This edition of Full Belly Files was originally emailed to subscribers on February 9, 2024. To receive Matt Kettmann’s food newsletter in your inbox each Friday, sign up at independent.com/newsletters.
The renowned landscape artist Chris Potter, who died suddenly last Saturday just days after his 49th birthday, was one of my best friends. He was also one of the best people I’ve ever known.
I don’t say that with sentimentality, though there will be plenty of that in this story. I say that because, in a career that I’ve spent meeting, interviewing, and writing about interesting, inspirational people, Chris topped them all.
I’ve never known someone who so brilliantly used his own natural wonder about the world to spark similar awe in all who gazed upon his creations. His daily dedication and ability to paint efficiently led to remarkable success as an artist, turning what most approach as a hobby into a full-time job to support his family. Despite needing to earn a living through that work, he frequently acted selflessly, donating hundreds of paintings to causes and people who needed a financial or emotional boost.
My life is much brighter for having known him, as is Santa Barbara at large.
I don’t remember the year that I first met Potter, which is what we mostly called him. But it was around 20 years ago, and it was through our Wednesday poker nights, a tradition involving about a dozen of my friends that persisted every single week, almost without fail, for nearly 15 years.
Potter became a central fixture of our group, and a life leader of sorts. He was already married to Julie by the time we met him, years before any of us, and was the first to have kids, Malakye in 2006 and Zenia in 2008. He was part of the triumvirate of friends who organized an annual backpacking trip through the deepest reaches of the Los Padres National Forest — its 20-year anniversary is this May — and his Chris Potter Family Art Shows became legendary gatherings full of music, food, drinks, and good times.
It was Julie who nicknamed our sprawling group of friends “The Tribe.” A mix of those early poker players, our families, and a number of friends we’ve picked up along the way, including a number of Potter’s buddies from growing up in Goleta, The Tribe amounts to more than 50 people at this point, all of whom would quickly drop what they’re doing to help another one of us in need.
We’re united by our collective love for the true soul of Santa Barbara, that confluence of appreciation for nature, thirst for adventure, affinity for eating and drinking well, and sense of community that’s shared by so many of our neighbors. We’ve traded easier lives elsewhere to endure the inherent struggles of living here, existing mostly apart from the polished glitz that so many associate with our town.
Chris Potter epitomized that spirit like no one else in Santa Barbara. It’s no wonder that thousands of people are shocked and saddened to learn of his passing, but we’re feeling it especially hard.
Potter captured the affection of the greater community back in 2009, when he quit his job as a stockbroker at Charles Schwab to paint full time, trading a steady paycheck to chase his dreams. He launched his painting-a-day blog, which still exists online, going back to his first post of March 8, 2009. The Independent wrote about his mission, and we eventually featured a number of his paintings in print, including a couple of times on the cover.
He became a regular feature of the Santa Barbara landscape, posted up with an easel on the Ellwood Bluffs — where one overlook is now being called Potter’s Point — or down at Butterfly Beach, or across from the County Courthouse. It wouldn’t be weird to spot him in Yosemite, either, or on the East Coast, or in France, painting the van Gogh scenes that inspired his career in the first place.
We’d sometimes spot him on the street while driving by, occasionally wondering what that homeless man was doing until we realized it was Potter. (His meticulous artistic process did not extend to his preferred style of dress.) Most impressive to me was how deep in the wilderness Potter would take his easel, often more than 20 trail miles into the Los Padres, crafting masterpieces from such remote places as Big Pine Mountain and Mission Pine Springs.
Like many of our friends, his pieces — small and large; originals and prints; some purchased, many more given to us as gifts — decorate every corner of my house, from the living room to the kitchen, to all the walls around my bed, even to the bathrooms. Everywhere I look, I see Potter. At least we’ll always have that.
Potter returned to the limelight under shittier circumstances in 2021, when he was diagnosed with a crazy form of cancer called NUT carcinoma. The news came just days after much of The Tribe had spent a Halloween weekend camping at El Capitan, where he casually complained of some breathing issues. By the following Friday, we learned that the rare, aggressive cancer had invaded his lungs, forcing him into the hospital where he clung to life.
A week into his hospitalization, he summoned me and our friend Kevin to his room, requesting that we smuggle in wine. We obliged, and shared forbidden pulls over tears, realizing that this could very likely be the last time we ever saw him alive.
But together we all tapped a network of doctor friends to come to his aid, from Harvard to UCLA, rallied around him and his family to launch a GoFundMe, and supported him the next summer during The Friendship Paddle from Santa Cruz Island to the Santa Barbara Yacht Club. That next year’s backpacking trip, which had always been called “The Death March,” was rechristened “The Life March.” To keep a winded Potter involved, we got special access to do a shorter route, so I overpacked more than usual. But it was still steep, and of all people, Potter was the one who carried some of my extra weight up the mountain.
Somehow, through strategic medical care and a positive outlook, Potter pulled through, outlasting a cancer that usually proves fatal in less than six months. I believe he did so by embracing life, from his painting regime to his passions for friends, family, and, of course, golf. Among other rituals triggered by his fight against cancer was the Potter Plunge, a quick dip in the Pacific Ocean between holes 11 and 12 at Sandpiper Golf Course. He did the first one naked, getting mildly chastised by a nearby cart girl, so we wore trunks when I joined him during a later round.
As far as Potter understood it, having survived more than two years, he’d lived longer than everyone else on the planet who’d ever been diagnosed with NUT carcinoma, except for one other guy. The plan was to connect with him some day.
Potter’s recent cancer scans came back clean. That’s why his death was sudden. He was simply enjoying life as he always had — at an aggressive, unrelenting pace, no doubt, but not expecting to be struck down right now, given all he’d been through.
Looking back at the last couple weeks of his life, they run a bit like a farewell tour. A few Saturdays ago, he came over for smashburgers at my house, and wound up reminiscing about all of his health and cancer travails to me at my kitchen table, staying until 1:30 a.m. (He thought it was 11 p.m.) I didn’t quite know why all of these sad, tearful memories were pouring out of him that night, but it makes more sense today.
The next Saturday, after watching the 49ers beat the Packers, I hosted an epic poker night at my house, with many of the original players and another few of the friends we’ve picked up since, tallying nearly 20 dudes. It was one of only a handful that we’ve done since the regular game stopped almost a decade ago, also veering beyond 1 a.m. as we banged on keyboards and drums in my kitchen after the cards had fallen.
The Saturday after that, we watched the end of the Lakers (his team) versus Warriors (mine) game at the Public Market before heading over to SOhO with a big group of friends to groove our way through a concert by ALO, one of our favorite bands from our overlapping Isla Vista days. Given the busy state of our lives, it was the first time in a while that so many of us had gathered in one place, and we saw countless other friendly faces that had become less familiar since the pandemic, again staying up past 1 a.m. (Prior to this recent string, I hadn’t been up past 1 a.m. in quite a while.)
The following morning, on Sunday, January 28, a mildly hungover gang of us gathered at the Santa Barbara Shellfish Company at the end of Stearns Wharf to kick off a bike ride through town in celebration of Potter’s 49th birthday, which was the next day. After oysters and so forth, we headed back down the wharf toward planned stops at Convivo (Potter’s favorite restaurant), Rincon Brewing (whose canned beers feature his paintings), and The Creekside, which is close to the Potter compound, and a good spot to watch the 49ers/Eagles game.
But before even leaving the wharf, we rolled up on an older man who’d driven his fancy convertible atop the large wooden curbs in front of The Harbor Restaurant and Longboard’s. Our group jumped into action to save the teetering car and its bewildered driver, physically lifting the vehicle off the curb, and even getting on the television news for our efforts. What else could have triggered such a bizarrely hilarious turn of events other than a Chris Potter Birthday Bike Ride?
He golfed that Monday on his birthday — I’m kicking myself for not going now — and then he continued his birthday tour with a trip down south to golf with his brother in San Diego and hang out with old UCSB friends in Huntington Beach. That’s where he died, sometime in the morning hours of Saturday, February 3. He just didn’t wake up.
A midlife death like this is devastating no matter what. But having Potter go from near-death due to cancer two years ago, to apparently cancer-free this year, to suddenly no longer with us has been quite a roller-coaster. It’s been especially emotional to see my own children go through grief, as they too were Potter’s close friends. He was especially excited to take my son to his beloved holes at Sandpiper Golf Course, where Potter was planning to share all his secrets.
Thankfully, we have our Tribe, many of whom joined Julie, Malakye, and Zenia on the Ellwood Bluffs on Saturday afternoon just hours after the news came through. We walked out across the Ellwood Bluffs over spilled rose petals to gather at Potter’s Point, where we shared hugs, tears, and laughs as the stormy ocean raged below. Flowers were placed, sage was burned, drinks were consumed, and dogs ran wild through the mud. It would have made a great painting. Potter would have loved it.
Read Chris Potter’s official obituary here. His celebration of life will be held at the Elings Performing Arts Center at Dos Pueblos High School on Saturday, February 24, 1 p.m. Given the potential for a large crowd, attendees are being asked to register in advance by visiting chrispotterart.com. Those who would like to support Malakye and Zenia can donate to gofundme.com/f/for-malakye-and-zenia.