I took this photo from the internet; “Surf World” or something. Five rippers from the wave-starved Olympic Peninsula headed down there almost two weeks ago and are due back in the next couple of days. Yes, I asked for some sort of report. No, and I’m not trying to put any guilt on anyone… I’m sure there are excuses/reasons/explanations (band width, remoteness, lack of desire, too much wave action), I have not heard anything other than a second hand report from Adam Wipeout that Cougar Keith may have gotten the ride of the trip to that point (text message- I didn’t try, figuring cost of phone usage from the Central America, stuff like that), but, yeah, I TOTALLY WANT TO GET THE REPORT!
MEANWHILE, between getting filmed at a secret(ish) Strait of Juan de Fuca spot (Stephen R. Davis, also, with a surprise cameo, after whatever waves there may have been went to shit, by Jason Queen [not a nickname]) for some future artsy docu-thingy about me (despite my weak protestations by a woman who works for the Gates Foundation (more on this at a later date, but camera angles were demanded that diminished the chances of site identification, and yes, I would love to see a slow motion drone shot of me tucking my chunky body into a stretched-out wave); between this and getting a second surgery on my left eye after the first one for a detached retina failed. 10%, evidently, do; so, so lucky to be in the top percentile for something; oh, and the gash from my fall several months back is officially ‘almost’ well, though I was advised not to surf because of imagined (by the wound care nurse originally from Cuba, who thought maggots could have been an option) seal shit in the water.
“Oh, that,” I said, not having told her we saw several seals on the day of the filming, which, of course, I had not told her about.
MEANWHILE MEANWHILE, I still have my art retrospective at the COLAB in downtown Port Townsend. It will be there for one more ART WALK, the first Saturday in June, and I’m working on some more door panels. I have three bi-fold doors in progress, so six paintings. At this point I’m only willing to call three of them ‘almost’ done, so it’s kind of like three A sides, three B sides.
Not good enough. But they will be.
As I said, almost. Triple meanwhile, while I’m out of the waters for a while, five rabid rippers are set to return to a lineup near you. AS ALWAYS, if you can’t be nice, be real.
WORD ON THE STRAIT has it that BIG DAVE RING is giving up surfing. This would be a loss to whatever surfing community we believe we have.
All right, I immediately have to backtrack. I do divulge my sources; almost always. Adam Wipeout ran into Dave at Carl’s Building Supply. Or Henery’s Hardware- not important. Big Dave quitting surfing is. Important.
Big Dave is a secretive sort of person. I’m not. I’m not actually sure his last name is Ring. I may have heard his last name once, but not from him. I asked him for his phone number. Once. He said he’d give me one number each time I asked. “So, let me guess; three?”
Dave doesn’t talk much in the lineup. I do. He doesn’t often hang out on the beach, swapping stories. He is patient in the water, and is actually known for staying out for more hours than anyone. He picks out the best waves, sideslips in full control, and rather than barrel dodging sections, he drives through them. I have never seen him not in the best part of a wave, power in the pocket.
The only reason we sort of became friends (I say yes, you can ask him) is that we have some shared history. When I moved to Pacific Beach, San Diego, California in 1971, I was twenty. Dave was five or six years younger, a self-described “Pier Rat” hanging at Crystal Pier with Joe Roper and the rest of the local Gremmies. I can’t say I have a mental picture of fifteen year old Dave, but knew Joe Roper’s name because he was the best surfer in the bunch, and the most vicious. I can’t mention Joe Roper without retelling how he purposefully slammed his board into a guy in the shorebreak because (and I asked) the guy was from Clairemont. Perhaps it is not ironic that Joe’s repair facility is in… is it in Clairemont?
It wasn’t like I was in any group myself, but I was, for those couple of years, a local, for whatever that was or is worth. Still, I probably felt more connected to the pier rats than the other surfers who jockeyed for position in the crowded weekend and after work conditions. This was where I developed my Ghetto Mentality, a sort of excuse I have yet to totally disavow.
Big Dave, a few years ago, taking a rare break
Another connection I have with Dave is that we are sometimes mistaken for each other. It’s the mustache, perhaps. “People have said they really liked that thing I wrote on my blog,” Dave told me. “I just say ‘thanks.'” An argument continues as to which one of us is the Walrus, and which the Beast.
I have run into Big Dave over the years. He rescued my board in the rip once. If I paddled out and he was in the lineup he would say, “Oh, someone left the gate open.” Part way through a session, he would say, “The wave counters on the beach say you’ve caught enough.” I recently ran into him when he was with the Jefferson County road crew, setting up to close off another road. He said he’d gone to the doctor with a diagnosis of arthritis in his legs. “The doctor said it would mean a change in my… lifestyle.” “He meant… surfing?” “Maybe.” “No, man. No.”
There is some similarity in our arcs as we head past middle age. Dave has been riding a twelve foot SUP as a regular board for years. No paddle. It has been a while now that he, paddling back out, commented that I get to my feet like an old man. He was right. Still, over the past couple of years, he went from taking off, dropping in, and standing after the first section. Then, as with me, staying on his knees. He still rides a wave as well as anyone.
HERE IS WHERE surfers seem to decide to give it up: Surfing is a competitive activity, with inarguable amounts of ego unevenly divided among the worthy and everyone else. The crowd factor, a delight for the novice, so excited to be there, wears on others. It is tough to compete those on the safe side of the first section, paddling blindly, dropping in. I don’t get too many drop-in bitches (someone else’s term for male or female surfers- I only use it for dudes), but I have witnessed Big Dave, high and tight in the pocket, and someone just… drops… in.
I cannot help but remember when leashes came into use. I put off getting one, but couldn’t help but notice how the kids Dave was running with would take off in front of me, and when the wave got critical, they… just… bailed.
BIG DAVE… PLEASE, DON’T BAIL!
I might need someone to rescue my board from the rip again. OH, and I can’t imagine some almost out of control pre-dawn situation without seeing a big guy with a big board over his shoulder, coming down the trail and onto the beach, beating me out to the lineup. “Someone leave the gate open again?”
EVIDENTLY. As always, thanks for reading, and, if you can’t be nice, be real.
I’M TRYING to get ready. It isn’t going all that well. JOEL AND RACHEL CARBEN, the folks in charge of the COLAB (collaberative work space) in downtown Port Townsend, above the Silverwater Cafe and below the Starlight Room part of the Rose Theatre, were kind enough to allow me to display my art works there for three months. This is the second Art Walk, and I guess I am supposed to hang out there and try to sell folks on my stuff. I’ve been working on three screens. This is the only one that is complete in time for this month’s dealie.
I’ll be hanging out from five to eight pm. Cruise on in. Good luck finding parking.
I am also bringing my MANTA surfboard. The painting is complete, but it still needs a coat of resin. STILL, is someone wants to buy it…
In case you can’t make it, I’ll, almost surely, write something about it tomorrow.
KELLY- Yes, I watched the super heat at Snapper Rocks on YouTube… several times. Five (former, with explanation, if necessary) World Champions: Occy, Parkinson, Gilmore, Fanning, Slater, all of whom have a background at the spot, and, if the World Surf league commentators are to be believed, a residence in the vicinity. The consensus was that Stephanie won, and I agree, with Kelly coming in, perhaps, second.
THEN, live, last night, live on the big screen in my living room, I watched Kelly in a four person heat in the round of 64. Two surfers advanced. Kelly wasn’t one of them.
THROUGH OR NOT, here is what is true about R. Kelly Slater: All the radical moves he developed and perfected have become, with training and coaching, part of any competitive surfer’s repertoire, and are, de facto, required, must-see slices and swoops and cutbacks at any age or level. Full-wrap-tail-slide-to-whitewater-bank-to-bottom-turn? Yeah. Ten yard foam climb with speed and control. Yes.
Power down-carve in powerful waves, back arm in the wall? Credit John John Florence, but check out everyone else’s version. Air in the pocket, with speed? Felipe. The radical, nine-point-plus moves become, eventually, sixes. Five, maybe. Bust those fins.
It is, perhaps, too obvious to state that we all learn from others; copying, adopting, adapting. True in music, in whatever trade or art or business you are involved in. Still, though Kelly, no doubt, picked up moves from others, he moved heat strategy and the use of strategic moves… farther. He is the most copied, the most emulated. If he was awesome when he started, he is no less so now.
Other tour veterans have been forced to adapt. Sally Fitzgibbons, going for air reverses, still has to fight on in the Challenger Series. As good as Stephanie Gilmore has always been, if you compare her surfing now to when she started winning world titles… well, her performances are so much more… progressive.
Progressive. Now.
Griffin Colapinto, I have argued, and will, is the perfect example of someone who identified, studied, practiced Kelly’s moves until he had them down. Automatic. And, currently, he is ranked Number One on the men’s side.
NUMBER ONE on the women’s side is, currently, with a style characterized as “intuitive,” as “different,” is Caitlin Simmers. Here’s how I explain it. SHE’S FROM OCEANSIDE.
I was cruising through Walmart on Thursday, hoping they had some of the good bird food. Incapable, for the most part, of shopping on my own, I had Trish on the bluetooth. Capable of multi-tasking, she had coverage on the fire at the end of the Oceanside Pier live streaming on Facebook, some guy talking about the response, firefighters and fireboats going against the toxic smoke from the creosote-saturated pilings, while I’m trying to decide between the cheap or the super cheap throwaway razors.
TRISH and I have a long history, separate and together, of experiences on and around the structure. SO MANY that, though I started writing (in Microsoft Word) about them, I realized, many words in and still not up to the nineteen sixties, that I will have to spend some more time on the subject.
QUICKLY, the waves are challenging. They seem to be bigger and break harder than other spots. One must adapt. The two-plus years I spent working at Buddy’s Sign Service, First and Tremont, two blocks south and one block (plus railroad tracks) east allowed me to surf some frustrating, some truly memorable waves. I can easily remember dropping, backside, into overhead walls that stretched toward the pier. And… anyway… later on that. And go Caity!
SURF TRIP NEWS- Reggie Smart is back from Maui. Stephen R. Davis is headed back from San Francisco. Five surfers from the Port Townsend area are headed to Panama. HOPEFULLY I will have some photos and stories. EVERY SESSION IS, if you do it right, A STORY.
MEANWHILE, I’m busy on several fronts. Surfing is one of them. LATER. And, with all due respect, Later, SLATER.
These folks are featured in the previous post. Scroll down to check it out. The two guys are brothers. Formerly of Sequim, they are currently living in Yakima. I didn’t ask why, but I did insist they put the boonie hats back on for the photo. The one on the left helped me with my wetsuit. They were all in the water for at least four hours.
Let me see if I can tell this quickly. It isn’t as if I haven’t told the story to pretty much everyone I’ve spoken to for longer than the “Yes, I found what I wanted (corn dogs); thank you” at the QFC.
I roll up to an unnamed beach. It’s early, but not pre-dawn early. Waves, but small. But waves. There’s one guy in the water on a giant longboard, and he’s getting out. He comes up the beach toward his (of course) white sprinter van. The woman sitting on a beach chair in front of the van reading a book, that, judging by the gold-edged pages might be a Bible, or not, jumps up to help him up to the van, then helps him pull his wetsuit off his shoulders. Nice.
He’s a BIG guy, possibly bigger than me, so I am sorely (subtle Bible reference) tempted to yell, “Hey, get back out there! I don’t want to be the fattest guy in the water.” I don’t.
I’m trying to get into my own wetsuit (not the front zip with the patches, particularly the one on the, um, butthole-adjacent area), which, top this point, I have not donned without some assistance. I see this guy headed over to the sani-can. “Hey… a little help if you would. Old guys… you know. Now, on the velcro… Thanks. You going out?” “When the tide gets a little higher.” “Supposed to get windy.” “Yeah.”
By the time I grab my board there’s one surfer out on the lefts and two guys heading over to the rights, one of whom is doing warmup moves. The other one waves at me. “Oh, it’s Sean.” I wave back.
I paddle up to the one guy at the lefts, nod, and, polietly, say, “I’m going to back-paddle you.” He doesn’t respond. I move over about twenty yards, turn, and catch a wave. The guy is down the line and paddling for it. I don’t, like, yell. Maybe I say, “Hey” or “Whoa.” he backs off. I ride on. Paddling back, I say, “Maybe I was rude.” “That’s obvious; taking the first set wave.” I didn’t ask, “That was a set wave?” Instead I explained that, because of injury and eye surgery, I hadn’t surfed in two months.
Since we were the only ones out and there weren’t more set ‘bombs’ on the way, the guy said, “Oh. I read your blog; I thought you were all over that.” “The eye, yes; the wound… ongoing.”
So, then he’s talking about how difficult it is to predict waves on the Strait. “It’s like… magic,” he says. “Sometimes this spot breaks, sometimes another spot.” “It is magic. Sometimes everywhere is breaking, sometimes no where. Any waves are a… gift.” Bear in mind, I’m still sitting deeper than my new friend is, and, perhaps, I actually have some legitimate claim on priority. I would have caught his name if he had stayed out longer.
Meanwhile, the guy who helped me with the wetsuit, and another guy, both wearing boonie hats, with straps, and a woman, with a wetsuit hood, paddle out and are sitting in what would be the inside section of a wave if a wave actually lined up. Several do, and I’m kind of weaving between the three a couple of times, waving nicely as I do.
Another dude, average size, maybe kind of tall, out on a super long board, takes off in front of me, twice. the first time I didn’t make the first section, so… okay. The second time, I did, and I ride behind him for quite a while before he kind of looks around. “Might as well keep going,” I said. He didn’t respond.
My goal was to make sure I could still surf, and to surf. So, mission accomplished, I get out of the water, and, after drinking some coffee, head over to where Sean is parked. He’s pretty much dressed and chatting with someone who may or may not be Bricky. I do ask, politely, if I can hang out with some local hipsters for a minute. Sean says, “For a guy who’s so smooth in the water, you kind of looked like a sea monster when you got to land.” “Yeah. All I was thinking was, ‘shit, when did the beach get so steep? Where did all these rocks come from?'”
Because I had stayed up late and gotten up early, my plan was to take a nap, in my wetsuit, maybe surf again. Meanwhile other surfers entered the water, and a series of squalls brought in side chop and brief periods of heavy rain.
Because I’m trying to diet (because I was actually put on scales and my blood pressure recorded), I have been avoiding ice cream and Little Debbies, and going for high fibre foods. Because of this, there was a necessity to… anyway, I would need more help with the wetsuit if I was to go for a second session.
This time I elicited help from a woman who had just come in. “Yeah, the velcro, it’s… yeah thanks. You get some good… waves?” At this time, the wind was, I swear, offshore. “Yeah. Great! It was supposed to get windy.” “Well, it probably will. Gifts, huh?”
My goal was to get ten waves. There are four or five guys out and the wind switches back to sideshore. I blow my first takeoff, my board popping up close. “Peripheral vision,” I said. I go for a second wave. Two guys, one doing that windmill, head down, ‘I’m a kook’ paddle, take off in front of me. I ride past both of them, in the soup, the kook doing that ‘Oh my God, arms straight out, hope I don’t pearl’ thing. I keep going until the wave cleans up.
On the way back out, I notice Brett is out. I haven’t seen him in a while, so we’re chatting. Somewhere in there I mention that it was way cleaner earlier. One of the two drop-in dudes turns around and asks, “Oh, so you were out… earlier?” I asked, politely, if he was inferring (or implying, whichever is correct) that I had, perhaps, gotten my share of the waves. “You almost ran over us,” he said. “You dropped in on me, man.” “No, I was already paddling.”
That explanation has never worked for me. I have tried. I wanted to tell the dude he should go back and read the rule book. I didn’t. Meanwhile, the water starting to show whitecaps, Brett says, “I will burn you, Erwin.” I respond that I haven’t forgotten that he gave me the biggest burn of my career. He may have said, “You’re welcome.” If not, I’m sure he meant to.
I got a couple more rides (eight total, not ten), several of which went near the two guys in the boonie hats and the woman, all of whom were, one, still out, and all of whom had moved closer to the real lineup, and, I’d witnessed, were catching and riding waves. “Keep this up and you’ll be ripping,” I said before I got to shore, sea-monstering my way to my car.
NEXT TIME- Stephen R. Davis goes to the card show in San Francisco.
Adam “Wipeout” James, super critical seafood person at Hama Hama Seafood, was supposed to go surfing, supposed to cruise up Surf Route 101 and drop off some Hood Canal Shrimp/Prawns at my house for my daughter, Dru’s, upcoming birthday. It’s also Earth Day, and if I got this right, the first Earth Day was right around Dru’s birth. I’d check it, but I’d rather keep the myth going.
I wanted to show Adam the board I made by cutting down the first SUP (of two) I owned by two feet. The idea was to keep as much width and thickness as possible. The hope was that I could still use a paddle on a more maneuverable board, like, one that would cut back in less than twenty yards. That didn’t work.
Adam, who, to my knowledge, didn’t go surfing on this day, took a couple of photos of me and the board, and it’ easy to see why it takes more foam to float the guy in the pictures. Gnome.
Yeah, the one pants leg not all the way down is part of the look.
Adam’s first comment on seeing the board was, “Oh, it’s just like the other one.”
I had to stew on that one for a while before I texted Adam. “The difference is that I own this one,” to which Adam responded with, “Laughed at…”
In more Hama Hama news: Stephen R. Davis, heading down Surf Route 101 to San Francisco to check out a greeting card convvention, stopped in, sold some of his greeting cards. Adam, running around, as always, making sure the oysters are thriving, met up with Steve, got him a check, and gave him this hat:
Stephen R. Davis self portrait.
I’m going to have to update my copies of Stephen R. Davis cards. They are available at several spots in Jefferson County. I’ll get a list together. I do apologize
ALSO, if you’re a realsurfer regular, you probably realize that what I’m doing is redoing and tightening and improving the artwork on the MANTA. I made it, originally, as a twin fin, the boxes routed by CHRIS BAUER, Port Angeles board maker. Peninsula rippers AARON LENNOX and KEITH DARROCK rode the thing, the mat coming unglued as Keith ripped a few waves. Because Aaron said he thought the twin fins were not enough on the wide board, I added a full length middle fin and tried to ride the board in some small but powerful waves. Pretty much belly boarding, the board definitely found the tubes. The big fin threw the balance off. I ripped it out, replaced it with a smaller fin, mostly to kind of hide the hole.
I have to put a coat of resin on the top and bottom, and then… backup board, maybe. OR… I am losing weight, or trying to, mostly because, at Jefferson General Wound Care because of an infected cut to my leg, the nurse insisted on taking my blood pressure (high) and putting me on the scales. My friend Keith has been bugging me to lose, like, 75 pounds, after which, he claims, I’d “Really be dominating.” No, 75 isn’t enough. Fat people never tell you what they weigh until they lose some of it. So, not saying.
OH, and because I have my art (and the cedar board) on display for two more months at the COLAB in downtown Port Townsend, I plan on putting the Manta on display.
UPDATES FORTHCOMING. Maybe not Wednesday. I’ve been trying. It’s not content, it’s time. Stuff to do.
Remember to respect the copyrighted material, mine and Steve’s. And remember to be real if you, try as you may, can’t be nice.
THIS is a silkscreen I did in the 1980s. I’m not apologizing for it being, perhaps, sexist or something bad by today’s standards. It doesn’t go so much with a poem I’ve been working on, but nothing I found in a search did either. I COULD, of course, draw something that does connect better, but… I haven’t.
I AM ALWAYS working on something, art-wise, story-wise, song-wise, otherwise. I have been working recently on a song that starts out, “It was a private conversation, Words I was not yet meant to hear, She had been to long at the station, Couldn’t have known that I was near…”
WHAT I DO is keep working on these songs, and everything I do until it’s… better. SURF-WRITING-WISE, I am always trying to push some comparison between the best moments and music, even dance. Not all dancing is graceful, Stephanie Gilmore style pretty. AND she also incorporates solidly radical, powerful moves into her repertoire. Similarly, there is something esthetically pleasing about a vicious power hack.
MUSIC-WISE, please try to convince me that you don’t have some tune or beat going through your head when you’re paddling for and surfing a wave. If you don’t, well…
Too much explaining.
A Private Conversation
I was coming up the stairway, two bags of groceries pressed against my chest, She was dancing on the landing, third floor, Sun from the distant windows lit her hair on fire, Her shadow moving with her on the sidewall.
Six stairs below her, I leaned against the inside rail.
She was moving to music, music I could not hear.
Her movements made the music real. Slink and slide and step and stop, Step and stop, slink and slide, one arm always at her side, The other, gliding, raised then lowered, Free, and spelling or signing or reflecting, Words or images or memories or dreams, Â Real to her.
Real to her, private.
Sunset music, light, a tinkling rhythm beat under the woodwinds, Only fleeting hints of nightfall.
I should not have been a witness, Seeing her, dancing, silent, hair on fire, In some soft and private conversation with some distant, absent, loved one.
Loved one, someone else dancing with her on the landing, Sharing her space.
The background, The air and the light and the wallpaper and the paint were as alive as she was, Slinking and sliding and stepping and slowing, Listening, perhaps, briefly, The dance resumed as response.
Her other arm became the free one, Sending the code, The secret, private messages in our most ancient language.
I should not have been there.
I couldn’t face facing her, Couldn’t imagine her trying to explain, Not to some neighbor, some stranger three doors down.
Setting my bags on the third step from the landing, Sitting two stairs below that, Alone in the dark, with vague shadows of someone dancing, Projected on the stairwell wall.
I envied her for dancing, dancing alone in the hallway, Music swirling in her head.
Waiting in the stairwell, Â Waiting long after her door closed, Long after the light moved up the wall and softened, And darkened, I waited long until her music faded. Â
My steps up became drums, not heavy, Step, step, step,
If I imagined a saxophone solo, Sad squeaks and missed notes, Looking out the window at a screaming orange sunset, I couldn’t stop myself from sliding one foot across the worn oak floor, And then the other, My grocery bags shifting, side to side, In some rhythm that made some sense… to me.
THANKS FOR READING. Original material, of course, protected by copyright, all rights reserved by the author/artist, Erwin A. Dence, Jr.
AS ALWAYS, IF YOU CAN’T BE NICE, BE REAL.
I FULLY expect to not tell you about a surf session in the next posting. AND, yes, I am still working on my novel, “SWAMIS.”
BECAUSE I fell off a ladder, because I didn’t treat a leg wound quickly or seriously in time, because I had a detached retina that necessitated an operation, I have been out of the water for well over a month. BECAUSE my being forced to go to a doctor (forced as in, I lost sight in the bottom fourth of my left eye, as in I could not operate on my swollen leg) for the first time in twelve years or so, with conditions there was no way for me to treat, I also discovered my blood pressure was high enough that there was some doubt as to whether I was a decent candidate for the eye surgery, AND, meanest thing that was done to me, I was weighed.
TWO THINGS: Adam “WIPEOUT” James, forced to help me zip up my wetsuit a while back, asked me, “Do you have to have ice cream every night?” Keith Darrock has been bugging me for a while to lose weight, claiming that if I lost 75 pounds, I could “Dominate even more. Maybe, like, pop up.”
Seventy-five pounds is not enough.
NOW, with the eye almost totally restored to its previous state, the leg wound/infection being treated with $600 a tube ointment and round-the-clock wearing of compression socks, my blood pressure being monitored daily, a shift in my eating habits (more fibre, less coffee, no Little Debbie’s, no ice cream, no chocolate- yet), and the possibility of waves, like, maybe, maybe, an hour ago, I’m still out of the water, I want to assert that I will be back, and, when I’m out, I’ll be frothed-out, and, as alway, there to surf.
Fair warning. Catch them when you can. I’m not looking for sympathy. Injuries happen. I’m not looking for excuses. I’m not quitting. And no, I don’t want to go watch others surf. Again, “I’M HERE TO SURF!”
JOEL and RACHEL CARBEN are the proprietors of the COLAB in downtown Port Townsend. Colab as in Collaborative Work Space. Joel is one of the members (if there is such a thing) of the rabid-if-desperate and frequently-disappointed Olympic Peninsula/Strait of Juan de Fuca surf community. There is an ART WALK each month in PT (I’ve never gone on one), so, partially in the interest of promoting the COLAB enterprise (more people hanging out with laptops and connections), why not have me and two other artists show our stuff? I mean, after all, Joel does actually own the cedar art piece/surfboard shown below. Long story. I was supposed to spray paint “Locals Only” on it or something, but…
ARTISTS, huh?
As usual, I didn’t do everything right. I had a whole room to display my stuff. I didn’t put prices on things, didn’t put business cards out. And, I didn’t hang out in the room, charming the folks who came in. BUT, I now realize, the main thing I did wrong is that I didn’t take some photos of STEPHEN R. DAVIS, KEITH DARROCK, and, yeah, me, cruising around to the various galleries.
If I had you could see LIBRARIAN KEITH, as rabid a surf fanatic as I have ever run into (or been burned by), but a solid citizen, mingling with the tourists and the artists, and in the company of two, perhaps… no, I don’t know how to describe Steve and I except we’re probably not as out-there as we believe ourselves to be. I mean, I’m as CITIZEN as the next person, but Steve? ARTISTS, huh?
And we’re checking out everyone else’s art, chatting with artists, partaking in the free snacks (no wine for me, not that I’m bragging. A nice expresso would have been… appreciated).
AND IT kind of worked out. EXAMPLE- We’re at the fanciest gallery in PT (prices fancier, also- wine from bottles with, probably, recognizable names for wine aficionados- no, not Ernest & Julio), and Steve is kind of (I thought) kissing up to this artist with the tiniest possible ponytail (so high concept/fashion), and I see this kid sitting on a bench with a sweatshirt with a logo from CHRIS BAUER SURFBOARDS. “Hey, where’d you get that sweatshirt, kid?” “He’s my dad. Chris Bauer.” “Oh.” When one of the board members (because fancy galleries have boards and directors) comes over and says I’m getting a bit rowdy, I acknowledge this and ask her if he knows KEITH.
THEY chat and I go outside. Again, as with my leaving first at other venues, I sort of think, as I acknowledged, that, if I still smoked, I’d be having one at this point. OUTSIDE the gallery.
I am not a marketer. Particularly not of my stuff.
HERE’S WHERE STEPHEN R. DAVIS got it right. I was critiquing and moving, asking quick, real questions of the folks showing and explaining and (you have to guess) trying to sell their works, questions such as: “How much are the dues? How much floor time do you have to put in? Do you sell enough to make it worth it? Meanwhile, Steve, a bundle of his cards in his hand, was showing his stuff, handing out samples as business cards, making, you know, inroads into the PT art scene.
NOW WE’RE on to the post event CRITIQUE, as in, what did I do wrong? What can I do NOW? I probably should have hung around in the space at the COLAB, charminig the folks who stumbled in, maybe selling
EVEN WITH THE BARAT, would you buy art from this double-chinned fat guy in the sweatshirt for the OLYMPIC MUSIC FESTIVAL (though several people thought OMF stood for Old M F-er)?
Here’s a shot of Keith, Joel, me (hiding the double chin), and Adam “Wipeout” James.
Here’s Steve on his boat from a few years ago. AGAIN, I should have taken a few photos from the ART WALK.
BUT I did, because I was displaying some drawings I did years ago of houses in Port Townsend, get an opportunity to draw one for someone. AND I DO OWE a big thank you to JOEL and RACHEL for the opportunity. TRISH says I should give them a piece of my art. “WHY? He already has the surfboard?”
So, BIG THANK YOU! Heart emoji, hang loose emoji.
MARKETING. I’m working on it. AND I did actually have a good time, chatting it up with people I don’t know, running into some I do know (shout out to Ian), hanging with friends.
Perhaps, on Wednesday, I’ll go over how I’m getting over and/or dealing with the detached retina, the infection in my leg, both related, possibly, to a fall, and a high blood pressure situation I discovered because I just had no choice but to go to a doctor; and the double chin thing. I am totally ready to get back in the water. TAKE THIS AS A WARNING.
Good luck. And, again, if you can’t be nice, be real.
Real Surfers 