Remembering Silverton

Caboose Cabin

20" X 16"

Acrylic on Canvas

It was cold that morning, maybe in the low twenties. We scraped the ice off the windshield and headed toward Silverton on Highway 550. As the broad and open road climbed out of the valley where Durango sits, it became narrower—and icier. It was a great road, but the shady spots were slick with ice; we could hear the tires crackling across the surface. The snow blowing across the pavement leftover from the storm two days earlier seemed out of place in the bright sunshine.

The road got curvier, steeper, and more shaded as wound its way up to Coal and Molas passes, both over 10,000 feet in elevation. I couldn't believe how quickly we climbed. The view was spectacular: breathtaking mountains draped in snow. Soon, we were looking over the side into a deep crevice that held the creek was beside the road just a few minutes earlier.

We rounded a slight curve and came upon several Big Horn Sheep right in the middle of the road. We slowed to look at them and I rushed to get my camera out. The driver of a big rig behind us leaned on his horn—which might have been intended more for the stupid tourists than the sheep. Either way, it prompted the sheep to scamper off the road and up slope to our right.

Soon we came to the summit, where we could see a deep valley ringed by mountains. In the center sat Silverton, a handful of colorful confetti on a blanket of snow. The surrounding ridges framed the town with deep blue shadows.

It was 18 degrees. The streets were covered in a thick layer of ice. There were no other cars or people to be seen. It was 10 am, but none of the stores appeared to be open. The town was still and quiet—it looked abandoned. Steam rose off the rooftops of the weathered buildings that looked like something out of an old Wild West movie.

We found a building with signs of life (Lights! A car!). A sign proclaimed "Market" and "Coffee". Aha! Something that was open! The market had seen better days, though it was pretty well stocked. There was a big barrel of Piñon nuts, a sampling of produce, dusty canned goods, and of course, the last of the season's souvenirs. A hand-lettered piece of cardboard leaning on the register read: "This business for sale".

We left the store with our coffee and Piñon nuts, treading carefully over the ice back to the car. We drove around the deserted streets, (too cold and icy to walk!) taking in the charming old buildings and churches that remained from the boom days when Silverton was a thriving mining town. On the outskirts we found a colorful train car transformed into a summer cabin. The weeds had grown thick around it, the occupant long gone to some place warm for the winter.

We drove up out of Silverton, looking back at the tiny, empty town. The Big Horn Sheep were back in the middle of the road again. This time, no one behind us was in a hurry; so we stopped and let them slowly meander their way back off the road.

Ah, Wilderness

Sierra Ridge

6" X 4"

Watercolor and Pencil

We hadn't been back to Lone Pine since last fall. It was like coming home: the scent of the sage, the bone-warming heat of the sun, the cool air sliding off the sparkling mountains. I felt the tension of the last few weeks melt out of me, carried away with the breeze.

We needed this trip. We needed some time crawling over rocks and bending under willows, looking deep into the creek for lolling, iridescent trout. We needed to sit on a damp bank and absorb the fragrance of the wild roses sprawled along the creek, with half-dollar blooms of glowing pink and pale sepal stars where the blooms were spent. We needed to toss our lines into the amber water and let the sound of the water sing away our tight shoulders and smooth the furrow across our brows.

After a time, we came back to our campsite, to sit in the shade and watch the ridge above us wreathed in a soft focus filter of dust and moisture. The sun had dropped behind the great granite wall, yet there was plenty of daylight left yet. The show would go on for a while.

Nearing Last Light

6" X 4"

Watercolor and Ink

The temperature dropped and the wind picked up speed. Clouds blew up from valleys between the spires and turned coral and pink as daylight ebbed away. The sky deepened to sapphire, the air grew calm, and the first star appeared. Yet on the highest points of the ridge, there were still orange and gold highlights of the setting sun—saying a last farewell before dipping below the horizon miles to the west.

Time for a campfire and star watching for a while before we would climb into the womb of our tent and snuggle into our bags for the night.

PS. The painting of the rail car is coming along well. I'm very excited about it! I think a weekend "outside" helped.

Parts Unknown

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Teaching and Learning

Rust Against the Sky

12" X 9"

Ink, Watercolor, and Prismacolor

Sometimes a piece flows like magic. Others are more difficult. The result is just fine and dandy and may appear as effortless as a mallard gliding across the water. Yet underneath, I had to paddle like hell to keep that painting afloat.

The last three paintings have required sharpened observation and drawing skills. For me, mechanical components aren’t as free form as say, leaves or rocks or clouds. You can paint a cloud any way you want to as long as the viewer perceives it as a cloud. I suppose you could do that with mechanical components if you knew your components well enough—but I don’t, not being an expert on stamp mills.

It’s funny how my work parallels the lessons with my art student, Morgan (very talented—far more so than I at fifteen). For example, when I was painting boots, Morgan was painting shoes. When I began painting rusty mining equipment, Morgan was tackling a still life arrangement that included a rusty railroad spike. And most recently, when I had Morgan use a grid technique to transfer a complex drawing from tissue to canvas, I found myself doing the same thing.

Rust Against the Sky is actually #4 in the series, however, #3 turned out to be a dud. Initially, I was happy with the #3 drawing, however upon closer inspection, I'd found several key components were not in the right place. It had all the right elements: a good composition, interesting shapes and striking values, but sadly it was an inaccurate portrayal of the subject. Thinking, “oh, no one will notice”, I continued with the piece, transferring the drawing to watercolor paper and madly going to town on it. After I’d spent several hours on the piece, I took it downstairs to share with Clint, who immediately said, "Something’s wrong with that one.”

Dang. Deep down, I knew it too. It just wasn't working.

So, back to the drawing board, as they say. I chose a new image; and to be sure I nailed the elements into the right places, I drew a grid over my photograph. As I drew, the patter I subject Morgan to was going on in my head: "Compare your proportions...look closely at the junctions where the shapes come together...is the width of that element proportionate to the height? I think you are still missing something...is that component really that flat?” I probably drive her nuts.

Teaching is learning—I learn as I teach. As I guide Morgan through the exploration of media, methods, and techniques—and even more importantly—how to see and absorb and recreate and express your subject, it takes me back to the basics and strengthens the bones in my own work. It’s made me a better artist and made me rethink the way I approach my work. Sometimes, I wonder if maybe I should be paying her for our lesson time...

Rust and Rain

Sunlit Rust

Mixed Media

9" x 12"

I’m in the airport waiting for my flight home. It’s raining, and most people I’ve talked to here are darn sick of it. Not me. I love it. We don’t see a lot of rain in Wrightwood. When we do, it tends to be a torrential downpour that scours tons of earth, boulders, and dead trees off the ridge behind us. Here, it’s been a steady light rain, with a glimpse of sun here and there.

The desert rains are much like ours: infrequent and full of gusto, going from dust to raging flashfloods in a matter of minutes.

The rust on these milk cans weren’t the result of a drizzle, but probably several years of pounding desert rain. This wasn’t a gentle rusting. But then the desert is rarely gentle.

Diamonds of Rust

Miner's Machine

Mixed Media

12" x 9"

Long after I'm gone and all my paintings have been disbursed through thrift stores and garage sales, I’d like to think that someone might have kept a piece or two from my Rust Period. Yes, Picasso had his blue period and I, rust. You see, lately I've been obsessed with the rainbow patina of rusty relics rescued by desert rats. 
 

Out at Goffs, where the old school house still stands, a band of RV-snowbirds and members of the Mojave Desert Heritage & Cultural Association volunteer their time add to or fix up the growing display of desert detritus arranged outside the museum. It has evolved from a run down building to a full-on compound with rows of cool rescued buildings, equipment, coffee pots, sewing machines and other signs of life left behind in the Mohave. 

The gates were locked when we arrived one Saturday morning to check out this interesting collection of castoffs. We studied a glass case filled with sun-bleached flyers, one of which told us the gates should have been open. We called the number "to make an appointment."

"What?! They haven’t opened the gates yet?" squawked the woman who answered the phone. "I’ll send someone right out." 

Less than a minute later four golf carts (Goffs’ carts?) manned with extremely serious senior citizens roared up, dust tails spreading out behind them (the carts, not the seniors). It took pretty near all of them to open the gate, requiring so much of their attention, not one of them responded to our "good mornings" until their mission was accomplished.

As we wandered through the rows, we came across a stamp mill that had been rebuilt by the volunteers. They fire it up every so often and it makes a tremendous noise, the docent told us. The talented volunteers are piecing together an even larger one they hope to have finished this year. By the looks of the chunks of metal lying about, it’s going to be a monster. We'll definitely go back to see it in action—I want to feel the ground shake as it stomps on ore-laden rocks.

The piece you see at the top of this post is a mix of three media. First, I laid out a foundation of values with sepia ink. Then, I added color with watercolor, and finished it off with Prismacolor pencil. I like the texture of the pencil on the watercolor paper; it works well to recreate the bloom of rust on the metal.

A Letter to My Art

Dearest Art,

I've been neglecting you lately. You've been cast aside for many reasons, one of which is Freelance, which frankly my dear, pays a little better than you. Don't fret. You are my first love. You may frustrate me at times, being the illusive ethereal, fickle you that you are, but nothing like Freelance. You release me, you relax me, and you let me be as expressive and out there as I wish.

You quietly wait for me to express the ideas and images circling around in my noggin while I wait for Photoshop to save a file the size of New Mexico. You don't judge—you just let it happen when I'm there to pick up the reins. You don't crash when I have too many paintings going at once and you never just freeze up for no reason.

Know that I miss you and hope it snows like hell this weekend so that once through my chores we can spend some time in the studio together.

Love,

Me

PS. I do have something new to show you all, but I haven't had a chance to photograph it yet. Stay tuned.

S

Musings on What's Next

Towering Sycamore

Acrylic

11 X 14

 

I haven't had much time in the studio lately and it's starting to make me a little crazy. As a result, I couldn't sleep last night. I started to think about how I haven’t had time to paint and I started getting an anxious feeling in the pit of my stomach. I know—why would I be anxious about that? Not working. Not painting. Not creating and adding to my inventory—many levels of why. I'm hanging some paintings in a local bank on Saturday for a month-long exhibit. As I looked around last night to choose my pieces, I realized how small my framed inventory is these days.

So then, I had the burning urge to go up to the studio. Yep, 1:30 am and I’m thinking maybe I should get up and go paint. Not a good idea. I had plenty to do the next day and I couldn't afford to be fuzzy from lack of sleep. Eventually I drifted off and dreamt of deer with wide racks of sharp-pointed antlers running towards me.

I think some of my anxiety is that I don't know what to do next. I just know I want to do something different. I took a few minutes to look through my photos last night and I'm drawn to images of rusted junk and broken glass from the desert. We went out to Goffs a few weeks ago, a semi-ghost town where there is an old school house, a few rescued buildings, and lots of desert junk (oh and several retirees that zip around in golf carts). 

It was the desert junk that intrigued me most. Shovel blades and rusted frames of car seats, with springs spiraling out every which way. Santa Fe rail cars with ruddy peeling paint; old stamp mills from the mines, sewing machines, giant bolts, military helmets, and tractor seats. Ornate dresser pulls, broken glass in milky purples and cobalt blues—and a spilled bucket of coke-bottle-green marbles cast across the sandy soil, beaming brightly in the sunlight.

But those kinds of subjects are the paintings that people walk past with just a glance, thinking, "What the hell is that? And why on earth would I put that over my sofa?" So you see my dilemma.

I've got some new relief printing ink to try. It's a delicious burnt brown and it might just be the perfect thing for rendering rusty objects. Maybe that's where I'll go next. Even if it's not marketable. I never wanted to be an art whore anyway.

But first, we will head back to the desert for a quick visit. Revisiting the wild places where the horizon is far away, the sky is bluer-than-blue, and the Mud Hills, which despite the drab name will show us their rich color and texture. A rainbow of layers upon layers of ancient sediments and stones pressed and folded and weathered and twisted into soothing stripes of celery, sage, cocoa, cinnamon, cumin, and cream.

We'll explore colorful canyons, sit by the fire, take in the night sky's show of stars, and if the wind Gods favor us, sleep the peaceful sleep the desert brings during its moments of quiet calm.

A Happier Place

Morning at Manter Creek

12" X 16"

Watercolor

Our campsite by the creek sat in a pocket of trees that had escaped the terrible fire. After scrabbling over and under the broken bones of trees for a few miles, we came upon a broad glade drenched in cool, blue shade. There, the creek widened out, running mossy green and earthy black, a lullaby of sound between overhanging banks of grasses and mint.

It was the perfect spot, with logs encircling a campfire ring and plenty of stubby branches to hang our gear. As we started to set up camp, Clint sent me down to the creek, knowing I was itching try out my new fishing pole. It was one of those spots so lovely you could just sit and absorb it for hours. Ah, Domeland!

We did more fishing, than catching. The few little trout we caught were gently returned to the water and bid farewell until our next trip. It was heaven wandering along the bank, while taking in the glorious fragrance of the creek: mud and decaying vegetation—that rich, sweet smell of living things reuniting with the earth.

This idyllic creek soothed us to sleep and flowed through our dreams. When the sun came up, beams of color broke through below the canopy illuminating clumps of grass and casting fire upon the water. At the end of the day, the soft coral light of sunset kissed the creek good night.

The Sycamore Saga

The original sketch

In November, we took our belated honeymoon. We spent time a lot of time between Flagstaff and Durango exploring pueblo ruins, desert mesas, and mountains that are very different than our San Gabriels. I can’t wait to go back. There were places with a spirit and vibration that was unlike anything I've experienced before.

As we worked our way homeward, we stopped south of Sedona to camp for a couple nights at Wet Beaver Creek (yes, that’s the real name). We had a lovely spot along an olive green creek framed by sycamores hung with glowing yellow, gold, and bronze leaves. Their trunks of creamy flesh curved upward like slender elfin creatures. These trees looked as though they were frozen mid-dance in a graceful tableau.

I’ve been struggling to capture this grace, starting first with a monoprint that was a miserable failure. It looked more like a Rorschach inkblot than any kind of recognizable image. 

I moved on to watercolor, but that came out too heavy-handed and didn't reflect the shapely form that initially attracted me. The leaves were nothing like the golden mantel draped over the limbs. Although the painting might be salvageable with a little more work, I decided it was time to move on to acrylic.

The watercolor...meh

 So, here I am, again sharing something unfinished. This is risky, because it may not turn out. It may end up being a do-over. It’s too early to tell. Yet pulling aside the curtain to share my adventures in art—even when things don't turn out as planned—allows you see that it’s not always as easy as it might appear to be. The “struggle” in struggling artist has many meanings.

The acrylic version. I'm not too far along yet, so it's too soon to tell if this will be a keeper.