8 June 2020. Monk Plays Oceanside.
The first time around with this--maybe 1997—much more playful. The sly thrill of just being able to conjoin the two—Monk and the Beachside Stadium, or thereabouts. Which never happened, of course—that corrosion of salt air. Concrete bleachers and rusting metal. But I remembered it again today, needing something much less distinct, something full of wandering, if only in the line.
I should never have let it go—the painting, that is—like letting go a part of myself. Maybe because it was connected with Peter—the loss, regret. But also a kind of honesty, which increases over time. Vision of him standing by the barbecue, when C’s family visited, looking up and smiling—that Peter smile. She has it in a special frame, needs a little repair. He was tending steaks—a venerable task—you could see he enjoyed it. Not just the cooking, but the being part of things…
Monk’s face as he plays, eyes rolled upwards into his head—drunken but not from alcohol. That inner state he taught us, but with flat thumbs and a defiant smash. Hard to understand, from such a distance, what that meant—that absolutely full-bodied intensity, foot pumping the pedals, on and off the floor, almost leaping…
Set here against the Buena Vista lagoon, blurring towards the ocean. Late afternoon, sometime in the fall. That smokey light, with whatever’s left of the sun half-disappearing into mist. Very still. Tells you you’re home.
