The following is from a handmade book for one of
the paintings in The Loneliest Road in America exhibition at Valley House Gallery, Dallas, Texas 2010.In describing the Great Basin, my thoughts
turned to wildfires.
A Railroad Crossing Outside of Hazen, Nevada
oil on canvas
16 1/16 x 36 1/8 inches
2008
Although it had been green across most of the state, many
low-lying areas remain barren even in years of abundance.All of us have seen or heard how deserts
bloom after rain showers.That happens
here as well, but not as often as it does in Texas
or New Mexico.It is not only a matter of it being dryer; it
is also due to the timing of the rainy season.The monsoons of the desert Southwest arrive in summer.In much of the Great
Basin, precipitation falls as snow when plants are dormant. Because most of Nevada has no drainage,
snowmelt stands in low-lying areas awaiting evaporation, saturating soils with
mineral salts that never make the sea.The soils are toxic to an awful lot of plants, including many weeds.
I wonder how so many of the world’s plants came to be
weeds.Until recently, anything native
qualified, and juniper are still thought to be in need of clearing. Nevada
is said to have had vast grasslands when the cattle arrived; the sea of sage is
explained as overgrazing.At Great BasinNational Park, displays say the
landscape is new due to fire prevention.From driving around, I agree that northern Nevada was mostly grassland, but the pinion
and juniper that drape mountainsides along US Highway 50 have been there for a
very long time.That can be a problem
with scholarship.Historical documents talk
about vast grasslands and some assume that applies to the entire state.Early travelers followed the Humboldt River where mountains and hills are simply sage.It is a mistake to extend that description to
other ranges of the region.If the SnakeRange
was not thick with juniper and pinion pine 100 years ago, where did the
evergreen abundance come from?It takes
hundreds of years to grow trees of any size in the dry climate.Count the tree rings; fires were not
routinely roaring through the forests.
There are some parts of the country, where burning the undergrowth
is the same thing as burning up trees.Nevada is not a land of towering pines like Florida or northern California. The brush cannot be burned without torching
the oak, juniper and pinion pine.The
many fires have more to do with climate change than unwise fire suppression.When you go from three dry years in ten, to
seven, fire becomes reality.
Suppressing fire with fire promotes grass, as any rancher
knows.A few years ago, a ridge burned not far from
my parents’ house.Before the fire, the
flat was open, and most of the oak and juniper grew along the hillsides.It was lichen-covered rock, dwarf sage,
wildflowers and very little grass.The quick
burning fuel that drives wildfires was in short supply.Afterwards, golden waves of grass tumbled
into the woods waiting to be thunderstruck.Instead of quelling the threat, it is raring to explode.That might be why ranges that burn keep
catching fire.
Intersection of North Harmony and Stillwater
oil on canvas
11 9/16 x 10 5/8 inches
2010
The agricultural area of Fallon, Nevada is on
the western side of the Great Basin.
On the 500 mile drive across the Great Basin, there is
farming in the shadow of the surrounding ranges. The one end of the highway mirrors the other.However, everything in between is far too dry
to support anything more than grazing. If it were not for the many mountain ranges
that rise and fall away on sliding horizons, there wouldn’t even be the short
lived streams that occasionally fill dusty playas. What I wrote below is based on a memory of
impressions.Having lived some of my
life in rural Utah, I know farming is more than fields of green and quiet
highways.
I photographed the fields of Fallon, Nevada so long ago that
I wasn’t sure which way I was facing.The
light seemed to signify the east, and that was confirmed by the enlarging
profile of FairmontPeak as I zoomed in on a horizon
of shaded debris, the hallmark of farming.Even in June, the days are never long enough to complete all the chores.
Tire swings and irises divide houses
from dusty ruts, outbuildings and alfalfa. Lawns function as mud reducing turf for car chasing
dogs bent on the senseless joy of barking. Deep-rooted vehicles and discarded parts are indispensable
links to laboring children home from school and the many families dependent
upon backyard tractor cannibalization. Farming
can be like navigating a dead cow up a canal with a sunflower stock of a stick;
the flies are a reminder of bloat in the reeds.
The image was cropped from three horizontal frames.Although it was a shame to leave all that
information out, it is nice to work vertically.That is something I seldom do; I really like being able to describe the
lay of the land.However, the arbitrary
nature of the composition still comes down to content. The details equal design. There is no need to rely of on fabricated
relationships or kiss up to the picture plane.The only things that matter are the things that do, and they are not the
similarity of summarized shapes, patterns of textured gestures, the rhythms of obstinate
stumbling blocks, the chime of untimely riming, focal points, undeniable plots,
or graveyard junipers pruned to view Saint Patrick’s Cathedral more precisely.
The beauty of the question is asphalt and intractable weeds
injecting seasonal green into sorted stones shouldering the pullover of lost
and lonely motorists.Not all are
stranded.Some come for the quiet
splendor of the countryside, the home of those clinging to the land of ancestors,
even if it was just Uncle Jim and his son Rob trying their hand at ranching.Wealth resides on a porch of screened in evenings.
Crickets rise and fall in pale twilight.
Constellations are bound to rule the
night. Dogs yap, howl and bark at
elusive horizons.Moths bombard blinding
isolation; a jackrabbit is hit by rolling headlights in the glare of hesitation.The evening conceals the fatality of grinding
traction in a swell of sweet smelling alfalfa.
US Highway 50, Hinckley, Utah
The agricultural area of Delta, Utah is on the eastern side of the Great Basin
In 2005, my brother Steve and I hit US Highway 50 to pursue
a book devoted to The Loneliest Road in America. The idea came from a conversation that
happened while camping in Great Basin National Park.Painting the highway had been on my mind for
many years, and Steve being a writer suggested turning it into a book.Having parents in Fillmore, Utah and Reno,
Nevada, we grew up with a 500 mile commute between families.I mentioned that in a statement written for an exhibition at Valley House Gallery, Dallas, Texas. There was sometimes an assumption that the title was a reflection on a lonely childhood when
it was actually a description of place.That
is the official name of the highway.Childhood
was how I knew of the Great Basin.I was
never lonely in a car.There was too
much to see for me to be anything but engage.The sky sailed high above pinion and sage as travel profiled range after
range on a blue horizon. Life got in the
way.The book never happened. Individual passages written for specific
paintings is as close as we got to that compilation. When I wrote the following, my audience
initially seems to be Steve.
Playa
Playa
oil on canvas
17 3/8 x 7 15/16 inches
2009
It has been more than four years since we stopped in the
little valley cradled between the outskirts of Fernley and the bend in the road
known as Hazen, Nevada.I don’t know
where you were or what you were doing while I shot photographs of the hills and
playa that framed the northern view of a land that lead to Lovelock and beyond,
but it was so far away that it was out of view even in the clean crisp air of
an unusually cool June morning.Perhaps
you were taking notes that could describe in concrete detail the memory of a
land I just tried to communicate to you.
I was on the road a couple of months ago and passed this
way.The previous day took me as far as
Bob Scott Summit.Having no desire to
travel the night, I crawled off into a sleeping bag in the back of the Sonata.A starry sky filled the windows of my modest accommodation.What a luxury that was.The city intensifies darkness, burning out nearly
all the shades between black and white, leaving night as subtle as compressed
charcoal. However out here in the
pinion, the stars shine bright, and night is lighter than I ever imagined it to
be, even in the absence of moonlight.
Morning view of Austin, Nevada
I left in early morning starlight and headed for Austin
Summit to capture the rise of dawn. I
got out of the car. I was glad to be
wearing gloves.October had frozen the
shoulder of the road I walked along taking pictures of the pass.Aspen slopes glowed green, yellow and gold, and
the sage was weather-beaten. In Austin,
the first service station hadn’t open yet.The next station was the only other station in town. Its signage read paybefore you pump, so I
stayed on the highway.Just outside of
town, I reconsidered that decision.Fallon was 111 miles away and there was no warning sign.When you leave Green River, Utah,
a sign emphatically states that the next services are 109 miles away.I guess Nevada figures if you’ve made it this
far, you already know there won’t be anything out there.
It was early afternoon by the time I passed by the playa; I
had taken many pictures along the way making my travel time even longer.It was not the same.Two or three drilling rigs now inhabit the
small valley.The reason I am not sure
of the number is I had no desire to document what I saw. I realized that this end of the highway was
filling in. Americans are always looking
for a home on the range.However, because
they want space to be convenient, the city grows out to where the wind blew not
so long ago, unrestrained, kicking and chasing tumble weeds just to disturb the
dust, never ever caring that the dust just wanted to settle down somewhere out
on the playa.
The next several posts come an exhibition at Valley House
Gallery, Dallas, Texas that I did in 2010.The paintings where a survey of U.S Highway 50 crossing Nevada.The following is written information from the
invitation and the handmade book that went with the painting of Peavine Peak.
A Railroad Crossing Outside of Hazen, Nevada
oil on canvas
16 1/16 x 36 1/8 inches
2008
The Loneliest Road in America
Although it may not be America’s loneliest road, a portion
of US Highway 50 has that designation for a reason.On its way from Maryland to California, it
crosses Nevada, the driest state in the union.
For personal reasons, I extend the theme to include some of
Utah.As a child, I traveled back and
forth between parents on this highway.The 500-mile drive from Fillmore, Utah to Reno, Nevada was devoid of
farming for 410 miles.The rivers that
rise on either side of the Great Basin never find their way to the sea and wind
up wasting away in large evaporation ponds like the Great Salt Lake.
The region informs the way I think about light, and although
I was not aware of it, the long vistas taught me to see instability.It is a feature of any horizon and key to a
sense of depth in painting.It is nice
to return to mending miles of silence strung along by power lines and waves of
sage known as The Loneliest Road in
America.
Peavine Peak
oil on canvas
5 7/8 x 17 1/2 inches
2009
Peavine Peak
As remote as it looks, Reno is on the other side of the
mountain.This in fact, is not far from
Horizon Hills, a subdivision just down the hillside.We lived on Pawnee Court, a dead end street, in a
maze of streets claiming tribal ancestry.In a way, that may have been fitting.The development looked like a reservation.The houses had an air of being manufactured
and the lots were mostly barren.
I don’t mean to paint a bleak picture.As neighborhoods go, this was nicer than
most.However, architecture in the state,
if there is any, looks haphazard.If you
want more than gaming and houses of prostitution, stick with the sage.Wind-rustling brush shapes the face of the
horizon, and from our place, it was either high or low.
By suppertime, the wind was roaring and tin canned
processions of tumbleweeds and milk cartons assaulted backyard gardens.Although there were dogs in the neighborhood,
there was no need for them. The wind had a canine sense of design.Had there been any trees, thrashing branches
would have whipped leaves into the sound of many waters.No one had air conditioning, and the afternoon
heat was chased away through open windows that later closed to keep out the
night.Then, in the chill of morning
light, the wind was silent.
Handmade book for Peavine Peak
4 1/4 x 3 x 3/8 inches
End of the Day at the North End of the Richardson Heights Shopping Center...
Left panel detail
mixed media diorama
11 7/8 x 63 3/4 x 3 3/4 inches
1987
One of the joys of not having to rely on composition is that
the entire world is open to you. The world
abounds in the local. The exhilaration
of travel can be had by riding a bike or strolling down an alleyway. A walk across a parking lot can fill with a
sense wonder. The peeling paint of a rusted dumpster may be a bit of a kick, a heart
rising skip, the arrested freshness that comes with every new encounter. With this state of mind, every day, every time
of day, every atmospheric condition is splendid. Life is even bright in stormy weather when
design no longer denies a child eye view of everything as treasure.A vacant lot becomes a place of nature.Even blacktop and shiny metal cars beam
radiantly. Stepping towards the theatre,
life happens in the wind.Trees and
shrubs throw off pollen dust to the flutter and buss of flying insects.Car doors open and close in moments of lowly grandeur.
End of the Day... full two panel view
I once spent an entire day observing the habits of
Richardson Heights Shopping Center.I
arrived before dawn, and left just after dusk. It was Sunday. There wasn’t much going on.The Texas Blue Laws were still enforced.Given the current political conditions of the
state, the past could easily seem like a golden age of liberalism. Anyway, the idea was to do an entire
exhibition based on a single day in a parking lot.I know that’s taking the idea of local to the
extreme, but I was confident there was more than enough to see to make for a
very exciting show.Although I didn’t go
that route, I easily could have, and some very nice dioramas came from the
all-day excursion around the grounds of the shopping center.
The tools of the trade didn’t include pencils, sketch pads,
canvas or paint. The engagement with any
particular place is too enjoyable to be distracted by the practice of painting.I came to see and feel the life of a specific
place in my neighborhood.To help with
that endeavor, I had a camera and a notebook.I brought a folding chair to sit in and a tape recorder to capture
sound.Most of the noise was
traffic.The ebb and flow was the
aggravated ease of a lazy summer Sunday.The recorder also captured a chirping scurry of birds as dawn gave way
to shape and shadow.Early in the
morning, a Corvette pulled into the north end of the shopping center.The car door opened and a policeman stepped
out. Within no time at all, I understood
what was happening.The shopping center
filled in with cars.He was a crossing
guard for those going to church. There
is no way to explain this if you have not lived in Dallas.Although most people don’t seem that pious
during the week, when Sunday comes around church overtakes state, and traffic
patterns are managed to meet the needs of church going people. When church was over, the parking lot quickly emptied
out. I wandered around taking pictures. I noted business names, inspected litter and
paid some attention to the activity of ants. When you have all day, you have all kinds of time
for long drawn out yawns and internal bouts of fascination.Both modes of being seem to be completely compatible.I noticed meandering cracks.I stumbled on bits of scattered gravel no
longer the embedded compression of blacktop conglomerate.Faded paint, an exquisitely eroded layer of cap
rock divided gray from gray. The
powerful glare of an ever present sun was everywhere.In pale gray heat, little puffy clouds
followed a shadowy path of quiet annihilation.
Around noon, cars crowded in around Wyatt’s cafeteria.Dining out on Sundays also seemed to be an
eventful part of going to church.Dallas
was the churchiest place I’d ever seen, and I grew up in Utah.Perhaps, when religion is practiced that
casually, there isn’t any cost to looking handsome or pretty. You simply change clothes and persona. Anyway, the one thing parking lots seem to
have in common is an inability to encourage walking. I once worked a couple of doors down from a
fitness center.Women drove around and around
looking for the perfect spot.God forbid
if hips should have to walk. I wonder if
any of them stopped to consider how ridiculous it was to labor that hard to
avoid exercise while trying to exercise. Steps don’t seem to count for much unless they
include dues, mirrors, and a cold interior of fitness machines.
Over the years, I’ve heard people say that people are the hardest
things to paint. Naturally as a
landscape painter, I don’t much care for the idea.The statement insinuates that trees are not
as hard to paint as faces, and further proclaims that an apple, napkin and hat,
and a cold beer stand in lower tiers of difficulty.I am certain that is not in fact a fact. Almost any mountain slope is far more varied
than any variation in the human face.The noted difficulty comes from a consciousness that places the human
race as the crown of creation.We spend
all our time thinking of ourselves.Even
in societies where a reverence for nature was more prevalent, that reverence was
still centered on the inhabitants of man.With that mindset, nothing else has ever received equal time or
consideration. The standard for
mountains has never even matched that of kitchen utensils. Anyone can paint a mountain.It’s not hard to see why we would have environmental
problems.We only see ourselves. As a result, landscape painting has never
received true scrutiny.It is perfectly
fine for a mountain to be nothing more than a few gray lines on a horizon.Very few deeply care about nature. You can tell that just by the way they
drive.A highway is nothing more than a
forgettable stretch between destinations.Since a person is not a tree, a
cloud, or a sage covered bluff, there is no need to heed the particularity of
how cloud movements continuously reconfigure cloud formations.Many painters simply make the stuff up and
never really seem notice that the grey underbelly of a cloud isn’t really any
darker than the blue sky that surrounds it.The same kind of laxness won’t fly when considering the profile and tone of a human face. Try making one up. You won’t get away with it.That’s why I have a bit of a problem with the
outdoor crowd.They just paint to feel artistically
free.Painting outside has nothing to do
with understanding the subtlety of light.I think it’s time to put the people thing in perspective.John Singer Sargent would never have had the success
he had if he had plein aired the privileged faces of the Gilded Age.
End of the Day... left panel view
As evening began to settle in, my day of observation came to
a close.Although short lived, the
pastel atmosphere began to relinquish heat.After initial cooling, the air seemed to warm up again. I know that’s probably not the case.The sensation was most likely tied to
increased humidity.The sun had set. It was safe for trees to begin to release some
of the moisture that had been stored during the heat of the day.The sound of crickets could not yet compete
with cicadas, the noisy creatures of heat that pass the day away in marked
intervals of intensity.Deciduous trees leaned
more and more toward evergreen.Lavender
meandered twilight across the sky.Street
lamps intensified the weight of darkness.Starlight was nothing more than a glimmer of major constellations and
possibly a passing satellite.I snapped a few finals shots as evening
settled in.I loaded my stuff into the
truck glad to call it a day, and drove home to my apartment on the other side of Central Expressway.
In the mid-1980s’ the FIXX was a large part of my
consciousness. Their sound represented something
new as I was trying to find something new myself. The sound sounded urban, and confined to an apartment
building, Richardson, Texas was the most urban lifestyle I had ever lived.
I worked in charcoal. For me the medium was not about sketching. I took it seriously and saw the drawings as
painting. Some of the paintings wound up
being very large.At 40 x 60 inches, I’d
pretty much reached the upper limits of paper.To go any further, I needed a path that didn’t include paper or glass. I am not sure why I thought charcoal on
plastered canvas would work. Although it
had to be sealed, the combination of charcoal, plaster, canvas and paint had a
physical grit that was fitting for a vision of the city.
Downtown near DMA
charcoal and acrylic
40 x 56 inches
1985
Although not on plaster, previous experience had included
stretched fabric, so I began to think of black and white paint. Most of the time, I didn’t use paint out of a
tube, but chose to mix charcoal powder in with matte medium. I liked the fact that it lacked consistency. It was like a gritty black pancake batter that
sometimes cracked as it dried. The
painting didn’t happen as a single phase or endeavor. Although always urban, it was a while before
it acquired the edge I was looking for.When I started, it may not have been about Less Cities, More Moving People.However, I frequently listen to the FIXX.I didn’t use it as background music.I never cared to listen passively.Which means, I listened to a lot of
silence.I hated places where people
automatically turned the music on as soon as they got to work, and then played
it the entire day as a way of escaping. I’m all for music as another realm, but
continuous sound only confirms a drowning reality of an inability to break away
for even a moment.I don’t know if this
is the case, but it seemed to me that people who needed television or radio as
a constant companion were afraid of being alone, that an empty mind might hold
the mangled sounds of desperation.It is
not that I was free from pain, it’s just that I enjoyed thought even when it
hurt.There was a part of me that didn’t
want to hide. Instead of trying to dull
my senses with drugs or alcohol, the weekend was all about seeing.Life often happened within the cracks of a
morning stroll.I didn’t need a hot cup
of coffee to get me started.There was
never any need to start a day of observation.Sights and sounds simply invited life in.It was easy to love the discarded cigarette
butts and fallen leaves of my surroundings.
Moving from black and white to color included elements of
collage and spray paint.I guess I
didn’t want definite edges, or maybe the spray can was just sitting around and
I grabbed it to see what would happen. Painting
often goes no deeper than that.Meaning
comes from action. An idea is just an
idea until it becomes a physical presence.For example, I decided to write about this painting. However, I never really know what I want to
say, so I start typing. Most of the time
the sentences are a mess, and vision is a collision of unexpected thoughts. For some odd reason, writing is sharper than
the mind behind it. If there happens to
be an eloquence of sound, it is a compound of labor, a sorting out of sorts, a
routine of shaking out shapes from within the instigation.Inspiration is not that useful.It is highly unreliable.It seldom shows up until most of the work is
done. Inspiration is greedy and should
never really be trusted. When the
writing finally comes to a conclusion, it feels like taking all the credit,
sounding like a pie in the sky job creator.
Although I don’t know anything about music, it was something
I always wanted to do. I like the way it
makes me feel. I guess I am not alone,
it does the same for many others.When I
listened to the FIXX, I thought I heard the familiar sounded out in the
new.Often, sudden jarring stiffs seemed
to fit. The music reminded me of collage.
The ripping of guitar and the edginess of torn paper seemed to be related. Listening back on the music now, a lot has changed.The Cold War is over.However social isolation remains in check
even with the added connections of social media.With ever present connectedness, the new
becomes old in a flash.Eloquence can
quickly be trivialized by a piling on of posts, and I suspect revolution can
sound like a round of passive advertising.Oh my, I’m aLiberalgot 37 Likes.
I liked the music because it wasn’t about sex, drugs or rock
and roll. It was about things like fear
and taking a stand.I often wonder how
the young can be so smart. I don’t
really know the lyrics, although I hear them in the sound that moves through my
mind.Less cities, more moving people lyrically stated the pace of
industrialization.What a great chorus
line.Farming became so productive, that
smaller communities were no longer self-sufficient.Less cities meant bigger cities as more and
more people moved away from the countryside. Employment can be a kind of isolation.Without control, creativity can easily be
spent just working to survive.With no
ties to the environment, consumption can tend to become a measure; I spend
therefore I am.However, it provides no
connection to the ballad of playground
swing. One legal dose of environment can never
compare to being tied to a land of blue skies where crops are dependent upon
water.Unfortunately, many no longer
have those connections and live in world where weather was never intended to
rain on anyone’s parade. Because water
is always on tap or bottled in plastic, a sense of security is based on a
notion of control.I think that in fact
leads to more isolation.In a world
where devices equal connection, what happens when the power goes out or a
friend doesn’t respond immediately to a text? The ability to connect has always come from
knowing the power of isolation. With
that, I will let the FIXX close with the song Outside.
One legal dose of
environment and The ballad of a
playground swing are lines written by Cy Curnin of the FIXX for the song Camphor.
Dusk and Construction
charcoal, acrylic, collage, plaster and canvas
33 x 47 1/4 inches
1985
A Bend in US Highway 50 at Robinson Summit, White Pine County, Nevada (The Loneliest Road in America)
oil on canvas
20 3/16 x 32 1/8 inches framed
A few years ago, I made some paintings based on a stretch of U.S Highway 50 known as the Loneliest Road in America. This section crosses Nevada.Although that designation and the making of Great Basin National Park have increased traffic, the road is still a highway of desert isolation.Two summers ago, my brother’s family and I tried to camp at the national park.All the sites were full.We ended up spending the night below Sacramento Pass at a Bureau of Land Management camp.After twilight, travel completely stopped.Crickets occupied the night. A starlit sky defined pinion, a thicket so deep detail had the absence of black water. I was stunned.The highway was a part of my childhood.I thought I knew the lonely nature of the place. But even at the height of the tourist season, night was completely still.For each painting I made a small book.The following comes from one of those written descriptions.
Summits sometimes fail to provide sweeping vistas.While a highway may make the grade, and cross the divide, spectacular views may be winding miles away.After climbing the embankment, it was obvious that there was no panoramic blue to examine.However, it did give me an interesting view of the highway.
When I was young, I was so taken by mountain peaks, that I missed the matted fabric of forest floors.Never rambunctious, I had little or no interest in sports.However, if a mountain was around, I wanted to climb it.I had an obsession to see as far as I could see.
I remember hiking in the foothills above Salt Lake City with a friend when I was eleven in the snow.His feet grew cold; he stayed below, while I scrambled to the top.I loved perspective’s swoop and dive into tiny woven streets reflecting sunlight below towering mountains.Basking in the curvature of exhilaration, I thought my friend was a wimp.I loved high places, but it was never for an adrenaline rush or exercise.I had a passion for seeing seas of topography.
In many respects, that made me blind.I was only interested in the spectacular, and it was years before I learned how to see.I remember a trip back to Ontario where my family comes from, and being bored with states like Iowa.No mountains towered over corn fields, and I disliked the whiteness of skies and the deep stinking heat of humidity.I couldn’t comprehend how anyone could stand a land of fields and trees where puffy little clouds floated around in atmospheric anemia.
When I moved to Texas, I was always searching for higher horizons, and eventually began to see beauty in the turned up fields of the countryside.Weekends found me on roads to places like Meridian and Clifton.I never knew where I was going, but enjoyed driving.However, because I always had to return, I was undeniably tired.Going anywhere required miles of driving; exhilaration turned into weariness and defeat.I began staying closer to home and looked for adventure in the city.In a sense, this was not new; as a child, I could see topography in any empty field.My thoughts turned to the content of walks.I began to see the vagaries of life in heat crushing concrete.Even weeds defined the high and mighty sky.Being in step with the pedestrian really set me free.
Handmade book placed on the back of the painting
4 9/16 x 3 1/8 x 3/8 inches
