Poetry & Free Verse | MATT BEARD ART

Unorthodox

Plein air artwork over Ross Cove looking toward Maverick's at half moon bay on the San Mateo coast of California

09/10/2017

Sunday morning.

Somewhere under a cathedral ceiling the choir is singing an old song. Out here under the open sky the choir sings the oldest song.

Somewhere under a cathedral ceiling, a “contemporary worship team” is singing a new song. Out here under the open sky, the choir sings the newest song.

The angels sing softly on the wind, they roar like thunder on the water.

They’ve sung from the beginning.
Unceasing.
They’re still singing now.
They’ll sing until the end. Maybe even longer.
I worship out here with color, because I usually sing out of key.

When I am finished, I will go sing badly in the cathedral. I enjoy those songs too. Or perhaps I won’t sing at all, but still I will hum along.

But one thing is certain- on this Sunday I will go at night, because the morning is full of light.

By day they theorize, philosophize, and lay their eyes on this predicament from old lawn chairs behind a makeshift barrier of plastic tape. By night they await the higher tide under the spotlight, searching for answers, but generating none. Once a proud vessel, named for nobility, now on the rocks, without the gin, or perhaps because of it if the wind spoke truly. Each morning brings a new revelation, coffee and binoculars the potent ingredients of this daily vision quest. She is a solar eclipse, her shining brightness now darkened by the lesser light. Shucked like an oyster, removed from her shell of open water, she now sits waiting for the ocean to swallow her hull.

The heiress watches on, a mix of rage and longing, as she carves an homage of color to the one she once knew. All the while they watched this maiden work and no one said a word. It is no different with you or I. While our voyages may end differently, still every voyage must end and we can only hope there is a daughter by our side to mourn and remember us when our day arrives.

True story.

The boat got stuck on the rocks here just before the solar eclipse last year, and over a meal of oysters with my friend in the area, @gnosart, I learned the boat used to belong to her grandfather and was originally named after her brother. I told her I wanted to paint it, and convinced her to come with me the next day and we stood on the bluff and painted while the captains came and went. I could have just told you this plainly right off the bat, but the whole thing was too poetic to introduce like that.

B.Y.O.B.

Plein air artwork from the trail to Sierra Nevada point on the san luis obispo county coast of central california

08/20/2017

We came in search of gold. We’ll leave with pockets full of solitude. We speak to the wind. We live here now, everything else is dreamtime. The cars and houses, the monies and the media, the interconnected web of information that ties us all together… none of that can truly exist at all. We know because we’ve listened to the quiet that raged so loud our ears bled. We know because we’ve stood on the edge and peered over and seen everything we ever held on to smashed against the rocks and washed away, only to be returned as the treasures of small children on the outgoing tide. We know because, if we didn’t know, there would be condos and pizza parlors, cotton candy and neon lights, the insatiable camera lens devouring all… but there is not. There is nothing out here. Nothing to see. Nothing to hear. It belongs to us all. It is all of us. Dream on, dreamer, but when you awake, you’ll find nothing here. And that will be all that you really need.

Heard from Across the Valley

07/10/2017

4th day on the road, tenth painting completed, first one this day

Some paintings I’ve seen for a long time before I painted them. When painting plein air it can take awhile since you’re not pulling images out of your imagination, if there’s a painting rumbling around in there, you have to wait until you put yourself in the right place at the time of day that painting is asking for.

This was one of those. I’d seen this rambling creek, this cove, this shaded valley in the morning light for awhile in my mind. I had a few different locations I was hunting for it on this foggy morning. The first two were beautiful, but the angles were wrong and the morning fog was a bit too thick to work with. Pressing on to this last option I thought had potential, the clouds breaking and lifting just as I arrived, I was a bit giddy at the site before me. It looked even more like the painting than the one I was seeing in my mind.

The freshly mowed poison oak/berry brambles lining the road here provided adequate space to pull over and work from inside the van, which was great since I didn’t want to set foot on all that chopped poison oak anyway.

Nothing about this painting ever really felt like work, it was just a pure joy reacting to the scene before me and listening to the steady crack of breaking waves on the sandbar that built up around this rock stack. I could hear them clearly from all the way across this valley.

But I saw this painting coming from much further than that.

The morning fog lingers
Until we finish our last cup of coffee together
Her timing impeccable
Her exit silent and unnoticed
Some folks just hate
Saying goodbye

The Usual Difficulties

07/01/2017

First day on this road trip, first painting completed.

I’ve driven past this dirt road for years, knowing that it was there, but a bit wary of taking my giant van down it’s length, not wanting to get stuck in a situation where I’d need to reverse a mile of dirt road with no turnaround.

But it offers a such a great glimpse of a rather lost-in-time stretch of coast that I keep thinking one day I’ll should borrow someone’s truck and just go daytrip the thing. Why I haven’t done so yet is beyond me, but on this trip south I figured I’d take just a peek after scouting on the maps for a good turnaround for the van and seeing what looked like one only a half mile in.

It turned out to be a great spot with a real good view from a little knoll above the turnout. The morning light was crispy and lent a sense of urgency to the piece that I rather enjoy seeing in it now, though at the time I felt a bit frantic.

Now that I’ve gotten a glimpse of this zone firsthand, perhaps I’ll be fired up to make the actual trip happen to go explore the length of it.

But alas, such is California’s coast that so often we peer down on these amazing zones with fun looking surf from cliffs high above, yet with no way to access them beyond risking life and limb, and possibly even getting hurt as well.

This was no different. So inviting, so close, but so far away. Just the usual difficulties…

Nothing changes much
Beneath these colder mountains

Times move on
As do
The lives
That call it home

But here it will always lie

We pass through
And marvel
At the
Heights

And the cost
Of a good sandwich

If only we knew
How to get back down to sea level
Without sliding down

That slippery slope

Still Life: Tower 22 and Red Single-Fin

02/08/2017

Twenty-two rules
and too many ways to break them.
We didn’t know any better.
We thought they were only suggestions.

Subpedestrian Homesick Blues

02/07/2017

Sand crabs and square slices of pepperoni pizza- the working capital of days long spent hiding under the pier for shade, and relief from watching eyes. The older kids’ cigarettes smelled funny. Try not to look ‘em in the eye.

Nightfall

01/01/2017

Before there was light⠀
There was water⠀
And before there was life⠀
The water broke⠀
Staring up into that black ocean⠀
Eyes blinded by the falling seas⠀
On this winter’s solstice⠀
No stars tonight⠀
Just a child⠀
Floating weightless and free⠀
In a fish bowl for all to see⠀
⠀
Mary and Joseph⠀
They live down the street ⠀
We ate donuts on strings⠀
Tied to their tree⠀
Last Halloween⠀
But tonight is for listening⠀
Country music on the local radio⠀
A long line of cars⠀
With out of state plates⠀
And a man that spoke⠀
“Don’t be afraid”⠀
⠀
We walked a path ⠀
That led to the river⠀
Where the waters had broken⠀
The land in two⠀
We saw a man up ahead⠀
He stopped ⠀
And listened⠀
To the darkened forest⠀
A rustling noise⠀
And a woman’s voice⠀
Calling him to come in⠀
We never saw him again⠀
⠀
A grown man on a bike⠀
Rides down the boulevard⠀
A woman in tears walks the other way⠀
They cross paths without a word⠀
She keeps walking ⠀
Tears like the rain⠀
From the broken sky⠀
Her cries fill the void⠀
And break the awful silence⠀
He keeps peddling on⠀
Awkwardly⠀
And alone

Winter Solstice Song

December 20, 2016

If we look to the seasons we see that darkness comes in cycles, offset by rhythms of light. And yet the darkness has never felt so loud as the discordant anthem of this asymphonic night.

We are tempted to see this present moment as the cold oppression of a tangible force. A standing army of arguments against our better angels. Generals, officers and even pawnsmen making strategy behind the fireless smoke. Tanks and armor. Bullets, bayonets, and words.

Yes, words. Words meant for good twisted beyond recognition. Word as a weapon. Word as a poison. Word as the famine, the plague, the killing of every firstborn. Word as the ultimate tool of victory and defeat. Word delivered in a flash of blinding light, deceptively cloaking darkness behind it’s insatiable heat.

We begin to think of darkness in terms of the battle as though might just might make right after all and light might somehow be wrong.

Don’t be fooled. There is no darkness. It is not a thing of itself, it is only the momentary absence of light. As long as there is love and beauty and a song to be sung, darkness has already been defeated before it even begun.

Two Cents Worth of Advice for the Aspiring Artist

October 22, 2016

All art is a lie.

All you really need is red yellow blue and white.

Work fast, don’t worry about results too much. just keep going.

Don’t paint the things you’re looking at, paint the air between them and you.

Every piece goes through an ugly stage, just keep going and trust your instincts to bring it through. You will bring it through.

When painting next to another artist, loosen all their easel bolts when they aren’t looking and… wait, not that.

“Gifted” artists aren’t born with automatic talent. The “gift” they have is a deep and thorough enjoyment of the process, that brings them back for more and more and more.

Living as an artist is like Peter getting out of the boat and walking on water. No safety nets, and you’re bound to get wet once in a while. Watch out for sharks.

Selling art and making art are two very different arts. Don’t confuse them.

Be very careful not to dip your brush in your beer.

That is all.

Depth Together

October 22, 2016

Here is the heart of war
Against the hardness of life
Against discomfort and difficulty
The battlefield a narrow expanse
Fertile beyond belief
Due to the wonders of modern agriculture
Also known as
Coffee

Lined with strip malls
And donut stalls
And the same house on every corner
Where surf movies play on repeat
While a child scribbles away
On the kitchen floor
Trying to draw out the poison
From the wounds incurred
During last night’s family feud

He finds solace between the lines
He draws the places that
Remind him of other times
I tell him it’s art
And that it’s going to be fine
He quietly responds
That it’s all just rhymes

And though the child can barely whisper dryly
And my voice speaks bold and highly
We both see the scene
Through one eye apiece
And only perceive
Depth together

Fini

October 22, 2016

The artist.
You created this.
You accomplished everything.
Did what you never thought you could.
Lived circles around your own preconceptions.
Saw your children grow and scatter to the four winds.
Heard their glowing reports from the four corners of the world.
You’ll live your last days here in the shelter you’d always sought after.
Not working for the hollow dream of another man’s profit .
Just breathing now with the rhythm of the martyrs.
Breathing in the deep sweet breath of the dying.
Your youngest child still on the easel.
Bound to miscarriage.
No memories.
Gone.

No Rancho

10/05/2016

Have you ever tried to touch your nose with your eyes closed, while sitting in a tiny boat, with two friends fishing?

It’s like being rather drunk, but it’s only the dramamine.

And the moving sea.

Now try to paint the scene.

I dare you

Slot Machine

10/04/2016

Line after line
And jewel upon jewel
These beams of light
Bearing weight
As well as witness
To our memories
Lost in the fire
On the night we crossed the bridge
Over the village of tents and mud
And ice
Passing cars
With no drivers
And the rising tide
Forced us to climb over the rocks
To round the headland
Where lovers loved
And dreamers dreamed
And thieves did their best work
Stealing all that we had
And leaving us with nothing
But ashes

And
Possibly
Yet another
Parking ticket

Everybody Has Been Burned

09/28/2016

Fire crept
Over the mountain
We saw it from town
After dinner last night

Smoke drifting
Out to sea
This morning

Everybody has
been burned before
Especially here

On this day though
The Rasta Man
Only smiled
And gave me a beer
Instead

Demolition: Speed of Love

09/19/2016

I see them on their good days
And it’s hard to believe
The damage that the fairer of the two
Sometimes inflicts
When she lashes out
Unseen
On her darker days

The gaping holes wrecked into the seawall here
Speak of forces beyond comprehension

I go out here like everyone else
Just to watch on the really big days
But the seawall always seems to hold.

Yet the evidence is there
That on some days
It isn’t so strong

Maybe it’s like most of us
And it only tends to break down
In the dark of night
When no one is looking

I’m Only Bluffing

08/27/2016

Have you ever
watched
A tree
Blowing away
So slowly
That its roots
Have time
To catch and hold
The earth below?

I have

Forgive Us Our Trespasses

08/26/2016

The first sign said
No Trespassing

After climbing over the gate
And walking across the forbidden land
The second sign said
Permission to Pass

We couldn’t help but wonder
For whom was this one written?

It is always good
To be forgiven

Land Rights

08/24/2016

To step foot on these shores is to step back into an older California
Preserved in the ether of wood, and rust, and leather

If exclusion is the cost, so be it
Surely we’ve spent more for less elsewhere

By the way, if you can get me past the front gate
I give really good deals on commissioned artwork out here

I just thought I should mention that

Moment of Silence

08/23/2016

The hills burn and we breathe the smoke as they exhale.

Second hand exposure to long forgotten memories.

The mountains never forget.

The Queen’s Castle

08/22/2016

Even though she was royalty
We continued to stare
At the lines
Around
Her blue eyes
And at the
Shape of her
Trembling
Lips
That encircled
Her delicate mouth

Meeting her was
Our good fortune

She showed us grace
And mercy
We did not
Earn

Little did we know then
Just how good
The Queen would be to us

Or just how difficult
Fortune can be
For those
Who have received it

Pass the Potato Chips

08/21/2016

The hills are on fire
Pass the potato chips
We mean no disrespect
But what else is there to do?

California Burning

08/21/2016

This painting tour of the Santa Barbara/Ventura coast is quickly developing a wildfire theme. Every time you turn around down here there is another fire raging on another hill. I had a different spot in mind today, but the view of the smoke plume from this little utility road was just too good to pass up.

Each distant hill
Another mound of sticks
Prepared from long ago
For the clouds
To warm themselves
While California burns

These atmospheric bonfires
Often stop traffic
And force the impatient
Onto unmarked utility roads
With no clear exit

Good luck with that
Black Honda Civic

I saw you go in
And back out again
In reverse

Low Speed Rail

08/20/2016

On a flat and windy day here
I asked her father for his blessing
That his only daughter might become my bride
He laughed and paddled hard for a terrible little wave

All the Sons of Adam

08/18/2016

We throw these stones
Fighting this war
We declared on sand
On Babylon
And one another

We won’t
Be finished
Until our better angels
Concede defeat