David, Toby, Jack
Not much driving or hiking; a lot of window-shopping and gallery-hopping
And really nice people

We strolled about Cannery Row during the morning. There were many cool shops: candle shops, chocolate stores, way too many souvenir shops, and the only place where we purchased anything: a bead store. We didn’t hit up any restaurants; most of them were seafood restaurants, as we were right next to the ocean.
Monterey houses a thriving art scene. We went up to the 2nd floor of 700 Cannery Row, which was filled with artists’ studio and gallery spaces. The only guy working at the time was David, a drawer in the style of Sandor (guy at co-op) who works part-time as a personal trainer, a single dad of two daughters, and more. Amazing man, fazzy art!
We took the “17-mile drive” around Ocean Avenue. The waves and rocks were huge! We clambered to the end of a long strip of rocks, collecting a fat bag of colorful shells.
I didn’t shoot that well today. Maybe it’s the weather. Maybe it’s my glasses (they’re stupid and change color in the sunlight). Or maybe I just can’t blame anyone but myself because I don’t feel motivated any more, and I don’t know why (and yet today was so inspiring. The San Fran MOMA totally depressed me in terms of its art and how I feel art is progressing, but today totally upped me again; I feel like I want to be a fine artist again (but no, photojournalism is the way to go, yes. Decision made. Yay!) Today was just really inspiring though… whenever I see really great art, I get uber inspired, stoked, and happy. It makes me want to get back to work.
I like how David was really connected to all of his art buddies. He referred us to several galleries further down the coast, including the Hawthorne gallery, which we later found, on accident. What an amazing place. Easily the bombliest art gallery I’ve ever visited: right off the 1 Hwy in the Big Sur area, overlooking the Big Sur coastline. The collector, Toby, was a hopppy ecstatic man from Wales extremely passionate about art, a wonderful conversationalist, and just worldly and awesome. The art itself: amazing, beautiful, modern, everything. (We even visited Thomas Kincaid’s gallery while at Cannery Row. What gorgeous trash. (but I would have liked it before UCLA!) What a massive contrast from the artwork I now admire). Glass works hung from the ceilings as jellyfish and sat on the tables as bowls, swords, abstract art objects. Payley’s functional art was displayed throughout the gallery, with my sister gawking at, stroking, and screaming, “I LOVE his work!”: tables, chairs, candleholders, and more. I could rant on and on… basically, the Hawthorne Gallery was amazing, I am inspired, and I wish I could talk like Toby. (hehe)

Before ogling the Hawthorne Gallery, we did something I’ve never done before: pick up a hitchhiker. A solitary man was walking along the road with his thumb sticking out. “Let’s pick him up!” I shouted, “’Wanna?” “No, no, no, no!” Mace protested loudly. I ignored her and pulled to the side of the road.
Jack brought with him a gigantic bag and the stench of alcohol. He didn’t talk much, but was rather interesting: graduated 2 years ago from UC Berkeley in Chemical Biology, was scheduled to create biological weapons for Lawrence Livermore, but rejected that and instead WALKED around (and around and around) California and Mexico, hitch-hiking most of the way. (When we picked him up, he had walked from San Fran and was trying to reach Morro Bay, walking, sleeping along the highway, and hitchhiking his way down. Once again, more inspiration. I now want to walk/hitch-hike across California, visit Mexico.
(we were mean though, and quickly dropped Jack off, after about 10 miles or so, because I spotted the Hawthorne gallery and wanted to stop. Having a stranger on the car was a bit of a pain in the butt: I couldn’t cuss at slow-moving vehicles ahead of me, stop whenever I wanted to make photos, and more. Worst of all, he smelled. So, byebye Jack (who looked very sour as he exited our car. We saw him again later on, sticking his thumb out at the road. I guiltily sped up as we drove by, hoping he wouldn’t remember the silver car and notice our passing…
We’re sleeping at some tiny town called “Gorda” (it means “fat” in Spanish) off the PCH, with a “sandwich and beverages” station in front of us, a gas station to the side of us, more cars on the other side, the PCH directly in back, and then the crashing waves off the Big Sur coast behind that.
Here’s us giving John some love: