Saturday, November 18, 2017

Oil Study...Drinking from the river of delights

The river took my good buddy Kavin back in '79 and for that I'll never forgive her...but she is beautiful and she is strong. No one would argue that. I tried to drink from her soothing aqua-brown delight in the winter of the same year. There was a little bubbling rill meandering bright and inviting the very middle of an ice clogged channel. When I was within 6 or seven feet the ice broke out from under me and I went down...tiptoes on a sand bar, current pushing my neck and chest up to the ice edge. Well, by all rights I should be in a pine box sleepin' away eternity, or better yet, under the mud down in the delta somewhere waiting for one of Katrina's friends to wake me. Seems the King of the river had different of them was to make these here pictures....suave colors and  pleasing and unpretentious compositions.

Friday, November 17, 2017

A BIG ONE & a little one...thanksgiving treat

The top pic is a 24x36 canvas. Again, a moderating monsoon was the inspiration. The Second painting is a study done to work out some color ideas. Both are available direct from the studio.

Thursday, November 2, 2017

Here's a new, large canvas.  I'm still a bit fired up about our great yet so-quickly-passed monsoon season.  Southwest mountains and skies never get old.  Be sure to check out my links to ebay sale page to see more of these snazzy creations....'been doing a lot of smaller study sized painting lately but stay tuned, more large canvases like this one are on the way.

Sunday, July 9, 2017

Seldom Seen Shy Sheep making rare appearance ...with mister moon 12x9's

I have been making a number of smaller "study" sized paintings available lately.  Most of these have been let out on eBay auctions.  They have low start prices so any of us should find ourselves without excuse when is comes to sprucing up the walls that surround us.  Feel free to contact me directly regarding one of these or search through the listings available now via the link below

Thursday, March 16, 2017

"Delphic Ambiguity" 12x30 inch canvas
Santa Catalina Mountains Tucson, Az.

new clipping from Hawkin's book of tales...

The song that says “…and if I ever lose my eyes, hands” etc. is in my head.  I’ve wondered about losing a limb or two. What kind of dreadful circumstance would be required for their loss?  My next door neighbor was missing half of his right hand. I was determined to not end up like him, at least in regards to his finger situation.  He lived in a one room adobe with a tarpaper roof, his wife and five kids.  A lot of mining goes on around the little mountain town way, way south of my origins.  Easy access to explosives, shallow graves and silver are the common temptations/reasons for living in those mineral-rich hills. I guess my reasons were a bit more altruistic originally but at least two of those, with time, factored large.  There was a good number of one armed, one legged deaf men in town due to mining accidents.  If I ended up like Lefty my guitar picking would definitely suffer. The up side?  I might end up with a large family.  Pancho wanted me to take him “fishing”. He had worked with Lefty, saw his fingers fly and would make the same blasting caps available to us for a small price. A little excursion to our favorite fish hideout was in order.  Gun powder and water-proof canon fuse are readily available these days. Small, effective depth charges can be fashioned pretty easily in your home shop. Back then I was reliant on our miner friends for these type of supplies.  The day dawned expectant. I had in hand a stiff paper tube about the size of a roll of quarters. It had a cone on one end with a black smudge on the tip. I guessed that was the fuse. I would try to light that first. This was a test run. I wanted to see if this little firecracker could really take off a head…of a fish.  It wouldn’t light.  I tried the opposite end, lit it on fire, picked it up and blew on the now forming cherry. I held the smoldering grey cigar in my right hand and remembered Lefty.  I put it down. I built a fire of match sticks and weeds, laid the cone into the flame and breathed life into it from 3 inches away.  It started to spark, smoke pouring out of both ends.  I quickly walked away, 10, 20, 30 steps, and turned in time to see a bright blast and concussion cloud form and accelerate toward me in super-fast slow-motion. I had placed it under a dry cow skull at the last second. The blast cloud hit my chest, sucked all the air out of me and  I watched my  shadow detach from my body.  We showered in cow head dust. I have all my fingers.

Tuesday, February 21, 2017

Intro to Biographic Landscape Memoirs continued...

A rambling drifter I never set out to be.  Nor was it my design to be telling stories of drifting, grifting and rambling.  It just turned out that way.  In person I’m really not much of a raconteur.  However, as unlikely as their source might be, these tales are death-defyingly truth-soaked and were lived in the flesh by me and a smattering of other characters.
The impulse to head west is a strong one.  Drifting is just the nature of the western country, the land itself rolls and wells and flows and moves you always further west it seems and… somehow bends you south without warning.  It dumps into your lap remarkable pearls of peerless, perilous price that beg to be shared.  To head west or south I first had to consume my share of alluvial loam, tame a savage river and blast through a few of the lives most cats like us are afforded at birth and… to learn how to drive a car.    
 The Plymouth Duster had lots of rust and a three speed gearshift on the steering column. Shifting the black and tan two-door with a rag for a gas cap took a little practice.  But it was good for making those tires squeal and pre-driver’s license age was a good time to be drifting around corners in a rear-wheeled wonder like the Duster. I learned to drive on a frozen lake.  It was Jayson’s car.  He wanted it to go up in a ball of flames to collect the insurance.  Jay was a noble dude and a great friend.  He was a few years older than I and had a coin collection and a boat and a case of road flares. The nobility came from the boat.  The coins and flares were incidental.  My first drowning and third or fourth concussion happened with Jay while on the river in the green rowboat, blinded and burned by the sulfur-fury of a raging red flare.  We innocently and unexpectedly  enraged a band of unschooled ruffians living in a hobo camp across the river. It was about 11 pm, no catfish were on the lines and the moon was a musky-eye yellow.  A whiskey bottle hit the warming-fire, flames shot high. Words, bad words echoed in the midnight river valley.  A Black-Crowned Night Heron squawked its disapproval. We ran upon his sandbar. The flare had blinded us.  Sticks and stones flew. Jay rowed hard. I was hit in the head.  I lost my nautical bearing and, a lot of blood. 

After a year or two of talking about the potential addition to the coin collection that would be the result of a spectacular accident/disappearance of the Plymouth, we decided something needed to be done. I know I had seen it done a time or two in a movie so I volunteered… to drive the car off a cliff.  I have found that most acts of dangerous daring-do require very little thought or planning. Not much time is given for probing analytics. The moxie needed just kind of gorges up through all the viscera at the right time and erupts into memorable deeds. The small bluff overlooking Dead Man’s Curve on the river road at the dam was the perfect spot.  The water up next to the dam is really very deep.  There’s a lot of foam and trash and it’s all boiling and is the color of black coffee and earthworms. Transfixed, shivering we wanted more than anything to run. I imagined red and blue strobes contrasting our silhouetted forms against the dark night elm trees.  Froze in inconvenient horror we were stuck to that warm soil like rooted terror. We stood there like sticks and watched the swirling heave come up over the hood and the gurgling three-minute-death.  I guess it was a fitting finale for what the blood-rust sacrifice represented to us.

Monday, February 13, 2017

NEW excerpt from my autobiographical landscape writings...

The soft black, diggable soil of my northern life tasted like earthworms and the river. It has long been a favorite flavor of mine.  It has been replaced by mercury desert dust and caliche. I don’t have anything to say about their flavor. Before I had ever robbed any graves or been shot at I had skinned the hide off a hundred critters and drunk deep the waters of the Mississippi. I suppose I dreamed a lot about land to the north and west in those days, but especially the west… never the south.  I’ve come to find that no dirt tastes as good as the dirt from ones youth and no dirt is as good for grave digging or getting buried in I suppose. The river?  Well, she can be a dark one. She can also be a sensuous songstress, a musical minstrel who caresses with melodic musings and savage soothings.  She tempts a shimmering, fantastical bounty but requires terrible things in return.  That’s how I know her.  I drifted dead-numb into her frigid graveyard in the winter of ‘76. I broke through the ice on a 10 degree day, slipped under the ice-shelf coffin lid and into eternity. Tim died a couple of years later in the same calamitous current. It was summer.  He was lured by the river-song. He never came back.  I do miss the river.  I do not miss the northland.
To be cont.... 

Large 30x24 inch canvas is now available...see link to eBay and ETSY on-line stores