This is a transmedia narrative created from a day at the beach at Pt. Whitehorn.
Within this framework there is a consequence of time;I will apply additional layers to keep track until I am satisfied, then I will let it go underwhelmed.
When the clock struck five o’clock the curtain went up and morning appeared as a stage backdrop as far as the water’s edge; a journey’s end, perhaps beginning. This image is oil on canvas, 88 inches by 77 inches and depicts a live setting on the coast of Australia, just north of Sydney in 2002. Standing nearby I attempted to get used to the existence of camels down under.
Tribute to Rodin
In consideration of how such a vast collection of art from France arrived on Stanford’s campus, Rodin certainly dominates. For all that I know of how they arrived, here I can spare the time to take them in; they are nourishing. Pausing to take them in is not fatal. This painting is only a depiction of one which grabbed my attention in particular and is represented as oil on canvas, 64 inches by 51 inches. The image is as interesting now as it was then, and it is visited frequently—again fifteen minutes from now.
In the days of growing up in the San Francisco, when variety was huge and strange, jazz poets roamed throughout the waterfronts. This was an era when jazz music was necessary, as protection of a world gone large. You see the dinosaurs roaming the world were reported to be sixty to seventy feet long. Imagining jazz poets who were just as tall is not a hard task. This acrylic on board painting represents one jazz poet named Robert Cherry captured in Oakland, and is 72 inches by 36 inches. It must have been hard for him to reach far down in his throat to supply this vast body of music that filled the air all around us for the longest time.
I love sunsets on the Pacific coast of the Baja peninsula. Having settled that, I must now admit that a sunset with pelicans soaring just inches from the water is mood changing because it is silent and strange and I forget everything else around me until they have disappeared. Even now, in what remains of the diming natural light I have the courage of going on because of the ventured gain. This painting is acrylic and calcium carbonate on canvas, and is 86 inches by 80 inches. When we reopen our histories we open only such a small part of it. Did we forget the rest or is it now a secret.
This is an invitation to engage in linked verse locally, regionally or internationally.
Digital Poetry 2
Digital Poetry 3
Instead of trying to find some ideal hotel at a distant sea shore, try an old familiar place where the proprietors will love you on first sight. There will be less packing of suit cases, far fewer errands to run or trains and planes to catch to simply go. Stop by a local book store and buy that novel you have always wanted to save for that big vacation. Go on tour with it locally instead. Start this off easily. Sit in a comfortable chair waterside and turn to the first page after checking in. No taxi was needed to get to the front door of this place. You are ready and there in fifteen minutes quickly enough, ready to slow down sooner than expected.
There it is: the first page is turned; the minutes it takes to get to the end of the first chapter go by in a place in the world that you are already used to. It is about as swift a change that was really needed—that you could ask for without hesitation—from your daily life. This is the start of your adventure locally.
Go to chapter two and discover that all of the vistas and people you wanted to see are there surrounding you. Everybody is aware that you are there too—a local diplomat—to watch and to get over because that vista is just what they needed as well. And there it was the whole time right in your own city by the bay. Mutter thickly: “That wasn’t half bad at all. I live here; they see me where I already reside.” The music has started and no one in particular will hear your words.
Theatre of Puppets has just been released.
Theatre of the Puppet is a transmedia narrative and series of interviews covering life on the stage of life. The approach is kind of different; this is theatre with intensity; one emerges with the same feeling as though completing a monstrous workout. And like that you are on the other side of the room from where you had been watching so seductively.
Coming soon: A literary opera.
I witnessed these images in a dream. One cannot change their mind with respect to black and white images. Once you see the images and store them in your mind it is trapped; irreversible and rarely disposable. Attach sound to the images in question and there is an entirely new entry and association, perhaps even an adventure, afterwards. Personally I love and desire high contrast black and white photography over color—an outlook on life in the arts—it goes without saying. Color is complex, black and white is implicit.
In a human moment, each image I shoot in black and white reminds me of how crowded and noisy our world in color can be, along with other factors including touch and taste. If I were ever subjected to art rehabilitation, I might want to do so in black and white without having to handle the weight of primary, secondary and tertiary color charts.
Pretend this is not puzzling. Try to think of this kind of rehabilitation as re-seeing beauty: in the interest of tempting imagination, slowly evolve a new and particular way of holding onto the images until they are processed into words. Now, try to avoid color all together frame-by-frame. Was it too late?
Surprisingly color most likely crept back in along with taste, touch and sound. The images were the inlet but the mix was the outlet. It was not a wasted procession by any means, yet one did steal over the other in the end.
Pretend this is the law: the choice in question, resolved by application, which has the most significant relationship to issues therein: absence of doubt and precision are definite and with distinction.
For as long as I can remember, I have never been able to eliminate color from my dreams. My examples are as follows:
Let the Walls Come Down—this original painting is acrylic on board and is 68 inches by 64 inches. The story behind this composition is as follows: A friend and neighbor has returned to Europe and is standing with a crowd as the Wall came down around them. I am on Stanford’s (California) campus watching him on a news broadcast. The composition was done in as close to real time as possible.
This has come so late that my eyes are sore in looking for your face in the crowd. It was not in vain: “I have found you standing on the wall, not alone.”
Standing here drinking this wine I send a toast toward the screen and several of us shout out names of people we know are there, with the intention of being in this historical treasure as it changes colors, hues and tones. Surprised and touched we did our best to be there as well, to settle the score of a culture turning forward, settling the business of a future yet to be told. You eventually climbed down and then returned to Stanford to finish your studies. We had a chair waiting for your return, so that you could sit and study what I painted, while you sipped your wine and recalled your version of the story.
Embracing Still Waters—this is what I was thinking when this was composed. This is an original oil painting on canvas, 72 inches by 63 inches.
How much do you owe? One’s debts should not exceed a pocket full of memories. Not at all—take this vehicle for instance—I will ride my debt to the end of the world. That will assist me through all of those life’s pressures, so long as I have enough fuel to go, reiterating what is possible.
Hearing his story his wife just shook her head. Nothing could restrain her dismay better than silence. His fire has been straddling his machine while her way was to go on absorbing a lifetime: the arts, nature’s grander places, sitting back with a wonderful glass of Shiraz pressing through the pages of good literature. This is what is possible.
But one’s fantasies give way with the brush of the hand; let us take what remains as still working. We have only one thing left to do: entrust our definition of fortunes as an open field instead of four solid walls of restrictions. We are called Boomers; see how we prosper now at the entrance of this final grotto called life.
End of the Game—in a literal hell painted with a sky so blue, I am reminded of the contrasting beauty of hot and very cool. This is what I was thinking when I composed this painting in acrylic and calc sand on canvas, 120 inches by 78 inches.
Surprised and touched I watch University students from Mexico and the United States continue their dig around parched and sandy brown dirt , unearthing the bones of elephants in Baja Sir. While they talked excitedly about the discovery of this bone yard of 13,000 year old elephant remains, I sketched under the glimmer of the light from a lantern.
The sun has already gone down below the horizon while I nurse a cold beer pulled from one of the many ice chests on this site. From all of our points of view this find was better than the discovery of gold—a larger sum of value for discovering the content of this dig was never possible. They talked over how to proceed, and two of us climbed back into our paddle vessels and continued down the coast to land’s end. We were informed and now we would continue paddling around the remainder of the peninsula.
This vacation was born from thinking that I needed a refresher. It matters if I remain static to the conditions I encounter. A timely walk on a beach right before sunset brings par to a day where benefit is easier than before.
My encounter with a solo person on the beach was fortunate too. This is how I know that the natural and the virtual world retain intramural. Most of my thoughts were on a tourist’s perspective of the scene, now I can see it from a local’s point of view. My eyes and my mind bump into people who appreciate.
To dream is to customize reality; day follows night and not the other way around. Suddenly I add fragrance and the sound of a classical guitar to grace this quiet; then I move on.
Dreaming is a delivering of another’s landscape—suddenly it is living after sleeping and now being awake. If the body mind and soul can make this dynamic, who am I to complain with the results?
Chianti Dialogs explores the vineyards industry: from grapes to glass: a transmedia narrative.
I am too tired to fight fifty. The role of middle age is still not apparent to me, but I know that I will eventually get it—I have to as there is no other choice. Bringing this glass to my face I am aroused by the role age plays in the selection of wine—too far apparent. The glass of Chianti in front of me is deep red and the bouquet is richly berried, finishing off quite dry.
Can one make the distinction between moral and natural beauty by color alone? When one contemplates how well a sculpture is done or how well a story is written nothing excites the imagination more than to contrast it with a complementary color such as blue and orange even though they may be thought of as opposites. Contrasts and opposites have always given me pleasure; beautifully offset by a greater deal yet when situated within a work of art the two exceed good in effect. When they are edge to edge with each other there is this fine line which appears almost like a terrace above the ground overlooking all of the other colors and perhaps even textures without touching the surfaces. With high regard as part of a palette hey appear as another idea all on their own and I dare say this pleases this viewer even better.
Colors open up a fine masterpiece and then it leads me again to compare and contrast them to notes opening up vocals or percussion. They all invite a similar kind of touching—one that is mastered over a longer time. It is not a polite touching nor is it meant to be or do when applied correctly. At the same time it causes another thing to happen rather than resolves or accompanies another thing into retirement. Look at them standing one right above the other and see images jump across, take a stand, never sleeps, and one does not reconcile by jumping across or returning back to some origin. It is quite the opposite in fact when they threaten each other substantially.
Substantially can these two color opposites represent ascent or decline just in composition? To the relief of these eyes they exist on a much grander scale. The contrasts are working extremely well from where I sit or stand: that opening up of the terrace: beautifully transformed distance. Do they have a distance? Edge to edge the gap to and from is not defined well enough or refined as it is a variable kinesthetic, perhaps even a fractal, a more open one that we sometimes refer to as “variety is the spice of live”. I am not against the prospect that they are open to other definitions—proper assimilation of another view—it is just that they ought not to cancel each other out. Colors are not meant to terminate, they are designed to cause view, saturation, and even temperament.
As I refine my own definition of blue orange I can only come to the conclusion that they contrast not slender in spite of everything else I have mentioned here. It all depends on one’s taste—that there is something noble and strong about these color compliments beyond spectrum alone. I am reminded about symbols, signals and noise—without them nothing can be resolved admirably distinctive. Each thing must be examined from the point of view of the other thing and where they fall; where they are beheld: colors yet.