Banks of the River, Milepost 11, Painting

I stopped to paint, this evening, in the bit of sun there was at the end of the day, at Milepost 11 along the highway. Milepost 11 has a lot of memories for me, back when i was a firefighter- its where everyone seemed to loose control on the highway. And it rained, and hailed, and my paint box of 30 years busted again, and my white paint was so damned old I couldnt get it to move, and the canvas kept popping off the easel, and after a great start, it all died on the canvas, turned to unsurety, and turned to hard work. I sometimes think i just don't know enough. i don't know how to keep the paint clean, and when to paint a tree first and and when not to, and i think- well, i know about Line, and how to get shapes right, but then, well, i don't. I don't know a darned thing.

My friend Bruce sent me a website of a guy in New Mexico, who has my level of talent plus dedication, plus probably more talent, and training, and i looked at his work and thought- what the heck is the point of this? You draw the figure, you paint a mountain, then a battleship, then a vase. But where are the heroics? Where is the great thing that is happening?Is this what my work looks like to other painters? My god.

The abstract expressionists-now they were heroic. Big stuff, big brushes, consistent dedicated work. I love them. You don't see a Franz Kline mountain, then a little chalk drawing of  a naked girl, then a vase, then the battleship Missouri. Jesus. You see again and again, big series, big ideas, searching feeling. Not searching technique, or skill- though that's there. But grandness. At least that's the view from the outside.

I don't think in doing the slap dash work i do that i am going to get to do something Grand. I am not sure if i even have an original idea in me.

I stood on the edge of the river, up on the bank with the cars shooting by on the highway, in a rain jacket trying not to get paint on my good shirt, and looked at the flat blue plane of the edge of a swirl, a water dapple, the way the clouds cluster low down when the sun sets, like they were getting ready to spring out into the coming night,  and the grey green of a fuzzy tree reflection, and the way the river snakes out around the point of the opposite bank, and on and on, and its stuff i have looked at a million times. I have lots of trouble in life right now, its a bit tough and confusing, and I figure maybe i can take up some angst slack with painting. So its coming back to an old friend, to see if we can strike up a conversation. Not too talkative of a friend, and without much consolation, but someone you've known a long time and trust.

Framing, Up Past Midnight, Them: Second Thoughts

I was up well past midnight framing a show of drawings for a restaurant in Everett, WA. I framed 27 works, mostly 18x24 drawings, and pastels. Its in The Sister's Restaurant, and is curated by a woman named Lyssey Hyder, who asked me to show some work as she likes it, and I appreciate that she does, so i did.

I had trepidations, as its Everett, not a gallery, and not really a great place for showing work. But its just drawings, I figured, so i thought, what else am i doing? It can't be that bad of a place.

I looked it up, people love the food. Its next to the coop- brought back memories of Olympia and other food co-ops before PCC took over the world. So i had in my mind, a sort of funky hippy place. Which it is. But i thought, well, it can't be that bad to show art.

Well, actually, it is. I drove over in the rain and sleet with all my drawings seatbelted in my 3 cylinder Subaru (had 4, one's not working), and arrived. The walls are painted probably in the three worst horrible colors I have ever seen, almost like someone knew i was coming. The lighting is up 20 feet and is 8 foot fluorescent lights. There is wood diagonal lattice up on one wall. One wall is pale yellow. One is orange. One is lime green. One is bright red. One is brick. There is cheap mdf trim everywhere. It could not NOT be worse for showing art. It sort of broke my heart, but i admired Lyssey asking me, and she has good intentions, and was there, and so, well, she took it in and has, I think, hung it.

She said she'd been unemployed a year, and that set the tone for the rest of my day. One bad, sorry tale after another. Galleries closing. People without work. I go to half priced books, some woman is arguing about trying to get another dollar for her DVD's. At the library, the librarian says she is glad she has her 20 hours as her husband is out of work and they would be without insurance. Lysussey says her friend, and architect, has been looking a year, and found nothing. She herself, who is Russian I think, could find no work, and finally out of desperation took the first thing she could, at $10.03 an hour and is thinking of going to another country. I meet a guy at the bookstore, my age, a carpenter, who just cut his long hair in hopes of someone hiring him, but there's no work.

And no one buys art. And it seems so damned superfluous. Not that i sold any, or knew how. But always, i thought i could. Now, I can't. Lyussey says i price everything too cheap at 100 bucks. So we bump it all to $250. I know what that means: no sales. Not that i need them, i just don't want them stacking up. Truly, if someone loved a piece, really, or only partly, i would want them to HAVE it,  that;s worth 100 bucks. Less commission. But then, Lyssey, at 25%, would make nothing. What a weird world!

All of this is just how it is. I have never, in my life, worried about this sort of thing in the same way, and certainly not seen it. When the so called Depression hit- i thought, this is a Depression? Where are the breadlines? Now: i  see them. Across the street from the gallery, in the sleet, are people in a line, at 10 in the morning, smoking, waiting for something to open. Its the weekend, what the hell? But its the poor part of town, and depressing as hell.

My wife loses her job, and our insurance, and my job is tentative. I suspect that's the tale all over. So, some people get through it i guess. It's just not the same as i sort of, absent mindedly, expected. All that hard work, all that frugality. And avoiding doing what I MIGHT be good at if i gave it some time. Which is what I do, make drawings. Read about Bonnard. Cut wood. And I figured I was bettering the race of men and women. And though my genetics stop with me, I figured I did my part. Now i think, well, to hell with it, its more complicated then i thought before. I want to get through all this, see the other side. Feel it deeply and positively and think, its alright, this is all ok, and move on. To the next world. Well, i am not religious. So I just mean, go to sleep without all these worries.

Vitamin A(rt)

I am framing a show for the Sister's Restaurant in Everett, as i was asked, by a nice woman who is supportive of my work, I think she is Russian? and i showed a few pieces there before. Normally, i wouldn't do it, I'd say no, its not like its going to move me forward, or that i am going to sell work, or i am going to make more connections. And it is a lot of effort and cost for not a lot of return.

But it gives me an opportunity to think: what the heck is it i am doing with this art? What do i have after all these years? And i stack up the 18x24 drawings and go through them- oh god. These are bad. I am bad. I am not skilled, Ok, i like this one, bad , bad, bad, what was i thinking? And there are hundreds of drawings on the floor (now, Thursday night, stuff in a huge recycling bin for tomorrow). and i barely get 20 out of the whole deal.

But personally, not all of them- but a few of them- I like them. My own work. I think: is that maybe really good? By accident?

That's ridiculous. That is a lot of time and hours and work, and it gets distilled- barely - to a handful of stuff that still isn't that great? Stuff i thought was OK now sucks?

I am running out of time here. It's not my job, so i can't give it the time i should, so i dont get really that good at it, and the drawings stack up. My mentor, Wes Wehr, said that Mark Tobey said to be sure to destroy your bad work, and i do my best to follow that thought.

As I drive home tonight, I consider my will. Where does all this stuff go?  What a strange world. You get born wanting to make pictures, but there's really not a place for them. What is this all about? I am so not-sure, that it pains me. It doesn't seem to pain any one else, so i wonder, am i getting all my vitamins?