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…


Kindling

November 30, 2020

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 ⠀


The Ocean is Just Leftovers

November 18, 2020

It’s true, she loves the river⠀
And it’s steady constant force⠀
The ocean is just leftovers⠀
And she prefers the source⠀
⠀
She leads me through the briars⠀
Stinging nettle, oak, and sorrow⠀
Some pain for the present moment⠀
But the rest we’ll save for tomorrow⠀
⠀
The path is narrow and overgrown⠀
If it’s even a path at all⠀
Two roads diverged and we took neither⠀
She heard the river’s call⠀
⠀
Down the bank we scrambled and slid⠀
Grasping roots along the way⠀
These roots they hold back mountains⠀
They can hold us here today⠀
⠀
Scraped and bruised and winded⠀
At last we find relief⠀
We swim and laugh and stub our toes⠀
Even blessings hold some grief⠀
⠀
My mind drifts off to the coast and its songs⠀
Why oh why am I here⠀
I followed her and would do it again⠀
But we should have brought more beer⠀
⠀
How we ended up together⠀
A mystery untold⠀
I am a pool of simple pleasures⠀
She is the mountain, faithful and bold⠀
⠀
It’s true, she loves the river⠀
And it’s steady constant force⠀
The ocean is just leftovers⠀
And she prefers the source


Cloud Theory: 1969

November 1, 2020

Woven Recollections from the Return of One of Italy's First Surfers, 50 Years Later

I’ve long thought it would be interesting to explore combinations of longer format story-telling with my art in a more intentional way. Back in early 2019 an opportunity finally presented itself. The only problem was that it would require flying to Italy. If you know me, you know I’m not a traveler. Not like that. I can drive all night and all day on Highway One, but never make it to Italy. This rattled my program. I’d have to finally break down and get a passport.⠀ So in late 2019 I traveled to Italy with a surfer I'd only known long enough to drink two beers with. It was his first trip back to Gaeta, Italy, since 1969, and what might prove to be his final opportunity to see the country he fell in love with all those years ago. The details of his story emerged throughout the trip as we navigated the unfamiliar waters of the Mediterranean hunting for waves, and navigated the narrow streets and alleys hunting for cannelloni (a pasta dish that was common in Gaeta in 1969). We were mostly unsuccessful on both accounts. But this was more than just a trip to Italy, it became clear to me that this was a story that was meant for me to tell.⠀ Along the way I got to know this man well. During his time in the US Navy, as a lonely surfer peacefully stationed here during the Vietnam War, he was unknowingly among the first to bring a surfboard to Italy and surf upright along its shores. He wasn’t the first to surf there, and doesn’t think of himself that way, although his time surfing there pre-dates all the recorded history of surfing in Italy that I’ve come across. ⠀ But there's a lot more to all of us than any three-paragraph introduction can convey. This is my written portrait of possibly the first known surfer in Italy, and how our paths briefly merged together just before the world fell apart in 2020. This is the testimony of a life fully lived and a man facing his own twilight gracefully. This is a travel tale of two clueless Americans. This is an homage to the Italian spirit.⠀ This is the story of my friend, Dwight Harrington...  
► CONTINUE READING

Verbal Alterations

October 30, 2020

A collection of short poems originally penned in 2012, now detached from their original purpose…

__________________________

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

The high tide line
Divides
The rest

__________________________

On that Day we harnessed
History’s joyous
Laughter

But there was nobody around to hear it

So instead we
Split the Difference

__________________________

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

__________________________

We drank
The last drop
And we left
The Sea
To Swim
In its own
Salty tears

We
Are
Bigger
Than you

__________________________

Drifting
Freely
Toward an Unknown
Moment

When it
Arrives
All of our eyes
Will be
Fixed
On
You

__________________________

It was already
Gone
Before we arrived, yet
It could have been
Different
If we had only
Tried

__________________________

We never did imagine
The Golden
Acceleration
Of our free fall
Would yield
So many left turns

And
No rights at all

__________________________

Distant words
Form
An altogether natural

State

Of thinly veiled
And
Unformed Rhyme

__________________________

We focus on the flight
And ignore
The objects at our feet

The Bird
Has been dead for weeks

__________________________

The river only Dreams
For those who Sleep
Otherwise it’s Life

__________________________

We lay tracks
To remember briefly
What the Unthinking
Water has always known

__________________________

Each passing storm
Brings a clearing of Mind
Revealing
The spiral rhythms
Of color
In your eyes
Both fragile

And totally free

__________________________

Wishing for another moment
To capture
The Inconvenient
Gaze
Of a child’s
Bright
and silent future

__________________________

Recklessly crashing
Upon unmoving
Geology

The cycle
Broken

Yet
Our Coffee
Remains
Unspilled

__________________________

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

The Distance is calling Our name

__________________________

Memories
Roll softly over
Unbroken
Glass
With each
New
Morning
Washing away
All knowledge
Of what came
Before
We lost it All

__________________________

Crawl
Out of your
Cave
And into the
Spinning
Daylight
of your new
Mobile
Home

Welcome Back

Now move along

__________________________

The beautiful
Convergence
Of powerful
Lines drawn
In constant
Contrast to
Our desire for
What we know
To be right, but
Somehow never
Seems to happen
In our daily lives
Filled with sprints
To the green horizon
In Every effort to not
Be swallowed by the
Accelerating pace of
Life in the intertidal
Zone

One last breath


Another Barb on the Wire

October 30, 2020

3 days. One family of 5. One campsite. 2 children lost (only temporarily). 7 miles hiked. 6 paintings completed. 3 paintings I wanted to paint but was thwarted by barbed wire. 1 global pandemic making things awkward. One long and awkward poem to show for it all...

I. Going Nowhere

Another Barb on the Wire
Hours to days
To months and soon years
We sit between these walls
Going nowhere
Slowly
Trapped in the microscope
The giant eye upon us
They locked us down
We loaded the van
A quick escape
Our desire
Another barb on the wire

 

 

II. Fair Wages

Stretching the legs
The will to live
Denied by the barrel
Of loaded guns
Pay to play
All the way
To the cemetery
A reminder that in this life
We all receive
The same fair wages
Both the great and the small
The honest and the liar
Each another barb on the wire

 

 

III. Spoke Too Soon

Screeching tires
Come to a stop
It's called camping
When your tent is a Ford
Frisbees and beer
Appear
Just before we discovered
The bookstore is in the hospital
On life support
And our youngest would not
Read another word
Until the new day dawns
We stood in the belly of the whale
And circled it seven times
As the dusk bled into the dawn
Setting out at first light
To fulfill our obligations
To the stars who spoke to us
But in our reply
We spoke too soon
And now we patiently await
The lifting of the clouds
Ever higher
And it's another barb on the wire

 

 

► CONTINUE READING

All This Time

October 20, 2020

A Song for Santa Cruz Island

I might have been a late arrival
But I’ve been here all this time
I was here when the plates collided
I passed the bread and wine

I was here when we emerged from weeds
When the heavens gave us fire
When our songs kept our mother awake
When the rainbow held us higher

Vizcaíno saw me here in 1602
He called me by my name
The island of Bearded people it was
And to this day remains

I saw them come and plant the grapes
To sip the nectar from the vine
Prohibition shut them down
But the idea was never mine

The sheep were led to slaughter
And silent so was I
When the cotton gin reduced their worth
To diamonds in the sky

I saw the pigs run feral
Chased off by dogs who fell from the air
The pigs are gone and the bacon fried
You’d never know they were there

My name is Stanton now and so it was
On the day I signed
And gave the land unto the guards
I was ill but I wasn’t blind

They will keep it from abomination
A trampled barren place
But I’m well aware they’d sell the air if they could
As well as these lines upon my face

It’s for the good I’m sure they’d say
They’ll save the earth with money
Listen at the gate when I pass in the night
I’m laughing but nothing is funny

I did what I must and not without Caire
How I longed for a better hand
It was them and their lawyer’s greed
Or else it was the land

I’m the homesick Italian that built the Chapel
With bricks of my own red earth
And I’m the one that’s buried there
Whose death precedes his birth

At the altar I have heard
The mighty man’s confession
And to the courtyard I have marched
In his funeral procession

I stood last night beneath the moon
Where they’ve sold God for the highest bid
I may have defied their lawyers decrees
Breathing a graven image in the mist as I hid

From watching eyes I was not seen
Except by the all-seeing lens
To which I danced and jigged about
As one does when among their friends

Today I rise with a mist in my eyes
Tired from last night’s dance
I called out from among these ancient trees
And I answered with a glance

And here I stood among the saplings
When first their roots went down
The mighty eucalyptus whose beauty invades
Like a king in quest of a crown

The fox and the eagle and the vanishing trees
The trees they love to rhyme
The eagle loves the fattened calves
But the foxes they are mine

I might have been a late arrival
But I’ve been here all this time
I was here when the plates collided
I passed the bread and wine


Better Places

September 27, 2020

Painted on location, well at first anyway, back in 2017. Then I never went back to finish it properly so about a year or two later I took it to a silent disco on the beach below and tried to finish it there, but got so distracted with silent disco-ing that I couldn’t think straight about the painting and only painted in circles instead of arriving at any sort of destination other than right back in storage where it was before and finally when I was asked to paint another painting from a similar vantage point (my last post) I figured I should pull this one from the dustpile and brush it off and have another go, and so it went.

Lots of memories here. Some would call it one of our Better Places. Others might say too many of us call it that, which is usually what I say when I’m trying to park my van in that warzone on a Saturday afternoon.

Just kidding. I don’t even try to go here on a Saturday afternoon anymore.


Thou Shalt Not Steal

September 16, 2020

In the home where I grew up⠀
A porcelain monk lived on the kitchen counter⠀
Belly full of cookies⠀
Admonishing us not to steal⠀
Back when the house was full of sneaky fingers⠀
⠀
I saw him enter the kitchen one day⠀
30 years ago⠀
Something clearly wrong⠀
Part of him had vanished⠀
Struggling for the words⠀
To tell me that my grandpa was gone⠀
His father⠀
The pastor⠀
The preacher⠀
Thou Shalt Not Steal⠀
⠀
Fiercely independent⠀
Now 78⠀
Yet socially engaged like a teenager⠀
A calendar with no empty days⠀
Erased by a global pandemic⠀
A solitary castaway⠀
In the island of his own home⠀
In the socially distanced archipelago of our lives⠀
The dispatches from neighboring islands indicate⠀
That something was clearly wrong⠀
Talking differently⠀
Slurring words⠀
Isolation taking its toll⠀
Or a stroke of something worse?⠀
⠀
I’ve traveled this road all my life⠀
And so did my father⠀
Miles on our odometers until the math became meaningless⠀
Never expecting to find him at the end of the road⠀
Beneath these parting clouds⠀
No longer driving⠀
Not even moving⠀
In his chair⠀
Eyes rolled back⠀
His face lifted to the heavens⠀
Feet still on the ground⠀
But getting lighter with each labored breath⠀
⠀
911⠀
Caught before he drifted off⠀
3 more weeks in the hospital⠀
Confined to his little room⠀
A castaway once again⠀
He’d build rafts out of medical equipment ⠀
And attempt to set sail to freedom⠀
Always thwarted by the tide of nurses⠀
As he floated down the corridors toward the exit⠀
⠀
He’s back home now⠀
In the house where he raised his children⠀
But at any moment⠀
I brace for the news⠀
That he’s built a raft out of old family photos⠀
And managed to sail away⠀
⠀
We hope his sailing days are done for now⠀
His final voyage a long way off⠀
But when it finally comes⠀
And his home is left empty⠀
As that porcelain monk ⠀
I will remember⠀
That there is nothing⠀
No illness⠀
No hardship⠀
Nor even a global pandemic⠀
That can steal our joy⠀
Or our hope⠀
Or our love⠀
⠀
Hold on to what matters⠀
And say to the thieves that try to take it all away⠀
⠀
Thou Shalt Not Steal

(more…)


This Machine Converts Money into Noise

08/11/2020

The pandemic didn’t slow me down, it was a combination of other things; my dad’s health was certainly a heavy weight to carry, but there was also a long overdue website overhaul that took far longer than I’d ever expected. ⠀
⠀
For a brief window back in mid-summer it seemed the covid restrictions were easing a bit, Dad’s health was stabilized, the site rebuild was complete and I could see daylight at last. We ventured south for a quick visit so pops could see his grandkids, enjoyed a much needed anniversary date with my wife, and even heard a live piano player on State Street in Santa Barbara. It nearly brought me to tears just hearing a musician making music for humans again. We were distanced, we were cautious, but like the first shoots of green after a long dark winter… it was beautiful. ⠀
⠀
Driving back the next morning, a speeding white truck passed us on the right, veering halfway out of their lane and onto the shoulder, only to collide just ahead of us into a parked Caltrans work truck. I braced for impact, hoping to get through unscathed. The truck flew into Amie’s side of the van, which forced us into another car on my side. All I could think is that Amie was gone. When I finally regained enough control to ask if she was ok, and she said yes, well, it’s weird to say one could wrestle and steer a completely wrecked van onto the shoulder with joy, but that is what I did. ⠀
⠀
The next few weeks were a scramble of insurance calls, finding a new van, ripping all the good stuff out of my old van and swapping it into the new one. My painting platform was a conundrum until we found out the Atlas Vans shop was across from the tow yard who could handle the installation quick and easy. ⠀
⠀
This was painted for them on a bright morning in Ventura. With the help of their crew, along with my family, and even an art collector in Ventura that stepped up and spent a whole day helping with the van swap- I’m ready to roll again. ⠀
⠀
But I think I’ll stay home awhile and work on some studio paintings for awhile instead.⠀
⠀
*Title is from a sticker on the back of that yellow van


California Responding to a Global Crisis

08/09/2020

Yeah, this is a big one we’re going through. But we’ve gone through others. This is how global crises look here on the southwestern edge of America. ⠀
⠀
I arrived to visit my father after a series of strokes left him housebound to the home where I was raised in Long Beach. It was decidedly un-edgy suburbia, but we’d still see Snoop buying shoes at the mall, and during Rodney King riots we saw pillars of smoke through the living room windows. It’s not that different from the home where he was raised either. Straight outta Compton you could say, but Compton was just another suburb back then. ⠀
⠀
But Grandpa wasn’t raised in one of these typical suburbs. The West Covina home of his youth may be surrounded by cookie cutter homes now, but to this day it refuses to conform. There’s shade everywhere, as anything that grows out of the ground has been allowed to just keep on growing. A huge tree stands in the yard beside the house, bikes lean against it, rusting into permanence at the end of the dirt driveway. ⠀
The scent of oranges has now been lost in the wind. But there were once acres of them. Fresh-squeezed juice was just a fact of life. Kids laughed and screamed and rode their bikes in every direction as far as they wanted down the dirt roads between the neighboring orchards. On hot summer days, this would get old and they’d complain that they were bored. They would wish that something would happen here, and figuring that it never would, they imagined a different life beyond the orange trees.⠀
⠀
And what a different life it became. 100 years of madness unleashed. World Wars. Vietnam. Race Riots. Fault Lines. JFK Assasination. Nuclear Reactors. War Games. Freeways wide enough to give every global crisis it’s own clear lane and yet… Road Rage. Meth. School Shootings. Gang Violence. Police Brutality. It goes on and on. ⠀
⠀
Everyone lives on the edge of something here, and some days we just need to go to the beach.⠀
⠀
Or in my dad’s case, maybe a cup of coffee and a walk around the block. ⠀
⠀
It’s not quite paradise.⠀
⠀
It’s just California responding to a global crisis.


Repeater

08/08/2020

Repeating patterns everywhere you look. Some patterns we wish we could break. Some patterns break us instead. And some patterns touch the heavens as her clouds roll in on those darker days.

Not this day. This day was bright like the eyes of a child whose father makes it home alive.

The man in uniform called me by name. A quick hello and he continued down the path. After he’d gone and for another while after that, I puzzled how he knew my name, trying to place his face in the graveyard of my faded memory- but he was nowhere to be found. Wrong graveyard. He was in the here and now as he came back up the path.

“The most beautiful place in California”, he called it. It certainly is unique, and while I’ve seen a lot of California and wouldn’t have necessarily chosen that description, I can see his point. Especially after learning that his grandfather is here, and his father, and his brother as well. Beauty is often a measure of meaning.

Still trying to place where I knew him from, he’d become deeply familiar in those few minutes of conversation, I finally break down and just ask him plainly where we knew each other from.

A puzzled look. We had never met before.

But wait, didn’t you call me by name when you passed by earlier?

“Can you repeat that?” He turns his good ear toward me now.

Earlier when you walked by here, didn’t you call me by name? You said “Good morning, Matthew”?

“Must have been the wind, I guess”

We bid farewells and that was that. An awkward encounter in a place of profound importance.

High-fives to all the veterans out there today.


La Novena

08/06/2020

It’s good to have an exit plan. Sometimes it’s a quick exit out the backdoor. Sometimes it’s a longer game, like a sea captain who plants Norfolk pines wherever he lands should his ship’s mast be burnt by pirates or broken in a storm.

And the exit isn’t always what we think. One exits a life of hunger by stealing horses. One exits a life as a thief and turns to religion. One exits a house of religion that weaponizes faith, and instead turns to love any and all in the streets outside. And one exits their life in the end knowing they were one that answered the call because they knew what it was like to have their own calls unanswered.

On the day I painted this, I wasn’t thinking of reaching out to anyone and I had no plan other than to exit with a painting. This was mid-pandemic, the occasional couple would hurry past saying nothing at all beneath their masks- the distance being kept wasn’t only physical. It made for a quiet scene that in other times would be crowded with people enjoying a beautiful afternoon. The few that lingered here weren’t concerned about any of this. No masks, no distancing. Eager to talk through missing teeth. Curious about my painting… and what else was in my bag? Friendly enough, but opportunistic as they had to be living out on the street. I began to question whether my exit strategy was sufficient.

Then I heard a voice calling from the tiled bench where a large man sat just a few paces away. A crutch beside him, he was asking for help to stand up. His outstretched hand was filthy, who knows where it had been? But he wasn’t asking much, just to be heard and touched. And besides, my hands are never all that clean and I can never really know where they’ve been either. All at once I was the ex-padre who knew how it felt to have no one’s help. After joining hands and lifting him up, he moved himself a little way up the promenade and would repeat this again with several other passerbys. I had passed the test and made my exit a short while later with this painting to remind me of the time I met God on the street beneath the 9th mission built in California.


Right Before Breakfast

08/06/2020

I’m not a “morning” person, I am however a “whatever-magic-is-in-the-light-in-this-particular-place-right-now” person so it worked itself out. Just the sight of these deer grazing along a beachside meadow beneath a rising sun aroused these dry bones from the body bag and back to life. It was such a moving scene, I was surprised whole whales weren’t emerging from the scattered bones buried in the sand as well. They didn’t though. Whales are heavy sleepers.


Slip and Slide

08/05/2020

I don’t know if anyone has ever painted from this vantage point, or ever will again. It’s over 10 miles from the nearest road. The logistics of getting here, along with all of one’s painting gear, are not easily solved. And once here, I imagine most would shy away from painting a barren rockslide, but to me that was the magic of this painting. This fire-swept wilderness is one of the most geologically unstable stretches of coastline in California (hence, no roads). It’s a harsh environment, but therein lies its charm and beauty.


Right Before Lunch

08/05/2020

A view that never gets old. I actually painted from this exact vantage point 15 years ago. I titled that painting Right after Breakfast and figured that I should revisit that spot and see what happens, so that’s what I did… right before lunch.


Right Before Dinner

08/04/2020

Just after arrival, I snuck this one in just before setting up camp. And the voices chimed in as I painted. “I’m just a bump on a log” and “I’m just a bird on a rock”, and “I’m just a blade of grass in the wind”. Yeah, me too, I thought. But “I’m hungry” is all that I said.


The Gamble of Art and Culture

07/29/2020

They call it a casino, and yet aside from placing the riskiest bet known to man – betting on art and culture – no gambling has ever taken place in this building. When it was built, Vegas wasn’t much of a thing yet, and the word “casino” was still just an Italian word that means “gathering place”. And so it was the gathering place for art, music, performance, film, dancing and culture in general in this small island town.


Tower of Song

07/29/2020

There’s a tower that watches over the city here and has been tolling its chimes on the quarter of the hour between 8:00 am and 8:00 pm since 1925. Unless Jani Eisenhut is feeling musical. I’ve heard that this lifetime local hops in and and plays whatever she wants on the organ’s chimes, whenever she wants. What a beautiful freedom. Two things. One, she is my hero. And two, we should all have our own tower of song in which to play for the town whenever we please. These paintings are mine. I hope they’re ringing clear to wherever you are right now.


Idylls of the King

07/28/2020

Did you know that King Arthur’s famed sword, the Excalibur, was forged here, and that this is the island where King Arthur himself passed away? Ok, that’s not true, but the little town tucked behind this little cove on this desert island was named after the island in that very legend, as recorded in the English poet Lord Alfred Tennyson’s Idylls of the King in the late 1880’s. I’m no king but this was a rather idyllic setting to paint an afternoon away, that’s for sure.


Houses of the Doves

07/28/2020

The view from where we stayed (thanks mom-and-pops-in-law!). Sometimes I hike miles for a painting. Other times I stumble out the back door after a long slow morning and there it is.


Out of the Strong, Something Sweet

06/24/2020

Out of the eater
Comes something to eat
And out of the reader
Comes something to read…

You may find me in town
Or at home resting my feet
We’ll discuss the numbers
Of money, milk, and meat
We’ll entertain the angels
Without offering a seat
We’ll speak of the devil
Without feeling the heat
But this meeting of minds
Will remain incomplete
This is only my shell
With which you meet

I’m off in the distance
I’m around the bend
I’m out in the wilderness
On a hill in the wind
I’m fighting with God
I’m also his friend

I’m down in the valley
Of the shadow of death
I’m six feet under
I am one last breath

I am the funeral march
I am the end of the road
I am the one to whom
Nothing is owed

I am the mountain moved
I am the song of the bees
I am an avalanche
I am a gentle breeze

From the chaos of love
Comes a heart’s quiet beat
And out of the strong
Comes something sweet


Twentytwenty

06/09/2020

Twentytwenty doesn’t need much introduction. We’ve all been caught in this storm. That’s what this painting is about.

But there is a bit more backstory to it that some of you might not be aware of. This piece was started live on location at the Dunehouse in Manila, CA as a benefit for Friends of the Dunes. Unable to host their annual event on site due to it being 2020 and all, they were still able to manage to have the Spindrifters come belt out some live tunes for an hour and a half last week while I set up outside and painted to their rhythms. After so many months of not hearing live music in person, let alone being able to paint along, it was a heavy experience and another reminder of just how much this thief called 2020 has attempted to steal from us.

I was a bit rusty during the live portion of this painting out there, so I took it home and did quite a bit of work finishing it up in the studio. I had a vision for this one, and really wanted to bring it through. Generally the only large paintings I work on the studio these days are commissions from collectors and are never available for outright purchase, let alone in an auction. This is a truly rare opportunity to score an original painting like this, it just doesn’t happen very often. Someone’s gonna be stoked. But that’s just business, let’s get back to what this painting is all about…

The peninsula in all of its duneful wonder is a beautiful place and its been fun to paint there every year for the last 6 or so years at their annual event, but to be honest there’s always been something a little odd about being out there in a social setting. The glory of the dunes are best experienced in solitude. And ironically, I don’t think I’m alone in this opinion. We don’t have a desert here in Humboldt- out on the peninsula in these dunes is one of the few places with open sky and empty space. It’s our desert. Our place to face the heavens and scream and cry and laugh and pour out our lives to whoever listens up there. We dream up ideas, we’re captured by visions, confronted by the blank slate of our souls. This alone is a beautiful thing.

But there’s another beautiful thing about this coast. Due to the angle it faces, our predominant northwest winds blow howling onshore out here and the lightest breeze can rough up the ocean to a churning frenzy of whitecaps turning quickly great waves into ragged derelict lumps of water marching drunkenly to shore arm in arm like soccer hooligans after a heated match. But once in awhile the pattern is disrupted on those days when a new storm rolls in. The swirling low pressure systems that move in from the North Pacific meet the land first with a blast of wind from the south, grooming the incoming swells into beautiful gems of organized chaos. Standing alone at the water’s edge on a day like this can be thing of frightening beauty. And that, more than anything is what this painting is about. Finding some beauty in the middle of the storm that has been twentytwenty.

Ok, yes it’s about that, and it’s also about trying not to drown.


Better Times

06/09/2020

Even though the title says Better Times, it’s not a commentary on that time, this time, or any other time we all collectively think of. It’s a quote from the friend who commissioned this painting who had some of his greatest memories here, followed by some incredibly difficult and tragic years. It’s deeply personal and I’ll leave it at that. I only mention it because I thought it was a beautiful thing to have this meaningful place painted for him to remind him of the good times, and that if there were good times back there, then no matter how hard things get in the present circumstances, better times can always come again.


Two For One

05/24/2020

I was here to paint the view for a couple who were married here. I painted a quick one the night before and seeing how crowded it was here on the covid coast of California, I was very thankful to have permission to park and camp behind this private property’s gate. It’s hectic out there, but it’s as easy as ever on this side. Or so I thought.

It was a long night in the van. When you’re at home and your usual good health takes a wrong turn you can hide out for days at a time under your pillow. You can call a friend for help. You can stand under a hot shower for as long as it takes.

But when things go south on the road, alone in an unfamiliar place, and you’re up all night, sweating ice, and sitting upright in the front passenger seat to keep the sour mess of your soul from creeping up your esophogus, well, at those times you just have to struggle through it. Make the best. Wrap that awkward bag around you and a towel around your neck to keep your head up and hope for a bit of sleep.

It’s kinda like marriage in its own way. Occasionally there’s a long dark night, and if you’re a dense thud of a husband like me, often you just have to struggle along. Work it out with her however you can because just like on a rough night in a van, you are all you’ve got. And in the worst of times you’ll find you yourself aren’t very much at all. But when morning comes and the sun is bright in your eyes through the frosted glass windshield, that’s when you find you never needed to be all that much anyway, you just needed to be there. Going nowhere. Not getting out and looking for somewhere else to go in the cold dark night. Not driving away in a spit of rubber and gravel. Just being there, and being your whole messed-up self in the van, hoping for a better day ahead.

I know I’m kinda off the rails on this sloppy metaphor, but what can I say? I got up, felt okay, cooked up a few cups of coffee and powered through this morning painting of this sanctuary by the sea.

Two trains of thought, one conclusion.

This one is a Two for One.


Wreathed in Gold

05/23/2020

May. 2020. Arriving late in the day. The winding road to the coast dipped at turns and barreled straight through the blinding sun around each bend- a supercharged conduit for heavy traffic heading both ways in a rush toward whatever version of “stay-at-home” they were playing today.
A motorcyclist behind my van wasn’t having it. He made his move and flew past me and the little hatchback in front of me. I wondered what he was in such a rush for. I wondered what everyone else was so eager for as well. I knew I was hoping to reach the coast with enough time to get a painting done before ending this long drive of a day. I figured if I had my reason, everyone else had theirs too, I just wished they’d be a little less crazy about it on this dangerous road at this dangerous hour of the day.Not even two bends of the road later I had to brake hard to avoid slamming into the hatchback, now at a dead stop in the road. Bits of broken plastic and glass, a twisted strip of metal, and an empty helmet laying on the shoulder told me what I didn’t want to know. As the scene came into focus I saw him up on his feet, trying to shake it off. He looked like he’d be fine, unlike his bike, or his plans for the day. Some quick thinking motorists were already out of their cars, waiving me by, directing the traffic that was already backed up as far as the eye could see behind us.I would paint today, just happy to be alive.I was on my way home from southern California helping my family take care of my dad after some very close calls with his health, and was finally heading home, just stopping here mid-way to paint a piece for a couple that was married on the grounds of this property overlooking this arc of beach, now wreathed in gold in the setting sun.I’d finish this painting, and drink beers, and sing old Neil Young songs to myself while cooking up a roadside pot of ground beef and beans and get myself feeling sick as a dog in a rolling kennel before the night was over, living like a king, with a different sort of crown, made entirely of Still-Not-Dead-Yet.Life is good.