I have been chasing Hemingway’s ghosts around the world. I’m inspired by his love for culture that is explored in his stories. I’ve visited his favorite bars in Spain and Italy. I’ve even been to his favorite fishing spot in Cabo Blanco, Peru. The artwork and poems are original and were created by me- Joe McDaniel.
[Each painting/drawing is accompanied just below it by a related poem.]
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1. Hemingway’s Dream
Prismacolor pencils. 9″ x 12″ on Canson Paper.
This drawing was created after the poem and was intended to capture a happy moment in his memory.
Final Moments
Hemingway scribbled his last chapter with heavy smoke, heat, and a pen full of dread.
Blank pages felt burdened and fragile when his final short phrases fell, a turbulent life flowed warm like the lines he read.
His deceitful muse sailed away into dark skies and left him adrift,
The ink in his pen ran dry and bled, a final story locked inside his head.
Why did his colorful dreams and wild adventures become a wasted gift?
A forefinger twitched on the cold steel, his will diminished.
Cuban wind turned the pages of stories left unfinished,
Silence follows sound when candles are extinguished.
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2. Just Under the Surface
Oil. 12″ x 24″ on a cradle wood panel.
My inspiration for this painting comes from my last Tarpon fishing trip in the Gulf of Mexico. I saw lots of flying fish but no Tarpon.
Hand Lines and Past Lives
Unroll the line
Use a rusty bolt for a weight
Take out the knife, cut the bait
Hook it, drop it to the ocean floor
Sit and wait with the boat’s rocking motion
For two thousand years, men have done the same
They wait for a tug and pull in their catch
Fishing for dreams, life, and food
For the man in the boat it’s all the same.
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3. Glass of Bourbon
Oil. 8″ x 10″ on wood.
I wrote the first draft of the accompanying poem in a hotel room in Mancora, Peru, after finally finding the famous Cabo Blanco fishing club closed and in disrepair.
Waiting With Earnest
Sleep to remember
Remember to sleep
Some memories slip away
While others you keep.
Sitting in this room with curtains drawn, cheap whiskey stains on the table,
waiting for dawn.
Is chasing the forgotten ghost of a writer all that wise?
Cigar smoke still on my clothes;
thin walls pass faint moans,
subtle sighs.
Faded words in manuscripts collect dust in dark closets while preferred haunts are blurred by tourists and flashing neon signs that say “No Vacancy.”
Maybe what you chase is your life in disguise, or maybe who I am is no surprise.
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4. Defeated
Oil. 9″ x 12″ on a wood panel.
Of all the sketches and paintings I created from my trip to Italy, this sculpture painting is one of my favorites. I was captivated by the haunting shadows cast on the wall. The shadows reminds me of the dark, forgotten corners of the old Cabo Blanco Fishing Club in Peru—a place left behind.
Ghosts
A lost muse walks around this dilapidated place,
searching for an ear to pierce and hands that still push pens,
Cabo Blanco held such men searching for giants in deep blue waters.
Where elbows pushed to feel the warm mahogany bar,
drinks were poured, and loud voices filled the room.
Shadows cling to peeling paint,
cracked walls,
Locked doors,
empty halls
Broken tables covered in dust.
A giant Marlin watches faces pressed against windows of the abandoned room.
Old men and seas,
crowded pages never opened.
Broken boats, gaffs, and dulled hooks remain
Long shadows move slowly across forgotten footsteps.
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5. My Boy Costa
Oil. 9″ x 12″ on a wood panel.
Indian Pass is where I go to recharge my salt-air batteries. My Golden Retrievers are always with me, helping to fill the holes in my life. This is an oil painting of my boy “Costa” (whose name, fittingly, means “coast” in Spanish). My poem, “Sleeping Dogs,” is about exactly why I need this place.
Sleeping Dogs
Summertime’s long days bring the peaceful sounds of rolling waves,
Sand holds shells that push up on an empty beach
Old Man Winter is out of reach.
The ocean’s hypnotic song slips in through an open door.
The sun feels warm in the morning when it stretches its arms across my wooden floor.
No clocks or calls from insurance companies wake a house of sleeping souls
No loud music will take its toll.
Just a quiet morning, a cup of coffee to take it in.
Some things in my life are better to forget, but I hope this memory will never end.
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6. Reflecting
Watercolor. 11″ x 14″ on Arches paper.
Sometimes it starts with a drink and it turns into a painting. This painting started as a sketch in Lima and grew into a watercolor with a poem.
On a trip I took several years ago, we spent the night in Los Órganos, Peru—a notorious spot for smugglers passing through on their way north. It was in this setting that I captured the feeling of being alone when I wrote the poem, Los Órganos.
Los Órganos
The Panamericana Norte slides through Los Órganos with a don’t look at me attitude.
Smugglers and traffickers are the ones that prefer this latitude.
They cut the dust with a stiff drink,
No postcard sent, just time to think.
I sit outside beneath the blinding sun,
With a canvas hat, a brown holster, but no gun.
Lots of time here to reflect on life’s choices,
Dry wind and rustling palms start to sound like distant voices.
The person you could have been is always out of reach,
No screeching cab will pull you from this beach.
The sand blows hard in this lonely place,
It bites at the soul while it stings your face.
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7. The Path
Mixed media painting. 11″ x 14″ on a Canson board.
Not all paths lead to something that is inviting like this old house on Cape San Blas. The painting was my inspiration for the poem, “Old Man”. The change of seasons makes me miss the things I’ve lost even more.
Old Man
Summer is an old man, slowly walking West.
He drops his worn robes of dry, whispering leaves,
A quiet beach left behind where the pale sunlight rests,
And a White House, empty now, where the sand still cleaves.
The long walk treads through dunes where no children play.
Only the soft waves crash, and the gulls cry their names;
No bright shells left to find at the close of the day.
The old man will be slow to return to these frames.
We travelers know his secret, sun-warmed places to hide,
So we wait here patiently and watch the changing tide.
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8. My America
Mixed media painting. 18″ x 24″ on a cradle wood panel.
Hay bales and endless fields of cut corn served as the inspiration for this painting, which is my homage to family farms and the tradition of road trips to see grandparents. It also expresses my connection to the heartland.
Driving down desolate highways through no name border towns is a monotonous sound of tires and open windows. With everyone in the truck asleep, my mind wanders and the ideas begin to take shape. The three-day drive to Cabo Blanco was the inspiration for this poem.
The Road to Cabo Blanco
Lima, Piura, Chiclayo
Mancora, Organos, Cabo Blanco
Cervezas in the day and Pisco sours at night
Passing the hours with nothing much in sight
Dogs without owners and crosses without names
Faces that never seem to change
Reflecting on your life while logging the miles
Occasional laughter, mixed with disappearing smiles.
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9. Chifa
Mixed media painting. 18″ x 24″
Walking down the street in Mancora and watching people cooking and eating under the hot sun inspired this painting. It captures the energy of my poem, “Mancora”, a layover town on the Pan-American Highway. Mancora offers beautiful views of the Pacific Ocean but hides a darker side, far from Miami, due to its role in drug trafficking.
Mancora
All souls pass through Mancora
Like an arrow through a heart
Watching women pushing tourist shirts
And young boys with old carts
The beach moves with bodies baking in the sun
While police cars cruise, hunting smugglers with guns.
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