These paintings contain notes, thoughts, and written scribblings for those inclined to read…
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
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.
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.
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.
A cove not easily reached. A wild country. The government here stalks on four paws and the cities are made of gray sticks full of poison. And life goes on, even off the grid.
I only had to walk about a mile and a half down a steep and private dirt road to get to this vantage point of a beach everyone knows, but few have seen from this angle. About half way down, I was greeted by friendly dogs doing their best to act really unfriendly to strangers with funny backpacks walking down their roads. Good dogs. There was a clear point in the road that they did not want me to pass. Step over the line, bark and growl, step back, quiet, repeat as desired. Contemplating the options and the steep hike back up the road, I’d have to just risk it. Right about when I’d worked up the nerve to step over their line and keep walking I heard a voice from behind the fence down the road. She Called Off the Dogs.
Titled after Kerouac’s name for this mountain, a looming white peak visible from the canyon beneath the bridge where Kerouac stayed and wrote his novel, and also visible from this ridge a good distance down the coast. This peak is full of stories. Creation stories. Secret caves stories. Lost civilization stories. Mysterious dark figure stories. Get rich quick stories. Get rich slow stories. Lose everything stories. Find everything stories. Everyone has their own mountain to climb or else cower in fear beneath it. Onward. All of us! Onward.
A bright morning and a fine start to the last road trip I took before everything got put on hold in 2020. In spite of how the title makes it sound, I certainly did not have another 22 miles to go neither by car nor on foot. It was a short walk from the road and back to paint this one and I was heading another 50 miles or so to Big Sur after this. The 22 mile reference has to do with the distance across the bay to the far-off blue ridge of land in the background, and the collector I painted this for who often paddles that 22 mile crossing for fun. That blows my mind. I get winded just paddling out to a lineup on a chest high day. I guess I will always have another 22 miles to go.
We knew things were about to get interesting, news of the pandemic was just ramping up in February. And here I was in Tourist Central, painting one of Monterey’s iconic focal points. We were not social distancing. We were in each other’s faces, breathing each other’s breath, like lovers but still strangers from all different parts of the world. The sun was setting and things were about to change. The Distance was about to come to us all – that new cold distance where fear would become an illegitimate surrogate for love.
But I wasn’t thinking about any of that yet, I was headed for Big Sur the day after I painted this, and I was stoked.
I read the invitation on the last falling leaves of our apple tree.
Fall days like this are the best.“Come as you are” is all it said.So we went.Barefoot and happy.Soon enough I found myself standing on the wet sand while painting this one as this shaded creek flowed out to sea around and beneath my feet, pulling no small part of my life-force from my frozen soles and out to sea with it.Next time I get invited to this party, I’m gonna bring boots.Just in case.
