When an artist discovers his/her own style, more accurately put as understanding his/her own vision, its usually followed with a realization that one is not so individual as one might think, but is, rather, an individual amongst many who has passed before them.

Its then that the artist realizes he’s been drawn into a specific “current,” a flow, a direction. Much like many rivers flow across the earth, many currents in art exist, and an artist is literally pulled into something bigger than themselves, magnetically it would seem, and a responsibility is now laid upon them to do that current right, to be a valid contributor to that specific current.

I’ve called myself many things as my work has developed, as have others in the press I’ve received, but these names, these titles, these genres, are just labels made for some necessary categorization, like Hibiscus vs. Hortensia flowers, but these names hardly serve an artist. These names don’t change the work, any more than confusing the tree itself with the name you call it. When you see a tree, your not seeing the tree, but rather your seeing something that you call a tree.

As an example, Tommy Ridgeback Riverton was this dude I used to surf with a lot. We called him Ridgeback because his vertebrae stuck out more than most people’s, I mean, they really protruded. Even a wetsuit didn’t hide those lumps of bone. So this guy, Tommy, he was a madman, a menace to himself, he had no fear of death or anything worse, like stubbing his toe, or even punching himself right in the snout (I kid you not). I’ve seen him do that a few times. He even gave himself a black eye once, but he never broke his own nose, though somebody else did, once. Anyway, this was way back when, in those days before I decided I was an artist, in those days when surfing was THE number-one priority for me. I could stand no distractions from that. Not even girls could pull me off the beach.

So Tommy, he would take hard wipes in the water, the harder the better, and he did it on purpose. A good wave meant little to him like it did to others, it was going down hard that mattered. When he’d wipeout with the most horrendous dismounts one could imagine, in the worst possible places and the worst possible moments, in situations that any other surfer would avoid at all costs, he’d resurface sputtering and spitting brine, and just start hooting up a storm, and then he’d look around for the nearest person just for some acknowledgment, recognition, or even justification for his own doing, or undoing, as things might have it, and proceed to say “ Dude, how cool was that? Was that the coolest wipeout ever, or what?”

I think our friendship ended on a cold, black and stormy, triple-overhead, winter day up at Indicators at Rincon point when he did his usual on a real honker of a wave. It was easy for him to find me since we were the only ones out there. He came to me after a paddle long with all his hootin’ and hollerin’ done, and asked his normal “Didja see that? Dude, was that the gnarliest wipeout?” I replied, “C’mon man, that wasn’t a wipeout.” That was only what you call a wipeout.” He suddenly had a strange, pensive kind of look on his face, puzzled even. I think he suddenly wondered why he did what he did. So Tommy, he looked at me (visibly perturbed at my lack of validation), and said, “are you ready to go home now?”

It was big, and it was Rincon, but it was crappy, so what the hell, it was back to Goleta.

I’ve always wondered what became of Ridgeback, but have since applied that same maxim to art.

That’s pretty much it.