I’m not an artist. I don’t even play one on TV.
To make a very long story very short, instead of living beside the ocean back in Florida, I’m now at Pineapple Hill—a beach house up off the ground in a cow pasture in South Carolina.
I grow banana trees, grapes and bamboo …and paint weird fish on recycled wood.
I paint them as a remedy for writer’s block. I’ve been writing novels. My first, called Blue Rubber Pool, is about a transition from seaside to rural South that did not go well. There’s a web page for it here.
Some people like them for their beach or lake houses, decks, porches and patios. They call them “ingeniously primitive” and “feral”. They call them the expressions of a man marooned, a Carolina castaway.