Maynard Dixon had words and pictures for everything in the Southwest. He wrote of "The Back of Beyond." For me it's that magical place in your imagination which exists in the dreamlight washing the far mountains beckoning those who are free to explore. Even as a child I would gaze longingly at desert vistas imagining a different world beyond the mesas. It is more than the bear went over the mountain . . . because there is an implied existential destination here. Escalante, Utah is a launching pad, a pathway to such places, not to mention conveniently located near Dixon's Utah hideaway. It was a pilgrimage of sorts with a stop on the hallowed ground near Mt Carmel Junction under the shadow of Sugar Knoll. Many great painters worked here. It's been 35 years since I sought out the Utah wilderness. And it was a time to measure my life against the backdrop of this timeless landscape.
Oh, yeah . . . art. It was also a time to stop screwing around, pull out the oils and paint outside. As I drove through the Nevada desert I had visions of springtime greens, masses of wildflowers and colorful rocks. I got the rocks . . . . and freezing temperatures, wind and even a few flurries of snow. Whoops, spring is late this year. The day before I arrived the largest Cottonwood tree in Escalante was blown down. They say it was there for over 200 years.
Painting "en plein air" is such a concept. all I needed was a parasol! Every time I stopped at a spot to paint, the car door nearly blew off. When the wind stopped in Capitol Reef National Park the thermometer read 34 degrees. Snap, snap, snap went the Nikon. All those pictures where you say, "Hmmm, I'll make a painting of that some day." Well, if I did a painting a week from my pictures this week I'll finish in 7 years.
Dammit, I came to paint! So finally, after 3 frustrating days, I just set up my easel in the kitchen of my cabin in Escalante. I stared at that blank canvas, looked at my empty palette and laughed that I was sitting in a kitchen in the wilderness trying to paint.
Being out of practice didn't help. I hadn't squeezed an oil tube since October. So it was back to basics, and in my case, the safety of Oxide Red. I read recently where Sam Hyde Harris scoffed at such painting as "not painting." Well screw Sam, I thought, I can't get the motor running, I just need to smell the paint. Mix the damn paint, add a little turpenoid and slap it up there. OK, at least make a horizon line. Put something on canvas.
And I need to get my act together on composition because frankly, my composition lately sucks. It's like I forgot everything I ever knew.
Yeah, nice start . . . sort of. I'm yearning for true values, I'm starved for color.
Made a special iPod mix for the trip. For some reason it contained "The Dangling Conversation" by Simon and Garfunkel. So the trip's mantra became "You read your Emily Dickinson, and I my Robert Frost, we mark our place with bookmarkers to measure what we've lost."
Between that song and listening to Hovhaness and Vaughan Williams booming at East LA lowrider volume, it became an increasingly personal journey. When last I passed this way, life had different meanings. It really did seem like a lifetime ago when I visited Back of Beyond.
One of the great art arguments Cathy and I ever got into centered on composition. I started into some crazy rant about values and color being of primary importance. She looked at me like I had eight heads.
