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/

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.

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

Metamorphosis

A wounded man lies on a dark battlefield littered with corpses and not a living soul near. His blood drains away, seeping into the silent earth and he thinks, “it will all be over soon and then I will fly to heaven.”

Another person is in a garden of splendor. Roses open themselves to the warm life-giving rays of the sun. He delights in their varied form, color and fragrance and wanders among them, with soft grass underfoot. Birds sing from branches of trees and their songs are sweet. Bees buzz from blossom to blossom busy with the work of collecting pollen to make their honey. The gentle play of air currents across his skin is like a sublime caress from an unseen hand.

One heart is elated, open, enchanted and confirmed. Another is stabbed to the quick.

A caterpillar will someday emerge as something almost entirely different—a butterfly.  First it must die to its old form and be born again. In its cocoon, the caterpillar form disintegrates and from the primal ingredients another, very different creature is born. What a wonder to open its marvelous wings and stretch them out . . . to fly. To go from one that crawls and eats leaves to one that moves freely through the air and feeds on nectar. The butterfly might fly across a dark abyss. But it will not land there. It will find flowers.




Some poems from my past:

Perfumed Dawn

Someone said that
you are easily distracted by
butterfly wings and
the sound of trees.
They said you only speak
in the language of dreams.

I know the picture.
You are intoxicated from the
fragrance of a perfumed dawn.
That morning, the scent of a thousand roses
arose from the mist of your memory.
A sublime light filled
the corners of your mind.
You fell weeping on the floor.

Since then you have not been the same.
You wander streets, staring
into the faces of strangers as
if looking for a long-lost friend.
When a glimmer of recognition
is seen in someones eyes
you cry, and where
your tears fall, birds arise.

It seems there is nothing to do
to solve this madness. Sirens
are calling for you to drown
in a surreal sea.


 Drowning

What world is this,
where I must learn to drown
or else be set on fire.
Those who do not discover the secret
risk going up in smoke.

Throw yourself in—
go to the bottom.
It is better not to resist.
Let water take you;
                   be like a fish

Soon you will feel at home.


Footprints in the Sand 

Beautiful the dawn when you
danced along the shore
wearing pain
like a bracelet of bells.

Birds circled above—made a halo
around your head while waves
caressed your feet.

How many lovers
has the ocean drowned?

Wind and tides quickly
swept away your footprints,

Your hymn is in the hills.





All writing © 2004 -2018 Steven Boone

A Gift

It feels as though I am on auto pilot; that is, going forward but not driving. I am surprised that nothing particularly excites me and I am not impelled by strong inner urges. As if I am in hibernation and though winter is ending, a sign hangs outside my den that says, “do not disturb.” I wonder at the reasons, which are many, and because I feel uncomfortable in what seems to be a malaise of sorrow, I try and “heal”.

Without inspiration, I wait. I fear I am losing time doing nothing. Yet, I have always resisted dogmatic action, so perhaps a gift is being given to me—even though I feel it is a plague.


All this points to transformation. Thankfully, being an artist and philosopher, I know a bigger hand is active in creating my life. Every great work of art includes shadow. Novels and paintings both need dark elements to play against the light.

On The Horizon

View of Vernazza, Cinqueterra, Italy

India is on the horizon. Tomorrow, I leave Rome, Italy to fly through the night and arrive in New Delhi. Thus will end my six week sojourn in Italy. The journey began in Venice, continued on to the Cinqueterra region and its five villages hugging the steep cliffs at the Mediterranean Sea, and ended in the Eternal City—Rome.

Rainbow over Venice, Italy

Friends in Venice welcomed me, and I made new acquaintances. Delightful characters emerged all along the way, and I tasted some of the best food anywhere in the world. The art, from thousands of years ago to the present day has filled my senses and stirred my imagination. Experiences will dwell in my heart and storehouse of my mind for years to come, feeding my imagination and calling forth transformation in my perceptions and creative pursuits.

Roman Forum, Rome

Indian civilization is perhaps older than Italy . . . and will work its own special magic. I do not expect the same qualities as Italy, and may have fewer comforts, but I know what to expect from having visited before, (see the blog Surrender). And I will be experiencing Diwali again on the banks of the Ganges River . . . in Varanasi, the spiritual capital of India and one of the oldest continually inhabited cities in the world.

I eagerly anticipate being awestruck.

Winds Of Change

The winds of change continually blow over the ocean of my being. A wave has formed and is carrying me to a distant shore. I see that it has gathered force and is sweeping everything in its path: soon I will no longer be living in Santa Fe, New Mexico, USA, but instead, Venice, Italy . . . and from there probably Asia and South America.

The time this happened before, I wrote some blogs in advance that are worthy of review:

Depend On Love

Traveling Around The Sun

 

Grand Confusion

 

 

 

 

Disappearance Is Illusion

I visited my daughter's grave today. Yesterday was her birthday—she would have turned 34 years of age. Nobody else was around as I stood on the grass where she is buried. A cold winter wind made me pull my coat tight to my chest and I stood briefly, praying for her soul and remembering the day she was born. I was with my first wife at home, with a nurse and doctor when Naomi was delivered around 11 AM. I never would have thought that she would die in 1999, before reaching twenty.

A few days ago, I was in California, visiting with my parents who are close to death. This all makes me think of my own dying. I do not know when it will be, but death is certain for every created thing. As I think of creation, I realize it is always renewing itself—almost like a wave that arrives at a shore and at last culminates in a surge upon land and then disappears. The disappearance is illusion, for the ocean remains and gathers itself together continually to transform and surge again, over and over.

True Currency

I believe experience is the true currency. And among experiences, the practice of virtue is of the highest value. Money cannot hold memory, cannot inform or teach, and although it represents happiness to most people, essentially, it is inert and without life.

Four years ago, exactly this time of year, I lived on a houseboat in Kashmir, India (see my blog, My Astonished Eyes.) My floating world was Dal Lake, at the foot of the Himalayan Mountains. Water lilies drifted all around, and my houseboat was very comfortable with hand carved wood decoration throughout. I met local people who came to visit me and sell their crafts, and my servant Mansoor would paddle me to the nearby town of Srinagar.

Perhaps, a financial analyst would have advised me to keep my savings intact and not spend the way I was spending then—traveling around the world. The USA economy had begun a freefall and my savings were falling like most everyone else’s.  Yet, I was hungry to experience life in all its facets.

At the time, I called my existence and traveling THE DREAM. Along the way, I made paintings, took photographs and wrote. My bankroll was diminishing, but my inner treasury was growing rich with vivid life experience. Going forward without fear, I trusted that since I am DREAMING, a bigger hand controls destiny, and furthermore, scenes change—including scenes of birth and death, but EXISTENCE in THE DREAM only transforms—never ends.

Someday, THE DREAM will unfold my death. I believe I will witness this occurrence and then, step onto a different stage to continue to be in awe of how fantastic and inspired is the universe and its Creator.