The First Sunset of Autumn

A nipping chill in the air stirs my artistic passion for the changes of Autumn. Passions that beckon me to look skyward at the beauty of misty streaks on the western edges of dark blue masses that reach out and absorb the hues of the distant setting sun.

All thoughts of misfortune and worries of tomorrow are overcome and muted at this moment as my soul relishes this special gift.

It is much like the moment a book you were reading falls away to the bedside surface the instant your body gives way to a nap prompted by the sounds of a rainy day.

This too is a gift from mother nature.

These gifts are about us, but go unrealized by so many who live their lives like robotic creatures railed on tracks to go, _to do, and to achieve meaningless objectives that will send their empty souls to a premature grave.

A man with little means I am, but not at heart,

For my core absorbs the riches mother earth and the universe have given me. Writers, artist, and poets feel and see things that others do not. Their hearts are fueled by the love of recreating what they see, what they experience, or what they can imagine.

By

Gil Garcia

For those of you who haven’t yet visited my

virtual gallery, I would like to invite you to see my art.

http://theartofgilgarcia.blogspot.com/

I do specialize in oil portraiture from my client's photos.

I have a lay-a-way payment plan to meet your needs.

No pressure, Pay as your budget can afford.

If you find yourself interested in honoring a loved one or a memorializing a family member or friend, I will be more than happy to talk to you.

Email me at gilgarcia40@gmail.com

I am easy to work with.

                        Memorial painting of Tonja Gauthier

                I was the Official Portrait Artist for the Sacramento 
                Kings 2002-03 Western Conference  Champions

                                                A Tribute to Vincent

       They are making a film titled loving Vincent. Each frame of the film is a separate painting. I cannot wait to see the finished product.

A number of years back I visited the Cleveland National Museum of Art. And in the basement I found a Van Gogh painting. I stood as close as I was allowed to, and studied the many layers of the painting trying to understand what were his first strokes on the painting, and of course the following brush strokes. 

This painting is a bit unusual for me, only because it incorporates two different styles. I did not take a very good picture as you can tell in the lower left there is a washout.
I call it, 'Old Field Slave.' The man really did exist, I used a picture that was taken in the early days of cameras. I just felt that by doing his portrait in oils, he'd will live on forever.

                                      I call this one 'Cypress Creek'

Hey folks, I know I promised you I was going to post more poems, but today someone sent me this video, and I feel that I should share it with you as I'm sure you might want to share it with your close friends and loved ones.  Take care...............gil

https://www.facebook.com/viralthread/videos/731127433726609/

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Between Two Worlds

The world  that a normal person, finds him or herself living from day to day, and that of a writer, who allows their creative side to pull them into the shadowed spaces of his or her mind. The side that is filled with mysteries, and drama that unfolds in millisecond bursts.

Artist captures visions in these inner journeys and put them to canvas.

Writers enter this illusionary world searching for a tale. He withdraws from the chamber only to scribe to paper his understanding of these sporadic visions.

In deep thought, he ponders, and molds words, and picks adjectives that best describes what this illusive world has flung at him. Sentence by sentence he works and reworks the tale, then he re-enters this chamber again to do battle with his mind's eye, beating it to death day after day, night after night, until his imagination has run dry.

Exhausted, he now realizes it is done, it is over, he can do no more.

But he questions himself, did he interpret it right ? Does it make sense? Is it the best it can be?  He re-reads it time and time again. 

Will the reader understand what he tried to say?

Will the readers clinch their fist in anger, will they laugh or cry? Can their mind’s eye visualize what unfolded in his head?

So, what is left when his work is done?  Does he throw it in a closet on top of so many others, or does he deal with the other world; the one he hates?  He is not a salesman.  He is not comfortable with this part, and would rather return to the chamber where he finds comfort, and let others sell his works, but the more he returns, the more it seems these encounters are taking over his soul. 

He’s now hearing voices, and whispers, barely audible, but they are there. He begins to fluctuate between sleep, delirium, and reality. Till one day the chamber closes the escape hatch behind him.

No one will hear him, for his cries bounce off the walls of this darkened chamber echoing on top of his previous cries. 

So be alert my fellow writers, do not let the voices draw you into the abis for no one will understand your babbling script thereafter. 

I have decided to add my poetry to this blog. I do hope you and your friends enjoy them.
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In 1970 I moved to San Pedro, CA to be near my brother Paul.  It was there I found a free-spirited community of musicians, writers, and philosophers. It was amazing to be a part of a community that shared their lives in every manner. Boy, do I miss them.  It was because of them I started writing.  This was my first poem:

 The People of Point Fermin

I live among the giants,

who share their lives,

Their music, and laughter.

They take your troubles and make them their own.

They are the people of the hills,

where the ocean meets the land,

they are the children of the earth,

they are my neighbors.

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My Brother of the Blue                           

My brother Paul was my mentor in the arts, and in so many other ways.
As a child, he made me laugh, as a teen he nurtured my love for the arts, and as a man, he gave me direction.

He and I spent many a day in a small boat sitting off the coast of Newport and San Pedro Harbors.  We talked, we laughed, we had a little wine.  We joyed in our moments of un-regimented freedom.

Those who went fishing with him knew of his fascination with the many colors that made up the ocean hues.  He was at peace out there, sitting over the ocean, listening to the gulls as the water lapped against the bow in the midst of nature's wonders.

I'd give anything to fish with him one more day, or sit in his studio listening to jazz while his imagination flowed to canvas.
Just one more day brother just one more day.

Your brother, with love,

gil

For those of you who wish to see the oil paintings I dedicated to Paul click:

http://theartofgilgarcia.blogspot.com/ 

they are called 'Ocean at Twilight,' and  'Morning Tide.' then click on each painting to enlarge.

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The Lady Sung the Blues

Anticipation,

faces sparkling,

wrinkles smiling,

memories at the ready.

Friends intermingling, while great grandchildren run through the gathering crowd.

Sun streaking through branches, warming joints, and turned up faces seeking the rare appearance of the coastal sun.

The growing color of gray cropped heads blots out the distant green scape as the band arrives one by one.

Blankets spread, picnic baskets, and bottles of wine appear.

 

Drummer man begins testing his skins, while the Blues Brother look-alike adjusts his mic.

Bass guitar man plugs into his amps then makes a run through his vibrating strings.

Anticipation,

memories at the ready.

Wrinkles smiling,

audience’s eyes glowing,

puppy dogs running as great grandchildren do cartwheels on the grass.

Almost ready, drummer warms up with a mixed run of sheepskin sounds.

Baseman vibrates notes that rock nearby windows and flutter our wrinkled foreheads.

A pretty lady arrives on stage and is welcomed by the band like an old lost friend. She sets her music on a stand and adjusts her mic downward.

Anticipation growing, memories at the ready.

Blues Brother laughing, making eyes at the pretty lady.

Puppy dogs running.

Little four-year-old boy in blue striped shirt plays his air guitar in front of baseman who is smiling at the boy’s mimicking accuracy.

Snacks, blankets, and beer,

vibrations fill the air.

It begins _the pretty lady welcomes all.  She announces that we were about to experience a ride back to the sixties, and seventies.

They start _the rhythm of Muddy Waters fills the air.

As pretty lady sings the blues.

Old necks swaying and dancing, hands clapping, as wrinkles smile again.

Eyes connecting with strangers, family, and friends.

Old couples grasping their loved one's hands _remembering when,

as the lady sings the blues.

Before you know it, it is over.

Goodbye hugs and handshakes.

Mamas and Papas gathering their now sleeping children.

Retired professionals, doctors, lawyers and old artisans with memories now awakened begin to leave, _some older, turn their heads downward, walking in tune with their walkers, and canes as their children help them back to parked cars in handicap zones.

Cars back out, but before moving on _ a few of the elder attendees turn their head back to the park to capture one more moment in time, as they gaze upon their dispersing long lost friends, who just shared a ride back to the sixties, and seventies; when the guitar man strummed, and the lady sung the blues.

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Till The End of Time

I have left the choking maze of concrete patterns behind me to stand and land's end.

It is here I have found the beating heart of Mother Earth. 
She beckons me at sunset, silently with colors beyond imagination.

The sparkle of the ocean begins its mesmerizing dance that welcomes the sun to come to rest behind her distant edge.

In the sky above are the endless and magical shapes of clouds floating across the golden sky, as the surf continues its rhythmic tones that purifies my mind and soothes my soul.

The distant fog horn beckons to the wayward gulls and guides them home to roost at water's edge.

With my soul now fulfilled and with last light, I reluctantly turn away into the darkness, grateful once again to have witnessed the beauty of Mother Earth, hoping someday to be at peace as my ashes float away with the tide, on their endless journey, till the end of time.
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Autumn Leaves

Knowing that the first signs of autumn are at hand, anticipation grows within me.

Soon, leaves of gold, yellow and red will begin their feathered spiral dance as they release themselves to ride the winds of fall.

Leaves that through nature's beauty have given to all mankind a silent gift of cleansing the very air we breathe. Leaves that will now begin to mass themselves below the jagged shadows of barren branches.

They will enhance the soil of the forest floor; lying dormant as their golden warm identities give way to the drab rusty browns and the chill of the winter to come.

The sporadic rains and downpours are soon to follow, giving way to a regal blanket of pure white snow that will absorb all sounds of the valley floor except that of a distant dog or the cawing of a lonely raven. All the other creatures of the forest will shelter quietly in place.

The aroma of burning logs of nearby cabins will add to the ambiance of the woodland and for those seeking its solitude to renew their souls.
Go with your loved ones and enjoy this wonderment that is meant to be appreciated by those who will allow themselves to be still. Go and listen to the silence of this sacred sanctuary that will cleanse away your anxieties, refresh your souls and build memories of moments shared that will last a lifetime.

Go prepare yourselves my friends for the autumn leaves are at hand.
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 My Valley

The darkness awakens to a new day over the eastern rim of the valley floor.

The distant highlands sculpted by nature's wind and ancient ice accepts this sun's morning's gift of bright glistening gold crowns along their uppermost edges, as the lower masses blanket themselves in shades of soft blue mist.

Sheared cliffs stand guard as sentries protecting all that lives on the valley floor.  A meadow bounded by an emerald green forest that has given perch to the midnight stars for a million years awaits the first ray of warmth upon its branches where a mountain jay trumpets with joy.

Given this moment of tranquility, my soul returns to its resting place, concealed by time, laid to rest by my brothers of the Miwoks of the Yosemite, my valley for evermore.

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Regret

It's too late for me to feel the joy of the Rockies one more time.
A place where the silent beauty stands resolutely for all times.
Oh, how I wish that I would have left the suffocation maze below. My spirit has shriveled, my hopes have drained.

How I wish I had as a young man walked the waves of the distant blue mist mountains.
To fulfill my desire just one more time, to sit in the tall winter grass, and watch an eagle soar.
It's too late for me to know the silence of the valleys,
to caress the beauty of a wild mountain Iris, and watch the river wind in sparkled vails.

The mountain nourishes my soul with soft crisp breezes.
I shall feel no regret to be without my fellow man at the moment of my demise.
For if God lives, this is where I'll find him.
He will whisper in my ear 
"Arise and walk, 
arise and see, 
arise and be, 
arise and live."
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To your health and that of your family

Because I feel this is so important to everyone's health, that of your children, and your grandchildren, I have chosen to share this video. It's hard to believe that our government allowed this to happen to the citizens of the US.  Please if you love your family and friends, please watch this video to the very end, and if you feel it as alarming as I do ask those you love and care for to watch it too. 

The Fourth of July

            The wars were long over, and most of the war-weary boys were home from the lengthy years of hardships, in the trenches, and on the seas, in the conflicts of the Pacific and Europe. The citizens of the United States showed their appreciation to these young heroes by celebrating the Fourth of July with the biggest and best parades they could muster. In our neighborhood the patriotic parades took place on Compton Avenue, just north of Florence Avenue. Because the parade was so close to our house, we could walk the one block and sit on the curb to watch the show. The light poles on the parade route were draped with the red, white, and blue of Old Glory as far as the eye could see.

            The beginning of the parade included the grand marshal and congressional dignitaries riding in antique cars, followed by the military color guards, and the United States Marine Band playing my favorite _'The Marines Hymn.' For me that piece of music defined the meaning of pride, and even at that young age, I felt that pride coursing through my veins when the marines came marching by. Old soldiers in the crowd stood at attention and saluted with tears flowing down their cheeks. The sights and sounds of these young marines returning home brought back memories of their comrades who had died in World War One. The crowd was awed by the accuracy of the crack rifle teams that were twirling their rifles in perfect precision to the beat of the music. Then came the navy marching band playing “Anchors Aweigh,” a song that kept the entire crowd’s heads and shoulders dancing to this magnificent piece of music, followed by the army band, marching smartly as the crowd joined in the singing of the “Caisson Song,” or the army theme song.

          After the parade we walked to the parking lot of the Sailor’s Market on the   corner of Compton and Florence. Behind the market was where the large circus tents were erected and all the animal cages were displayed. The circus was so exciting and new to me. It was the first time I had ever seen people swinging on a trapeze. Hot dogs, popcorn, peanuts, cotton candy, and candied apples were the culinary treats of the day. In the middle was a beautiful carousel with wooden horses moving up and down to the tune of organ music. “Hit the bottles and win a prize,” a man was yelling from behin the counter on the runway. “Step right up—only twenty-five cents, and take home a panda bear.” Everywhere I looked, there was something amazing to see. “Drop the ball into the fish bowl, and win the fish.” I was a sucker for the Ping-Pong ball in the fish bowl trick. People were paying a dime for three chances to heave the ball, hoping it would land in one of the hundred or so little fish bowls.

            There were many soldiers and sailors with their sweethearts, walking and talking arm in arm. My brothers found a booth with .22-caliber rifles, and as always, they were trying to outdo each other shooting at moving targets. After dark the atmosphere seemed to change, with two searchlights streaking across the sky trying to attract new customers to the event. We ended the day with a short walk to the ice-cream parlor where my father treated us all to a cone. And that, my friends, was one of the best Fourth of Julys that I remember. I only hope our children can live to enjoy such a day.

5.0 out of 5 starsA Walk Back Home

ByAmazon Customeron July 24, 2016

Format: Kindle Edition

Poignancy as well as humor. This reminded me of the book PENROD. It took me back 

to my own childhood and path to adulthood. You'll love this family and be entertained by 

the reminisces of this talented writer. What a funny and sweet story he tells of growing up 

in a wonderful time and place. It's a memoir you'll long remember and want to read again. 

Simply a beautiful and beautifully written slice of nostalgia.

Amazon's synopsis of PENROD:  Booth Tarkington was one of the greatest American 
writers of the early 20th century.  The classic novels Alice Adams and The Magnificent 
Ambersons earned Tarkington  The Pulitzer Prize for Fiction and he is one of only three 
writers to ever win the award more than once. Tarkington's works are also notable for 
their Midwestern regionalism as many of his books are set in his native state of Indiana. 
Penrod, published in 1914, is a classic novel that details the adventures of a young boy 
growing up in the Midwest before World War I. Tarkington wrote two sequel novels to 
Penrod and all of them were made into films.

For those of you who have yet to see my art there are a three sites I would like to invite you to visit.
1. The Artworks from Author and Artist Gil Garcia
2. A Walk Back Homehttp://awalkbackhome.weebly.com/home.html#/
3. The Art of Gil Garcia http://theartofgilgarcia.blogspot.com/
I do hope you enjoy the many different styles and subject matter that I've learned from my family. A family of five artist who shared their thoughts, their techniques, and their imagination.  Enjoy!

In the book I write about my parents and their love of the Ocean.  My father passed away in 1985, and my mother will turn nighty-nine years of age on May 19th, 2016.  Her greatest wish is be with him again.  So I hurried to finish this painting I titled "Together Again."  

                                                         So Mom Happy Birthday!

I've added a video of my art set to the music of Mozart.  Enjoy!

https://youtu.be/eixvzjHsOp8

Gil’s book is a memoir of his early childhood.  A humorous story. The Tom Sawyer of South Central 1940s Los Angeles is the best way to describe this little guy who manages to find himself in impossible one of a kind situations that will leave you smiling as he visualizes for you, and so descriptively beautiful, a neighborhood's panorama of life as seen through eyes of a child.

Gil's parents, his warring brothers, two sisters, a Dutch priest, and a English Sheepdog make up the cast of characters in this entertaining collection.  It's Gil's parents' love for one another that shields this family through tragedy and the hardest of times.  Memories fade, then blend into the next, and a delightful narrative begins to emerge that reminds the audience of the exuberance of youth.

Be prepared to fall in love with this boy, for these forty-four charming short stories will warm your heart and leave you laughing out loud.

This book now exist because of Gil’s beliefs that the histories of families have been shamelessly lost to their children and their grandchildren who will never know of their ancestors’ sacrifices, struggles, their loves and heartaches. Gil believes that you must jot down all your memories no matter how crude to allow your descendants to piece together who they are and where they came from. Tomorrow is always changing, and yesterday is always fading. Unless you begin to put these memories to paper now, your history and that of your family will be lost forever.  It’s never too late to start, and he begs you to try. 

Bob Hope once said, “When we recall the past, we usually find that it is the simplest things – not the great occasions – that in retrospect give off the greatest glow of happiness.”

To all my friends, family and loved ones. To all the people who stop by to read my page, let me say thank you. I give to you all, a gift, that you should listen to every morning before you start your day.  I ask you from the bottom of my heart to pay this message forward to all the people you know, to all the people on your mailing list. It's a wonderful message given to us so many years ago by talented singers of days long gone. The song is "We Are The World."

https://youtu.be/Zi0RpNSELas

Visitors and fans of Artist/Author/Poet 
Gil Garcia must visit his new blog that marries 
his award winning art and his writing so beautifully it is a joy to see at: http://awalkbackhome.weebly.com/home.html#/

I authored the little book that COULD, titled A Walk Back Home.  The book is about a little child. It follows him thru his early life during the 1940s and early 50s as he grows up in his south central Los Angeles Neighborhood.  This is the little book that will make you laugh out loud chapter after chapter. Read the review at Readers Favorite:  https://readersfavorite.com/book-review/a-walk-back-home and the readers reviews at  Amazonbooks.com.

Let me take you back in time with a good read that when you finish the last page you will have that feeling of satisfaction. And please tell a friend about your experience with this little boy that made you laugh out loud.

Thank you and best wishes to you and your family.

gil

Excerpts of A Walk Back Home


The Neighborhood

            On other nights, you might find a neighbor kid in our front yard leaning his head and forearm against the tree, counting with his eyes tightly closed as the children dispersed in all directions.

            “Twenty-four, twenty-five,” he would count. The giggles and laughter of the hiding children would subside to whispers as the neighbor boy neared the end of his count, and then…absolute silence. He would then quicken the count: “Twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty; here I come!”

            Under the dim streetlight, he quickly turned to begin his search while listening for any clues as to where the children of Parmalee Avenue were hiding. It’s a scene that has been played out for many generations, in every suburb of every city throughout the United States, children sharing the hours before bedtime. For these children the reality of war was a thing of the past or a newsreel at the Saturday matinee. For these children there was only the present, moments of innocence, moments to make memories that would last a lifetime. As the evenings grew colder, the last holdouts of the streets retreated indoors to join their families for quality time around the radio to be bonded in mystery and laughter.

         

Tina: From a bookworm!, March 19, 2015 By Tina Verified Purchase(What's this?) This review is from:  A Walk Back Home: A Humorous Family Saga (Paperback) A lovely and refreshing look at a family's history written through the eyes of a child. Gil Garcia's "first book" is a joyful experience for any reader! LOVED it!