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…


Restricted Access

December 1, 2011

We never did imagine
The golden
Acceleration
Of our free fall
Would yield…

Such high rent
For apartments so small

And
So many left turns

And
No rights at all


Mid-Morning

November 25, 2011

If you spend any time at all in this town, do yourself a favor and find a different mode of transportation than a rusty old van. Parking is nuts to non-existent and navigating the unfamiliar streets in a vehicle that can’t hop curbs, cut over embankments and weave through crowds of pedestrians really hinders one’s getting around here. A bike however, opens the world. A borrowed bike with a friend or two to follow around is even better. They’ll know all the fun zigs and zags.

I recall this morning clearly, even though it was quite a few years ago. My old college roommate was living in town here and had the day off work when I rolled through so we
grabbed the bikes and hit the trails, roads, paths, walkways, dirt hills, etc., on the way across town for morning surf checks and coffee accumulations. This was before the age of cell phone cameras, so I brought a camera with me in case anything caught my eye. The borrowed bike I rode was a bit unruly for one-handed use on the crowded bike path that follows the shore here, so once we procured the coffee and rode on, things got difficult. I’d managed to get this far without incident, but no further. Fortunately the landing was soft, the camera intact, and somehow, against all odds the coffee remained unspilled. After brushing off and taking inventory I snapped a photo, and later painted this.


Beckoning

November 5, 2011

Each passing storm
Brings a clearing
Of mind
Revealing
Spiral rhythms
Of color
In your eyes
Both fragile
And totally free


No Fires

November 1, 2011

The higher laws do not forbid
The burning of your gasoline dreams
No
They practically command it

We’d driven all over the state, the miles passing like a rushing river in a sudden spring rain. It wouldn’t do really, us being together, that is. She was from a different world than I was, far too refined to spend any sort of life with me. Even her car was the sort that would start up every time, a Toyota Tercel that would look at home in any dealership’s
used car lot. Made me a bit uncomfortable, really. I came from a long line of Volkswagons (believe it or not, they weren’t always worth so much), old American vans, unclassic relics from someone else’s childhood.

On this cross-state road trip, we drove her car.

No hotels, no campgrounds, just a soft shoulder on the edge of the sea with a construction site dirt berm for privacy, and a big blue tarp to envelope our time on the side of the road. There had to be at least two dozen rules against our unplanned happenstance there, but neither she nor I stopped to read the signs.

Though we did not break the rule you’re thinking of, we did awake to a different look in each other’s eyes, and the fire was still burning that morning, suspended in a soft falling mist as we drove on.

-Entry on August 5, 2011


First Look

December 30, 2010

I’ve been told lately 
That I didn’t paint this one quite right 
Or it must be somewhere else 
That our local jetty doesn’t look like this 
That it’s all busted up 
And full of holes 
Where the ocean pours in 
And leaves salt in every wound 
 
But I painted this a long time ago 
From photos and memories  
Made even earlier 
We never had 4 wheel drives 
And the sand road wasn’t so well packed yet 
So we walked along the edge of the seawall 
Unbroken 
From the carpark to the rusted chain 
Our first view 
Was this 
 
Looking at it now 
It’s easy to forget 
That there was a time 
A time and half a time before 
When the path that we walked  
Wasn’t falling apart 
And once in awhile 
A painting like this  
Let’s us stop 
And remember 


House of Prayer

December 24, 2010

These trembling walls dance
With their Maker’s invisible spirit
As we wage war on tomorrow’s past

Victory was better an hour ago
And defeat is a low-tide

Rising


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.”