A Wind Came

Among the myriad memories of my youth, some episodes stand out more than others. When I was 13, I was with friends playing basketball at the outdoor court at our local playground, when, from outside the fence my mother appeared and began yelling, “Steven, Steven! It is your birthday!” We all had forgotten. My mother was aghast that she had not remembered. But in the grand scheme of things, it is just another day.

Today is Sunday, the day I always post to My Fairy-Tale Life. It also happens to be my birthday. Yesterday, Heidi Of The Mountains planned to take me out to dinner, so we dressed up and went downtown. She said she had to make a quick stop at one of our friend’s home, because she had left something there. We pulled up to the house and I recognized a couple artists I know, getting out of a car. I thought, what a coincidence! We parked and we headed to the house, I noticed they had greeting cards in hand, but it took me a few minutes to begin realizing what was happening. Then, at the door, with friends inside all smiling at me, I knew Heidi had arranged a surprise party. The evening was fantastic and when it came time for the cake, I sat at the table and a chorus of song broke out. The candles were lit, and I made my wish and leaned over to blow them out, but, at the same moment, a wind came through the window and began blowing them out before me, so that they were easy to get out all at once.

Maybe I should not say what I wished for, but I am sixty now, and have had some aches in my body that bother me. Heidi is eleven years younger, but she too has some aches . . . so I wished for good health for both of us in the coming year, and prosperity. When the wind began blowing out the candles before me, and made it easy to get them all out, I thought, “This is Naomi, in spirit, making the wind blow.” And I believe my wishes will come true.

Visual Vocabulary

How often does it happen that after visiting an art museum, we walk back out onto the same streets, but with different eyes.  After spending hours looking closely at art, we have begun to see differently, because the artwork has given us a new visual vocabulary.

Many times, I have stepped out of a museum, and suddenly I am aware of even the cracks in sidewalks seeming to speak to me . . . informing me of their unique lines and the shapes they carve into a picture.
Since the twentieth century, there have been two main themes in visual art: abstraction and realism. Common thought is that the two do not meet, but are opposed. I do not think the contrast is so stark. How often is it that we look up into an abstract sky that is constantly in flux, and notice how the clouds have taken a “realistic” shape. Someone points a finger upward and says, “Look, it is a horse!”  Likewise, looking at large, realist paintings, if we bring our eyes close to the work, it becomes abstract, so that we need to step back in order to get the full picture and read the story. 

Yesterday, a woman bought a painting from The Steven Boone Gallery. She bought a small, square shaped oil painting of mine, called “The Pleasant Path.” She may or may not realize it, but she has many paintings in one—both realistic, and abstract. Hopefully, the painting is broadening her visual vocabulary, and doing what artwork does for us, enhancing life.

We Have Each Other

  

To arrive at the Bisti Badlands in New Mexico is like landing on another planet. No paved roads, no trees or shrubs—only barren, rocky land for miles. What is attractive is the pristine space, carved by rock forms shaped by time, wind, gravity and the elements.

Heidi Of The Mountains and I take one day a week to relax and spend time together away from pressing cares. We usually choose an adventure to share, although one day, we did nothing but sleep, read, and do some gardening. We chose to visit Bisti, and arrived at the Badlands in the dark, after driving 3 ½ hours from Santa Fe. The last two miles were dirt road, with no light. I parked at the end of the road and we got out to walk with our puppy, Chamo. The air was warm and noiseless. We tried to stay on the road while walking beneath a half full moon. We could only barely make out the forms of the rocky hills nearby. Heidi said, “As long as we have each other, we don’t need anything else.”

Later that night, the temperatures dropped and I argued with Heidi who did not want me to put the dog, who is getting hefty in size, outside. We were crammed into the back of my van, sleeping on a foam pad. The dog went out, but soon was scratching to get back in. Once inside again, he fell asleep with his head on my chest and started dreaming, then twitching in his sleep. Eventually, I settled him next to Heidi who does not mind him lying next to her. We all slept together until I woke at dawn and saw a rosy sky outside. The air was cold, but I arose to go out for a walk and photograph. Chamo came with me and we explored the stunning landscape. Despite my frozen hands, I took some nice pictures.

I had walked around mesmerized by the scenery and light, still sleepy—and got lost. Chamo did not understand my entreaties to “find Heidi.” We found the road, but I began walking in the wrong direction until I decided to turn around. At last, we arrived back to the van, and Heidi was waiting, concerned we had been gone so long.

When the three of us set out walking together into the badlands, we felt free and happy to be in such unusual and intriguing surroundings. Nobody else was around, and Heidi modeled nude among the rocks, under the big sky.

I had intended to paint in the afternoon, but after lounging in the van for a nap, the sky grew cloudy and a wind picked up force. We began driving back to Santa Fe. Along the way, we occasionally noticed derelict homes dotting the landscape. Heidi said, “How can people live out here?” I reminded her what she had said earlier, that we had each other, and so could be anywhere. She said, “I could not live here.” Then I smiled and kept my mouth shut.

Spring Fragrance

“Can words describe the fragrance of the very breath of spring?” ― Neltje Blanchan

It is impossible to stay indoors during the springtime, unless one is an invalid, and even then, windows can be opened to let in the fresh air. I remember when I was a teenager, to sit in a classroom was an arduous task in spring. The air, laden with blossom scents, the balmy temperatures, and all the earth heaving a sigh of relief and joy—it made me want to jump out of my seat and escape the indoors.
This has not changed in the decades of my life. Even as sap stirs within the plants, and the life force within tiny seeds forces green shoots to break their shells and grow toward the sun, so too, a lively energy is awakened within me.

Sometimes, I just walk around the old neighborhood in the vicinity of my art gallery, and notice the changing surroundings. Today, as I bent over to smell lilac blossoms, I thought how fleeting the pleasure. The scent of lilacs is at the top of my list of olfactory experiences, along with jasmine, honeysuckle, rose, salt-water breezes, oranges, and a few others. The experience of smelling lilacs is something like watching a spectacular sunset—it puts one in awe, and also, it summons a slight feeling of regret of life’s impermanence.

“When spring came, even the false spring, there were no problems except where to be happiest. The only thing that could spoil a day was people and if you could keep from making engagements, each day had no limits. People were always the limiters of happiness except for the very few that were as good as spring itself.”
― Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast

An Incredible Story

I heard an incredible story recently. At the health club I attend, I had just finished swimming and went to soak in the hot tub. I got in, and a woman looked intently at me and said, “Are you Steven Boone? I lived near you some years ago . . . and have read your book, A Heart Traced In Sand. My name is Cassie”  I did not recognize her, but nodded hello and we began talking about my former neighborhood. Soon the subject came to loss and death. She said she had lost her husband, mother and father, all within a short time span. We talked about soul life, and then she began recounting her story. It is as follows:
Her mother died in October, and some six months later, in March, Cassie traveled from New Mexico to Pennsylvania for a memorial gathering in the community where her mother had lived. At the neighborhood park where the memorial was to happen the next day, by chance, she met a man who had known her mother. They said hello and chatted, and then the man asked after her mother. Cassie replied that her mother was dead. The man acted surprised and then asked when the mother had died. Cassie said, “Last October.” At this, the man turned pale, and suddenly walked away.

The next day, the same man was at the memorial, and Cassie followed him to pursue their conversation. He said, “Well, just a month ago, in the evening, I saw your mother outside of our house and went to talk with her. After I came back inside, my wife went out to talk with her. We both spoke with her, and she seemed fine.”

Since the conversation, Cassie has stayed in touch with the man, and he confides that the event has radically reshaped his thinking.

This is another reason I call this life, THE DREAM.

The Creative Self

“Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once we grow up.”
Pablo Picasso

While the art of children lacks technical sophistication, it more than makes up for that in exuberance, and unrestrained expression. My two daughters always had art materials nearby while they grew up. They both attended a Waldorf School that encouraged artistic expression and honored the creative self as much as the analytical. Over the years, they both produced reams of drawings and paintings, and delighted my eyes. Most of the art is gone, but I have kept some. Two of my favorites are the subject of this blog. Both were done at the age of about eight years. Both are clear and profound enough that I use them occasionally for meditating.

Watercolor on paper, by Sarah Boone

The first is a watercolor by my daughter Sarah. A beautiful, full sun glows over a serene landscape, while a warm sky embraces the earth. The earth is full of life, and trees grow on the rolling hills. Within the earth is a cobalt blue cavern; strong, cool and comforting. Within this cavern is a white room of purity, with one side warm and the other cool. A lone woman sits in contemplation on the cool side. She is in a red dress, and her hair is the color of the sun above her that she cannot see. Maybe she does not need to see it with her outer eyes, for this picture is of an inner world of bliss and harmony.

Colored pencil on paper, by Naomi Boone

My oldest daughter, Naomi, (b. Jan. 11, 1980 - July 5, 1999), using colored pencil on paper, did the second image.
We are standing in a garden, in a magical realm of light and joy. Flowers bloom all around, and fresh green grass is under our feet. In this paradise, someone has built a gate to the outer world. A trellis arches over this passage, and amid a myriad flowers a red bow has been woven throughout, seeming to tie a knot of happiness at the top. Looking at the placid scene beyond the garden, we see a bright and radiant sun, softened by fluffy white clouds drifting past. On a gentle hillside, a horse is resting in the grass, basking in the sun. Someone has tied a red ribbon around his neck, much like the red ribbon on the trellis. A breeze blows over the hills and the ribbon flutters, but the horse is calm. Everything is serene . . . nothing is lacking.

From just these two pictures, a book can unfold. And this is the power of imagination.

I Wish I Had Not Seen That

Yin-Yang, Mixed-media on canvas, 20 x 30 inches

“I wish I had not seen that!” Heidi Of The Mountains was in our gallery when she overheard a man speaking to his wife. He must have wandered into the last room and looked into an obscure corner where my mixed-media piece called Yin-Yang is hanging on a wall.

Heidi reacted with surprise, even though she calls the piece “controversial,” and hangs it out of the way where many people visiting the gallery do not see it. Too bad, because it is beautiful. I made the image from a photograph I shot in my studio. Two young people modeled for me—a black man and white woman. They were roommates, and not romantically involved. To my surprise, they were perfectly at ease while I had them pose naked and sometimes intertwined. My studio was draped in black cloth and under my skylight, they danced, twisted, turned and played creatively while I snapped a few hundred pictures. Sometimes I had them flinging cloth around, or wearing masks. In the end, I made a number of very good pictures. They each were paid and signed releases granting me permission to use the pictures I took, and make them public.

With Yin-Yang, I manipulated the image in Photoshop, printed it on canvas, applied a coat of art medium to seal it and saturate the colors, and finally, painted on it, then after it dried, framed it. For some, it is their favorite piece of art in my gallery. One artist friend of mine told me, “They are both so very beautiful, expressing such an easy joy. I love this piece.”
Art galleries and museums are exciting places to visit, partly because we are free to experience what is taboo in general society. We see intimate expressions of humanness, and voyage with artists through their conscious and unconscious experiences. We can see all the colors of life, and it’s light as well as shadow.

Mysterious Circumstance

North coast of Sicily, and the Tyrrhenian Sea

This time five years ago, while on the island of Sicily, I experienced a luxurious solitude. (see my earlier blog) Abandoning the rigid dictates that my mind commanded I “should” be doing and the path I "must" stay upon, instead I wandered freely, letting mysterious circumstance unfold and lead me into surprise. I enjoyed being lost and feeling life without boundary. I had a car, a little house in Bonagia, a fishing village on the west coast, my art supplies, laptop, camera, and a change of clothes.

The little fishing village of San Maria

Mt. Corfanu on the northwest coast. The view is from where I lived.

After I adjusted to the time change and recovered from jet-lag, I eagerly breathed in the Mediterranean air, soaked up the sunlight, felt the rocky earth under my feet, listened to the birds and sound of bells tied to the sheep that wandered grazing along the hills nearby, and enjoyed quietude. If I wanted to paint, I took my easel out and discovered a view to my liking, then stood still, observing and working in silence. Some days I awoke with a plan, but if the day beckoned me in a different direction, then I might simply follow spirit into the unknown. Over the course of a month I explored the entire Sicilian coast, traveling in all directions, and into the interior, finding ancient Roman temples, and climbing Mt. Etna, a volcano.

Ancient Roman temple, standing at Segesta.

I began to sense what it is to live in THE DREAM. Now, years later, I often experience living in THE DREAM. It is a practice.

At the Roman amphitheater at Segesta.

A Fairy Tale

It is interesting how sometimes when we are looking for one thing, we find another that is more important. In Bavaria recently, Erki Eichenseer, a cultural curator, was looking through some old, forgotten archives searching for original texts in an old castle and discovered a treasure trove of over 500 unpublished fairytales from past ages.  (See BBC article)There is a word for such an occurrence: serendipity.

I call this blog, My Fairy-Tale Life, because I view my conscious existence through the prism of dream thought, mystery and spirit. I call our world, THE DREAM. The essence of this perception came to me when my oldest daughter and I were in a doctor’s office, waiting the results of an exam and when he came into the room his face was ashen. He looked at us, and spoke, saying to Naomi, “You have cancer, and the tumor in your hip is very large.” He then held his hands together to make a circle the shape of a grapefruit. In that instant it was as if an arrow pierced my heart, opening for one second a door of perception that then just as suddenly, shut. I felt we must be dreaming, that this sudden turn off of a cliff could not be reality. Life changed drastically in just a few moments and I knew the world is made of sand. Yet, there we sat together, numb and wondering what to do next. The experience has stayed with me as a seminal event that has permanently altered my consciousness.

What is a fairy-tale? “A fairy tale, or wonder tale, is a kind of folktale or fable. In these stories we meet witches and queens, giants and elves, princes, dragons, talking animals, ogres, princesses, and sometimes even fairies. Marvelous and magical things happen to characters in fairy tales. A boy may become a bird. A princess may sleep for a hundred years. A seal may become a girl. Objects too can be enchanted — mirrors talk, pumpkins become carriages, and a lamp may be home to a genie.” (See: Fairytales ) Usually, a fairy tale has a plot with twists and turns, shades of light and dark, and there is an object to the story.

Over The Rainbow

Children in Kashmir, India

Recently I have been posting daily from my profile on Facebook, in a series I call “Over The Rainbow.” I select photos of simple, honest people from across the globe from my archive of travel pictures, and add a caption. Furthermore, I introduce the picture with a note of disgust about American politics—so that the picture is “over the rainbow” and far away from the divisiveness that we so often see in politics.

Masai mother and child, Tanzania

For the last thirty years, American politics has become uglier and uglier. Now, it is almost a given that political aspirants will spend vast amounts of money to pump up their own image and at the same time, try and make an opponent from another party look bad in comparison. This technique uses the media to spread its message and is called “attack advertising.”  Meanwhile, American elected officials’ carry this mentality into the halls of government and then agree to disagree, continuing to quarrel and fight. Government almost grinds to a halt and people’s needs are not met. These days, politicians are held in very low esteem.

Woman at a fish market, Hoi An, Vietnam

While I travel, all this drama is far behind me, somewhere in the distance on the other side of the rainbow. I bask in the light of unity when I meet common people in strange lands. People everywhere want peace and prosperity. Masses of the world’s citizens strive under corrupt and dysfunctional governments. Somehow, they create a pattern and rhythm of life that sustains them and that they can smile about, even under the dark clouds of politics and greed.

Mayan vendor, Belize

Click to see more artistic photography by Steven Boone.

The Fast

Buddhist monks outside of a temple in Bodghaya, India

The time of fasting for me has begun. I am in my third day of the Baha'i fast which each year is for nineteen days: March 2-21. The fast is similar to the Moslem practice of Ramadan, in that no food or water is taken between sunrise and sunset. This year, my wife, Heidi Of The Mountains is a Baha'i, and is joining me in the practice.

Here is a sacred poem from the writings of Jelaluddin Rumi:


Fasting

There's hidden sweetness in the stomach's emptiness.
We are lutes, no more, no less. If the soundbox
is stuffed full of anything, no music.
If the brain and belly are burning clean
with fasting, every moment a new song comes out of the fire.
The fog clears, and new energy makes you
run up the steps in front of you.
Be emptier and cry like reed instruments cry.
Emptier, write secrets with the reed pen.
When you're full of food and drink, Satan sits
where your spirit should, an ugly metal statue
in place of the Kaaba. When you fast,
good habits gather like friends who want to help.
Fasting is Solomon's ring. Don't give it
to some illusion and lose your power,
but even if you have, if you've lost all will and control,
they come back when you fast, like soldiers appearing
out of the ground, pennants flying above them.
A table descends to your tents,
Jesus' table.
Expect to see it, when you fast, this table
spread with other food, better than the broth of cabbages.