In-depth Feeling Of Spain

Fate brought me to Madrid, and I am glad. It was not my intention to come here, but I need to repair my camera lens, and also, get a visa to India, since the Indian visa I received in the USA is expired. I have a nice apartment in the heart of the city, and I like the life. Every shop imaginable is nearby, the streets are vibrant, nearby subways take people anywhere they want to go, and the museums are fantastic.
I have been working on the next “three hands” painting. It is a landscape of a house in a village setting, with three hands intruding from top and bottom.
I went to the Indian Embassy, and was told to come back Friday, June 20th to pick up my visa (if it is granted.) My lens is being repaired, and meanwhile, since I have become so addicted to street photography, I bought another lens (50mm f/1.8D Nikkor) that is proving even better for shooting people and close-ups of buildings. Every day, I go out and “get in the zone,” a kind of trance where I am not particularly aware of myself or where I am, only textures, color and light. People too, are objects that are reflecting light . . . and I use my camera liberally. I don’t feel timid, or if so, I overcome the timidity quickly in order to get candid photos and be ready for the unexpected.
So far, I have been to two great museums of art: The Prado, and the Reina Sophia. These are two anchors of Spanish culture, and great ambassadors for Spain. As an artist, I am very thankful for the opportunity to see masterpieces of the past, carefully preserved and on display for the public, housed in grand buildings that are inviting. The great giants of Spanish art are well represented: El Greco, Murrillo, Goya, Velasquez, Dali, Picasso, Miro and Tapies. And there are more collections that I have not seen!
Madrid gives me an in-depth feeling of Spain and it’s heritage that is surprising. It feels as though I could live here.

Grand Confusion

What is the difference between our dreaming and wakened consciousness? Sleep is often maligned as the poorer cousin of wakened consciousness. There are phrases that describe common attitudes about sleep, such as, “it is only a dream,” or “you were only dreaming.” But during sleep and dreaming, incredibly lucid and illuminating episodes of our lives occur and are etched into our memories. Before leaving Santa Fe to begin my solo traveling around the world, I woke one morning remembering a sentence I had heard moments before. A voice had spoken to me, saying, “The vessel he entered was a grand confusion between his world and the world outside of him.” Immediately, I knew that the words referred to my soon to come journey. The description was in the past tense, as if it had already occurred. Who was speaking and from where? The voice was other than my own, and spoken for me to hear. Some people will say that everything I dreamed was merely my own invention, but I never speak of the future in the past tense, nor do I describe life experiences so obtusely and symbolically. I believe that in sleep and dreaming, I experienced a meeting with spirits that live outside of time. They comprehend mortal life easily, and even interact with us beings here on the physical plane. Unfortunately, our minds are troubled going outside time and space, so we call this sort of experience fantasy.
How delicious and wonderful are moments when they are not isolated entities like words by themselves on a page, and when we are conscious that they belong to sentences in the grandest of all novels, and are part of a magnificent story that began beyond the limits of our consciousness and extends forever.
As the spirit foretold, I have been experiencing life as a grand confusion between my inner and outer world; a captivating journey that is very real and nonetheless I call THE DREAM.
In two days I leave Granada, and go to Madrid.

Three Hands

Granada, Spain and I have mixed together so much that our boundaries are now obscure. Textures, winding cobbled streets, sounds of clapping hands and guitar chords, imaginative tagging and gritty ambience all have overwhelmed my consciousness and senses.
Frederique has been here a week and we have explored together. Her intellect is sharp and my enthusiasm great, and we both have deep passion for art. She claims to love observing me in my process of seeing, and she notices what I miss. When we first met, she objected to being photographed, but my persistence won out. I painted her portrait, and at her suggestion, will do a series of portrait paintings with three hands.
We have seen some good flamenco shows. Frederique is quite knowledgable about this dance form, since her sister is married with a world reknowned flamenco guitarist and composer; Jean Baptiste Marino. Fortunately, Sacromonte, where my apartment is located, is also the best neighborhood for flamenco establishments. The “caves” are intimate, and the vibrant music, mixed with the twirling and stomping dancers and plaintive bold notes of singers have maximum effect.

Bloom Where You Are Planted

At times in my present nomadic existence, I wonder, who am I now that I do not have a home? The thought might come as I am standing in a shopping line, and people around me are speaking in a language I do not entirely understand, and I realize I have no one but myself to turn to, or while on a bus as it is taking me somewhere in a city half a world away from my native land. Always, the answer comes back to me; I am comfortable in my own skin, and at home wherever I am. During my crazy teen-aged years, during the hippie revolution, I remember reading a slogan that a flower child had painted on a wall, and it has stayed in my consciousness all these years: Bloom where you are planted.

The combination of Frederique’s artistic encouragement and Granada’s creative atmosphere and bravado has resulted in my reaching for a new space in my painting. I am painting closer to my heart, and not thinking of marketability. My self-portrait came out with an edge to it: blurred borders, three hands, and an intense gaze. I have made three other paintings as well, and they all are different from my normal approach when I am painting landscapes.

As usual, I am walking a great deal. Thank God for my Clark shoes, which are holding up under brutal exercise from walking the streets and exploring. I remain intrigued by the graffiti I see splashed everywhere on the walls in Granada. The textures too, are like abstract paintings. I am amassing quite a collection of photographic images. So much, that my hard drive is becoming crowded. I have to burn pictures onto DVD’s for backup and then destroy most of them from off of my computer as I go along.

Frederique is coming to visit. We have such wonderful dialogue and I welcome her presence and willingness to share moments with a nomad, living in THE DREAM.

Dig Deeper

Van Gogh, All Hung Up, oil on linen, 22 x 24 inches

Is it possible that only three months have passed in my year long odyssey? The last month has been so fantastic as to be almost unreal; beginning with my trip from Greece to Venice, the days and nights in that eloquent city and meeting Frederique, and then unexpectedly going to Provence in France, and now experiencing the bold flamenco flavors of Granada, Spain. Along the way, something great happened in France. The Foundation Vincent Van Gogh D’Arles is also a museum in Arles, devoted to artwork by famous artists who pay homage to Vincent Van Gogh, who lived his most famous years in Arles. Frederique and I visited the museum and came away impressed. I left a catalog of my Steven Boone Hang Ups for the director, and called back the next day. We had a delightful conversation and she said that yes, they would love having my painting “Van Gogh, All Hung Up,” for their collection. Soon, my artwork will be included in this world-class museum collection. Frederique agrees to be my French liaison.
I am in Granada because I was here a year ago and found I liked it. Frederique has boldly encouraged me to dig deeper in my art . . . and get my mind off the marketplace for landscapes that has influenced my painting. So now, I am doing a self portrait that is realistic, abstract, and surreal. I have determined to stay in the deeper flux of creativity as I work.
Granada is great as a backdrop. The city is old and young both, and has plenty of character. Flamenco music thrives here, and an artistic stream flows freely. Although graffitti and tagging is major nuisance in cities throughout the world, here the street art can be incredible.
My apartment is in the Sacromonte, an elevated area overlooking in a historical district. From the main road, a cobble road takes me to my door. There are two narrow levels, and veranda that has an incredible view, with the world-famous Alhambra on hilltop directly in front.

View from my patio

Intellect And Mystery

Now, when I wake in the morning, the sound of the Mediterranean Sea is present. It is directly in front of my eyes, churning outside the little breakfast room. There is almost always a fisherman perched by the shore, casting into the waves.
Frédérique is just next door in another apartment, and we wake each other in the morning with a knock on the door. I find so many surprises in her. She has told me we are opposite . . . and it is true. She is quite controlled, and lives in her intellect, while I am tactile and thrive in the realms of senses. Her opinions are frank, thoughtful and unequivocal, while I am more starry-eyed, in the land of mystery. We both share passion for art.
Fortunately, Frédérique is on holiday, so we spend all our time together. She is showing me the region of Provence in the vicinity of her home in Grande Motte. Her grasp of history is good, so I have an excellent guide as we stroll through streets in towns such as Montpellier and Nimes that began before the medieval age. Last night we went to Aigues Mortes, a small, nearby town within original fortified stone walls. We attempted to find seating at several restaurants but were turned away, even though they seemed half full. Frederique told me that France is not like in the United States, where patrons come and go all evening. A limited number of dinners are served, and a table is used once. If a table is reserved, it sits empty until the client arrives. When we found a restaurant that took us, to my astonishment, the elderly hostess was the owner, director, and also the only waitress. Frédérique explained that if there were more employees, then wages would be paid, but also an equal amount in social security taxes for the worker. 

The most memorable part of dinner was the une entrée, called “Tellimes.” They were fingernail size clams, baked in a tasty cream sauce and sprinkled with herbs. Simply put your hand in the bowl, pick one up and suck out the tender morsel of flesh. This is what the sea churns up, elaborated and made into food in the French way. Frederique said that there are over 7000 unique recipes in France. The next greatest number is Italy, with a little over 1700.

The Soul Of Venice

The soul of Venice has brought me together with Frédérique, a French doctor of letters. She teaches aesthetics in art at a university in Nimes, France. Her Italian is perfect, and she speaks enough English that we have been able to enjoy each other’s company and share observations and philosophy. She is on business but has mostly free time, and I am alone and want company. We have walked miles together, day and night, reveling in the grandness of this place that so remarkably arose from the sea, and just as remarkably is still keeping its head above water after 1500 years. Frédérique has authored a book exploring the ancient Greek principles of eros and Thanatos, or longing and death, in art. Venice is full of these feelings. The many splendid buildings and churches that dot the city are emblems of grand aspirations and have hosted countless magical moments, but there is a sadness hovering over them too. Crumbling walls, stained with time, and foundations precariously close to falling into the sea give a taste of death. It is bewitching, and for the creatively inclined, inspiring. That is why so many artists have gravitated here over the centuries.

I am mesmerized, and so far into THE DREAM that twice I have locked myself out of my apartment. It is as if I lose consciousness of borders, or arbitrary divisions such as walls, doors and locks. Possessions are meaningless. Only the unfolding DREAM and Spirit are real . . . until I reach for my house key and it is not in my pocket, then I am facing a night on the street or in a hotel.

Frédérique has invited me to visit her in Nimes. It is in the famous region of France called Provence, bordering the Mediterranean Sea. I will go, since it is on my way to Granada, Spain, where I will live for a month beginning May 14.

Under A Spell

I have returned once again to my beloved Venice, where cars do not exist and church bell towers lean precariously close to falling. Although I have lived here and visited often, I still get lost in the maze of passages that connect various parts of the city. Perhaps, getting lost in Venice is not so bad. Watery canals are everywhere, and over 400 lovely bridges to cross. Gondolas float languidly by, as they have for centuries. It is easy to get lost in reverie. Time seems different. I have been here a week and already dread leaving. The more I look, the more I fall under a spell.
Thank God I have friends in Venice. They open my heart, and especially, I feel fortunate to be able to converse. Regretfully, learning a new language is exceedingly difficult for me. I don’t remember words, and feel frustrated when my mouth struggles to speak in a foreign tongue. Thankfully, others make up for my inadequacy by sharing their own language skills in English. Then, we sit in café’s and share thoughts, or walk through this magical place and tell the wonder of being conscious together.

Inspiration To Fly

It occasionally happens while I am painting that there is a moment of impasse and I must choose to either continue working in a way I know but that is not proving successful, or else, go into the unknown. Choosing the unknown is fearsome, and yet frequently, something happens—a fresh impulse comes through and a new experience is born. It is like a young bird forced out of the safe nest it has always known. Suddenly it is falling through the air and must fly, never having known what it is to float on currents of air, but a deep yearning takes hold and flight is born.
The first days in Corfu were like getting acquainted, and then came an impasse. Corfu Town is lovely, with cobbled streets, and many reminders of the Venetian culture that occupied it for centuries. Yet I wanted more and decided to rent a car and get out of the city. The first day, I drove in rain and could only look through the windshield. When I returned to my hotel, I flopped down on my bed in frustration. The next day, the rain stopped and sun arrived. Heading north, I became lost on winding mountain roads, and decided to go into the unknown, where THE DREAM lives. Although I was lost, every turn held a surprise, and somehow I felt I had found my destiny. Villages dotted the hills, with roads through them that can barely accommodate two tiny cars to pass by each other. Olive orchards abounded, standing as they have for centuries. Spring flowers bloomed magnificently in the wild, so that I could not pass by, but rather stopped and walked among them. Then, as I came around a bend through wooded hills, an old wall covered in vines and a half open gate made me stop. Peering through the gate, amid an area of tall grass and wildflowers, a old stone building stood empty and open. I felt like a gift had been given, and walked gingerly, aware that I could browse undisturbed and would not bother anyone. To my amazement, the place was an abandoned church over a thousand years old. Inside, in the half-darkened room, I could see hand hewn beams supported the intact roof, while the cracked and damaged plastered walls showed remains of Byzantine Christian images. It felt incredible to my American eyes, unaccustomed to seeing artwork 600 years old except in museums. The more I lingered, the more I felt a special experience unfolded; I stood suspended between centuries, and THE DREAM provided me the inspiration to fly.

To Honor The Gods

THE DREAM is taking me backwards, away from my destination of circling the globe. Instead, I am now circling the Mediterranean Sea. How could I be so near to Greece and not visit? The journey brought me to Athens, and now I am on the island of Corfu, off the northwest mainland. Athens felt cramped, with block after block of plain building facades. The National Garden, downtown, needs some serious pruning and tender, loving care. Underwhelming until my walking brought me to the foot of a hill overlooking the city and sea. On top stands the Acropolis. My tired legs pushed on and healed quickly as I stood next to the marble columns of the Parthenon (begun in 447 BC, and the building was substantially completed by 432). Even with the crowds, and restoration work underway, something told me I was having a peak life experience. It was the same feeling I had when I saw Michelangelo’s sculpture of David in Florence. Awe. How could it have been humanly possible to create? The site is dramatic, and impossibly difficult for the fantastic, grand and beautiful buildings that were erected by hand. It was all done to honor the gods, and the gods must have helped because man alone could not have accomplished it.
Now I am in Corfu, away from big city noise. I hear birds outside my window, and footsteps on ancient stone streets. The six-month tourist season is barely beginning. Shops are sleepy, yawning toward the full awakening of the high season. I flew in from Athens, and learned from the taxi driver that the island practically shuts down for six months; the airport closes during the off-season.
Some loneliness comes and goes. Mostly, it is from being rootless, changing places often, and not having the easy pleasure of conversation and association. The last four countries have spoken Arabic, Hebrew, Turkish and Greek. Anyway, I am experiencing so much . . . and only begun! I have my ticket for a boat that sails all day and overnight from Corfu on the 19th of April to Venice, Italy, where I have a good friend, Cristiana who is waiting for me. And she speaks English!

Adrianople

Edirne, near the Greek border, is the last city in Turkey where Baha’u’llah was forced to live in exile outside of His native Persia. During His time, it was called Adrianople. I took a three-hour bus ride from Istanbul and stayed for five days. As we cruised past city and farmland, I sat in a comfortable seat next to a big picture window, and imagined the hardship Baha’u’llah and His family endured in 1863 during a bitter, harsh, winter while traveling on foot for twelve days with little protection against the elements. Baha’u’llah’s son, Abdul-Baha, nineteen years old at the time, suffered frostbite on his feet that caused him pain the rest of his life.

In Edirne, very near to the house of Baha’u’llah is a wonderful mosque called Selimiye, built between 1568 and 1574 and now considered one of the highest achievements of Islamic architecture in the world. As it is at every mosque, shoes must be removed before entering, and women must put scarves over their head. Standing inside, I felt a bit like an observer since I am not Moslem and people were praying. I pray as well, but do not know the proscribed practice of Moslem prayer to be followed. It includes facing Mecca, saying a verse, bowing, turning the head to face left and then right, kneeling and prostrating with forehead to the ground.

I am now back in Istanbul, in a wonderful part of the city called Sultanahmet. Rug shops are everywhere, and little bistros, anchored by the Palace Topkapi, Hagia Sophia, and the Blue Mosque, also called Sultanahmet.
I have made more friends, and as sometimes happens, offered all kinds of delights, high and low alike, but I choose to be careful and not lose my head in pursuit of every pleasure. THE DREAM gives me the best satisfaction, and it unfolds astonishment that is pleasure enough for lifetimes.
Each day, the weather lightens, and now, as if all of sudden, bright tulips are blooming everywhere. Turkey claims that tulips are its own native flowers, and only later arrived in Holland. I am grateful I have seen them here in their eye-catching beauty. Tomorrow, bright and early I go to the airport to catch a flight to my next stop—Athens, Greece.