How Are Things in the Old Neighbourhood?

Work in Progress - BOO! Reversed

BOO! At Twilight

Bink on pic to blow, up!

BOO! Eight - The Goldwater Cathouse

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This rambling wreck of a painting needs to be simplified and tied together better, but it serves as an idea painting..its the uze, a full sheet of unadulterated hay-wirosity.

Bunch of low-lifes (mostly my friends), minor league scofflaws since the drug laws were relaxed, squatted in this shack and conducted their dubious biness deals. One of the girls loved cats and some clever chap figured he would advertise in the faint hope of an economic gain or at least getting a laugh...as cathouse means whorehouse which I am sure most of you sophisticates know. The house, being old and reputedly the scene of a fatal stabbing, had slogans and warnings all over it. So "VOTE FOR GOLDWATER" and "THE CATHOUSE" becomes "The Goldwater Cathouse". I'm sure Barry would be impressed. (1964? Presidential candidate)

I think the terlit needs a proper burial...I was gonna put "We won't take any crap outa you" right next to it but too many letters. The pampas grass are in full bloomage in my front yard so I figured I put'em in...

BOO! Seven - The Demented Snowman

Yard Mates (Hanging Out for the Long Haul)

The Pessimism of I.M. Beaton

All righty then, this may take some 'splainin', so bear with me...My grandmother was a Rosicrusian who would tell anybody who would listen that, "when she went, she wanted her ashes spread in her garden." As a precocious child I figured I could untangle this riddle. A Rosicrucian must be some kinda gardener specializing in roses. But where was she going and what did "ashes" have to do with anything? If I'm a nut case its partly her fault, I'm pretty sure. Her husband was a newspaper editor for the old Vancouver Times and a an amateur painter. He checked out the week I was born. All through my childhood I looked at two muddy oil paintings that hung above the chesterfield in Granny's livingroom.

My brothers used to ask our dad to draw stuff to illustrate the stories he would cook up for us kids. He couldn't draw worth a lick but he gave it a shot. My brothers were always impressed, but I would look at the drawings and shake my head, the ol' man would grin and that was that. When I would draw something he would show his poker buddies and generally advertise the productions of his oldest kid. Well he packed it in too, leaving the whole outfit shy of male influence. As luck would have it, my grandmother had a brother. In retrospect my great uncle was prolly a full blown loon, that no responsible parent now would let a kid anywhere near. But times were different and I was shipped off to see visit the iconoclastic recluse (that may be redundant, but you get the idea) for weeks at a time during the summer. I would be about ten and his shack was in the interior and it was hot and magical and I learned a lot of stuff that I maybe shouldn't have.

I called him, "Gunk"..a contraction of great uncle. Thing is, the ol boy was sort of a patron of the arts and a polymath and encouraged me to draw and paint. He was an incurable contrarian and encouraged me to question everything as a matter of principle. He had (wait for it, you can see it coming) wrecked cars and junk and told me what they were and how they got to his yard. I loved the idea of the junkers and the designs, colours and history...I was hooked.Gunk sent me supplies, books and encouragement until he joined the rest of the crowd up above (I hope). He lived to see my first big junkyard painting and was over the moon about the whole production, somebody else saw what he saw...beautiful junk.

Gunk's real name was Ian Marshall Beaton. An appropriate name for a natural "bad attituder" who didn't see any real future for mankind, yet whose bright light shone on his grand nephew (or whatever I was).

Drip, Drip, Rusting Away

A Cluster of Cabriolets

Snake Light Illumination

Barn Fresh Cabriolets

When a farmer advertises an old wreck he has hauled out of a web-infested corner of his falling down barn it is referred to as being "barn fresh".

The Car Lot in Cumberland Hill

Left Behind

Fletch Speaks From the Great Beyond

I would have liked to have been able to ring up Ol' James Fletcher Watson and ask him a coupla things. Maybe have had a little visit...a lesson or two. I re-read his wonderful, The Magic of Watercolor and was struck by his assessment of J.S. Cotman, after whom the paint is named. The Fletch was particularly impressed with how Johnny handled cloud shadows in the landscape. So I fiddled a bit with an old drawing and popped out this scribble. It prolly doesn't have much to do with what the masters had in mind but I liked the notion of darks and lights with no particular reason other than, "there they go...there you are!"