My painting “Golden Field: Galway Downs” is featured on the November 21-28 double issue of the Chronicle of the Horse.
"Golden Field: Galway Downs" Oil on canvas 24" x 30"
Cross country courses in southern California are different than the ones on the East Coast: having been raised on photographing Radnor and Essex, Fair Hill and Groton House events, the first time I set foot on the course at Galway I had a moment of culture shock: instead of rolling green pastures, the galloping was on carefully aerated dirt tracks through tawny California wild grasses.
I’d been hiking around the Galway Downs cross country course all that day with both cameras and painting gear, setting up the easel in different places to sketch the mountain backgrounds, open foregrounds and tall trees. I’ve done a number of paintings from this day’s reference material, including “Top Of The World” and “Mirror“. “Golden Field” was from my last location sketch of the day, as the shadows were starting to slant and the light was turning amber.
From our aerie atop Mount Palomar, we wound our way down the East Grade Road to Lake Henshaw. It was decidedly warmer there in the lee of the mountain, even though we were only 1000 feet lower in altitude. We all crowded around a table at the Lake Henshaw Resort and enjoyed their cheerful country ambiance and good food.
Our afternoon painting location was just across the street at lakeside, but I don’t think any of us actually painted the water itself: we were too taken by the golden poplars lit with golden fall light. I chose a composition, assessed the sun’s trajectory, and started hustling…. The afternoons are short now that we’ve gone back to Daylight Standard Time! The sun dodged in and out of high clouds while I blocked in shapes, and then in the last fifteen minutes before it disappeared behind the mountain it treated us to a blaze of delicious backlighting that rimmed each tree with fiery color.
I didn’t expect it to be the coldest day of the year when I’d started organizing a painting trip up to the top of Mount Palomar for this week. After all, when I’d gone up there with my friend Nancy two weeks ago, we’d been searching for bits of shade because it was so warm. But we’ve had two cold, wet storm fronts come through in the past week, so we’re probably lucky there wasn’t thick slushy snow on the ground!
Nine intrepid PAPASAN painters made the trek up the serpentine South Grade Road to our overlook just beyond the summit. As ear car pulled up, and artists emerged, the first line out of each mouth was, “Holy %X$*#@ it’s cold up here!!!” After all, we’d only driven an hour and a half from the temperate San Diego coast. But this is a hardy and well-prepared bunch: on went the powder pants, the coats, the hats, the fingerless gloves, out came the easels and the painting began.
When it’s clear, I cans see the cut of the Palomar ridge road from my kitchen window. It was that extraordinarily clear on Tuesday, and from the lookout we could see the line of the Pacific 30 miles away. Somewhere down there was my house, too: if I’d had a powerful pair of binoculars I could probably have spotted our hillside.
We were fanned out around the overlook, enjoying the view and the sounds of hawks and the breeze in the trees when we heard an approaching car. We actually heard the music before the engine, so we were a bit dismayed that the booming white pick up truck pulled into the parking area. But I realized that the radio was belting out “Strawberry Fields Forever,” and not some angry urban war chant. I figured anyone who had John Lennon playing, even at full volume, probably wasn’t searching for a confrontation.
The two Rotties in the cab barked. A chuckle preceded Roy as he shut down the stereo and the engine and emerged. “Don’t you people realize it’s %X$*#@ cold today?” he exclaimed. He lives up on the mountain and was quite surprised to see a group of crazy artists bundled up to the eyeballs and peering over a precipice. We all agreed, chatted, joked for a while. Then he announced that we were all somewhat insane and probably needed coffee, got back in the truck and vanished down the road on a receding wave of Beatles.
A half hour later, we heard music again. This time it was some hot wailing blues. This time, Roy was carrying a thermos full of coffee. Seriously. He’d gone home and brewed a pot for us. We all thought this was quite amazing: how often does one encounter spontaneous generosity from a stranger? But it sure carried us through the chilly morning. Here’s to Roy, and to mountain hospitality!
The hardy group, painting on Palomar
A 6"x6" study for Burnt Tree: Palomar
Burnt Tree: Palomar, on the easel. This tree burned in the 1999 fires, and it's amazing to see how much has grown up around it since.
Another study: Palomar West by South West, 5"x7". This one was done on slick gessoed masonite. I love the way the brush strokes show up on that surface.
On what would normally have been just a foggy October morning, I headed over to one of my favorite local gems, Discovery Lake, for a session with my “Monday group”, the Plein Air Painters of San Diego (PAPASAN). There was definitely a fallish chill in the air, but we certainly didn’t expect lightning, thunder and an ensuing downpour!
We are all either stalwart or dumb as rocks, because none of us scurried for cover, except to sidle under the sycamore trees. Or maybe we were just enjoying the incredibly soft light under those wet clouds. We hoisted our painting parasols to try to keep the water off our paintings in progress. Painting parasols, by the way, are not designed to be waterproof, they are designed to keep the sun off the canvas and palette so one might better see the true colors one is applying.
Painting parasols, apparently, leak.
And when enough rain gets on a canvas, wet paint will start sliding off.
But everyone in our little group was in high spirits, and I can’t remember laughing so much during a morning’s painting session. Even if some of us did have to tip our easels over to let the rainwater run out of the palette!
I know, I know, I’ve been back and forth across the country and up and down the length of California since I last posted. There’s lots to tell, but there’s been lots keeping me from my blog these past few weeks. I’ll share, promise! But for now, here’s a plein air piece I just completed called Sunrise: Avocado Grove and Eucalyptus.
October Sunrise-Avocado Grove and Eucalyptus. Oil on Panel, 11"x14"
It will be available for sale as soon as it’s dry!
With the perfect weather and joyful ambiance of Pompadour, I had plenty of opportunity to break out my travel paints and … paint!
Given that I’m usually dragging a heap of photo equipment as well, it’s much easier for me to carry a small watercolor kit than the 20 pounds of my oil painting rig. Especially when there is a domestic European flight on the schedule, like the one from Porto to Paris, where carry on luggage is restricted to 7 kg, or about 15 pounds. (Two camera bodies and two pro lenses are … 15 pounds, even if carried in a canvas sack. Trust me, I weighed them!)
I enjoy the spontaneity of watercolors. They’re joyful and bright, which matches the ambiance of summer days at Pompadour. With my miniature travel kit, I can sit at ringside with them, or in a group in the beer garden, and as long as no one spills any adult beverages on them, I can paint and talk at the same time.
Just like with oils, or with photos, I design these little water colors around the patterns of dark and light that I see. Those patterns are the key to my compositions. Usually with oils I’ll start with the darkest dark; with watercolors I more often build up my layers of paint in order to attain those rich darks.
So here they are! These charming little sketches are all approximately 6″x9″, and each one is $150.00 unframed.
Black is still the new black ... or is Midnight the new black?
I would be remiss if I didn’t mention fashion. With all the hoopla about the new colors approved by the FEI last year, most riders are still wearing black or off-black, even in Europe. But I did see some notable exceptions and embellishments on the theme:
Buttons, buttons buttons....
Pinstripes and subtle colors. Browns are in. Greys are in. Love, love, love them. I would love to see a variety of soft off-whites in breeches, gloves and saddle pads to match!
Bold piping. Not just on collars, but on cuffs, pockets, and the edges of points. Gold, white, silver, red and green were seen.
Buttons, buttons, buttons. Many, shiny, glittery and fancy.
Back bows and/or elbow patches. Not sure about this one, but the contrasting ones definitely caught my eye.
Pinstripes, contrasting bow and elbow patches. Note the gem in the center of the bow!
Helmets seem slow to catch on in Europe. The Juniors are required to wear them, but very few adults have switched out their top hats so far.
We arrived at Orly after a short flight from Porto, and picked up our car for the drive down to Pompadour. It’s about a 5 hour drive, but we figured that by the time we transferred by bus from Orly to Charles de Gaul, went back through security, flew to Limoge and then drove to Pompadour, it was a wash, time-wise.
We were fortunate to have a nearly new Peugeot 5008 with GPS waiting for us. “MoneyPenny” as we called the GPS, due to her clipped British accent, had it goin’ on. She deftly guided us through rush hour and roundabouts and got us to Pompadour in good stead. But I did want to keep searching for the button that would activate the bumper-mounted torpedo.
Pompadour's vet inspection, and the Castle guardhouses
The vet inspection was under way when we arrived in Pompadour. Of all the dressage shows I’ve been to, Pompadour’s “jog” track is probably the most beautiful, with its background of the castle guard houses. It was an crisp, sunny, beautiful afternoon, and when the jog was over, everyone repaired to the beer garden.
Where there was not Fado music playing. Instead, it was something Parisian, with accordians, something that could have been the soundtrack to Amalie, some utterly light hearted music that matched perfectly with the golden-hued afternoon light.
Pompadour has become known as one of the friendliest shows on the circuit. The riders love that their horses all stay in big airy box stalls in the historic, honey-colored barns of the French National Stud. Management always makes everyone feel welcomed and looked after. Parking is a little tight for the big rigs, and hotel rooms can be a bit difficult to find, but restaurants are good and plentiful, with several within walking distance of the show grounds. The town is built around the castle, and the castle houses the Stud, and it all overlooks the racetrack and the cross country course that has been the site of French Eventing Championships.
Dinner with the judges & officials
Dinner included judges and officials from seven different countries. It’s such a blessing to be a part of these meals, with so many diverse backgrounds represented, all united by dressage. Axel and I joke that we are part of a traveling circus. There are people that we only see perhaps once a year, but when we meet at a show we all resume our conversations as if we’d left off only yesterday.
We are staying at a bed and breakfast, or “gite”, on a small Thoroughbred breeding farm. The rooms are the usual for the area, small, with slanted ceilings, but the breakfasts are delightful, and there are curious young horses just a few steps away. We sit outside one evening, sharing a bottle of wine with our friend, Finnish judge Maria Colliander, and we see shooting stars. It is so clear and dark that the Milky Way stands out as if painted onto the sky.
The main arena at Pompadour
The main arena is flanked on two sides by the magnificent barns, and behind “C” is the clocktower. It’s a stunning backdrop for dressage, and I spend the weekend alternately painting and photographing. By Sunday the temperature has gone up, and spectators have foregone the bleacher seating in the sun for the cool shade cast by the south barn. I’m standing there with them, when I start to see spectators decide that the judges shouldn’t be the only one in the shade on the short side of the arena. Although the officials try to convince them to leave, more and more of them fill in the spaces between the judges’ boxes at “M”, “C” and “H”. Not a single horse spooked, and not a single Dressage Queen had a hissy fit.
Everyone is a dressage judge in France
The awards celebration is on the terrace of the Castle. No horses, just show-attired riders, and their families, friends and dogs. It’s a party, and it’s France. There are Juniors, and Pony riders, and Young Riders, and they’re all exuberant, waving flags and cheering each other on regardless of what country they’re from; there are Prix St George and Grand Prix Riders, joking and wrestling the copious swag of their winnings, doing impromptu “victory gallops” on foot. There are dogs playing underfoot as the awards are presented. there are babies giggling at flags. There are hors d’oeurves, and wine, and champagne, and lemony afternoon light.
Prize-giving on the Castle terrace
It’s hard to leave on Monday morning. We point MoneyPenny in the direction of Charles de Gaul airport and head toward the A-10. I always forget how beautiful this area is until I return to it, and then I forget how beautiful a summer morning can be here until I’m driving through the dawn. The A, well tended and civilized with aires (rest areas) at regular intervals, rolls gently between fields of wheat and sunflowers. Europeans have a different style of driving than we’re used to in the States: Thou Shalt Not Hang About In The Left Lane is the First Commandment. I enjoy this orderly routine: no one is trying to pass me on the right, and I don’t see anyone texting and driving.
We navigate the antique highways of Paris in order to get to CDG, and as the traffic builds I spy the Eiffel Tower. “I’m driving through Paris,” pops into my head, and the thought delights me, even though it’s stop and go for a while, and I am, as usual in Europe, driving a standard shift car. MoneyPenny delivers us precisely to the entrance of the car rental return, and we step from France into international travel mode. It’s a long way back to San Diego, on cramped flights packed with summer vacationers, through storm-delayed Atlanta, and we don’t turn the key in the lock until 3:30 in the morning.
But there is nothing like your own cushy bed at the end of 26 hours of travel.
After the dressage was over on Sunday, we got a ride to Porto, the second largest city in Portugal. Situated on the Douro River, Porto is the home of … Port. Wine that is. We had an early flight out a few days later, so we stayed at the airport hotel. It looked like a penitentiary from the outside, but on the inside it had big bathrooms with deep jetted tubs and a bar that was open late. It was close enough to the airport that we walked to the airport station to catch the train into town.
Mass transit is quick and clean in Porto, and we bought a multi-day pass so we could move around at will. We could read the destination signs, but as usual, we were perplexed by the Portuguese pronunciations, which to our American ears sound nothing like what they look like!
Layers in Porto
Porto is a city of luscious decay. It is one of the oldest European cities, having once been an outpost of the Roman Empire, and it’s a UNESCO World Heritage Site. It is vibrant, there are people everywhere, the trains, buses, cafes and restaurants are packed, but there are also empty buildings with curtains fluttering out of vacant staring windows… . But that’s part of it’s multi-layered appeal.
Azulejo tiles in Sao Bento Station
Our first evening, we alighted from the Porto Metro at the Sao Bento station and immediately gasped at the the magnificent blue-and-white “azulejo” tiled walls, painted by Jorge Colaco, that depicted historic scenes. I’m told that there are 20,000 tiles in the main vetibule. I couldn’t stop taking pictures of them. At one point I realized that a police officer was watching me. I guess the word “Wow” translates into any language: proudly, he puffed up a bit, and I saw him smile a bit.
It was still oppressively hot. As the sun sank, we walked toward the Porto Cathedral, with its commanding views of the Douro River. We then found ourselves winding our way through the Ribiera, one of the oldest sections of the city. Carved into the steep hillside, the streets are precipitous, part staircase. Antique buildings rise on either side: in some places you can stand in the middle of the street and touch both sides. Because it was Sunday evening, families were mingling in the narrow lanes; chairs and tables had been brought outside, laundry was hanging to dry, the smell of Sunday dinners wafted in the air. There are a thousand years of layers here, Swabians, Romans, Moors, Visigoths, Normans, and we wondered for how many generations some of these families had inhabited these houses.
In the Ribeira
And then suddenly we emerged at the river side, amidst restaurants, hotels, a street market, antique river boats, and the chatter of happy diners. We found a table overlooking it all. When the cold front swept in from the ocean, we saw it before we felt it, an updraft that roiled the river and swept a maelstrom of seagulls before it. We grabbed our tourist maps and thought about dashing for cover. But there was no rain, just a collective sigh as the heat broke. We sat until the sky turned indigo, watching as the lights lit on the Ponte Dom Luis, which was built by Gustav Eiffel.
Ponte Dom Luis
We spent the next two days touring: bus tour, boat tour, a winery tour (of course!), and lots of meandering on foot through the city. We rode the cable car and the funicular. We got familiar with the Metro routes. We saw churches tiled in azulejo; we saw churches with gilded interiors. We learned what Fado is, that mournful Portugese music about “saudade” or loss. We harkened to it at first, it was part of the flavor of Porto, and it seemed to be good music to drink port with. By day two, I wanted to change the station; by the time we left, I wanted to never, ever hear Fado again.
The main arena at the Ponte De Lima showgrounds is of the same footing that was at Kentucky for the WEG. It holds two competition dressage arenas and one schooling dressage arena, so everything from warm up to the classes to the awards is within view of the tribune that runs the entire long side. The tribune is a work of art: 20 foot high sliding floor to ceiling glass doors that retract to create a huge lanai that catches all the hilltop breezes. Add the arena’s great lighting system and sound system, and Ponte de Lima is ready for a gala. Good thing there was one planned!
The CDI itself was small, but there were quality horses in both the Grand Prix and the small tour. The dressage runs concurrently with the Feiro do Caballo, a festival that includes young horse classes, driving classes, and Traditional Working Equitation, which shows the movements that a horse that works the bulls would need for his job.
Friday night was Gala night, and the place was packed with thousands of spectators. They filled the tribune, enjoying the good catering and wine; they lined the hillside terraces, they stood on tables and climbed the lower branches of trees near the ring. The show started at 10:00 pm because that was when it was finally fully dark and the stage lighting could shine. We did notice that the show program stated that the festivities were not scheduled to end until 4:00 am. Of course I didn’t believe that… at first! The program opened with a parade led by a traditional ox cart, followed by a pageant in traditional dress, powered by a band of Portugese instruments, including drummers carrying huge drums that were nearly their own height. You could feel the thunder of them reverberating in your chest as they pounded them with all their considerable strength.
The Gala is all about the Lusitano horse, though. Whatever music or instruments were in the arena, they were there to accompany the horses and riders. Caballeros did patterns with the long pikes they use to move the bulls; an acrobat twirled on a silk rope with a stallion below it; riders did pas de deux with dancers. The finale was a quadrille of caballeros riding with burning torches: it is a testament to the bravery and solid temperament of the Lusitano horse that they all moved among the torches and fire bowls in the arena with complete ease and assurance.
The partying was still in full swing when we left at 2:00 am.
In hand exhibition, Feira do Cavalo
~~~~~
Saturday evening was Freestyle night. I had expected to photograph again under the ample lighting, but there was a shortage of English-speaking scribes. Even though I’d never scribed for a freestyle, let alone the Grand Prix Freestyle, I parked my camera bag under the table in Axel’s judge’s box, picked up a pen and started “pencilling”. I found it actually more fun to scribe for the freestyle than for the Grand Prix: any comments are given after the ride is completed, so you have moments when you can look up and watch. And it’s a good idea to watch the ride, so you know what movement is being performed. That way you’re prepared to add the score to the appropriate box on the test sheet. Rubi, a 12 year old Lusitano stallion, and Goncalos Carvalho from Portugal were very much the best that night, with a piaffe that was very close to garnering a 10.
After the awards, the dressage arena was dismantled and Horse Ball commenced. If you haven’t seen it before, it’s played by teams of four, in an area about the size of a dressage arena. There are baskets at either end, and the ball is a soccer ball with handles. It’s played a bit like basketball on horseback, and it looks like a blast. They were just getting started around midnight, and when we returned the next morning for the last day of dressage, we found that again, things had only wound down around 4:00 in the morning. Therefore I was quite surprised to see so many spectators filling in the shady areas in the building heat of Sunday morning to watch the Grand Prix Special. I wondered how many of them just hadn’t ever gone home!
