"Fire Sale, Everything Must Go". You've seen signs like this. It doesn't always mean there's been a fire. The term's gone generic. Fire sale can stand for any last ditch effort to liquidate inventory and move on. I used to know a Sikh in Edinburgh Scotland who specialized in fire sales. He'd rent a store, sometimes in a posh commercial district like Prince street and sell clothes that had been the inventory of someone else's failed enterprise. He'd give them one last chance, putting a 50% discount on one rack, and 60% off on another, and let everything on the table go for 10 pounds. Well, people love a bargain don't they? When he'd sold everything he thought he was likely to unload he would just pull out in the middle of the night. The next day there'd only be an empty store and perhaps a landlord somewhere wondering what had happened to that damn rascal in a turban and the remaining rent he'd been promised.
I'm feeling a lot like that Sikh today. I'm getting rid of everything. When my creditors look for me tomorrow they'll only find an empty camp , an empty studio space, and a gaping hole in the air where I should be standing. That's alright . Someone else can occupy that empty space on the sidewalk . As for creditors, no one is going to be out a penny. I've taken care of the money, but I still owe lots of you more than I could ever repay for your generous kindness, friendship, and love.
I began coming to Telluride in the late eighties. Back then I was a bike bum, now and then a kayak bum. I really had nothing that didn't travel with me .I carried little on that bicycle, a slightly bigger pile loaded into a sea kayak. I painted and drew and worked a few short term jobs. Settling down hadn't occurred to me. While passing through Telluride in 2006 a strange thought hit me, why not put down some roots here? A new phase of my life began on the spur of the moment, and it grew into the life I created in Telluride.
Deciding to pull up stakes was almost as sudden for me. At this point I can only see next year and what remains of this one. First I get rid of the stuff that won't travel, then I make a short ride in the desert, then I prepare for a much longer ride in Europe.
Back in my free floating days there were spots I loved returning to again and again on the other side of the Atlantic. I'd found towns and cities there that were so paintable and so liveable, and so irresistible, they drew me back again and again. And in turn, I drew them. I may have been romantisizing life in small European cities. My tendency is to walk a bit above the ground ,I'll admit. The fact that you can romanticize anything at all these days is encouraging. I call the missing element of modern life magic. To me, a hopeless romantic, life without magic is hardly worth living. I can go there for a few months and bike around to my hearts content and hardly escape this prosaic existence. To make that leap into the magical takes something more . I'll have to spend more time. I'll need to depend on my brushes and pencil to sustain me. I'll have to burrow deep to extract whatever magic I can find and expose it. Another piece of magic occurs when someone sees a painting I've created and responds to it ,then buys it . It's as if I was led to paint that picture and they were led to buy it. The whole damn process was magic from start to finish . Time to celebrate at an outdoor cafe with a good meal and a glass of wine. Why wouldn't i want to return to that?
I'm using the word magic as a substitute for what i really mean but don't have words for. Often you know you've arrived when coincidence leads to coincidence, and the commonplace and the unexeptional fly right out the window. If life is going as planned, and every thing is just as you expect it you are seriously missing the boat. Someone said that coincidence is just God wanting to remain anonymous. I'll drink to that.
How long will I be gone? Will I return at all? I don't know. The answer to the last question is that's very likely. Not knowing is part of letting go. I need to let go now. Will there be more columns in the future? Just try and shut me up.
I'm feeling a lot like that Sikh today. I'm getting rid of everything. When my creditors look for me tomorrow they'll only find an empty camp , an empty studio space, and a gaping hole in the air where I should be standing. That's alright . Someone else can occupy that empty space on the sidewalk . As for creditors, no one is going to be out a penny. I've taken care of the money, but I still owe lots of you more than I could ever repay for your generous kindness, friendship, and love.
I began coming to Telluride in the late eighties. Back then I was a bike bum, now and then a kayak bum. I really had nothing that didn't travel with me .I carried little on that bicycle, a slightly bigger pile loaded into a sea kayak. I painted and drew and worked a few short term jobs. Settling down hadn't occurred to me. While passing through Telluride in 2006 a strange thought hit me, why not put down some roots here? A new phase of my life began on the spur of the moment, and it grew into the life I created in Telluride.
Deciding to pull up stakes was almost as sudden for me. At this point I can only see next year and what remains of this one. First I get rid of the stuff that won't travel, then I make a short ride in the desert, then I prepare for a much longer ride in Europe.
Back in my free floating days there were spots I loved returning to again and again on the other side of the Atlantic. I'd found towns and cities there that were so paintable and so liveable, and so irresistible, they drew me back again and again. And in turn, I drew them. I may have been romantisizing life in small European cities. My tendency is to walk a bit above the ground ,I'll admit. The fact that you can romanticize anything at all these days is encouraging. I call the missing element of modern life magic. To me, a hopeless romantic, life without magic is hardly worth living. I can go there for a few months and bike around to my hearts content and hardly escape this prosaic existence. To make that leap into the magical takes something more . I'll have to spend more time. I'll need to depend on my brushes and pencil to sustain me. I'll have to burrow deep to extract whatever magic I can find and expose it. Another piece of magic occurs when someone sees a painting I've created and responds to it ,then buys it . It's as if I was led to paint that picture and they were led to buy it. The whole damn process was magic from start to finish . Time to celebrate at an outdoor cafe with a good meal and a glass of wine. Why wouldn't i want to return to that?
I'm using the word magic as a substitute for what i really mean but don't have words for. Often you know you've arrived when coincidence leads to coincidence, and the commonplace and the unexeptional fly right out the window. If life is going as planned, and every thing is just as you expect it you are seriously missing the boat. Someone said that coincidence is just God wanting to remain anonymous. I'll drink to that.
How long will I be gone? Will I return at all? I don't know. The answer to the last question is that's very likely. Not knowing is part of letting go. I need to let go now. Will there be more columns in the future? Just try and shut me up.
You’ll be back and Telluride will be better for it.
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