35

 A Morning Named October 7th (San Francisco, CA)

 

One last morning as 35

One part hollow mixed with two parts regret

One deep yearning for a year unspent.

 

Forever, Autumn.

(Double-exposure edit; background photograph taken in Catskills, October 2018)

 

An unassuming note. 🍁

The client — an elderly gentleman — who penned this sentiment on the back of an envelope three autumns ago could not have known his simple mention of fall would leave him forever stamped in this painter’s history (and his note tucked away in a little treasure trove).  Surely I have a strange, unconventional relationship with Autumn, but I suppose he may have one, too.  And perhaps this is evidence of how deciduous trees; hot apple cider; shorter days imbued with warm, aromatic spices; crisp air; crackling fires and toasty socks have a way of connecting humans — knowingly and unknowingly.

Autumn, I say this to you each September, but for good reason: it is so wonderful to have you back again.

 

-OH

 

The High Sierra (Happy Earth Day)

 The High Sierra, October/November 2019 (35mm film)

In honor of Earth Day and its 50th Anniversary, I thought to share some photographs I took while camping in and through the High Sierra last year . . .

An autumn ago.
Solitude and stillness. 

---

Allow us to be better stewards of our planet--for each other, for our children, for our children's children, and for their children's children.  For our magnificent wildlife, our vast marine life, our invaluable plant life.  For the whole of nature.

We have one Earth.  Be kind to her.

In no lesser degree, may we also remember to show kindness to our fellow humans during this time of global crisis.

Our Earth and world are hurting collectively.
Be the antidote, not the poison.


↟ ↟

Sometimes,

Lee Vining, CA - A Couple of Autumns Ago (on 35mm film)

everywhere seems like nowhere
and nowhere
feels like
home.

I'm still figuring out things.
I collapse into long periods where I withdraw from
people
places
the entire world.
Usually, they are preceded by longer periods of
hyper-activity and production
spearheaded by unspeakable
sadness.

I don't know.
I'm not sure.
Maybe,
one day I'll figure out things.

---

↟↟

Autumn.

For nine months each year, I await her arrival.  For the first hint of her cadmium reds and oranges, yellow oxides, and burnt siennas.  For the first inhale of her crisp, woodsy fragrance traveling through time and space to reach me as I step out into the evening, as I unlatch and push open the window.  She is the one constant in this unpredictable story that does not fail to be.  She simply ‘is.’

This unparalleled love for Autumn dates back to a decade ago--when I, a painter in the early years of her discipline, was coming into my own.  It was then that Autumn found me at my true youth--when I was most malleable and receptive.  She showed me the oft-coveted and yearned-for qualities that are ever lacking in human relationships: never fickle or temperamental, strangely dependable and assuring.  A genuine spirit, a loyal friend.

Though I have written much about Autumn and my relationship with her over the years, as well as used her as a foundation for a unquantifiable number of paintings, I never tire of her presence.  With a grace that softens even the hardest of hearts, she does not cease to evoke, emote, and perpetuate warmth.  The falling leaves, the poetic dusks and dawns, the splendid earth tones, the lightness and haziness of it all . . . She is magic, so magical.

Indeed, my forever muse.

-OH

'Til Again

Mist Trail, Yosemite

November 11, 2017

---

I stepped out of work this evening and found

Autumn waiting for me.  Her woodsy notes

especially pronounced tonight. 

I soon remembered she would not be here tomorrow.

Last-Day memo.

Unlike the fickle nature of man, she did not leave before saying
Goodbye. 
And though I have been lost in a world of tragic thoughts
(three months today), she has remained.
A steadfast friend.

'Til again, mon cherie,
'til again.

A Painter's Holiday

With what a glory comes and goes the year!

The buds of spring, those beautiful harbingers

Of sunny skies and cloudless times, enjoy

Life's newness, and earth's garniture spread out.

And when the silvery habit of the clouds

Comes down upon the autumn sun, and with 

A sober gladness the old year takes up

His bright inheritance of golden fruits,

A pomp and pageant fill the splendid scene.

There is a beautiful spirit breathing now

Its mellow richness on the clustered trees,

And, from a beaker full of richest dyes,

Pouring new glory on the autumn woods,

And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds.

Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird,

Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales

The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer,

Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life

Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned,

And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved,

Where autumn, like a faint old man, sits down

By the wayside a-weary.  Through the trees

The golden robin moves.  The purple finch,

That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds,

A winter bird, comes with its plaintive whistle,

And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst aloud

From cottage roofs the warbling blue-bird sings,

And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke,

Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flail.

O what a glory doth this world put on

For him who, with a fervent heart, goes forth

Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks

On duties well performed, and days well spent!

For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves,

Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings.

He shall so hear the solemn hymn, that Death

Has lifted up for all, that he shall go

To his long resting-place without a tear.

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Autumn from The Poetical Works of Longfellow (ca. 1900s)

---

Each year, I look forward to the commencement of what would be longer nights, a drop in temperature, and heavyset pumpkins lining stairwells.  Skies and sidewalks dotted with crispy notes of yellow, orange, and red.  The fragrance of warm spices spilling out from the windows of busy kitchens and onto the red-nose passerby.  Earth covered in a haze that one can only describe as a slip from heaven.  

Autumn, she is every bit the inspiration, and the most revered of all seasons for this painter.

 

When Life was Honest Work: Circa 2010

In three weeks, I will be bidding farewell to my twenties.  I'm not sure how I feel about life at this point.  I'm worn, I'm weary, I'm exhausted.  I fall asleep at night if not for any other reason than to pardon myself from this world for several hours.  It seems I cannot cry anymore either.  I sleep to find escape and I cannot cry because the escape knows no longer duration.  So here I am tonight, reflecting . . . looking back at a time when life was, simply put, honest work. 

-September 2014 (photograph circa 2010)

No. 9, Painter

In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer.

And that makes me happy.  For it says that no matter how hard the world pushes

against me, within me, there's something stronger--something better, pushing 

right back.

-Albert Camus

Through the Oakland Redwoods

I was in a fairy tale.

To Know I Lived

The trees rustle their leaves and I think they are trying to sing me a song.  The skyscrapers stand tall and I think they are attempting to shield me from a vast loneliness that besets so many of us.  I stop to stare at my reflection in the puddle, in the rain.  I see nothing. 

The darkness and his accompanying wind are inviting.  In the alley beneath a fire escape, I wait.  Perched above me is a row of pigeons.  A brotherhood.  I crane my neck to observe the night.  Century-old buildings huddle together.  Brick, mortar, and three little pigs come to mind.  In the distance, not too far, I hear a sweet melody.  I imagine a saxophonist serenading the streets around him.  A woman and man stop to listen.  Smiling, the man extends his hand to the woman, and together they move slowly to the music that fills the space around them.  They dance as if no one is watching, as if they have forever.

I draw a deep breath and let it out.  I need warmth.   An orange light peers through a window a few balconies away.  Its presence forgoes my need to find shelter from the wetness that is the world tonight.

I am cold.  I look down at my well-trodden shoes.  I look up again and it is now an early hour of daylight so bright it blinds my morning eyes.  I glance around to determine where I am.  Freshly cut and watered grass.  A park.  Early birds run by me.

There are people sitting on benches nearby, talking to one another as if they have forever.  They look genuinely happy.  So happy it hurts.  I try to capture the fleeting moments in my memory jar before oblivion comes.  Alas, I am without a pen, I am without my paintbrush. 

I bend over to pick up a lone autumn leaf.  I return to my upright position and am no longer where I was.  I am in a quiet, seemingly forgotten place.  It is still cold.

A train is making its way to the station.  I hear its loud locomotive noises.  He is picking up new passengers, but not letting off any.  I look at where I am.  I am in a place that is very empty and barren.  And what is this sensation that I feel on my cheeks?  The stinging power of new tears, regretful tears.

I say, Wait, but to whom I am not certain.  I don't want to leave.  Allow me to stay if only for one more day.  I am yelling at the train conductor who has since magically appeared a few feet away from me.  He shakes his head no.  But you don't understand.  I haven't had my dance, yet.  His expression is quizzical.  The dance of love, and to the sounds of a spirited street musician, I exclaim.  He taps on his watch.  But you don't understand.  I cannot leave now.  There are so many paintings I have not yet started, not yet finished.  He looks at me with a sense of heartfelt empathy and compassion.  It is then that I know the train will not depart without me.

A puddle has gathered at my feet.  In it I finally see something: my life.

As the conductor helps me up the steps of the train, I whisper to him, To know I didn't live . . . is by far the heaviest baggage I take with me.  He remains silent, but manages to offer me a smile.

---

Take a risk.  Take many risks.
Fall in love.  Fall in love deeply.  Be not be afraid.  Dance together and believe in forever.
Live with purpose.  Paint if you are a painter.  Write if you are a writer.  Travel if you are a traveler.

Whatever it is you are, be it.  Be it so we can say at the end of all of this, To know we lived . . .

Autumn Birthday, Otono Cumpleanos

October.
Turned twenty-nine a few weeks ago.  Spent my birthday weekend hiking in Berkeley Hills with one of my closest compadres.  I loved every moment of it.

I took these photographs for inspiration--a source, a point of reference for my abstract paintings.  How I see the earth during this reflective time of year seems to have surfaced in these images.

I used to say to people, If I could marry autumn, I would.  Laughter was the predominate response.  Never knowing exactly how I could explain or describe this sentiment to others, I think I may finally have found a way. 

Cyclamens and Sunsets

Trotting through the streets of a rain-drenched city, watching people scurry for protection against the coming storm, reveling in every blaze of fiery beauty that befalls earth . . . this is the spirit of Autumn. 

 

Fleeting

My fleeting autumn,

Stand still.