I’ve been returning to Marin County on and off since 2016. Mount Tamalpais—and that luminous West Coast light that drapes across her—has become a muse for me. Each visit feels like a chance to reflect on the chapters that have come and gone. The mountain is a constant, and in contrast I can see more clearly where I am compared to where I was and make wishes for where I'll go next.

I’ve often thought about the difference between returning to a place and experiencing it for the first time. New places pull you fully into the present—your senses sharpen, your attention heightens, almost like a quiet survival instinct in unfamiliar surroundings. I love that feeling of being completely absorbed -- being one with time. But there’s something equally powerful about returning to a place you once knew well. It becomes a kind of mirror. Marin County felt like a second home to me from 2016 to 2019, and then four years passed before I was able to return. In that time I left New York City, got married, had a child. Revisiting Marin felt almost like science experiment; coming back to a place that held an earlier version of me, and being able to reflect on how much had changed.

I have heard that the more we recall a memory the less potent it becomes. Details of the memories dilute. My early experiences in Marin County and the Bay felt so vivid, so formative, they seemed almost cellular - like my DNA had changed. I felt I would never forget the details of my memories there. But you can only experience that feeling of the FIRST time you visit a place once. It is a feeling that can’t be replicated, only remembered. The area still lights me from within - it's landscape the light the scent of eucalyptus but it's all a little less maybe because I've lived more. That saying came up recently that "you can't step into the same river twice" and that's exactly the truth of it. Not the same river, not the same man. 

The artwork I made for the Jaunt is a chart of selected memories from my time in Marin and in the Bay area. Some of the drawings are recognizable to those familiar with the area like the twisting roads on Mount Tam or the Robin Williams rainbow tunnel you pass through to enter Sausalito (we always made a wish before entering). Other memories are more subltle and specific to me. The center bite of Trouble toast -- my father's favorite bite of food in his life - comes from a coffee shop that used to be in the Outer Sunset of SF called Trouble - thick warm toast lathered with butter and caked with cinnamon and sugar. 

Tuesday, 18 November, 2025

Wednesday, 19 November, 2025

Thursday, 20 November, 2025

Thursday, 21 November, 2025

Friday, 22 November, 2025

KRISTIN TEXEIRA - CHOICE / CHANCE

There is an old ferry boat docked permanently in the harbor of Sausalito called the SS Vallejo. It once carried passengers across waters, and when it could ferry no more, it fell into the hands of an old Greek artist named Jean Varda—familiarly known as Uncle Yanko—who made it his home and studio.

I found myself on this boat by way of cosmic luck. When I was sixteen, before the internet had reached its full capabilities, I frequented an old bookstore that sold dusty copies of Hemingway shorts and magazines from the 1960s. I took one magazine home after falling in love with its cover: a hologram of a sailboat with a tiny red speck in the background that was the Golden Gate Bridge. Flipping through the magazine, I found an article about a white-haired painter who lived and worked on an old boat, catching the light and color that rippled and reflected into his home on the water. I thought this was a beautiful way to live. So I cut out his photo, pasted it into my sketchbook, and wrote myself a far-fetched promise: “Live and paint on a houseboat someday.”

Eleven years passed, and I received a nondescript email invitation from what seemed to be an artist residency. The website lacked details—no address, no contact—but below the title page was a black-and-white skeleton of a ship and the residency’s name: “VAR”. Varda Artist Residency. Jean Varda’s houseboat had caught the echoes of my wish and invited me aboard.

Entering the Vallejo is like walking into a dream. Ancient succulents and fruit trees line the hallways of floor-to-ceiling windows. A larger-than-life cat sarcophagus with glowing red eyes greets you. A fireplace, tiled with fragments of pottery and glass beads—one shaped like a small skull—warms the kitchen, whose walls are filled with shelves of spices in glass jars. A hammock hangs in the living room. A portrait of Timothy Leary mounted above the bathroom light switch. A wooden sword rests above the front door. Ladders lead us to our rooms.

I sleep in the captain’s quarters, the smallest room, which once hosted the tea parties of Alan Watts. My first steps onto this houseboat come at the end of a four-year relationship and at the beginning of the unsettling political climate of 2016. The combination leaves me feeling lost, alone, unsure of the future—and alive in the rawest sense.

I find solace in the painted text that lines the ceilings of the houseboat: “The beginning of wisdom is fear.” Carved into a wooden door are the words “choice” and “chance.” These two words become an answer for me: some decisions I will make, and luck will take care of the rest.

It is on this houseboat that I fall in love with Mount Tamalpais. On the starboard side of the ship is a large round window that looks north, perfectly framing Mount Tam. An entity. A mother. A massive soul. Undressing from her fog in the morning and glowing from within as the sun sets. She is a comfort, a rock, someone to tell secrets to—someone who soothes. She is the vessel that holds my thoughts while I pick lemongrass from the houseboat garden or wait for water to boil. I paint her year after year, a constant that keeps me company when I don’t know where I am going next. Mount Tam breathing. Breathing with Mount Tam. Knowing it will all be okay.

It has been ten years since I my introduction to Mount Tamalpais. Though I no longer stay on Jean Varda’s old houseboat, I still find my way back to the mountain. This exhibition reflects the time I've spent watching the light shift across Mount Tamalpais, accompanied by excerpts from the journals I kept while living on that gently swaying boat.