A Painter’s Journal

Paths make themselves, decisions are no decisions, choices present themselves but the die has already been cast. We imagine ourselves somehow charting our way, but the way is made for us, and is perfectly fitted, perfectly formed around us. We compare our lives to others, how do I stack up? But it really doesn’t matter. You are inevitably drawn into the ancient ruins, into shadowy lands, into a somber truth that defies popular benchmarks. This ravaged beauty lies waiting for you, the desolation awaits discovery.

There is more at stake in the paint that we realize, more coming through than we ever imagined. One can not touch from a broken heart, and not have the colors carry these same urgings. The paint never lies, the colors can never be something they’re not, they are guiltless of wrong doing, they are innocent mirrors. We imagine the colors as “over against us”, as objects without, disconnected, detached from our soul, but they are not that at all, they are ever connected, they are life’s blood, they are the passages of you, from within, exposed, torn, vanquished and vulnerable. Continue Reading »

“A bit of riverbank 2″
9″ x 12″, acrylic on hardboard.
Painted on location 12-3-08.
A view on the Spokane river in Pleasant Valley.
$125 (plus $10 shpg)
Purchase link at the end of this post

Another view down at the point in Pleasant Valley, Spokane, midday today. I love this area, these gnarled trees, this tired land that has seen too much of man, the waters that never cease, the tangle or wiry weeds and grasses and stick things. Everywhere the stick things. Slicing the sky, splitting the land apart, splitting the water in two, in too - separating me from my love. This land speaks volumes, this land as seen rituals, this land has seen a lover’s tryst, this land has seen it all. So why am I here?

A casting for answers I suppose. A peering into corners and lanes that I should never have paused at. A questing of fire, of truth, of the elusive pain of the color gray. Riverbanks have seen it all.

Somehow, I think you are beginning to understand. My darling. Somehow you are beginning to sense the senseless sightlines, the carry overs of heart chimes, the chaos of soul ties, carry me into your heart my darling and let us dissolve into the loaming night together. These lands are never going to admit to much, there will never be conclusions, or some finality of precise potions. There is no magic here my darling, the magic went downstream, the magic has left, leeped, lunged into the misery of the daymares forever, forever my darling, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, Continue Reading »

“A bit of riverbank”
12″ x 9″, acrylic on hardboard.
Painted on location, Spokane, WA in Pleasant Valley, 12-2-08.
$125 (plus $10 shpg)
Purchase link at the end of this post

A painting midday down at the banks of the Spokane river in Pleasant valley. I think slowly I am rediscovering the simple pleasure of painting outside, that moment is exquisite, that moment is sacred, that moment is all we have. This is the glory of life, that such moments are given, and we cry as we realize we can never convey the blessedness that we see, that we feel. Yet, in the effort to say what must be said there is hope, unfading hope that perhaps, just maybe, by some fate, some slight oversight, we might reach across the gulf between us and touch one another. Our heart forever thus entwined, enfused with a shared passion of weakness, of darkness, of lostness, of an aimless dependancy on the grace of the sky, the faith of the waters, the love on lonely shorelines.

My heart is breaking in silence, my heart breaks in pieces, my heart can not seal these places in meaning, my heart leaves me barren. I struggle to convey, to express the unknowable sadness that can not be called a sadness, for it is drenched in joy, in pleasurable fondness, in a touch of silver crests, in the ripples that go nowhere. But the desire never leaves, and the longing never diminishes, it grows stronger. I don’t know the why or wherefore, the point or portent of these hideous skies, all I know is next place, next moment, the grace that will come if she wills. There is so much, eternal, infinite much, that can never be conveyed in the ways that the words are restrained under. I scratch and claw for the little wordlets that assemble into the miserable glory, that evoke the transparent devotion, a faith that goes nowhere, a worship of air, a devotion to the sacredness of emptiness and the vacuum of her smile. Continue Reading »

“Late fall at Monroe bridge”
12″ x 9″, acrylic on hardboard.
Painted on location 12-1-08.
A view of the Monroe street bridge from the precipice at Glover park.
$150 (plus $10 shpg)
Purchase link at the end of this post

A painting today midday, of the Monroe bridge. There is a great muted wonder that has fallen against this land. Why civilization does not grind to a halt in awe of these glories is beyond me. I have a renewed longing to go back into the streets of Spokane and paint the deep sadness that lies buried in the concrete and bricks, that encases souls crying their eyes out when no one is around. The city is an organic nightmare, just waiting for someone, anyone to express what she knows. And what she knows is loneliness and desire. What she knows is perfect emptiness.

Our lives wind back upon themselves, what begins as pursuit and a searching heart ends where you begin. Our steps cast long shadows that we find ourselves painting, shadows that extend into the waters, into the trees, into everything. 

I think perhaps the waters must become a torrent in order to let every thought, every meaning die. Only in the unthinking of expression can we ever hope to finally extricate ourselves from all of the sad preconceptions and prisons that haunt us. Only when expression’s desire is embraced with abandon can we eventually find our way out of the thickets and marshy lands, those places that torment with their prejudices. At last, when the skies dim and the lands below fade away into the gloom of irresolvable knowledge, are we at peace with our soul, we cry tears of joy, we fade with the land.

A binding into the threads of existence, into the avenues of creation’s strength (that is actually quite humble). A casting of your life over the edge of logic, a casting away of conclusion. The colors never lie, the colors are always true and live outside of meaning. The colors are salvation. Continue Reading »

At some point you wake up to the path you’re on, and understand your expressions are intrinsic and acceptable, and can never be equated by the mind into meaning, into a strength-making effort. This journey out of the meanings that the mind is desperate to leverage is the healing. The removal of the forms of strength, the impressive and majestic ideals, appear to be a part of this journey. The pain comes as you strive to hold to the pure and simple expressions amidst the world (the mind) and its ever beckoning allure towards strength (an expression of power). Continue Reading »

“High point Hays road, November”
12″ x 9″, acrylic on hardboard.
Painted on location 11-30-08.
A view on Hays road, Spangle, WA.
$125 (plus $10 shpg)
Purchase link at the end of this post

A painting today a the high point on Hays road. Calmer feelings prevailed I hope, I want so desperately to just paint what I see, and only what I see, and rest in that labor. And this road, this one blessed lonely road has every answer, every secret, every tear, every desire, every aimless view that obliterates meaning. I love this road more than words can describe.

I see so much, too much, every direction, finally I just paint what is near the car. I give up on searching for scenes, finding subject matter. Painting is just looking anyway, seeing what is there and transcribing to paint what is felt in that seeing. Every direction now is steeped in the longing, I don’t have to go far to find that exquisite whisper.

A tree, a branch, a little rock in the dirt. A few stray branches, a few teardrops to mix in with the colors, what more is there. The song wafts down from above, the fields reflect the dark light (that is no light), the sun casts shadows even when hidden behind clouds, shadows I wish I never saw.

The longings never leave, and the only way they are relieved are by color swatching. Layering of the infernal hues, the discordant mixes with despair, the skies beseech grace, the skies cry out enough. 

There are no more words to describe the mayhem we have wrought, the hell we have unleashed upon the earth. We are lost children, shielded by Mastercard, suffocating beneath infinite layers of the pleasure lords. Enough cries from the skies, but enough is never heard. Continue Reading »

“Late November, Hangman creek”
12″ x 9″, acrylic on hardboard.
Painted on location 11-29-08.
$150 (plus $10 shpg)
Purchase link at the end of these words

A painting late today at the Hangman bridge on Hays road. Cold and wet, not raining, but the moisture in the air makes 42 deg. feel like 10. This creek goes on forever I think. I have noticed how when I leave a location after painting, life is so much clearer, I see the beauty, I understand for a moment. And then those feelings slowly fade. All we have are our feelings, all we are, our feelings. Painting makes the feelings real for a while, then they recede until the next time.

The badgering never stops, the aimless belief that thoughts can make the light bright, and place the rows and columns together in lines until we see straight. But I see nothing, I can trust none of my thoughts, none of my conclusions. What are we, what bizarre inspiration told us that we could understand anything, arrive at any conclusions? That is most strange, that we think our mind dependable.

The colors are what they are, there is no right-wrong, some evoke feelings one way, some another, makes no difference. I trudged away on that “chitter bushes” painting today at home, flattening it, trying to find (what?). Only to remove most of what I did and haul it back to the same spot to paint what I saw, what was there, what was real. I can’t trust myself away from nature.

All I know is that we are divine light, shrouded in sunsets and gray days. We are ephemeral glistenings, we go on, we are mystery pure. So sad how we have enslaved our lives into the patterns and mindless routines that help us forget that. Why are we so afraid of that? Continue Reading »

“First snow, Hays road”
12″ x 9″, acrylic on hardboard.
Painted on location 11-28-08.
A view at the high point on Hays road.
It has been snowing off and on all day today, I went down Hays road and painted this view from in the car with the heater going. Not sure I am really ready for winter. I am never ready.
$125 (plus $10 shpg)
Purchase link at the end of these words

My darling, I cannot bear to write the words to you that describe what I feel any longer, the pain is too intense, the loneliness too great for your little heart to bear. Better that you continue in the old one ways until you learn that you can never trust them, never trust their meanings. But you are young yet, you have so far to go. But your heart is in the right place, you will do well. Try to learn from where I have been, try to read between the sight lines, try to release yourself from their grips. 

Believe me, I understand what you are going through. I myself wrestled long and hard with their sad strength ways, their playthings that torment, their assumptions that end in misery. I too had the most difficult time sorting the in’s and out’s of their up’s and down’s. Finally I gave up little girl, finally it dawned on me that they had bewitched me with power, with their meaning sticks, with their dark and hideous pathways to piety. It took forever it seemed, but finally it dawned on me.

Herein lies wisdom my saint, herein lies your salvation, and not yours only, but the life of the little ones to come, the precious children that will one day roam the earth in pleasant days and the thrill of innocent expression. When you understand that she will meet your every need, you have no need to fear, or fight to accumulate. This is the sickness of the old ones, the madness they preach, the diatribe they screech. Your calling requires weakness and helplessness my darling, do you see that? No, of course not, you are still battling with the sickness of their meaning prisons. This I understand well. Simply remember to meditate upon my words, recall to mind that this is not your life you are forging, your day, your path. You are the womb of times to come, the birthing of the star children, the loveliness of ancient tombs and rooms. The pain you feel is meant for the age to some, you are the shell breaking, the womb contracting, the weakness of misery in the coming tides. This is the most painful place you will ever know my darling, I understand that, and all I can do is encourage you to continue to preserver until the old one’s meanings have finally, forever, left your heart. Remain true to the sincere expressions, stay pure in the devotion of the colors, for in them lies salvation and the healing, in them lies heaven. Continue Reading »

“Twixt the chitter of ancient bushes”
12″ x 9″, acrylic on hardboard.
Painted on location 11-27-08.
A view on Hays road, boggy bottom section, Spangle, WA.
$125 (plus $10 shpg)
Purchase link at the end of these words

If I could whisper one word to you darling, what would it be?
If I could plant one little thought in you my precious lady what would it be?
If I could touch you one last time, where would my finger fall?

I would touch your lips, I would whisper “love”, I would think grace into you. Upon these two, yes three, the whole world turns. Turns on you my little girl, everything turns around you.

These ancient thorns know these words, know this truth. They hold them inside, they have protected everything for you. Waiting until you can birth the children to come. The children are everything my darling, your babies will run the shores of earth, they will live free, they will love in light, they will feel fear no more.

These are not easy days to sort and sift, for the sorting and sifting comes from the memory trees, from the old one’s beliefs, from pageantry and practicals. You are the seed of hope, you are the womb of creation, from you a new earth is born. Yes, I know these days hurt you little one, I know the days pierce your soul, make demands, usher the nightlings into your daymares. I wish I had the healing for the pain, I wish I could caress you and make the tears depart, but I cannot my darling. The pain is birth pains dear, the piercings are the age that comes.

Can you imagine the world ill-defined, a blur of love, a limitless ocean of joy, a sea thing of beauty, a plain of pleasure amidst the love tendrils? I can my darling, I can. One day you will see, one day you will know, one day you too will fall beneath the crush of consonants, the verbal assault will end, your eyes will open at last and you laugh and cry forever, forever my darling. Continue Reading »

“South ledges from boggy bottom”
9″ x 12″, acrylic on hardboard.
Painted on location and completed in the studio, 11-26/27-08.
A view on Hays road in the mists.
$125 (plus $10 shpg)
Purchase link at the end of these words

A journey, a shifting of persepctive. A sightline, a glance behind.

In the tears, in the mists, in love, in the crush of memory.

Looking too long, you begin to see things. Sea things.

The clouds never go away my darling, a hiding, a concealment of meaning, they never go away.
Have you climbed the ledges little girl? Have you sought the ridge rivers, the places where they sacrificed the longings, the lovelets, the blood of your innocence? They are not hard to reach, they are found in the dark places, and the shadows are never far away.

These are the lands where you flee, where you believe again in nothingness, where you cry without warning, where you drink the waters of compassion and tenderness. And your tenderness my darling is without compare.

The softness was left behind in these rocks, in the ancient tree things, in the nooks of neverness, in the gloom of the revealing (that is no revealing). Under the moss and wetness your arm brushes against the misery weeds, the sad callings that sail down in smiles. In a sad smile, a wistfulness washes over you.

You look so lovely into her depths. You look so lovely into her desirous leanings. You look so lovely my darling, you look so very lovely. Continue Reading »