abstraction, landscape and patriotic boycott

                                   Forest Conversation watermedia on Yupo collage 12x12 inches

 A pattern is quickening. I`ll work with one medium until I hit a wall and feel like its properties become too onerous. The drying time of oil painting, the severe edges in collage or maybe the frustrations of blending watercolor on Yupo, something gets in the way. Usually this happens after intense effort on a piece that refuses to resolve. So I try to just move on. Failure is normal and there have been many lately. My tendency has been to brood and question all my life choices but I just don`t have time now. More than ever I just require motion, the act of painting, to feel whole or even stable. 

                                              Hafnarfjordur watercolor on Yupo 26x20 inches

 Nine years after my visit to Iceland, I`m starting to paint it. All I have to work with are photos and memory but fortunately, Iceland creates a vivid impression. It`s easy to remember how I felt. Often it doesn`t seem right to paint a landscape I`m not personally intimate with, but even that principle is too confining. Who cares?

                                                                    Andrea Lopez Chen

 I was driving to an appointment in Tualatin recently and this thing [electrical box of some sort?] grabbed my attention. On the way home I found a place to park and walked back to it. The color was what first appealed to me but when I got closer I saw the bull. It is stunning!

   Prominent attribution too which is nice. It is at the entrance to Tualatin Community Park, You can`t miss it.

A multi-level buying boycott that has begun. Even more than our votes, how we spend our money is a hugely political action. To put the breaks on the runaway Trump catastrophe, I`ve imagined that something massive involving the economy would be required. I hope this is successful enough to repeat. Money is about the only thing that the powerful listen to.

Remember shopping at locally owned businesses is ok.  In my region, the employee owned grocery store, Winco, is ideal. If you can only do one thing in your economic boycott, don`t buy anything from Amazon. I realize they`ve become indispensable, but there are alternatives. Our household is now Amazon free and it was not easy. 

Winter issue, yours truly featured in an article written by Michael Chesley Johnson, a well known plein air painter and writer. We talk about my trial and error methods using memory to guide me. It can be purchased here. When there is a newer issue, I hope to have a link to the article I can include within this blog.

Somehow I bumped into her on Instagram years ago. Andrea Gibson, the poet, died of ovarian cancer last July. Her four years of treatment and hope is the subject of a new documentary called 'Come See Me in the Good Light', streaming on Apple TV or Prime Video. It`s a good story, the transformation of an agitated artist into a fearless advocate of love. Early in the movie she spoke a poem about a soul grieving the loss of its body, how it would gladly take on a toothache....vey moving. She noticed the small things and shows why they matter.

With her permission I posted this poem a couple of years ago. So to the point it`s like scripture;

she really touched some nerves.

 She stayed as long as she could.  God bless Jane Goodhall. 

                                                   Autumn Fog  oil on canvas 30x24 inches

                                        Canyon Pool watercolor on Yupo collage 13x10 inches

                                                     Roadside 2 oil on Yupo 26x20 inches

                                                                                

 With so much terrible destruction in my country now, I found the AIDS Memorial, by chance, a counterweight of sorts. Reading the stories about these very young men has been actually cathartic. Of course I remember the times but a deeper look into individual lives and circumstances has been meaningful. What is under appreciated is how the epidemic came right after a massive, historic sense of liberation. Finally we could live openly, without shame. It was a claimed freedom and not bestowed by any authority and [unsurprisingly] was deeply resented. This reversal caused by disease and with so much suffering is almost beyond imagining now. It was like war.

Often these tributes are written by close friends and often by relatives who were not yet born at the time of the death. The groups hashtag is #whatisrememberedlives . Some of those memories are extraordinary; 

“This is likely to be an unusual post. A straight woman and a gay man. She was his 24 year old ballroom dancing student, he was her 40 year old dance teacher. Little was she to know the impact this man would have on her life.

At that stage of my life, I was an unhappy, unfulfilled and disillusioned person. With the benefit of hindsight, life had dealt me a series of experiences that had denied me self-esteem, self-respect and peace of mind.

One day on my way home from work, a path I had trodden many times, I randomly looked up and saw a sign ‘Arthur Murrays Dance Studio’ on George Street in Sydney. It was the beginning of a life changing experience.

I became the studio owners student. Howard Smith Greening. An outrageous, incorrigible, loving, fragile, talented, stunning human being. Who happened to be HIV positive.

Howard lived life at full tilt. An Oxford Street Queen, he frequented clubs, parties, raves he took pills, had random encounters with strangers, loved to travel, and dance. And could that man dance. When we danced together it was poetry.

We did a comp in Perth to a routine he choreographed. Travelled from Sydney to compete. He and I had a tiff during rehearsals, he stormed off with great drama. So the pressure was on. We took the stage a day later and all the pieces fell into perfect place. We were so ‘connected’ movement just flowed from our bodies in perfect unison. Exhilarating. The experience reduced him to tears. Seeing him cry over our performance was the most remarkable thing. So humbling.

Howard was the first person in my life who loved me without rules. He showed me life could be fun and not just hard and confusing. He taught me to be defiant, challenge the status quo. Look life right in the eye.

I would come into the Studio 3 to 4 times a week. Sometimes dance, sometimes just hang out with him. We’d do the daily crossword together. Drink coffee, so much instant coffee!! Talk, laugh, gossip.

He never told his folks he was gay. It made me sad. He said they wouldn’t accept it. I wonder how his mother feels about it now she has cradled her son in her arms as he took his last breaths. AIDS is a cruel and painful death.

I could never feel sad around Howard. His life force was so powerful his aura and his smile would instantly lift my spirits. And he was generous with his smile and his laughter. He had his dark moments, we all do, but they have faded from my memory.

He pushed me away when he started to get sick. It broke my heart. But he knew what was going to happen and he didn’t want me to witness it.

I have a photo of us together at one of the balls we went to, it sits on my dressing table. I think of him almost daily. He reminds me to live my life, be cheeky, dress well, be charming but show your teeth when you need to and that it’s ok!

I named my business after him. Whoosh Consulting. Whoosh … that was how he entered a room … whoosh …

Howard taught me how to love another person for who they were. No agenda, no rules, just love. What a legacy to leave behind!

My darling Howard, you are the most amazing thing that ever happened to me. I am unbearably grateful for the time we had and for your continued love beyond the realms. I can’t imagine my life without your influence. I am awesome because of it. I am a reflection of all the good things about you.

I will love you forever and I miss you every day.

In memorial Howard Smith Greening, born Chain of Ponds SA 5th December 1953, passed 1st October 1995. 42 years young. Whoosh ….”

I had to laugh seeing this photo, it is so accurate. This is a good dad too, he remembered to feed his baby. He looks just like one of my best friends who did indeed father a child in the 1980s. This is a snapshot of the working class culture I grew up in.

                                                                     Bob Stuth-Wade

I was researching a different artist when I came across Bob Stuth-Wade. Here was realism but with a vision. The emotionally powerful work stopped me in my tracks. We slowly began to correspond and I learned we are the same age and were raised to be good Catholics. One of the most interesting things about him is he bought his house in Texas while still a teenager and raised his four sons there. He seems to be a true Renaissance man, an artist who can build anything and do many other things. He also bought a collage of mine which meant the world to me.

                                                                     Bob Stuth-Wade

Almost time.

Click HERE for work for sale in my studio

HERE for prints

"I couldn`t care less"

                                                   Young Grove oil on canvas 16x16 inches

I`ve been trying to write this for a month. Each time I think there is a pause in the outrageousness  I`ll start formulating an entrance into the civic matters of the day and suddenly, there is a brand new horror. Again, I don`t believe my words affect anything. Except me. I need to say to myself and anyone listening, how exactly do I think. When the president said last week he had no interest in uniting the country, some last bit of denial wilted. He does not care if the country survives his presidency or not. He will shake down law firms, media conglomerates, foreign governments, universities and anything else he wants too. All too often whatever is irritating him will immediately back down and offer him money. WTF? Why is everyone so afraid of him? He and his MAGA troops are obviously cowards, gay people recognize this dynamic quickly. What I don`t understand is why so much surrender? It must be about $ somehow that is beyond my imagination. When Charlie Kirk was mercilessly murdered in public last week, I needed to do some research. I knew he was divisive but little more than that. I didn`t get too far along before the massive tidal wave of righteous anger washed over the country threatening to take down any Democrat who pointed out that the young father shot in the neck while speaking, was a victim of a gun saturated culture that he himself endorsed. The precious Second Amendment crowd elevates that ambiguous 'right' above all else. Utah had just expanded its 'open carry' laws to include colleges. In my view this is the actual tragedy of course. A political movement lost a spokesman, a family lost a dad, husband and son, a country was repulsed to see this actual brutality on the news but the permissive mindset of allowing guns everywhere, all the time must never be challenged. This disconnect made things ugly in no time. Get any Democrat who dares to point out the obvious cause and effect. 

Stay strong friends. Remember all those innocent children who died in mass school shootings because our god damned country won`t do what is right. In my blue state of Oregon, it is easier to buy a gun than it is to buy Sudafed. That is so messed up I just lose hope.

Furthermore, the war crimes have commenced, make no mistake about it. We are quickly in Nazi territory. This is not said with any inflammatory intention, I am only paying attention. ICE, America`s immigration enforcement, is ignoring legal due process daily. That poor kid, Kilmar Abrego Garcia will probably be deported to Uganda. Uganda! How in any law worldwide is that legal? Or moral? Never convicted of any crime and he is married to an American citizen. The government is trying desperately to make an example of of him. The raids on workplaces and farms is not in pursuit of criminals, but merely to terrorize. Never did I imagine my government would act so recklessly and cruelly.

Read this to understand the new thinking in healthcare;

James Greenberg

opnoStserdfce6bu:4ggmgi9r6t551994a8muM t3 6006e 1cptm 811S750eA ·

Why would a government defund cancer research, dismantle vaccine programs, and hollow out public health infrastructure? These are not peripheral services. They are the scaffolding that allows people to survive longer, live better, and remain part of civic life. Yet under Trump’s administration, funding for NIH cancer trials has been slashed, CDC vaccine development undermined, and chronic disease surveillance quietly defunded. These are not budgetary accidents. They reflect a governing logic in which care is rationed, and survival is triaged according to economic utility.

At 80, I live simply. I walk desert trails with my dog, write, and play guitar in the evening. My wife is amazing—at 85, she still rock climbs. We’re in relatively good health, but I’m under no illusion: without healthcare insurance, that could change quickly. A fall, a diagnosis, a sudden hospitalization—and the cost of survival becomes a negotiation. Under current policy, that negotiation is growing more brutal. Premiums are rising, benefits shrinking, and for many aging Americans, coverage is slipping out of reach. What was once a safety net is now a sieve.

This goes beyond austerity. It is necropolitics—the use of policy to decide who lives and who is left to manage their own decline. Medicaid is being restructured to include work requirements and eligibility audits designed to disqualify. Medicare’s hospital trust fund faces automatic reimbursement cuts that will force providers to drop patients. Cancer research has been targeted not because it fails, but because it extends lives of populations deemed fiscally inconvenient. The logic is explicit: longevity is expensive, and aging is a problem to be contained.

Healthcare becomes the sorting mechanism. High-deductible plans function as debt traps. Algorithmic triage systems ration care by zip code, employment status, and credit history. Those who can pay, survive. Those who can’t, wait—or disappear. This isn’t a malfunction; it is a deliberate architecture designed to offload risk and privatize consequence. Debt itself has become a gatekeeper of survival. In the U.S., medical bills are the leading cause of personal bankruptcy, and credit scores increasingly determine whether patients gain access to care or are turned away. Illness is transformed into leverage: the ability to pay becomes indistinguishable from the right to live.

We are witnessing a shift from public health to actuarial governance. The question is no longer what people need, but what they cost. Preventive care, chronic disease management, and long-term treatment are increasingly reserved for those who remain economically legible. The rest are managed through delay, denial, and disappearance. This burden does not fall evenly. Life expectancy is already stratified by race, class, and geography, with Black, Indigenous, and poor Americans facing shortened lives not because of biology but because of accumulated neglect. In this system, inequality is not incidental; it is the mechanism through which necropolitics is enacted.

This logic extends beyond insurance. Hospitals are consolidating, rural clinics are closing, and elder care facilities are underfunded or shuttered. The infrastructure that once sustained aging populations is being dismantled, not because it failed, but because it no longer aligns with the priorities of a system that rewards short-term margins over long-term survival.

The language used to justify these shifts is familiar: personal responsibility, innovation, market discipline. But the outcomes are unmistakable. Those deemed unproductive—the elderly, the chronically ill, the disabled, and the poor—are increasingly portrayed as burdensome, politically obsolete, or economically inert. The narrative of demographic crisis is used to rationalize austerity, while the language of fairness is weaponized to pit generations and classes against each other.

This is not a cultural misunderstanding. It is a deliberate reframing of aging as pathology. In this worldview, to live longer is to become a liability. The more care one requires, the more one is seen as a threat to fiscal stability. In practice, survival itself is tolerated only when it is silent, self-funded, and non-disruptive.

The consequences are not abstract. They are visible in the lives of those who skip medications, delay screenings, or avoid hospitals altogether. They are felt in the quiet calculations families make when deciding whether to seek care or absorb the cost.

This is not a failure of governance. It is a redefinition of it. The state is not retreating—it is reallocating. It is shifting responsibility from public institutions to private markets, from collective obligation to individual risk. And in doing so, it is redrawing the boundaries of who counts, and under what conditions.

But survival could be treated differently. It could be recognized as a civic achievement—a sign that public health, infrastructure, and social cohesion have done their job. Lives extended by care are not liabilities but anchors of continuity, resilience, and possibility. That would require a different kind of politics—one that values survival not as a private accomplishment, but as a public good.

We needn’t be passive witnesses to this logic, or silent casualties of it. If we choose, we can be its undoers. The triage we see does not flow from scarcity; it is a political decision, made in boardrooms and budget committees, reinforced by policy and narrative. To challenge it requires more than critique. It demands refusal and the rebuilding of care as infrastructure—the kind that asks not what a life is worth, but whether it is protected. That is the work ahead. And it will not wait.

And as for Israel, I am thinking the only ones who can possibly stop Benjamin Netanyahu are American Jews. Maybe. Israelis sure cannot, the country is evenly divided much like ours. A pervasive effort to blur protest against the Israeli government actions in Gaza with antisemitism, is now American policy. Once again I will admit my deep respect and affection for the Jewish culture I know in America. It made me paralyzed in regards to the war for too long. As a white guy I`ve heard real antisemitism throughout my life and I was taught to reject it on the spot. I`m sensitive to it. My Dad served in WW2 and I was educated by the generation who had fought fascism. I finally see the truth now. Starvation as a tactic of negotiation or war is unacceptable. Israel, of all countries, should know this. It is also against international law to target and kill journalists. With the Israeli disregard for the humanity of the Palestinians, in both the West Bank and Gaza as well within its own borders, there will always be a 'Hamas'.  Survival requires leadership. What Israel is doing in their war on Gaza is an atrocity and it demands to be recognized as such. Not that Trump cares. Putin and Netanyahu are his puppetmasters. The sheer amount of evil depravity my country is party to now is staggering. If we ever come to our senses, somehow the Supreme Court and the Republican Party must be held accountable for enabling the president in almost anything he desires. Constitution be damned.

Here is a possible explanation;

Author Alisa Valdes (Rodriguez) 

odSpsnerto567t4 s 8ca8 imtu008g86a9 16tu82lu1Mgg13P1:g333Af5 ·

Many of us wonder why no one is “doing something” about the nightmare engulfing us all in the United States right now. I think I know why. Let me explain. It’ll take a minute. Grab some tea. Get cozy.

I was once on an airplane, a Delta shuttle from Boston to New York City, that lost its entire hydraulic system as it was about to land at LaGuardia Airport. We’d already been told to fasten our seatbelts, turn off our electronic devices, and put our tray tables up. The plane was on its way down. I was seated over the right wing. When the pilot tried to lower the flaps and wheels, there was a hollow clicking and sickly whirring sound beneath my seat.

The pilot told us the truth. He was calm as he said it. But the news was terrible. We had no wheels, no flaps, no brakes, and, once we were on the ground, no steering. We circled four hours over Manhattan, and out to sea, and back, to burn fuel, so that in the event we caught fire when we finally crash landed somewhere, the fireball would be minimized. He told us all air traffic to LaGuardia was being rerouted to JFK and Newark so that they could prepare a runway at LaGuardia for our crash landing. No, I am not kidding.

Now, before I experienced this, I imagined people would be screaming, crying, praying, begging God at the tops of their lungs in such a situation. But that’s not what happened. Instead, the cabin was eerily silent. I was in the window seat. The middle seat was empty. In the aisle seat was an older businessman, reading the Wall Street Journal. I asked him if I could hold his hand. He rolled his eyes, scoffed, and said, “This stuff happens all the time. It’s fine,” and kept reading. “Please?” I said, and he relented. I held his hand. Despite his rolled eyes and unworried words, his hand was cold and slick with sweat. He, too, was afraid.

Eventually, the captain was able to get one of two emergency hydraulic systems up and running, but, he told us, we were still without steering on the ground. He would have to land perfectly straight, or we’d tip right into the water. Everyone stayed quiet. The plane landed. The pilot landed it perfectly straight. The sides of the runway were lined with rescue vehicles and TV news crews. We did not die. Then and only then did people begin to cry, and clap, and hug each other, and thank their Gods.

What I learned from this is that there is a period of time between realizing you are crashing and actually crashing when, as long as the plane still appears to be okay, people cling to hope more than terror. Even though we all knew the plane had no hydraulics and we were burning and dumping fuel, and they’d closed the airport down and mostly evacuated it so we could crash there, we all still held on to hope.

I think that’s where the people of the United States of America are right now. In that place where trustworthy pilots of history, sociology and political science have all told us just how bad this is. We’re circling, and burning off all the fuel. The news gets worse by the minute. Soon, we will crash or crash land or land.

The human heart hangs on to hope until there’s no other choice. People will not fight back in the ways that will work, until they realize there is no other choice, until the only other choice is their own imprisonment or death, or that of someone they love. For many of us, that moment is already here. But for most of us, it’s not.

Yet.

This has to be a survival mechanism. Freeze. Fawn. Flee. We try all of those first. And only when they’ve failed, do we fight.

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OK, this journal entry on politics has concluded.

                                                                  R. Crumb, always relevant

More art. I guess I did not quit oil painting for all time after all.

                                                  Forest Ravine oil on canvas 16x16 inches

                                                        Roadside oil on Yupo 26x20 inches

                                                     Understory oil on canvas 30x24 inches

                                                  Wetland Forest oil on canvas 30x40 inches

                                                   Portlandia, photo by Greg Halvorson

                                                     Portlandia, photo by James Ewing

                                                                           Portlandia

 I was in Portland on that cool autumn Saturday 40 years ago. I was even offered a view of her river journey from the comfort of a riverside apartment. But I don`t like crowds or traffic so I stayed away and missed her arrival;

Not as bone headed as my 2017 full eclipse of the sun decision to be satisfied with the 99% visible from my yard rather than drive to my inlaw`s place 40 miles away for the true totality. Ignorance is not kind!

He died!! What a shock! Of course he gets to die too, no one is immortal, and 89 is a respectably long life. But just like with David Lynch I thought oh no, not now. We need you.  A fun thing about living in New Mexico is you bump up against a lot of famous people. Especially working in restaurants like I did. By all accounts, including mine, he was a genuine, kind man and I`m sorry to see him go.

                                                                         Nathan W. Pyle

This poem expresses the best part about getting old;

 

                                               Ithaca watercolor collage on yupo 26x20 inches

 we have to believe this is possible

click HERE for work for sale in my studio