I’m planning on skittering up the coast again, thinking time is running out, how many trips do I have in me, how many times can I do this? My health has been a little sketchy lately. I had a very bad reaction to a polenta overdose shortly after the last trip, and it took me almost a week to recover. I am removing grains from my diet for now, to see if that is the trigger.
In between trips to Oregon I have been copying art, grabbing screenshots from Youtube videos. I’m currently fond of a so-generous artist named Helen Wells, who does vivid, stylized trees and vses of flowers on large paper and on panels. Copying these is transfixing, fills pages in my very large 11×14″ sketchbook, two at a time, often in the space of a day. I’m using watercolors, caran d’ache water soluble crayons, inks, whatever. The brushwork and color mixing are so satisfying. I have released my sense of dismay that I am not doing anything original–it’s an atelier, it’s a salon, I am copying art I enjoy, oh well. It’s hella fun.
I’m just back from a near-week in a far place, I am ready to go again. A stack of paintings, a sense of freedom, practice, stability, direction . . . well-fed, and wonderful friends I may never see again.
painting at big bear lake
On the first, very hot day we did a nature walk-and-talk through the red fir/mixed conifer forest, stopping to check out the name tags on many alpine plants. I was mildly alarmed by a huge pyrocumulus cloud off to the north, which turned out to be above the nearby Gold Complex fire, ignited by lightening. On day two we woke up to dense smoke, and N95 masks were handed out at breakfast. Several people left camp; it was pretty unnerving. News was hard to come by, not only because we were off grid, but the enormous Park Fire, still raging as I write, was just taking off. No problem for us, though, because we headed out to hike to a nearby lake, Sand Pond, to paint, swim, eat lunch, and paint again. On our return the smoke was much abated, and the wind had shifted, though the fire appeared to be 0% contained for the first two days. It was Taco Tuesday, and after I snarfed my meal I went back to the classroom to fill several sheets of paper with washes of ink and color, and then to bed. The moon was orange that night.
smoke in the eveningsigns of a recent firefireweed?
The next day we hiked from Gold Lake to Big Bear Lake, to paint, swim, eat lunch, and paint some more. I did a picky version, then after lunch I did some quick studies of the same scene that I like better. A lesson! Study first, then paint. I was worn out from the excitement and tucked in early.
Some evenings we would paint with acrylics, inks, on canvas, with stencils and materials we gathered. Fire was a constant theme, some people did deep, moving studies of the devastation.
Up at Yuba Pass we hiked through a forest decimated by drought and pine bark beetles, so extreme that the campground had been closed due to falling trees. We hiked to the ridge, where high winds and falling limbs had us turn and leave before we had a chance to get settled. The sad sight was cheered by the crops of young and baby trees, hopefully adapting to the severe conditions.
The last day we took a hike to Grassy Lake, and I painted the view from where I sat near a dry creek bed. A side trip took us to beautiful Red Fir Trail, where we saw a pair of Goshawks overhead.
near Grassy Lakefires make forestsred firs and rocks
I stayed an extra day, one more night with Westy in the quiet forest. Heading home Saturday morning after some goodbyes, and back into the traffic, with a pile of paintings and some new ideas, I was happy to see my plum tree still full of fruit.
most of themthe view from Westfalia
This week I have been back at my sketchbooks, filling pages with owls and birds and copying ideas from screenshots of painters on Youtube. More about that in coming episodes. Also this week I pulled out my flat files and reorganize them: ancient archives, a portfolio of 14×17 photos and large prints, calligraphy, watercolors. It makes sense, for now.
Meanwhile, I’m heading up to the River tomorrow for a couple of days, hope to continue painting there.
Planning to head to the mountains for a painting retreat, seeing how many unfinished sketchbooks I can cram into my luggage. How much will I share? I feel like I struggle to be original, I don’t know why. I don’t post images that are basically renditions of other people’s ideas, hence the lag time between postings–yet isn’t that how one learns? Is anything original? I’m just trying to fill pages.
My goal is to paint faster, looser, brighter, louder. I’d rather copy than not paint.
These are my brushstrokes. Sometimes I work from photographs. Maybe the key is to do the same thing over and over until the sense of your own being is the only thing left, like repeating a mantra, saying your own name until it becomes something foreign. I’m just not there yet. I’m still gathering.
Here at my work table I am frequently of the illusion that I am at my old “penthouse” apartment on on Emerson Street. I had a three-bridge view there, before that big Y-shaped condo tower in Emeryville blocked out part of the City. I picture the little kitchen nook behind me, the parking lot out the window to the west, and the big redwood tree Wilson the Escaped Amazon parrot used to visit. I was there the night of the 1989 earthquake, watching the Marina burn, and the lighted tree on the blacked out hills to the east. I was there the day of the big fire, before it was a thing, I saw smoke at 8 AM, when it was 80 degrees and windy., and called 911.
It is only 2-plus blocks, .2 miles, though thirty years away. The sensation first came up some months ago when I suddenly realized that I was not on the third floor, in what was actually my bedroom there. The second time it happened i couldn’t dispel the vivid sense of the kitchen behind me, the memory of my little closet, and the niche that was a perfect fit for my LP’s and audio equipment at my elbow. I never actually had a table in that room. I think the refrigerator backed up to the foot of the bed
One day I got up from the table here, and almost walked through the doorway to my current kitchen. In my mind’s eye the bathroom was through a door to the main room and to the left. Even writing this I stop to switch tracks, the memory train wants to take that familiar option. I’ve become really fond of it, not looking up from my journal or painting, imagining myself there, another episode of timeline jumping, making a foray into the past to upgrade and heal some past trauma or imagined inadequacy. Even now I can clearly conjure up the illusion that I am there.
That was another dump I moved into and transformed into a glorious mirage, the tall victorian windows and the fireplace with a huge mirror that reflected the moon rising over the hills, walls I painted to match the glazed green tile, circa 1906. I had my cat Betty there; where is that drawing of the mouse-mouth?
What is the purpose of that memory? It was a previous time when I lived alone, not the first, relationship free–after Ed moved back to The City. I had the same sense of complete centeredness and fortune in my choice of home and surroundings, OMG to the extent that I once had my drums set up there! Poor neighbors!
It’s not my birthday, but the sun crosses 13 degrees 01 minute of Taurus at 4 PM today. It’s Thursday, Ganesh has brought cake, so we are planning a celebration in the garden. It’s the peak of the season, the yellow orchids are blooming, tiny Violette just opened, Joasine Hanet is covered with buds, the grapefruit tree and the mystery pink rose are perfuming the air, the apples are cross-pollinating. Since rain is predicted for my actual birthday (again) I will do an end-run by celebrating today.
I have been inspired to putter in the garden, and have worked all week since the rains stopped. I have a space of time after Texas, Petaluma, Page Street, before I head out for a week re-treat, a gift of a parkup at a “cabin” in the Gold Country, where I hope to reboot my watercolor practice. I bought a thick pad of Fabriano watercolor paper and some Pitts pens to add to my pile of unused materials, sigh, so busy.
I have been productive in other realms–the template of the backyard is decades wide, a sort-of miracle. Somewhere around 1994 I salvaged flagstones from the yard at Emerson Street, and we laid them around the legless Weber grill we used as a portable fire pit. There is another patch of flagstones near where the shed used to be, where the propane grill Peggy gave me lives. There is a rectangular brick spiral floor Steve installed in the corner to make a little room for the clawfoot bathtub we had found on the street. He also built the bamboo fence and gate I patched and stablized a few posts back.
I have a number–nay, a plethora–of patio chair frames, and have tried several means of reweaving them. Some have not been successful, like the neon pink landscape tape that wouldn’t hold a cat, and faded instantly, and the multicolored strands of landscape twine that were too stringy and unwieldy. I tried a couple of methods of restoring the hoop chairs, including copying the original canvas–I now recall that I got those from Grif in torn condition–that had to be 35 years ago. They have been wandering around the yard as ghosts, even as the rope-on-wire contraption I attempted sat un-damaged through many years of sun and rain exposure. The clothesline I wove onto the foot stool has also stood the test of time, but I haven’t found that exact type since.
Last week I stopped into O’Reilly’s looking for some 80’s era 8 amp fuses for Westina’s cigaret/interior/stop light circuit, after replacing and rewiring the socket, and in the sale bin I found a 50′ roll of orange cord for a measly $3. I have bought cord before, wildly unsuitable, uncomfortable, or worse. This was all I needed, appropriate materials in neon orange, to inspire a new attempt. Stringing, unstringing, restringing errors, it took bits of two days to get to this point. I left the hoop and the center ring (where did that come from?) in its current shade of rusty metal, which took on a satisfying purple tone against the green and orange. Might still move that knot to the left . . . right leg. Why knot?
Late yesterday I pulled the old rope-and-wire version apart and reworked it, 12 loops instead of 16, with a salvaged plumbing slip-nut, or whatever it’s called, as the center ring. Oddly, I had begun to paint the rope orange at some point. It has been living in the elements, poorly attached to the hoop chair frame for many years, and the rope is still strong and not too shabby (chic).
I remember Steve’s comment that inspired me to start my garden business over thirty years ago: “You’re never happier than out here with the worms!” Yes, we are.
clothesline hassockold ropeygreen and orange make purple
I had come from the parade in cowboy hat, twirl skirt and boots, already dressed as if for the Roundup. People were glad to see me. We sat and talked, it was warm, lovely, friendly. Erik asked when I was coming “home”. It was like a shock. They said they could sneak me in, but, it felt sketchy. I would have been illegal, unsafe, an intruder, again.
I left to turn in for the night. It was late. I had planned to sleep in my van, then putter in the roofing house and pack some things out the next day. I was moving out. Moving on.
When I thought they had gone I went back to get a bubble water from my big galvanized tub, now repurposed as a beverage cooler for the Friday Winos. But no, they were still there–waiting? All in cowboy hats, dressed for a party- I was in my pajamas, no longer one of them. Not ever, really.
We hugged goodbye. I watched as they all walked down the tracks, and realized I had been given a choice, and taken a final fork in that road. I watched that chapter come to a close, my old life sputtering to a vague, unspoken, bitter end.
I was up all night, in a terrible agony of panic, regret and confusion. An angel texted and invited me to visit. At dawn I woke, made coffee, opened the gate and drove away.
An old sketchbook of beadwork belts and bracelets, circa 1970-1990.
We were booked to play the Petaluma Butter and Egg Days parade–a hinky affair, but super huge, a reported 30,000 in the audience. Lots of hokey costumes, robot chickens, hay bales on trailers, classic vehicles, high school bands and wrestling teams, and local dairy and poultry producers. Art and I were invited to represent the Cotati Accordion Festival, playing jigs and polkas while riding on the ragtop mechanism of a 1952 Chevrolet convertible.
I hustled back from Texas in time to decompress and have a rehearsal, and gathered a costume from some possible items I had laid out before I left. Learning the Chevy was gray, I chose the red twirl skirt, black and white striped leggings, and a black bodice and cowboy hat. Sitting in the sun for two hours, I ended up with quite the sunburn on my upper back. I had a super fun time, and when we got to the end I said, can we go around again? As if it was a carnival ride. Nope, the parade was over–we were near the end, #169 of 178 entries.
We packed our gear into Art’s Tesla and headed back to Canyon, where Westy was waiting for me. I stopped in at Misty’s and had a beer with the old gang–it was a bittersweet moment–they were on their way to the Redwood Rodeo, and I was dressed for it, but I let it pass. A rough night–super sad, really. I slept fitfully under the full moon, then made coffee and slipped out the gate just past dawn.
Over the weekend we spent mornings hanging out at Central Market where Grif likes to go for coffee and a breakfast taco. At RADIO there is coffee, beer, food trucks, more tacos, and grackles, one of my all time favorite birds. On Monday after watching the cloudy eclipse from Grif’s back balcony we went to the open mic at Bhodi’s Hideaway, where no one (else) shows up to play, and did a two hour showcase, minus a beer break for a Pinthouse Brewery Electric Jellyfish hazy IPA. We mostly did songs one or the other of us barely knew, plus some oldies we miraculously remember after 15?? years.
We went to see friends perform at a hotel cafe and a winery, took home some Rudy’s BBQ, walked around a bit, listened to music. We met Grif’s old room mate for more tacos back at RADIO, with heat lightening and pouring rain coming in. I slept on his couch a couple nights, then decided I was happier and cooler at home in my van, with the lightening and soothing sounds of a hail storm!
Austin is so green, water and little lakes everywhere, and the for miles around hiways are bounded by wide swaths of wildflowers, pink Indian Paintbrush, Bluebonnets, Blanket Flower, and yellows, yellows, yellows everywhere. On the way out I hit the road early and drove west via Rt 71, marveling frequently that I might have been driving on sketchy tires at 75 MPH, thanking my lucky star or two. Wednesday night I ended up at a rest stop near Roswell by a quirk of my electronic navigator. Steve would approve. I stopped to pick up some provisions, planning to hunker at another rest stop on I-40/66, when a local suggested I turn toward the free campground at El Morro National Monument. I ended up staying there for two nights. It is designated a #3 Dark Sky site, with the “enthusiastic support” of neighboring communities, and the Zuni Pueblo.
The hike was closed due to a washout, but just hanging out, reconfiguring my string and solar lights, cleaning, sorting, puttering, and reading Bruce Catton’s The Coming Fury made for a perfect day. Slowly thinning out the excess, the van is overly-outfitted for two people and dinner guests, with cribbage, dominoes, books, multiple cups, plates, glasses, candles–when what I really use is three coffee mugs, two forks, a frying pan, coffee pot and a spoon. I haven’t touched my art supplies. No WiFi for days, no access to email, and my inverter won’t charge the laptop. I did watch a youtube video on my old iphone 6, by gosh. How cool is that.
Then it was back to Gallup where I decided not to wait in line at Jerry’s Cafe, another recommendation by a local, maybe some other time. I had errands to run, then headed west to see how far along I could get. I wanted to hit that taco stand in Seligman again, and there I got a burrito bowl made to order, refritos, cheese on top please, then rice, carnitas, hatch chilis, mexicorn, jalapenos, and crema: perfection. It took three days to finish it off. I made it to Mojave NP that night, almost no thanks to the wacky app that put me at the Goffs 4×4 entrance via Bullhead City, 47 minutes out of my way on a Saturday night. Luckily Mojave is a relatively unsung park, not crowded, and there I decided to stay another night rather than join the Sunday rush home. Why go back to street-sweeping day? I moved to site #17 up the hill and watched as folks packed and left to go finish their taxes, or the retired jeepers maybe heading further into the desert. Westina stalled while re-parking, and as she does after a short drive, would not start, and it turned out she found a better vantage than I had planned, 360 views, unobstructed out each window. Relaxed and rejuvenated, I woke at dawn to finish the long bleak drive back to dreary civilization, traffic, my beloved home, and the tasseling box elder out my window.
Well, it’s that anniversary again. Almost at the last minute I decided to drive to see the total eclipse from the balcony of my old music partner’s apartment in Austin Texas. Truly idiots have angels, and likely, angels need idiots to exist. I had packed out not-that-early on a Sunday morning, but the van battery was stone dead, would not jump, would not charge. AAA sent a guy with a battery that almost fit, he made it work and got me on the road. I tried filling my tires the day before, but there was one tire that wouldn’t cooperate. The inflater valve squealed in terror, but, idiot that I am, I decided to have it checked out “later”. Now I was actually walking distance from my tire guy over the holiday, and intended to drop in to have it checked then, but, well, here we are.
Crossing the CA/AZ border at Needles after a night at Mojave National Preserve I stopped into a place that said TIRES, and TIRE SALE, to check the pressure and get 2 gallons of $7/per gas, when Johnny approached and said my FRONT tire looked a little low . . . distracted, oops, I ended up filling my tank, and pulled up to the air hose. He proceeded to show me the indicators, and the rot, and said, these aren’t safe on the highway–he showed me the date on the one I was having issues with–2015. I ended up with a full set of fresh new tires. He also pointed out that my shocks were original (1983) equipment, and leaking, and down the road in Kingman I could have them replaced, and called the guy to see if they were in stock.
Well, it could seem to be a scam, but then, even I could see they were not what I wanted to be riding on, and worrying about. Honestly, road angels exist. Somehow my work truck always had up-to-date wheels, but my van guys only go so far.
I stopped for a scrumptious carnitas taco at what appeared to be a Subway/truck stop/gift store in Seligman, so it was well into afternoon when I was back on the road, driving through an ice storm and searching for a campground. I pulled into the lot at Petrified Forest and recognized clear signs of Boondocking, chose a spot with a view of trees, and tucked in for the night.
The next morning I woke to ice half-an-inch thick on my windshield, and remembered the ice scraper I somehow had the sense to acquire and squirrel away in the back of the van. I shivered and watched as mothers hugged and hustled their tiny children through the freezing wind onto a school bus idling nearby. I pulled out early, but the fog was so thick I had to pull over and wait until I could at least see the trucks rumbling by. I felt blessed, so at the New Mexico border I bought myself a vintage Navajo Sterling cuff as a birthday present, what the hell I had emergency cash, the emergency was averted, plus now I am a genius.
Through Albuquerque, and after a sweet boondocking rest stop near Santa Rosa, New Mexico I turned south and through backcountry Texas. One more stop at a spendy RV “resort” (the blue dot) where I plugged in my laptop and got some email, then off early on Thursday morning, arriving in Austin (the red pin) in time to join Grif on his flower delivery route. Not before getting rerouted, not for the first time, by an inane map app that sent me to a completely different address with almost no relation or reason to where I was destined, a 27 minute delay . . .
I ordered some handmade black squirrel brushes online, on the advice of a youtube watercolor tutorial. I recently also got an assortment of fine liners and riggers, they are fun. Turns out the #3 hand made squirrel brush is my favorite. Fat, fluffy, and a nice point, although I have pulled a couple of hairs . . . The point is so fine, I could add hair lines and detail and shadow to this old drawing circa 4.16.2020. It’s the view out the window in Canyon from my old chair by the woodstove, a month into the lockdown.
A friend once commented that I have a Hoard of brushes. They are not a hoard. I use them. Well, some of them. I have been looking for a chopstick rest to lay damp brushes on, and somehow came to the realization that a wooden soap dish would do the trick. I found two different hand made versions, one in cedar, one in poplar.
Nataliea squirrel is a fluffy ratdiaz lake gouache
I’m also doing a few portraits here and there, getting over my acquired shyness about pencils and yes, the forbidden eraser. I’m working three different sketchbooks at the moment. I have been slowly filling an old Moleskine. Nicknamed “Squirrel”, begun circa 2012, it has a lot half-baked ideas that I am attempting to make sense of from here in the future. There is the $2 Goodwill hand me down from the 2022 post-Christmas thrifting binge, and this mustard paper ring-bound sketchbook I got from Viki.
I’m not putting much effort into getting decent photos. I feel it’s all works in progress. I plan to paint multiple versions of this landscape. I have other paintings of that era, the trips to Diaz Lake and Lone Pine, on the way in and out of Saline and Death Valley, the Panamints and beyond. It is a magical place, at a magical time of year, the Eastern Sierras in October, and the cottonwoods turning golden. Perhaps I’ll go there again, maybe soon.
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