Shoebox Series I

The Shoebox Series was inspired by a friend’s shoebox full of old surf photographs he and his friends had taken of each other over the years. Realizing that almost every lifelong surfer has a stash of photographic evidence of their surfing lives stowed away somewhere, I went to my local surf buddies and heroes alike, asking for a few of their snapshots that capture what surfing here in Humboldt means to them. These became the inspirations for the series, which went on to be published in the Surfer’s Journal in 2008 (Volume 17, #3).

Here’s the caption for this one, as it was printed in the Surfer’s Journal:

“From a photo submitted by Abe Morrison: At first glance this one looks quite simple but the rider is facing a deceptively difficult situation with absolute calm. More of a surge than a wave, that wall he’s riding drags a rather massive amount of ocean behind it. This ability to remain calm in the face of heavy situations, more than anything else, is what defines great surfing here.”

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Shoebox Series II

The Shoebox Series was inspired by a friend’s shoebox full of old surf photographs he and his friends had taken of each other over the years. Realizing that almost every lifelong surfer has a stash of photographic evidence of their surfing lives stowed away somewhere, I went to my local surf buddies and heroes alike, asking for a few of their snapshots that capture what surfing here in Humboldt means to them. These became the inspirations for the series, which went on to be published in the Surfer’s Journal in 2008 (Volume 17, #3).

Here’s the caption for this one, as it was printed in the Surfer’s Journal:

“From a photo submitted by James Bavin: James is one of the smoothest surfers I know. He can make the worst waves look fun and he makes good waves look silly. For this project he offered a photo of Eric Nave saluting an unknown rider. This image is about sharing in someone else’s stoke, and that’s what this whole project is all about.”

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Shoebox Series III

The Shoebox Series was inspired by a friend’s shoebox full of old surf photographs he and his friends had taken of each other over the years. Realizing that almost every lifelong surfer has a stash of photographic evidence of their surfing lives stowed away somewhere, I went to my local surf buddies and heroes alike, asking for a few of their snapshots that capture what surfing here in Humboldt means to them. These became the inspirations for the series, which went on to be published in the Surfer’s Journal in 2008 (Volume 17, #3).

Here’s the caption for this one, as it was printed in the Surfer’s Journal:

“From a photo submitted by [anonymous]: I’ve known this guy for almost 15 years, he’s a pretty classic character. From the incident with the leafblower and the backyard bonfire to the time the sparrow flew into his trailer and landed on his head, he’s just the kind of person people like to be around. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in a hurry for anything, but he always seems to be in the right place at the right time… and he surfs that way too.”

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Shoebox Series IV

The Shoebox Series was inspired by a friend’s shoebox full of old surf photographs he and his friends had taken of each other over the years. Realizing that almost every lifelong surfer has a stash of photographic evidence of their surfing lives stowed away somewhere, I went to my local surf buddies and heroes alike, asking for a few of their snapshots that capture what surfing here in Humboldt means to them. These became the inspirations for the series, which went on to be published in the Surfer’s Journal in 2008 (Volume 17, #3).

Here’s the caption for this one, as it was printed in the Surfer’s Journal:

“From a photo submitted by Wade Pajares: Wade is a ridiculously good surfer, but the thing about this image that tells the most about him is what made it special to him. It wasn’t the hideous gaper he’s pulling into, but rather it’s the pelican whose symbolic flight suggests that surfing means more to him than just riding waves.”

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Shoebox Series V

The Shoebox Series was inspired by a friend’s shoebox full of old surf photographs he and his friends had taken of each other over the years. Realizing that almost every lifelong surfer has a stash of photographic evidence of their surfing lives stowed away somewhere, I went to my local surf buddies and heroes alike, asking for a few of their snapshots that capture what surfing here in Humboldt means to them. These became the inspirations for the series, which went on to be published in the Surfer’s Journal in 2008 (Volume 17, #3).

Here’s the caption for this one, as it was printed in the Surfer’s Journal:

“From a photo submitted by [anonymous]: This guy paddles out in truly hairball surf and rides some of the crudest hand shaped boards you’ll ever see but still somehow manages to make it all look easy.”

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Shoebox Series VI

A painting of a surfer on a big wave at Patrick's point on the Humboldt county coast of northern California

The Shoebox Series was inspired by a friend’s shoebox full of old surf photographs he and his friends had taken of each other over the years. Realizing that almost every lifelong surfer has a stash of photographic evidence of their surfing lives stowed away somewhere, I went to my local surf buddies and heroes alike, asking for a few of their snapshots that capture what surfing here in Humboldt means to them. These became the inspirations for the series, which went on to be published in the Surfer’s Journal in 2008 (Volume 17, #3).

Here’s the caption for this one, as it was printed in the Surfer’s Journal:

“From a photo submitted by Abe Morrison: The surfer in this photo is John Hill. He has since moved on to The Islands, but he was a dedicated and passionate local surfer who earned the respect of all. I still remember him ceremonially turning the music off as we drove through a particular grove of old trees on our way to go surf. I’m not sure what he was thinking, but to this day when I drive through those trees, I still always turn my radio off.”

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Shoebox Series VII

The Shoebox Series was inspired by a friend’s shoebox full of old surf photographs he and his friends had taken of each other over the years. Realizing that almost every lifelong surfer has a stash of photographic evidence of their surfing lives stowed away somewhere, I went to my local surf buddies and heroes alike, asking for a few of their snapshots that capture what surfing here in Humboldt means to them. These became the inspirations for the series, which went on to be published in the Surfer’s Journal in 2008 (Volume 17, #3).

Here’s the caption for this one, as it was printed in the Surfer’s Journal:

“From a photo submitted by Abe Morrison: In the original photo, the unidentified rider was so small he was literally just a group of about 11 pixels. By the time the painting was finished, more than a few people took one glance and identified the rider as one of our most respected local legends. Funny thing is, I had just been talking to him about this project. He was into it but not without hesitation, which was understandable, due to his desire to avoid publicity both for himself and the region. I didn’t end up using the one photograph he submitted, but out of absolute respect, I’d like to dedicate this one to him, and say thank you for inspiring us all. And, um… sorry for bringing it up.”

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Shoebox Series VIII

The Shoebox Series was inspired by a friend’s shoebox full of old surf photographs he and his friends had taken of each other over the years. Realizing that almost every lifelong surfer has a stash of photographic evidence of their surfing lives stowed away somewhere, I went to my local surf buddies and heroes alike, asking for a few of their snapshots that capture what surfing here in Humboldt means to them. These became the inspirations for the series, which went on to be published in the Surfer’s Journal in 2008 (Volume 17, #3).

Here’s the caption for this one, as it was printed in the Surfer’s Journal:

“From a photo submitted by Chad Goddett: I met Chad up here a long time ago. He’s come and gone and come back again (that happens a lot around here). He’s been involved in the surf industry in the past and I suspect he still carries some scars from those years. I’ve surfed with him quite a bit and know for a fact he is capable of absolutely destroying a wave on par with what we see in the media, But in this image (and the others he gave me) all we see from the rider is a simple flow, evidence that he has found a purity in surfing here that helps to wash away some of the grime left behind by the machine.”

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Shoebox Series XII

Recent commission, but a solid throwback to 2008, when the first 8 paintings of this series were published in the Surfer’s Journal (Second County South, vol.17 #3).

I don’t work from photos all too often, but this series is an exception. The idea isn’t to recreate a perfect photo (waste of paint, just print the photo already), but rather to use the grainy, off kilter shots that surfers and their buddies have taken and saved in a shoebox (or envelope, hard drive, etc…) as mementos of their surfing lives. These moments were meaningful enough for them to stash away, so I reckon they speak volumes more of our real surfing lives than any number of idealized candy coated plastic hors’d oeuvres served up with palm tree umbrellas on platters of tropical blues.

These gritty snapshots just become the jumping off point for each painting, attempting to find something transcendent and universal in each image. This one became a reminder to hold your line when incongruent worlds collide.

*Commissioned as a gift for the surfer in the piece. Hint, hint. I do these upon request.

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Drink Deep

For the ordinary soul who owns not a boat or a plane, the only way there is by your own two feet, one step at a time. Unless you are the ordinary soul’s dog, in which case it’s more like your own four feet, two steps at a time or something like that. In other words you’re just gonna have to hike. Eight miles. On sand and cobblestones loosely piled up between vertical mountains and the deep blue sea. Only at low tide. Higher tides and the surge of large swells will submerge that little eroding sand bridge to which your feet (or paws) will hopefully remain planted upon.

One such surfer and his dog endured that hike in the late spring one year, after a season of heavy storms, which swelled the creeks and brought with it a series of rock shattering swells and a fierce longshore current that removed all but the most stubborn sand deposits. Oh sure, they scored some quality surf, but it was a ride they took on the hike back that would define the trip.

It was one of those days when the low tide wasn’t really very low. Combined with the somewhat unruly and large swell, these were not the optimum conditions for attempting this hike. But since boatless , planeless, and now foodless ordinary souls and their dogs tend to need to get back into town once in awhile, they really had no choice. The day was getting late. Only a mile or so to go and then it happened.

The ocean seemed to calm a little, and the air became quiet. There was no reef or sandbars on this particular stretch of sand, just deep water. Taking a check of his surroundings as an alert surfer will do when the ocean changes her tune, he knows he’s in a tight spot. Sheer crumbly cliff greets his left hand, the big lulled ocean his right. Up ahead about 60 yards is a somewhat higher sand berm he’s been heading toward for the last ten minutes. So close, but with the forty plus pounds of gear on his back, it’s a good minute or so away, even at full speed. The swell is running at a 17 second interval. He grunts and picks up the pace, but no sooner than he became aware of making that decision, he sees the deep water welling up on the shore.

Seeing the futility of racing this impending wall of water he braces for the worst. He sees his dog running for high ground and as he digs his hands into the course and cold sand he watches the first surge of water envelop his companion of the last seven years. A second later it’s his turn. Larger than he had anticipated, the oncoming whitewater makes quick business of uprooting him and tossing him shoreward into the cliff. Then comes the rebound back to sea. Like a rolling stone he is pulled off the beach, barely getting a gasp of air before going deep into the drink. Being dragged to abnormal depths by the pack on his back he wrestles himself free of it and begins the task of exiting through the large shorebreak.

Finally making his way up the beach, he stops and looks for his dog. Scanning the shorebreak for any sign of life, he finds none. The ocean gives and takes away. As if to cruelly punctuate that thought, he spots his pack rolling up with the next surge. Quickly dragging it up the beach and making his way to the higher and drier ground, all he can think of is that nothing in that backpack is worth anything next to his old friend. The beach is broad and wide the rest of the way, so there is no need to hurry now. There is time to sit and wait. To hope and pray for a better ending to this bad dream. A good hour he sits and almost dries out, never taking his eyes off the shorebreak, scanning for any sign of life. But there is nothing. It’s almost dark now, time to go.

Emotionless, he finishes the hike to his truck. The warm beer that awaits him there brings no joy or satisfaction this time, just a little more numbness to wash down the plateful he’d just eaten. He heads to the overlook as was his usual custom, just to stare back up the coast and put the period on the last sentence of this chapter. The sun is down, just the dimly lighter western sky illuminates the thoughts he is lost in. Just as he turns to go he hears a faint noise that penetrates the walls around him and brings him full force back to the here and now. Even from this distance and through the constant sound of the crashing waves, he knows that bark.

He hollers back and saves some beer for his friend.

WAITING FOR HIS HIS MASTER
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Happy Cows

While painting this one from behind a rusty barbwire fence running along the overgrowth by the riverbank, I had an odd thought of what would happen if a cow came charging down the little path I was on. I sorta game-planned how I would step back into a little clearing behind my easel to let it pass, then dismissed the thought as the product of too much coffee working on the ol’ brain. About halfway into the painting I heard some rustling in the brush up a little ways, and sure enough, COWZA! I stepped back as the bovine stomped its way happily down the trail, out to the road, and off down the lane. I went and knocked on what appeared to be the farm house door to let them know of the great escape. They just shrugged and said it happens all the time, them cows are all branded anyway, she’ll be brought back soon enough. OK, back to painting then. Interesting times.

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