Artwork Notes & Backstories | MATT BEARD ART

Mountain of Mien Mo

A plein air painting overlooking Andrew Molera and Point Sur with Pico Blanco in the distance on the Big Sur coast of California

02/17/2020

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.

22 Miles to Go

Plein air painting of Asilomar beach from Spanish Bay near Pacific Grove on the Monterey County coast of California

02/16/2020

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.

The End of Love

A plein air landscape painting of Lover's Point near Pacific Grove on the Monterey County coast of California

02/16/2020

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.

For Those with Ears to Hear

Aerial view artwork of San Simeon point and cove and Hearst Castle on the San Luis Obispo coast of California

November 21, 2019

This piece gets personal for me. It’s a prominent headland on a stretch of California’s coast that always reminds me of my grandparents who moved somewhere behind those mountains on the right when I was about 10 years old. We’d go visit them occasionally, always bummed that they didn’t have a TV or “anything to do”. We always thought it would be so boring. Looking back, those times with my brother, sister, and cousins where some of the best times I can remember from my childhood. I don’t remember actually being bored even once, we spent the whole time outside exploring, playing, fighting, dodging trouble the best we could. Real life. Our lives. When my grandpa passed away I was about 16 years old. To this day when I think of him (and my grandmother as well) I think of the wisdom of their generation and how once a generation passes, their particular wisdom passes along with them. Some of it is passed down to the next generation of course, but some is sadly gone forever. When I encounter whales in the ocean I have a similar feeling about them- that they have a particular wisdom- one that is beyond our understanding, but also one that could sadly pass from existence one day, should the last of the whales spout its final breath. This particular headland was once a prime spot for hunting whales, so I included one in the painting beneath those mountains on the right, an homage to the wisdom of my grandfather who breathed his last breath in his sleep just beyond that hill nearly 30 years ago. We love you, grandpa.

Rise and Shine

Plein air painting of Humboldt County's rocky Trinidad coast in Northern California

11/02/2019

Painted this one on location close to home on a November morning back in 2019. It was one of those days we don’t get very often here, perfect conditions, no wind, crystal clear… just not quite clear enough to see what was about to go down in a few short months.

When I look at my paintings from these days it’s like remembering a different version of myself, stirring a strange nostalgia for simpler troubles before the world turned upside down with disruption.

But the truth is that on this clear morning here in 2021 the light still fills the air around us.

Time to get moving.

The SLO Road | 2019

October 29, 2019

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► CONTINUE READING

Chromatic Water Theory XIII: Abstract Jazz

Live art for the Redwood Coast Music Festival

10/19/2019

Painted partially live at the Basement in Arcata, then finished recently for the Redwood Coast Music Festival.

It’s been a ton of fun creating artwork for the festival, and at the festival as well. This Chromatic Water Theory series was literally born in the presence of world class jazz musicians performing in the Morris Graves Museum of Art in Eureka. The first few pieces I did for the official festival artwork included different elements, but as I painted live as the jazz acts rotated throughout the days and nights of the festival a simpler theme emerged- a visual combination of musical instruments and moving water.

I can’t think of too many manifestations of rhythm in nature as elemental and profound as the breaking of waves on a shoreline. Sure there’s sound waves, light waves, all sorts of wave phenomenon in nature, but water waves are special in that they are scaled in space and time just perfectly for human interaction. We can ride one at a time, or get pounded by one at a time if riding them isn’t your thing (or even if it is). We can experience one water wave as a singular entity. Not so with sound waves, or light waves.Perhaps even more than their rhythms, it’s the ability to move us physically that causes me to associate them with music. But I don’t want to make too much of it or overthink it, because like music, these paintings are just fun and feel so right.

Previous pieces from the series have focused on piano keys, drums, and various stringed instruments. The brass and woodwind instruments- saxophones, tubas, clarinets all seemed so foreign to my sensibilities. I can reference something as simple as a vibrating string and feel like I’ve done enough to evoke a guitar, but these alien instruments, full of tubes, and levers, and knobs, and who-knows-what- how do you distill one of those to a simple element? I have no answer. Maybe a better artist could do so effectively but the task eluded me, so I just went with the whole enchilada… er, saxophone, front and center. The keys beneath and the drum behind rounded out a nice trio. So there you have it

And also a poem…

When the music ends⠀
The lights go on⠀
And everyone slowly leaves⠀
Yet somehow the room is strangely dim⠀
Somehow darker than it was before⠀
When the house lights were off⠀
And the music filled the spaces⠀
Between the empty glasses ⠀
That are now also slowly leaving⠀
White rings on the wood tables⠀
As we hum to ourselves ⠀
And dissolve back into the cold night air⠀
And warm beds that await⠀
⠀
If we’d known then⠀
That the music would end in this way⠀
We’d have stayed all night long⠀
Played all night long⠀
And drank the bar dry⠀
Letting the jazz⠀
Lead the revolution⠀
Until they came with lights blazing⠀
To pry the saxophones and drumsticks⠀
From our cold dead hands⠀
To confiscate the pianos⠀
And abolish this beautiful night⠀
⠀
So now we sit in the quiet darkness⠀
Of a bright winter day⠀
Humming sad tunes to ourselves⠀
That we’ll later play softly ⠀
On our contraband pianos⠀
Sitting in our empty rooms⠀
With the lights off⠀
Because everyone knows⠀
The piano is just a medicine cabinet⠀
And the music will never end⠀

A Man Among Giants… and Also His Cat

Plein air painting of Ken Jarvela painting in the redwoods at Prairie Creek National Park in Humboldt County, California

10/10/2019

Over 20 years ago I read a story in the local press about an artist that would spend weeks on end out in the high mountain backcountry, living out of tent and cave, painting daily. Surviving snow and rock and ice and fire. On his return he’d see civilization’s blur of concrete and impatience through eyes made clear in the thin mountain air. He’d also return with 38 paintings. On his back. And that would just be one pack. He’d have another pack full of camp gear that he’d haul around in a game of alpine leap frog as he juggled these two packs all over the peaks and valleys of the country he loved.

I’ve never been more inspired by any artist’s commitment. Oh, you paint in the howling wind? Fun. Oh, you paint every day like a good devotee to the religion you’ve built around art in your mind? Bless you, my child. Oh, you paint large canvases outdoors, much larger than most plein air painters would attempt? Go big or go home, as they say. Those are all great, but get back to me when you’ve gone on a solo painting trip for a month on foot in the wilderness and have to wait out a blizzard in a bear’s cave punching holes in the snowpack to breathe as you shiver out the storm surrounded by half-finished paintings from the warmer, sunnier days that preceded this long dark day that could have held 4 or 5 ordinary days within it’s length*. That is the bar that has been set. When it comes to commitment, none of us, and I mean none of us, are Ken Jarvela. (Except Ken… so I guess one of us is Ken Jarvela. Hi Ken!)

I found Ken on a warm October day back in 2019 surrounded by giant old growth redwoods, working on a 24″ x 60″ panel from the road beside his car, watched by his cat, Charlie Wing Wang (may he rest in peace). Very few painters can make sense of these dense forest scenes and actually make them work, but Ken is truly a master. What was there to do? I was just another cat watching so I created my own cat’s-eye-view of Ken Jarvela, a man among giants.

Between the Music and the Beer

Live art of sand dunes on the Samoa peninsula on the Humboldt coast of northern California

10/05/2019

This was also a live painting done just recently at a benefit for a local nonprofit called Friends of the Dunes. I’ve been painting at their annual wine-sipping event for the last 6 years or so and always have a good time. This day was no different, but it was a bright sunny day, unlike some years, and I was supposed to set up and paint outside. I’d prefer to have been in the shade, but all the tents were sorta spoken for, so what was I to do? The obvious thing of course- wedge myself right in between the live music tent and the beer tent. I may not be smart, but I’m no dummy. Good times once again.

A Fresh Perspective

Plein air painting overlooking Highway 101 at Freshwater lagoon on the Humboldt coast of Northern California

09/21/2019

Long straight sandy beaches are a lifelong nemesis when it comes to composing a scene that holds my interest long enough to see a painting through. Down on the beach it’s all just sand and sky with that little strip of compressed sea level ocean. Aargh. Get me up on a hill. Give me a little more earth, a little more ocean, a little more of everything and a little less sky. Nothing against the heavens, I’ll be heading there soon enough, but for now my feet are still planted firm in the clay. Give me a beer and a sandwich. Give me anything at all, just give me a fresh perspective please.

Deep Calls to Deep

Plein air painting of mural on a church wall by Chris Del Moro and graffiti that say to Read Kerouac in Marina Di Pisa, Italy

09/17/2019

“The only people for me are the mad ones: the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who… burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow Roman candles.” ⠀
-Jack Kerouac, American Poet and Novelist (1922-1969)⠀
Printed and taped on my father’s fridge by my sister (1968-2014)⠀
⠀
Ok, hold on tight… ⠀
⠀
Enter Tom Curren, stage right, guitar in hand, gliding across an old Persian rug on roller skates. The same rug on which I stood painting live to his music after a surf festival just north of San Francisco. The same rug on which just a few hours earlier I nervously met Tom backstage behind a translucent screen where Jason Baffa’s film Bella Vita played (the part where Chris Del Moro paints a mural in Italy). The same rug that once belonged to Jerry Garcia, who was greatly influenced by Kerouac, and who also once laid his hands on my own mother’s womb in Golden Gate Park in 1969 and blessed my unborn sister who went on to live a fabulous Roman candle of a life and introduced me to Kerouac’s work before cancer extinguished her visible flames. ⠀
⠀
Bella Vita. Although my first encounter with the film proved deeply significant, I had no way to know just how far that magic carpet we stood on was going to take me in just a few years. If Jason Baffa hadn’t made that film about Chris Del Moro returning to Italy, Dwight Harrington wouldn’t have seen it and been immediately inspired to plan his return trip, catching me up in his slipstream. ⠀
⠀
Shortly after Bella Vita was released, Chris asked me to do a painting up in the hills near his home in California. I arrived with friends and we descended into Chris’s world like characters from a Kerouac novel and proceeded to hoot and holler and drink the afternoon right into evening, resulting in a rather questionable painting. He was gracious, but I knew I’d make it up to him one day. ⠀
⠀
Today was the day. I set up the easel in front of his mural in Italy and painted the scene in plein air. A gift for a friend. ⠀
⠀
Graffiti on the wall simply read, “READ KEROUAC.” Just two words, but oh how they burned, burned, burned…

Drink Up

A plein air landscape painiting from the Lost Coast Trail at Sea Lion Gulch on the Humboldt coast of California

08/14/2019

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

A plein air landscape from the Lost Coast Trail overlooking Punta Gorda on the Humboldt coast of northern California

08/14/2019

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

Plein air nocturne painting of Cooskie Creek on the Lost Coast Trail on the Humboldt Coast of Northern California

08/13/2019

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

A plein air painting of a broken down hunting cabin on the Lost Coast Trail in Northern California's Humboldt County

08/13/2019

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.

Motel California

Plein air painting overlooking the north end of Pismo Beach on the San Luis Obispo county coast of Central California

07/19/2019

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.

—

*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

Plein air painting of Hollister Peak inspired by William Wendt in San Luis Obisbo County in Central California

07/17/2019

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.

—

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

Plein air painting of a shiprwreck near Cayucos on the San Luis Obispo County coast of central California

07/17/2019

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

Plein air painting of kayaks on the beach at Port San Luis on the central California coast

07/17/2019

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

Plein air painting of an old dairy farm building at Cayucos on the central California coast of San Luis Obispo County

07/16/2019

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.

—

*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

Landscape plein air painting of California poppies growing near Point Buchon on the San Luis Obispo County coast of California

07/15/2019

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

Plein air painting of the Borradori Garage near Cayucos on the central coast of California in San Luis Obispo county

07/15/2019

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

My wife rocking out on guitar by a campfire on a cattle ranch

July 15, 2019

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.⠀
⠀
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

Landscape plein air painting near Point Buchon and Diablo Canyon on the San Luis Obispo county coast of California

07/15/2019

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

Plein air painting of Pirate's cove and Cave Landing near Avila Beach on the San Luis Obispo county coast of central California

07/14/2019

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.

Backstories, Backroads, and No Roads at All