up into that black ocean⠀
Eyes blinded by the falling seas⠀
On this winter’s solstice⠀
No stars tonight⠀
Just a child⠀
Floating weightless and free⠀
In a fish bowl for all to see⠀
⠀
Mary and Joseph⠀
They live down the street ⠀
We ate donuts on strings⠀
Tied to their tree⠀
Last Halloween⠀
But tonight is for listening⠀
Country music on the local radio⠀
A long line of cars⠀
With out of state plates⠀
And a man that spoke⠀
“Don’t be afraid”⠀
⠀
We walked a path ⠀
That led to the river⠀
Where the waters had broken⠀
The land in two⠀
We saw a man up ahead⠀
He stopped ⠀
And listened⠀
To the darkened forest⠀
A rustling noise⠀
And a woman’s voice⠀
Calling him to come in⠀
We never saw him again⠀
⠀
A grown man on a bike⠀
Rides down the boulevard⠀
A woman in tears walks the other way⠀
They cross paths without a word⠀
She keeps walking ⠀
Tears like the rain⠀
From the broken sky⠀
Her cries fill the void⠀
And break the awful silence⠀
He keeps peddling on⠀
Awkwardly⠀
And alone
Lonesome Valley
Plein air from yesterday, super close to home, but at least a world and a half away…
Titled after Woody Guthrie’s song of the same name:
You gotta walk that lonesome valley,
You gotta walk it by yourself,
Nobody here can walk it for you,
You gotta walk it by yourself.
Some people say that John was a Baptist,
Some folks say he was a Jew,
But your holy scripture tells you
That he was a preacher too.
Daniel was a Bible hero,
Was a prophet brave and true,
In a den of hungry lions
Proved what faith can do for you.
There’s a road that leads to glory
Through a valley far away,
Nobody else can walk it for you,
They can only point the way.
Mamma and daddy loves you dearly,
Sister does and brother, too,
They may beg you to go with them,
But they cannot go for you.
I’m gonna walk that lonesome valley,
I’m gonna walk it by myself,
Don’t want to nobody to walk it for me,
I’m gonna walk it by myself.
Study Break
Always fun to paint from 500 feet up. UFO view of kelp beds, bending lines, and the likely culprit of many a failed college exam.
Winter Solstice Song
If we look to the seasons we see that darkness comes in cycles, offset by rhythms of light. And yet the darkness has never felt so loud as the discordant anthem of this asymphonic night.
We are tempted to see this present moment as the cold oppression of a tangible force. A standing army of arguments against our better angels. Generals, officers and even pawnsmen making strategy behind the fireless smoke. Tanks and armor. Bullets, bayonets, and words.
Yes, words. Words meant for good twisted beyond recognition. Word as a weapon. Word as a poison. Word as the famine, the plague, the killing of every firstborn. Word as the ultimate tool of victory and defeat. Word delivered in a flash of blinding light, deceptively cloaking darkness behind it’s insatiable heat.
We begin to think of darkness in terms of the battle as though might just might make right after all and light might somehow be wrong.
Don’t be fooled. There is no darkness. It is not a thing of itself, it is only the momentary absence of light. As long as there is love and beauty and a song to be sung, darkness has already been defeated before it even begun.
Grass Fed
um… not plein air
Music is like math, where math allows us to see the inner workings of the physical world around us, music allows us to see the inner workings of the non-physical world within us.
What?
Water is Life
If we look to the seasons we see that darkness comes in cycles, offset by rhythms of light. And yet the darkness has never felt so loud as the discordant anthem of this asymphonic night.
We are tempted to see this present moment as the cold oppression of a tangible force. A standing army of arguments against our better angels. Generals, officers and even pawnsmen making strategy behind the fireless smoke. Tanks and armor. Bullets, bayonets, and words.
Yes, words. Words meant for good twisted beyond recognition. Word as a weapon. Word as a poison. Word as the famine, the plague, the killing of every firstborn. Word as the ultimate tool of victory and defeat. Word delivered in a flash of blinding light, deceptively cloaking darkness behind it’s insatiable heat.
We begin to think of darkness in terms of the battle as though might just might make right after all and light might somehow be wrong.
Don’t be fooled. There is no darkness. It is not a thing of itself, it is only the momentary absence of light. As long as there is love and beauty and a song to be sung, darkness is already defeated before it has even begun.
Isthmus Interrupted: Most of the Time She Can’t be Reached
The isthmus here is only passable at the lower tides, leaving the rock island on the right unreachable for most of every day. I’ve always been fascinated by the bending of wave energy around both sides of the island on the higher tides. Getting to this vantage point with all my paint gear wasn’t easy, but that is all part of the fun.
Between a Rock and a Happy Place
Poetry of Geological Ideas
We really do have some beautiful coastline around here. While still technically a part of the California coast, this zone feels like another time and place altogether.
Pretty sure it was Einstein that said pure mathematics was the poetry of logical ideas. In that sense I reckon pure plein air painting is maybe a poetry of geological ideas.
I’ll be Ever’where, Ma
Painted this one two days ago for a friend. Without going into much detail, I chose the title from Tom Joad’s farewell to his mother in Grapes of Wrath. As I painted this much loved beach from an overview perspective not often seen, I thought of many that I have had to say goodbye to over the years and how there are times and places where we can almost feel as close to them as when they were still with us, perhaps closer even. A thick dark forest, impenetrable and full of mystery, seems a pretty fair metaphor for where they go who’ve left their earthly tents behind. From there they watch over us. So what then?
Tom Joad: Then it don’t matter. I’ll be all aroun’ in the dark – I’ll be ever’where. Wherever you can look – wherever there’s a fight, so hungry people can eat, I’ll be there. Wherever there’s a cop beatin’ up a guy, I’ll be there. I’ll be in the way guys yell when they’re mad. I’ll be in the way kids laugh when they’re hungry and they know supper’s ready, and when the people are eatin’ the stuff they raise and livin’ in the houses they build – I’ll be there, too.
Ma: I don’t understand it, Tom.
Tom Joad: Me, neither, Ma, but – just somethin’ I been thinkin’ about.
Fixer Upper
I was hoping to go further up the coast but the midday high tide and a deeply eroded beach combined with solid swell prevented me from going much further than this little beach hut. Not that I didn’t try, it got pretty dicey around that corner. Timed my way around a few bends between sets but progress was slow and up the coast lines of whitewater were smashing all the way to the cliff face that I had hoped to reach. Stood and watched for a good long time, pondered a few potential outcomes, and finally retreated back to this little fort and made the most of it. Wish I had the family with me, the kids would have fixed this place up nice.
Creepy Fingers
Two Cents Worth of Advice for the Aspiring Artist
All art is a lie.
All you really need is red yellow blue and white.
Work fast, don’t worry about results too much. just keep going.
Don’t paint the things you’re looking at, paint the air between them and you.
Every piece goes through an ugly stage, just keep going and trust your instincts to bring it through. You will bring it through.
When painting next to another artist, loosen all their easel bolts when they aren’t looking and… wait, not that.
“Gifted” artists aren’t born with automatic talent. The “gift” they have is a deep and thorough enjoyment of the process, that brings them back for more and more and more.
Living as an artist is like Peter getting out of the boat and walking on water. No safety nets, and you’re bound to get wet once in a while. Watch out for sharks.
Selling art and making art are two very different arts. Don’t confuse them.
Be very careful not to dip your brush in your beer.
That is all.