Artwork Notes & Backstories


The Bird and the Bees

10/06/2024

The canary in the coal mine
When she stops singing
Lives are on the line
None more so than hers

I never thought I’d live to see music stop
And I know it never truly did
Wherever there are humans
There is music
And yet
It went oddly quiet for a time
Times and half a time
So quiet that the site and sound
Of a piano being played in the street
Held us in tears

How much could a canary cost
Back in the days when
Carbon monoxide sensors did not exist?
It could not have been much
And yet some engineer with a heart
Built a box with the sole purpose
Of reviving unconscious canaries
In an act of rather clever love
Because the cost of a life
Is never proportional to its worth

Keep singing, songbird

—
Painted for (and during) the Redwood Coast Music Festival.

For these paintings I am always thinking about music and how to portray it visually.

The foundation for me is the connection to water, as the medium through which waves travel in a form relatable to the scale of the human body. We see individual waves traversing the ocean and breaking upon a shore, where we can even immerse ourselves and be propelled by the energy contained in one single wave.

Music consists of waves upon waves. Sound-waves that vibrate our eardrums, the beat of the drum that moves our bodies in rhythms.

For this piece I got to thinking about music theory and the madmen that make sense of notes and octaves and circles of fifths and mathematical harmonies far beyond what my simple mind can process. Coltrane came to mind with his famous napkin sketch. When I saw his sketch I immediately saw bees arranged around the circle and I knew I would work his sketch into this painting.

To offset the cold and impenetrable conceptuality of Coltrane’s sketch I returned to pondering the organic origins of music and arrived at the songbird. I chose a canary for its color and for its history as an icon of singing birds.

And all life comes from water, so there is something beautiful in thinking of music as the love-child of water and math. That’s where the stars come in, marking points on the sine-wave paths of the dancing bees. It’s all connected.

The Redwood Coast Music Festival nearly ended due to covid era restrictions where each time the event was planned another wave of outbreaks hit the area and forced cancellations, much was spent on these events that never happened.

The symbol of the canary in the coalmine comes to mind. When the music stops, we’re in trouble. And we were.

When I searched for reference material about canaries in coal mines I came across an invention from a coal miner- essentially a sealed metal box with an oxygen canister into which the unconscious canary could be revived. Some notes say this was for economic reasons, but my mind cannot wrap around a canary costing enough to profit-minded miners that these engineered boxes would be a financial benefit to the bottom line. I declare those metal and glass life chambers an act of love, and so included a reference to them with the screws around the metal border of the painting..

And there you have it. The Bird and the Bees…


From Seed to Flower and Back Again

09/09/2023

My mother was a greenhouse
She birthed a million babies
And her grandchildren
See the world now
From the wings of honeybees

—

Painted for the Humboldt Botanical Gardens, 2023
The Gardens are a beautiful place and each year they invite a bunch of artists to come and paint on the grounds. They feed us sandwiches and even serve us beers. Each year I walk around for 40 minutes grumbling about how in the world am I supposed to paint here, where there is no horizon, no ocean, no rolling waves… just fields of complicated colors all up in your face everywhere you look. And then I end up finding someone nice to sit beside and chat with while painting something like this. It really is a delightful day and I’m glad to be invited.


Internal Communications

10/07/2023

There is a stage every painting I create goes through at the very beginning that I fall in love with almost every time. It’s not the polished end-game, it’s the initial quick sketch with the first few thin washes of color applied. There is something about that first reaction to the scene before me that happens almost by itself. It is purely joyful to me. After that stage I usually begin the arduous stage of building, building, building layer upon layer of heavier and heavier paint, just pushing, pushing until the painting finally looks like “my work” whatever the hell that is supposed to be… all I know is that it nearly sucks the life out of everything. Oh, I like the finished results in the end, but the whole thing is a just chore to get to that place. The painting becomes only about the end result and the process become mechanical, and contains very little mystery to me after that initial sketch stage.

For the last several years I’ve been grinding against this process, pushing painting after painting through the corridors of strained conformity to an expected standard of completion.

Until this one.

At Wine by the Sea this year I arrived fresh off a bender of live painting all weekend at the Redwood Coast Music Festival, sneaking in a quick break from painting there to come out to this wonderful event and… paint some more. With more live music! I am seriously the most spoiled artist in the world sometimes. After my initial sketch was laid out (with all the joy I previously mentioned) I went on a beer run (about 12 steps from my easel) and when I returned I saw the sketch just sitting there in its joyful glory, not asking for anything of me. This is awkward. I tried to tell it that I was at an event, this was a fundraiser, and I was expected to deliver something more, but this fun little sketch was a stubborn bugger, just sitting there all beautiful and in need of nothing. Reminded me of my wife. I realize this is not an argument I can win. In fact it’s probably not one I should even be having.

So I step away and discuss the matter with some lovely guests of the event, who showed themselves loyal friends and took my side in the matter, and yet… there she was, smiling in the misty breeze, entirely sure of herself. Dang. How can she do this to me? As I continued mulling over my problems to friends and strangers alike, something unusual happened. I heard myself. And upon hearing myself deliberating whether to push this painting that I love into becoming something it isn’t (for many great reasons, mind you), I couldn’t help but to see the obvious. There isn’t an artist in the world that I would advise continuing to push their work past it’s joyful place for the sake of living up to some external standard- real or imagined. No way.

You must listen to your work.
(and your wife)
And honor them both.

So that is what I chose.


Listen to Her

10/07/2023

Another one for the Music People. You know who you are. For the last few years I’ve been honored to paint the official artwork for the Redwood Coast Music Festival.  
  
Each year I put some thought (typically at the last minute) into just what this mysterious magic called music is all about. Where’d it come from? Why is it what it is?  
  
I’ve always connected water to music. I think most of us have at some level. Rhythm, flow, and all that. All of my paintings for them have explored that connection.  
  
As I pondered what to do for this one, I started thinking of the word itself. “Music” comes from the Muses, those divine goddess ladies that lured perfectly ordinary men into accidentally writing poetry, or making music, or art, or nearly any other creative endeavor undertaken by humans to this day.   
  
One account I came across explained the three original muses were all born of Memory, who was a goddess lady herself… (but no can remember who the dad was, which is ironic when you think about it since he married a woman who was the spiritual embodiment of Memory). Their first daughter was associated with the movement of water. The second with practice. And the third with the human voice.  
  
I’m no Greek scholar, but… Memory, Practice, the Movement of Water, and the Human Voice? Yep, sounds like the birth of music to me.   
  
So here she is, Mother Memory herself observing the movement of water, her mind well practiced in the movement of the stars like the frets on a stringed instrument, as the notes rise up in her vocal chords about to give birth to the very first song.  
  
Don’t quote me on any of this.  
  


Ella’s Point

11/12/2022

This was pure imagination, but not all my own. My wife and I had been tasked to give some art instruction to a friend’s daughter as part of an independent study art class she was in at her local high school. You have to know one thing- I am not a very good teacher.

I had to wrack my brain to come up with teacherly things to have her work on, one of which was to come up with a painting with a clearly defined foreground, midground, and background. I’ve heard other artists talk about this and thought it sounded pretty legit. So she comes in with a simple sketch of a grassy foreground meadow with a dirt path and post-and-rail fence, a midground of a sloping headland, and a background of another distant sloping headland.

All I could think was how these points would be firing on the right swell. Long lefts forever! So being the not-so-great teacher that I was, I got all excited and had her watch while I painted and talked my way through my own version of her concept. I guess I straight up stole it? Depends on how you look at it I suppose. I could have been a good teacher and had her paint alongside me, but I kinda just wanted to paint the thing myself.

I hope she wasn’t bored off her mind, a solid hour of her and my wife sitting there chatting about the painting and asking questions while I painted and sorted out various academic solutions to achieving “atmospheric perspective” and such art teachery sounding things. Like a bad Bob Ross episode, only longer without the edits. But as with much of my art, I was mostly just daydreaming about the waves I wanted to see lining up down these points.

We finished up, I was stoked, everyone was relieved it was over, and the next week she came back to paint her own version. I really can’t say if watching me had helped her much or not.

Art is funny like that. I’ve mostly noticed artists just do what they do, how they do it, and while it’s interesting to see how others approach similar subjects, none of us really care all that much once we have a brush in our hand.


Afternoon Commitments

10/04/2022

When we’re young and in love, we can ignore all the demands of the world in favor of one afternoon alone with our loved one, while the entire world becomes small enough to rest in the shade of a single beach umbrella. 
 
If you know my art, you know I’m usually drawn to higher ground with sweeping views of an entire coastline, often stretching for miles into eternity, or the horizon, whichever comes first. 
 
So a quiet, intimate, beach level moment where love unfolds in a single cove of sand nestled between the sculpted forms of sandstone cliffs and calm and playful sea, well, it’s a bit different for me.  
 
It’s a fairly simple painting, and it was the simplicity itself that was the challenge.  
 
But for my friend who proposed to his wife here at this spot, this isn’t just a simple scene. For him, in that moment, the whole world came to rest under the shade of that umbrella. 


Depth Perception #5

09/29/2022

There is something primordial about staring into the blackness of the deep. A sense of heightened awareness is stirred because, well, mostly because monsters. So we feel safer in shallow waters where we can see with all certainty that no such monsters lurk. And yet if the ocean is really moving its the shallows with thier unmoving rocks that become dangerous and the safety of deep water is what we strive for. In either case, clear water is helpful.

So it also is in the ocean of our minds. There’s times we need to go deep, and times to rest in the shallows. It depends on the turbulence we face. And just like the ocean, a little clarity is always helpful.

This series is a prayer for clarity for us all.

I think.

It gets murky sometimes.


Depth Perception #4

08/20/2022

Our bodies are made of rocks, sand, and clay. Veins of metal pulse beneath. Mining operations are blood transfusions that keep the gods on life support. Our spirits disturbed, distant storms, fueled by the heat of life-giving fire, translates the language that created the first world into the depths of our subconsciousness, reverberating in pulses of groundswell that interact with these earthen bodies and take on surprising forms, a rhythm of highs and lows, at turns chaos, at turns sublimely beautiful.

And when the storm is distant? And when the local rainfall subsides, and our bodies are no longer awash with spiritual grief of the present moment? When those creeks slow to a trickle and run clear to the sea? And when those subconscious depths relax for a season, and the murky sediments drop to the seabed and find rest?

That is when we know clarity. That is when we can stand centered in our bodies, and look through our spirit, and into the depth of our subconscious life, and see the strange and beautiful creatures that swim the depths there.

When conditions align just so, and a distant storm unseen sends its forerunners into the crystal clear coves and bays, we can see the dance in whole new ways. We can see the stars in the bright blue sky, and we can see reefs beneath the waves, and we can see the groundswells approach with a clarity unmatched.

That is when we stand there in the shallows, observing the interplay of life upon our bodies, hypnotized by the beauty within us, and next thing you know, we’re smashed into the rocks, gulping for air, our swim trunks blown right off in the explosion and we wash ashore awkwardly, sometimes bleeding, naked, and laughing.

Life is beautiful. Carry on.


Twentytwenty II

09/23/2022

Back in 2020 I painted a dark stormy shorepound painting as a response to the mayhem we were all living through. It struck a chord with many, I think because in spite of the darkness there was a certain beauty in it as well. A few years later, when a collector asked for a similar rendition, it didn’t turn out quite so dark. If I were asked for one now, I’m not sure what would happen.

We live in different times today. Even the beaches that inspired these paintings have changed. What was once a short berm to hop down from the dunes to the beach sand below has become a 15 foot vertical precipice of sand for what feels like miles in either direction. We entered at a low spot and walked south for a good stretch on the low tide.

My wife and I watched our two youngest make sport on a dare of scrambling up the vertical wall and throwing themselves off the ledge over and over. Weightless they flew, occasionally even flapping their arms in delightful giddiness as they fell like stones into the soft sand below, occasionally toppling awkwardly feet over head and again when gravity’s momentum got the better of their balance.

I pray their experience of this world that is becoming far more difficult for many among us, will still be something they can always find beauty in. And one thing I am certain of- their joy wasn’t just in the playful act of cliff diving into soft sand, it was in the act of doing so with each other. Laughing at each other. Pushing each other onward. Surprising each other with entirely new ways to look goofy when falling in midair.

I’ve never been more convinced that the greatest joy we can find in this life is just to be with the ones who are with us.


Gravitational Truce

08/22/2022

Over 4 miles of hiking with a large canvas and all my gear, risking the tide, trusting these unstable cliffs to hold a few more hours towering over my head. A game of Russian Roulette with sedimentary geology, all in the name of beauty and solitude. I found it here that day, and some might even call it peaceful. I considered it more of Gravitational Truce.


Nobody Home

08/21/2022

Nobody home
Just kidding
Everybody is home
We all live here

Our feet in the sand
Reminds us of what we’re made of
Mostly anyway
Mostly made of earth

But some of us are also made of fish tacos
And if I tell the truth here
I must say I’ve spent more time
Eating fish tacos at the Brigantine
(a nearby PCH corner establishment)
Than I have on this beach

I’m also not too proud
To shamelessly boast
That a few large canvas prints of mine
(different images, not this one)
Grace the walls
As you walk into the restaurant
And I think that is really rather something
Considering all of the amazing artists
Who live here
And paint these shores
In their own amazing ways
(and many of whom I have shared
many a happy hour with
consuming said fish tacos
and pints of beer
at that very same establishment)

But I ramble

The point I was trying to make
Is that even when I am painting
A piece of coast
With an empty lifeguard tower
And the mother of all stairways
While the tide nearly washes
My easel to sea
And the good fellow
Who commissioned this painting
Is standing by
With a frisbee
and a cooler bag
Full of cold beers
And the sand between my toes
Reminds me once again
Of who I am
And what a joy it is
To live here with all of you
(yes, you)
Well…

Wait, what was the point of this?
I forget…
Nobody home

Let’s meet for tacos
Soon


Kansas City Star

09/10/2022

This was a lot of fun to paint, and waaaay out of my comfort zone. If you know my work, you know what I mean. I’m a lot more comfortable painting rocks and trees inaccurately than I am doing the same injustices to the human form, but there they were, pouring themselves into their music for us only a few feet away. What could I do? I did my best. And this is where it landed.

It’s especially meaningful to me as I’ve painted at live events while dozens, possibly hundreds of musicians have played nearby, but never a group of musicians I’ve known as long as these guys. Usually I just paint whatever I feel like, flowing water, waves, etc, but today I felt like painting these guys while they did their thing. Our friendships go back over 25 years, long before, they played music together, before they formed Huckleberry Flint and proceeded to sell out shows. Long before two of them got the wild idea to figure out how to make chocolate from scratch and winning awards and selling chocolate all over the world as Dick Taylor Craft Chocolates. They even hired my oldest daughter and now she always smells like chocolate, and if we shake her hard enough, little bits of chocolate fall out of the hems in her shirt, and we laugh and make cookies. So yeah, this wasn’t just a painting of a band, this painting is a snapshot in time of friendships that have been forged over a lifetime.


The President

04/21/2022

Two things happened recently.

First, I spent a week exploring and painting along one of mainland California’s most remote and mysterious coastlines. Missile launch silos. American flags. Chain of command and all that. But this painting isn’t about that trip at all except for one detail. One morning on the beach, miles from the nearest pavement of any sort, I came across some paw prints on the beach. I’d heard of mountain lions on this coast, and somehow I always pictured those cats, well, up in the mountains. The thought of one of these majestic beasts with sand stuck between its toes got my imagination working.

Second, I was asked to come paint live at a fundraiser for a friend who’s running for elected office here in Humboldt. He’s commissioned artwork from me in the past and I ate an unwholesome amount of snacks at his Superbowl party one year without even watching the game. I have no way to know whether he’s the perfect fit for the job he’s seeking, but I do know that over the years he’s been a supporter of artists like myself, so while that means I am certainly biased, it also means he’s been a meaningful part of this community’s culture long before seeking public office.

I’m not a fan of political gamery at any level and try to steer clear at all costs. But then again, I’ve never had a collector or personal friend ask me to come and paint at their political fund-raiser before, so I didn’t give it much thought and next thing you know I have to figure out what to paint at a fancy politics party.

How do I get myself into these situations?

And then I remembered the mountain lion that prowled through my thoughts on that beach a few weeks earlier. It just felt right. Those cats are apex critters if there ever were, and truthfully politics is a game of apex aspirations. But what good is apex power without honest self-reflection? It’s no good at all, that’s what. Disastrous even. So our mountain lion stands over a tidepool, its silhouette reflecting in the clear waters below, revealing a vibrant ecosystem beneath the surface.

I know that sounds a little corny, but that’s what I thought about while painting this one.

And my hope for my friend and everyone else that seeks public office, is just what this painting portrays. That it’s not about just how to win and score points and use the power you seek to shape the world as you want it, but to also honestly reflect on your role in your community, our community. I can only hope that those who seek power will also take the time to look within and find the clarity to see all of us staring back in your reflection.


Who Are You?

04/08/2022

Let’s meet for tacos. I drag an art pal along and we meet up with a friend who wants me to paint a particular spot nearby. The tacos are delicious but they are actually giant burgers and these beers are absolutely perfect. Another pal shows up and another round ensues. We leave the funny tacos and head out to paint this spot for my friend. We drive a convoluted route through a college campus to a packed parking lot and wander off past the college kids all over the sandstone bluffs in search of this view. Once we find it, we scratch an X and we return to the lot and offload my paint pack with our latecomer taco pal and drive all the way back around to the non-college campus lot and traverse across these same sandstone bluffs back to our X marks the spot by a different route and wonder where our latecomer taco pal with the pack is at. He’s got my whole studio in that thing. All I can do is whistle in the breeze and enjoy the view. Phone calls are made. I’m confused, but that is typical. Decisive planning on road trips is just not my thing. Did I mention my friend and his pal are lawyers? Not that that matters much, but I don’t generally question lawyers. Especially lawyers with bags full of ice cold beers. This is gonna work out fine. Finally the gear arrives and I set to work on this painting over the banter of surf tales going back generations and harmonica tunes going back even further. These guys are good at this shooting-the-breeze game and it quickly becomes apparent that they’ve both seen some wild things here. Not all of it friendly. But some of it magically beautiful too. The sun sets and we wander back to the cars and set off in search of tacos and beers. We head over to a bar and grill near a busy pier, where parking does not exist at this hour except for lawyers who’ve seen some things and know that they can park in the customer only surf shop lot after hours right behind the restaurant row and walk straight into the bar like they own the place and since I don’t question lawyers in bars I follow right behind as we walk through dishwasher steam clouds and down a narrow hallway dodging piles of dirty dishes with long legs when a sweaty faced kid appears from a doorway and stops in his tracks before being steamrolled by three musketeers marching through his kitchen uninvited and says as we pass by,

“Who ARE you guys?”

And I don’t even know. And I’m not gonna start asking questions now. And again the tacos were delicious but they were actually pizzas and the beers were once again absolutely perfect.


Higher Learning

04/08/2022

If I had learned a little more
I’d have known what not to do
I’d have stood my ground
And refused to paint
The whole entire view

But here we are after the fact
Showing every reef and where they lie
Splayed out across this canvas
From a vantage point
Halfway up the sky

A smarter arter would have simply
Painted only one piece of this coast
But thankfully
I missed that class
And I’m not as smart as most


Not Exactly No

04/07/2022

I’m pretty sure there are
more than a few of you
Who consider me a lazy man
A work ethic gone soft
Beach days in the sun
Idle hands
Idle mind
Idolatry to the almighty dollar
Guilty as charged
Stone me

But with sweat dripping
Down my face
I stand in the sparkling sun
And craft these artifacts
For no other useful purpose
Than to spark a few sweet memories
For the few softer hearts among you
Who refuse to throw stones

Not exactly the hardest work
But it’s not exactly no work at all
It’s always been my honor
To work for you


Into the Sunset

04/07/2022

Will this be your first?
That was my stupid question for them
I’m not very good at this
They were really quite beautiful together
A perfect young couple
Watching another southern California sunset
From the edge of crumbling cliff
Over the mirror of the sea
Clearly expecting
A green flash

I’d just finished painting the scene
And drinking 3 beers
That’s not exactly the usual
During the course of a painting
But friends had joined me today
And it sometimes goes that way

Words of wisdom
Spoken by an old friend:
“Nothing is better than a two beer buzz”
Truth
It doesn’t get better
Only more difficult
To ask the right questions

This child would not be their first
Or their second
Or third
I don’t remember now
But it was maybe their ninth
Or thirteenth
A number enough to make you wonder
If they were much, much older than they looked

So I asked if it was true
That it got easier after the third child
They said absolutely
3 is the hardest
After that it gets easier and easier
As they start to raise each other

That’s how they could leave the other 8 or maybe 12 behind
And relax into the sunset here tonight
The team was on top of it at home
Building themselves some dang quesadillas

I’d only had three kids
The most challenging number
Now verified
My folks had three
And I was the last of them
Same for my wife
And I can confirm
That we are two of the most difficult people
You’ll ever meet
Aside from my mom
Who was the first of two
And was the pinnacle
Of difficulty
She recently walked off into the sunset
I said my goodbyes
Through salty tears
She told me to get off her cloud

So with my feet planted back on the ground
Beside the mother and father
Of a small nation beside me
And a setting sun before me
I don’t remember
If there was a green flash or not
But I knew that my three kids at home
And these three beers on the edge of this cliff
It was enough for me


Where It Wishes

03/11/2022

You never know where the wind will take you.
I generally avoid painting down at sea level.
I like to be up on the edge of the cliff.
Canvas bouncing in the wind.
But today I’m here.
Not of my own decision.
I’m painting this for some friends.
They’re moving on, and this, a parting gift.
You never know where the wind will take you.


The Brighter Side of Widowhood

08/10/2021

As I was nearly finished with painting this scene
I watched a woman descend the narrow path
To this small cove
With her child
They were beautiful
And complete
As they were

She didn’t need a husband down there
Checking his phone
Drinking too many beers
Zoning out when his daughter called for him
Showing off in the frigid water
And looking more like a fat walrus on his return
Than the finely sculpted merman
He thinks he is

They made me think of you
And of us
And if I should die before you
Look at the bright side…
No more beard hairs on the table
On the floor
On the kitchen counters
In our books
In our bed
In our mouths
No more listening to me talk on and on when I should just shut up
No more wondering why I’ve shut up when I should be talking
No more fool of a man to look down on
For being a fool of a man
For overthinking everything
For procrastinating too much
For working all the time
For not having the time or or means to take the family on enough amazing vacations
For preferring colder weather
For preferring to pray silently
For not doing enough
For wanting too much from you
For not being the man you hoped for
For checking my phone too much
For drinking too many beers
For zoning out on our kids
For being a beer-bellied walrus
For not saying sorry enough

And for dying
I’m sorry about that too

So look on the bright side…
You’ll be joining me sooner or later
When the time is right
And there will be no more disappointment then
Only the truest love to share
Between us

(But I cant promise anything
About the beard hairs
We’ll just have to see how that goes)


Thermal Windows

10/15/2021

This private beach club cove once hosted a thriving whaling community. If one could activate time layers to run simultaneously we’d see grandmas playing smashball over bloody whale carcasses being carved away on the beach. But today is a quiet weekday and I see neither. I only see the quiet scene blurred through my sweating eyeballs as the southern California heat rises from the scorched desert at my feet. And speaking of whales and sweat, of coarse everyone knows that whales don’t sweat (I didn’t, I had to look it up just to be sure, but I strongly suspected they wouldn’t). But if that’s so, how then do they cool off?  Sometime or another all that oily blubber must work a little too well and trap them in too much heat, not unlike my current predicament while painting on this hill. Apparently they have regions on their body around the dorsal fins and elsewhere where the blubber layer is minimal, and these zones are packed with fine blood vessels. Whale gets hot, pumps more blood to these “thermal windows”, blood cools off, whale cools off, pumps less blood to thermal windows, whale warms up, etc. My thermal windows weren’t working so well today. Had to resort to some ice cold external 12oz thermal regulator cans full of deliciously fizzy fermented grains. They helped. Science is amazing.


Mine… Or Maybe Yours

08/27/2021

We met when we were older, when we had more swagger, and we stood a little closer to the throne.

But we had a falling out between us, we’re artists, and we’re awkward, this is widely known.

The fault was all mine, that’s what I’ve been told, but it could have been yours and yours alone.

Years went past, we lost too much, loved ones, and our youth, a wife, and a home.

There’s no point blaming each other now, we’re brothers, and anyway, our conflict was overblown.

So today we stand here side by side and harvest the morning colors from the intertidal zone.

This was the shore that shaped your soul, the same but different to the one that shaped my own.

So at noon oh two and not a minute later we’ll drink down our beers and let our differences sink like a stone.

I could go on about it but the next beer’s getting warm and we’re near the end of this poem.

By night we’re half-drunk on the edge of a cliff, what the hell and how far can our troubles be thrown.

So I’ll leave it at this, you clear-eyed disaster and paint flinging bastard, my respect for you it has grown.

It’s not a secret at all, it’s friendship, it’s clear, like gin in a jar, so drink deep and don’t go it alone.

 

*Dedicated to my buddy Spencer Reynolds, who showed me this spot and brought the beers.


Needle in a Haystack

08/11/2021

The needle was the view
And the haystack was the mist
I come for the first
But cursed my luck
When I couldn’t see past my fist

I set up in faith
That it would clear
And momentarily it did
Had to work quick
To get the jist
And that is what you see here


Proof of Concept

Plein air painting by Matt Beard of the California coast just north of Point Conception

05/03/2021

Painted this one en route to a lighthouse at California’s greatest turning point. I was originally going to paint the beach park about 5 miles north of this point, just around that first bend in the distance of this painting. After walking about 30 feet north to seek a nearby view, not even getting out of the parking lot, I turned on a whim and walked south. For 5 miles. I did some things wrong. I didn’t check the tide. I didn’t consult a map. I didn’t bring any food. All I remember is reading that you could walk to the lighthouse now, so off I went.

When I reached the 5 mile mark I couldn’t go any further on the beach, blocked by the massive cliffs jutting right into the water. No lighthouse in sight, I figured I would just follow the road that came down the ravine here. Lots of no trespassing signs, I mean, they really wanted to let people know, but I recognized the name on the sign as the previous landowners and so I thought that surely these must be out of date. When I got up on the bluff I could make out the lighthouse in the distance a little less than a mile away.

I could also make out a white truck. It’s always a white truck. I don’t know why. It just is.

Well, I figured the worst that might happen is that I’d be asked to leave. I figured I could talk my way out of any situation that arose, but I wasn’t sure I’d be able to talk my way into permission to pass if that’s what it came to. So after getting this far without thinking things through, I did the first smart thing I’d done all day. I retreated about 30 feet below the crest of the hill, out of sight from whoever was rolling around in that white truck, and painted this scene looking back over the coast I’d just traversed. This way even if I got kicked out of here on my way to ascend the knoll where the lighthouse was, I’d at least go home with this painting done. Proof of Concept, if you will.


The Loneliness of the Long Distance Rose Bush

09/10/2022

Maybe it’s a self portrait.

This was painted at the Humboldt Botanical Gardens where there must have been at least 20 other artists working on the grounds. Maybe more. Beautiful people, hearts of gold, paintings of delightful beauty in various states of refinement.

I show up late, wander the entire garden, perpetually unsatisfied with the beauty before me. Feeling woefully inadequate to convey anything true or special about the infinite miracles of life all around me.

A sign beside the trail reads “Naughty children must pull weeds”.

I consider pulling weeds instead of painting, but they asked me to come and paint, not wallow in self pity, so in a flash of brilliance I realized that even though I deserved to just sit down and yank weeds, by not doing so and painting instead I would then for once be doing as I was told and could avoid botanical justice… for at least just this afternoon.

And the next thing I knew I found this lonely little rose bush standing apart from the other plants. A head full of beauty and a body full of thorns. This is my people.


Say Nothing

09/25/2021

The land that lay directly behind me as I painted this distant view from one of California’s more central coasts belongs to none other than Neil Young, and having learned this I couldn't help but recall him singing the old Woody Guthrie tune This Land is Your Land:

As I was walkin', I saw a sign there
And on the sign it said "no trespassing"
But on the other side, it didn't say nothin'
That side was made for you and me

I’d be lying if I said this didn’t have me tempted to go walking right off this ridge for an afternoon stroll through his private ranch. Just for the poetry of it. But I'm pretty sure it was just a song he was singing from a stage and not exactly his personal property trespassing policy, and if I'd made it very far at all nobody but me alone would have thought it was all that witty to cite that song as my justification.

And besides, I was here with a specific purpose. I was brought up to this lonely ridge to paint the sweeping view and it was far more beautiful looking toward the coast than back over at Neil’s bald hills anyway.

I had learned it was Neil Young's property from the guy who drove me up and dropped me off up here. He's spent a lot of time on this property and knows everyone pretty well.

So of course he knows the caretaker of the cattle on this ranch, the same cattle that we had to slowly navigate through just after the second gate, and he knows that this caretaker is a real... let's just say handful. On our way down one hill, we see the cattleman coming up the dirt road in a cloud of anger and we pull aside to let him pass and he's yelling and spitting as us, red in the face, because a water truck is coming up behind him and I guess he's afraid we'll just plow into it blindly instead of pulling over like we had just done for him and he's also yelling about some loose cattle, and I'm thinking, yeah they're all pretty loose, just hanging around. Who ties up their cattle anyway? I’m no cowboy so I know that any thoughts that run through my head about cattle management are completely bunk, so I keep my mouth shut, but in all seriousness we closed every gate behind us as we went along, which is probably exactly what he thinks we didn’t do. Our Ford 350 was the same plain silver as his but in his mind I think he might have seen ours as covered with sloppy hand painted rainbows and driven by th…

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