The Thrill

 Living on the outskirts of Oaxaca de Juárez, each year as Día de Muerto approaches, I can feel the city’s pulse quicken with the thrill of preparations. My wife and I make frequent drives into town, passing fields alive with bright marigolds and deep crimson cockscomb, their colors vivid against the landscape. With years of practice, the farmers cultivate with uncanny precision so that the blooms arrive perfectly for the ceremonies. People buy armfuls to tote home and decorate. Then again, every grave will be laden with flowers. 

In Oaxaca, the transformation is everywhere. Calaveras—skulls of all shapes and sizes—are popping up, and intricate ofrendas, altars, are built with care, honoring loved ones with candles, flowers, food, and photos. I feel my own excitement grow, knowing the city will soon be buzzing with festivals and gatherings.

As a photographer and artist, this season is irresistible. Usually we go to town about 3 days a week. But soon I will go every day and spend evenings as well, amidst the raucous and jubilant celebrating. There’s something breathtaking in every corner: faces painted in skeletal designs, roving musicians and bands, intricate papel picado dancing in the breeze, altars adorned with memories. At its peak, in the evening, the closed streets are wall to wall with festive people, mostly in costume. 

 Día de Muertos is not just a time of remembrance but a time of vivid, visual storytelling.

Embracing The Essence

From my ongoing “Vanitas” series, these two skeletons seem to capture moments of life—and death—in a quiet yet playful way. Painted in my studio here in Oaxaca, Mexico, they embrace the essence of Día de Muertos, where the veil between life and death thins, and we celebrate both.

The skeleton eating the watermelon was one of the earliest pieces in the series. I call him "Watermelon Man", or El Hombre Sandía. For a couple of years, it hung by our kitchen, a familiar presence that my wife and I grew fond of. It radiated a rustic charm, with the cowboy hat and simple meal evoking a nostalgic, carefree joy. When it sold to a collector, it left an unexpected void, and I felt the need to create a counterpart—this time, a more feminine figure.

The second painting, "La Catrina", completed just in time for Día de Muertos, shows a skeleton enjoying a steaming cup of tea, her large, elegant hat adorned with flowers. The timing was serendipitous, as it coincided with the beginning of the season; October 27 -  November 4 each year. 

La Catrina is an iconic symbol of Mexican identity and is often seen in decorations, art, and festivities related to Día de los Muertos, reminding people that death comes for everyone, regardless of social status.

These paintings, like the holiday, blend humor, nostalgia, respect, and a touch of reverence, reminding us of the fleeting yet beautiful nature of life.

Vanitas artworks serve as memento mori, reminding viewers that life is short and that they should reflect on the spiritual or moral dimensions of existence rather than becoming absorbed in temporary, worldly concerns. Vanitas paintings often have an introspective, philosophical tone but can also blend in subtle irony or dark humor, acknowledging the tension between life’s pleasures and the inevitability of death.

For more art from Amy and Steven Boone: Dos Venados Studio

 

A Visit from the Village Veterinarian

Life in our small village near Oaxaca has its rhythms, and our two dogs, MaliNalli and Avion, are very much a part of that. MaliNalli, our sleek xoloitzquintle, is ever the graceful companion, while Avion, our sweet rescue from the streets, still carries a bit of his past with him. It took a long time for Avion to settle in—over a year of patience and reassurance before he began to trust us. Even now, he can be suspicious, but he’s protective of us and his buddy MaliNalli.

 

A few days ago, we noticed something off with Avion. He seemed to be in pain, limping and showing signs of abrasions on his underside. It looked like he might have gotten into a scuffle. By the next morning, his pain had worsened, and we knew we had to do something. We called the village veterinarian for the first time.

In the afternoon, a fine old gentleman, Dr. Mario Ruiz, arrived on his motorcycle, making his rounds. He was calm, professional, and kind. After examining Avion, he confirmed that the wounds were likely from a fight and that infection had set in. With a steady hand, he administered two injections and applied a healing powder to Avion’s belly. The cost for his services was incredibly reasonable—600 pesos (around 31 USD). He promised to return the next day, Sunday, for another injection, instructing us to give Avion a bath before his arrival.

In our quiet corner of the world, it’s reassuring to know we have such care close by, and we’re grateful for the tenderness shown to our beloved Avion. This morning we bathed him. I had to drag him into the bathroom. With tail between his legs, he whimpered and was rigid with fear, but when the warm water ran over him he relaxed. We were able to get him washed. 

He’s recovering now, resting a bit more. Hopefully, slowly regaining his strength. 

Small moments like these remind us of the community we’ve built here—both human and animal—and how we all look after one another in this shared life.