Returning to the Still Life: A Studio Reflection

Lately, I’ve found myself returning to a time-honored tradition in painting: the still life. These quiet compositions—humble, unmoving, ever available—are both easy and challenging. They are always close at hand, requiring no travel, no scheduling, no permission. Just light, form, and attention.

Unlike portrait painting the subject does not move. Light can be controlled. The limitation is that when using food, such as fish, fruit, or vegetables . . . time is against the artist due to spoiling. Same with flowers.

Three small oil paintings emerged recently from our studio, Dos Venados, from this renewed practice—each one a meditation on color, composition, and presence.

The first, Riñon Tomato, Vase & Rose, bursts with energy. A thick yellow rose blossoms from a small blue vase, flanked by two crimson riñon tomatoes—plump and wrinkled like elder hearts. The brushwork swirls with vitality, capturing the tension between delicacy and ripeness. The glass reflects a world within a world.

The second, Mamey and Rose, is quieter, more intimate. A rose, deep pink and velvety, rests beside an open mamey fruit. The earthen pod is shaped like an offering bowl, its curve embracing shadow and light. The rose leans in, almost whispering—a conversation between softness and sustenance.

The third, Tilapia with Lemons, is a nod to classical still life in the tradition of fishmongers and feasts. The silvery tilapia, slick and glistening, lies across a dark plate, accompanied by two whole lemons and one sliced open, its pulp like a sunburst. The turquoise background shimmers with broken strokes, suggesting both water and tablecloth, abstraction and realism.

Each painting, though small in scale, affirms something enduring: the joy of close observation, the dance of brush against canvas, the timeless appeal of the ordinary made luminous. Still lifes remind me that mastery isn’t always about grandeur—it’s about presence. And paint still has the power to stop time.

Here are a few other previous posts about Still Life painting processes:   Still Life 

Contributing Something Meaningful

For nearly four years now, Amy and I have welcomed neighborhood children to our home each Sunday afternoon for free art classes. It began as a modest gesture of goodwill after settling in our village outside Oaxaca. We simply wanted to share the joy of creativity—our small way of contributing something meaningful to our new community.

At first, we weren’t sure how it would go. But the children came. Week after week, they showed up eager to paint, draw, sculpt, and create. We provided all the supplies, refreshments, and a safe, welcoming space. Some of the kids had never held a paintbrush before. Others arrived shy or withdrawn but slowly came alive with each project. It became more than just a class; it became a ritual, a relationship, and at times, a refuge.

Over the years, we celebrated their milestones and mourned their struggles. We laughed, got our hands dirty in paint, baked cookies, told stories. There were difficult moments, too—times when boundaries were tested or our trust was shaken. But we always came back to the table, ready to continue.

This last Sunday, the table remained empty.

Amy prepared everything as she always does, with care and hope. But no one came.
We knew this day might come. The group has gradually dwindled. The children are growing up, moving into adolescence and its distractions. Some families have moved away, others are preoccupied with school, work, or simply life. It is a natural turning of the page.

Still, it is bittersweet. Our Sundays have been marked by the joy of shared creativity, and now, that rhythm has quieted. But we do not feel regret. We feel gratitude. We gave what we could, wholeheartedly. And we received so much in return—smiles, trust, unexpected gifts of warm tortillas, and the quiet reward of seeing imagination flourish in a child’s hands.

Service doesn’t always come with ceremony or closure. Often, it ends not with a farewell, but with an absence. And that’s okay. The door is still open. Should any of the children wander back, they will find the table ready, the paints and brushes available, and our hearts open.

Whatever happens next, this chapter has been a blessing. We carry its memories like colorful alebrijes—imperfect, vibrant, full of spirit—and remain grateful for the chance to have served. 

Declarations

Some cities whisper. Oaxaca shouts, sings, sometimes howls—and always colorfully.


For Amy and me, living just outside the city, each visit into Centro is a pilgrimage of sorts. We go not just for errands or events, but to listen. And in Oaxaca, the walls themselves have voices.



As artists, we’re always alert to surface and form. But what we find here, plastered on stucco walls and colonial façades, often stops us in our tracks. Layers of ink and wheatpaste. Stencils. Murals. Figures rising from concrete like visions.




Each outing brings fresh revelations—new works that seem to have appeared overnight. Some playful, others raw and urgent.



It’s graffiti, yes—but also graphic art of the highest order. A street-level gallery where the curators are anonymous and the exhibitions impermanent. One recurring theme we encounter is muerto—death—rendered in countless forms. Skulls, skeletons, saints of bone, eyes empty yet watching. These images, scattered across walls like quiet prophets, evoke the tradition of memento mori, reminding us of life’s fragility. They feel intimate, woven into daily life with reverence and wry humor. In Oaxaca, death is not hidden away—it dances in the open. And in that dance, something beautiful and brave emerges.

What makes the street art unforgettable is not just its aesthetic force, but its message. These aren’t just images—they’re declarations. Cries for justice. Invocations of history. Reminders of who was here first. We’ve seen faces of missing women, rendered with haunting beauty. Or portraits of Zapotec elders crowned with radiance, gazing back with dignity and warning. Even amid bright color and clever design, a fierce heart pulses underneath.

The other day, we wandered in again—my birthday, a soft afternoon. We strolled arm in arm past street musicians performing in the Zócalo, the notes of marimba and flute riding the air like butterflies. Turning down a side street, a new piece caught our eye: A slumped man, vomiting a stream not of bile, but of broken red hearts—a raw and graphic metaphor for emotional wreckage that often underlies or results from substance abuse. On his back, the phrase “Clavado en el alcohol” translates to “Nailed in alcohol” or “Stuck in alcohol”—evoking the sense of being trapped, impaled, or immobilized by addiction. A powerful play on words, conjuring both emotional and physical torment. Love, connection, heartbreak—all purged, splattered on the pavement. The hearts form a kind of visual trail; like blood drops, pointing to pain that’s been internalized too long. A street-level elegy for the many who suffer silently, and a visual cry that addiction is as much about sorrow as it is about substance. The figure is ghostlike, almost already fading, as if to say: “This is what remains when you drown your heart.”

Graffiti street art from Oaxaca—both poetic and painful.

We come in like this several times a week. The rhythm of our lives has syncopated with the city’s—market to plaza, plaza to gallery, gallery to wall. And always, the walls speak.
For two lifelong creators, there’s a special satisfaction in this: not only seeing art but being surprised by it. Art that isn’t for sale. Art that risks being torn down. Art that endures in the face of erasure. And somehow, that makes it stronger.

In Oaxaca, the city doesn’t just show you its soul. It paints it—again and again—right in front of you.

Oaxaca’s Living Walls

Every time my wife and I make the 40-minute drive from our quiet village into the vibrant heart of Oaxaca, I feel a shift—as though I’m stepping from one world into another. The journey is familiar, but what awaits is never the same.

As soon as I begin walking the streets, camera in hand, I am abundantly rewarded. The city is a gallery without walls, alive with bold graphics, murals, stencils, and wheatpaste posters. They cling to crumbling facades, dance across doors and down alleyways, and transform the mundane into something mythic. These artworks appear suddenly and disappear just as quickly—painted over, torn down, or slowly erased by sun and time. And yet, there’s always something new rising in their place.

Much of this visual feast comes from a collective known as Subterráneos, whose work pulses with the spirit of the streets—defiant, poetic, urgent. Their imagery ranges from fierce political commentary to whimsical dreamscapes, often interwoven with indigenous symbolism, social critique, or surreal humor. They are part of a larger movement here in Oaxaca, where art and activism blend seamlessly into the public sphere.

As a photographer and artist, I feel compelled to document it—not only as an evolving cultural record, but as a living dialogue between the city and its inhabitants. I often find the most striking moments when people unknowingly pass in front of the murals—when the layers of street life and street art converge. A child skipping by a giant jaguar, an old man leaning in the shadow of a painted skeleton, a woman adjusting her shawl beneath a towering goddess.

Video. About 3 1/2 minutes.

These are chance encounters, but they feel like small, sacred alignments. The kind that remind me why I keep coming back—with fresh eyes, an open heart, and my camera ready.

Sense of Gratitude

My wife Amy and I try to make the journey from our village into Oaxaca whenever events of deep cultural meaning unfold. These are times when the city reveals its soul—rituals layered with history, symbolism, and reverence. I come with my camera, ready to bear witness.

On Good Friday, we stood quietly among the crowd gathered for the Procesión del Silencio. The streets were full, yet hushed. The procession began late—the priest was delayed—but no one complained. Participants stood motionless, their black and white garments a testament to mourning and devotion. The statue of the Virgin waited too, crowned and serene, above a bed of flowers.

Nothing began until the priest finished his sermon at the steps of the Templo de la Preciosa Sangre de Cristo, a baroque church in the heart of Oaxaca’s historic center. Only then did the ancient ritual unfold—a tradition that has taken root here since colonial times and is based on Holy Week observances from Seville, Spain.

Standard bearers stepped forward, holding aloft banners richly embellished with sacred icons. Various parishes had offered their most venerated images and relics for the occasion, each one reverently borne on the shoulders of men. The weight of the divine—honored with every careful step.

Then came a procession of men wearing only loincloths and hoods, penitentes, their faces hidden, their bodies straining under immense wooden crosses. The timbers scraped loudly against the pavement, a visceral soundtrack to the unspoken agony and devotion representatively etched into each step they took. The sound echoed through the silence—raw, ancient, unforgettable.

There was no music. Only the sound of footsteps, the rustling of lace veils, the scraping of wood, and the unspoken language of shared faith.

In moments like this, Amy and I feel a deep sense of gratitude. Though we are transplanted Americans, we are welcomed here—not as strangers, but as neighbors. And in the silence of this sacred procession, we felt it again: the quiet power of belonging.

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For those unfamiliar with this powerful tradition, the Procesión del Silencio is a Catholic ritual that dramatizes the sorrow of the Virgin Mary, La Dolorosa; following the crucifixion of Christ. It originated in Spain and was brought to Latin America during the colonial period, becoming a central part of Holy Week in many cities, including Oaxaca. The silence is a symbol of mourning, penitence, and reverence.

Umbral—Threshold of Time

Umbral (50 x 40 cm), captures a native Oaxaqueña standing at the threshold of a weathered wooden doorway with deep turquoise trim. The vibrant hues of the wall—burnt ochre, orange, and crimson—frame her presence, contrasting with her humble yet striking attire. She wears a simple white blouse and a richly textured yellow skirt, cinched with a red woven sash. Barefoot, she exudes quiet strength, her expression introspective as she gazes into the distance. The impasto brushstrokes imbue the scene with movement, light, and raw emotion. 

The painting is from our studio in Oaxaca, called Dos Venados, or Two Deer. Amy and I live on Cuatro Venados Road, which goes from our village up into the mountains, and ends at a Eco-resort, called Cuatro Venados. The scene from Oaxaca is timeless, despite modernization that has occurred here.

She stands at the doorway, poised between past and future. The sun-soaked wall exudes warmth, yet her shadow lingers cool on the stone. In her silence, a story—of resilience, of waiting, of belonging.

Meanwhile, my writing continues for The Weight of Air⏤the story of a one year journey around the world in 2008. So many indelible, phenomenal occurrences and adventures to draw from. Documented in a timeline of travel blogs right here on My Fairy-Tale Life. 

See Substack: Notes from the Edge: Glimpses of the Dreaming Matrix. 

Subscribe for free and get regular updates. Something new at least once a week. 

The Ever-Shifting Dance of Creation

As previously mentioned, focus has returned to words. Combing through decades of writing, essays are taking shape drawn from years of travel and introspection. A foundation is forming, and at its core, the year 2008.

A year of surrender. A year of dissolving into the matrix of life. Traveling the world with no fixed plan, disappearing into The Dream. That journey reshaped everything—perception, identity, the sense of what is possible. Now, its echoes call to be gathered into writing, to be shared.

Perhaps, someday, they will find their way into a book, titled, The Weight of Air. A collection of journeys—both outward and inward—woven together with the same thread that has always guided me: surrender, discovery, and the dissolution of boundaries. But for now, the task has begun; offering through words and images, glimpses into worlds both spiritual and sensual, taking flight between wakefulness and dreaming.  

The first chapter is called, The Moment I Chose to Vanish. An excerpt: 

Into the Matrix

Preparing to give myself into the unknown, my thoughts were becoming doorways; portals into experience. The physical world, I understood, was where the true value of my visions would be revealed. A recurring desire took hold of me: I wanted to disappear into the matrix of the earth. Not to carry anything with me, but to become fluid and free. 

What did this mean? To disappear—to vanish from being seen as a separate, formed being and dissolve into oneness with life. Life, the vast, interwoven fabric where everything is connected—people, events, places, emotions, and time. I desired to be in this matrix, surrendering to the flow, allowing experiences to inspire and shape me rather than trying to control them. Children remained close to it, still forming in its embrace, unshaped by the boundaries that adults constructed. 

Looking back now, I see I stood on the threshold of an exploration—one that would take me beyond those boundaries, into a vast unknown. I had been preparing to strip away the artificial walls that society had built around life, to step into something raw and unfiltered.  

Reinventing Beyond Painting

For most of my life, I have been an artist—a painter first and foremost. Many times I have felt like pinching myself, asking, “Can this be true . . . a successful artist?” Standing in nature painting beauty, while listening to birdsongs and feeling wind and sun, and then getting paid for the painting. What could be better? My hands have moved with color, form, and instinct, bringing visions to life on canvas.

 

Art has been a constant companion, shaping existence, giving purpose, and serving as conduit to the world. It has been my identity.

But now, at 72, I find myself at a crossroads, making a shift never anticipated.  

It is strange to acknowledge: my creative wellspring hasn’t dried up, but the way it flows is changing. Painting—once the beating heart of daily rhythm—feels quieter now, like a tide receding. In its place, something else is rising. Writing. Storytelling. The art of weaving my lived experiences, insights, and dreams into words that might reach others in a different way than my paintings ever could.  

I have been a writer all along. But it has been mostly in the background. Awards have been won, magazine articles published. Like my photography that has occasionally adorned a book cover, I have given creative energy to art other than painting.

Now to immerse myself in writing! To shape and share my thoughts more expansively. Friends have suggested for years that I combine my images with my writing, (See: Plenty To Write About). Yet, it is bittersweet. I am abandoning painting, at least for now, because writing must consume the hours. Not to choose this lightly; rather, it is the natural pull of a creative current, something I have always trusted.

Fortunately, it is not from scratch. For nearly two decades, I have been writing about my journey—art, travels, philosophies—on My Fairy-Tale Life, this blog that now holds almost 800 entries. These writings, layered with the richness of time and experience, form a vast reservoir to draw from and shift toward publishing on platforms like Substack and Medium. They hold the stories of a life lived with intensity, surrender, and wonder. In many ways, I have already been writing my next chapter—I just didn’t realize it.  

And while my paintbrush may rest for now, the visual world does not. With thousands of images—paintings, photographs, moments captured over a lifetime—I can now pair them with writing. In this way, my artistic spirit continues, even as the medium shifts. Perhaps I am not leaving painting behind, but rather allowing it to merge with language in a way that feels inevitable.

The journey has been anything but linear. From a year of "disappearing into the matrix" in 2008, traveling the world in THE DREAM and surrendering to the currents of life, and to the deeply personal journey of grief and love that shaped my book A Heart Traced in Sand, life has always been a dance between artistic expression and storytelling. Now, it seems, words are taking the lead.  

Who knows where this shift will lead. But then again, I never knew where painting would take me either. That is the beauty of creative life: it is never truly static, even when we believe we have found our singular path.  

Others have felt this shift in their own lives—the unexpected pivot, the realization that reinvention is not the territory of youth alone. Even at 72, there is room for sudden transformation. Perhaps the true art is in the letting go, the willingness to follow the currents when they change direction.  

So here I am, stepping into something new. Not abandoning the past, but expanding the horizon. If you have followed my work as a painter, I hope you will join me on this next phase of the journey—through words, through memory, through the ever-unfolding dream of life.  

Because at any age, and in any form, the art continues.  

Soon to come: My Substack and Medium websites where you can enjoy my literature.

Check out a new Stevenboone website: https://stevenboone.myportfolio.com/

A Life in Frames

Preserving a Photographer’s Legacy

Paris, 2008

For over thirty years, photography has been an integral part of my artistic journey. It began as an addition to my work as a fine artist and painter. Initially I wanted to simply be able to make high quality records of my artwork for preservation, advertising, and producing fine art prints. But soon, photography became another way to explore composition, light, and subject matter. Then in 2008, as I traveled around the world for one year, photography evolved from a complementary skill into a full-fledged passion. Especially street photography, where I found an immediate and raw way to capture the beauty, chaos, and humanity of everyday life. 

While travelling, I continued painting with supplies I brought. Making a painting took hours of concentration on one subject matter. I loved painting. Yet with so much to see in new countries that thrilled me to the core, I steadily evolved to photography, spending endless hours in the world at large, submersing myself in every aspect of it and making images by the thousands.

Angkor Wat, Cambodia, 2015

My background as a painter informed the way I shot photographs. Just as I approach a canvas, composing with an eye for balance, movement, and emotion, a street scene can be a symphony of gestures and expressions, frozen in time with the press of a shutter. The ability to make on-the-spot creative decisions became second nature. It was exhilarating—watching, waiting, anticipating, then capturing something ephemeral and turning it into something lasting. And I visualized what was before my eyes as a canvas to paint upon.

Paris, 2008

Over the years, I have lived in over thirty countries, and in that time, amassed an estimated 300,000 photographs. That number is staggering to consider, but each image is a thread in the larger tapestry of my life. Recently, at the age of 72, I’ve begun the painstaking process of backing up my digital archives—transferring files from aging hard drives to new ones. Several of my old hard drives have already failed, taking many images with them, so this act of preservation feels urgent.

Oaxaca, Mexico, 2023

The photos are all originally in color. Using software, I convert many of them to back & white. An essential difference in feeling between black & white and color photography is the way they evoke emotion and perception. Black & white strips an image down to its core elements—light, shadow, form, and texture—creating a timeless, often dramatic or nostalgic effect. It emphasizes emotion through contrast and composition, allowing the viewer to focus on mood and structure without the distraction. In contrast, color photography offers vibrancy and realism, capturing the full spectrum of life as the eye naturally sees it. It evokes different emotional responses through hue and saturation, bringing warmth, energy, or melancholy depending on the palette. For me, both styles have their place in storytelling, each offering a unique way to interpret and experience the world through images. I slightly favor black & white.

Rome, 2016

Angkor Wat, Cambodia, 2017

As I sift through the vast collection, I rediscover forgotten moments—glimpses of beauty, sorrow, humor, and wonder. There are countless gems among these files, tributes to my well lived life and a world well traveled. Now, with this rediscovery comes a renewed sense of purpose.

Florence, Italy, 2008

I don’t want these photographs to simply gather dust in digital vaults. I want to breathe new life into them—curate, create, and share them in a meaningful way. Perhaps it’s a book, a digital archive, or an exhibition. Maybe it’s a new project that blends writing and photography, weaving stories through images.

Luxor, Egypt, 2017

Whatever form it takes, I feel a deep responsibility to honor this work—both for posterity and as a service to humanity. Photography, at its best, is not just about capturing a moment but about revealing something timeless, something that connects us all. And so, as I embark on this next phase, I feel gratitude, knowing that the images are not just a record of where I’ve been, but a bridge to magic and wonder.

Artistic Synergy - A Rich Dialogue

For the last several years, the difference between Amy’s art and mine has been nothing short of stark. My wife´s work celebrates enchantment, natural connection, and storytelling, capturing the magic of life in bright colors and symbolism. My art embraces the spectral inevitability of death, portraying it as a journey and reminder of ultimate transformation.

Together, our styles create a rich dialogue: her vibrant, dreamlike imagery invites wonder and warmth, while my skeletal motifs—rooted in Oaxaca’s Día de Muertos traditions and European vanitas art—are a haunting meditation on mortality. The balance of light and shadow, joy, reverence and sense of fate, gives our studio, called Dos Venados, a unique and deeply meaningful identity. Our art isn’t just about individual expression—it’s a shared narrative of transformation, memory, and the cyclical nature of existence.

With Fresh Eyes

This past week, Amy and I, along with a friend visiting from our former hometown of Santa Fe, New Mexico, USA, set out on a much-anticipated road trip from our village outside Oaxaca, Mexico to the Pacific Coast. With Highway 175 stretching before us, we embarked on our scenic drive. We had been to the coast on the same route about a month prior and the newly finished highway was smooth, clean and fast. This time we were stunned to find heavy damage along the way. Rocks and earth slides slowed down our drive and left us in awe and trembling. Men working heavy machinery were tasked the huge job of clearing the damage. 

Our destination was Mazunte, a small coastal town known for its bohemian charm and laid-back energy. Nestled along the shore, Hotel Casa Ofelia became our sanctuary for three nights—a simple yet delightful hotel where the ocean itself seemed to breathe tranquility into every moment. Our days melted into a dream of sunlit waves, salty breezes, the lulling sound of crashing waves, and endless relaxation. Amy does not swim, but I went headlong into the surf when I could. The ocean there is dangerous for its forceful action and somewhat steep slope, so at least once I was warned by a lifeguard to only go in up to my knees. Fortunately there is another, spectacular and safe beach called San Augustinillo, just minutes away.

Mazunte has a way of slowing time. It attracts travelers, artists, and wanderers, all drawn to its eclectic, free-spirited atmosphere. To me, it has the feeling of Haight-Ashbury in San Francisco during the height of the hippie days in the late 1960´s. Very relaxed elemental people are on a permanent free-spirit groove. The ocean, ever-present, is guide—a steady force softening thoughts and smoothing away
lingering tensions. We found a new favorite restaurant, grabbed delicious local coffee, visited a marvelous Turtle Museum. Spent sunset time walking along the shore, watching the sky transform into a canvas of fiery colors.

By the time we packed up to leave, we felt renewed. Three nights in eclectic Mazunte had worked its quiet magic, offering us space to breathe, to be still, and to simply exist in the presence of the sea. 

The drive home was reflective and slightly strained with the landscape shifting once again. Then suddenly when we entered Oaxaca city I felt it—the warm embrace of home. The cobblestone streets, vibrant markets, and artistic soul welcomed us back. Charms we had momentarily left behind now felt even richer, layered with the peace we carried from the coast.

Sometimes, a journey is not about seeking something new but about stepping away just long enough to return with fresh eyes. Mazunte gave us that gift, and Oaxaca, in turn, received us with open arms.

Going Home

"Hombre Sandía" oil on canvas, 60 x 80 cm, (sold to a collector from California, USA)

When one of my favored paintings, such as Hombre Sandía, from my Memento Mori series, is sold to an art collector, it feels like both a blessing and a quiet farewell. It’s a joy to know that someone has connected deeply with the work, giving it a new life beyond my walls. Yet, there’s a tinge of remorse, like parting with an old friend who has shared my space, my thoughts, and my journey. It’s bittersweet—an honor to see it cherished, but a reminder that art, once released, belongs to the world as much as to the artist.

"La Catrina" oil on canvas, 50 x 70 cm

There’s a comfort in knowing that my work has embarked on its own journey, while I remain in my studio, immersed in the process of creation. The subject evolves, just as I do, taking on new shades, textures, and perspectives. Nothing in art—or life—is truly static. Every goodbye carries the seed of something new, and with each painting, I feel both the familiar and the unexplored unfold before me.

"Viaje Final" oil on canvas, 80 x 120 cm, (sold to a collector from Vermont, USA)

When a cherished painting leaves my hands to find its place in the world, I find myself returning to the canvas with a sense of renewal. The act of parting inspires me to explore the subject again, as if seeking to rediscover the essence of what first moved me. Each brushstroke becomes a conversation—not to recreate what was, but to deepen my understanding of the moment, the feeling, or the vision that sparked it. I made La Catrina to replace Hombre Sandía . . . and recently, Going Home to replace Viaje Final. Like most of the work on the walls of our home, they are for sale if a buyer comes forth. Until then, they are like intimate friends in our immediate surrounding.

"Going Home" oil on canvas, 100 x 120 cm

This cycle—of creation, connection, release, and renewal—fuels my artistic spirit. I am assured that the well of inspiration is never dry, only waiting for me to dive deeper. The process itself is a testament to how art transforms.

See a new Steven Boone new website