Hello, San Diego

We moved into a new home in San Diego in July. It's a big change.

I did not expect to leave San Francisco or to live in San Diego. The first time I visited here, I did not like it. When I returned for a second visit, many years later, it was not my choice of destination. But the place charmed me, unexpectedly. It's hard to resist friendly people and warm weather. Later on, we decided to try living here.

We live in Carmel Valley, which opens to the ocean at Torrey Pines beach and runs eastward. The land channels pleasant ocean breezes to our neighborhood. 

Each day we work at settling in and exploring. All three of us ride bikes along a long, paved bike path through the valley. 

So far life has been good here. The big decision still scares me a little. In my past experience, stepping forward, stepping outward has always led to good things, but not always directly. I'm reminded of an article in GQ magazine that explained this issue of when to jump in life.

It strikes me that Willy survived all her epochs because she was . . . .  just better at cutting to the chase than were her companions, whoever they were. In some way, her secret has been always to decide. She decided to marry people. She decided to work. She decided to move to Lisbon. And she decided to have fun. It's the sort of honesty that one could use as fuel to motor through many different epochs in life.

Guy Martin, Travels With An Expat, GQ, March 1992

Driving Through California

We left San Francisco and drove south. I rarely left the city, so everything looked new to me. California is much more than cities and beaches. There are miles of these rolling, golden hills dotted by oak trees that look like broccoli. 

We spent a warm night in Bakersfield, then drove on to the foot of Tejon Pass, between the Tehachapi and San Emigdio Mountain ranges. These are desert mountains, and the desert terrified me for most of my life. I hated the lack of water, shade, people. It's called "desert" for a reason, after all; people are not well-suited to live here! Desert! Get out!

But something about this mountain pass excites me, visually. The mountains look soft under their yellow grass, but they are extremely steep. I expect sharp, naked rock to break through at this altitude, but it doesn't.

My knuckles were white on the wheel as we crawled over the giant anthills. I asked Misa to take photo after photo of the mountains as we passed, and she said, "You are NOT coming back here to paint pictures!" The girl knows me too well. 

At last we coasted down the long slope to the sea. I heard Joni Mitchell's song California in my head, and wondered if I'd see her standing naked on a rock.

When I grew up, there were a thousand songs about being free in California, and we all got sick of the idea, which was unfortunate. There really is a feeling of freedom and possibility here, such as I have not experienced in other places. Here it is, all this space, all this warm, fragrant air. What will you do with it?

Will you take me as I am?

Good-bye, San Francisco

1986

I first saw San Francisco in 1986. I was married and living in Dallas, Texas. My wife wanted to come see the city on a three-day weekend, and on the third day I decided to move there. We were walking on Ocean Beach, very close to the house I'd later live in. I said, "So how long do you think it will take, two years?"

"No, John, at least five years."

Exactly one year later, we rolled into town, on Columbus Day weekend. Monday night we slept in our first apartment, and enjoyed this view:

1987

For the next twenty-five years, San Francisco and I were thick, inseparable. Many months passed, without crossing a bridge out of this seven-mile square.

1988

The first apartment was across the street from Lincoln Park, where I painted many pictures.

1988

The second apartment was a few blocks further inland, and gave us views of the Golden Gate and downtown, as well as the stunning Holy Virgin Orthodox Cathedral.

1989 - with Regina Pettus and Sara Pate

Coming to San Francisco and making a life here gave me confidence. Many people attempt this and many of those who attempt it fail. The place seemed to accept me. I could think and work effectively in this unusual environment. Equally important, I was able—often by invisible means—to afford living here. On the scale of my small, ordinary life, this was a triumph of the will.

1992

San Francisco is a good place to be alone with your thoughts. The weather is almost always cold, and many people do not speak english. If you want to pace up and down on the beach and brood, you'll have plenty of space and no interruptions. 

1998

This atmosphere was perfect for me; I'm a champion brooder. In the course of these many years, I had plenty to brood about. I turned thirty, then forty, then fifty. I went through a divorce, bought a house, married again, had a baby and sent him to school. In San Francisco the normal milestones are the most difficult to achieve. If you want to ride your bicycle through downtown naked, you will be encouraged and fifty people may join you. But buying a house and having a family are so difficult that many people don't even make the attempt. 

2000

2001

Living space was especially problematic. I didn't mind this so much, as it forced me to trim down my belongings to the bare minimum. 

2002

2006

My son was upset when we told him we were leaving. He said, "I feel lucky that I lived here." I agree, and so does the rest of the world. I rarely traveled unless I was forced to, but wherever I went, in New York, London, Tokyo, people invariably nodded with admiration when they learned that I lived in San Francisco. When I explained that—at that time—I lived in a tiny apartment with no view, that I got everywhere by foot or bicycle, they shook their heads and replied, "Yes, but you get to live in San Francisco!" 

2010

They were right. It was a rich existence, worthy of its own Very Rich Hours. Good-bye, San Francisco. We'll meet again some day, and laugh at old times.

2011

Leaving Alcatraz

I'm beginning my sixth year of work on the same project, a long painting of the city of San Francisco. It took some time to find the right view to paint. I found it on the island of Alcatraz, near the summer solstice, in the evening. Only during this time of year does the north face of the city light up. 

Even though I live here, I conduct a long-distance romance with my subject. Since about 2009, I only see her one night a year. I feel like the young man in The Night Visiting Song, a traditional folksong from Scotland, sung here by Kate Rusby.

Walking around the crowds waiting to enter the prison, I climb the steep hill with my equipment, my knees protesting every step. When I stagger to the top, panting away, there she is, stretched out on the opposite shore. I say, "Hi, Honey. Did you have a good year? Just let me look at you. I do believe you're more beautiful tonight than the day we met." 

My time on the island is not comfortable. The weather is always cold. Gale force winds charge angrily through the Golden Gate. The name Alcatraz means "pelican" or "strange bird." In summer, clouds of sea birds use the rock for hatching babies, and as a giant toilet. Surely some of the prisoners did not deserve this level of smell and noise! The video below gives a sample of the atmosphere.

The light does not cooperate this time. The sun hides in clouds and fog, and only shines on the city for a few minutes. I reluctantly pack up to return on the early boat, instead of freezing in the dark. One last look. "Sorry, my Love. It has to end some day, and I'm afraid that day has arrived."

On my way back, a sunset breaks through the fog. 

Each minute, the colors in the sky burn brighter than the minute before. My heart races. "Where will it climax? Now? Or now? Or now? Has is already happened?" Edmund White wrote about being in love. It makes us aware of every passing minute, and how precious they are. 

The commotion of happiness ringing in my head was so loud I could scarcely hear what was happening. Such moments in a whole long life are neither as rare as one fears nor as frequent as one hopes.

—Edmund White, The Beautiful Room Is Empty

Packing Up

I hate my possessions and dream of living in empty rooms. Despite this desire, I accumulate stuff, like everyone else. No one forced these things on me. At some point, I thought my life required additional equipment. Just like everyone else, once I get something, I have a horrible time letting go of it. Somewhere in my art bin there are fine etching tools. I have not made an etching in thirty years. Thirty. Years. But I can't let go of the tools, because one day, long after I'm dead, in an alternate universe I'll never visit . . . I'll use them. No, I won't. I'll never use them, but I'm powerless to throw them out.

I make honest efforts to unburden myself from this stuff. I've given away books, furniture, appliances, and sculptures filled with glycerin. I received a few more inches of breathing room, but I was always disappointed with the result. I wanted to roller skate through the living room. 

The problem with trying to improve myself is that I only do what I'm forced to do. Many people succeed by putting themselves in uncomfortable situations, where they are forced to perform. They climb mountains or join the military.

In my case, I am moving out of my house. We're not out yet, but we soon will be. This deadline makes me ruthless, merciless in my hauling. I'd like to get my stuff down to one suitcase, but that's impossible. After two months of sorting, day and night, I'm down to a few cubic yards. Sadly, the house looks worse, because now there are boxes everywhere. I'm hoping to feel the open space when I get to the new house, but I may be in for more disappointment. 

Disappointment or not, it has to be done. Misa and Max have their own possessions to deal with, and we'll compare notes on the other side. 

Meanwhile, I feel relief already. I knew I had old light fixtures, cans of paint, photo negatives, slides vulnerable to molding. The constant reminders—Need to deal with those, maybe next weekend—took a toll on my meager mental processes. Now that stuff is all gone. I can put some new thoughts in those neurons.  

The Last Day of School

Friday was Max's last day at Second Grade. He won't be attending the same school in the fall. He was sad to leave his teacher and his friends.

The children read poetry.

In the afternoon, it was time for the last goodbye.

Fortunately, there was still time for a soda with two pretty classmates, to unwind.

Long ago when I completed my second year of art school, all my classmates scattered for the summer. One girl left school permanently, to study in Paris. She wasn't a close friend of mine, but I still felt a paralyzing sadness, realizing I'd never see her again. It was a reminder that I couldn't control life. People and things would keep popping in and out of my life, regardless of my wishes. 

I always wanted security and permanence. I think everyone does, but we don't understand life when we do that. We don't want the whole situation to be permanent. When something good happens to us we want that part only to be permanent. We miss a critical point: The good part is good because it is not permanent. 

Good things come because we are in position to contact them, and open to them. It's like an eclipse. It happens because you are in motion, and another object is in motion. Their motions bring them into alignment, temporarily. I experienced this excitement many times; when I moved to a new place or fell in love with a new girl, and especially when I came to San Francisco. Each time, I opened myself to the new experience and let go of my past. That's what made it rewarding.  

It's only natural to hold on tight to those experiences, and wish they could never end, to just stay and live in those moments. But the motion that made the moments possible will inevitably move us further on. The only way to enjoy life is to open up to our new position, and give love to it as we let go of the old one. 

Ah, it’s an awful thing . . . and being young doesn’t help any . . . when you notice for the first time . . . the way you lose people as you go along . . . buddies you’ll never see again . . . never again . . . when you notice that they’ve disappeared like dreams . . . that it’s all over . . . finished . . . that you too will get lost someday . . . a long way off but inevitably . . . in the awful torrent of things and people . . . of the days and shapes . . . that pass . . . that never stop . . . All these pests . . . all these bystanders and extras strolling under the arcades, with their pince-nez, their umbrellas, and their little mutts on the leash . . . you’ll never see them again . . . Already they’re passing . . . they’re in a dream with the others . . . they’re in cahoots . . . soon they’ll be gone . . . It’s really sad . . . it’s rotten . . . all these harmless people parading along the shop fronts . . . A wild desire took hold of me . . . I was trembling with panic . . . I wanted to jump out on them . . . to plant myself in front of them . . . and make them stop where they were . . . Grab them by their coats . . . a dumb idea . . . and make them stop . . . and not move anymore . . . stay where they were, once and for all . . . and not see them going away anymore.   —Louis-Ferdinand Celine, Death on the Installment Plan