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/

Fractured

Fractured is a theme I can relate to, having experienced much personal trauma and fissure in life. That's ok, I believe what my darling daughter Naomi said before she died, "Hardships can make us stronger. Every situation in life has some good in it."

When I learned that an important photography gallery in Santa Fe made a call to submit work with "fracture" as theme, I knew I had enough images of merit to enter. 

The show syllabus is as follows

“Today, our world can seem divided in a multitude of ways. Between debates over the climate emergency, corporations literally breaking our earth with fracking, families split at national borders and our divided political systems, concepts like societal unity and harmony feel like a distant hope. Even on a personal level, humans have the capacity to feel fissured, split, and incomplete in our thoughts and emotions. Shifts in perspective, breaks from tradition, and experiencing loss can all encompass the idea of the fracture. This concept can have both positive and negative connotations. However, acknowledging that something is broken is the first step in working toward healing. How can art be a platform for expressing, and ultimately bridging these personal and social divides? What role does the photographer play in observing, documenting, and healing the fractured landscapes around and within us all? “

I entered five images, gathered from extensive travels and street photography, as well as studio work. Camera photos I take are simply starting places because they go into my “digital studio”. Then I manipulate them to bring out a story poignantly. 

Sometimes I combine images into collages, and transform them with tools available in photoshop. 

I can't show the pictures included in my entry.

The one above is from Andalusia, Spain, in ruins of a home with my friend Pepa dressed in flamenco attire holding flowers.

Looking Into A Face

What is more magical than looking into a face? A sunrise has its charms, as does the flaming spectacle at the end of day. Changing clouds, dark forests, mossy rock and gurgling brook all entice. Microscopic life viewed under microscopes and galaxies seen through telescopes put us in awe. But none of these express as much as a human face.

A face is a poem, a book, a treatise. It speaks every language and conveys in every language. It dances, groans, howls, cries, kisses, laughs . . . it is sympathetic or remote, suspicious or loving.

We can tell the passage of time in a face. Yet eyes do not age . . . they retain their features.

In my photographic pursuits I am attracted to making images that capture faces. Wherever I am in the world I look for the human face to tell its story.

The desert or mountain is splendid, as are the cities and villages, but it is a face that goes with the location that is most expressive.

God has given you one face, and you make yourself another.  —William Shakespeare

Kaleidoscope of Sensual Surprises

Life is a kaleidoscope of sensual surprises.  During travel, I leave familiar surroundings to engage in the unknown and see with fresh eyes, hear with new ears, and think new thoughts. All the while being mesmerized and awed by little revelations. Yet even without going anywhere, the kaleidoscope of patterns, sights, sounds, tastes and smells is always turning; a bite of cold wind across the face, coming indoors to fragrant aromas of cooking foods, hearing the song of a strange bird for the first time, a fabulous sunset or sunrise.

A surprise can be simple and appear like a gift from an unseen hand. I have deep windowsills at home. In my bedroom I placed a model of a sailing ship on a window ledge. Recently, before taking a nap after lunch, I pulled the curtains closed. After rising, I went to the curtains and saw the ships shadows cast upon the fabric. It captured my imagination and I went and got my camera. The rippling folds of cloth were like ocean waves that took my vessel into an etheric sea. Why did I notice it? The winter light and angle of the sun made the picture come to life. Also, I was willing to see . . . because if my emotions and thoughts had been obscuring my perceptions, the little shadow theater would have had no attraction. I had seen it before. Now the elements lined up to capture my senses and I was ready.
 

I like happy accidents and am open to experiencing them during my creative process. Recently, during my month sojourn in Venice, Italy, I fell into a hobby of making photographs of people taking “selfies.” World famous Rialto Bridge was just minutes from my flat. Everyday, thousands of selfies are made there. So whenever I was passing over the bridge, 2 or 3 times a day, I would linger to photograph. Once, I spotted two fellows making a portrait, and surreptitiously became involved with my camera. Just as they were composing, I shot my picture from behind, capturing the subject’s face through the triangle of arm, shoulder and head of the picture taker.

Because I am creative, poems arise from what is garbage to others. One day I was walking on the stone sidewalks of Cuenca, Ecuador. I often look down at the patterns and crevices of the walkways as I sojourn. Something stopped me. A picture had fallen face up onto the grimy patterned  stonework. It was a family portrait of a boy. I noticed how the smiling, lovely face was vulnerable on the dirty sidewalk where it would be stepped on. Why did the scene attract me to take a photograph? Most people would ignore it. I found the incongruity evoked pathos in me. I reflected upon what happens to people in life. The purity of their beginnings fall to earth. At early stages innocence suffers degradation, injury, abandonment, death. Yet the smile and light is in the picture.