I believe that my dollar has power.

I try to be a conscientious shopper by supporting causes I believe in and withholding money from those I don’t.

I buy local when I can. I’ll pick up a book at an independent bookstore. I support San Diego artists by purchasing the artwork they display in coffee shops and street fairs. I watch beginning musicians perform at small venues and I’ll grab their self-produced album when available. I travel to the farmer’s market to support regional farmers and ranchers. I boycott large companies that donate predominantly to Republican campaigns. I try to look out for the little guy.

With all that being said, I continued this trend by recently buying organic coffee with a TFC label attached. TFC means Trade Fair Coffee and indicates that the growers were paid fair wages and treated well.

After sampling this coffee I’m led to the following belief: pesticides, oppression, and greed are what give coffee its flavor because organic coffee tastes like crap. It’s bland as all hell. Just to make a solid cup of coffee, I’d need a five gallon drum of organic coffee beans laced with airline fuel (for the chemicals).

A few quick figure drawings of Molly....

Molly Twisted. Watercolor on paper. 8"x3." Link for larger pic.



Molly Standing. Pencil on paper. 3"x6".

Calla Lily (oil on cardboard, 11 x 14")

A sketch of Kim.

Between visiting friends, attending art gallery openings, and sketching at a figure drawing workshop, I spend a lot of time in the North Park neighborhood. In the middle of the community stands a green water tower that I find engaging. When I was there a few weeks ago I took some pictures.



I've wanted to paint it for a while. So that I would better understand it I painted a study (oil, 12"x16"). I modified the scale to make the tower appear more imposing.

Kim flew into San Diego and we enjoyed a whirlwind weekend, accompanied by clear and perfect weather. We began Saturday by grabbing lunch at Cass Street Bar and Grill, and then went on a casual drive through San Diego neighborhoods like Pacific Beach, Ocean Beach, Point Loma, Old Town, and Mission Hills. We paused on Harbor Island to take in the views of Coronado Island and its namesake bridge, downtown San Diego, and the mountains beyond.

In the evening we saw the movie Sideways, which I enjoyed immensely. The perfect parts humor and humanity. It had a lot of elements that resonated for me. I'm a huge fan of Alexander Payne's two previous movies, About Schmidt and Election (I felt the later was a perfectly directed and sadly overlooked movie). I love mood pieces, governed by tone, of which I consider some of my all time favorite movies: Leaving Las Vegas, Garden State, and Lost in Translation. Again a great movie.

Sunday afternoon Kim and I went for a walk downtown, along the bay. The USS Midway is parked at the Navy Pier and has been transformed into a floating museum. Despite its enormous size, it's still hard to fathom living aboard for six month stretches of time. It would be an entirely different life.

Around 5pm, Sunday night, I got a call from my friend Tom. I've known him since I was in junior high -- he was the same class year as my younger sister. He called to tell me that his Denver based band, Devotchka, was in town and playing in a few hours at the Belly Up in Solana Beach. He put Kim and I on the guest list. I felt quite special going to the club's ticket window and telling the attendant that I was on the guest list. It was a first for me. Speaking of firsts, there are many firsts that you remember throughout your lifetime. The first time you get laid. The first time you kill a man. And the first time you see Devotchka live. They put on an amazing show. A unique band that you gotta catch in concert. You ain't seen nothin' like it. I found myself mesmerized and awed and desperately wishing I could play the violin.

I left my apartment Saturday morning to perfectly clear skies with unlimited visibility. The ocean and hillsides looked beautiful bathed in unfiltered sunlight. The weather was fantastic. I drove through an enchantingly clear San Diego morning to attend figure drawing workshop.

In the late evening I went outside to take my trash to the dumpster. A thick and eerie fog had enveloped everything, impairing visibility past 50 feet. The mist hung in the air like a visceral entity. On the late night news I saw that the airport had to cancel flights.

A long time ago I read Stephen King's haunting short story, "The Mist." It involved a fog that consumed a small town and a group of people found themselves trapped in a grocery store. Anyone that stepped outside quickly met their demise via vicious animal attack, including a pterodactyl.

Whenever I'm immersed in fog I immediately conjure up that story. It adds an atmospherical mystique to the experience. I'm not sure if I'd like the story to come true or not. On one hand it would suck to be eaten by a large monster. On the other hand, I'd really like to see a pterodactyl.

Sorry for the lack of updates. It's been a fun, but busy month.

I spent the first weekend of October in Denver. Kim and I checked out the Francoise Gilot exhibit at Gallery M. Francoise was Picasso's companion for ten years, and one of my favorite books is her autobiography detailing this time entitled, Life With Picasso. Viewing Francoise's artwork, it's interesting to see her strong personality emanate, juxtaposed with Picasso's influence. The gallery owner approached us and asked if we were familiar with Francoise's work. I told her that I had read Life With Picasso. The owner inquired how I became aware of this book. Kim relayed how each member of her book club brought their favorite book during one meeting. Her friend brought Life With Picasso. The owner asked the name of this friend. Kim said her name. The owner waved at the paintings behind her. "This is her collection," she said. Small world.

Kim and I proceeded to the Colorado History Museum to see their current exhibit of Pulitzer Prize winning photographs. It was amazing. At times humbling. At other times empowering. Accompanying each photograph was a placard detailing the photo's context, information about the photographer and how the image was captured. I found it fascinating how many of the photos were taken almost by accident -- due to an odd set of random circumstances lining up in a peculiar way at a particular instance. If you only knew about the world through these photos, you'd think the whole world had gone to hell -- pure chaos... the evil that men do to one another.... But every once in a while you encounter a photo that makes you smile when you see the wonderful humanity within people.

On Sunday, Kim and I ventured over to Boulder to attend Open Studios -- one of the coolest art experiences out there. Over 130 artists participate in this event that spans two weekends. Each artist selects a single piece of artwork to be displayed in the Boulder Public Library. You go to the library, check out the artwork, and buy a map listing the address of each artist's studio. From there, you travel all over the town checking out each artist's locale and artwork. For me, the enjoyment is largely based on chatting with the artist and seeing his or her studio set-up. Sometimes the studio is an actual studio, sometimes a detached garage, and sometimes simply a room in their house. I bought a beautiful woodcut print of the Flatirons from Theresa Haberkorn. Kim and I both loved the artwork of Stephanie von Reckers and Gigi Lambert.

The following weekend my sister and nephew flew out from Phoenix to visit. We packed a lot of stuff into a few days. My nephew has a fascination with Egyptian stuff, so we hit the Museum of Man. We traversed the Coronado Bridge and set up temporary camp on the beach in front of the hotel Del. My sister rolled up my nephew's pants legs so that he could wade into the ocean water. In a little over ten minutes, he was completely soaked. That evening we headed down to Pacific Beach to enjoy some sushi. The next day we did a tremendous amount of walking. We started off in Little Italy to watch the artists fill the sidewalk at the Chalk la Strada festival. Vanessa did a beautiful chalk drawing. After grabbing an Italian lunch from a vendor, we made our way to a San Diego institution -- the Zoo. The weather was very conducive to animal wanderings because we saw a lot of typically dormant animals actively exercising.

The weekend after, my parents came to visit. It was an uncle and aunt reunion in San Diego so I saw a lot of relatives I hadn't seen in a long time. I introduced my parents to San Diego by taking them to Old Town for lunch and then ascending Mt. Soledad to see the spectacular 360 degree view of San Diego. My parents stayed in Del Mar, which was neat for me because I've never really spent a lot of time over there. Near their hotel, we crossed the railroad tracks hovering on the cliffs' edge, and found a relatively accessible point along the sheer cliff where we could descend down to the water. It was a perfectly serene evening watching the sun set. Before they flew out, I took them out for lunch at Point Loma Seafood Company -- one of my fave seafood places in the city -- and then up to Cabrillo National Monument -- which offers another amazing view of the city. It was the first time my mom had been to San Diego so I had fun showing her around so she could put a place to a name.

The weekend my parents visited, San Diego had set a record of consecutive days without rain at 182. Then it rained. And it's been pouring rain over the past few weeks. We've set a record for most rainfall during the month of October. The thing about rain in San Diego is that it has the same impact on traffic that a blizzard has in Colorado. Perhaps worse. It completely stifles it.

I spent this past week in Dallas on business. My rental car was a Pontiac Aztek. A submerged submarine has more visibility. A thick horizontal bar dissects the rear window. Accompanied by high seats that block a blind-spot check, you realize that you're in a moving bomb shelter. But as time went on I grew to like the Aztek. It's quite agile for a large vehicle. It was also nice sitting up so high instead of the Docker's commercial crotch view I get in the Mustang. Driving around a new city, one of the toughest obstacles is finding a good radio station. I stumbled into one that I kept on the dial the entire time. The music was great but the DJs were annoying. I have a simple test to determine the quality of DJ's. The more DJ's spontaneously laugh after each thing they say, the worse they are. If something is funny, it's funny. I'll laugh. You don't have to convince me by being amused by your voice. "You know what, Dan? I went to the grocery store and had to pull into the third row." "Ha, ha, ha, ha." "That's so funny, Dave." "Ha, ha, ha, ha. The third row? You kill me."

Leaving from the airport, I headed straight to the Dallas Museum of Art. Perused their collection for an hour, and then located my hotel.

The taste of Dallas water has definitely improved since my last visit. I'm guessing that the algae level has decreased. I'm not a big fan of Dallas, but throughly enjoyed visiting its neighboring sister city of Ft. Worth. The city has a section of town called the Cultural District, with three fantastic art museums clustered together, across the street from the beautiful Will Rogers Memorial Center.



I started at the Kimbell Art Museum. There were a lot of kids throughout the museum, each armed with a canvas and a pencil. The child sat patiently in front of a painting he or she selected, and tried to replicate the painting onto the canvas. Feeling content with the drawing, the child brought it over to an extended table where brushes and acrylic paints awaited them. Then the kid went after it. It was fun to watch the process, although it kept the guards on edge. I always like it when children are engaged with art. The museum itself had a nice collection, including a few of my faves like Cézanne and Munch.

I walked across the street to the Modern Art Museum of Fort Worth, one of the most stunning art buildings I've ever seen. A man-made pond runs to the very edge of the museum, creating a fantastic visual effect. There is a concrete hallway that runs along the outer glass wall, bordering the pond, creating interesting nooks where more sculptural pieces sit. The galleries are spacious and arranged well. And the collection is fantastic. There are some artists that I'm familiar with peripherally, and their art starts to resonate powerfully as I become more aware of their ouvre. Every few months an artist is added to this list. Currently, my latest fascination is with Gerhard Richter. They had three of his pieces there (I also saw two at the Dallas Museum of Art). I'm astounded not only by the sheer visual impact of his artwork, but also by his versatility and proficiency. A couple of my other faves include Edward Ruscha and Chuck Close. How the latter accomplishes what he does with seemingly random circles, lines, and dots fascinates me.

I took a lunch break and did a drive-by of the Fort Worth Stockyards. They were fun to drive through, but the immediate area surrounding it looked like the land that time forgot. You could conduct an atom bomb test there and not notice a difference. Abandoned and desolate buildings everywhere. But looking eastward, it's beautiful. Everything was green and trees were full. A river wound it's way gracefully towards downtown which was modest but stood proud. A Portland of the plains. The city has a painterly charm to it, and I'd love to lug my easel and brushes around the place. Great skyline. Nostalgic railway scenes. Peaceful yet lively fields. Barns and silos that seem to be disappearing from everywhere else.

I returned to the Cultural District to finish off my museum triumvirate at the Amon Carter Museum. Growing up in Colorado Springs, I went to Charles M. Russell Junior High school. Despite my three years there, the name never had an association. It was just a label. It's only been in the last few years that I've developed an understanding of the person behind the name. My first exposure to Charles M. Russell's artwork was a few years ago when I visited the Colorado Springs Fine Arts Center (an underappreciated treasure in C/S -- they have some great stuff). The Amon Carter Museum had an astounding collection of C.M. Russell's artwork. It was a treat for me to gain a further appreciation of my junior high school's namesake.

Perhaps it's due to the name of the airport being DFW (Dallas/Ft Worth). Perhaps it's because on a map it looks like a Rorschach blob. But I always thought that Dallas and Ft. Worth were a large contiguous entity. There's actually a lot of land separating the two (at least from my naive perspective).

My calendar didn’t list it as a holiday, but I’m guessing today was Dumbass Driver Day. Is it me, or are drivers becoming progressively worse? Let me discuss a few people who annoyed me on my journey home.

• If your car is so impaired that you need to drive with your hazards flashing, stay off the highway. Back roads only. Tow truck preferred.
• If you're driving 45 mph in the left lane, you may as well build a blockade, because that’s what you’re doing.
• People who apply their brakes with the frequency of a hummingbird’s beating wings… stop it. You need therapy. Electro-shock therapy. Connected directly to your brakes.
• I won’t delve into people who simultaneously smoke and talk on their cell phone while driving. Let me just say that if I’m Dante, you’re in my ninth circle of hell. Along with all pigeons.
• There is an enormous difference between being lost and acting lost. Being lost allows you to discover new places. Acting lost will get you mugged. Possibly shot.

In the time it took to read this, a woman driving on Balboa Avenue just applied her brakes one hundred and seventy three times.

I got a new car stereo installed this afternoon so my aforementioned car silence has ended. My car stereo is pretty cool. It comes with a remote control so if I'm ever in a horrific accident and thrown thirty feet from the car, I can still adjust the volume. Woo hoo!

A week ago, my car stereo broke. No radio. No CD player. Being sans car stereo makes for an odd driving experience. During this time, I've made a few observations:

• Without the distractions of music, my driving skills are honed like a ninja wielding a sword. Double lane changes at eighty five miles per hour within a distance of a hundred feet are artfully conducted like an orchestra. Sipped like a fine wine.
• I talk to myself. Out loud. A lot.
• The beautiful subtleties of the landscape. How the morning sun illuminates the hillside in golden green tones and gracefully shades the palm tree leaves in yellows.
• That being without a car stereo really, really, really sucks.

This is my favorite time of year in San Diego. If San Diego had such a thing as a season, this would be it. The weather cools slightly, adding a chill to the nighttime air. The Santa Ana winds whisper enough to clear out the misty marine layer and lower the humidity, leaving a clear sky. It's a beautiful scene.

This morning I visited one of my favorite places in San Diego, the Mission cafe. It's a small shack located along the Mission Beach boardwalk. My last visit had been far too long ago. So long so that both the color (now green) and name (now Cantina) of the place had changed. During my self-imposed two year sabbatical, I ventured down there every morning to write and draw. It's a great place to people-watch as they stroll, walk, bike, and jog across the boardwalk and descend onto the beach. So as to not disappoint, this morning as I wrote in my journal and drank coffee, a dog wearing a harness with long leash flew past me swiftly as it pulled a man crouched low on his skateboard. It was a Southern California version of the Iditarod.

I first became aware of art critic Robert Hughes upon watching the documentary Crumb (one of my fave movies). He was interviewed and asked to comment on Robert Crumb's work. I admired Hughes' articulate and knowledgeable critique, flavored with humor.

Due to the subjective nature of music, I frequently find its written criticism to be trite and contrived. I'll read a Rolling Stone album review and cringe when the reviewer includes two lines of lyrics to support his or her view. Two isolated lines prove nothing as a song's power depends heavily on its music, and you completely remove them from their context (the substance of all art).

I argue that painting is even more subjective than music. Consumers and critics can come to a general consensus that some music sucks, but I don't believe that you find this same consensus about art (outside of people that just hate art as a whole). If you encounter a painting style in the everyday world that you hate, there's a good chance that you can find that same style housed on a museum's walls. I remember walking through the Denver Art Museum with my friend Meegan ten years ago, and she commented, "Have you ever wondered why one painting makes it into a museum and another doesn't? What makes a painting museum worthy? If you see two similar paintings, why is one included and the other disregarded?" They were poignant questions, and I try to answer them as I stroll along museum walls. Rarely can I answer them absolutely.

Painting offers a rare quality in the creative fields. Immediacy. It elicits an immediate reaction. A book takes six hours to complete, a movie two, and even a song takes a few minutes to seep in. But standing in front of a painting the image is burned instantly. Of course one acquires additional messages and impact upon absorbing the image through time and study, but it still possesses that initial reaction (or lack thereof). How do you describe it and the cause? Is the painting effective?

My long winded approach is arriving at the fact that I've never really read any art criticism. I questioned if it be worthwhile or is the subjective nature of art too prohibitive. Would I find it as pretentious and contrived as music criticism? Would it resemble the current nature of politics where a person has already taken a stance and simply warps facts to reinforce this idea, or would it consist of a dialogue that evolved into an enlightened view?

I decided to give it a shot and returned to Robert Hughes, best known as the art critic for Time magazine. I bought his book, Nothing If Not Critical: Selected Essays on Art and Artists. I've found it thoroughly engaging and fun. I've seen enough artwork to have developed what I believe to be informed opinions on what I like and dislike, the reasons thereof, and whether a painting is effective. It's been fun to volley my thoughts against his, and try to understand where we concur and differ and why. I've made no veiled declarations that I thoroughly despise the work of Mark Rothko. I enjoyed reading Hughes' essay on Rothko explaining his genius. He validates my reasons for dislike (Rothko can't draw, the paintings have been identical for the last twenty years of his oeuvre and meanings associated with them are dramatically overblown), but Hughes' doesn't see them as a distraction to the paintings' power. The book collects his critiques on art exhibits and books and are based per artist. His ability to articulate his thoughts is amazing, and I enjoy that he gives a context to the art we're seeing (my own creative dogma is that an artwork derives its power from context). A thoroughly engaging read. Highly recommended.

As an aside, I also bought his book, Barcelona, which gives a historical and opinionated view of the city. The city is one of my faves. I'm looking forward to reading the book.

I thoroughly enjoyed reading Chuck Klosterman’s essay collection, Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs. You gotta love a book that spends thirteen pages detailing the social relevance and power of TV’s Saved by the Bell (who didn’t watch this show in between college classes?). His more entertaining essays deal with focused topics like how John Cusack ruined his love life and the sad reason why soccer is the world’s most popular sport. His weaker essays tend to be those where he extrapolates universal laws from popular cultural tidbits.

They boil down to the phrase, “Society believes (this) because of (that).”

Perhaps my criticism is guided by my adverse Pavlovian response to the phrase, “Society thinks….” Upon hearing it I cringe. I heard it frequently repeated during critical thinking classes in college and the phrase always struck me as being pretentious and trite. It’s a concept too ambitious to be uttered by a guy having done keg stands fourteen hours earlier. It’s simply a pet peeve of mine. I have a visceral reaction to the word society. I hate it, and thus never use it in my creative writing.

Arguments involving it always collapse on themselves, where one caveat can turn the carefully balanced structure into sawdust.

Society thinks that this journal entry rocks.