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…


Motel 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.

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*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

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.

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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

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

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

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.

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*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

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

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

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.⠀
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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

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

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. 


Ebb and Flow

07/14/2019

There is nothing like painting in the cool shade on a warm summer day, with a good art pal like Wade Koniakowsky humming around painting here, painting there, disappearing for awhile and returning with snacks and cold beers.

It reminded me of those days of my youth, before we could drive, and we’d take turns walking the mile from our little jetty to the liquor store up the road and return back down to the beach with a haul of sodas and chips and general junk food. Good memories, but I digress…

In spite of Wade taking the time to go foraging up the road on this day for our sustenance, I think he still completed two paintings here while I stood there plucking away at bits and pieces of this one. He’s quick. Like waves crashing on the shore. One after another. It’s inspiring to me.

I’m not the slowest painter, but my paintings definitely have a pace of their own, like the tide. Especially when enjoying snacks and cold beers in the cool shade on a warm summer day while watching the afternoon low tide ebb, then turn to flow back in again.


The Back Road

07/13/2019

 As it happens, on this morning all of my plans were thwarted by that mother of all disruptions… No, not the pandemic, this was 2019- way before all of that. No, this diabolical mocker of all my good designs for spending a day under the sun will be with us long after this covid stuff is just a blip in our memory. I’m talking about a far more formidable foe here.  
 
Fog. On. The. Coast.  
 
Couldn’t even see the other side of the highway, let alone the ocean, so I found myself scouring the hillsides and back roads on this otherwise bright and clear morning for something to paint. Once I’m off the coast I get a little bewildered and turned around. It’s a struggle to stay motivated. But I was here to paint so I kept on and this little ranch road caught my eye leading up toward one of the many rocky peaks that dot this landscape. 
 
I didn’t realize it at the time but this would be a significant piece to kick off this tour of the area, the peak itself being one of the most personally meaningful locations I’d paint on this trip- hallowed ground for sure. But that’s a story for later on… 


A Dissonant End

07/12/2019

 I’ve got no ear for harmonies, seriously. I might not be tone-deaf, but I am certainly tone-dumb. But I have heard that in the language of jazz, the end of a song is often concluded with what is called a dissonant chord. I couldn’t really pick a dissonant chord out of a crowd, but I understand it to be one that isn’t in tonal harmony, whatever that may mean. It doesn’t quite fit in, but it works in its own way I guess. 
 
The end of this trail was kinda like that for me. An abrupt end at a barbed wire fence plastered with signs warning the would-be trespasser (me) to go no further. Of course I had wanted to go further, that was the plan all along. A quick lunch break while assessing the feasibility of proceeding would see a ranch truck come and go and come again in the span of about 20 minutes. Nuts. And this next part might have been all in my head, but I was sure I saw some beady-eyed stink-eye being cast my way as well. I think these guys can smell it on me sometimes. 
 
So I figured I’d buy some time and just paint this little vista safely on the public side of the fence then see if things might quiet down. And they sorta did, but the ranch truck guy hadn’t left yet, so I figured it best to hop along the cliff edge out of view of the road. I made my way quite a good distance up the coast like this until two things happened. First, I reached an impasse where I could go no further without heading up toward the road and all the risk of getting kicked out which would negate all the effort it took to get here. And second, while pondering my predicament, the fog bank finally rolled in and made my decision for me. No point going further if there was nothing to see, so I turned back and called it a day. This place just didn’t fit in with my plans for the day, but such is life on the coast. 
 
The hard to reach places are just that, and that’s what makes them so special to finally reach when everything lines up, and that works fine for me. 


She Loves the River

07/09/2019

Painted on location, 2.5 miles from the road. A challenging back-country hike with all my gear to paint this one-day late birthday gift for my wife last year…
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It’s true, she loves the river⠀
And it’s steady constant force⠀
The ocean is just leftovers⠀
And she prefers the source⠀
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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⠀
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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⠀
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Down the bank we scrambled and slid⠀
Grasping roots along the way⠀
These roots they hold back mountains⠀
They can hold us here today⠀
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Scraped and bruised and winded⠀
At last we find relief⠀
We swim and laugh and stub our toes⠀
Even blessings hold some grief⠀
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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⠀
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How we ended up together⠀
A mystery untold⠀
I am a pool of simple pleasures⠀
She is the mountain, faithful and bold⠀
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It’s true, she loves the river⠀
And it’s steady constant force⠀
The ocean is just leftovers⠀
And she prefers the source


Down by the Bay

07/04/2019

It’s not always hard to reach edge-of-the-earth places. My long time goal of painting the entire California coast means that some days I’m just down at the end of the street painting a quick commission for some friends that are moving out of their cozy little home by the bay.


Dance of Days

06/30/2019

I have some playlists of music that take me back to my school days- 80’s punk mostly with a slant toward anything connected to the D.C. bands that followed and evolved from Minor Threat and got caught up in the Dischord Records slipstream. One of these must have been playing when I painted and I ended up naming this one after a song by one such band called Embrace. I also remember a hippy lady dancing on the beach below as I painted the scene from the roof of my van. It was an interesting juxtaposition, the jarring noise and rapid tempos of the music in my headphones, while this flowing nature woman grooved to some other internal rhythm only she could hear, each in our own world- creating, and recreating in our own ways. ⠀
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Come to think of it, there were people all over this beach that day, I’m not sure why I didn’t include any of them in the painting. It’s not usually an intentional decision. I just see right past them. Maybe it has to do with being a bit of a recluse naturally. I’m not anti-social, I love people, and all kinds of people, even the crazy ones, but personally I may have some anti-social… tendencies… I suppose. ⠀
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There’s nothing better than painting on the edge of a cliff far from the well-worn trails where I’m more likely to be startled by a racoon than another human. I only paint in the more crowded places out of necessity (my goal is to paint the entire California Coast- or as much of it as I possibly can, and it certainly does get crowded at certain times and places). ⠀
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When I do find myself in these situations, it’s often standing on the roof of my van with headphones on cranked to 11 in order to tune out all distractions and just fall in love with the land and sea all over again. Nobody can get in my world when I’m up there unless I let them in. ⠀
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In these days of social-distancing, I admit I have enjoyed the reduction of social activities. But darn it if I don’t miss you guys out there. If you see me painting on the van, come on up if you like, or at least give a shout from below. And if you’re a groovy nature lady, well, just keep dancing that dance of days.


Late Arrival

06/17/2019

There’s something about immersing myself in the places where I paint that is hard to describe. It’s not the art studio, it’s a wild world out there and it always has been. The past emerges and mingles with the present. Undercurrents of metaphor and meaning rise to the surface and sometimes I try to venture out of the shallows and get a little swept away when I go to jot down notes afterwards. This was one of those times… ⠀
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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⠀
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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⠀
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Vizcaíno saw me here way back in 1602⠀
He called me by my name⠀
The island of Bearded people it was⠀
And to this day remains⠀
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I saw them come and plant the grapes⠀
To sip the nectar from the vine⠀
Prohibition shut them down⠀
I watched it happen but the idea was never mine⠀
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The sheep were led to slaughter⠀
And silent so was I⠀
When the cotton gin reduced their worth⠀
To diamonds in the sky⠀
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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⠀
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My name is Stanton now and so it was⠀
On the day on which I signed⠀
And gave the land unto the guards⠀
I was ill but I wasn’t blind⠀
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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⠀
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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 this isn’t funny⠀
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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⠀
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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⠀
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At the altar I have heard⠀
The mighty man’s confession⠀
And to the courtyard I have marched⠀
In his funeral procession⠀
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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⠀
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From watching eyes I was not seen⠀
Except by the all-seeing lens⠀
To which I danced and jigged about⠀
As one does among their friends⠀
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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⠀
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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⠀
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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⠀
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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


Left Behind

06/16/2019

Beautiful memories, but some days are defined by regrets, just like the cactus in many ways is defined by its spines. ⠀
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To get here required a two hour drive across a private reserve to this far side of the island. I have to give a big shout of thanks to my friends at the California Coastal Commission who heard of my mission to paint the entire California coast and let me tag along on this tour where 25 of us were headed to the furthest point west on this island, about another 45 minutes out from this remote outpost.⠀
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When we stopped here for lunch, I decided to stay behind. This was my opportunity to paint, being that they’d be gone for about 3 hours, plenty of time for a paint session. Not quite enough time to scout views to my satisfaction though, so after a few false starts trying to find a way up the hill for a better view, I settled for this one of the little outbuilding and blooming cactus that I saw from the road on the way here. Only afterward did I see on a map just how close I was to the path I was looking for to get up the hill. That is my first regret.⠀
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Ouch.⠀
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My second has to do with the fact that behind this building, and nestled in behind these old cypress trees is one of the oldest buildings on the island, dating back to 1860. That would have been a neater thing to paint, but I just didn’t see a good angle to paint it from. That is my second regret.⠀
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Ouch.⠀
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My third regret is not seeing the furthest point on the island. This might have been the only opportunity I’ll ever have had to make it that far and see it with my own eyes. Forced to choose between a remote vista without painting, and a just-a-little-less remote vista with painting, it was an easy choice, but not without some pain. ⠀
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Ouch.⠀
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And then there was the cold beer that I accidentally left behind at the cabin that I really would have enjoyed after being left behind by the group to paint this old outpost that was left behind from the ranching era on an island that in many ways was left behind by time itself. That beer would have been amazing. One final regret.⠀
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Ouch. 


Her Quiet Time

06/16/2019

The Chumash people lived here first. The Earth Mother’s name was Hutash, and it was said that she planted a particular plant on this island, from which the people emerged fully grown. They were cold until they were given fire by lighting from that old Sky Snake, the Milky Way, the Earth Mother’s husband.⠀
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The people were fruitful and multiplied. Happily. But their songs and laughter kept Hutash up at night. At last she couldn’t bear the racket any longer and she decided to make a bridge out of a rainbow from the distant peak in this painting all the way to a high peak on the mainland. Off they marched. They were told to keep their eyes on the mainland, but some looked down and became dizzy. The fallen ones were mercifully turned into dolphins by Hutash to keep them from drowning.⠀
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The people continued to prosper on the mainland as well, but now they were no longer so crowded on this island and presumably the Earth Mother finally got some sleep.⠀
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She must have still been sleeping when the Spaniard’s and other European’s arrived, because things got really weird at that point. In a few short generations things grew even more quiet on this island. Disease took it’s toll. The sheep’s wool was rendered obsolete by the Slavemaster’s Friend, the Cotton Gin. The vineyards were thwarted by that Old Grump, the Prohibition.⠀
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A few brick buildings and rutted roads were built, but there is only area in the entire interior valley that sees regular human activity now, and even there it is generally quiet. Access is tightly controlled and looks like it will stay that way for awhile.⠀
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When the old Earth Mother finally awakes I hope the folks who now own most of this island are prompt in cooking her up a nice cup of coffee and explaining to her how they wandered back over that bridge and down into the valley from Devil’s peak. And speaking of her high and beautiful mountain, the island-side foundation of her rainbow bridge, just who named it “Devil’s Peak” anyhow? And where did the rest of her children go? And why aren’t there more songs and laughter? Without them, it seems, she may have overslept.


Down Harbor Blvd, Just Past the Airport

06/15/2019

It’s like standing on holy ground. I can’t believe how fortunate I am to be here today. These thoughts are never far from my mind as I stand on the edge of this steep shore cliff and paint the scene before me after a rare opportunity to walk the interior valley of one of Southern California’s more untouched regions that is generally off limits to folks that aren’t scientists, or students, or movie stars, or rock stars, or just plain wealthy. Being that I am none of the above, I know full well that I may never see this place again with my own eyes. Who knows? It’s hard to say. ⠀
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This view was the glimpse of the coast and it’s chalky white cliffs at the end of a 4 mile hike down Harbor Boulevard, just a little ways past the airport where the road ends at one of the fringier edges of the North American continent. Out here, the freeways and concrete and 24-hour rush hours become a distant memory, like those of a dream long forgotten. The natural quiet is powerful, and holds up a brutally honest mirror for our noisy modern souls to reflect upon existence. It’s a beautiful place to paint, far beyond what I was able to convey, but I’m stoked to have taken a crack at it anyway even if this is the only shot I’ll ever get.⠀

Oh, and being greeted with cold beers and the smiles of friends offering a truck ride back to our accomodations where a hot meal awaited only added to the surreal experience. If every day in the life of an artist was like this one, no one would do anything else I reckon. Every path has it’s peaks and valleys though, and this would definitely be one of the higher points on my chosen route. 


Balance of Powers

06/07/2019

This was painted live at a benefit event for our local hospital’s Family Medicine Residency Program back in July. These live paintings usually auction at events for anywhere from a few hundred to a few thousand on the far upper end. Not that this means a whole lot in the big picture, but we were pretty stoked to witness this one sell at the auction for $11,500. That’s the highest price I’ve seen a painting of mine go for in Humboldt. We thought that was pretty cool.


Rogue Showers

05/26/2019

Spent the morning sipping coffee with some new friends who ended up buying this one. It had rained overnight and even though the sun was out and bright, every time I thought to hike up into the hills for this view, another shower would come through and soak everything anew. ⠀
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But that was just fine.⠀
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I like coffee.⠀
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And I really like coffee out of an unfamiliar mug. It means new places, new people, new horizons…⠀
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And I especially really like coffee over the meandering conversations that happen after spending the night on a makeshift bed in the middle of an unfamiliar living room with borrowed blankets exactly like the ones we used in my grandparents home long ago.⠀
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Rotating the leaning mug in circles on its edge, nearly empty now, feeling the tile and grout through stone-cold ceramic vibrations over a pause in the conversation as another downpour passes through and signals that it’s time for yet one more warmup. Yes, please. Fill it to the rim, and where were we?⠀⠀
Discussing gardens and children and work and real estate and history and multiple versions of tomorrow- none of which look anything like today. ⠀
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Just one short year ago we could bounce down the road and in and out of each other’s lives, enriching, sharing, cross-pollinating ideas, enjoying our human experience in proximities that feel scandalous by these pandemic standards we find ourselves living now. ⠀
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It’s ok to miss those times and yearn for them again…⠀
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When the most pressing thing in the world was getting to know a generous stranger over another cup of coffee in their home while discussing mountain lions and poetry and the hopefully imminent end of these rogue showers.⠀
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As for this day, the showers lasted longer than they were forecasted. There finally came a good break and up the hill I went. But by the time I finished this one, drops were falling yet again and I had to pack it up quickly to avoid an unwanted soaking.


There Goes the Neighborhood

05/25/2019

You never know where tomorrow will bring you, which is why these folks commissioned this deck-top view from their home awhile back- so they’d always have this painting, even if they didn’t always have this view.⠀
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But there was more to the neighborhood than the view of the western sky over their neighbors’ houses. There were their neighbors themselves. In small communities and house-lined streets everywhere, neighbors are what makes a neighborhood. Pot-lucks, backyard bonfires, the never-ending dog poop turf wars (if only dogs could read, I’d call them out by name right here and now… aaargh), and just generally being around when a neighbor needs a hand. It’s kind of like family, except without knowing about all of each other’s embarrassing childhood episodes. ⠀
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Anyway, not sure why I went on this ramble, just an aimless stroll around the neighborhood I guess.


Jim Denevan’s Gift

05/24/2019

Jim Denevan is an artist on a whole different level. Mostly sea level. His medium is the beach. I mean that in a very littoral way. And no, that’s not a misspelling. I’ve been aware of his work for years, but haven’t had the opportunity to watch him at work in his studio until this day when our studios briefly collided in the heart of Santa Cruz . I was in town for a quick visit and looking to paint somewhere along this stretch of coast when I spotted him down there raking sand into perfect alternating spiral patterns (his were far more perfect than my rushed hand was able to convey on my canvas). The minute I saw him and the patterns he was making on the low tide sand I knew I had to paint this homage to a hero of an artist, whose work is enjoyed freely by all who come across it, and washes away daily with each incoming tide.⠀
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I first learned of Jim’s work through the lens of Patrick Trefz. Ever since meeting Patrick back in 2011, I’ve been a fan of his photography and cinema. When he participated in a surfboard art show I put together for SurfAid International in 2012, his entry with shaper Travis Reynolds was unlike any other. Hands-down best of show in my opinion- an eleven foot solid black single-fin log adorned with a singular black and white photograph laid under the glass of a dead bird, lifeless and flightless on the ground, floating on a sea of dead leaves. Maybe not for everyone, but for me, it resonates loud and clear. ⠀
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Anyway, I bring up the Patrick Trefz connection because I’m aware he recently made a full documentary about Jim’s life and work titled Outstand in the Field. I haven’t had a chance to see it yet, but I’m sure it’s worth a watch if you have the opportunity. ⠀
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Anyway, Jim’s presence on the beach when I was here to paint this day made for a super fun painting and is a reminder to me that even as an artist, life is better when enjoying other artist’s work. We all feed each other in one way or another.