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.
This past week, Amy and I, along with a friend visiting from our former hometown of Santa Fe, New Mexico, USA, set out on a much-anticipated road trip from our village outside Oaxaca, Mexico to the Pacific Coast. With Highway 175 stretching before us, we embarked on our scenic drive. We had been to the coast on the same route about a month prior and the newly finished highway was smooth, clean and fast. This time we were stunned to find heavy damage along the way. Rocks and earth slides slowed down our drive and left us in awe and trembling. Men working heavy machinery were tasked the huge job of clearing the damage.
Our destination was Mazunte, a small coastal town known for its bohemian charm and laid-back energy. Nestled along the shore, Hotel Casa Ofelia became our sanctuary for three nights—a simple yet delightful hotel where the ocean itself seemed to breathe tranquility into every moment. Our days melted into a dream of sunlit waves, salty breezes, the lulling sound of crashing waves, and endless relaxation. Amy does not swim, but I went headlong into the surf when I could. The ocean there is dangerous for its forceful action and somewhat steep slope, so at least once I was warned by a lifeguard to only go in up to my knees. Fortunately there is another, spectacular and safe beach called San Augustinillo, just minutes away.
Mazunte has a way of slowing time. It attracts travelers, artists, and wanderers, all drawn to its eclectic, free-spirited atmosphere. To me, it has the feeling of Haight-Ashbury in San Francisco during the height of the hippie days in the late 1960´s. Very relaxed elemental people are on a permanent free-spirit groove. The ocean, ever-present, is guide—a steady force softening thoughts and smoothing away lingering tensions. We found a new favorite restaurant, grabbed delicious local coffee, visited a marvelous Turtle Museum. Spent sunset time walking along the shore, watching the sky transform into a canvas of fiery colors.
By the time we packed up to leave, we felt renewed. Three nights in eclectic Mazunte had worked its quiet magic, offering us space to breathe, to be still, and to simply exist in the presence of the sea.
The drive home was reflective and slightly strained with the landscape shifting once again. Then suddenly when we entered Oaxaca city I felt it—the warm embrace of home. The cobblestone streets, vibrant markets, and artistic soul welcomed us back.Charms we had momentarily left behind now felt even richer, layered with the peace we carried from the coast.
Sometimes, a journey is not about seeking something new but about stepping away just long enough to return with fresh eyes. Mazunte gave us that gift, and Oaxaca, in turn, received us with open arms.
"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.
This 72 year old artist often feels the horizon pulling closer, the once-distant line now brushing against the edges of his days. No longer in a hurry or feeling pressed to create, the creative juices flow, but not like a raging river . . . rather as a broad expanse in no hurry to get anywhere.
Especially since moving to Mexico, I see how my art has transformed and now, it is as if I have climbed a high mountain and can look back to vast territories my journey has taken me through. Fortunately I have kept records. Slides from before the digital age have been in boxes. A life’s worth of images—photos of four decades of work, sketches on scraps of paper, grainy shots of exhibitions long past. Each a fragment of a story, a frame in the reel of becoming.
Recently I have been re-making the website that bears my name. My art collectors might be bewildered at the stark shift in my subject matter since moving to Mexico. For public pleasure, I have made a movie, piecing together and crafting a film that spans four decades of artmaking.
It is strange, this act of looking back. I had to explore many territories before stopping to look back. The artist once lived only for the present canvas, the immediate stroke, the urgency of now. But in this reflection, he finds a quiet pride—life not measured in mere years but in creations—in every brushstroke, every finished piece, every fragment of beauty left for the world.
As the final credits roll, the work will carry forward, long after I am gone. I have given all I could, and perhaps that is an artist’s greatest triumph: to leave behind a world more beautiful than he found it.
For many of us, the winter solstice marks a time to reflect, recharge, and reconnect with the rhythms of nature. For my wife Amy and me, this year brought a longing for the Pacific Ocean’s embrace—a call we couldn’t ignore. After all, it is not that far a drive away. From our quiet village on the outskirts of Oaxaca, we set off on a journey to Mazunte, a jewel on Mexico’s Pacific coast. Known for its pristine beaches, bohemian charm, and soulful tranquility, this small seaside town seemed the perfect place to honor the year’s shortest day and longest night. Our plan was simple: to escape the everyday, soak in the ocean’s timeless wisdom, and welcome the return of longer days with an offering while surrounded by beauty and peace.
The joy of the Pacific Ocean is irresistible. As we reached Mazunte after a four hour drive—mostly on a new highway, the rhythmic crash of waves called us like an old friend, and soon we were in the water, laughing and leaping through the surf. Well, I was in the ocean. Amy does not swim, but likes to stride the sandy beach, waves licking her toes. The ocean’s embrace was cool yet invigorating, a timeless reminder of life’s playful, unrestrained energy. Frolicking in the shallows, we felt the weight of everyday worries melt away with each rolling wave. We enjoyed seeing people of all types and ages, in families, solo, with partners and dogs. A nude beach is not far away and sometimes young women were topless and unbothered.
Our days unfolded with a natural rhythm, guided by the sun’s ascent and descent. Walking along the beach at sunrise felt like stepping into a dreamscape—the light casting a golden hue across the sand, the ocean shimmering with the first blush of morning. As the day gave way to evening, we found ourselves in awe of fiery sunsets, their colors spilling across the horizon, mirrored in the rippling tide.
Mazunte’s vibrant charm extended beyond the shore. Strolling through town, we discovered eclectic shops offering everything from handmade jewelry to vibrant textiles. Each store felt like a small treasure chest, inviting us to linger and explore. The smell of fresh coffee and pastries often drew us into cozy cafes where time slowed, and we savored the simple pleasures of buttery croissants and rich, aromatic brews. Mexico’s coast produces some of the finest coffee in the world.
Beachside grills became our favorite dining spots, where we indulged in fresh fish grilled to perfection, seasoned with local spices, and accompanied by tangy salsas, ensaladas, and warm tortillas.
For me, during the three day sojourn, I felt the weight of troubles lift by the hour, until a new found sense of freedom settled inside.
When we returned home, our trusted house sitter greeted us warmly, our two dogs safely in tow, tails wagging with excitement. The house was just as we had left it, a comforting welcome back to our life in the village.
The next evening, we joined our dear neighbors, Mayolo and Marta, for Christmas Eve supper. Their home is just a short walk from ours, and over the years, they’ve become more than friends—they feel like family. Sitting around their table, sharing food and stories, it was clear how much our lives had intertwined, weaving a shared sense of belonging.
On Christmas Day, our neighbor Remedios and her young daughter visited to bake Christmas cookies with Amy. Without an oven of her own, Remedios brought her heartfelt enthusiasm to our kitchen. The house quickly filled with the sweet aromas of cinnamon and sugar. Her husband has been away in the United States for several years, and she raises her two children on her own with boundless love and resilience. Watching her laugh with her daughter while they rolled out dough was a touching reminder of her strength and grace.
Just last night, we hosted a gathering of ten neighbors at our home, a beautiful mix of Mexicanos and ex-pats. Around the table, we shared a meal accompanied by laughter and lively conversation. The hours slipped by as we toasted, told stories, and celebrated the season, the warmth of connection lingering long after the last plate was cleared. It was one of those evenings that deepened our gratitude for this little village and the incredible people who make it feel like home.
Last night, Amy and I drove into Oaxaca and headed to Llano Park, where a lively "feria" has been set up for the holidays. These traveling fairs, which appear in different locations throughout the year, are a delightful mix of mechanical rides, games, food stalls, and cultural exhibitions—bringing joy to communities wherever they go.
We arrived just as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden glow over the park. The feria was beginning to come alive, with flashing lights, swirling rides, and music building to a festive crescendo. The air was thick with the smell of roasted corn, sweet churros, and fried delights, mingling with the excited chatter of families and children.
Amy has a knack for games of chance and skill, so we plunged into the action. She threw darts at balloons, went fishing for surprises, operated cranes that teased at stashes of stuffed toys, bowled oversized marbles into numbered holes, and even took her chances at a horse-racing game.
Later in the evening, I decided to join her at the horse-racing table. Standing side by side, I reached into my pocket for some change, but as I faced the track, I felt a gentle tug on my sleeve. Turning around, I found a young woman looking at me with concern.
“You dropped your money,” she said, gesturing to the bills at my feet.
For a moment, my heart skipped a beat. I had left my wallet at home to avoid the risk of pickpockets, opting instead to carry cash in my pocket. I bent down to pick up the bills, feeling both relief and gratitude. Smiling, I thanked her profusely and offered a tip, which she accepted with a gracious nod. As I watched her walk away, I couldn’t help but feel touched by her honesty and kindness.
4 minutes
By the end of the night, Amy was triumphant, returning home with an armful of stuffed animals and prizes. True to her generous spirit, she plans to share them with our neighbors’ children—a small token of the joy the feria brought us.
Since October 2006, my blog, My Fairytale Life, has been a space where I’ve shared 797 episodes of my journey through art, life, and love. Over the years, it has become an archive of my life experiences; joys and struggles, triumphs and setbacks, including two unforgettable trips I’ve taken around the world.
I began the blog as a way to share my artistic life, and perhaps supplement in writing my paintings that I was fortunate enough to successfully market. The name, My Fairy Tale Life, is a bow to my deep reverence for the tradition of fairy tales, made famous by the Brothers Grimm and Hans Christian Anderson, who collected them and made them into books. Many times in life I have thought the world and life is a grand fairy tale. As Shakespeare famously said: "All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts."
Pictures accompany text that reflect my experiences. Each post serves as a chapter in the unfolding story of my life lived creatively and fully. When I began, I never imagined reaching such a staggering number of entries.
Now, there are times I pause and wonder: What more is there to say? But as I step into each day, something always emerges—a spark of inspiration, a memory, a lesson, or simply a reflection on the beauty and challenges of living authentically.
Through this blog, I’ve connected with readers around the world, who’ve followed my journey and perhaps found inspiration for their own. There have been 1.15 million views so far. For that, I am deeply grateful.
One of the biggest events in the world, Dia de Muertos, has come and gone in Oaxaca. As always from the end of October to beginning of November, it was a phenomenal week of sights and sounds, tradition, jubilee and reverence.
Amy and I live outside of the city and usually stay at home most of the week. But during Dia de Muertos, we go to see events almost every day. This year, friends from the USA arrived to Oaxaca to enjoy the fanfare and we had the pleasure to meet them and share good times.
Día de Muertos in Oaxaca is a vibrant and deeply spiritual celebration honoring deceased loved ones. The city and villages transform with colorful altars (ofrendas), marigold flowers (cempasúchil), candles, incense, and offerings like food, drinks, and personal mementos. Processions, music, and community gatherings fill the streets. On November 1-2, families spend time in cemeteries where loved ones have been laid to rest. Graves are covered with flowers to honor and summon back the souls of the deceased.
(Street celebrations. About 5 min.)
I like going to the graveyards to see the transformations. I try to be extremely respectful about taking pictures. Our village cemetery becomes awash with vibrant orange cempasúchil and blood red cockscomb. It touches me deeply that not a grave goes unnoticed. All the buried folk have flowers thoughtfully placed on their grave to serve as remembrance.
(A visit to our village cemetery. About 2 3/4 min.)
Beyond the festivities, Día de Muertos reflects a profound connection to the cycle of life and death. It is a time to acknowledge mortality not with fear but with reverence, love, and gratitude. By inviting the spirits to return, families strengthen ties between the past, present, and future, celebrating life’s continuity and the enduring presence of ancestors in daily life.
Living on the outskirts of Oaxaca de Juárez, each year as Día de Muerto approaches, I can feel the city’s pulse quicken with the thrill of preparations. My wife and I make frequent drives into town, passing fields alive with bright marigolds and deep crimson cockscomb, their colors vivid against the landscape. With years of practice, the farmers cultivate with uncanny precision so that the blooms arrive perfectly for the ceremonies. People buy armfuls to tote home and decorate. Then again, every grave will be laden with flowers.
In Oaxaca, the transformation is everywhere. Calaveras—skulls of all shapes and sizes—are popping up, and intricate ofrendas, altars, are built with care, honoring loved ones with candles, flowers, food, and photos. I feel my own excitement grow, knowing the city will soon be buzzing with festivals and gatherings.
As a photographer and artist, this season is irresistible. Usually we go to town about 3 days a week. But soon I will go every day and spend evenings as well, amidst the raucous and jubilant celebrating. There’s something breathtaking in every corner: faces painted in skeletal designs, roving musicians and bands, intricate papel picado dancing in the breeze, altars adorned with memories. At its peak, in the evening, the closed streets are wall to wall with festive people, mostly in costume.
Día de Muertos is not just a time of remembrance but a time of vivid, visual storytelling.
From my ongoing “Vanitas” series, these two skeletons seem to capture moments of life—and death—in a quiet yet playful way. Painted in my studio here in Oaxaca, Mexico, they embrace the essence of Día de Muertos, where the veil between life and death thins, and we celebrate both.
The skeleton eating the watermelon was one of the earliest pieces in the series. I call him "Watermelon Man", or El Hombre Sandía. For a couple of years, it hung by our kitchen, a familiar presence that my wife and I grew fond of. It radiated a rustic charm, with the cowboy hat and simple meal evoking a nostalgic, carefree joy. When it sold to a collector, it left an unexpected void, and I felt the need to create a counterpart—this time, a more feminine figure.
The second painting, "La Catrina", completed just in time for Día de Muertos, shows a skeleton enjoying a steaming cup of tea, her large, elegant hat adorned with flowers. The timing was serendipitous, as it coincided with the beginning of the season; October 27 - November 4 each year.
La Catrina is an iconic symbol of Mexican identity and is often seen in decorations, art, and festivities related to Día de los Muertos, reminding people that death comes for everyone, regardless of social status.
These paintings, like the holiday, blend humor, nostalgia, respect, and a touch of reverence, reminding us of the fleeting yet beautiful nature of life.
Vanitas artworks serve as memento mori, reminding viewers that life is short and that they should reflect on the spiritual or moral dimensions of existence rather than becoming absorbed in temporary, worldly concerns. Vanitas paintings often have an introspective, philosophical tone but can also blend in subtle irony or dark humor, acknowledging the tension between life’s pleasures and the inevitability of death.
Life in our small village near Oaxaca has its rhythms, and our two dogs, MaliNalli and Avion, are very much a part of that. MaliNalli, our sleek xoloitzquintle, is ever the graceful companion, while Avion, our sweet rescue from the streets, still carries a bit of his past with him. It took a long time for Avion to settle in—over a year of patience and reassurance before he began to trust us. Even now, he can be suspicious, but he’s protective of us and his buddy MaliNalli.
A few days ago, we noticed something off with Avion. He seemed to be in pain, limping and showing signs of abrasions on his underside. It looked like he might have gotten into a scuffle. By the next morning, his pain had worsened, and we knew we had to do something. We called the village veterinarian for the first time.
In the afternoon, a fine old gentleman, Dr. Mario Ruiz, arrived on his motorcycle, making his rounds. He was calm, professional, and kind. After examining Avion, he confirmed that the wounds were likely from a fight and that infection had set in. With a steady hand, he administered two injections and applied a healing powder to Avion’s belly. The cost for his services was incredibly reasonable—600 pesos (around 31 USD). He promised to return the next day, Sunday, for another injection, instructing us to give Avion a bath before his arrival.
In our quiet corner of the world, it’s reassuring to know we have such care close by, and we’re grateful for the tenderness shown to our beloved Avion. This morning we bathed him. I had to drag him into the bathroom. With tail between his legs, he whimpered and was rigid with fear, but when the warm water ran over him he relaxed. We were able to get him washed.
He’s recovering now, resting a bit more. Hopefully, slowly regaining his strength.
Small moments like these remind us of the community we’ve built here—both human and animal—and how we all look after one another in this shared life.
