Nature's Bountiful Harvest

One of the great pleasures of summer is partaking of nature's bountiful harvest in all its fresh vitality. Here in Santa Fe, two days a week, local farmers bring their fruits, vegetables and flowers to a farmer market. It is in a good location in the middle of town, near a train depot and shopping district. 

Especially Saturdays, the place is bustling with people wanting to buy the freshest food available. Meanwhile, musicians play for tips, the smell of fresh baked bread and roasting chile peppers fills the air, and the sight of flowers and fresh fruit and vegetables in fantastic variety dazzles the eye.

 

Best of August

 

 

Summer's Fare

August 11, 2013

 

Endlessly Changing

 August 19, 2012

A Leap Of Faith

August 07, 2011

A Gathering Of Men

August 01, 2010

Monsters

August 30, 2009

Travel Along The River Of Life

August 31, 2008

Nothing Stays The Same

August 05, 2007

Abu Ez

“Don't forget me and my family!” 

My friend Abu Ez smiled at me with a hint of concern as I was leaving Luxor, Egypt. We had become friends after a chance meeting along the Nile River. (See my blog: What I Want And More). I had helped him by painting the name of his youngest daughter, Amira, on his sailboat. 

Abu Ez made his living sailing tourists on the placid water of the famous river. We had become pals, and I had been to his earthen home and come to know his family. The home had no electricity, or appliances. The floor was of earth, all four kids slept in one bed, and an ox was brought from the fields through the house to the stable each night.

I have often thought of Abu Ez and his family. Especially since the turmoil in Egypt and through the middle east. I think his circumstances have become worse.

I am going back to see him, in mid-September. I will bring him money he needs.

In exchange for a donation, my fine art prints are available. The money goes toward Abu Ez . . .

Click: Fundraising Page

More Than A Day

Occasionally, it occurs that a day is experienced so fully, that it seems more than a day—but rather more like three that are condensed by alchemy. The moments weave tightly and seamlessly, full of wonder and excitement, with variation. The mind is exploring while the spirit soaring. I have felt this magic before and it is usually during travel.

Yesterday was such a day. Heidi Of The Mountains and I had drove north into Colorado for a four day sojourn and ended up in Crested Butte, a gem of an outdoorsy town situated in a broad, lush valley surrounded by pristine mountains. In winter it is renowned for skiing, and in summer known as the wildflower capital of Colorado.

To begin the day, we left our condominium apartment and headed to an organic bakery for quiche and coffee. The place bustled with patrons, yet we found a quiet table by a window where we leisurely ate. Then we drove along a river that goes into the mountains. Following the curving path, we found an overlook that revealed the river below and mountains up the valley in the distance. For the next two and half hours we created, making oil paintings while standing in wildflower strewn surroundings with the sun on us and occasional fly bites. Our artwork complete, we clambered down the slope to lay by the cold flowing river on a pebble strewn bank, and let our feet get wet. A beaver dam was only step away. I remembered a spiritual verse: “Cleanse the rheum from out thine head, and breathe the breath of God instead.”

Riding back toward town, the condo-hotel is by the ski area, just a couple miles from the town center. We took our paintings to our room for a review, then napped. Soon, Heidi wanted to shop so we drove a couple miles to where the main street is lined with eclectic shops and restaurants. We walked and I held the dog, Gracie, while she went into boutiques and bought clothing. Plant baskets filled to overflowing with blooming flowers were hung everywhere, and profusions of poppies bloomed along the clapboard house fronts. I snapped pictures.

When the shopping was done, we headed farther up, into the mountains toward a lake, where we parked our car and hiked on a trail up into the primitive and pure alpine terrain. The late afternoon light gave more drama to the breathtaking scenery. We climbed steadily higher, with the landscape becoming more wild and free with each step. To wander off the path was to step into flowers. Although at a high elevation on steep terrain, I commented to Heidi that I felt perfect, without fatigue. The beauty was like an aphrodisiac and remedy. Standing up to my chest in a thick glade of leafy flowers, I felt like a child again in a magical realm of wonderment. I composed pictures and took photos—some will become paintings in the future. 

We turned back and found our car, then headed into town. It is the peak season for visitors, and every cafe was packed. Everyone seemed ebullient, as if just back from exciting adventure; either mountain biking, hiking, fishing, or camping. Our dinner was in a retro establishment called BONEZ, serving a Colorado style Mexican cuisine. Over a big community table in the middle of the cavernous main room hung hundreds of empty white glass bottles, illumined with electric bulbs. 

Sunburned, relaxed and happy, we returned to our room, opening our books to read before sleep.

A Gem In The Crown

The World is One Country, and mankind its citizens. -Baha'u'llah

The International Folk Art Market happens once a year in July, in Santa Fe, New Mexico, USA. Behind the scenes, teams of people work on the logistics year round, and it is supported by hordes of volunteers. It is truly a HAPPENING—the world's largest exhibition and sale of works by master folk artists. In ten years, over 690 artists from over 80 countries have participated and generated $18 million in sales while taking home 90 percent.

It is truly a gem in the crown of Santa Fe.

I go each year to browse and buy. Heidi Of the Mountains and I buy each other gifts. This year she also worked one day as a volunteer. Also, I photograph the rich diversity of the human family. With 10,000 patrons a day, it can get crowded, but the mood is festive with many of the browsers dressed gayly in folksy style, along with the artists. The artisans are proud, wearing their native garb, and readily pose when asked. They are happy. Each have come to America for a visit and to gain prosperity, all while being loved in return.

“Ye are all leaves of one tree and the fruits of one branch.”

“By this it is meant that the world of humanity is like a tree, the nations or peoples are the different limbs or branches of that tree, and the individual human creatures are as the fruits and blossoms thereof. In this way Bahá’u’lláh expressed the oneness of humankind, whereas in all religious teachings of the past the human world has been represented as divided into two parts: one known as the people of the Book of God, or the pure tree, and the other the people of infidelity and error, or the evil tree. The former were considered as belonging to the faithful, and the others to the hosts of the irreligious and infidel—one part of humanity the recipients of divine mercy, and the other the object of the wrath of their Creator. Bahá’u’lláh removed this by proclaiming the oneness of the world of humanity, and this principle is specialized in His teachings, for He has submerged all mankind in the sea of divine generosity. Some are asleep; they need to be awakened. Some are ailing; they need to be healed. Some are immature as children; they need to be trained. But all are recipients of the bounty and bestowals of God.” -Abdul-Baha

 

 

From the Santa Fe New Mexican: Folk market offers thousands a chance to people-watch, meet artists and shop

Orchid Extravaganza

I am developing a special fondness for orchids. I have them in my home, and they are a joy. The blooms grow from stout, leafless twigs, and are spectacular for their form, color and delicacy.

They are often sold in grocery stores, and in garden shops. After blooming, when dormant, they can seem dead, and some people throw them away. I had a few like that and my wife thought they were no good and should be tossed out. But I kept them by my kitchen sink, near a window that only received a bit of morning light, and since I cannot stand dying plants, watered them regularly, until lo-and-behold, months later, blooms re-emerged from shoots arising from leaves. My wife thought I had performed a miracle and re-resuscitated the dead. 

A woman, who with her husband owns a collection of my paintings, recently contacted me to do a commission for her. She wants to surprise her partner with a birthday gift—an oil painting to go in his huge dressing room. We tossed around ideas, and came to the conclusion of a big, horizontal painting of orchids. The piece will be 2 feet high by four and a half feet wide. 

I went around to local plant stores and photographed specimens, took pictures of my own plants, downloaded photos from the web, and then photoshopped them together. The result is the prototype for the painting I will make. 

When my art collector saw the mockup I sent her, she wrote back, “Literally! I gasped! How beautiful!!!!!!” 

Opening And Closing Of A Door

The Steven Boone Gallery is doing very well—and closing! In fact, today is the last day the doors will be open for art lovers to browse and buy a piece of art from off the gallery walls. My wife is happier than I am about the change. She sees it as liberation from a business that has struggled and used valuable resources. The street, Canyon Road, in Santa Fe, New Mexico, has 100 art galleries, and many find that they cannot make enough money in a thoroughly saturated market. Winter months are especially grueling and exorbitant rents must be paid regardless if there are only twenty curious people that come in the entire week. 

The business requires vast hours of attention, and now that it is closing, she says, “We have more time for just the two of us, together.” 

I am philosophical about the investment, and believe years of good will come from the effort. Seeds have been sown and some are not finished bearing fruit.

Poetry is the opening and closing of a door, leaving those who look through to guess about what is seen during a moment.   Carl Sandburg 

Hey Jude

Sometimes life events transpire that make us turn our face in awe to the invisible realm and wonder at the intelligence that abides there. I have two examples to share; one that I read last week in a news report, and my own recent experience.

The Guardian ran a story titled, WorldCup: Dream told John Brooks he would score USA winner against Ghana. In the report, we learn about a young soccer player for team USA, only 21 years old, who never had played in an official match and was a second-string player, who had a dream two days before the first world-cup match against Ghana, that in the 8oth minute of the match he scored a header goal from the corner of the field that won the game. Two days later in the real game, against all odds, he scored the winning goal exactly as his dream had prophesied—a header from the corner in the 86^th minute. We have to ask ourselves, where did this prior intelligence of future events come from?

Strawbearer, Mixed-media on board, 60 x 36 inches

My own personal experience occurred several days ago. I was in my art gallery when mid-morning, a woman walking her dog breezed in. She was dressed casually, not wearing make-up, and though I try not and judge people as to whether they are art buyers or lookers, I thought certainly, she is a looker out for a stroll. She barely spent five minutes in the gallery, lingering longer in one room. We said good-bye and she disappeared. I quickly forgot about her and went about doing some menial work, but as I worked, a song came into my head and I could not get it out from my brain. The song is Hey Jude, by the Beatles, and it practically screamed in my ears. Fifteen minutes later the lady with her dog arrives again, this time with her husband trailing behind. We all went to an artwork called Strawbearer, an unusual piece I made a couple years ago that I have shown sporadically, and have always been fond of. It is from a photograph I made in India, when I was traveling between cities by car and spotted a person carrying an immense bundle of straw on his head and shoulders. Although I was moving and he was walking, I snapped the shutter and got a dreamily blurred picture of a fantastic scene. Much later, in my studio, I printed the image as a large format picture on canvas, mounted it on board, covered the surface with encaustic (beeswax and resin heated into a liquid medium) and put straw into the surface while it was still hot, so that when it cooled everything remained intact and secure. 

 

The woman and husband took measurements, and she gave me her contact information to e-mail her a photo of the work and possibly take it to her home for a trial installation. They left, and when I looked at the card, noticed her name—Jude. To make a long story short, I took Strawbearer to their home, helped hang it in their living room and two days later, Jude and her husband Lynn bought it.

If I pay attention, I can see a clue had been given in advance of the main event.

Art For The Heart

An older couple came into The Steven Boone Gallery, browsing with pleasure the rooms full of art. They eventually focused on sunset paintings and mentioned that they were newly arrived in Santa Fe and were just beginning to visit art galleries. The two were dressed casually, and the gentleman seemed about ten years older than the woman—maybe in his early seventies. They left, and when they did not come back that day, I forgot about them.

Two days later, just before noon, the two arrived back, and I exclaimed, “Happy to see you again!” The man replied, “We came back because of you.” They browsed slowly through the gallery while I stayed near them, assisting, but keeping a respectful distance so that they could focus on the art. They eventually agreed between themselves what two pieces they liked best, and purchased them. One painting was a buoyant group of open-faced sunflowers, and the other was a sunset with bright colors at the horizon and an old dirt road entering the picture from the foreground and heading toward the distance.

I asked the man his occupation and he replied that he is a cardiologist. The two collect art, and have visited major museums around the world. I asked if he had been to the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam, and he said, yes, and that he studied Van Gogh's life from a medical perspective too. While writing a check, the woman looked into my eyes and said they enjoyed, “Meeting the artist. “ I replied that it is also my pleasure to meet the people who buy my art, because my paintings are like children and it is good to know where my children go to live the rest of their days.

I thought later, that the man seemed to have a full heart when he was with me . . . and the art contributed to his happiness. How appropriate that he is a heart specialist then . . . and it made me think of slogan: Art For The Heart.

See Things Differently

Golden Gate Bridge, viewed from the Sausalito side

There is something about travel—new places bring new vision. That is, when we leave what we are accustomed to and set forth into the unknown, we will be surprised and see things differently. For some, this is dreadful . . . and for others, like me, it is necessary. My mother has not been away from her home for thirty years. She reads five books a week, watches the birds outside of her dining room window, smells the roses that are freshly cut and brought indoors from her garden, and sleeps whenever she feels like it. All comfortable to her so that she stays relaxed.

When I went to San Francisco last Tuesday, I took only sandals and a few light clothes to pack in my suitcase with art supplies. When the plane landed, the temperature was cool and moist, and because my favorite hotel is near the Pacific by the Golden Gate Bridge, it was even cooler, and foggy. OK, I was a bit cold, and wondered why I did not pack shoes. Even so, I love the place so much that during the next several days, wearing sandals with socks, I set about going forth to places that stimulate me and also hold memory from my last days with Naomi before she died. 

Painting of Muir Beach, oil on board, 12x9 inches

Wednesday, after coffee at my favorite java joint along Ocean beach, down the hill from my hotel, I drove across the Golden Gate Bridge toward Sausalito. It was cold and foggy but I knew that likely, the sun would be shining warmly on the other side. Sure enough, across the bridge, the clouds dissipated, and I was cruising through the hills in picturesque brilliance, arriving at Muir Beach. Flowers bloomed along the rugged coast and I set up my easel to paint in the early afternoon. I had the place to my self and worked undisturbed for a couple hours, listening to the breaking waves, smelling the sage and scented earth, feeling my primitive earth connection, and letting the spectacular scenery fill my eyes. While painting, the joy of giving freedom to impulse through art holds me to one place, and rather than be bored, I am struggling to express and give birth to art.

Candle Burning At Both Ends

Heidi Of The Mountains took off to Mexico for a week with a few girlfriends, and now it is my turn. 

San Francisco is just a few hours away by air and it holds special significance as being where I spent the last months of my oldest daughter's life with her. After Naomi's death in 1999, I would go back every spring and find the same places that now hold her footprint and summon my memory. I stay in the same hotel—The Seal Rock Inn, by Sutro Park, and it feels like home. Golden Gate Park is nearby, and I know it like the back of my hand. Each morning I go to a coffee house that is a local landmark, along Ocean Beach. I may stop and watch the surfers in wet suits, some of them kite surfing. 

Sutro Park, looking down to Ocean Beach

The Thinker, at Legion Of Honor Museum

Windmill in the Golden Gate Park

As usual, I will go across the Golden Gate Bridge, driving north to Sausalito and then over to the redwood forests. I like to go to Muir Beach, where Naomi and I visited, and I set up my easel and make a painting on the hillside by the coast, where I can look out over wildflowers to the little cove and see the Pacific Ocean waves frothing white as they churn toward the shore.

I always go to art museums, and check out the current exhibitions. And there is a sushi restaurant I always return to, and the Japanese chef is at the bar . . . it is a family business . . . and I notice how everything is the same; the wooden tables, the view to the street, the sushi bar with it's delicacies in view, and the same guy, aging little by little, year by year, but cordial and smiling as ever.

The hills along the Pacific Ocean near Muir Beach

When Naomi was with me, we were like candles burning at both ends. Each day we sought magic and healing, and though she was dying, I could see how she relished the moments she had left. For me, always next to her, every moment had a special poignancy, so when I go back, now, years later, the poignancy comes from touching familiar places that summon all my feeling from memories.