Made a last painting at the Sedgewick Ranch-- of a road, it seemed like arriving, or as I was actually-- leaving.
The burnt rolling hills now behind, the coast of California is amazing to come upon. Mythic really, as Robinson Jeffers tried to show in his poetry, he came close. The coast is still without its poet equal to it's natural ordering and beauty.
Kenneth Rexroth, comes to mind, Gary Snyder, too. My favorites Whitman and Stevens never saw this coast.
Though Whitman wrote..."FACING west, from California’s shores,
(But where is what I started for, so long ago?
And why is it yet unfound?)
What one is surprised by is the particular color unto itself. The water with the white sand beneath can be a tropical viridian color. The purple and ochre kelp beds and the grey blue fog banks moving in and out, create a constantly changing light over the scene.
I was with a friend and we painted at Julia Pfeiffer overlook, that evening, arriving to Big Sur. A Scrub Jay, squawked and seemed curious, I remembered one which accompanied me ten years ago when I painted here.
Like the activity of painting this brief going over, anchors it all in my mind, the form of which makes it a physical reality-- it stays in memory.
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