The High Wire

He walked upon the high wire. Danced. The slender strand between his toes. The world so far below. Hopes and fears. Eyes gazing upward. The clown his rolling ball and flapping shoes calling him forth. Balance the art of life. Precarious the path. Delicate the foot that treads upon it.

When he fell into the ring there was silence. The trapeze artists slipped down there velvet cords. Draped themselves upon him.

The suspension of disbelief, uncertain.

Ships of Dana Point

There of course is nothing like a tall sailing ship. And when they bundle at harbor in a nest of rigging and masts they become even something else. Complexity. Confusion. Diagonals and verticals tangling together hovering over a bobbing horizon. Maritime mayhem. And what delight to stand and swash down watercolor. A gaiety of wind and light. A very simply sketch. You can see the undercarriage of simple pencil lines. Each shade of color nothing more than a one movement of the brush. The sailing ship as life simple. In balance. A vision of the future perhaps?

The Confederate

There were moments when she doubted. Plenty of nights when she could feel the cold steel against her skin. She never flinched though. She just stood there. Staring out. He was true to his word. He never missed. They lived well. Well enough. Still there was something missing. When they carried her out that Saturday night her face was powder white, her open eyes slowly fading.

The Watercolor Sketch

Here the watercolor medium and the light interact without violation or intrusion. A layered dropping of pigment building the simple forms. Spanish painter Jose de Juan captured with only a few strokes. The small notepad sketch. Personal, no obligation. A great way to bring your consciousness down to a quiet level.

Castle Green

Its a pleasure to paint charm. Here the old hotel is nothing but. The architect has done all the work for you. No need to believe something into existence. Just play with its cylinders and cones, its reds and greens. A painters play toy.

Mayhem. Delirium. Desire. Ecstasy. Fever. The ring of fire. The coughing sawdust. Madness in the tent. Carnival rides creaking rust and oil. Shouts and laughter. The gypsy trader thrashes for the bridle. Fate rearing up against his will of destiny.

JPL#2

The San Gabriel mountains rise like a great wave above the valley. Fire storms have deforested the slopes to the summit and beyond. Painting with watercolor and gouache is a game of uncertainty. It is fast and direct but so is the winter sun. In front of you is a wide expanse made complex by the JPL campus. The shadows and colors run from washed out to deep darkened values, high lights appear and disappear. Everything is about setting the stage for the last thirty minutes. I am amazed and somewhat bewildered at just how much of what I do with this medium is in preparation for those final moments.

Chinese Garden in Spring

Waiting for the advent of spring. Nobody around. Water tumbles to the stream below. Some geese fly across the pond. The San Gabriel mountains rise in the haze beyond. At some point if you paint long enough you arrive at place where the paint and brush play themselves as keys on piano. Your fingers and wrist move with your feelings from second to second. Paintings are the accumulation of a thousand notes performed. They have a sound that we interpret with our eyes.

JPL #1

There by the hillside tucked beneath the burned out mountains. A village. A community looking to the heavens. Pasadena Jet Propulsion Laboratory. Standing on the Devils Gate Dam the view is wide the sky immense. The sun is diffused by the milky thin clouds. Striking blows of burning light not found. The scrub trees in the marsh pale into violet. Dead trunks submerged in winter flood. I am painting as if waiting. Putting down what is before me but hoping for a spark to detonate the even plain. The sun sets without fanfare. A pinkish yellow haze fading. The last day of January going out with barely a whimper.