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A Taste of Summer (from a sketchbook) – Pencil, ink, watercolor – 8.5 x 11 inches.

A famous song begins with the following lines:

“Just about a year ago I set out on the road Seekin' my fame and fortune Lookin' for a pot of gold Things got bad and things got worse I guess you’ll know the tune. . .”

I’m guessing that even though you may have forgotten the first six lines of the tune, you will not have forgotten the last:

“Oh Lord, stuck in Lodi again.”

Creedence Clearwater Revival’s 1969 song made Lodi, California feel to me like one of the circles of Hell. But there are worse places in this world to be stuck in: Spokane, Washington, Broma, Sweden, and just about anywhere in Texas come immediately to mind.

At least Lodi has some excellent wineries, especially if you fancy bold reds. This watercolor shows the tasting room of one of them. At first sight it felt dark and imposing, but it’s dramatic and I thought it showed an imaginative use of space. I didn’t paint it to advertise the winery or the city; it just happened to appear during the travels of some friends spending a beautiful day in the pleasant company of Dionysus.

That was a while ago. Today, in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada mountains, it’s the middle of March, the middle of Lent, and many of us feel stuck. We may be finished with Winter, but Winter has not finished with us. Rain and snow are predicted to visit us, yet again, by the end of the week.

So as an act of public service, here’s an image of a sunny afternoon in June that just happened to be in Lodi. Yes, Summer will arrive, no matter where we happen to feel stuck.

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A World of Wednesdays - Watercolor - 8.5 x 12 inches.

When I was a girl in school, in the country we used to live in, I loved Wednesdays because our classes lasted only until noon. You and I ignored the playground and spent those afternoons at play in green forests along the river. Years passed and then we played in bedrooms in our own white worlds of linen sheets.

Now you live oceans away on the other side of the world. Is every day there in your country warm and green? Here the days are white, and the only river, miles away, has flowed under ice since December. Months disappear and petals from a Christmas plant wrinkle and fall in silence, like snow on Wednesday afternoons.

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Other links: [this post on my website] [about my new book]

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Manolo – Pencil, watercolor – 8.5 x 11 inches.

Even if you are not a fan of baseball, it might be a good idea to pay attention to the thoughts of two philosophers who happened to play the game. For example, Yogi Berra, legendary catcher for the New York Yankees, joined a pantheon of Zen masters when he advised the following: “When you come to a fork in the road, take it.”

Satchel Paige, legendary pitcher for several teams, also offered good insights: “Don't look back. Something might be gaining on you.” I accepted this sage-Paige advice with little question until a few days ago, when by chance, I found a drawing of a friend in an old sketchbook.

Looking over the shoulder: During my forty years of adventures on other sides of the world, Spain has gifted me with many guides. Manolo was the first to offer insights into the grammatical pitfalls of irregular verbs and the subjunctive voice, as well as my guide into the customs and culture of his country, and Valencia, his city: food, films, the history of wars and politics, street life, more wars, music, more politics, wine, weekends on Mediterranean beaches, and the companionship of being a fellow artist. We have spent many happy hours drawing and paining landscapes together. Most importantly, he and his wife Toti and their daughter Elena, another fellow artist, opened the arms of their family and friends to me.

So yes, memories of Manolo have been “gaining” on me. They have caught up to me now in an autumn when an upcoming exhibition and a book launch confine me in California. He and I and our other Valencian friends and guides are entering the last chapters of our lives, so it is about time we catch up with each, other again. Even so, catching up now, in words only, doesn't seem to be soon enough.

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Sierra Selene – Acrylic on Masonite – 10 x 14 inches.

Like many people, I often have dreams of flying. They invariably induce feelings of ecstasy. I dart and swoop through the clouds, dancing with crows and hawks, sometimes even condors. One day I began to wonder if, instead of waiting for night and sleep, I could create dreams in daytime while I was still awake. With practice I was gradually able to visualize myself hovering several feet above my body. Seeing yourself in two places at the same time is unnerving at first. But gradually it feels normal. Although I was able to increase my altitude above my self, I could only hover, like a helicopter, never able to fly freely and play with other birds.

One morning I was driving from my studio in San Francisco to a temporary job in Oakland when I realized that I was not behind the steering wheel of my truck, but was several hundred feet above the freeway looking down at my pickup driving blissfully through morning traffic. Fortunately I was immediately able to return to the driver’s seat without causing any trouble for other drivers or myself.

After that incident, I became more cautious about projecting myself. I painted “Sierra Moon” from a few thousand feet while I was still in my studio. I wanted to render the scene as realistically as possible: our lovely satellite, reflecting the light of the sun, a river of clouds with the Sierra Nevada and California farmland below. No freeways, no suburbs, no strip malls.

The moon is a goddess, so I later changed the title to Selene, her name given by the Greeks. From 239,000 miles away, the power of her presence raises and lowers the immense tonnage of oceans, controls menstrual cycles, the growth of plants and other rhythms of Life.

Lately I don’t often project myself into the sky. When I do, she is always with me.

More images on my website: johnmichaelkeating.com

Direct link to this post on my website: https://johnmichaelkeating.com/2023/09/05/sierra-selene/

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Waiting for the Doctor – Watercolor, pencil, ink – 5 x 5 inches.

Tony Bennett said that every morning he sang scales, do, re, mi, fa, so la, ti, do. If he missed a day, he knew it. If he missed two days, the musicians knew it. If he missed three days, the audience knew it as well.

A couple of weeks ago, I finally finished writing a book about my paintings that I had been working on for more than a year. It’s now being printed in Hong Kong and, if all goes well, it will arrive here in the middle of October. During the months I was working on the book, my drawing practice stalled. Unlike Tony, I wasn’t singing scales every day.

A couple of weeks ago, I was in my optometrist's office and started sketching this complex instrument that was suspended in front of me. I don’t think it’s a very good drawing and it reflects my lack of practice. But I kept drawing for a few minutes anyway, first in pencil, then in ink. (I added watercolor to the mess later in my studio.)

It’s a poor sketch, but I decided to show it to you anyway. Why? Because failed drawings are good inspirations for younger artists; they illustrate Tony’s point: without daily practice, talent doesn’t amount to much.

More interestingly, sketches are not failures because such drawings are not about finished products. The point of a drawing is not to make a product. Drawing is a process; it’s the act of looking deeply, patiently, into the world. It is about paying attention.

I’d much rather draw a flower than a mechanical tool. But if the goal of drawing is to learn to see better, then drawing an optometrist’s mechanism for making people see better carries a touch of irony, no? Still, wouldn’t it be fun to see the look on the doctor’s face when he entered his office if, instead of drawing, I was singing do, re, mi, fa, so la, ti, do?

More images on my website: johnmichaelkeating.com

Direct link to this post on my website: https://johnmichaelkeating.com/2023/08/18/waiting-for-the-doctor/

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Lost, Again – Watercolor, pencil, ink – 8.5 x 11 inches. What if, one morning you find yourself enjoying one of the great pleasures of life: You are visiting a strange city and you deliberately allow yourself to get lost. It’s a cloudy morning in the first days of Autumn. There’s a chill wind with a hint of rain and the scent of October, of oak leaves turning from green into ochre into brown. You put on a jacket, turn off your cellphone and open the door from your temporary home onto a quiet street, into the freedom of having no map or compass. You walk and wander and find yourself guided towards water, towards a harbor. You meander along canals, with boats on either side, mostly small houseboats, like barges. Puffs of smoke float above chimneys. Blue jeans, underwear, shirts, bras, and diapers hang on clotheslines and on one boat, a little black dog glares at you but doesn’t bark. You cannot be more lost, more content. On the quay to your left a long passageway, a tunnel, appears. Without hesitation you enter. It opens into a small courtyard. No trees, no grass; brick walls enclose the space. Something marvelous here! Imagine seven sculptures, life-sized figures, black like soot. Gods and goddesses carved from stone? Where did they come from? They all bear scars of powerful saws, as if they had been cut away from the facades of 19th century buildings. But what are they doing here, strapped onto plinths in this deserted courtyard? You open your book and begin to draw them. It’s not long before you get lost in lines and colors, lost in the sculptures’ numinous presence. Are they sculptures trying to become angels or angels trying to become sculptures? Are they even more lost than you are? Lines and colors blur as thunder crackles and rain begins to fall. #realistart #fineart #visualpoetry #modernart #artofvisuals #arte #kunst #artoninstagram #saatchiartist #watercolorart #pintura #contemporarypainting #sketchbookart More images on my website: johnmichaelkeating.com https://instagr.am/p/Cp31j4_Ijpy/

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Knives and Panpipes – Water-media, pencil, ink – 8 x 11 inches.

Spain is the noisiest country I have ever lived in. Without a doubt, Valencia is its loudest city. The din of traffic, sirens, car horns, and work crews tearing up pavements is the ambient racket of urban life everywhere. But Valencia adds its own sonic touch: the explosions of firecrackers and rockets, at random, day and night. Was that thunder we heard? No, it was 10-minute volley of explosions celebrating the victory of the city's football team. Valencia's patron saint is the Virgin of the Forsaken. I call her the Virgin of Gunpowder.

Not long ago on a quiet street in Havana, a lovely sound I had not heard in many years reminded me of Valencia. It was the gentle trill of a panpipe. A knife-sharpener was near! And there he was, right around the next corner at the back door of a restaurant. Why sharpeners announced their presence with panpipes, I don't know, but that sound, and the sight of a man with grinding wheels connected to the back wheel of his bicycle, and clusters of women with kitchen knives has been in my memory for nearly 40 years. Back then, the pipes were made of wood. This Cuban's pipes were made of green plastic, but their sounds still touched my heart.

Panpipe music has all but disappeared in Spain. But not sharpeners. During the months of my last stay in Valencia, I met Álvaro, El Master Filo, whose shop sits across the street from the Ruzafa Market. I included my two favorite knives in the sketch. I'll take them to him in a couple of weeks. He'll laugh when I ask him if he plays panpipes.

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Other links: [this post on my website] [about my new book]

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Patrick - Oil on canvas - 28 x 34 inches.

Of the six brothers, Patrick is the one who most loved fishing. We others did too, but not as whole-heartedly. Our childhood home was only two short blocks from the Fox River as it flowed from southern Wisconsin through northern Illinois to eventually merge with the Mississippi. In The Four Quartets, T. S. Eliot called that legendary river "a strong brown god, sullen, untamed, intractable." Pat and the brothers closest to him in age, Tim and I, would have agreed. From our own experiences with the Fox we would have added "dangerous" to the adjectives.

We three don't live in Illinois any more, let alone fish for bluegills and walleyed pike in the Fox. However, for Patrick life without fishing is unthinkable, unbearable. As you see in the painting, this river in Montana is not a sullen brown god. Dangerous? Yes, they all are. Pat, miles away from any cellphone reception, is fishing for trout -- brown, cutthroat and rainbow -- as he has fished here every September for more than twenty years. Two days ago, he invited me and Tim to join him. Too bad; I'll be in Spain. But Tim will fly to Montana.

Years ago I painted this image and shipped it to Pat. He politely returned it and asked that I correct a mistake. No problem, I repainted my error and sent the canvas back to him. So what was the mistake? Well, the image you see here is not the corrected version but the original, the one with the error. No one, not even Pat's fishing buddies saw it, but Tim noticed immediately: "Our brother casts with his right hand, not his left."

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Other links: [this post on my website] [about my new book]

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Havana Daydreaming 1 - Watercolor, ink, - 8 x 10.5 inches.

The cab driver at the airport in Havana was confused when I asked him to drive us to O'Reilly Street. My Spanish is pretty good, so his confusion confused me. In a moment all became clear: The driver, and everyone else we later encountered in the city, called the street "O Relly," without pronouncing the "i."

The lady in this sketch lived across from us on O Relly St. Drying sheets and clothing outdoors is a daily activity in most of Old Havana. The city radiates light and color, so in my eyes laundry draped over balconies simply added rainbows to the mix. But it was impossible to ignore memories of Switzerland and Lugano, where I lived twice: there you can be fined for hanging out laundry in public view. Playing loud music in public, or anywhere else, is also frowned upon.

In contrast, Havana would not be Cuba without music in the streets, and everywhere else. Spend a few minutes walking and you will be offered tickets to at least 5 or 6 Buena Vista Social Clubs. Do any of those places actually exist? Or are the tickets "chanchullos," street swindles?

I'll post more sketches of Havana soon, along with thoughts of music and street scams. Meanwhile, let's leave the lady on the balcony in peace as she observes life on the street: vendors of mangoes and avocados, cruising DeSotos, Buicks and Chevrolets from the 1950's, and elderly women in white dresses and turbans smoking cigars. She'll make sure the laundry is indoors before afternoon storms drench everything. I imagine she's also hearing guitars and dreaming of rainbows, elsewhere perhaps.

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More posts on my website: JohnMichaelKeating.com

Other links: [this post on my website] [about my new book]

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The Tide – Oil on canvas – 26 x 32 inches.

In her Nobel Lecture after winning the Prize for Literature in 1996, the Polish poet Wislawa Szymborska explained how difficult it was to answer questions about inspiration. “Contemporary poets answer evasively when asked what it is, and if it actually exists. It’s not that they’ve never known the blessing of this inner impulse. It’s just not easy to explain to someone else what you don’t understand yourself.”

Her thoughts have given me a lot of comfort, especially when she also remarked, “Whatever inspiration is, it’s born from from a continuous ‘I don’t know’.”

I don’t know, for example, if the lagoon in this painting still exists in the town where I grew up. In winter we skated on its ice. In summers there were twilight concerts from the circular bandstand; people gathered around the shores to listen, perhaps to dance. Now there’s only a woman banging a drum, a man playing a trumpet, and a monkey on a leash. Does the animal carry a tin cup for donations? I wonder. And from whom?

The girls dancing in a circle also showed up in another image, “Texas Truck,” which I posted on this page recently. Why they appear in this painting, and wearing clothes, I don’t know.

The mood feels slightly ominous, but perhaps it’s only nostalgia, a real or imagined past that nudges us. What sounds could the musicians be making that impel the girls to dance? I don’t know. But like them, I love music. So even though I can’t hear it, I feel like dancing with them.

Inspiration feels like music I can barely hear. So I listen. And listen. And follow it, wherever it might lead me.

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More posts on my website: JohnMichaelKeating.com

Other links: [this post on my website] [about my new book]

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A Migrant - Acrylic on canvas - 23 x 32 inches.

Jennie Doherty was 30 years old when she sailed out of Belfast Harbor in 1914. She left her mother and father and a few sisters and brothers in tears; they thought they would never see her again. She was on her way to the other side of the world, to faraway Canada, to help two of her older brothers. Earlier they had also left the family crying when they had migrated from Ireland in search of a better life as homesteaders in Alberta Province.

At the outbreak of World War I, the brothers enlisted in the Canadian Expeditionary Force and were shipped off to Belgium to fight the German Army. Jenny stayed behind to manage the farm. Before she died in 1967, she was able to return to Ireland to see for the last time her remaining brothers and sisters. Her soldier brothers did not return to Canada. Their bodies, along with those of hundreds of thousands of other young men, are still lying under the muddy fields of Ypres.

Jenny was no match for winters in Alberta. Like many homesteads in western Canada, the Doherty farm fell apart. So she went to work as a maid in a hotel in Vermilion. Benno Fischer, four years younger than she, was one of the owners. My portrait, from an old photograph, shows her on the day they were married. Their daughter, my mother, was born in August, 1918, only five weeks before the Armistice that ended, in H.G. Wells' words, "The war that will end war."

Two days after I was born in June, 1941, Adolph Hitler's armies invaded Russia. Six months later, bombs fell on Pearl Harbor. Today bombs obliterate families in Gaza and Ukraine. Jesus is supposed to have said that the poor are always with us. The rich are with us too, and so are Hitlers. Migrants as well, still searching for better lives.

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Two Portraits, Both Slant

Texas Truck - Acrylic on paper - 11 x 17 inches.

"Tell all the truth," wrote Emily Dickinson, "but tell it slant."

Among many things to love in her poems is the lightness of her spirit. Of course, “slant” is not necessarily devious. It's just that truth, especially inner truths, are often too complex and elusive to tell, except “slant.” Plus, it’s more fun. So let’s dance with Emily.

We’ll use a few symbols to paint an inner portrait. Let’s imagine that our subject is male and that at the moment he is in Texas. Maybe he owned the truck, or one like it. Perhaps he’s looking back at a happier time. Is the truck a rusty dream from his past? And the dancing figures: are they male or female? Younger than he is? They seem to be having fun. Would he like to join them? Or are they a dream? And what is that strange shape floating overhead? A comet, a meteor? Is he even awake? Perhaps he’s only dreaming.

A different poet than Emily asks: Why wear the same suntan every day? Good question. So let’s paint another portrait and change the gender of our subject. She’s in Texas too, but she wishes she were somewhere else. Maybe she arrived recently from California and is finding it difficult to fit in here. Perhaps to her the truck is the perfect symbol of Texas itself, a broken hulk of a broken promise, her dream of a better life? And the naked girls? Are they dancing around a black burning figure, or is it her imagination? And what is that apparition in the sky! Stars swimming in the current of some strange galaxy? Or maybe it’s just the skeleton of a dragon.

Literal explanations are OK, but I hope you had fun dancing with me and Emily.

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Other links: [this post on my website] [about my new book]

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Nineteen Seventy – Acrylic on canvas – 36 x 66 inches.

Every Day The President Ignores A Sign From God The president puts a hand Upon the shoulder of god And whispers, “You don’t understand. We’re the good guys.” Angel Dominguez (1989-)

This painting was inspired by events that happened around 1970 and was based on images I found in the print media during those days. The astronaut appeared in Life Magazine; the dome came from a book on Islamic architecture; the woman and the one she cries for was copied from a photograph taken by the combat photographer, Larry Burrows, that also appeared in Life.

Today news of mass deaths seems to come from everywhere, especially from Ukraine and Gaza. Astronauts are still with us, so are mosques. The women and the victims they mourn have multiplied by millions. Are the presidents paying attention? Doubtful. One of them is supposed to have said, “A single death is a tragedy; a million deaths is a statistic.” He died in 1953, but his successors still complain about how little God understands them.

We began the post with the words of a poet. Let’s end with the words of another one:

I know the truth. Forget all other truths. No need for people anywhere on this earth to struggle. For what? Poets? Lovers? Generals?Look: it is evening, Look: it is nearly night. The wind is level now, the air is wet with dew. Soon all of us will sleep beneath the earth, we, who never let each other sleep above it. Marina Tsvetaeva (1892-1941)

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More posts on my website: JohnMichaelKeating.com

Other links: [this post on my website] [about my new book]

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Dawn Fields - Acrylic on canvas - 32 x 48 inches.

Thanks to films and television, many people I encounter during my travels outside of the United States are surprised to learn that California is not a wonderland of palm trees, sleek automobiles, handsome dudes, and radiant blondes. Also, that it snows here, that San Francisco is not the capitol, and that -- alas -- you are not a movie star.

Why anyone would take any of the above assumptions to be true is not worth much further thought, except that we're all enchanted by fantasies, no? Especially our own? Even fantasies we didn't realize we had? Let's say, for example, you're in Avignon, France in a hardware store looking for a fitting for the nozzle of a garden hose, when a stranger walks up and tells you that he and his wife "super-enjoyed" your latest film. It would be best to say, "merci," and walk away, basking in the glow of your own vanity. That is, unless vanity gets the best of you, and after a couple of questions you learn which movie star the man had mistaken you for. And you discover, immediately and sadly, that vanity, disappointment and humility are three sides of the same coin.

So, wonderlands aside, here's an image of California you might see if you were on a flight landing in the Central Valley, in Sacramento, the capitol, at dawn on a morning like today. No cars, no blondes, no snow. No film stars either. Neither real ones, nor ones in somebody's imagination.

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Other links: [this post on my website] [about my new book]

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A Passenger: Sketchbook Page – Pencil, watercolor, collage – 8.5 x 11 inches.

A flight between Sacramento and Seattle normally takes about two hours, so there was enough time to draw a fairly accurate likeness of the man in the window seat. Watercolors are too messy for me to use on an airplane, so I added colors later in the studio.

Colors: Students sometimes ask me what colors to use when painting non-white people. From the point of view of artists, “white” and “black;” are just words; humans are all lighter or darker mishmashes of different shades of "beige." My answer is: use variations of the same pigments you would use to paint anybody, that is, two warm colors and a cool one: a red, a yellow and a blue. Or a vermillion, ochre and green. In this case, I used Quinacridone Red, Raw Sienna, and Viridian, both for the man's hair and skin. I used black only on his eyeglasses.

Studio: Visitors are often surprised to find my studio “orderly,” by which they mean “not messy.” Then they look at my sketchbooks. "Messy!" Usually the pages are invariably messy because they reflect whatever happens to interest me at the moment, like the wine label, color swatches, Spanish stamp and repro of the Fool card from the Tarot. Plus, sketches are messy like rehearsals for concerts are messy; the artists are trying to figure things out so that the finished product appears smooth and natural

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More posts on my website: JohnMichaelKeating.com

Other links: [this post on my website] [about my new book]

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Storm Study – Pencil, Watercolor – 8 x 8 inches.

It wasn’t long ago when small green shapes, like soft blades, slowly poked up out of the dirt and last autumn’s leaves, the color of rusted iron. Then stems and yellow petals. Red, blue, golden too, and purple. It felt like months of winter here in the hills were beginning to blossom into spring. Almost. Then one afternoon our green world turned back into white.

The tulips and daffodils don’t seem to mind. Nor do the Sparrows, Finches, and Western Bluebirds. (Shh, I don’t mind either. Shh, it’s heretical to say this in California, but I don’t want to let go of the snow’s cold embrace.)

The Seventh Storm of Winter Dearly beloved, we are gathered here to bless the falling snow. Let it bury us and all our cares and pains, and bury every one of our wishes and preoccupations, especially the ones we think are most important. Let it, which neither scorns nor loves, but falls on all our lives with the same indifferent silence, bury our pasts and bury every one of our dreams as well. We pray you, blessed snow, to leave bare spots beneath the apple trees for winter birds to peck for seeds, but otherwise, please blanket our incessant human chatter beneath the frigid benediction of your whiteness so we can pull up the covers of our beds and burrow even deeper into sleep like hibernating bats and bears and not emerge until the ides of March, or April, or maybe not until the ides of May.

(There you have it, friends: Shh, I hope my secret thoughts are safe with you.)

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More posts on my website: JohnMichaelKeating.com

Other links: [this post on my website] [about my new book]