Because of Ken
Drink Up
The final panting of this trip. To keep our packs as light as we could (since I was carrying an entire studio) we carried little water with us- just enough to get to our next destination point and keeping our eyes out for water sources along the way. We brought a small filter and there’s lots of creeks that flow on this rugged coast year round, so we knew we wouldn’t have much trouble. This proved to be a perfect creek to drink up and refill after a long morning of painting and getting dried out in the now hot wind. It was also just enough of a bend in the coast that it didn’t face the full force of the wind and we opted to stop again for one more large painting before hiking the final 4 miles back to the car.
Punctuation Marks
As we hiked our way down the coast yesterday, I made a lot of mental notes for today’s paintings. Yesterday was for reconnaissance and smaller, quicker paintings. Today was time to get to work on some larger vistas. This was a scene that really struck me the day before. A sweeping view, punctuated by triple exclamation points in the solitary yucca, the jutting rock by the trail, and the old lighthouse barely visible in the distance. In the strong morning wind, I set about painting this larger 20″ x 16″ on location from this steep bluff beside the trail, carefully dodging poison oak, and thoughtfully weighting down every element of my supplies to keep them from blowing over the edge. I’d seen this spot in the afternoon light the day before, but had no idea what a treat it would be to paint here now. There is something so good and right about a crisp morning light.
Anything But Silent
As my wife slept in the shadows by the creek beside this headland, I stood and faced the moonlight and attempted to sort out mixing colors by headlamp. Due to the timing of the tides we’d have to leave first thing in the morning so even though I’d rather have been sleeping myself, this was my only chance to paint here, over 7 miles from the nearest dirt road- our furthest point reached on this quick backpacking trip. It might look a peaceful serene setting, and in a way it was, but it was anything but silent. If you squint your eyes you might just hear a gust of canyon wind rushing to meet the crashing surf. Or an artist grumbling away by headlamp attempting to quiet his own inner struggle to stay motivated. This title may or may not also be referring to the manner in which I sleep, which can also be anything but silent- especially when I’m dog tired from hiking and painting all day and into the night. Sorry, honey. I love you!
Carry My Body
Not quite a proper backstory, and not quite a poem, this one took a rare detour into something else… either way, hope you enjoy the tale.
Food running low. The hunter prays for a kill as he reaches into the dusty cabinet for his last handful of oats before the sun sends the shadows scattering to hide behind every rock and tree they can find. Out the window in the pre-dawn light he sees movement, but when he looks intently there is nothing. Just the grassy flat leading to the precipice over the sea.
But he can’t shake the feeling he’s being watched. And he is. I watched him like a ghost all afternoon as I painted these crumbling remains of his cabin. I watched him bumbling about inside while waiting out the days of rain. Talking to his horse. Carrying the bodies of the freshly dead in the afternoons. Drinking himself stupid under the moons.
Separated by nothing but 30 paces and time, he saw me once or twice and muttered something to himself. The third time he threw a rock with a yell. His aim was good. It passed straight through my chest.
When the painting was finished I packed up my gear while he gathered up his belongings and tucked things here and there into his saddlebags. When we were both ready, he led his horse toward the spot where I stood, nearly looking me in the eye, but in a distant way. He stopped and turned, practically standing in my shoes, and looked back at the cabin one more time. But this time he saw it through my eyes as the earth reclaimed it’s walls and floors, timbers and beams. What was built for man, was now a palace for squirrels and was soon to be nothing but a high patch of ground for the morning shadows to hide behind.
As we both stood there, I watched his memories scatter in the wind. His heart hung in tatters, like a prayer flag on the barbed wire fence, and he let the rest of himself blow away entirely, leaving me there alone with his horse’s reins in my shaky hands. I’m no horse rider. It was all I could do just to mount the beast, but it knew the way, and it would carry my body home.
Out of the Lighthouse and Into the Light
Just a reminder to never abandon your light.
You will wind up empty, forlorn.
Graffiti on your walls, occasionally funny, sometimes crude.
But mostly just the illegible names of spirits brought in by the wind.
And the markings of lovers whose bodies were dragged in by the tide.
Your doorway darkened by the ghost of a travelling painter.
Stealing your light.
Haunted.
Motel California
I know you guys think my job is super easy. Just cruise around and paint pictures between coffee and beers and donuts and tacos. Go for a surf if the waves look fun. Hike around in beautiful remote places on the edges of the world. Hmmm… My job is pretty easy, come to think of it.
But there are also days like this one. Glorious sun-filled afternoons overlooking beaches full of memories. And on this day, it held far more than memories, it held my family- my wife and kids playing in the surf and sand below while I stood around on this forsaken cul-de-sac overlook painting the scene through a thirst-inducing 82 degrees of separation.
I painted fast and furious in hopes of joining them before they grew tired in the lengthening afternoon sun, but no matter how badly I wanted to finish this one and paint myself into the scene dragging my older kids out a little further into ever bigger and better rolling waves, it wasn’t going to happen today.
Today, this was the hardest job* I’ve ever had.
But it’s ok, not every day is like this, and me playing on the beach sure wasn’t going to cover the cost of this little trip that at least allowed them to enjoy the afternoon here. Sometimes life is work even when you’re living it up in the Motel California.
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*Speaking of jobs, did you know I used to always mention in my art bios that I’d never actually held a full time job? I did. Then after years of putting that statement out there I realized that most folks would read that to mean I’d never actually needed to work. As in some sort of trust-fund hidden wealth had allowed me to live this free and easy life. Well that was never the case. What I meant to say is that I was, and still am, proud to say I’ve always valued this pursuit of art so much that in spite of being ridiculously broke year after year, I never wanted to take on full-time work and become so drained by it that I’d let my art fall by the side of the road and into the ditches I would end up digging for someone else’s dream should I ever let go of my own.
Hallowed Ground
William Wendt was a master of California Impressionism, a distinct school of impressionist art forged in the California landscape back in the early 1900’s. One of Wendt’s most iconic paintings is called Where Nature’s God Hath Wrought and features a boldly centralized view of this very peak. Look it up if you need to, it’s worth the effort!
Wade Koniakowsky and I spent an afternoon scouting the countryside just off the central California coast, climbing under fences, walking through high grass, fumbling our way around holding pictures of Wendt’s masterful painting up to the mountain before us, comparing his version to reality in hopes of determining exactly where he stood and painted the scene from. We pretty much nailed it down one afternoon and decided to come back to paint it ourselves in the morning light. To be honest, it was a fun diversion from the coast, but I probably wouldn’t have bothered if it wasn’t for Wade. He was into it!
But once we got going I was hooked as well. And also blown away all over again at Wendt’s masterful work. I kept thinking his composition with that mountain smack in the middle of the canvas just shouldn’t work, and yet it does, and it does so with majesty. Neither Wade nor I were trying to recreate Wendt’s painting- we didn’t even look at it again once we had the spot figured out, our goal was just to stand where he stood and respond to the scene before us like we would with any other painting. I can’t speak for Wade, but I’m pretty sure neither of us felt like we had done half a lick of justice to the scene as the morning wound into afternoon and hunger took over.
But still, we’d walked on hallowed ground.
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It wasn’t until I looked closely at a map later that I realized that my Back Road painting from earlier in the trip is actually the back side of this very same peak. Kinda funny that I painted this mountain twice in one trip and if it weren’t for Wade and the fog I wouldn’t have painted it all.
Grounded
I painted this boat a few years ago, grounded hopelessly on the rocks in a small cove on the Central Coast. I had just learned that it had previously belonged to a friend’s family for years. It was even named after her brother, the “Craig G” until it was sold and the new owner renamed it the “Point Estero”.
I know very little of boats and what I do know filters in through little bits here and there until it’s hard to say if I know it at all or just made it up. But one thing about boats I did not make up is this lyric from Bill Callahan’s song Summer Painter:
“I painted names on boats for a Summer, For luck you keep the same first letter…
You don’t want bad luck at sea.”
No, you don’t. This is what bad luck at sea can look like. It could have been worse, nobody was hurt, but still no fun. Bad luck at sea looks a lot like bad luck in the intertidal zone now, and one can only hope it stays there and doesn’t become bad luck on land as well.
So far so good, this is where it’s been since it wrecked back in 2017. Except it’s spun around 180 degrees. It’ll eventually break into pieces here, but not for a real long time. Solid boat. Part of the landscape now.
I wanted to revisit it on this trip. It’s a great reminder that no matter how the world tries to label you, alway remember your true name… or at least it’s first letter, because you don’t want bad luck at sea. And also that no boat stays at sea forever, and for each of us our day will come sooner or later, and often unexpectedly.
Meet Me in St. Louis
A little further than the road will take you, this little cove is accessed mainly by kayak or paddleboard which means getting out here to paint while armed with just a van and a backpack is a tricky matter of… logistics! Oh, how I love logistics.
And also my friends, like my good art pal, who lives just over the hill from this spot (check her art out, she paints like she means it, you’ll be stoked). Wade and I met her at the beach a mile or so into the harbor and joined her on her family’s kayaks and paddleboards for this little venture. All the art gear secured in our fancy dry bags (hefty trash bags, good for only the quickest of dunks), we paddled across on a sheet smooth blue-bird day that gave no hints of the howling wind that would greet us on the bluff over the cove where the coast makes its turn.
I typically like to get as high as I can while painting… elevation-wise (art is its own good buzz), but the wind just wasn’t having it up on the cliffs overhead, this little perch in a nook at the top of the stairs was pretty much the only option, but thankfully not a bad option at all for telling the story of this little kayak party cove.
After an afternoon of painting in the hot dry sun, I was looking forward to the paddle back on the cool water once again. Though now that we had finished paintings in our fancy hefty sacks, riddled with holes from the sharp corners of various bits of gear, the stakes were certainly a little higher. Don’t fall, don’t fall, don’t fall.
We didn’t fall. (Well maybe a little bit on the final step off to the beach, but that didn’t count because the art and gear were not affected.)
Beers and fish sandwiches afterwards never tasted so good. Huge thanks to Colleen Gnos for taking Wade and I out there.
A Pier Then Disappear
Ok, let’s circle back to the Italian dairy farms that took root here in 1860’s… I painted this small dairy farm building one afternoon from beside an old ranch house where a not-so-Italian* friend of Wade’s was living.
Another not-so-Italian* fellow had long ago purchased this land and set up operations here all the way back in 1867. He first lived in the very ranch house where we were staying** (right behind me as I painted this scene), set in this picturesque valley, and began overseeing the dairy operations behind the house with a mind toward something bigger than the dairy. A former ship captain himself, his interest was in shipping and commerce and not long after settling here, he built the town’s pier straight down from this dairy (along with a fancy new house right beside the pier that still stands today as a registered landmark, leaving this small ranch house and its dairy in its historical shadow).
You can’t see the ocean or the pier from here anymore, the new coast highway has been laid on an embankment built up across this valley, separating the coast from this small dairy farm that has long since ceased dairy operations altogether. But their pasts are inextricably linked together. The isolation now provided by the highway has perhaps also helped to preserve this piece of history.
On this bright summer afternoon I couldn’t resist attempting to tell its story. It’s not a public place, I was only here because of Wade and his friend that was living here at the time, so this was a rare opportunity to paint an ordinarily off-limits piece of history. I’m sure I botched parts of the story, but I tried to keep it straight.
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*Just a guess, maybe they both had veins full of raging Italian blood and I just didn’t know it?
**Holy moly, one evening we were treated to a steak dinner in the very ranch house dining room that rivaled any steak I’ve ever had. The walls, wainscoting and trim all covered in umpteen coats of proper lead paint, old and darkened wood floors, nothing fancy by our standards, but the effect was nothing short of time travel. History never tasted so good.
Red and Gold
Corralina, it’s the Italian word for coral, and though no coral is found in this cold water, there is a red seaweed with a hard calcareous surface named corralina that does grow in these rugged tidepools. There’s also gold poppies that bloom in the spring here. I’m a sucker for poppies.
I had a strict 25 minutes to paint this one before getting locked in for the night with the mysterious devil in the white truck (see previous post). Not a pleasant option, I’d have to work faster than usual this time.
Also cookies. I don’t know how they got there, but I recall setting up to paint and finding some big delicious chocolate chunk cookies in my paint bag. I had to eat them quickly too, on account of the time constraints and all.
But don’t worry, I’m a professional. 24 minutes later I was strolling past the gates at closing time, checking out after a long day’s work, humming a little tune, the two wet paintings strapped to my pack, cookie crumbs falling out of my beard, savoring the taste of sweet freedom. Neither sweet beauty nor sweet morsel would be my downfall today.
I’d sleep wherever I want tonight.
In my van.
America!
La Meccanica in un Momento de Pace
High tariffs in the newfound Kingdom of Italy in 1865 led to a large number of dairy farming Swiss-Italians to come to the US and eventually settle around this town. This coincided with the massive droughts that had just collapsed the large cattle ranches that dominated the California coastal landscape until that point.
After the drought, small dairy farms became a viable reality and by 1880, Italian was the dominant language in this small town. And to this day the Italian influence can still be seen with icons like the Borradori Garage, (established in 1932 by Sam Borradori) standing watch over the pier that was originally built in the 1870’s to facilitate shipping of the local dairy products.
It’s a peaceful setting, not at all what another notable Borradori namesake, philosopher Giovanna Borradori writes about in her volume “Philosophy in a Time of Terror”. The title of this painting, “La Meccanica in un Momento di Pace”, is Italian for “Mechanics in a Time of Peace”, an inverted nod to both Borradori’s. What is more opposite of terror, than peace? What is more opposite from philosophy than mechanical repair? Maybe that one’s not as obvious as the first, but I’m sure a case could certainly be made* over a beer or two while standing on top of my van watching the full moon rise in the soft summer evening light.
*Full disclosure: I hold a minor degree in philosophy so standing around on an incredibly useful mechanical vehicle while arguing about incredibly useless subjects is something I consider not only good sport, but also an art. Cheers.
Everything She Needs
Several years ago I was invited by the Save The Waves Coalition to be a part of their Redgate Ranch Music Festival, to create event artwork and paint live at the event itself while enjoying live music from some great bands on the event’s single stage.⠀
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My first night there, after the music finally ended, and after packing up my gear stepping over the passed out revelers who decided to pitch camp where they lay, and after fishing yet another jacket from the van, I heard something that caught my interest. More music. But not from the stage and not so loud. Softer. Zeppelin tunes on acoustic guitars. Neil Young songs like old church hymns in the night. Older folk tunes that have been sung for hundreds of years. Maybe a banjo or mandolin as well. Melodies seasoned by the flames of a roaring campfire beside an old ranch house. ⠀
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I was drawn to this expression of life through song and sat mesmerized for the next few hours as this crew of musicians wove their songs into tapestries billowed upward by the smoke of the fire rising into the cold night sky. One would call out a tune for another, ranging from obscure Irish folk melodies to classic rock tunes I heard on the AM radio driving down the coast earlier that day. Without missing a beat, they’d all jump in and play these songs like they’d known them forever, and if they didn’t, they’d improvise so well I never knew it. ⠀
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I’ve heard Jazz musicians play songs together without rehearsing and demonstrate that Jazz is a language, and if you speak the language it’s just a matter of keeping the conversation moving. This campfire session, hours into the night as it bled into morning was the closest I’ve ever seen non-jazz music come to that communal language. I could have sat there forever.⠀
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I remember this campfire with tears right now. The end of musical gatherings that allow musicians like those to share their art and soul with non-musical chumps like me is a tragedy they can’t calculate into vital-sign statistics- but it is no less a loss of life in it’s own way. High time to pray. We’re gonna need a mighty Resurrection one day.
The Devil at My Heels
The devil that was at my heels this day, wasn’t really a devil at all. But he worked for one, or at least a nuclear power plant that has taken the devil for its name. I’d hiked 3 or 4 miles out on this windy day to see the furthest reach of this coast that I could legally access. It’s not exactly public land, but is open during limited hours for public use with strict regulations about staying on the trail. These situations can make my work difficult. The best views are often a bit off the beaten path. I’d have to settle for a trailside setup today and was fortunate to find a spot that featured both an excellent elevated view of the furthest southern portion of this trail’s coastline, AND a nice windblock from the hill behind it. Painting here was a no brainer.
Did I mention the wind? Sometimes I wonder what I’m thinking when tromping off into a howling wind like this. But then I remember that it’s like this all the time on the coast and when travelling you can’t exactly pick the calm and fair weather days in advance. This is what I came for.
After completing this, I hiked the rest of the allowable distance on the trail to its end, always followed by a white truck. I’d walk around a bend, and he’d pull up to a lookout on the road above the trail. Everywhere I went. For the next hour and a half. There were points where the road was right beside the trail, but he’d never stop there to chat. He’d go on a head to another lookout and wait for me to pass. His watchful eyes and lack of interaction had me wanting to mess with him and wait for him to go just out of view, then turnaround and backtrack and wait for him to follow, then do it again and again until he gave up or finally approached me.
But I was tired (my outdoor studio travels well, but it’s not the lightest pack in the world), and if I hurried at a good clip I’d have time to paint another little painting before being locked behind the closed gate. I’d already scoped a perfect patch of poppies over a beach with a flowing creek, so there would be no fun and games today, just a mad hike into the howling wind with the devil at my heels.
Sir Francis Drake Was a Pirate
It’s true, he was a full on sea-sailing, ship-boarding, plunder-stealing, off-with-yer-head-if-you cross him pirate. The Spanish navy hated the guy and he had a personal beef with them as well. He even sailed clear past all of Spanish-settled California and claimed all of northern California for England in 1579. It didn’t stick, but it was still an interesting gesture.
But that’s all just history. And according to some historians it is believed Drake may have hidden treasure in the caves right here on that headland at the end of this cove. Joined by my friend Wade Koniakowsky, we were stoked to walk up to this scene on a crisp sunny morning after the days of fog I’d been battling previously. Felt like we’d discovered treasure.
Finding the beach below empty was a great discovery as well, especially since it’s a notorious nude beach. Empty was just fine for us, thanks. Did you know they call the creepers on the cliffs “scalleywags” or “rock monkeys”? They must have enough folks creeping up to oggle the nudies that they have made up names for them. I don’t know if that’s true, but I read in a paper once… so like I said, I don’t know if that’s true. I do know we had a local approach us up there and he seemed a bit agitated at first but then when he saw we were just painting the scene he lightened up. No scallewaggin rock monkeys we, ay?
What we can say for sure is that even if those caves weren’t used for Drake’s hidden treasure, they were at least used for smuggling moonshine during the prohibition years. The smugglers even carved steps into the rock face out at the end of the point to help run the rum up and down coast. Oh, and Francis Drake was a pirate. We know that too.
Ebb and Flow
There is nothing like painting in the cool shade on a warm summer day, with a good art pal like Wade Koniakowsky humming around painting here, painting there, disappearing for awhile and returning with snacks and cold beers.
It reminded me of those days of my youth, before we could drive, and we’d take turns walking the mile from our little jetty to the liquor store up the road and return back down to the beach with a haul of sodas and chips and general junk food. Good memories, but I digress…
In spite of Wade taking the time to go foraging up the road on this day for our sustenance, I think he still completed two paintings here while I stood there plucking away at bits and pieces of this one. He’s quick. Like waves crashing on the shore. One after another. It’s inspiring to me.
I’m not the slowest painter, but my paintings definitely have a pace of their own, like the tide. Especially when enjoying snacks and cold beers in the cool shade on a warm summer day while watching the afternoon low tide ebb, then turn to flow back in again.
The Back Road
As it happens, on this morning all of my plans were thwarted by that mother of all disruptions… No, not the pandemic, this was 2019- way before all of that. No, this diabolical mocker of all my good designs for spending a day under the sun will be with us long after this covid stuff is just a blip in our memory. I’m talking about a far more formidable foe here.
Fog. On. The. Coast.
Couldn’t even see the other side of the highway, let alone the ocean, so I found myself scouring the hillsides and back roads on this otherwise bright and clear morning for something to paint. Once I’m off the coast I get a little bewildered and turned around. It’s a struggle to stay motivated. But I was here to paint so I kept on and this little ranch road caught my eye leading up toward one of the many rocky peaks that dot this landscape.
I didn’t realize it at the time but this would be a significant piece to kick off this tour of the area, the peak itself being one of the most personally meaningful locations I’d paint on this trip- hallowed ground for sure. But that’s a story for later on…
A Dissonant End
I’ve got no ear for harmonies, seriously. I might not be tone-deaf, but I am certainly tone-dumb. But I have heard that in the language of jazz, the end of a song is often concluded with what is called a dissonant chord. I couldn’t really pick a dissonant chord out of a crowd, but I understand it to be one that isn’t in tonal harmony, whatever that may mean. It doesn’t quite fit in, but it works in its own way I guess.
The end of this trail was kinda like that for me. An abrupt end at a barbed wire fence plastered with signs warning the would-be trespasser (me) to go no further. Of course I had wanted to go further, that was the plan all along. A quick lunch break while assessing the feasibility of proceeding would see a ranch truck come and go and come again in the span of about 20 minutes. Nuts. And this next part might have been all in my head, but I was sure I saw some beady-eyed stink-eye being cast my way as well. I think these guys can smell it on me sometimes.
So I figured I’d buy some time and just paint this little vista safely on the public side of the fence then see if things might quiet down. And they sorta did, but the ranch truck guy hadn’t left yet, so I figured it best to hop along the cliff edge out of view of the road. I made my way quite a good distance up the coast like this until two things happened. First, I reached an impasse where I could go no further without heading up toward the road and all the risk of getting kicked out which would negate all the effort it took to get here. And second, while pondering my predicament, the fog bank finally rolled in and made my decision for me. No point going further if there was nothing to see, so I turned back and called it a day. This place just didn’t fit in with my plans for the day, but such is life on the coast.
The hard to reach places are just that, and that’s what makes them so special to finally reach when everything lines up, and that works fine for me.
Harmonic Convergence
Every little canyon has its own song
I don’t have much ear for music
Painting is how I listen
And also how I play along
She Loves the River
Painted on location, 2.5 miles from the road. A challenging back-country hike with all my gear to paint this one-day late birthday gift for my wife last year…
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It’s true, she loves the river⠀
And it’s steady constant force⠀
The ocean is just leftovers⠀
And she prefers the source⠀
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She leads me through the briars⠀
Stinging nettle, oak, and sorrow⠀
Some pain for the present moment⠀
But the rest we’ll save for tomorrow⠀
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The path is narrow and overgrown⠀
If it’s even a path at all⠀
Two roads diverged and we took neither⠀
She heard the river’s call⠀
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Down the bank we scrambled and slid⠀
Grasping roots along the way⠀
These roots they hold back mountains⠀
They can hold us here today⠀
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Scraped and bruised and winded⠀
At last we find relief⠀
We swim and laugh and stub our toes⠀
Even blessings hold some grief⠀
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My mind drifts off to the coast and its songs⠀
Why oh why am I here⠀
I followed her and would do it again⠀
But we should have brought more beer⠀
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How we ended up together⠀
A mystery untold⠀
I am a pool of simple pleasures⠀
She is the mountain, faithful and bold⠀
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It’s true, she loves the river⠀
And it’s steady constant force⠀
The ocean is just leftovers⠀
And she prefers the source
Down by the Bay
It’s not always hard to reach edge-of-the-earth places. My long time goal of painting the entire California coast means that some days I’m just down at the end of the street painting a quick commission for some friends that are moving out of their cozy little home by the bay.
Dance of Days
I have some playlists of music that take me back to my school days- 80’s punk mostly with a slant toward anything connected to the D.C. bands that followed and evolved from Minor Threat and got caught up in the Dischord Records slipstream. One of these must have been playing when I painted and I ended up naming this one after a song by one such band called Embrace. I also remember a hippy lady dancing on the beach below as I painted the scene from the roof of my van. It was an interesting juxtaposition, the jarring noise and rapid tempos of the music in my headphones, while this flowing nature woman grooved to some other internal rhythm only she could hear, each in our own world- creating, and recreating in our own ways. ⠀
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Come to think of it, there were people all over this beach that day, I’m not sure why I didn’t include any of them in the painting. It’s not usually an intentional decision. I just see right past them. Maybe it has to do with being a bit of a recluse naturally. I’m not anti-social, I love people, and all kinds of people, even the crazy ones, but personally I may have some anti-social… tendencies… I suppose. ⠀
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There’s nothing better than painting on the edge of a cliff far from the well-worn trails where I’m more likely to be startled by a racoon than another human. I only paint in the more crowded places out of necessity (my goal is to paint the entire California Coast- or as much of it as I possibly can, and it certainly does get crowded at certain times and places). ⠀
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When I do find myself in these situations, it’s often standing on the roof of my van with headphones on cranked to 11 in order to tune out all distractions and just fall in love with the land and sea all over again. Nobody can get in my world when I’m up there unless I let them in. ⠀
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In these days of social-distancing, I admit I have enjoyed the reduction of social activities. But darn it if I don’t miss you guys out there. If you see me painting on the van, come on up if you like, or at least give a shout from below. And if you’re a groovy nature lady, well, just keep dancing that dance of days.
To God the Best and the Greatest
Late Arrival
There’s something about immersing myself in the places where I paint that is hard to describe. It’s not the art studio, it’s a wild world out there and it always has been. The past emerges and mingles with the present. Undercurrents of metaphor and meaning rise to the surface and sometimes I try to venture out of the shallows and get a little swept away when I go to jot down notes afterwards. This was one of those times… ⠀
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I might have been a late arrival⠀
But I’ve been here all this time⠀
I was here when the plates collided⠀
I passed the bread and wine⠀
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I was here when we emerged from weeds⠀
When the heavens gave us fire⠀
When our songs kept our mother awake⠀
When the rainbow held us higher⠀
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Vizcaíno saw me here way back in 1602⠀
He called me by my name⠀
The island of Bearded people it was⠀
And to this day remains⠀
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I saw them come and plant the grapes⠀
To sip the nectar from the vine⠀
Prohibition shut them down⠀
I watched it happen but the idea was never mine⠀
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The sheep were led to slaughter⠀
And silent so was I⠀
When the cotton gin reduced their worth⠀
To diamonds in the sky⠀
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I saw the pigs run feral⠀
Chased off by dogs who fell from the air⠀
The pigs are gone and the bacon fried⠀
You’d never know they were there⠀
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My name is Stanton now and so it was⠀
On the day on which I signed⠀
And gave the land unto the guards⠀
I was ill but I wasn’t blind⠀
⠀
They will keep it from abomination⠀
A trampled barren place⠀
But I’m well aware they’d sell the air if they could⠀
As well as these lines upon my face⠀
⠀
It’s for the good I’m sure they’d say⠀
They’ll save the earth with money⠀
Listen at the gate when I pass in the night⠀
I’m laughing but this isn’t funny⠀
⠀
I did what I must and not without Caire⠀
How I longed for a better hand⠀
It was them and their lawyer’s greed⠀
Or else it was the land⠀
⠀
I’m the homesick Italian that built the Chapel⠀
With bricks of my own red earth⠀
And I’m the one that’s buried there⠀
Whose death precedes his birth⠀
⠀
At the altar I have heard⠀
The mighty man’s confession⠀
And to the courtyard I have marched⠀
In his funeral procession⠀
⠀
I stood last night beneath the moon⠀
Where they’ve sold God for the highest bid⠀
I may have defied their lawyers decrees⠀
Breathing a graven image in the mist as I hid⠀
⠀
From watching eyes I was not seen⠀
Except by the all-seeing lens⠀
To which I danced and jigged about⠀
As one does among their friends⠀
⠀
Today I rise with a mist in my eyes⠀
Tired from last night’s dance⠀
I called out from among these ancient trees⠀
And I answered with a glance⠀
⠀
And here I stood among the saplings⠀
When first their roots went down⠀
The mighty eucalyptus whose beauty invades⠀
Like a king in quest of a crown⠀
⠀
The fox and the eagle and the vanishing trees⠀
The trees they love to rhyme⠀
The eagle loves the fattened calves⠀
But the foxes they are mine⠀
⠀
I might have been a late arrival⠀
But I’ve been here all this time⠀
I was here when the plates collided⠀
I passed the bread and wine