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.
Twenty-two rules
and too many ways to break them.
We didn’t know any better.
We thought they were only suggestions.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Here is the heart of war
Against the hardness of life
Against discomfort and difficulty
The battlefield a narrow expanse
Fertile beyond belief
Due to the wonders of modern agriculture
Also known as
Coffee
Lined with strip malls
And donut stalls
And the same house on every corner
Where surf movies play on repeat
While a child scribbles away
On the kitchen floor
Trying to draw out the poison
From the wounds incurred
During last night’s family feud
He finds solace between the lines
He draws the places that
Remind him of other times
I tell him it’s art
And that it’s going to be fine
He quietly responds
That it’s all just rhymes
And though the child can barely whisper dryly
And my voice speaks bold and highly
We both see the scene
Through one eye apiece
And only perceive
Depth together
The artist.
You created this.
You accomplished everything.
Did what you never thought you could.
Lived circles around your own preconceptions.
Saw your children grow and scatter to the four winds.
Heard their glowing reports from the four corners of the world.
You’ll live your last days here in the shelter you’d always sought after.
Not working for the hollow dream of another man’s profit .
Just breathing now with the rhythm of the martyrs.
Breathing in the deep sweet breath of the dying.
Your youngest child still on the easel.
Bound to miscarriage.
No memories.
Gone.
One of the last paintings from recent Santa Cruz trip. This is the California I love. Open, accessible, space with occasionally great waves. In order to paint these places, I have to visit them in person. It’s one of my favorite perks of this job. I hear of parts of the east coast where private properties rule and effectively block out all public access to the coastline for exceedingly large stretches. Makes me thankful for all who have worked so hard in this state to weave public access to this natural resource into the fabric of our coastal communities. Places the public has enjoyed for years cannot easily be purchased and made private regardless of the weight of wealth being thrown around*. There’s some heavy battles raging on this front right now, but regardless of the outcomes, this is California, we will find ways through your fences and not feel bad about it at all. We’re happy to share the shore with the monied class even if they refuse to share it with us. That said, hats off to the folks on the front lines. It sure is nice to be able to leisurely stroll out on the trails to places like this.
*There are restricted private lands that benefit us all as well. The key here is preservation. If its a matter of keeping a coastline preserved in its natural state, sometimes private interests serve this purpose best… its case by case really. But buy a bunch of beachfront land and build it full of castles and walls to keep the commoners out of the places they enjoyed for generations and I reckon you’re asking for your castles to fall into the sea. We will not weep for your loss. We will rejoice gladly and use chunks of the shattered foundations of your fortresses to build makeshift stairs down the goat path we used before you ever came along.
