There was something in the air that spring that grew and unfolded. It sneaked through all the little pores and openings to become a thing. Not a singular or simple event that really needed to be named but a cultural tsunami of great magnitude. If you had a radio, a record player or managed to willfully expose yourself to the wakes generated by the Summer of Love you could feel the force it exerted. I was in a band that practiced a lot and played in clubs and venues in Dallas. During the day I worked in a restaurant and listened to the radio in the back while setting up food for the lunch rush. Several of us in the kitchen simply stopped and listened in silence when the music we loved came on. It was reverence blended with awe and yearning. We got back to work but were dreaming of being a part of the magic we heard in the airwaves.
I lived with my band mates in a shabby abandoned dude ranch at the end of a long dirt road somewhere north of the city. There was a Rodeo arena, a tired old horse, a battered wooden water tank and some very uncool faux frontier buildings we called home. With a big dose of pride and hesitation I dropped out of high school because it was a train wreck for me and lots of other people as well. The timing was wrong in so many ways and there were more important things to do.
We were experiencing a transformative moment and it gnawed at my sense of self. I had a strong feeling of creative empowerment. The trick was to create a path and make a plan. I had always wanted to be a painter but never told a soul. It was just a dream until this moment.
Looking back, it felt like more like the Summer of Color. Color from Indian textiles and prints, Latin American culture, colors painted on old building façades to signify new life and colors to proudly adorn young and old bodies. The explosion of tones and vibrant hues were layered in the threads of handmade garments that flowed and moved in space like costumes in a drama unfolding at highspeed. People were finding paths to talk, engage and look deeper at the world, warts and all. There was a sense of discovering a new viewpoint hiding in plane site, like finding a step ladder in a dusty storage closet that could elevated you just high enough to see a bigger picture of the exquisite connections, patterns, geometries and rhythms that were in play. The view was enlightening, seemed unending and it was dynamic.
The Summer of Love waned as quickly as it emerged but left a deep imprint and gave permission to a generation creative people looking for lift, hitching a ride. After more than fifty years of painting I have revisited this memory often and find great consolation in the richness of creative expression that was sprouting from the seeds of this moment. The darker shadows and tragic ironies of the Summer of Love make it all the more worthy of remembering. A bitter sweet fruit was born and the tree still stands.