Did you know that King Arthur’s famed sword, the Excalibur, was forged here, and that this is the island where King Arthur himself passed away? Ok, that’s not true, but the little town tucked behind this little cove on this desert island was named after the island in that very legend, as recorded in the English poet Lord Alfred Tennyson’s Idylls of the King in the late 1880’s. I’m no king but this was a rather idyllic setting to paint an afternoon away, that’s for sure.
The view from where we stayed (thanks mom-and-pops-in-law!). Sometimes I hike miles for a painting. Other times I stumble out the back door after a long slow morning and there it is.
Out of the eater
Comes something to eat
And out of the reader
Comes something to read…
You may find me in town
Or at home resting my feet
We’ll discuss the numbers
Of money, milk, and meat
We’ll entertain the angels
Without offering a seat
We’ll speak of the devil
Without feeling the heat
But this meeting of minds
Will remain incomplete
This is only my shell
With which you meet
I’m off in the distance
I’m around the bend
I’m out in the wilderness
On a hill in the wind
I’m fighting with God
I’m also his friend
I’m down in the valley
Of the shadow of death
I’m six feet under
I am one last breath
I am the funeral march
I am the end of the road
I am the one to whom
Nothing is owed
I am the mountain moved
I am the song of the bees
I am an avalanche
I am a gentle breeze
From the chaos of love
Comes a heart’s quiet beat
And out of the strong
Comes something sweet
Twentytwenty doesn’t need much introduction. We’ve all been caught in this storm. That’s what this painting is about.
But there is a bit more backstory to it that some of you might not be aware of. This piece was started live on location at the Dunehouse in Manila, CA as a benefit for Friends of the Dunes. Unable to host their annual event on site due to it being 2020 and all, they were still able to manage to have the Spindrifters come belt out some live tunes for an hour and a half last week while I set up outside and painted to their rhythms. After so many months of not hearing live music in person, let alone being able to paint along, it was a heavy experience and another reminder of just how much this thief called 2020 has attempted to steal from us.
I was a bit rusty during the live portion of this painting out there, so I took it home and did quite a bit of work finishing it up in the studio. I had a vision for this one, and really wanted to bring it through. Generally the only large paintings I work on the studio these days are commissions from collectors and are never available for outright purchase, let alone in an auction. This is a truly rare opportunity to score an original painting like this, it just doesn’t happen very often. Someone’s gonna be stoked. But that’s just business, let’s get back to what this painting is all about…
The peninsula in all of its duneful wonder is a beautiful place and its been fun to paint there every year for the last 6 or so years at their annual event, but to be honest there’s always been something a little odd about being out there in a social setting. The glory of the dunes are best experienced in solitude. And ironically, I don’t think I’m alone in this opinion. We don’t have a desert here in Humboldt- out on the peninsula in these dunes is one of the few places with open sky and empty space. It’s our desert. Our place to face the heavens and scream and cry and laugh and pour out our lives to whoever listens up there. We dream up ideas, we’re captured by visions, confronted by the blank slate of our souls. This alone is a beautiful thing.
But there’s another beautiful thing about this coast. Due to the angle it faces, our predominant northwest winds blow howling onshore out here and the lightest breeze can rough up the ocean to a churning frenzy of whitecaps turning quickly great waves into ragged derelict lumps of water marching drunkenly to shore arm in arm like soccer hooligans after a heated match. But once in awhile the pattern is disrupted on those days when a new storm rolls in. The swirling low pressure systems that move in from the North Pacific meet the land first with a blast of wind from the south, grooming the incoming swells into beautiful gems of organized chaos. Standing alone at the water’s edge on a day like this can be thing of frightening beauty. And that, more than anything is what this painting is about. Finding some beauty in the middle of the storm that has been twentytwenty.
Ok, yes it’s about that, and it’s also about trying not to drown.
Even though the title says Better Times, it’s not a commentary on that time, this time, or any other time we all collectively think of. It’s a quote from the friend who commissioned this painting who had some of his greatest memories here, followed by some incredibly difficult and tragic years. It’s deeply personal and I’ll leave it at that. I only mention it because I thought it was a beautiful thing to have this meaningful place painted for him to remind him of the good times, and that if there were good times back there, then no matter how hard things get in the present circumstances, better times can always come again.
I was here to paint the view for a couple who were married here. I painted a quick one the night before and seeing how crowded it was here on the covid coast of California, I was very thankful to have permission to park and camp behind this private property’s gate. It’s hectic out there, but it’s as easy as ever on this side. Or so I thought.
It was a long night in the van. When you’re at home and your usual good health takes a wrong turn you can hide out for days at a time under your pillow. You can call a friend for help. You can stand under a hot shower for as long as it takes.
But when things go south on the road, alone in an unfamiliar place, and you’re up all night, sweating ice, and sitting upright in the front passenger seat to keep the sour mess of your soul from creeping up your esophogus, well, at those times you just have to struggle through it. Make the best. Wrap that awkward bag around you and a towel around your neck to keep your head up and hope for a bit of sleep.
It’s kinda like marriage in its own way. Occasionally there’s a long dark night, and if you’re a dense thud of a husband like me, often you just have to struggle along. Work it out with her however you can because just like on a rough night in a van, you are all you’ve got. And in the worst of times you’ll find you yourself aren’t very much at all. But when morning comes and the sun is bright in your eyes through the frosted glass windshield, that’s when you find you never needed to be all that much anyway, you just needed to be there. Going nowhere. Not getting out and looking for somewhere else to go in the cold dark night. Not driving away in a spit of rubber and gravel. Just being there, and being your whole messed-up self in the van, hoping for a better day ahead.
I know I’m kinda off the rails on this sloppy metaphor, but what can I say? I got up, felt okay, cooked up a few cups of coffee and powered through this morning painting of this sanctuary by the sea.
Two trains of thought, one conclusion.
This one is a Two for One.
May. 2020. Arriving late in the day. The winding road to the coast dipped at turns and barreled straight through the blinding sun around each bend- a supercharged conduit for heavy traffic heading both ways in a rush toward whatever version of “stay-at-home” they were playing today.
A motorcyclist behind my van wasn’t having it. He made his move and flew past me and the little hatchback in front of me. I wondered what he was in such a rush for. I wondered what everyone else was so eager for as well. I knew I was hoping to reach the coast with enough time to get a painting done before ending this long drive of a day. I figured if I had my reason, everyone else had theirs too, I just wished they’d be a little less crazy about it on this dangerous road at this dangerous hour of the day.Not even two bends of the road later I had to brake hard to avoid slamming into the hatchback, now at a dead stop in the road. Bits of broken plastic and glass, a twisted strip of metal, and an empty helmet laying on the shoulder told me what I didn’t want to know. As the scene came into focus I saw him up on his feet, trying to shake it off. He looked like he’d be fine, unlike his bike, or his plans for the day. Some quick thinking motorists were already out of their cars, waiving me by, directing the traffic that was already backed up as far as the eye could see behind us.I would paint today, just happy to be alive.I was on my way home from southern California helping my family take care of my dad after some very close calls with his health, and was finally heading home, just stopping here mid-way to paint a piece for a couple that was married on the grounds of this property overlooking this arc of beach, now wreathed in gold in the setting sun.I’d finish this painting, and drink beers, and sing old Neil Young songs to myself while cooking up a roadside pot of ground beef and beans and get myself feeling sick as a dog in a rolling kennel before the night was over, living like a king, with a different sort of crown, made entirely of Still-Not-Dead-Yet.Life is good.
This wasn’t my first time painting live with Luca. Last September I found myself at a beach party in Italy where Luca was playing. (And that’s a whole other story for another time, but for anyone that knows me, you know it takes a minor miracle to get me away from the California coast… ) Anyway, Italian artist Vincenzo Ganadu was at this raging beach party and was kind enough to share a canvas with me and we went to town in a frantic stoke-fueled collaboration while Luca and his band belted out tunes. Neither of us spoke much of the other’s language, but thankfully art and music is a universal language. The Italian surf community welcomed me into their world with open arms. It was clear that as a culture they held a deep appreciation of art and beauty and life. ⠀
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I was inspired to dig a little deeper into some Italian inspiration before painting this one with Luca and I was drawn to the Canticle of the Sun, a poem by St. Francis of Assisi, where he speaks of the sun and the wind and fire as brothers, the moon and the water as sisters. It is a beautiful piece of praise to God that invites us to a deeper connection with the natural world that shapes and sustains us. The idea of fire itself as a brother was intriguing to me- as catastrophic as it is when it devours all in its path, fire is also an essential part of our humanity. It protects us from the cold. It transforms raw ingredients into satisfying meals. It powers the forges that shapes our tools with which we build the world. It illuminates the darkest night. Without it we’d be cold and hungry, stumbling in the dark. ⠀
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These were my thoughts back in May, hoping to find some beauty in the hardships we all are facing. Back then, though, California was not on fire. Now we’re still locked down with the pandemic and choking in smoke and people we know are losing homes, livelihoods and some of them even their lives. This is a terrible time to live through. I started these fire paintings as a metaphorical series, but with actual fires raging now… I think I might go paint some rain instead.
Back in the early days of this global pandemic thing we’re all still slogging through, we saw the virus take hold in Italy. That was a wake-up call. ⠀
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I had just had the chance to visit Italy back in September (which is no minor feat as anyone who has ever tried to get me to leave California’s coast will attest). It was a great trip, with a great story that will be shared in its own time. We met some of the friendliest and surf-stokedliest people I’ve ever met in my life. Even got a bit of windswell one morning and rode a few waves on an airmat, in the Mediterranean beneath the shadow of Ancient Rome herself. Holy moly. Good times.⠀
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So when we saw their country slowly descend into complete lockdown, shutting down all public spaces, my heart went out to all of Italy. When I started doing some experimental live art/live music/live stream collaborations back in April, I knew I’d want to reach out to some friends over there and make it happen. Why not? The virtual door was now open to collaborate across the planet.⠀
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It was an honor to team up with Paolo, who had been out of work as a musician since the pandemic started. He played his heart out one evening from his living room in Italy while I painted the morning away alongside him from my studio here in California. ⠀
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Okay, but why the Garibaldi?⠀
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I wanted to honor Italy with the Garibaldi. Yes it’s California’s state fish, but it was named after the red/orange vests worn by the followers of Giuseppe Garibaldi, the father of modern day Italy’s unification and independence.⠀
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So there you go. Californitalia.
As we watch the world burn around us, many of us are waking to the reality that we are truly non-essential. As artists, we’ve always known this. You can’t eat paintings. We’ll continue to forge ahead on the fringes while everyone else sorts out the falling chips. Some of us won’t make it. We chose to carve our own paths in life away from the safety of “real jobs” so we’ll get what we deserve in the end. I can accept this. But buried within our need for survival, our need to sell art, there is a pressure to take our art and provide what many people want right now. Diversion. Escape. Idyllic scenes of better worlds and better times.
I don’t think anything sums up my feeling about this better than this passage from the book of Psalms:
By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down and wept, when we remembered Zion.
Upon the willows in the midst of it we hung our harps.
For there our captors demanded of us songs, and our tormentors mirth, saying,
“Sing us one of the songs of Zion.”
But how can we sing the Lord’s song in a foreign land?
There will be a time and place to paint better times and better places, but my heart is not there right now- too many people are hurting too deeply, and my own heart is too heavy. So for the moment, I have chosen instead to paint our world on fire. To meet the flames face to face. To accept them. To find beauty even in this tragedy. Without a forest fire, there can be no forest- the mighty sequoia needs fire to release its seeds and clear the ground for its young. Those three seeds in this painting might be my own three children preparing to take root in a world changed forever.
Painted during the first week or so of lockdowns back in March of 2020. Businesses were shutting down. The roads were growing quiet. The air was crowded with questions, but the land and sea had answers of their own. Some things will never be shut down. You can shut your eyes, but you can’t stop the world around you. And the waves keep rolling in, and the flowers keep blooming, and the birds keep flying, and we know deep down that we won’t be confined to these bodies forever.
My sister loved this beach⠀
With it’s small rocks worn smooth ⠀
Tumbled in their own strange victory⠀
A full spectrum of color⠀
Joseph’s coat made of earth⠀
No wonder his brothers sold him⠀
Jealousy runs deep in the quest for treasure⠀
What good are these precious stones anyway?⠀
Were they not made to be coveted by thy neighbor?⠀
And yet my sister envied nobody⠀
She saw treasure in the ordinary stones⠀
The ones that are left behind⠀
We didn’t know at the time⠀
She was about to leave us behind⠀
To live our ordinary lives⠀
On the edge of this precipice⠀
It’s a long way down⠀
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When the heavens rage⠀
On the deeper waters⠀
Far beyond the horizon⠀
Venting frustrations⠀
About her people on the shore⠀
And their love of treasure⠀
And their spite for truth⠀
The release of her fury⠀
Sends pulses across the sea⠀
Until the Outburst from above ⠀
Meets the Unmoved here below⠀
Determined to pound rock against rock⠀
To chip away at the rough edges⠀
On a single stone⠀
Swirling in the undercurrent⠀
Because heaven knows⠀
That from the edge of her precipice⠀
It’s a long way down⠀
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And the stones of earth⠀
Were gathered together⠀
On that day when the two became one⠀
And the winds howled and shrieked⠀
Right into the watery womb⠀
A first breath breathed⠀
And sight was received⠀
By the stones that till now⠀
Had only swirled beneath⠀
Full of rough edges⠀
And yet soon to get smashed⠀
And made smooth again⠀
Even now digging in⠀
Scratching into the storm⠀
The earth against the water⠀
In a race toward the shore⠀
Stones lurching upward and looking down⠀
From this watery precipice⠀
And it’s a long way down⠀
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March of twenty-twenty⠀
A sickness is spreading ⠀
Turning our lungs back into stones⠀
We’ve shut the world down⠀
We’ll put it back together later⠀
But nature never falls apart⠀
She lives on her own terms⠀
And she is always open⠀
So here I stand⠀
Painting this beach⠀
That my sister once loved⠀
And all those smooth stones below⠀
Colors blending into one shade of gray⠀
You can see it all from here⠀
Everything that’s coming⠀
And everyone that’s going⠀
I watch my step⠀
On the edge of this precipice⠀
It’s a long way down⠀
My final painting of this trip. I recently read about the family that home-steaded this place back in the 1800’s and installed a phone line to King City in 1910. One of the kids that grew up here recalled that you could tell who was calling because everyone had a different ring. And when a call was made, all the phones up and down the line rang and everyone answered. Once it was settled who the caller wanted to speak to, the others would go quiet, but still listen in, offering occasional corrections if something didn’t sound right. His aunt Lulu was particularly adept at this art. Awkward and funny, yet understandable. This is a quiet coast. The ocean may roar, but in the spaces between the outposts, the noise of the outside world fades into flowers. I didn’t speak to a single person while painting this one, the only people I saw were in cars moving so fast that we may as well have been in different dimensions. The air was lonely and the light was beautiful. So I just talked to myself on top of the van while painting… and aunt Lulu never had to correct me even once.
Through thickets of poison to a cliff in the wind beneath dark skies, they followed. Not with their bodies, just with their eyes. They call them Dark Watchers, and stories of them in these hills go back generations. If you see them and try to approach one, they vanish into the landscape. I wish I could do that sometimes too, just stand and watch and observe the landscape as I paint it, and as soon as someone sees me and wants to come chat and get-all-up-in-my-business-wanting-to-know-if-I-make-a-living-doing-this-stuff-as-if-that-somehow-has-any-bearing-on their-ability-to-appreciate-what-I-am-doing-right-there-before-their-eyes, then poof, I vanish back into the earth from whence I came. That would be beautiful. When I grow up I want to be a Dark Watcher. And just maybe I will.
I don’t know why, but the thought of a credit card bill, or bank statement, or some foreboding notice from the IRS sitting in one of these little metal boxes getting absolutely gob-hammered by winter storms just seems so absurd and yet so right- as if nature herself was seeking revenge on the entire economic system that invented things like tourists and plastic bottles and junk mail. Just another roadside scene of daily life on the information superhighway.
Yup. Even in 1880 Santa Cruz was getting too crowded for some folks, like Sabrino Gamboa who fled to this stretch of Big Sur’s coast nearly 150 years ago. Same as it ever was, I guess.
