As someone pointed out to me the other day, it’s been a while since I’ve posted to my ArtJournal. To those of you who are new, welcome!
Truth be told, I’ve been a bit mired in what you might call an “artist ennui”. I’m painting most days, but it takes a lot of energy to keep going. Like sailing in the doldrums. Although it doesn’t feel great at the moment, maybe this could be viewed a sign of progress. At the very least, it’s part of the process nearly every artist must go through.
I’ll tell you more about that in another post. As I’ve promised before, this blog is supposed to be about the ups as well as the downs. We’re trying to keep it real here.
For now, however, let me tell you a little story about a most dangerous delicacy.
I was born in the moody gloom of Coos Bay, Oregon. My dad worked as a fisheries biologist in the nearby harbor town of Charleston. Although we moved away before my 5th birthday, I still feel a kinship with this gritty little working-class coastal community.
In fact, it’s not so little. The Coos Bay / North Bend area is the largest community on the Oregon coast. Being located, as it is, a bit off the mainstream of coastal tourism, the area has changed slowly in the last 50 years or so. It’s also a bit rough around the edges.
We sometimes like to spend a few nights in Charleston around the new year. We’re lucky to be able to stay at the Oregon Institute of Marine Biology cabins while the students are away. The cabins face out onto the boat basin, just across from a fish processing plant. All day and night, fishing and crabbing boats come and go from the docks, preparing gear and unloading their catch. Blazing lights sweep across the bedroom ceiling in the middle of the night. Diesel motors rumble. Men shout back and forth. The strong odor of fish wafts through the window on the cool breeze. Outside the fish processing plant, workers in worn overalls take smoke breaks.
It's not a vacation paradise, which is exactly what I love about it: it’s an authentic place.
Sometimes the Dungeness crab season opens late, around the first of the year. The schedule varies depending on the health of the crab population and various other conditions. As opening day nears, the boat basin becomes a hive of activity. The steel prows of boats with names like Ocean Faith, Stormie C, and Restless rise on either side of the docks, strewn with thick ropes. Crews scramble, preparing to head out and earn a living. Most are hardy-looking men wearing boots and rain slickers.
This also happens to be the time of year when huge storms roll in and batter the coast with forty-foot waves, fierce winds and driving rain. Some of the roughest seas in the country are found here.
A couple years ago a major storm coincided with opening day of crab season. At the stroke of midnight, over the sound of wind thrashing in the forest behind our cabin, we heard the rumble of diesel motors that told us the fleet was heading out. Through sheets of rain, we could just make out a line of lights navigating through the channel to the open ocean.
As an avowed landlubber, I could only imagine what it would be like to head out into a dark, storm-torn Pacific Ocean aboard an old steel fishing boat. I thought about the cables and rigging, wave-washed decks heaving underfoot, loaded with crab pots to be set and hauled up, over and over, while cold wind and salt spray whips you in the face. I thought about the constant thump and chug of the motor, diesel exhaust, and the cramped, dark spaces on the boat below decks.
And I thought of the stone memorial in the boat basin inscribed with the names of scores of men lost at sea over the last century, and the blank spaces in the stone where new names will one day be written.
There’s a lot of talk about “grit” these days. If that’s not grit, I don’t know what is.
Our tradition includes walking down to the corner fish market and buying a fresh crab. We toss the crab in the pot, open some wine or a couple of beers, whip up some lemon juice and butter, break out a bag of potato chips, and dig in. It’s a delicacy enjoyed simply, with messy fingers and nut crackers.
“Crab Season” by Robin Hostick
Acrylic and paper collage on board, 12 x 16 in.
It reminds me of simpler times, maybe as a toddler around the kitchen table, eating fresh crab on newspapers while rain lashes the windows. Toddler me, of course, had no inkling of what it took to fetch these crustacean delights from the bottom of the ocean. I knew nothing of the hard work and risks taken by the fishermen to catch them.
But now, I suppose, I at least have an inkling. From that inkling arises appreciation and gratitude. And in that lies the perfect antidote to artistic ennui. How grateful I am to reflect on these things as an artist, where the greatest risk I bear is a repetitive stress injury. I will never be lost at sea. Not literally, anyway.
And so, I painted an homage to the fishermen and the catch. I just learned these two paintings have been accepted to the 39th annual Art About Agriculture Competition and Touring Exhibition. Sponsored by Oregon State University’s College of Agricultural Sciences, this year’s exhibition celebrates sustainable food in the Pacific Northwest. The show will travel around four different locations in Oregon over the summer.
The first painting (title image) features a Charleston crab boat. I aimed to capture the character of the vessel and the mood of a winter day, both daring and ominous. The light spot in the sky, contrasting with the apex of the boat’s rigging mast, seemed to symbolize the idea of faith – as the boat’s name suggests - perhaps that one will see land again as well as make a large enough catch to pay the bills.
The second painting shows the fruit of the catch, cooked, resting on newspapers, as I remember from my childhood. The image is painted directly on a paper collage (assembled on a wood panel) of newspaper clippings portraying the uncertainties of the crab harvest and its commercial impetus. Both works complement each other, each tending towards realism, with emphasis on composition and color harmony.
It's a great feeling when a personal expression like this one resonates with other people. After all, even though I try to paint what I know - to say something about who we are and where we live - it’s not about me. The real joy is sharing.
