Stand By Me

At very low tide, the broad flat reefs of Cabrillo Beach become a natural walkway along the shore. A mother and child take an evening stroll as the sun begins to set.

I painted this small study at Cabrillo Beach just after sunset, while there was still a little twilight left. A container ship, just departed from Los Angeles Harbor, was beginning its journey back across the Pacific. The warm colors in the sky came from the smoke of wildfires burning across the Southland that evening.

I have always had a lot of fun painting on location at night. This one is really a San Pedro story.

I made the sketches for this painting on a warm summer night at Cabrillo Beach. It was a full moon, the tide was coming in, and it was one of those nights when the grunion might appear.

That was enough to bring out the crowds. Parents came with their children, everyone watching and waiting, then suddenly running into the water when the grunion came ashore to spawn. For a few minutes, the beach was filled with people chasing the little fish in the moonlit surf.

It was one of those wonderfully unexpected San Pedro nights that I knew I had to paint.

On this August evening, it wasn’t the rising moon that caught my attention, but a full, bright moon already high overhead. I walked down to the beach at Long Point, in front of Terranea Resort, carrying my painting gear and lights.

It was a perfect warm night, with moonlight shimmering across the water and the quiet sound of the waves along the shore. I could have stayed there all night.

This is often more typical of the shore after the sun has gone down. No crescendo of bright sunset colors. Just a quiet sea to enjoy painting before the grays deepen into the dark of night and I spend a last moment before packing up heading home.

It takes a steep climb down a slippery cliff trail and then climbing over large rocks along the shore to get to this spot. Some places are so challenging to get to, but well worth the effort when you do.

Several years ago I did quite a lot of sailing, both racing and bringing boats home after races. On one trip along the coast of Baja California, we were caught in a powerful squall with winds reaching 80 and 90 miles per hour. What made it especially difficult was the sea itself. Swells were coming from one direction, then reversing as the storm passed, creating what sailors call a “confused sea.” Reflected waves off Isle de Cedros only added to the chaos. It was hard sailing—and dangerous—but to me there was also something incredibly beautiful about it.

Between watches, I made quick sketches and notes on paper plates, trying to capture what I was seeing. When I got home, I used those sketches, my notes, and the memory of being there to paint this scene. I wanted to share a little of what it is like to be out there.

Sometimes I get overwhelmed by everything I’m seeing in front of me. That's when I have to stop and boil it all down to its essence until I find that one moment that captures the energy I'm feeling.

Lobstermen often go unnoticed along our coast, yet their work requires a unique skill and an intimate knowledge of the sea. They navigate close to shore, tending their trap lines and reading the changing conditions around them.

While painting this seascape of an approaching storm, I watched the swells begin to build and the weather move in. At the same time, a lobsterman continued checking his traps, knowing that once the storm arrived, several days of rough weather might prevent him from returning. It was a quiet race against time—a scene that has played out along our coast for generations.

I wanted to capture this often unseen part of coastal life and share the dedication and risks these fishermen accept. I have long been inspired by the paintings of Winslow Homer and other artists who portrayed the strength and resilience of those who make their living from the sea. My own close relationship with the ocean has given me a deep appreciation for their way of life.

Today’s fishermen may have modern power boats, but the uncertainty, danger, and respect for the sea remain much the same as they have always been.

It was a simple thing...just the trickles of water leaving trails in the sand as the tide went out. I sometimes like to say, “When you forget the beauty where you step...the artist will remind you”.

I have spent a lifetime around the ocean, and it never loses its ability to surprise me. Each wave, each change of light, and each passing moment offers something different to paint and is gone almost as fast as it appears.

In the early days of San Pedro, ships like these carried lumber down from the Pacific Northwest. That lumber flowed through San Pedro and helped build the growing city of Los Angeles.

Seen here is the four-masted schooner R. A. Bartlett , a typical example of the large sailing vessels built on the West Coast for the lumber trade. On the horizon is the newly launched steam schooner San Pedro (1899–1920), representing a new era in West Coast shipping.

I have always been fascinated by the early maritime history of San Pedro—the ships, the men who sailed them, and the vital role the harbor played in the growth of Los Angeles. This painting is not simply a study of two vessels; it tells the story of a changing era, when the great sailing schooners that had carried the West Coast's commerce were beginning to give way to steam.

For me, paintings like this are a way of preserving a piece of that history and bringing it back to life.

I always set aside my birthday for painting. On this year I headed north towards Monterey and enjoyed several days painting around the area. What a way to celebrate a birthday. One of the first places I like to visit and paint is Point Lobos. I painted Land’s End in late February at the farthest end of the point. It was a brisk winter afternoon, and the glare of the afternoon sun turned the colors of the sea into a beautiful silver light. Point Lobos never disappoints. Just ask any artist.

We are blessed with a wonderfully diverse rocky shore in Palos Verdes. I often come to these large white rocks at Long Point because they are so different from those found along other parts of the coast. The hard, white Palos Verdes stone seems to pick up and reflect the cool colors of the ocean and sky. With light and color changing constantly, they are hard to pass up.

The ocean is always changing. I am drawn to those moments when the movement of the sea, the light, and the wind come together for just a brief moment before they are gone.

Point Lobos is one of those special places known by plein air painters throughout the West. This small State Park just south of Carmel-by-the-Sea offers beauty around every corner and along every trail. It has drawn artists for generations, including William Frederick Ritschel, who built his home and studio adjoining the park and spent the remainder of his life studying and painting this remarkable landscape.

It is always the first place I go to paint when I return to the area. With its changing light, rugged coastline, and beautiful landscape, Point Lobos is one of those places I could spend a lifetime painting.

In the midst of a 110°F heat wave, Brush Creek offered a welcome refuge. An unusually early surge of Sierra snow melt sent torrents of cold water cascading toward the Kern River, where normally there would be little more than a trickle. The contrast between the intense summer heat and the cool, rushing water made this place impossible to resist painting.

I always love heading over to Hot Creek when visiting Mammoth, if nothing else for a hot soak. But on this cold December day, the springs were as active as could be, shooting plumes of steam everywhere. What a treat it was to paint as the rising steam mingled with the late afternoon light.

It’s a bit of a challenge to get out to Point Fermin, but I’m almost always rewarded when I do. The large sandstone shelves set this stretch of coast apart from other areas, and being out on a point, the sea always seems to have a different character. On this breezy day, the wind churned the water to a beautiful color. The combination of the rugged rock shelves, the restless sea, and the wind made the effort worth it.

Several years ago, Tom Redfield hosted a group of us at his great-grandfather Edward Redfield’s home in Boothbay, Maine. It was a lot of fun to spend time together as artists, painting day after day, and exploring Maine with Tom as our guide. We returned home with stacks of sketches, paintings, and memories of those days. The crisp, pristine Northern light, the deep blue bays, and subjects around every bend made every outing an inspiration.

Sometimes you get the feeling there is something just up the road waiting to

be painted. I turned onto this quiet farm road with that very hunch and found

this scene. It was getting late, but I knew I had to stop and paint it. Sometime later while looking through my art books at home, I came across a painting by Granville Redmond of the same place. To my surprise, it was nearly the same composition I had discovered that evening, painted some fifty years earlier.

It was a reminder that certain places have a spirit of their own. They draw artists back to them, generation after generation.

Foggy mornings and the evening fog rolling in as the land cooled were familiar sights while living in Portuguese Bend and along our coast. I witnessed this atmospheric change time and again, giving me plenty of inspiration for studies and paintings.

This painting grew from those experiences—the soft veil of fog rising along the cliffs as the sun began to set, transforming the landscape. The warm colors of sunset blending with the cool, drifting fog created a quiet harmony and softness across the land.

This is the hulk of the D.T. Sheridan , which ran aground in Lobster Cove on Monhegan Island in 1948. Since then, many artists and photographers have captured her weathered remains. This is my version, painted on a cold, rainy day.

At Puerto Nuevo, some of the old ways of fishing still remain. A couple of fishermen repairing their boat on the beach was the kind of timeless scene that could have caught the eye of artist Joaquin Sorolla.

The simple rhythm of their work, the weathered boat, and the coastal light drew me in. I felt the same impulse — to set up my easel and capture this moment along the shore.

24 x 32, oil on canvas panel, September 2005

The fun part of painting at Puerto Nuevo was having the fishermen come by from time to time to check out the painting—and offer me a cold beer. In return, whenever a boat came in, I’d drop my brushes, run down to the water, and help them drag another boat out of the surf and up onto the shore. It was a good way to spend a day painting.

Cabrillo Boat Works was one of those bygone places that defined old San Pedro Harbor. After it closed in 1997, I learned the buildings were scheduled to be torn down the following day, so I made one last visit to paint it en plein air. As the evening light faded, I captured this quiet moment in time—a final glimpse of the old harbor before it gave way to the new marina.

For me, there is something irreplaceable about painting a place as it exists in that moment—the changing light, the atmosphere, and the feeling of standing there. A photograph can preserve what a place looked like, but painting it on site preserves the experience of being there.

I was excited to discover Highland Light while exploring painting locations in the backwaters of L.A. Harbor. Highland Light was not a stranger to me. She had been part of the sailing scene in San Pedro during the years when I was racing and sailing there. I couldn’t believe the condition she had fallen into after once being one of America’s most celebrated racing yachts, now her once proud lines showing through years of neglect. I felt that a painting might help bring attention to her story and perhaps encourage efforts toward her restoration.

Built in 1931 for ocean racing, Highland Light was designed by renowned naval architect Frank Paine, whose designs included the America’s Cup J-Boat Yankee . She quickly earned her reputation, placing in the 1931 Trans-Atlantic Race, finishing second in the Fastnet Race, and winning the 1932 Newport to Bermuda Race while setting a record that stood for twenty-four years.

Her owner, Dudley Wolfe, was not only an accomplished yachtsman but also a noted mountain climber. Before leaving on his ill-fated 1938 expedition to climb K2, he gifted Highland Light to the U.S. Naval Academy, where she became a training vessel and was sailed by generations of midshipmen for nearly three decades.

By the late 1960s, the cost of maintaining large racing yachts had become too great, and Highland Light was sold out of service. Eventually she found her way to Los Angeles Harbor where she passed though different owners, theft and court battles.

Sadly in 2019, because of back slip fees not being paid, the boat constantly threatening to sink at her dock and the owner no where to be found, the city of Los Angeles condemned the Highland Light. Once dubbed “Queen of the Sea”, she was unceremoniously cut up with chain saws.

This painting is a tribute to Highland Light —not only to her remarkable history, but to the spirit and memories carried within her weathered hull.

Berth 72 along San Pedro’s main channel was once known as the Lube Dock. Smaller tankers carrying different types of lube oils would come and go from this facility, which is no longer there.

I was able to get up close to these ships and study them as they came in. I especially enjoyed painting the red ships, with their bright colors reflected in the harbor water.

I painted these seiners in 1997, when there was still a small remnant of the fishing fleet that once made San Pedro the largest fishing port in the nation. I knew then that this way of life was slowly disappearing, and I wanted to capture a piece of that history before it was gone.

The nets stretched out along the pier tell the story of the full moon week. During that time, fishing would stop and the canneries would close for maintenance and repairs. It was a tradition that had been followed in fishing ports for generations — and it also gave the fishermen a few precious days at home with their families.

For me, this painting is about more than the boats and nets. It is a memory of San Pedro’s working waterfront and the fishermen whose lives were connected to the sea. I painted it hoping that future generations would be able to see a glimpse of the harbor and the way of life that once defined this community.

The Little Rose is exactly the kind of boat that draws me in — a small boat with a big story and a character all its own. Once part of the working fishing fleet, this little boat now rests as a roadside landmark welcoming visitors to Moss Landing, one of California’s historic fishing ports. Although retired from the sea, she still carries the spirit of an earlier time when boats like this were built for hard work and long days on the water. Passing by, I couldn’t resist stopping and spending a morning painting her.

As night begins to falls and the moon rises. The harbor continues to work without sleeping.

When I came upon this wheat field in the Drôme Valley of France, I was reminded of the way I sometimes paint the sea at different times of day to study the changes in light and color temperature.

I decided to do the same thing here. The first painting was made at mid

afternoon, the second at sunset, and the third in the evening as the moon was setting over the wheat field.

It is a simple study of how the same place can change completely as the light changes. Claude Monet explored this with his famous series of haystacks and other subjects, painting them again and again under

different conditions.

After sunset, I headed down the road to a little café for dinner. When I stepped back outside, I was immediately taken by the crescent moon beginning to set over the wheat field.

I hurried back to the field and painted this study by the headlights of the rental car. It became the third painting in the group.

I wanted these three paintings to be seen together—not only as a study of changing light, but as three beautiful moments in the life of the same wheat field.

Group of three: $3,000.

A group of artists from the California Art Club were given the opportunity to paint into the evening at the Mission. On a previous night, we had arrived ready to capture the quiet atmosphere after dark, only to have the automatic grounds lights come on and change the scene.

Before returning, I met with the supervisor and arranged to have the lights turned off. A single light was left glowing in the window above that set the stage for our evening paintings and the title of my painting.

I think I had the title in mind before I even started this painting. “Burning the Midnight Oil” seemed fitting—not only because we were painting late into the night, but because that is what artists do: we keep chasing those fleeting moments of light and atmosphere that inspire us.

Everything around me was beautiful, and this little building with its bare adobe walls is what caught my attention.

One evening while painting the Mission, Jean Le Gassick was painting alongside me when she asked, “Are you going to put those two people in your painting?” Just as she said it, they walked away. I was all ready to paint them in. They had become what the painting was going to be about.

Jean quickly stepped into the scene and asked, “Like this?” Then she turned around and asked again, “Like this?” It was just what I needed to finish putting the feeling I wanted into the painting.

I was happy to have a fellow artist there to help me out. That’s one of the things I’ve always enjoyed about artists—we help each other.

Strong Santa Ana winds blew through the night. By morning, the winds had subsided, and I thought I’d go see what Bixby Slough might have in store for me. I found that the night’s winds had left their footprints in the reeds surrounding the lake, bending and shaping them in their wake. It was that quiet evidence of the storm that inspired this painting.

This old wooden footbridge at Twin Lakes was a familiar and much-loved part of the landscape for many years. Eventually, after decades of weather and use, it became unsafe and was replaced with a new steel bridge built to meet today’s safety regulations. I had no idea that the bridge would eventually be replaced and become a memory of what once was.

Although an effort was made to retain the character of the original structure, the warmth and charm of the old wooden bridge was lost in my eyes. At least my painting creates a romantic record of what once was there. A simple wooden bridge weathered by the seasons, quietly belonging to the landscape around it.

Harbor Park, also known as Bixby Slough, has been one of my favorite local painting destinations for many years. One particular year brought something very special—a rare moment when nature reshaped a familiar place and gave me a window into something that normally wasn’t there.

A recent fire had burned away much of the underbrush, and then the heavy rains of 2023 flooded areas of the park that had normally remained dry. The combination revealed scenes I had never seen there before.

I sketched and painted there as much as I could, finding scenes that seemed so removed from the busy city surrounding the park. This is one of those moments—an early moonrise over the newly flooded marsh, worked up later from my field sketches and memories of that very special season.

I grew up across the street from Averill Park. This was our park, our playground. Like all the kids around me, we rode our soapbox coasters down the hills, crashed on the bridge, made inner-tube rafts and went floating through the ponds. We had our birthday parties in the park, too. I would also sit and watch the artists who came to paint the lily pads. On one occasion, I sat there with a straw hat and a stick, pretending to be a young boy fishing for one of the artists.

This painting, holds something even more dear to me than just growing up across from this park. As my Mom's dementia worsened, before she was diagnosed with Alzheimer's, her doctor told her that she needed to engage in more activities. One day, she came walking down the hill in the park to where I was teaching a class. I was painting the bridge as a demonstration.

For the first time that I can remember, my Mom sat down beside me and watched as I painted an entire painting. That is what this bridge means to me.

Tranquil Reflections was originally painted for a show entitled On Location in Malibu, held at the Frederick Weisman Museum of Art at Pepperdine

University.

I spent time exploring all over Malibu with fellow artists when I came across this scene in Malibu Creek State Park. An old sycamore stood beside the creek, looking as though it had been standing guard over the canyon for

hundreds of years. It was the middle of winter, and the tree had lost its leaves, opening a wonderful view into the canyon beyond. I knew immediately that this old sycamore was what made the composition work.

Three years later, a strong winter storm brought the tree down.

I was getting ready to paint a moonrise at Bixby Slough when I could hear a roar and see light all around me. I turned around and saw a huge burn-off at the Unocal refinery, its flames lighting up the night. So much for the moonrise. I turned my easel around and painted the refinery’s fiery reflection in the lake. It was something completely different, but too good an opportunity to pass up. And I knew that if Monet had been standing there with me, he would have agreed.

A friend and collector was spending a year in Akron, Ohio and invited me to come and paint. I’ve always loved history, and the Ohio & Erie Canal was just a stone’s throw away. I knew I had to explore it. I found my way to Peninsula, Ohio, in the Cuyahoga Valley National Recreation Area. Much of this area has been preserved as a state park, rich with history and reminders of the canal era.

That day I settled in to paint Lock No. 29 on the Ohio & Erie Canal. The old cut stone, the river, the canal, and the fall colors of the surrounding trees made a perfect setting. As I was finishing the painting, the late afternoon sun broke through and lit up the hillside and trees beyond. At that same moment, the steeple of a small church caught the sunlight, completing the scene in a way I could never have planned.

Coming to a place I've never been before always opens my eyes to new opportunities.

This old boathouse along Anderson Lake in Idaho caught my eye immediately. Its rustic character and the way it sat against the lake made a composition I simply couldn’t pass up.

This little bridge over Hot Creek in Long Valley is a simple structure, and is used by the local residents and ranchers. The creek, the open valley, and the mountains beyond create a quiet corner of the Eastern Sierra where I always love spending a day painting and maybe even taking a relaxing soak at the end of the day.

The rolling hills covered with dry grasses must look much as they did when cattle grazed across this land, or even before that. Having ridden horseback over these hills and lived among them for 25 years, I came to know the quiet character of this landscape.

When I painted the hills and canyons of Portuguese Bend, I often felt as though I was catching a glimpse of an earlier California. time before roads and homes, when the land was shaped only by the seasons, the wind, and the grazing animals that passed through it.

It was an early morning in late October. I walked to a spot I had scoped out the day before, where plowing had begun to prepare the field for winter. As I walked through the field, I could hear the crunch of frost beneath my feet on the sun-bleached grass. The freshly turned earth stood in strong contrast to the light-colored grass around it. That contrast caught my eye and set the scene for the painting.

San Simeon Bay lies just below the famous estate built by William Randolph Hearst. In its early days, this bay welcomed countless ships carrying the materials and treasures that helped create Hearst Castle. Today, it remains a familiar and safe anchorage for mariners traveling along the California coast. The bay’s sandy bottom gives the water a beautiful greenish hue that caught my attention. I walked out to the point and saw the shape of the land jutting into the bay, surrounded by the rich colors of the water and coastline. I immediately knew I had found my painting.

14,000.

I quickly whipped out my paints to sketch this rain squall as it came rushing down the canyon toward me. Then I looked over at my trusty dog, Susie, and noticed that her hair was standing on end. I reached up and felt my own hair and it was standing on end too.

That was enough. I dropped everything, and Susie and I ran for the van just as lightning began striking all around us.

After a few minutes, the storm passed. I went back out, picked up my paints, and finished the sketch.

I have always been drawn to the solitude and quiet beauty of our desert landscapes. Painted Canyon in the Mecca Hills Wilderness is one of my favorite places to camp and paint, usually setting up my van near the entrance and spending my days exploring the slot canyons.

This painting was created right from my camp — a quiet time spent observing the light, colors, and character of a place that has become a familiar friend.

Some years ago, I was teaching a small group of Americans plein air painting in France. We visited this little medieval hillside village of Rochenboudin, and I was immediately taken by its beauty. It was one of those places that seemed made for painting. I didn’t even mind painting in the rain.

The bright daylight sun brought out the vivid colors of the mission, but it was the quieter hours afterward that captured my attention. When the doors closed, the visitors had left, and the fading light settled over the courtyard, a different character emerged.

This was the mood I wanted to capture as I made my sketches for this painting — a peaceful moment filled only with the gentle sound of water dripping from the fountain. The softer light in the courtyard, the aging mission walls, and my fellow artists quietly concentrating on their final paintings of the day created a sense of stillness and reflection.

Arredondo sits deep in a beautiful mountain valley in northern Spain known as “La

Capital del Mundo”, a place my family has called home for generations. Our family home there is nearly 300 years old, and sometimes it seems I’m related to half the people in the valley. So, having the opportunity to stand above the village and paint it was pretty special.

I hiked up the mountain to a place where I could look down the valley toward Arredondo in the distance. The rain didn't stop me. In fact, the mist and rain added something I couldn’t have planned for; A wonderful atmosphere that softened the distant hills and gave the whole valley a quiet, almost dreamlike feeling. So I set up under an umbrella and painted as quickly as I could. It wasn't exactly comfortable, but I wasn't about to let a little rain keep me from painting my family's home.

Sometimes you just have to paint the day you're given. You don’t always get to pick the weather when you’re traveling.

All afternoon I watched a large flock of pelicans feeding just offshore while I painted. This little sketch was done as the sun was setting, when they finally settled down to rest after their meal.