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.

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I Only Feel Elation

I call my wife Heidi Of The Mountains. When we first began spending devoted time together about four years ago, we liked to hike in the mountains, and she enjoyed it so much that when I looked at her with her blonde hair as she hiked, I called her Heidi Of The Mountains. The name stuck, and at times, she has insisted that is what I must call her—Heidi. It is the only way I refer to her online.
A few days ago, we awoke to a fresh blanket of snow, with flakes continuing to fall from the gray sky above. Not to be stopped, we took our dog and snow shoes and drove along the blanketed road toward the Santa Fe Ski Basin, into the mountains. We parked at a trail head, and were completely alone. Our dog Gracie, immediately began frolicking, thrilled to be in the winter wonderland. Indeed, we all felt happy and lunged merrily into the magical woods. The snow continued falling and the temperatures were below freezing, but we were bundled in winter clothes, together by ourselves in the wilderness, and in silence among the snow-laden trees of the forest.
Following a barely traceable trail, deeper and deeper we went . . . the snow falling gently, everything shrouded in white, and serene. The only sound was our feet crunching in the snow, and our voices as we talked or laughed. Occasionally we would stop just to listen to the silence. Nothing, broke the impasse, not wind in the trees or bird song. Gracie would stop too, and listen.

At one point, Heidi Of The Moutains said, “My hands are cold, are yours?” I replied, “I don't know, because I am so entranced and happy, I only feel elation!”