There’s something about waking up in Southern California in the mornings that’s really like nothing else. I don’t know if it’s the combination of salt air and eucalyptus, or just the overall vibe, but in its semi-desert way the place really is a sort of paradise. Or was. The only way it’s paradise now is for those wealthy few who can afford to retreat behind their gates and lock out the uglier realities of overpopulation. For the rest, it’s rather a different story.

When I’m in the Beverly Hills/Hollywood area, keep getting passed by European luxury cars or SUVs the size of troop transports. Makes me feel pretty good about renting a simple little Chevy. Sure I could’ve rented a Jag, but that ain’t me.

The new Getty is an utterly amazing museum. Yeah I realize everyone knows that, but I’m a bit slow on these things. From the moment you step on the tram that takes you up the mountain, to the moment you step off into the first courtyard with all the white marble and fountains, you are utterly transported. Then there’s the collection, housed in half a dozen different buildings, all of slightly separate design yet similar. And all of them front on yet a different courtyard, with more fountains, and by God the most amazing views of LA. I was lucky; it was a clear day with little smog. You could see 40 miles in any direction.

The collection? Never mind that there’s nothing contemporary beyond the Impressionists and Van Gogh, I’m perfectly cool with digging on the Renaissance, the Dutch Golden Period, the neo Classical stuff, and right up on up to Monet. A collection doesn’t need to house modernist work to be complete; a collection doesn’t need to house work of the Renaissance to be complete. Each are valid. Waste of intelligence to argue about it.

There were very charming Brazilian women in a group ahead of me. They went along linked arm-in-arm, talking and laughing, loving the work. I enjoyed watching them. One of them kept catching my eye and I kept catching hers; wonderful smile she had. We let it go at eye contact, and eye flirting; that was enough. Sure I’m married, but that don’t mean I can’t flirt. Wouldn’t feel alive if I didn’t. Besides, I report this nonsense to my wife. It amuses her, as long as I behave.

Pasadena was beautiful as always. It has that odd quality of being part of LA and yet not, like Malibu. Only Malibu’s far quieter.

Today? A meeting in the city, lunch with an old friend, then San Diego. It’s going to be a beautiful drive.

Santa Monica was more charming than I’d remembered. Great jogging on the beach near the pier. Sushi joints on every corner too, which came in handy. Was quite amazed by the 18th Street Art Center. Very cool little complex, abuzz with nonconformist passion. Their director, Clayton Campbell, a very nice and visionary dude. He’s got a teenaged rocker just like I have. Well, don’t many of us?

Stayed in Malibu, some joint up on the hillside near Pepperdine. The rooms with an ocean view cost more. Since there was fog, I got one with a mountain view, then strolled around on the balcony this morning to look at the ocean. Fog had lifted, and a liner was going by about 10 miles out. Waves quite loud. Beautiful to hear. Surround Sound.

Had coffee at some java joint in Malibu. Loved it. So many of the 40-year-0ld moms trying to look like their 20-year-old daughters–and sort of succeeding. Complimented one of them with my Midwestern drawl and she sure smiled. No happiness in that stuff unfortunately, just a great deal of surgery. It’s all so backward, this worshipping of youth. Society is supposed to value age, and the wisdom that ought to accompany it. Instead there’s this frantic attempt to stay forever young. Hell that comes from inside, not out. I’m 48 and don’t give a damn. In fact I’m looking forward to my 50s. Why? Because I know with all the experience I’ve gained, and lessons I’ve learned, they’ll be a pleasure, where hopefully what I give will be of greater substance than what I’ve taken. No I don’t need to go under any freaking knife. However I have ceased eating french fries. Don’t want to get a gut. Am I vain? Sure, a little bit.

Still the laid-back California thing is everywhere here. Not the same as in LA, where people are reluctant to make eye contact and anxiety seethes on the streets. Even Raymond Chandler used to complain about that back in the 30s: the lack of community.

In Malibu it’s more open, everyone rather friendly, and most everyone it seems related to showbiz. Met a wonderful guy from who helped me with my freaking wireless, which was driving me nuts. He’d done some editing on the first Survivor show. Had a bunch of great stories. Now I guess he’s on to something else. Showbiz is complicated. Glad I’m just a writer.

My work’s done for the day. I’m going to the Getty. Signing near Pasadena tonight.

Read through most of the flight. Loved leaving the verdant fields around KC, flying on to the high plains of western Kansas, the Rockies, deserts of Utah, the Sierra, then LA. Amazingly the plane followed the same route as our vacation this past summer: Manitou Springs, Durango, Mese Verde, Monument Valley, Grand Canyon. Seeing all that unfold from 30,000 feet made me miss my wife and sons intensely. The boys are almost grown. Family vacations will never be the same. Well that’s as it should be.

Now I’m in some coffee joint in Santa Monica. Love it here, the diverse cultures, just as in NY but of course different. A Russian chick waited on me, the couple across from me are Hispanic, two Japanese women next to them, and some aspiring British actors next to them. Don’t think I’ll go into the city today. Hole up here instead, answer emails and phone calls, and later go for a jog along the beach. Love the old hotels that line Pacific. Can almost see how it looked in the 40s. Was I here then? Think so. My first signing isn’t until 7:00. No hurry.

Tomorrow? East LA because it’s rough, Westwood because it ain’t, the Hollywood Hills because they’re always fascinating, and lunch in China Town. My signing tomorrow night is near Pasadena. Plenty of time to work, and play. Plan to do both.

What was the most significant thing I did today? Was it initiating a deal on a $30,000 equine sculpture? No. Was it getting Allan Chow yet another commission? No. Was it even submitting three of my sculptors for a major civic commission, each of whom has a very good chance of getting it? Not at all.

The most important thing I did today was making a very special, very loving person laugh as big as all outdoors. She hadn’t done that much lately, and needed to again, and I knew just the antic to bring it out. Somehow when she laughs, or just smiles, she touches so many people in the process.

The most important thing I did last night? Well I don’t know if it was important, but I watched the Blair Witch Project with my teenage sons. After the movie was over, and the house was good and dark, and both still had the movie on their minds, I jumped out of the shadows and scared the hell out of them. God how I love it! We went inline skating for eight miles first, since you have to earn your time as a couch pototato.

Now? Off to the West Coast. Ten signings in ten days. Should be a riot. Really looking forward to San Francisco–one of the most beautiful cities on earth.

My wife rented Cinema Paradiso last night, which I hadn’t seen in seven years. I’d forgotten how utterly charming, warm, and at times sad this movie is. Like many Italian flicks, it seems simple on the surface, but is not. Also the the score–the violin with the background of cello and occasional sax…exquisite. I fell in love with it all over again. In fact this morning when I woke before anyone else (always the case), I played the credits once more just to hear the theme.

This is one of those movies that you can only watch with someone very special. I saw it first with my wife in 1989, then a year later with an old friend–a mentor who has since died, then in 1999 with someone again very, very special. Last night was the fourth time. I don’t think I’ll watch it again for several years.

Inevitably it reminded me of my first trip to Italy: A small-time thief in Genoa who helped me out, and who I helped in return. A woman in Pisa boarding the express to Florence, which was about to pull out, and in a hurry saying to me “Firenze? Firenze?” me saying, “Yes, this is the train to Firenze;” she blushing, sitting down, the two of us speaking broken English/Italian all the way to Florence. My pension in Florence, which had a courtyard with a broken fountain and a great view of the city. The cafe I wrote in each morning, the bar I wrote in each night, and the waiters who came to know me. The young woman I met in one of the city parks; she was studying English, we hit it off, and for the next week she showed me everything about that city, which we sometimes toured on her Vespa, which I felt a bit silly driving, since I owned a BMW Cafe Racer then, but I got used to it.

Cinema Paradiso brought back some of these memories. I think it’s time to return to Italy.

I frequently get various school organizations, public radio organizations, and public TV organizations asking me to make donations. To certain of these I gladly comply when it comes to writing a check. But when they ask that my artists donate a painting in return for all the “exposure” they’ll get at some charitable auction, I stipulate two things: that the organization allow us to set the price for the work, and that they split the proceeds of the sale with the artist. Sometimes they comply, sometimes they go away in uninformed shock.

Donations of finished work are fine for those few artists who have made it, but for the vast majority who are still struggling, asking this is absurdly presumptuous.

Artists are the last people in the world to ask for a donation. Ask people with higher incomes, not artists. And if you want to sell their work to raise money, fine, just put the same price on it that a gallery would; don’t give it away, as that demeans the artist, and makes their task of succeeding more difficult. Finally, if you actually do respect the arts–assuming you’re remotely aware of what artists go through–then split the proceeds with them just like a gallery would. This is showing the artist respect, and eases their financial struggles.

If the organizations that approach you can’t make these simple, but necessary, concessions, tell them to buzz off! And that’s putting it politely.

Richard Raney brought us, yesterday, a brilliant figure of a young black woman. Typical of Richard, there’s nothing typical about the painting. The figure is done twice, back-to-back, and is absolutely brilliant for how he captured her: depth, tone, proportion, etc. Also her eyes are closed, which has a great effect. There’s a background of sky and brick wall that’s slightly surreal, and too complicated to explain, but lord does it work.

One of my assistants photographed the piece. I’ll see if she can post it on this freaking blog site; I’ve never figured that stuff out.

The long and the short of it? Wonderful painting, which will make for a wonderful postcard, which should make for a great show. Richard certainly deserves that.

Got word today that I’ll be interviewed on KUOW when I’m in Seattle in a couple of weeks. That will be preceded by San Francisco, which will be preceded by LA., with a few other signings in between. I’m looking forward to it all. Sure I dig New York, but not like I dig the Coast, especially SF and Seattle. Lived in Seattle once, on a fishing boat in Ballard. That was before we shipped out for Alaska, before the halibut season started up there, and before the captain put us up on a reef and damned near got everyone killed. That was in Glacier Bay, and THAT is another story.

Fond memories of Seattle though: the chill of the schooner in the mornings, the fog and rain, Pike Market, and all the views of the Sound. There were few espresso shops in those days, and certainly no Starbucks. Didn’t matter; I couldn’t have afforded espresso then anyway. But I learned how to work on a boat there, how to tie a dozen knots and gut a fish twice my size, and I made some friends that have lasted for life. Seattle was always very good to me.

Some loves never die, and are never meant to. They live on no matter how distance may separate, or time, or even if one of you passes. If you are fortunate you will find one of these. You might think you’re unfortunate at the time, since circumstances may not be ideal, and the pain of separation may be great, but it doesn’t matter. All that matters is what you give to the love, and how other people benefit from it. All that matters is how everyone grows. Work with it, and you’ll grow enormously; work against it, and you’ll implode. Patience pays off, almost as much as understanding. Me? I have been very, very fortunate–I think for many lives now.

Sold two paintings last night. Had to stay at the couple’s house for an hour, rearranging, cracking jokes, hanging the works here and there, petting the odd dog. Very nice couple really. Kids grown, and now they’re ready to start collecting real art. Well, I’m ready to sell it to them.

I’ve got nothing much to say about this day, except that I’m grateful to not live in an earthquake-prone area. The people of Pakistan are already poor enough, then something like this comes along. From what I gather, 20,000 dead as of today, and 100,000s sleeping in the open, their homes having been destroyed. You can be sure both figures will rise.

This makes all the concerns of the art world–especially the more petty ones–seem even more minor than they already are. I never take all that seriously; it’s just how I happen to make a living.

What do I really value in the end? How I treat people, and what I give. Hell of a lot more important than the latest painting I sold, or book I wrote.