I want to make paint out of Guerneville and then give it away to strangers.

The Russian River watershed is full of color nobody is using. Rust-orange clay in the cut banks. Green serpentine. Charcoal from the burn scars. Pale sediment that dries the color of bone. I want to spend a season collecting it — jars, a trowel, ruined shoes — then grind it, mull it with binder, and turn West Sonoma County into a working paintbox.

Then the actual project: I set up a folding table where people already are. Outside my shop on 3rd Street. The beach. The farmers market. A long roll of paper down the length of the table, jars of river-mud paint, a pile of cheap brushes, and a sign that says THIS PAINT CAME FROM THE RUSSIAN RIVER BANKS. PLEASE USE IT.

No instructions. No signing your name. Nothing for sale. Just for the fun of it. Everyone paints on the same roll, over each other, until it's full. Then I hang it in my shop window and unroll a new one.

This town has burned and flooded and been written off more than once. Everybody here has an opinion about the river. I like the idea of handing somebody a brush loaded with the actual ground they're standing on and seeing what they do with it. Kids will make a mess. Somebody will paint something furious. Somebody will paint a dog.

I don't know if the pigment will behave. Some of it will be gorgeous and some will dry to a disappointing beige and fall off the paper. That's fine, that's the experiment. I'll keep notes on what the river was willing to give.

It's dirt. It's free. It was already here. I just want to grind it up and put it in people's hands.