Rants

P a r i s | J u l y 2 0 0 4

"Dinners, soirees, poets, erratic millionaires, painters, translations, lobsters, absinthe, music, promenades, oysters, sherry, aspirin, pictures, Sapphic heiresses, editors, books, sailors." Hart Crane on Paris, 1929

This sums up the days my girlfriend, Jodi and I enjoyed in Paris in St Germaine des Pres at boutique Hotel Artus on the most charming street you could ever want to walk down holding hands. We sipped artisanal pastis and saw Steve Martin wearing his little Inspector Clouseau moustache at Cafe deux Magots 2 blocks away. I tasted everything on their charcuterie plate (Jodi refused) and I can say that I shall not do so again. The night of the art show was clear and perfect and seamless. Great eclectic turnout, gauzy light, delicious champagne. Cheers to the Cornell Club of France for kicking down the goods and to Dr. Stroumza, our enthusiastic host and video directeur extraordinaire. I cherish the memory.

From Paris we hit a superchill, bougainvillea-draped villa in Cavalaire-sur-Mer on the Cote d'azur, where a good distant view of a snug, boat-filled, harbor recalibrated everone's machinery. A view so intoxicating I painted it day after day (and have 20 new pieces to show for it). There were 8 of us in "the compound," including intl superstar, Matty B, who showed us the swank underbelly of St Tropez by day (the new night). But it really was about being quiet, reading, writing, painting, a swim in the sea, a bit of yoga...and eating spectacular local products cooked with intense passion by dictatorial chefs amongst us who looked askance if you entered the kitchen with any opinions on seasoning the agneau. The quickest way to a man's heart IS directly thru his stomach.

Now back in Bruxelles where I show this Sat nite at chez Morton aka "88" - 5 floors of 20 ft, ornately inlaid ceilings, 9 hearths, a lovely little garden with apricots in season and a very fine art collection amongst which I am honored to be (well) hung.

R o y a l K i n g d o m o f T o n g a | J u l y 2 0 0 2

The color blue alone made it all worth it. A spectral sweepstakes of bluest blue. From turquoise shallows soft as the top of the sky. To cobalt coastal ledges where deep met reef. And emerald lingerie lagoons seducing shorelines. And dark russian blue mysteries hiding sounding humpbacks. All washing the eyes of the dubious. All painting me the color of tranquility. 30 days on a sailboat is a good stretch for a small island chain like Vava'u. It insures no hurries. Thus, no worries. I feel empty as a just-poured pitcher now. Clean, shucked, melted, soft, ready and available.

In short, the trip was a great success - no injuries, no piracy, no sunburns. Rich was a superb skipper. The boat was luxe, the islands gorgeous. The locals childlike and gentle (nothwithstanding their history as club wielding brain bashing cannibals). I painted regularly aboard Tikiti Boo (our 38 ft catamaran), typically in the soft light of morning or dusk, when the Polynesian sun would not quick dry the paint on my paper plate palette. I turned my cozy cabin into a gallery with several new works that I quite like ('Ahab's Stare, 'Anthony Quinn Looks Like Me,' 'Self Portrait in a Shaving Mirror') watching over my delightfully private space.

Met very inspiring peeps from the wide world, from 6 yr old Kiwi Shannon who drew pictures of me to the generous old German dude who'd been in Tonga 17 yrs and ran a sublime restaurant called Blue lagoon with excellent Chardonnay in the most gorgeous powder blue lagoon you ever saw ... to the four 25 yr old Kiwi best friends who were on a surf safari in the boat that two of them had poured their life savings and 2 yrs of sweat into readying for this trip... to the gorgeous young American couple (hey Cam & Sarah) who'd been sailing the SoPac for several years in their little Duet, spreading the most buoyant optimism (and fresh baked goods) in spite of being flat broke. Surf was avg at best but no bother. Hopefully, we'll make up for it in Tahiti. Food was great. Rich's cousin Phillipe is a masterful spearfisherman and we ate fresh fish as often as we wished. Humpbacks were migrating through and their songs could be heard on numerous dives. Bryan gave me guitar lessons and I can now murder Brown Eyed Girl (G, C, D7, Em).

One evening, I bestowed a painting called 'Peaceful Hunga' upon a 51 year-old local named Vaha on an out-island called Hunga, one of my favorite anchorages and a deliciously remote village tucked away in the corner of the corner of the world. Vaha paddled up to Tikiti Boo on his outrigger canoe at sunset one day. He'd carved that canoe out of a stout mango tree 15 yrs earlier and sat smiling in it as I tore away at my cardboard canvas on deck, trying to capture the bay's aqua/emerald ripples that lay before me like BabyGap corduroys. I don't think he'd been aboard too many decked out cruising boats nor seen too many painters at work, so we invited him up for a visit. He rolled a cigarette and sat watching, exuding the calm quietness pervasive in these islanders. He occasionally asked an intelligent question but mostly just sat smiling. Vaha has a son who is presently cooking on a cargo ship which will visit most of the world's major ports over the next year. The perspective his son will have seeing Hamburg or Hong Kong or New York, I can only imagine. I eventually asked Vaha if I might take his mango canoe for a paddle, which he happily allowed. The boat was a bit tippier than I expected, but I had no problem touring the tranquil waters surrounding Tikiti Boo. I sat and watched a particularly electric blue bird sit motionless in a tall tree for a long time. Funny how birds are either moving at the speed of light or standing perfectly still. When I returned to the boat I went below and got the small aforementioned painting which I'd finished a week earlier. 'Thank you for letting me try your canoe,' I inscribed. Vaha told me he would hang it in his home; I think he will. After he left, one of my mates could not find his very expensive diving watch and was quite upset; there was suspicion that Vaha might have taken it. The notion of this ate at me, for I felt we'd shared some basic truth......and I was correct, for the watch was found the next day in a cargo hold.

The sun kissed us day after day, stopping at intervals to let tropical rain pour over us like wine from a pewter goblet, giving us the respite to hole up in our cabins and stick into a fat book. Simple pleasures: Feeling the tropical water first thing in the morning....expecting it to be cold when in fact, it was perfect every time. Spooning fresh watermelon or papaya into my Weetabix. Sleeping after a lunch of freshly caught bbq'd coral trout or dog tooth tuna sashimi. Watching boobies (hey, I mean birds, alright) swoop over bait fish. Watching reef sharks glide with the power of a billion Darwinian years in their stoic tale swipes. Sipping tea or bourbon as the skies burned. Lying in the trampoline staring at a vast southern sky whilst sharing funny anecdotes from London and Capetown and the US of A. Learning to read the Southern Cross. Falling asleep to the words of Melville and the music of the water at the hulls.

People living on sailboats have a certain childlike essence, for boats are really big toys (albeit w lots of parts). But the ruggedness, adventure, spontaneity, casualness and salty intellect of the yachtie community was something I had never really seen, though I grew up diving and communing with the ocean in Miami. New worlds were shown to me by the likes of Dave the Cat, a catamaran (named after the family's 18-yr old cat [who was aboard]) manned by a young couple and their two young kids who decided to live their dream and were two months into a five year round the world sail, complete with home schooling, music lessons, shared chores and invaluable family time together....real time. Time to look into one another's eyes when speaking, time to hold hands silently, time to swim beside one another, time to notch everyone's changing height in the door jamb. Since a sailboat can typically go only 5-10 knots, you're forced to throttle back to a softer gear no matter what. To S L O W T H I N G S D O W N. Mind you that this reduced speed is no less sharp-eyed, for decisions, strategies, tactics and fixes are constantly necessary. But one is forced to experience the journey, and that is where I found the greatest joy, in that watching. Think in terms of spending "only" 3 months in Cuba, as one French woman described a portion of her ongoing 3-yr journey. Or spending the autumn cruising up the Atlantic seaboard to really see the leaves change, as this same French woman had done the previous year. Or sailing (with no previous sailing experience) from Trinidad to Panama to Galapagos to Marquesas to Tahtiti to Tonga to Indo to Thailand to Taiwan to Japan to China, all the while studying the local martial arts of each port, as another family w 3 lithe boys aged 9-16 were doing. These notions seemed at first so large, but now I recognize that they're as easy as deciding to do them.

I will sail the world for a long stretch, ideally when I have a family and more skills at the helm. Any special woman interested in joining said trip (and said family) should inquire within. A different world each morning. A world with filed-off edges and no tan lines.

Nothing but LOVE

stuART

S o c i e t y I s l a n d s (aka T a h i t i) | A u g u s t 2 0 0 2

The Guide to Navigation and Tourism in French Polynesia has copious entries for daily life, culture, the ocean and fish but only three entries in the ÒclothingÓ section of its Tahitian glossary: brassiere, hat and panties (piripo). ThatÕs what I like in a lifestyle, economy. Less clothes, more fish!

The Societies are actually sinking into the oceanic floor under their own weight, a process called subsidence. As a result, each island is surrounded by a lagoon (up to a mile wide) with a ring of reefs and islets, known as motus, surrounding each lagoon. The net effect of all this tectonic pageantry is a multi-faceted playground with activities to suit anyone not on life support: the day hiker, pearl diver, swimmer, zoologist, helpless romantic, ornithologist, gourmand, surfer, Hermes-ascot-wearing billionaire, sailor, shell collector, 4x4 maniac, florist, river rafter, yogi, sun worshipper, poet, painter, pie-eyed honeymooner, cab driver, ditch digger, you name it. In short, the atoll is a geographic anomaly that must be experienced, an adult sandbox full of toys. And I highly recommend you play on a boat, for one gets an extra concentrated dose of this eccentric beauty by being able to zip from motu to reef, reef to harbor, harbor to river mouth, river mouth to waterside bar, etc. Our superbly appointed 43-foot catamaran, Cascade, showed us the inner sanctum of this hallowed seascape.

Bora Bora (said with a heavy French accent) - Shark Dive
From a distance Bora Bora resembles the Sphinx, a regal statuesque emblem hovering between sea and sky. Up close it is the point of a spear raised from the depths, shrouded in sapphires and emeralds and deified mists. The shark dive took place just outside the main pass, in 20 meters of water clear as blue mint cellophane. The moment I put my face down, three tuna dashed just below the surface in a furious show of impatience, a clear signal that the fish here were keen to snack. Below, on the coral carpet, the first of numerous 1+ meter black tip reef sharks (reefies) circled for the feast in their inimitably casual way. We descended quickly behind Fred, our psychedelic-zebra-body-suit-clad dive master, who was immediately ensconced in tropical fish and a feisty remora, nipping at his ditty bag of fish parts like hens. Yellow tropicals swam an inch or two before my mask, seemingly oblivious to my presence as we moved forward, neutrally buoyant just above the coral. At 20 meters we were joined by the reefies who were never frenzied, never agitated, but constantly in motion, circling and angling methodically as throngs of reef fish scrambled for bits like Cincinnati drunks at a Who concert. I guess a certain gangster cool comes with being at the top of the food chain.

At 26 meters Fred signaled us to hang backÉÉÉÉ and moments later the first of the big sharks arrived, a 3+ meter fatty lemon shark the color of watery Dijon mustard. The shark took his chunk of fish with a commanding chomp and flipped off immediately. Often an animalÕs girth adds more to its intimidation factor than its length, and these lemons were certainly beefy around the waistline. Three more of these biggies arrived in the next five minutes and were gone like ghosts as soon as theyÕd had their food.

Bora Bora - The lights of Perseus
Our first night we moored 300 yards from the Perseus, a spanking new, 160-foot, 750-ton, Italian-designed (Pirini) ketch that glimmered in the inky moonlight with all the angular solemnity of MichelangeloÕs David. The understated profile and liquefied dark blue/black hull moved me, an exquisite marriage of form and function nurturing my contemplation of wealth at a scale beyond my imagination. If this was the ownerÕs boat, what was his home like? It was the lights of Perseus, however, which inspired the gentle awe in me. Softness which radiates outward to even more moonlit softness, ultimately diffusing into a perfect snapshot of Coltrane-scored tranqulity.

Bora Bora - Manta Rays & Indian Food
Scuba dove with manta rays in the lagoon just beyond our anchorage. ThereÕs something about the two-pronged Star Trek mouth and laissez faire pace thatÕs just too cool for school. Saw four of the prehistoric creatures, soaring at twenty meters, their 3+ meter wingspans rising and falling in elegant swoops. One was pregnant, her white belly bulging beneath her gray wings, a remora hitching a ride next to the bulge. Thank you mantas for allowing us into your netherworld.

After the dive, a midday feast awaited, compliments of Bal, our Indian princess. While her beau, Magnus, baked fresh olive/onion bread from scratch, Bal prepared a poulet tandoori spread fit for Punjabi royals. SheÕd marinated the chicken overnight in spices sheÕd brought from London, and it was cooking on the BBQ that had been hauled from Cascade to the little palm-filled beach weÕd over taken. While we enjoyed our lentils, jasmine rice, chilled box of white wine (a very good year in cardboard) and cool bottle of champers (Bal had also brought from London, thank you very much), a big fat pig kept visiting us with a clear appreciation for Subcontinental cuisine. We pushed and petted him a bit till he eventually went and sat his haunches down in the cool shallow sandy water just off the beach. Who says pigs arenÕt smart? Reading Barbarians at the Gate laer in my cabin, I had to smirk at the havoc wreaked by the power of my former employer, Drexel Burnham. As the sun fell over the silhouette of Bora (donÕt forget the French accent) and the sky turned bright tandoori orange, I did a bit of sunset yoga as the rest of the crew swam and played music.....et voila - PARADISE 101!!!!!!! Any questions?

Raiatea - Tahitian Surfers
Tahitian surfers have an impressive custom when they arrive at the line up. They paddle straight up to any stranger and, looking them dead in the eye, shake their hand. Yesterday, when we arrived back here at our sacred pass on Raiatea (canÕt tell you the name or IÕd have to kill youÉand your family), Rich and I went straight to an afternoon sundown sesh. After an hour or so, two locals paddled out, one a handsome green-eyed white guy originally from Reunion Island (a French protectorate off the Eastern coast of Africa), the other a dark portly local with a white full-throttle smile. Both paddled directly to me, the Reunion guy looking as much through me as at me in such a way that I was slightly intimidated, wondering if he might just haul off and punch me in one seamless act of localism. After taking a quick assessment of my soul, my vibe, my raison dÕetre, he reached out his hand, shook mine firmly and paddled to the peak, not speaking a word. Ditto his friend. Half an hour later, the TahitianÕs son, a handsome boy of 10 or so, arrived on a boogie board with Coca-Cola printed on its underside. He was one big shiny grin, walnut skin, indigo hair. When he finally made it to the outside where we were all sitting, his first act was to kick his way over to me and, eyes shining like the locally prized black pearls, outstretch his tanned hand in a friendly, eye-to-eye greeting. He too looked straight through me, never averting his look nor veering his approach. Again, no words accompanied his small-outstretched hand. ÒCa va,Ó I asked, to which he replied simply, Òoui.Ó

Raiatea - Joe & Guylaine
Joe is Portuguese but lived in France for twenty years where he drove a truck and a cab and met his French wife, Guylaine. His face has a certain swarthy blue-collar handsomeness grooved over time by cigarettes, traffic and laughter. For my birthday we had yet another delectable meal at their small inn, Pension Tepua. At some point, Joe had the brilliant insight to chuck off all the noise, angst and intersections and put his nest egg into a small little plot of heaven. The result is a simple and charming inn, on the water (with moorings), clean en suite rooms and a sexy little pool (piscine ø yet another word that sounds so much better in FrenchÉthough I do like pool). Both Joe and his wife attend to small things, like changing the TV channel to the English-speaking CNN when we were the only ones around and introducing me to a French guy who lent me a surfboard. OhÉand their restaurant kicks major atoll ass! Divine Roquefort salad with apples and lardons (thick bacon), both sashimi and seared (chaud-froid) tuna and crevette soleil (shrimp in a marvy coconut cream sauce) all washed down with some satisfying and cheap Spanish wine. I wanted to kiss the chef and wondered how in tarnation he found his way to this remote little kitchen on the backside of this SoPac speck.

Raiatea ø Stardust Sailboat Charter Office - Last moonrise
Bad French Polynesian cover songs accompany a hideously fast ukelele playing on the cheap radio (ÒI wanna know, have you ever seen the rainÉÓ). Final day in Polynesia, just returned the Cascade, red-eye tonight out of Papeete. From our cool places on the bow last night we watched the moon, bathed in fire, rise off the stern in a final cymbal crash of color, an exclamation of tranquil passion and sensual destiny. The weather was supposed to get stormy, 30+knot winds, but at sunset it could not have been more still. Rich and I toasted Hinanos (local beer with a great logo) to a successful summer at sea, then launched into enthusiastic Burning Man discourse, for in 4 days weÕd be on the Playa, running mad on a dusty desert valley floor at 5000 feet, where the theme, poetically, would be the ocean. The storm did, in fact arrive later that night and we all awoke every few hours to congregate in the saloon in our towels, nibbling on the last bits of our food (thanks Jo) as the rain and wind poured around us. It was like a childhood slumber party (only the house was moving) and a fitting end to our journey. We even had a moment of excitement when a small keelboat dragged its anchor and nearly hit us, only to be saved by a quick-thinking skipper off another cat who jumped into his dinghy and pulled the errant cruiser away from us. And so with a dash of midnight heroism we all went to bed, excited, wet and full.

R o t o r u a , N e w Z e a l a n d | J u n e 2 0 0 2

I've been hanging with Aussies and Kiwis and they're all drunks and so they've influenced me badly and made me forget things, but here's a brief update of the recent past. Am currently on the North Island of New Zealand where it is pissing rain in a little town called Rotorua known for its sulfur hot springs. In other words, it's wet and it stinks. Yesterday, we left my favorite NZ stop so far, the perfectly gorgeous little seaside town of Raglan on the SW coast, a place deservedly famous for one of the world's best waves, a left that peels for days off a point. Richard and I got it great both days. My surfing was tiptop the first day, and Rich was on fire the second. I am consequently tickled with personal pride and satisfaction presently, a feeling that often eludes me in the fickle game of surfing.

We've been travelling round the North Island in a van these last 5 days. Stopped in on the family deer farm (yes, deer farm) of a former Streaming Media colleague and they treated us to a feast of venison bbq - delish! Now, we're heading to the East Coast to see what it offers and to let our spearfishing master dip his face into the water.

S y d n e y | J u n e 2 0 0 2

Spending my last moments in Oz trying to keep my eyes open. Me so tired. Saw LTJ Bukem (drum and bass DJ) last night with a journalist friend who hooked me with a free tick. Not bad, but solid drum and bass can get a bit monotonous, especially when the low end is muddy. At any rate, got into the sack about 1:30 to go for the good night's sleep and couldn't (too junked on caffeine); so about 3:30am Richard knocks on my door. He was totally jetlag time warped and couldn't sleep since arriving from Capetown the previous day. We both got dressed and went out into King's Cross at 3:30am to pass the time. The scene was teeming with vampiric drug-addled desperados. Richard tried to power up with Redbull and Vodka but I just watched amused for an hour or so before heading back to the sack. He stayed out all night and flew to Aukland. Ah, the wholesome life of the world weary traveler. I hop in a cab for the airport in 30 minutes. Land in Aukland at 11p tonight for the next phase of the trek. Gonna be cold in NZ. Boo hiss. Cold bad. Warm good. Get me to Tonga already fercrissakes.

M e l b o u r n e | J u n e 2 0 0 2

I'm kickin it in Melbourne, Australia, a groovy raunchy arty gem at the bottom of the world. Been eating like a king w a fellow foodie who takes the act to a new level of artfulness - oysters, champagne w raspberries, bbq'd eel, cheeses, borscht, baramundi, olives; deeee-licious. A bit chilly just now so i'm ambling around in my turtle neck and scarf. Funny, I was walking through the residential streets of St Kilda today, a charming, somewhat bohemian old Melbourne neighborhood, and in the front lawns of regal victorian homes reeking w old world charm, stand palm trees. Its like seeing the queen in a bikini.

If you've never been to Oz the people are good fun, very jolly, always ready to toss one back w you (even though the local beer sucks). I'm back to Sydney next week to rejoin w some fun-loving friends and take in the galleries and nightlife which are reputed to be downright upright. Sydney harbor deserves its rep as one fo the world's most precious. Its coastline is like a gigantic rorschach inkblot and my diagnosis of its personality is terminal playfulness. Coves and crannies and spits and isles and every conceivable watercraft running around from docks and wharves and beaches and bridges. The city is wonderfully upbeat...and there's tons of asian food which makes me happier than a pig in oyster sauce.

B a r c e l o n a | S p r i n g 2 0 0 2

If you haven't been to Barcelona, check it out. Picture a 2000-year-old San Francisco. Now add groovy little food oddities with toothpicks stuck in em. Now add women wearing gorgeous scarves and men in stylish coats. Toss in the Mediterranean Sea and the lore of a thousand battles. Add lovers kissing everywhere just like that famous Doisneau photo, and of course, you've got the siesta from 1 to 5 every day. In a nutshell, it's romantic as hell and good bottles of wine cost $2us.

Now about the art. Barcelona is to art what Chicago is to wind - strong... definitive... ubiquitous. From the buildings to the timeless couture of the people on the streets. Public art is in every square and funky scenes can be had around every gothic alley turn. as such, there was no shortage of inspiration. Plus, I stayed on the top floor of this killer place overlooking the harbor and the whole city...facing due west. Can you say SUNSETS?

So I painted a fair amount. And the work I did was solid if I may be so bold. Ended up bestowing 3 works to various friends, old and new. I did one large piece, "BARCELONETA WOW!" - 30"x45" on this cool piece of cardboard I found with little round indentations all over it. The piece was a very colorful vertical line extravaganza. Light, airy, playful and indicative of the joyous mood I felt while painting it one perfectly sterling morning alongside the marina. Painted all that morning. All these little school kids kept coming up and asking me what I was painting. Each time I answered "no se" and each time they laughed. Hung the piece in my friends pad the duration of my stay and gifted it to them as a thank you upon my departure. Glad to report that they were delighted.

Another day I was painting down at the marina again(just took all my gear and set up on the walking path) when this very old gent in a wheelchair stopped and sat next to me for about 30 minutes. Watched me very intently as I painted this bright red nude. I think he really dug it when I filled in the breasts. He never said a word but I really like having him there, for he seemed to be getting something out of the watching.

I did another groovy little nude piece and gave it to a local guy named Jordi who turned 30 while I was there and who had me and my friends at his all night balls-to-the-wall raging 30th bday party. Got home from that gig at 7:30a with joggers passing us by on the way to our flat. Good morning!

The 3rd piece was a funky color blast w a sort of American flag looking bit on it and a poem:

barceloneta
2002
authentic special
yellow blue

I gave it to Jordi's sister and her fiancé for their upcoming wedding. Barceloneta is the fantastic 18th century barrio where I stayed w friends, and Jordi runs the joint. Yellow and blue are the colors of Barceloneta. The couple was pleased as punch seeing as they were talking about commissioning me to do a piece to hang in their living room.

So all in, the art consumption and production was satisfying as hell. The food was more fun than popping bubble wrap and the locals I met laughed from their bellies. I will return to that town and none to soon. I recommend you do likewise ASAP.

B u r n i n g M a n | S e p 2 0 0 1

When brilliant, creative minds are set free, laughter and/or awe will follow. The satisfaction of seeing this phenom always puts me in a revered state, a state of hopefulness, a state of knowing that the world has at least 30,000 good guys in it.

to each who brought the fire
to each who smiled through dusty eyes
to each who banged, pulled, tied and held
to each who danced and drummed
to each who spun and blended
to each who felt the rawness
to each who cared enough
to each who gave without expectation
to each who taught me i offer thanks and a poem:

burning man
MAN oh man
i feel it again
that utopian felopian
tube of a connection
confection erection
natural selection
perfection

where joy is created
equated with effort
elated thru
we sated who
ever came to
our bedouin dome
a taste of rome
when debauchery was en vogue
and we the rogues
in a dusty desert
where life is the exception
but sanctity the rule

with love - sideburning man (custom sideburns for all!)

and another:

Glitter

Watched a bunch of naked folks in a desert
White as wise man's eyebrows
Jumping and laughing and laughing

And colors swirled gregarious
Waving in gusty winds of wine and
Cheese and grilled meat and wet kisses

Some kooky wonderboy made me a pair
Of custom sideburns - called himself
Sideburning Man

Now I look like Asimov
And I can't even spell astromony