The Journals
October 2
No sublime storms with horizontal lightning, no angel tympanis and devil trombones, only rain and drizzle, and a blinding
white sheet of low-hanging clouds, cold and wet. The rain caught me at the easel again today. There was some trouble getting
the paint to leave the brush, but the cold dousing forced me into bold decisions. I was covered head to toe in a yellow vinyl
rain suit, blazing out from the meadow like a burning bush. Every now and again I had to bump my palette against the easel to
knock off the beads of rain. It was a strange kind of fun. As I stood in the middle of the field a group of school children
came down along the path…One of them, a little girl of no more than 9 years looked at me and exclaimed with an exasperated
tone, "Take a picture! God!" I always thought kids were supposed to be imaginative.
Tomorrow we head west to the Grand Tetons. I need a shower badly, though it is nice not to be bothered by curious onlookers
as I look so nasty. I've resolved to bear the itchy burden of growing a beard, its cold and I'm alone and such things require
beards. Until today I have employed a system of filling a thermos with hot water the night before, which, if carefully stowed
remains hot until the next morning. Each morning I wash and shave very briskly, before donning several layers for warmth. The
thrills of newness are wearing off fast. I find myself yearning for conveniences like running water and a place to keep the
heat from my fire in. A few nights ago I put a bunch of river rocks in the fire, fished them out with a stick and put them
into paint can lined with a honey comb of aluminum foil. I then put the can at the foot of my sleeping bag in hopes that I
would wake in the morning in bourgeois warmth. It didn't work.
October 4
I write these lines by the candle light from a candle John Gallaso's aunt gave me after he killed himself a number of years
ago. The candle is aptly shaped and textured like a river rock, and doesn't throw off much light, but I've decided that the
time has come to burn it, and to think of him. He was a good friend. We spent some time painting together. He showed me how
distant we all are from one another. Then he disappeared into his studio, and I into mine. One morning he was gone. Every
brush stroke I made caused a twisting in my chest. For a couple of months I had to paint through the grief, and it taught me
vital things. Thank you John.
My current way of life runs parallel to how most people vacation, only I'm not out here to unwind. Instead I'm out here to
work. My fires are small and utilitarian, my evenings early. I am learning to appreciate the humblest things, finding I need
less and less of the stuff I brought in the van "just in case". All around me are retirees in their gargantuan RVs, firing
up generators so that they can watch television. I listen to the murmurs and laugh tracks. The deep blue night is pock-marked
with yellow windows.
I've decided to designate Sundays as my day of reflection. I will have a shot of bourbon in my coffee and a small cigar at
the end of the day. I will allow myself an early return from the field and a good dinner, and I will spend some real time
looking at the work I've done thus far. This should keep the morale up, and keep me from feeling like a drudge.
Sat for a while looking out high above Jenny Lake in Grand Teton National Park, planning tomorrows work. The sky reflects
in the still water in amazing tints of pthalocyanine. The doors of consciousness would be exactly that color and luminosity.
Rilke writes, in 1912, in a letter to a friend from Trieste. "I am looking out into the empty sea-space, directly into the
universe, you might say."
October 7
Paid a visit to the Wilcox Gallery in Jackson Hole, a small shop/showroom for the painter Jim Wilcox. He is an amazing
painter, though I don't know as I was blown away by anything. There is a particular sameness of approach to landscape
painting out this way. Paintings tend to be well drawn, but there is sort of a flatness, a lack of diaphanous qualities
and atmosphere. Wilcox recommends to his students "Carlson's Guide to Landscape Painting" which favors color masses over
atmosphere. As interesting as this approach to landscape is, I can't help but compare it to the Hudson River School, with
all its varied viscosity and paint handling. Bierstadt, Church, Gifford, and Moran all had so much atmosphere and space.
Today many contemporary landscapists favor large, flat swaths of decorative color, which doesn't really speak to me. Give
me a curtain of light over a curtain of paint any day.
Much of the painting day I was haunted by deep loneliness. I continually blew from thoughts of one romantic relationship
to another, comparing, defining patterns, worrying. I was caught in a kind of neurotic whirl-pool, and all the while I
tried to paint my way out of it. Strange how constantly returning to a steady practice like painting tends to bring all of
this stuff up and out of the depths. A steady contemplative practice has a quality which amplifies and annihilates the ego
simultaneously. In one way I am strengthening my identity as "artist". At the same time, the "me" which I identify as
"artist" is being constantly challenged, humbled, and destroyed by the process. On those particularly obsessive days,
when my mind is full of noise, I think that some part of me is actually being born. My old self is afraid. The neurotic
whirlpools are traps that I put in my own path, and I always know the best places, the most painful, the most sticky. You
would think that knowing this would be enough to steer clear, but I haven't made it out yet. I have only glimpses of clarity
peaking through the brambles.
October 9
First night in Yellowstone. Camped at Lewis Lake, in the southern part of the park. The moon is full and brighter than
I've ever seen, I could almost write these lines by it. Spent the day wandering around thermal basins, shaking my head in
disbelief. Water boils out of the ground, rust-colored sponges of bacteria mingle with oxides of copper and iron. Calcium
Carbonate forms terraces and piles up in frozen froth. Ripples in pools turn to stone. Geothermal energy draws a diagram of
itself. Ochre golds and luminous whites, water at 200 degrees and straight Prussian blue.
October 10
Roughest day yet. The highest temperature was 35 Fahrenheit and that was around 3:30 in the afternoon. Woke up very tired,
couldn't move from the sleeping bag until 8:00. Lay in the bag a while thinking that a thick frost had settled on my windows.
Turned out that it had snowed, was snowing still. Jury-rigged a tarp between the two rear doors of the van, and cooked a
hearty breakfast of oats and coffee. The snow stopped and the sun came out. I broke camp and headed down to some pine-barrens
to do some sketching. I set up on a steep hillside and sat on an old pine stump. The air was cold as I started to paint, and
I had to continually warm my hands on a portable hand warmer. A bad wind picked up, piercing and sharp, with little shards
of ice in it, and it commenced to snow. Not the fluffy kind either, but hard granular stuff, nearly hail. I stubbornly kept
painting, but the snow offered no quarter. Finally, all feeling gone from my fingertips and my knees damp and aching, I
decided to pack it in. I threw all of my gear into my pack and hiked down the slope towards the van. Along the way I stepped
on a fallen pine which happened to be frozen and slippery. I went down head first from the weight of my pack, breaking dead
branches all around. My head landed in a soft depression where a tree had once stood and my heavy pack kept me there. It was
cold and there was dirt in my mouth. One leg flailed. After a bit of struggle and a large measure of profanity I managed to
right myself and staggered down the slope to the van and a cup of hot coffee. Spent the rest of the day wandering around. The
snow had dusted everything with silver. I took a bunch of photographs, couldn't bring myself to paint a stroke more. I
dined by a smoky, temperamental campfire made from wood that was too damp. My metal plate froze to my knees as I ate.
October 11
I had a breakthrough while painting today, spurred on by the wonderful ochres, violets, and reds of the Canyon. I worked
more simply than usual, and with a deliberate plan. Upon returning to my campsite well after dark, I found that someone had
stolen all of my dry firewood. The night was filled with frigid drizzle and I couldn't get a fire started from anything I
could gather. In the one park I have been where campers are actually encouraged to take deadfall and burn it I get my
firewood stolen. A half hour of gathering wood in daylight would have netted the same amount of wood stolen, but it wasn't
daylight, and it was wet everywhere. I contented myself with a pallid dinner of cold sausages and went to bed grumbling.
October 12
Painted at Solitary Geyser today. I am particularly fond of the run-off from these geysers. As the geyser gushes, it forms
terraces, on these terraces bacterial mats of many different colors form. Further down, a thick, seaweed like algae ripples
in the currents with a slow, serpentine flicker. Where the hot, mineral-rich water encounters the usual plant life of pines
and shrubs it turns all to stone. A warm solution of silica in water, called sinter, creeps up through the roots like frost.
The bottom halves of the trees are a sort of bone-white, and powdery throughout, while the top halves are dark, withered and
bare, in dead purples and lively browns. Mist floats in yet another shade of white, and I am old, I too am white mist. I
have never been any other way.
October 13
... amazing how quickly the cycle begins again. In 1988 wildfires destroyed vast sections of this forest. I was thirteen
at the time, a quiet child who's voice was breaking. I remember seeing pictures of firefighters dwarfed by vast orange flames tall as skyscrapers. Today, thousands
of lithe young pines sway with inevitable serenity. Reforested by wildlife, the young, reach heavenward surrounded by the
bones of their ancestors.
Met up with a park ranger this morning, told him the whole soggy, sordid tale of my stolen firewood. He consoled me by letting
me know where I might "find" an axe for splitting some wood, said he couldn't lend me one proper "on account of the liability".
I spent the afternoon making firewood. It turned out to be a nice bit of exercise, relaxing even, compared to the intense mental
activity of painting in the elements.
October 15, Cody, Wyoming
"There is that death thing, there is."
These are the words of a Cowboy named Randy, who is sitting between two portly middle-aged women, giving the performance of
his life. We are in the bar in the historic Irma Hotel in Cody, Wyoming. He is sitting a few barstools from me. All my laundry
save a pair of long-johns and a three-piece suit is spinning in a laundromat a few doors down. In choosing my wardrobe for
the evening I opted for the suit, though the long-johns would have attracted less attention. I've shaved, showered and had
a good dinner, and I really should be in bed, would be in bed, except I've just found out that Aaron Ross is dead.
Aaron Ross was a good friend of mine, who always had an open door and an open floor when I wanted to pay a visit to New York.
When I mentioned my aspirations to travel around the country he handed me a book, Blue Highways, which partially inspired
this trip. I tried to go to sleep, but I couldn't get any peace. I couldn't help thinking about J_ and how I should be there
to console her. She introduced me to Aaron. They had been friends since childhood. I remember about three nights after John
Galasso killed himself I woke with a start, filled with a vague but tangible terror. My heart was pounding and I couldn't
swallow. J_ was there and she comforted me. Now I can't return the favor, and we both grieve at a distance.
Aaron's been living in Portland, Oregon, and I was looking forward to paying him a visit. His friends in Portland have
invited me to visit anyway, and I'm sure he would want me to as well. Aaron was young, not even thirty. He had been dealing
with a seizure disorder for the past few months. One night he had a seizure, hit his head and died on the floor between the
wall and the bed. He was there for three days before someone found him. None of this has fully sunk in, and probably won't
until I'm back on the road.
"Awl-shucks, somebody write a song about all this", moans Randy, his consorts giggle.
On the north side of the bar there is a television, murmuring out the day's news. Everything feels surreal and strange.
The Staten Island Ferry has run into a concrete pier, 10 dead, 71 injured. Americans killed in Gaza. The beer is cold and
fits the night, I'll have one for Aaron, then maybe another one. The barmaid is beautiful and has a sultry voice, her name
is Amanda and I have a mind to let her talk me into another drink still, or anything really.
"Sometimes you jes' wanna woman who's gonna sit on ya and jes' kill ya!" Randy declares, to the great delight of his plump
little sausages.
I am surrounded by strangers, in my finest clothes for no good reason, and it's starting to seem like a good idea to talk
to them. I've been feeling curious eyes on me for some time, and I think Randy has started to refer to me as "the keeper of
the tablet over there". Amanda the barmaid asks me what I'm writing.
"I guess I'm writing a song about all this." I say, waving my hands generally in the air. Randy snickers.
"I'm on a sort of road-trip, making paintings, seeing the country. Some days I don't really know what the hell I'm doing
out here. But I put it all down, in this little notebook, just to have some record. "
Suddenly I can't stop myself, I'm bursting with conversation. I'm drunk perhaps. I'm interested in everything that people
are saying and I listen very intently. I talk at length to a man who actually works professionally as a rodeo rider, he has
stories about "breaking a horse" for me. When I tell him I'm a landscape painter he thinks it's got something to do with
lawns. According to the locals, Wyoming has more pronghorns than people. When you shoot an antelope, you've got to skin them
right away. Otherwise, the meat gets sour. When you see a coyote, you've got to shoot them right away. Never make a joke
about a man's hat. The whole room is chattering and good natured. The sound of the television is soon drowned by guffaws
and rousing declarations. A bottle of beer comes my way from a table across the room, and I join some of the locals. Among
them is a photographer named Chris, who is something of travel writer. There is another Chris who used to work as a war
correspondent for CNN. He owns a Ranch about 30 miles from here. He has invited me to come out for a visit, paint some of
the scenery, and if I'd like, stay a few days. Back east I would look at such an offer with skepticism and maybe some measure
of suspicion. (My father offered to lend me a handgun when I left. I decided against it. ) There is something uniquely
disarming about these people, something genuine and fearless. They laugh easy, and truly understand what it's like to be
connected to the beauty of a place.
October 16-18, Clark, WY
Painting consoles me. Every day I spend hours contemplating impermanence; but there is nothing that illuminates the
transitory nature of things like a single human life coming to its abrupt end. Last night I had a brief escape from thoughts
of death, but sober and back at the easel everything comes back. We don't get to decide when we check out, and most of us
aren't ready. "If death should come
asking for me, do me the favor, of telling him to come back tomorrow…"
I've elected to take up
Chris Turner's offer to stay at the Alamo Ranch for a few days. When I first arrived Chris gave me a tour of the
grounds. He took an old Winchester with him, which he explained was "for the coyotes". My imagination ran with me a while,
imagining what we would find behind the next bluff. A shallow grave perhaps? I was a bit nervous and not totally convinced
until he handed me the rifle as he ducked under some barbed wire. During a dinner conversation a few days later he told me
that he didn't totally trust me until his dog Murphy took a serious shine to me. We had a laugh about the mutual distrust of
strangers. The past couple of days have been wonderful. I have painted every day and return in the evening for very
interesting conversation and wonderful meals. I've been able to sleep better, and bathing is always a treat these days.
My grief over Aaron's death has been somewhat diffused by the company. Chris has many stories and tells them well. It is
rare that I meet someone with whom I share such an instant connection. We both must be lonely in a similar way. When we
parted he gave me a world atlas containing the inscription, "Go towards the light", and a blue handkerchief that had been
with him when he covered the siege of Sarajevo. I feel blessed to have met him.
October 19, Little Bighorn National Battlefield
"Friend where are you, they are fighting up North?"
Let us not draw lines, count particulars, amuse ourselves with debate and games of conjecture. Let us leave out in the
rain the reconstructions and histories, the old daguerotypes and letters home. Shall we shoot our horses for breastworks
camerado? Let us walk along that ridge, stand atop that hill, and think a while on nightmares. Whose Maxilla is this, whose
teeth, how did these foot-bones land here? Shall we count casualties, coup, horses taken, comfort ourselves with numbers and
facts? I think not camerado. Let us sit a while in this coarse golden stubble of grass, feel the cold and imagine the hot
blasts of powder, feel the same blood running through our limbs that ran out into the lush, green grass. Let us take the
cool air of October and turn it to cold sweat, take the spit in our mouths and fill it with iron and salt. Let the earth
sip us here, just a little, where it drank so many others.
Dear Camerado, men are like fires and like forests at the same time.
Next Up:
Ghosts, Really.