Beginnings; A Pipe and a Ten Speed

9 June '75

Spent a pleasant night in the field, wondering and starting at every little noise like the city slickers we are, and headed into Lubec in the morning; a pretty town where the people are very friendly to strangers. It would be a nice place to live. We met Mike Sweeny, the town signcarver, who moved all the way from California to make signs here in upstate Maine, and loves it. He does very nice work with an electric router - the signs look hand-carved (now I want an electric router).
Acadia ark was as nice as it was two years ago. Really the most beautiful park (place!) I've ever been. Rode to the top of Cadillac Mountain, took the loop road, and exclaimed over the flora and fauna of tidal pools. We city slickers are easily impressed by small animals, such as shrimp and raccoons. Beautiful land and picturesque little towns and the wonderful rocky coast of Maine!

10 June '75

It was sprinkling lightly when we awoke, and since we did not immediately pop up and strike camp, it was soon pouring down. We wend and had our first real breakfast of the trip (pancakes and sausage rather than a doughnut and milk) and returned to dismantle a soggy campsite.
We are definitely getting into he thought of small-town life - all the of the little towns just look and feel great to us. Rennie and Barbara's place is all animals - I learned to kick geese in the head today. For diner, we had $2.39 lobsters (the smallest available, which were as big or bigger than $5.00 - 7.00 restaurant lobster), steak, rolls, clams, and homemade blueberry pie. I still can't believe it.
Rennie said that Rockefeller's, Kennedy's, and the like own some of those big homes on Mt. Desert Island ( Acadia). He says Maine land prices and taxes are rising rapidly.

11 June '75

Had enormous breakfast and lunch (by standards of this trip), kicked at the geese some more and pushed off for the White Mountains. Inadvertently retraced my 1972 route through the White Mountains, which are dramatic and beautiful - some of the best scenery so far. The ride along 118, 4, and I-9 through New Hampshire and Vermont almost belied my last sentence - the prettiest towns and hills imaginable; I could live anywhere along there. My thoughts are full of investing in Maine real estate and sending for books on alternative construction methods advertised in my Mother Earth news. Ran out of Parrot House cigars.

12 June '75

Spent night in Brattleboro, Vermont and left for Deerfield, Mass., written up in June, 1969 Nat'l Geographic. No Williamsburg, but it's pretty nice; met a gravestone rubber in the old burial ground - now I want to usd gravestone rubbings in paintings and drawings. Next we drove to Highland Falls to visit Aunt Mae and the grave of Geoff's namesake grandfather at West Point. Central Mass. and Conn looked mighty cluttered and ugly after northern New England but western Conn and NY were better. The Hudson Palisades from cliffside route 218 were really beautiful. Aunt Mae kissed Geoff and joked about needing a handsome man about the house; an amazingly spry '78er.
The trip was over when we reached the NJ TPK. For two weeks I've heard almost no radio, seen almost no TV or traffic lights (or Blacks, as I suddenly realized in Highland Falls). Thank heavens it was midnight in DC and very little traffic. If feels like hell to be back.

13 June '75

If still feels like hell. I'm glad we're in Springfield - It'll really be a drag to be in Mt. Rainier, riding in the car today I didn't turn on the radio (reliving the trip as best I could?) I must follow Geoff's advice and buy a pipe to give me a lift. Also a ten speed bike.

The Scourge!!!

6 June '75

Cold today, quite cold due to the high wind which swept the plateau all day and funneled down narrow streets. Still, there were people sunbathing on the Plains of Abraham - I have noticed that Quebec's public places are mercifully free from the scourge of the portable radio. We visited the Museum of Contemporary Art, which was small but quite nice - saw an exhibit of sculpture (Henry Moorish and geometric), paintings by [a] Qeubec artist; he didn't create his first work until age 50, thirty-some years ago. Encouraging to say the least.

7 June '75

Rode thru Parc des Laurentides today, a rather bleak former logging area of innumerable little dirt roads, strange blasted-looking aras, and little lakes. There are only two paved roads in an area over 50 miles square, which as far as I'm concerned in the proper way to run a park. Route 17 along the Saguenay is definitely the second best scenery to date - high, dark mountains, beautiful, dark-looking streams and lakes, very few houses, noble vistas thru gaps in the hills. Missed the thrice-daily ferry as St. Simeon, and so holed up at a small campground. The only other campers were a Quebec trio - Pitou, Bernard, and Claire. Drank beer and conversed in their broken English and our broken French.

8 June '75

It was worth missing the ferry to wake up beside the St. Lawrence. Spent most of a beautiful morning 8th in line (of an eventual 70) for the 10:30 ferry. Met Roy Trannante, a lab technician from Labrador City, NF, which sounds like the end of the world for snow and isolation. He is a native Newfoundlander and loves it. Very self-assured and into the hot car mystique. His idea of a vacation is to drive 800-1000 miles a day if possible, at 80-90 mph.
The scenery throughout New Brunswick was somewhat disappointing. If was not overly dramatic or beautiful, and the moment we crossed the Quebec border, it seemed to go downhill. The graphics were not as good, the countryside seemed more cluttered (also more American, and hence, less foreign - sigh). Ended up a long, dull day of driving at Lubec, ME, easternmost point in the U.S. We could find nowhere to camp, and as soon as we told a grocery-store keeper, Howard Jones, or our predicament, he offered us his land to stay on and shanghaied a friend in the store to lead us out there at night. We had not been parked on his land 1 1/2 minutes when two men drove up to find out what we were doing there. Solicitous (nosy?) neighbors, these downeasterners.

Communication Issues

5 June '75

If I thought Montreal seemed French, it was because I hadn't seen Quebec. Geoff, our world-traveller-in-residence (whom we incessantly question about Europe) assured our grateful ears that old Quebec does indeed seem somewhat European. We found a plain, cheap, rather comfortable 4th floor room across a small park from Chateau Frontenac. Comfortable beds, a refrigerator (beer, bread, meat) and a table. Geoff insisting that by European standards, it is a great room. Chateau Frontenac is magnificent to see - it seems so much the landmark of old Quebec that it's hard to believe it was build between 1890-1921 as a resort hotel by the Canadian Pacific Railway. I wonder if the residents as the time deplored it as a monstrous highrise which blocked their views of the St. Lawrence?

Many of the locals speak English as poorly as I speak French, and one of my triumphs of the day was asking simple directions and buying stamps in French successfully. It's like a game to me whereas Sharon knows enough French that she knows how poorly she speaks it, and avoids doing so out of embarrassment.

In the evening we sat for awhile in a marvelous twilight at the fountain between our room and the Chateau. Earlier, Geoff and I had wandered far along the Governors Promenade (a boardwalk by any other name is still a boardwalk) high above Le Baisse Ville and The St. Lawrence.

We dined on Gaspe Lobster.

P.S. This evening before the fountain and dinner, I took my first bath in 1 1/2 years. I wouldn't have enjoyed it anywhere but in a 4th floor bathroom in Old Quebec.

Flipping off Bambino

3 June '75

For breakfast, we bought bread, milk, and orange juice and ate in the park. This of course is something one could do in Washington or anywhere else, but one never see,s to think of it until he is on vacation. As a matter of fact, Geoff thought of it.

Saw St. Joseph's Oratory on the Westmount, a new-Baroque basilica that is thoroughgoing 50-60's modern on the inside. There are displays of crutches, canes, and all sorts of braces left by pilgrims claiming cures, and a great sloping rack of hundreds of red prayer candles with "Saint Joseph Patron of The Church" spelled out in white candles like people holding up placards at a stadium.

We spent out first evening in an outdoor cafe (first for Sharon and me), one of 5 or 6 along place Jacques-Cartier in Ville-Marie, the old section of town. We were not disappointed. In the toilet, a little one-eyed man told me, first in French and then English, "man is not a camel. He cannot hold water 24 hours." Later this same fellow, who called himself Bambino ("if you ask me questions, you will hear a lot of fucking lies") stood outside the rail by our table expressing grave concern over Sharon's bandaged eye. Geoff flipped him to buy 2 beers (Geoff lost) and I gave him a cigar. His friend (the artiste) begged a quarter from Geoff.

The people one one side of us who spoke poor English, passed us joints of very weak dope. The people on the other side were young French separatists. They were more eloquent in English, and we discussed politics et all until midnight. We expressed surprise over the liveliness of Montreal at 11:30 on a Sunday or Monday night, and were told that the town used to jump 24 hours. Now, by law, it closes down at 3am. The separatists said that they appreciate it if a tourist tries to speak even very poor French because it shows he is willing to make the attempt. Quebecois say "bon jour" rather than au revoir.

So far the three of us prefer O'Keefe beer to Molson or LaBlatt.

4 June '75

We spent last night in a student type guest house McGill University for 2 dollars apiece. Our roommate, Jeff, had just ridden his 10 speed bicycle 1000 miles from Calgary to Montreal along Canadian route 1. He was trying to sell it for $350 so that he could continue travelling around the world.

We ended up our three days in Montreal with a bread-cheese-peanut butter-sherry picnic atop Mont Royal. That's what we ate for dinner, to - today was our lean day to make up for spending money the last few days.

Nil scenery beyond Montreal. Stopped the night in your typical pack-em-in campground near Drummondville, Que. Mercury vapor streetlights, even, but it was almost empty and so rather pleasant. I won my first game of backgammon from Geoff by mercury vapor streetlamp. Our brand-new nylon tent is lightweight, airy, light, and roomy enough for three.

Like Metal Under a Welding Torch

31 May '75

Celebrated Veteran's day with a ride through beautiful NY state, singing old, off-key (not morally) songs and marvelling at mountains.

Passed through the pastel cottageland of the Irish Catskills and arrived at Schoharie. Doubtless it is like tiny towns anywhere, but now that we are here, its special charm seems evident. In historic Schoharie, people leave their skis and bicycles on the porch. Unlocked.

1 June '75

No phones, no TV's, sporadic plumbing, not cheap either. But now I always want to stay in places like the Parrot House. We ssat up late out in the poorly lit hall (10-11' ceiling, old fashioned light fixtures, dumpy furniture) playing backgammon, smoking, and drinking tap water (no ice, either). You could never do this in a Holiday Inn. You wouldn't want to, even if there were a lounge at the end of the hall.

Pleasant wedding, very pleasant reception, danced with everybody. Uncle Ray made a hit with people in general. Sharon's whole family singing "I've Been Working on the Railroad." They dance much more than Mary Beth's family does. Bill and Marybeth have quite a view. I guess if you are going to live in the mountains, you should always live where you can see the sunrise and/or sunset through a cleft in the hills. It was so orange - like glowing metal under a welding torch.

2 June '75

Travelled to Canada via "America's Most Scenic Highway, 1966-1967," I-87, which well lived up to its reputation. The Adirondacks are stunning and fairly empty of human presence. Montreal has a definite cosmopolitan feeling - "all of those continental-looking males," as Sharon said. One also tends to feel that many of the French-speaking females look sort of French. Mont-Royal rivals Roch Creek Park as an urban getaway. It offers wonderful views on all sides, and most of the people cluster about Le Chateau on the southern end. The rest of the 10-12 acre summit is fairly wild and empty. Canadian beer has a deliciously un-American tang which Geoff ascribes to higher alcoholic content and a lack of preservative chemicals.

Scumbled

30 April '75

I have always known that my work would develop and change with time, and it has. However, my excursion into minimal composition, while not as wrenching as Larry Poons' abandoning ellipsoid dots for thick, scumbled surfaces, was a giant step. Perhaps I could compare it to Frank Stella's development in that I kept about half of my arsenal (my textures) and changed the other half (my shapes). It was a successful step, but it leads me to wonder "what next?" Stripes will be exhausted some day, as were dots and the giant protractor exhausted, and I shall once again wish to start boldly anew. A false start of half a dozen paintings and several months to discover the end of a blind alley would be a great waste and yet my more rigid format may preclude a more predictable and successful "development." Stella as changed 3-4 times and made great art. Smith was cut off in the prime of his "Cubi" period. Frankenthaler, Francis, and some others have lost that original fire in their successive incarnations. Nevelson has mined the same ground for years, but the result always glitters.
How many times will I (Have to? Want to?) change? Where will that next step take me?
I don't even know whether I am striding out across the world or spiralling in to find myself. It really does not matter.

Improbable Schemes: Part 1

Last summer as I sat staring out the window at life's colors while working at S&B, I solemnly promised myself that I would not spend the next summer inside an office.

Here it is next summer, and there I am again (My God, this time I've even given the bastards my Fridays).

So here I go again: I solemnly swear that I shall not spend next summer inside an office, drawing lines or anything else. How hard it is to guard against security and normalcy. I have more money than most people ever save before age 40, and I'm working against my will. When I was laid off, I thought that if would be the truly correct and normal decision to go on unemployment and paint full-time for several months. If I had not been married (and that is a criticism of my won weakness, not of Sharon) I would not have sought another job.

How I admire Geoff Desobry's complete aversion of work and his exchange of small savings for 4 months in Europe. How I envy Steve or Bill Vought their long-term personal businesses and 2-3 day work weeks.

My, what unaccustomed bitching! I hope this will be the most negative (and last negative?) pages that ever this diary shall see. It is the 5 day work week (under particularly niggling circumstances - not heavy pressure, but the constant annoyance of a disorganized boss) which has filled me with woe. In the last month I have changed from a fortnightly dope smoker to an every-other-day toker.

And how sweet it is.

Change of Subject

It is hard to sell good work, or new work. Paintings should sit around for awhile - although one always has an opinion of them when they are finished, finishing art differs from finishing a race. Some of my paintings have been finished half a dozen times, only to be added to or altered time and again (sometimes to the better, occasionally to the point of contrived overworking), sometimes a month later.

The answer: not every painting can be the best. Some must be average. Some will be failures and it's hard to part with good work. Rather, I try to steer people toward "average" paintings that move me less, or toward older paintings, whose value and importance in my oeuvre, although considerable when they were done, has since been eclipsed by better work or different work.

Which presents this dilemma: is the artist disseminating his second rate work to public view while he keeps the good stuff at home, out of sight? Can he build a reputation out of "seconds."

The answer: not very painting can be the best. Some must be average. Some will be failures (and should be learned from and then painted over or destroyed). It is no dishonor not to hit a home run on each attempt, just as it is no dishonor to make god use of the doubles and triples.

Also, it is of vital importance to have a body of work to show - and I'd say that at least half of that body should be my best. Reputations are build much faster on shows than on scattered paintings in scattered living rooms.

I can't support myself at my work anyway, right now. It would be foolish to sell off best paintings for a few hundred dollars whose promotional value (toward a future pay of full-time painting) is not easily estimated.

And lastly, they are all part of me - I reserve the right to do with them as I will. Some will never leave; I want a living history close by where I can breathe it in.