Writing

A different way to enjoy my work, through the written words, notes, and poems that pour out alongside the artwork, and sometimes all on their own…


Lined Up

December 10, 2010

On the morning I was created⠀
I crawled out the back of the old yellow van⠀
Wide-eyed and blinking⠀
Wondering where my brother had ran?⠀

He ran to the sea⠀
He ran for his life⠀

Past the razor’s edge of the earth⠀
Into the mist where the horizon is long⠀
Where the black dots line up and wait⠀
Is that really where my brother had gone?⠀

He ran to the sea⠀
He ran for his life⠀

I unearth sandwiches buried in sand⠀
Sealed plastic baggies with PB and J’s⠀
Perfect gifts from Mother Earth⠀
So why did my brother rush into the haze?⠀

He ran to the sea⠀
He ran for his life⠀

Looking around I see girls on the move⠀
Their bikinis and bodies these young eyes amazed⠀
What were we talking about?⠀
And how did my brother get past them unfazed?⠀

He ran to the sea⠀
He ran for his life⠀

He told me to join him before he ran off⠀
I was unsure of myself and scared⠀
Of the ocean and its blackened depths⠀
What made my brother think I would dare?⠀

To run to the sea⠀
To run for my life⠀

To follow him out and beyond⠀
To the great sea where its rhythms unfurled⠀
To leave the logic of land for the great “into-ocean”⠀
But he was my brother and did he not rule the world?⠀

So I ran to the sea ⠀
And I ran for my life⠀

Bewildered by movements unknown⠀
I tried and I tried and I tried and I tried⠀
I couldn’t get past these white rolling waters⠀
“Where are you, brother” I cried⠀

Scratching the sea⠀
And scratching for life⠀

“Turn and go” was all that I heard⠀
So I turned and I goed with all that I could ⠀
That little white wave pushed me along⠀
And my brother watched as I stood⠀

On the sea⠀
And on my life⠀

I had never felt so alive⠀
As when the white foam gave way⠀
To smooth water before it⠀
I was made a brother that day⠀

We ran to the sea⠀
We ran for our lives⠀

And to this day we still run⠀
But I’ll always remember just how elated⠀
I was to join my brother ⠀
Back on that morning when I was created⠀


Empty

November 26, 2010

They’ll happily share with you
Each and every wave you ride
Whether you like it
Or not

But then again…
They’ll also cook you up a cup of Dutch Coffee
In the parking lot


American Paradox

November 25, 2010

Under watchful eyes
We pretend the machinery
Will clean up the remains of our freedoms
Lost forever to the systematic fire

We burn your money
And
Weep with your love


The One that Got Away

November 14, 2010

They fish for meaning
There’s tension in the line
Once they’ve caught our drift
They will place a hook in its jaw
And skewer the guts from the living truth
Until nothing is left
Between us and them
But a line or two
Hardly worth repeating


October Groundswell

December 30, 2009

Rising and falling like the tide
And yet they are surprised when their stocks don’t rise and rise and rise

One October they fell
A negative low-tide

The panic that followed scorched a thousand cigarettes
And left ‘em where they lie

While their shaking hands still burned with fear
We tip-toed past the madness as the tide slowly filled back in


Surf Check Daydream

December 22, 2009

The first art teacher I ever had used to always tell us that all art is a lie. I never really understood what he meant by that, but it sounded pretty neat and quite teacherly.

Generally, I gravitate toward truth-telling with my art and most inaccuracies in my paintings are accidents of omission. I’m just not one to paint every single blade of grass and individual leaves on every tree.

There’s an ancient text that repeats the theme that all men are like grass, referring to the brevity and fleeting nature of our lives on the face of the earth.

More often than not, I treat humans in the landscape as the blades of grass that they are, fleeting, ephemeral, just passing through for a moment before they move on.

Sometimes it lends to an eerie silent vibe in my paintings of places that should be full of human activity, but showing no trace of it except those features we’ve built into a more
semi-permanent state on the landscape itself- roads, benches, stairs, paths, etc.

This is one of those spooky ones.

That said, I’m not sure which is the bigger lie here: the complete lack of human beings on a glorious sun-filled afternoon here… or the sandbar creating ruler edged perfect waves from that outside rock all the way to the sand 200 yards later.

Neither of those ever happen.

Hence the title: Surf Check Daydream indeed.


Waxing Moon

December 21, 2009

My favorite story about this one isn’t my story at all. It’s something a Patagonia employee said the first time they saw this piece in the back of my van in their HQ parking lot in Ventura, California. It went something like this:

“This is heavy, no way, check it out, when you look to the right it’s what’s already happened, the wave has gone by, that’s the past, you don’t want to live there. But then when you look to the left that’s future, what’s to come, something to look forward to, but that’s not where you want to live either. When you look at the center that’s the present moment, that’s where you want to be.”

I’ve always remembered that, even though I’ve forgotten his name and have lost all touch with the fellow who uttered that wisdom off the cuff like only a barefoot surfer in a parking lot in southern California could muster…


Overlook

December 20, 2008

Some things are easy to overlook⠀
Others take a little more work⠀
Natural beauty⠀
Simple love⠀
So often get left where they lie⠀
While the headlines print bold⠀
On our aching flesh⠀
These haunts where our demons lurk⠀
⠀
Crashing stocks upon the shore⠀
Homes condemned to their blight⠀
The need to eat⠀
A will to survive⠀
We’ll do what we must to get by⠀
Sell our daylight for leprechaun’s gold⠀
That will vanish⠀
In the dark of the night⠀
⠀
We wake to a frozen sunrise⠀
Empty and cold and ruined⠀
It’s easily missed⠀
But always there⠀
The lift in our hearts at the sight⠀
Of these earthen glories before us⠀
By which we know⠀
That we are nowhere near the end⠀
⠀
So we’ll use our bodies for kindling⠀
To build this blaze bright and warm⠀
Our skin burns hot⠀
This smoky font⠀
A poetry of ash in the wind⠀
As we soak in the beauty around us⠀
We are fire⠀
Just in a different form⠀
⠀
Some things are hard to overlook⠀
Others take a little less effort⠀
The pressing needs⠀
The desperate pain⠀
Can grow louder till all else recedes⠀
While the light within and around us⠀
Steadily burns and waits⠀
To bring joy in the midst of the hurt 


Daybreak

November 16, 2008

A fine line
Divides the pursuit
Of overwhelming joy
From sheer
And loathsome
Irresponsibility

The high tide line
Divides
The rest

Consider us divided
And
Conquered

Even the Spaniards
On the tall ships
Know…

Both victory
And defeat
Taste better
With a dash of salt
And lime


Afternoon on the Coast Route

November 15, 2008

This is one of the first paintings I painted of this location. I’d go on to paint many more over the years, but none quite as refined as this one painted over ten years ago. It was
painted at home in the quietness of my studio.

This is as good a time as any to point out what I love about painting on location in “plein air” instead of in the studio- real stuff happens out there. You never know what you’ll see when you post up for a few hours in a single spot and simply observe the world around you.

The last time I recall painting here on location with a friend, as we stood at our easels on the side of the frontage road above the train tracks we heard some yelling down below, just to the south. Some folks across the inlet were yelling at a hobo lady to get off the tracks. A train could be heard in the distance and after a string of fatalities on these
very tracks, nobody was eager to see another one.

As might be expected, hobo ladies don’t like to be yelled at any more than you or I would, even when we’re doing something foolish, so she did what any self-respecting
hobo lady might do and promptly flipped the bird to all. To the shouting crowd, to the painters on the cliff, and to the oncoming train.

You could hear the train straining to come to a stop, whistle blowing, tension rising with each passing second revealing the momentous impossibility of this train stopping in time. It appeared a certain suicide by desperate defiance was about to unfold.

At the last possible second the hobo lady stepped off the tracks, and of all the times to slip and fall on one’s rear end, this was not the best of them. The train just missed her
head and finally came to a stop 50 yards down the line.

To her credit, even though she fell, she never dropped the bird. Take that, world. She quickly regained composure and sauntered off into the bushes as the conductor got
out and walked the line, likely looking for her lifeless body, which would not be found today, thank you very much.

Just another afternoon on the coast route.


Shoebox Series I

December 15, 2007

The Shoebox Series was inspired by a friend’s shoebox full of old surf photographs he and his friends had taken of each other over the years. Realizing that almost every lifelong surfer has a stash of photographic evidence of their surfing lives stowed away somewhere, I went to my local surf buddies and heroes alike, asking for a few of their snapshots that capture what surfing here in Humboldt means to them. These became the inspirations for the series, which went on to be published in the Surfer’s Journal in 2008 (Volume 17, #3).

Here’s the caption for this one, as it was printed in the Surfer’s Journal:

“From a photo submitted by Abe Morrison: At first glance this one looks quite simple but the rider is facing a deceptively difficult situation with absolute calm. More of a surge than a wave, that wall he’s riding drags a rather massive amount of ocean behind it. This ability to remain calm in the face of heavy situations, more than anything else, is what defines great surfing here.”


Shoebox Series II

December 14, 2007

The Shoebox Series was inspired by a friend’s shoebox full of old surf photographs he and his friends had taken of each other over the years. Realizing that almost every lifelong surfer has a stash of photographic evidence of their surfing lives stowed away somewhere, I went to my local surf buddies and heroes alike, asking for a few of their snapshots that capture what surfing here in Humboldt means to them. These became the inspirations for the series, which went on to be published in the Surfer’s Journal in 2008 (Volume 17, #3).

Here’s the caption for this one, as it was printed in the Surfer’s Journal:

“From a photo submitted by James Bavin: James is one of the smoothest surfers I know. He can make the worst waves look fun and he makes good waves look silly. For this project he offered a photo of Eric Nave saluting an unknown rider. This image is about sharing in someone else’s stoke, and that’s what this whole project is all about.”


Shoebox Series III

December 13, 2007

The Shoebox Series was inspired by a friend’s shoebox full of old surf photographs he and his friends had taken of each other over the years. Realizing that almost every lifelong surfer has a stash of photographic evidence of their surfing lives stowed away somewhere, I went to my local surf buddies and heroes alike, asking for a few of their snapshots that capture what surfing here in Humboldt means to them. These became the inspirations for the series, which went on to be published in the Surfer’s Journal in 2008 (Volume 17, #3).

Here’s the caption for this one, as it was printed in the Surfer’s Journal:

“From a photo submitted by [anonymous]: I’ve known this guy for almost 15 years, he’s a pretty classic character. From the incident with the leafblower and the backyard bonfire to the time the sparrow flew into his trailer and landed on his head, he’s just the kind of person people like to be around. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in a hurry for anything, but he always seems to be in the right place at the right time… and he surfs that way too.”


Shoebox Series IV

December 12, 2007

The Shoebox Series was inspired by a friend’s shoebox full of old surf photographs he and his friends had taken of each other over the years. Realizing that almost every lifelong surfer has a stash of photographic evidence of their surfing lives stowed away somewhere, I went to my local surf buddies and heroes alike, asking for a few of their snapshots that capture what surfing here in Humboldt means to them. These became the inspirations for the series, which went on to be published in the Surfer’s Journal in 2008 (Volume 17, #3).

Here’s the caption for this one, as it was printed in the Surfer’s Journal:

“From a photo submitted by Wade Pajares: Wade is a ridiculously good surfer, but the thing about this image that tells the most about him is what made it special to him. It wasn’t the hideous gaper he’s pulling into, but rather it’s the pelican whose symbolic flight suggests that surfing means more to him than just riding waves.”


Shoebox Series V

December 11, 2007

The Shoebox Series was inspired by a friend’s shoebox full of old surf photographs he and his friends had taken of each other over the years. Realizing that almost every lifelong surfer has a stash of photographic evidence of their surfing lives stowed away somewhere, I went to my local surf buddies and heroes alike, asking for a few of their snapshots that capture what surfing here in Humboldt means to them. These became the inspirations for the series, which went on to be published in the Surfer’s Journal in 2008 (Volume 17, #3).

Here’s the caption for this one, as it was printed in the Surfer’s Journal:

“From a photo submitted by [anonymous]: This guy paddles out in truly hairball surf and rides some of the crudest hand shaped boards you’ll ever see but still somehow manages to make it all look easy.”


Shoebox Series VI

December 10, 2007

The Shoebox Series was inspired by a friend’s shoebox full of old surf photographs he and his friends had taken of each other over the years. Realizing that almost every lifelong surfer has a stash of photographic evidence of their surfing lives stowed away somewhere, I went to my local surf buddies and heroes alike, asking for a few of their snapshots that capture what surfing here in Humboldt means to them. These became the inspirations for the series, which went on to be published in the Surfer’s Journal in 2008 (Volume 17, #3).

Here’s the caption for this one, as it was printed in the Surfer’s Journal:

“From a photo submitted by Abe Morrison: The surfer in this photo is John Hill. He has since moved on to The Islands, but he was a dedicated and passionate local surfer who earned the respect of all. I still remember him ceremonially turning the music off as we drove through a particular grove of old trees on our way to go surf. I’m not sure what he was thinking, but to this day when I drive through those trees, I still always turn my radio off.”


Shoebox Series VII

December 9, 2007

The Shoebox Series was inspired by a friend’s shoebox full of old surf photographs he and his friends had taken of each other over the years. Realizing that almost every lifelong surfer has a stash of photographic evidence of their surfing lives stowed away somewhere, I went to my local surf buddies and heroes alike, asking for a few of their snapshots that capture what surfing here in Humboldt means to them. These became the inspirations for the series, which went on to be published in the Surfer’s Journal in 2008 (Volume 17, #3).

Here’s the caption for this one, as it was printed in the Surfer’s Journal:

“From a photo submitted by Abe Morrison: In the original photo, the unidentified rider was so small he was literally just a group of about 11 pixels. By the time the painting was finished, more than a few people took one glance and identified the rider as one of our most respected local legends. Funny thing is, I had just been talking to him about this project. He was into it but not without hesitation, which was understandable, due to his desire to avoid publicity both for himself and the region. I didn’t end up using the one photograph he submitted, but out of absolute respect, I’d like to dedicate this one to him, and say thank you for inspiring us all. And, um… sorry for bringing it up.”


Shoebox Series VIII

December 8, 2007

The Shoebox Series was inspired by a friend’s shoebox full of old surf photographs he and his friends had taken of each other over the years. Realizing that almost every lifelong surfer has a stash of photographic evidence of their surfing lives stowed away somewhere, I went to my local surf buddies and heroes alike, asking for a few of their snapshots that capture what surfing here in Humboldt means to them. These became the inspirations for the series, which went on to be published in the Surfer’s Journal in 2008 (Volume 17, #3).

Here’s the caption for this one, as it was printed in the Surfer’s Journal:

“From a photo submitted by Chad Goddett: I met Chad up here a long time ago. He’s come and gone and come back again (that happens a lot around here). He’s been involved in the surf industry in the past and I suspect he still carries some scars from those years. I’ve surfed with him quite a bit and know for a fact he is capable of absolutely destroying a wave on par with what we see in the media, But in this image (and the others he gave me) all we see from the rider is a simple flow, evidence that he has found a purity in surfing here that helps to wash away some of the grime left behind by the machine.”


Shoebox Series XII

December 4, 2007

Recent commission, but a solid throwback to 2008, when the first 8 paintings of this series were published in the Surfer’s Journal (Second County South, vol.17 #3).

I don’t work from photos all too often, but this series is an exception. The idea isn’t to recreate a perfect photo (waste of paint, just print the photo already), but rather to use the grainy, off kilter shots that surfers and their buddies have taken and saved in a shoebox (or envelope, hard drive, etc…) as mementos of their surfing lives. These moments were meaningful enough for them to stash away, so I reckon they speak volumes more of our real surfing lives than any number of idealized candy coated plastic hors’d oeuvres served up with palm tree umbrellas on platters of tropical blues.

These gritty snapshots just become the jumping off point for each painting, attempting to find something transcendent and universal in each image. This one became a reminder to hold your line when incongruent worlds collide.

*Commissioned as a gift for the surfer in the piece. Hint, hint. I do these upon request.


Drink Deep

October 21, 2007

For the ordinary soul who owns not a boat or a plane, the only way there is by your own two feet, one step at a time. Unless you are the ordinary soul’s dog, in which case it’s more like your own four feet, two steps at a time or something like that. In other words you’re just gonna have to hike. Eight miles. On sand and cobblestones loosely piled up between vertical mountains and the deep blue sea. Only at low tide. Higher tides and the surge of large swells will submerge that little eroding sand bridge to which your feet (or paws) will hopefully remain planted upon. One such surfer and his dog endured that hike in the late spring one year, after a season of heavy storms, which swelled the creeks and brought with it a series of rock shattering swells and a fierce longshore current that removed all but the most stubborn sand deposits. Oh sure, they scored some quality surf, but it was a ride they took on the hike back that would define the trip. It was one of those days when the low tide wasn’t really very low. Combined with the somewhat unruly and large swell, these were not the optimum conditions for attempting this hike. But since boatless , planeless, and now foodless ordinary souls and their dogs tend to need to get back into town once in awhile, they really had no choice. The day was getting late. Only a mile or so to go and then it happened. The ocean seemed to calm a little, and the air became quiet. There was no reef or sandbars on this particular stretch of sand, just deep water. Taking a check of his surroundings as an alert surfer will do when the ocean changes her tune, he knows he’s in a tight spot. Sheer crumbly cliff greets his left hand, the big lulled ocean his right. Up ahead about 60 yards is a somewhat higher sand berm he’s been heading toward for the last ten minutes. So close, but with the forty plus pounds of gear on his back, it’s a good minute or so away, even at full speed. The swell is running at a 17 second interval. He grunts and picks up the pace, but no sooner than he became aware of making that decision, he sees the deep water welling up on the shore. Seeing the futility of racing this impending wall of water he braces for the worst. He sees his dog running for high ground and as he digs his hands into the course and cold sand he watches the first surge of water envelop his companion of the last seven years. A second later it’s his turn. Larger than he had anticipated, the oncoming whitewater makes quick business of uprooting him and tossing him shoreward into the cliff. Then comes the rebound back to sea. Like a rolling stone he is pulled off the beach, barely getting a gasp of air before going deep into the drink. Being dragged to abnormal depths by the pack on his back he wrestles himself free of it and begins the task of exiting through the large shorebreak. Finally making his way up the beach, he stops and looks for his dog. Scanning the shorebreak for any sign of life, he finds…

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Happy Cows

August 5, 2005

While painting this one from behind a rusty barbwire fence running along the overgrowth by the riverbank, I had an odd thought of what would happen if a cow came charging down the little path I was on. I sorta game-planned how I would step back into a little clearing behind my easel to let it pass, then dismissed the thought as the product of too much coffee working on the ol’ brain. About halfway into the painting I heard some rustling in the brush up a little ways, and sure enough, COWZA! I stepped back as the bovine stomped its way happily down the trail, out to the road, and off down the lane. I went and knocked on what appeared to be the farm house door to let them know of the great escape. They just shrugged and said it happens all the time, them cows are all branded anyway, she’ll be brought back soon enough. OK, back to painting then. Interesting times.


Afternoon Inside the Point

August 3, 2004

 

What day is it now?
How long has it been?
I miss my lover and my friend
And while it’s not quite really a sin
I’ve now fallen in love
With a very light wind
Someone to speak with
This breeze she is mine
We’ll speak with each other
And we’ll speak in rhyme
While my body’s become
A negative space
Where flesh used to be
And what once had a face
I’m beginning to wonder
If I’ll ever return?
Is this absence forever
Or just a lesson to learn?
A fire to cook with
Or just something to burn?
I’m losing track of my thoughts
Like ash from the urn
But the wind she has born
On her wings my concern
What day is it now?
Has it been long, or rather tall?
What does it mean to be a day?
Or to even have a name at all?
Are they still keeping track?
Still going to, and still going fro?
Is there a go to be there now
Or is there another name to go?
Another long to be this day?
A who to speak when time won’t show?
A hot beneath when would it be?
They say it’s high, but feels quite low
It won’t be then, but it could have been
Blue sky within these hungers grow
Wars could be fought
And we’d still know not
Who lit the fire beneath the pot?
And where is the fish that wasn’t caught?
And what is the point of all this talk?
The wind is quiet, there’s not a lot
To say, and again, what’s the point?
This
This is the point
And the afternoon inside it
Where all things end
Like the sea upon the shore beside it
Our time, it nears
We’ll be leaving soon
Back to the minutes, hours, and years
Because our food is gone and we can’t hide it
Just how long have we really been gone?
Its better not to speak, or even write it
With lead or ink or flame or blood
But we’ve seen the mid-day low
Become the noon high flood
And the moon that was halved
Now both halves show
And that’s it
And that is that
And that is all we need to know


Right After Breakfast

August 1, 2004

 

Rising up with the sun
Oh how we are blessed
We’ll get it all done
Right after breakfast

A lonely spigot
Sweet water from rust
We’ll refill our jugs
Right after breakfast

We’ll hang our food high
Or else bury it we must
We’ll hide it from bears
Right after breakfast

We’ll commit our damp gear
To the morning sun’s trust
It’ll warm us up too
Right after breakfast

Our coffee rings true
In shining blue metal cups
We’ll drink it down slowly
Right after breakfast

Excuse me for a minute
There’s something I just…
…
…

 

Urgent business buried
Where the tide last blushed
And I’ll burn the paper trail
Right after breakfast

Rising up with the sun
Indeed we are blessed
We’ll get everything done
Right after breakfast

There’s so much to do
But we aren’t feeling rushed
Think I’ll paint this instead
Right after breakfast