SURREAL BOUNCE: 3) INDEPENDENCE DAY
In Search of Creativity & Madness
BANG!
Another rocket explodes in the smoky sky over Butterfly Beach as Thomas Van Stein, plein air artiste, stands cocked before his field easel on tar terrace. He works quickly on the under-painting, dabbing moody blues and purples from his palette with three filbert brushes, prepping a 10-x-14 Masonite board for the firework display already popping over Stearns Wharf, the oldest pier on America’s west coast, one mile to the west.
Van Stein captures his prey with deft strokes, as much to catch the mood as depict a scene. This artist’s true love is moonlight—or any source of light that illuminates darkness.
At 9:40 the firework display climaxes. A high tide has claimed most of the beach and a sulphuric aroma lingers as locals close their coolers and trudge home.
The painting is done for now, requiring touch-up and varnishing in the studio.
Van Stein unhitches a Mag-Lite attached by Velcro to his Russian faux-fur infantryman hat and steps back to illuminate the masterpiece before him: an impressionistic nocturne seascape or fine art-meets-special-event.
More personally, for me, a memento of the occasion.
“I have an old buddy coming into town,” I say to Van Stein after cutting a deal to purchase this painting, not just because I saw it painted before my eyes but because it‘s damn good. “What do you recommend I show him?”
“You ever seen the old fig tree?” asks Van Stein.
“No.”
“Been to Joe’s Café?”
“No.”
“Sounds like I’d better show you both around.”
Santa Barbara Municipal Airport is compact, uncomplicated, and passenger friendly. You can fly to Denver without changing planes, launch to Vegas for 90 bucks, or hop to Phoenix and connect to anywhere else in the country.
A genuine old-fashioned diner upstairs overlooks three short runways. I suck on a chocolate shake topped with a dollop of whipped cream as United Airlines disgorges passengers, including my buddy Floater from Chicago.
“This is beyond cool,” says Floater, looking around, absorbing the sun, 74 degrees, an ocean breeze. “How are you feeling?” He squints to assess my state of mind.
“Never better,” I grin, merging my Jeep Liberty onto I-101 at 86 miles an hour.
Floater is privy to the undercover work I’d been doing for a decade; was also involved in some of it, my own recruit. So he understands why I’m walking the beach.
“Heard from anyone?” he asks gently.
“Nope. But they’re watching.”
“You think?”
“I know. But Montecito is the ideal place to hide out—everyone lives behind hedges. And anyone they send would immediately get star-struck by all the celebrities. Or diverted by strange characters on the beach. Nobody pays attention to me.”
“What makes you think they’re interested?”
“They never release their grip. Plus they’re afraid I’ll write a book. And I might. But the more I walk the beach, the more I feel some things are best left in esoteria.”
We exit the freeway into the lower village, past a beggar with this sign: What can I say? I screwed up.
I drop Floater at the Coast Village Inn and he grabs his bag, chuckling. “You don’t have to work at life in a place like this.”
And he hasn’t seen Butterfly Beach yet.
“Settle in,” I say. “I’ll be back in an hour. An artist I know is going to show us the sights.”