Greetings to those who do the occasional read of this very occasional blog. I don't post very often because I try not to bloviate (not my term - blame Bill O'Reilly) about what I do and why I do it except on rare occasions that others just might find interesting.

Today I want to say a few words about the trip Maria and I took this month. It was a long time in the planning and went by far too quickly but the effect on me as an artist was profound and will linger for many years. If I am wise, what I experienced will continue to influence how I try to communicate with those who see my work.

We took a cruise on Windstar's sailing yacht 'Wind Surf' from Civitavecchia, Italy to Venice by way of Capri and Taormina (Messina) in Italy, Kotor in Montenegro, and several ports in Croatia - Dubrovnik, Split and Rovinj. As those who know me can appreciate, the primary draw for me was the idea of going to places I was interested in from a historical standpoint. But there was also the idea of visiting more exotic places of which I had only a vague knowledge. During this process and during our subsequent stays in Venice, Florence and Rome the trip satisfied my urge for hands-on history (Ancient to Baroque). But I also found through several specific experiences a more profound satisfaction of my needs as an artist. An almost unexpected transfusion for anemia of the spirit, if you will.

I won't bore you with a travelogue here except to say that Capri was mind-blowingly beautiful once one got away from the tourist traps and experienced the countryside. I hiked up to the very east end of the island on the ancient Roman road that led to what had once been the palace villa of Roman Emperor Tiberius. In addition to spectacular views over the Bay of Naples we saw very old homes with lush gardens, a herd of goats and met some friendly people. Lots of good reference material.

Montenegro and Croatia were eye-openers for their natural beauty and friendly people. Croatia is medieval and graced with churches containing the roots of the western European art tradition. In the entrance to the harbor of Kotor stands a man-made island holding the church of Our Lady of the Rock. It's small but inside it is graced by the most exquisite murals, wall and ceiling, done on canvas by an artist who was self-taught, working in oil on canvas in the early 1500's. His name is remembered by the locals today even though his life's body of work is confined to that one church, seen only in modern times by thousands of tourists who make the trek by boat out to the island. The quality of his work is (IMHO) equal to much of what I later saw in the basilicas and cathedrals of Italy. The lesson I took away from that little church was simply that one does one's best work regardless of concern for the future. Do it well now and the future will take care of itself.

From an artist's point of view, Venice was an eye-opener. I had been to Florence and Rome before but the sheer abundance of history tied to art in an eternal embrace resonated strongly in the city of canals. Venice was great before Rome dragged itself out of the Dark Ages and tore antiquity apart purely for the marble it held as building material. The Venetian churches were beautiful but my most impressive visit was to the Palace of the Doges with a small group, gaining access to areas not normally seen (or of interest to) the casual visitor. The marriage of art and politics via the use of painting, sculpture and architecture was very instructive to convey a single message of grandeur, stability and power. The historian in me saw this aspect but the artist in me saw how all the things we strive for - subject matter, composition, color, etc. were alive six centuries and more ago. Things we struggle with today gave Titian, Tiepolo and others the same concerns we encounter every day in our own work. In contrast to the artist from Kotor, the artists who decorated the Palace of the Doges in Venice knew full well the historical context of their work - that as long as Venice stood so would their work. But, I had the feeling and still do that the man from Kotor poured his heart and soul into his work for Our Lady of the Rock every bit as zealously as Titian did for his Doge. Maybe even more so. 

Finally I would like to tell of a visit to a place that had a profound impact on me as an artist. On my last morning in Florence I trekked across the city to visit the church of Santa Croce to pay my respects to a man whose art and life had been my inspiration since, as a boy, I read his fictionalized life story in "The Agony and the Ecstasy" by Irving Stone. Michelangelo Buonarroti rests in an impressive monument inside the nave of Sante Croce. The tomb was designed by Georgio Vasari to house the remains of a man he admired but who, by all accounts would have preferred to remain buried in Rome where he died. Nevertheless, Cosimo di Medici had the famous Florentine returned to his home town and interred with many other eminent Florentines in this church. He rests across the nave from Galileo - fitting, since the latter did for science what Michelangelo did for art. I had re-visited 'David' a couple of days before (my first visit was in 2003) and again admired the unfinished statues in the Academy. One could see the technique and even the drill holes and tool marks Michelangelo left behind. But the emotional impact of 'David' was not as intimate as being close to the resting place of the genius that had created him. It was a humbling experience and I think we artists need that occasional brush with humility so our work can stay genuine and sincere to our own purpose, whatever each of us may believe it to be.

This is going to be a long post today.

I subscribe to a bi-weekly blog by an artist whose philosophical meanderings I have enjoyed for years. His name is Robert Genn and his blog is at www.painterskeys.com. I read his posts with interest because he is witty as well as profound. For example his piece yesterday (14 March) hit me right in the forehead. He wrote about the movie "Life of Pi" (if you haven't seen it - do - if only for the magic of the cinematography - and my daughter, Angela's, texture department scored big with that tiger) in the context of story as an integral part of artists making art. 

Genn quoted Yann Martel the author of the novel "Life of Pi": "Stories--individual stories, family stories, national stories--are what stitch together the disparate elements of human existence into a coherent whole. We are story animals."

Genn drew from this the thing that I believe drives most of us visual artists, consciously or not. We are story tellers whether we are using realism in illustrating something in our own experience, trying to convey emotions or dreams, making a "statement" or simply (??) condensing nature onto a canvas or piece of paper. Something draws us (no pun) to do what we do and select our subjects the way we do.  

His post hit me just as I put final touches to the piece shown here. I really labored over this one using multiple references from my files and studying the technique of great marine artists to see how they achieved the effects they did.  As I did so I got caught up in the process but was not really conscious that I really was trying to tell a story - that I really was trying to say something and not make just another thing for the gallery wall. It subconsciously became more than a genre picture for the tourists this coming Summer. So...I felt I had to work it out for myself as to what it was I had been trying to say after all with this painting. I must have had something in mind or else Genn's idea wouldn't have grabbed me so hard.

Here's what I think is the 'story' imbedded on this canvas.

As some friends know I was raised in Massachusetts not far from the Atlantic Ocean. My Dad took me drop-line fishing in a rowboat in Gloucester Harbor when I was so young that it is almost my earliest memory of him. He took me "deep sea" fishing on party boats when I got old enough to not fall overboard. As I grew I drew boats and looked at boats and loved their element. In junior year of high school I even dreamed of Annapolis but didn't have 20/20 vision. My college of choice only had Army ROTC but Dad, a WW 2 Navy Seabee was OK with that. While serving as an Army Lieutenant I had the great experience of actually crossing from Okinawa to Johnston Atoll, a small island near Hawaii, on a naval cargo ship, skirting a typhoon along the way. I was hooked again!

I had loved sailboats since I was a kid. I even did a bit of sailing, not much since we didn't occupy the circles of folks that owned such craft. I loved visiting "Old Ironsides" in Boston Harbor.  But I never saw a large sailing vessel up close under conditions that stirred me to my depths until I was on the ferry coming back to Anacortes from Sidney, BC in 2007. We encountered a schooner off our starboard bow a ways out. The ferry was on a converging course and as we neared each other I saw a tall, old-fashioned sailing vessel heeled hard over and underway in a stiff breeze and choppy seas. She crossed in front of the ferry and wore to parallel our course  so we overtook her and passed ahead. I took many photographs that day you can be assured. I gave only passing thought to what I would do with those pictures.

As I went through the closing years of my engineering career and began to think of what I would do when I changed careers (artists do not RETIRE - we just go on to work even harder at the good stuff of life) the certainty grew on me that there had to be a place that kept me near the sea and some land and some tall trees as well. That's when Whidbey Island fell into my life and gave me a place where I could bring from inside the things that are meaningful - whether I do that consciously or not. Although I think I'll be a great deal more aware that I really am a "story animal" from now on.

Cheers!