Tag: art

I went out to the levee after school. It’s the first time I actually felt like fall might be coming. Some of the leaves are changing and the river is low and ripply. I guess I must still be a little traumatized from sliding in the paint last week, because I was super scared to take my first step down the wall.

I learned from my mistakes though and didn’t take down four gallons of paint this time. Even though, the day was cooler than it has been lately, the cement was still hot under my feet. I have walked around barefoot my whole life, but this project has made my feet so tough. I’d like to get a pedicure, but I think the nail guy is going to scold me for abusing my feet. I can hear him “tsk, tsking” me. He’d say, “What you been doing? Walking in fire?” Uh kinda. Anyway, the bottom panels are cooler than the top, so as long as I wasn’t stepping on the darker colors, I could handle the heat.

The purple mess didn’t seem so overwhelming today. There is already purple in the water, it just needed to be blended in. I wanted to put in a reflection of the fisherman in the water, but I almost forgot I was going to do that, so I messed up the angle a bit. I will probably go back and fix it. If I don’t, every time I look at it, I will be bothered by the angle. And I will hate it forever. This is too big of a project for me to be unhappy with it.

The pole, line, and fly need to be put in next. I am nervous about that part. I have to make a dark pole show up on a dark background. I know how to do it, but it’s not easy and it’s the one part of not being able to stand back and look at it that will be challenging for me. Also the fly will be hard. I sketched it in, but it’s too small. And I’ve gone back and forth on the color choice. I’ve collected a bunch of stray spray paint cans. Sometimes I remind myself of a bag lady. Like if there was a bag lady scrounging for spray paint and thin cardboard good for easy cutting, that’d be me. I have neon orange, yellow and green and those colors in non neon too. I also have red. I am leaning toward a shade of green.

I feel like when I am finished there should be a party. When I used to set paint, I was always invited to the cast party. I have thought about a picnic at the kayak park, or maybe dinner at Bingo Burger or at Angelo’s. Everyone who has supported me and anyone who wants to see the mural could come. But that seems sort of dumb, because it’s not like the mural is going anywhere. Anyone at all can go see it whenever. I could do a private celebration. Hop on my bike at the reservoir and stop for a snack by the mural and then buy myself some shoes or new jeans or something. This feels like a huge accomplishment for me. I’ve learned so much and grown so much in the process and I want to celebrate with all my friends and family and community that has supported me. So party at the river?

Again, I shouldn’t get ahead of myself. Stay tuned.

The morning started out so great. I got to the levee and the sunrise was spectacular. I got right to work and made good progress on painting the river. I decided to paint on the left side of the fisherman first and go to the bottom of the panel, then come back up. I figured the right side would be more complicated because of the fisherman’s shadow and the ripples where he is standing.

At some point in my life, I learned to layer color. It doesn’t really matter the media, I use three or four blues or greens or whatever color I am using. It gives the piece depth and texture. Figuring out how to negotiate taking three or four colors down the levee wall has been one of my big challenges. Last weekend someone gave me some tool belts and I thought my problem waa solved. I could strap on two buckets to my harness with carbiners and then stick my brushes in the tool belt with a smaller can of paint. Today, I used a third carabiner and took down three half full gallons of paint plus a mostly full quart of purple. This was a mistake.

First off, this was my third straight day of working on the levee. All that paint was too heavy and my back started hurting immediately. I worked through the pain. After two and a half hours of painting, I decided I needed a break. When I got to the top, my legs were trembling. I had a snack and decided to go ahead and ride my bike over to the other side to look at my progess. I then rode up and looked at all the murals and then came over to the levee side. Honestly, I should have called it a day, but it was only 10:00 and I wanted to at least get the river done.

So I strapped on all my shit, composing a letter to the birds in my head—Dear Birds, Please don’t drop your shit on my mural. And Dear Wind, quit depositing sand and debris on my mural. I descended down the wall and stopped right next to my fisherman’s head. I leaned down to rub a dusty patch off the face of the mural and in slow mo, I saw purple paint fall from the bucket in my tool belt. I froze and looked down, my foot was covered in pueple, plus there was a pretty good size purple splat starting to drip down the face of the panel. Shit. What should I do? I weighed my options. I decided the best course of action was to try and take a few steps over to the blank panel next to mine and go up and see if I had anything to clean the paint with in my truck. That was my second mistake.

I moved my foot and realized the paint was slippery. I slid across the mural with the rope arcing me out into the middle of the river I’d just painted. The other end of the rope fell down the wall, dragging the purple puddle with it. You can imagine what I was saying. One good thing was the rope only allowed me to fall a bit, so I landed smack in the middle of my river, but not in the splash up. So then I was frozen in place, standing on one foot. Purple paint everywhere. And somehow I had also ripped out a chunk of my hair.

I rubbed my head and again assessed the situation. I couldn’t hop up the wall on one foot and I didnt want purple footprints on my fish or sky. I couldn’t go back through the splatter either; my only choice was down. To minimize my footprints, I wiped my sopping foot on my calf, then I started down, painting over the purple as I descended. When I got to the bottom, I moved over to the slab of concrete next to my mural and prepared to haul myself up. That’s when I noticed that part of the rope had fallen in the gray paint bucket.

When I finally made it to the top, I had unhooked everything and sat down. The girl working next to me came over and said, “Well, the good thing about paint, is you can paint over it. “

I keep telling myself it could have been worse. In reality, it was only a little paint. I didn’t fall in the river or lose amy supplies. And I also learned that next time I will listen to my body and quit while I’m ahead.

Most of the men in my family are or were avid fly fishermen. Before I knew how to write my name, or ride my bike, I knew the zing of a line flying out over the water, the ripples of the water on the clear glass surface after a fish jump, and the wriggle of the trout landing on the sand. Even though, I have a thousand memories of growing up on the riverbank, I never LOVED fishing. I loved my dad, so if he was going to the water, so was I. I loved sitting in the dirt arranging his tackle box. I’d spill out the jumble of lines, flies, spinners, baubles and hooks and put it all back in the box, nice and neat. I’d make designs in the river sand with a stick, or maybe rocks. Or I’d gather wild flowers or just sit on boulders and watch my dad wade in the water up to his waist, casting out, reeling in. I never got tired of going to the river.

The days after my parents’ death are a blur to me. I remember being in their house once while all the stuff was being prepped for the estate sale. I walked out the back door and saw my dad’s fishing gear leaned up against the back porch. I grabbed up the army green tackle box that had been a staple of my childhood and his ancient electric blue rod and headed straight to my car. I drove about a block and then pulled over because the tears made it impossible to drive. I opened the box once and it was just as messy as it always was, but instead of straightening it, I just shut the lid, keeping it just like my dad left it.

Probably because there was plenty of good fishing around town, we never fished downriver at all, so last year when I started riding my bike on the Pueblo river trail, I was surprised at all the fly fishing opportunities. It’s like a poem watching someone in the water, flicking the line over their head, drawing a trout up and out. I spent hours during the pandemic on that trail watching the fishing, and examining the old art left on the levee and under the bridges. My love of street art was born on the levee. As a child, every time we drove to the Valley, I’d lean up against the car window to take in as much of the paintings as I could. Maybe it was just graffiti, but to me it was art. It was bright and bold and told stories. That’s the kind of art I wanted to do, so it was sad for me to see it all gone.

In June, I took my first trip on the riverwalk since last fall and I noticed right away the new murals on the levee. When I got home, I got on the internet and noticed that there was a movement to repaint the levee. It’s not just spray painting names and logos this time though, there is an application process and a selection committee. My mind went to all my memories of Pueblo and so many involved my family. Like going up the University with my dad when he registered for class and got his books at the bookstore. Or driving out to Blende for tamales. Or stopping by for chili and beans and Sunday football at my cousins on the East side. I remember when my dad took my brother and me to City Park and we rode the rides until we were falling asleep on the merry go round. I wanted my painting to honor my family, but also be “Pueblo.” All the love and memories of growing up manifested into a sketch of a fisherman and a fish flying out of the water. The colors aren’t quite accurate, but more vibrant and joyful to celebrate the energy of the city. The committee accepted my design.

I start painting this weekend. It’s a huge honor for me. It will be the largest painting I have ever done by myself and thousands of people will see it. I’m not getting paid and the committee suggested doing some fundraising. At first, I was thinking I could probably figure out the expenses myself and I don’t like handouts. I do have some paint and brushes and some of the equipment to suspend me on the 40 degree incline over a rushing river, but I might need more paint and there is the travel and food and more than likely fifty things that I’m not thinking about yet, so I included a donate stripe. No pressure, just an opportunity to support my work.

I am sure my mother would have been proud, even if the river absolutely terrified her. My dad would have hung out, bringing me food wrapped up in tinfoil. Maybe he’d have taken his pole along and cast into the water, keeping one eye on me the whole time. But since my parents can’t be there, I’m hoping my friends and family will take in the art on the river and know that each piece has a story. I hope the stories last for years to come.