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…


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.


Mist and Light

05/23/2019

When ones and zeroes
No longer add up
And the printing press
Runs out of flesh
And the headlines
Have nowhere to run

We’ll pick up the pieces
Build temples of song
Made of discarded words
Metal vowels and consonants
Foraged from fields
Like seed for migrating birds

And the truth that emerges
Will cut to the bone
Like mist
Like light
Like all that we are
And all that we’ve ever known


Tomorrow, Today

05/23/2019

Tomorrow, today, and to be honest, yesterday as well. This was painted a while back in 2019. Nothing too deep, just having fun with the painting and thinking of those moody stormy days when the sun breaks out and the rain is still falling and everything becomes crystals and prisms and beauty. ⠀
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But today, let’s call it a prayer for rain. If the fire paintings I had done back in spring as metaphors for the hardships the world was facing have become all too much like real life now in California and all over the west coast, maybe we can flip the script and send it back the other way. Maybe we can ask for actual rain to put these actual fires out. And maybe the metaphor can work backwards from there and we can see some of these metaphorical fires in our world today quenched as well.⠀
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Just maybe.⠀
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It’s worth a shot anyway.


A Window of Light

05/22/2019

I was supposed to drive a lot further up the coast on this day back in 2019. I didn’t get past this point though. After a few hours in the water, laughing as a handful of us rode these hypnotic little waves spinning down the point, I knew I was going to paint here as well. Made a whole day of it. ⠀

Passing showers were visible on and off in all directions as the sun took its turn occasionally sneaking between the clouds and showering the earth with light. ⠀
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Every once in awhile a window of light would fall in such a way that made everything seem timeless- as though the surfers and the park rangers and the tourists and the railroad barons, and the cattle ranchers, and the Spaniards, and the Chumash who lived in a small village right here were all seated silently, just out of sight from one another admiring the same beautiful scene.


What Lies Behind

05/21/2019

A friend I had just met earlier at an event in San Diego invited me for a rare visit to this exclusive piece of California’s coast. I absorbed it with all my senses as we surfed all morning and I painted all afternoon.⠀
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So what exactly does lie behind these locked gates? Here’s a few things that come to mind…⠀
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There’s bamboo and nasturtiums⠀
Shelter from the wind⠀
The rich and the famous⠀
And a few of their kin⠀
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They’ll question you silently⠀
Check who you’re with⠀
To be sure that you’re nobody⠀
So they know who to dismiss.⠀
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There’s a boathouse on stilts⠀
A pretty woman walking down the street⠀
Surfers walking back up the beach⠀
Blood still dripping from the soles of their feet⠀
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There’s yoga pants and selfies to shoot⠀
A slippery rock holds a sign full of laws⠀
Merely suggestions for the leashless dog⠀
That nearly got paint all over its paws⠀
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There’s fires burning on the higher hills⠀
Smoke blowing out of the canyon⠀
Heroes and children stand watch at the gate⠀
With garden hose, bucket… and shotgun⠀
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There’s black cars with blacker windows⠀
Caviar and music for the blind⠀
Leave your shoes at the door, my friend⠀
All this and more⠀
Is what lies behind


No Harm, No Foul

05/20/2019

I was thinking this would be a simple little painting to start my day. It was in some ways. But it was also a bit nerve-wracking. Nestled between boulders I painted the morning away, and marveled at just how quiet the trains that run this line have become. I barely heard them coming. The stretched cotton canvas hummed in vibration as they passed by just a few steps away. I was safely out of the way where I stood, but it was startling every time one snuck up on me. At one point I was visited by a security guard for the ex-president’s compound just behind me. I thought I was getting kicked off the tracks, but apparently he didn’t care much what I did. He had a call that some idiot was standing on the train tracks down below (I wasn’t on them, just near them) and he had to respond to it. He made sure I knew it was stupid to be there, and I assured him that I was smart enough to know just how stupid it was, and with that he was off and back to his tea and scones or whatever ex-presidential security guys do when they’re not investigating idiots on the train tracks. No harm, no foul.


Modern Lines

05/20/2019

I’ve walked over and beneath this railroad line many a time. I’ve jumped from the tracks to flee the train. I’ve marveled at the burnt beams and wondered that entire trains could be held up by charcoal and memory. Apparently others wondered too, and decided on that eternal Roman upgrade- smooth concrete. Impervious to the hobo’s fire. It’s not the same, but nothing is ever the same. The quiet train, now electric, glides overhead. You don’t even hear it coming, you only feel the ground shake and then it’s upon you. Be careful out there. Write your name on the asphalt with surf wax. Write your name on the concrete with paint. Try not get your name in the papers before your time.

*btw, I didn’t paint my name on the concrete in real life. I’m not that cool. Not even close. But it’s a fun way to sign a painting sometimes.


Midday Flats

05/20/2019

The beach wasn’t closed last May, it was a just a terrible run of surf and conditions that kept everyone away. I’d never seen this place so empty. It’s hard to believe this is one of the focal points of surfing in Southern California. But not this day. There was no one. Looking down the coast from here brings back a lot of good memories for me and after a long morning sipping coffee waiting for the last showers to wring themselves out, I’d wanted to come down and spend a whole day wandering and painting here, but the wind had come up and ripped the ocean ragged, making the chore difficult and the inspiration harder to come by. I’m not sure what it was that struck me about this little scene, but in spite of the flat midday light that sought to steal even the shadows out from under the rocks themselves, there was a simple elegance to it that caught my eye. Or that might have been a piece of windblown sand caught in my eye. Or maybe both.


Inclement

05/19/2019

For much of this trip I faced inclement weather, and eventually made peace with it by embracing the moody darkness it often brought to a scene, punctuated by the bursts of light whenever the clouds would break. Kind of experimental, and kind of a lot of fun. I had no intention of creating these darker pieces to match our dark times. But as I revisit them, there is something in them that speaks louder to me now than it did at the time. But in spite of the intensity, it’s not the ominous vibes that come through, it’s the hope contained in the light. No storm lasts forever. 


End of the West

05/18/2019

It’s the end of the west
It’s the setting sun
It’s a train-wreck that’s only just begun

It’s a crowded bar
It’s the law of the land
It’s illicit activities obscured by hot sand

It’s a war at sea
It’s the first shots fired
It’s victory in sight, though not the one desired

It’s a shift in the wind
It’s an outgoing tide
It’s the last man standing as the captain died

It’s a history lesson
It’s the name of the street
It’s a blank stare from the strangers we will never meet

It’s childhood freedom
It’s only in jest
It’s just getting started but it’s the end of the west


The Hectic Pace of Modern Life

05/17/2019

Written on April 6, 2020

That title takes on a whole different flavor right now. At the time the world was buzzing away at top speed, except on a bad-surf day on the Southern California coast.

I had painted this scene a few days before (minus the VW), but I wasn’t happy with it, so I returned see a better sampling of local vehicular wildlife. Unfortunately on the day I returned it was so empty I had to wonder if I had missed a memo about a nuclear meltdown underway. But it was nothing like that, it was just a quiet Tuesday afternoon in May.

Everyone must have been busy keeping up with the hectic pace of their modern lives. Or maybe they just looked at the webcams streaming into their living room to tell them there was no waves, and just one van with a bearded dork sitting around on top of it scratching his head and drinking beer- sometimes at the same time even. No matter what the cause though, the effect was that there was no cars to paint at all. So I did the next best thing and painted my dad’s 76′ VW from memory.

I grew up in that van. I was one year old when he got it, and he’s kept it all these years in great condition. My wife and I drove from Long Beach, California to Long Beach, Canada and back in that van on our honeymoon. We lived in for nearly three months. I figured I could bluff a sloppy rendition of it just about as well as I could attempt to accurately paint something else if it had pulled into the lot. I took my time and enjoyed myself, reveling in the hectic pace of my modern life.

Also stoked about my van’s roof platform. Pretty fun to return to a very familiar scene but get to paint a bird’s eye view of it in plein air…

But now our modern lives ground to a halt.

I miss the old days, driving around the state’s coast, staying off the radar as much as possible, avoiding friends and family to focus on painting. What I wouldn’t give to roam freely and avoid you guys right now without this awkward distance being forced upon us. But what I miss more than avoiding you guys, is sharing beers and laughs with you when my avoidance tactics proved unsuccessful. I love you all. Stay safe!


Oh No, Not Today

05/17/2019

Written on April 3, 2020

You might think this empty parking lot scene is a reflection of our current times, but the reality is that I had planned to spend a day here goofing off after a busy flurry of painting on the road last year. At the time I thought, “I’ll just head down there today for a few waves, maybe see some old friends, who knows?”

But oh no, not today. It was the worst day of surf I’ve ever seen here. And I’ve seen some bad ones and surfed em anyway. I could always paint, but even that was tough. My usual approach to this place is to paint the bustling parking lot full of cars and scattered surfboards. It’s a living piece of California surfing history here. But alas, not today.

And so I present to you here this iconic mecca of carpark surf culture, absolutely empty.