Alice Coltrane vinyl and more US Blanks are on the way. Creators and creations. Blessed be the weird vortex of Marbella…..
Last night I had dinner with a successful entrepreneur friend, along with the chef at Mesomar. Delicious dinner and drinks, while seated at the bar with my lively and intelligent friends. A timeless equation for joy. Whether in Mexico City or Marbella, the combo of smart talk, chill atmosphere, and engaging food always works.
This magic confluence can be rare here in the jungles of Costa Rica. We are not so populated here in these dusty jungle towns. But the results are rewarding when it all comes together.
Towards the end of the meal, while peppering the chef with industry questions about his location and accessible markets (I mean, geographically speaking, we are out there), he said something glaringly authentic to me, which really stunned and hit a nerve.
”I only know how to go all the way,” he said stoically. Without humor or irony. A very straight response to a very direct question. Take it or leave it.
You can do nothing and everything with that type of response. Either build a wall, or burn it all down. Floods and tsunami are fueled by such energy. The atom gets split with such intention and drive. Cancer gets cured.
This absolute reckless assuredness astounds me. Especially in this day and age of analytics and margins and psyop marketing plans. The results of such bravado must be evident in the work to post up such a proclamation. Anyone can talk a game, trash and lip, but eventually the roosters come home. The product comes out of the warehouse. The food gets plated. In this bubbled up jungle world notorious for vagueness and shade and suspiciously glossy online content, the strength exhibited from accomplishment via quality is Herculean.
The plates exiting this particular kitchen are unique. Special. Immaculate. There is a time and place for all things. This food is not casual. These creations demand care and attention. Sit up straight. Admire. Be present. Consider. Whether you like it or not you must take a moment to consider the originality before you. To breathe it in. Pause before devouring. Nestled within that pause is recognition of art and grace. This thing I have never seen before. Newness is revelation.
”Takes a lot of balls” I told him, in response to his kamikaze career style, and the deservedly fanciful food in front of me.
What is beautiful, ironic, acceptable, is that even with such mysterious spices and complicated content we are still just three guys at the bar having dinner. This I love more than any of it. I’m not a fine dining guy. I don’t enjoy pretension or pomp or stuffiness. I can respect such ambitions, even admire the vision, but often these romantic culinary affairs of high finance and class warfare are not for me. Let me be flawed and fabulous with a tasty taco and a cold drink in the company of authentic people and good music. All I ask for on a slow Sunday night in the jungle.
The decision to create is heroic to me. Daily we are presented with endless choices. How are we going to spend the hours? How are we going to interact with our neighbors? How are we going to grind for money? Balance responsibility with playful time in the ocean or on the trails or reading a book? How are we going to make use of our time here in town, in Costa Rica, on the planet, while we have these precious days and years.
One’s response to all these loaded questions inevitably draws a map of our lives. Flat lowlands to jagged peaks. Turbulent rivers to pristine alpine lakes. As a kid I lusted for new skateboards and wore Jimmy Z t-shirts. As a teen I revered The Beastie Boys. Nothing ever fit. Ginsberg as God. Boards as salvation. Homeless in Los Angeles, broken in New York City, camping by the river in Squamish. Somehow I wound up here, at the bar, next to the Pacific Ocean, in the decidedly not urban jungles of Costa Rica.
This moment today is Miles Davis and coffee. My job here at the shop is to make surfboards for people. To design and craft an object that functions successfully and is constructed with integrity. These are the book ends. This responsibility I carry into the work. Melding the muses of art with the solidarity of function. Making surfboards as a measure of vision and competency. An arrogant toy maker. An immature man in way over his head. Yet beauty is a feisty muse, and she seeps into the cracks of some fragmented souls. She nests and spawns. From these mystifying pools arises the work. Busy hands. Obsessive characters. Intense chefs. The glorious delta at the end of a long and circuitous river.
All creators face the day with boundless possibility and great fear. There are spike laced hurdles to this thing. They might be self imposed — the sharp edges of doubt and resistance — or more tangible shackles, like the pesky yet real boundaries of job and finance, which can easily and understandably demand regulation, or inspire paralysis. To communicate the language of original art, bridged with paying the rent, is a timeless and difficult task. Those who have the courage to go hard at a craft, and through that force of will and passion, arrive at an audience who trusts and accepts them, and ultimately pays for their work, is a rare blessing that all creators wish for, and aspire towards.
Going all the way in, fully committed and unabashedly embracing the work, is a true super power. The birth of genuine art, tangible originality, is occasionally recognized and celebrated, but nothing is guaranteed. We are faced with a myriad of daily choices and potential designs. The clock is always ticking. Plenty of distraction and vocabulary. The resistance is real. What lies on the other side of that creative leap is unknown, and will inevitably require some spit and blood.
My chef friend creates amazing dishes from the exotic perch of a giant farm in rural Costa Rica. He has successfully manifested a place to make his vision real. To work. A laboratory. A vessel for rugged exploration. A captain’s chair on the deck of his own enterprise. This is the dream: the time and space to creatively wild out. To engage the messy endeavour of human expression from the rolling hills of coastal Central America.
The dishes which exit his kitchen are a testament to time well spent and a mind unharnessed. The real ones bleed this vibe. They lay down in traffic daily. They leave it all out on the dance floor. The performance screams ‘this is what I am meant to be doing with this one and precious life!’ I have been placed on this round rock of chaos for just this singular act.
To be out here in the jungle, wrapped up in nature and heat and dust; to be on the searing edge of security and survival; to walk onto the dance floor of life with only self assuredness and a list of recipes — this madness is hypnotic and contagious. If you got it, you got it. The voice, the eye, the hands, the taste. These humble acts of faith and miracles of toil raise up villages. Elevate neighborhoods. Build small businesses. Inspire personal quests. Court favor.
Nobody knows how it all turns out. How many people might come. How often the doors will swing open. Whether people “like” it or “want” it or pay for it. There are no crystal balls. No patented assurances. We walk into the coliseum and prepare for daily battles. Nobody knows. Especially in this town. But, the simple act of unlocking the front doors, turning on the lights, hitting the gas — these are the steps. The brush strokes on an old canvas, the baselines, and the concrete.
