The Secret

 “I want to be inside your darkest everything.” -Frida Kahlo

The idea for making a painting of Frida Kahlo (Mexican, 6 July 1907 – 13 July 1954) came to me after I watched the movie of her life; simply called Frida. Mexican-American actress Salma Hayek played Frida and the movie is brisk, engaging and colorful. I watched it at home with my wife Amy Córdova.

Amy and I recently visited Mexico City and went to places that Frida and her husband, Diego Rivera left an indelible mark upon. Rivera has immense murals in various places in the city. Kahlo’s family home is now a museum.

One of the highlights for us was visiting Museo De Arte Moderno, and seeing a seminal work by Kahlo, called The Two Fridas. It is a big painting—almost six feet square. To stand in front of it is almost breathtaking. Kahlo’s fame grew rapidly after the 1960’s and now this artwork is iconic.

I researched Frida’s work and chose a painting she made early in her life, just before her terrible accident that left her crippled and in pain. It is called Self Portrait in a Velvet Dress. She made it in 1926 when nineteen years old. I copied it exactly and then put in the skeleton, as if embracing her and whispering in her ear, or about to kiss her cheek. It symbolizes death that speaks to her.

Just before she died at the age of 47, she wrote “I hope the exit is joyful and I hope never to return.”

At the top:

 "The Secret" oil on linen, 24 x 30 inches, by Steven Boone

Limited edition print available. Click here: Frida

Good Luck Trolls on St. Paddy's Day

 

Recently Amy finished a round painting that included an extra-terrestrial riding a unicorn, surrounded by “lucky” symbols. Near the bottom are two trolls, also known to be good luck charms, (see: Troll Doll).

Trolls remind me of an episode from my youth that has always stayed with me. In the early 1960’s our family of seven were becoming upwardly mobile and lived in a lovely neighborhood in Washington DC. I was almost a teenager. Not quite. My father, Richard W. Boone,  worked in the field of social reform and was quite active leading an organization called Citizens Crusade Against Poverty. Mother had begun working as an independent insurance broker. It was decided to hire a live-in domestic helper. Mother nixed any applicants that were young and pretty. The choice was Mrs. Smith; a homely middle aged black woman who came to live with us and took a bus home to a black neighborhood on weekends. Mrs. Smith was treated with deference and became part of our family. She ate at the table and if any child talked back to her they would hear it from father. Her duties were cooking, keeping the home clean and tending to piles of laundry—everything my mother would be doing if she had not begun working as an insurance agent.

In the early 1960’s troll dolls became one of America’s biggest toy fads. Boys as well as girls collected them. I had several. I liked the broad round face, the hair that stood straight up, the glass eyes with the half-wild stare and the gooey feeling body that would bend and spring back. When I started keeping them in a private place in my clothes drawer, the trouble began.

One afternoon I was in my room and Mrs. Smith came in. She made me open my drawer, revealing my trolls. Two dolls were resting gently on their backs looking up at us. They smiled mischievously with their big eyes, resting contentedly upon a pile of clean, folded white t-shirts.

“What are these?” she demanded. I could not explain exactly what they were . . . “Well, take them out of the drawer. I don’t want to see them again! And I am serious!” I was flabbergasted but removed and hid them somewhere else.
 
A week or so later, after the storm had passed, my little trolls went back to their home in my drawer. Mrs. Smith took clean undershirts and pants to my room, opened my dresser and got a shock. This time she was almost furious with me. “I told you not to put those in your drawer!” I knew this time she meant it and my dolls absolutely gave her the creeps. Secretly, I was happy my trolls had such huge hidden voodoo powers—after all, I had thought them to be harmless pet toys.

Full Of Opportunities

 

“This world is so full of opportunities that one can hardly keep up with them all. Life is so beautiful; I cherish it and want to be able to see every part of it.”

My daughter Naomi wrote these words in her journal when she was seventeen.  This was at the beginning of her intense, two year struggle with cancer that ended with her death.
As with so many of her thoughts she wrote during that period, they hold wisdom, especially since life turned cruel and painful for her but did not dim her love.

Now, nineteen years since Naomi’s passing, I find it useful and transformative to use the word “opportunity” as a mental concept during activities. Especially in situations that might be annoying or perhaps I don’t relish.

Here are recent examples:

I am sitting at the wheel of my car, stuck in traffic or at a red light that seems too long: Thanks for the opportunity to wait peacefully.
Cleaning debris and trash out of the back of my van: Thanks for the opportunity to do something simple and use my body to make the environment better.
Obey the Baha’i fast, abstaining from food or water from sunrise to sunset for nineteen days: Thanks for the opportunity to strengthen my will and offer my body joyfully to my Lord during these special hours.
Doing the paperwork to file my taxes: Thanks for the opportunity to be organized and see my transactions spanning the last year.
This practice can be used for everything—from doing dishes, to cleaning a yard, being in a crowd, lost, at the doctor—anything.

Almost any occasion can be turned to advantage when we see it as opportunity.  Naomi did. Even her end was an opportunity. Having lost her battle to win the “acres and acres” of life she so longed to have, then suffocating as her lungs failed, she said to a friend who stood behind her wheelchair massaging her shoulders, “I love my body, it has been so good to me.” Naomi took her last moments as an opportunity to give thanks before leaving her physical frame forever.

Go Jump In A Lake

When I go to bed, I always see her—a redhead woman leaping, arms stretched in front, about to splash into a pool of water. She is dressed in white, with white stockings and no shoes. The foliage behind the figure is lush green on the banks and reflected in the greenish water. There is no sky.

I think, “Yes, this is what I am about to do. Jump in the great pool of the unconscious world and drown there for a while.”

The artwork is above my bed. A mirror above my dresser directly across from it reflects the image. My mother made the painting and signed it simply, Chloris. It is titled Go Jump In A Lake.

She died in 2016 at the age of 84.

Chloris Boone, age 27

When the family estate was being disbursed, I wanted it more than anything. To me, it does not get old . . . it stays fresh and lively, telling its story with vigor and gayety, though there may be some darkness in it.

Mother and me

Sweet And Satisfying

 

It is a sweet and satisfying ritual. We read aloud to each other in bed each night. Then Amy and I kiss goodnight before sleep.

These are books on the bedside table now:

Baha’i Prayers
Songs Of The Soul, by Paramahansa Yogananda
Leaves Of Grass, by Walt Whitman
Psychological Reflections, by Carl Jung
The Complete Fairy Tales of the Brothers Grimm

Brief excerpts from each:

“Oh my Lord! Make Thy beauty to be my food, and Thy presence my drink, and Thy pleasure my hope, and praise of Thee my action, and remembrance of Thee my companion, and the power of Thy sovereignty my succorer, and Thy habitation my home, and my dwelling-place the seat Thou hast sanctified from the limitations imposed upon them who are shut out as by a veil from Thee.” 
—Baha’u’llah, Baha’i Prayers

THEY ARE THINE
I have nothing to offer Thee, For all things are Thine.
I grieve not that I cannot give;
For nothing is mine, for nothing is mine.
Here I lay at Thy feet
My life, my limbs, my thoughts and speech;
For they are Thine, for they are Thine.
—Paramahansa Yogananda, Songs Of The Soul

YOUTH, DAY, OLD AGE, AND NIGHT
Youth, large, lusty, loving—youth full of grace, force, fascination,
Do you know that Old Age may come after you with equal grace,
Force, fascination?
Day full-blown and splendid—day of the immense sun, action, ambition, laughter,
The Night follows close with millions of suns, and sleep and restoring darkness.
—Walt Whitman, Leaves Of Grass

“The manifestations of the spirit are truly wondrous, and as varied as Creation itself. The living spirit grows and even outgrows its earlier forms of expression; it freely chooses the men who proclaim it and in whom it lives. This living spirit is eternally renewed and pursues its goal in manifold and inconceivable ways throughout the history of mankind. Measured against it, the names and forms which men have given it mean very little; they are only the changing leaves and blossoms on the stem of the eternal tree.”
—Carl Jung, Psychological Reflections

THE LION AND THE FROG
“Once upon a time there was a king and a queen and they had a son and a daughter loving each other very much. The prince was going hunting very often and stayed in the forest for a long time, but one time he didn’t come back home. His sister was crying so badly that she couldn’t take it anymore and decided to go out in the forest to look for her brother. After an extremely long journey through the forest she was very tired and looked around and noticed that a lion was next to her. He was very polite to her and she climbed on top of his back and they carried on their journey. After a while they came to a beautiful garden. Everything there was awesome and the sun was shining bright, in the middle was a gorgeous palace. The lion spoke to the princess for the first time: “In this palace you should live but you will be my servant and you will do whatever I say. Otherwise you will never see your brother again.” From then on the princess would serve the lion and fulfilled all his wishes. Once when she was walking in the beautiful garden of the palace she noticed a pond. In the middle there was a little island and on top of it a tent. Underneath the tent she noticed a little frog. The frog turned around and spoke to her: “Why are you so sad?” “Oh”, she said, and told him her torment. The frog replied very friendly: “If you need anything you just speak to me and I will help you anytime and anywhere.” One day the lion told her: “Tonight I would like to eat a mosquito pie. You have to prepare it, but it must be tasty.” The princess thought, where should I get all these things? It is nearly impossible. She then ran outside and told the frog her sorrow. The frog replied, don’t worry I will bring you a mosquito pie. He then sat down and opened his mouth wide, once to the left and once to the right and caught as many mosquitoes as possible. After that the frog jumped up and down and collected wood shavings and made a fire. As the fire was burning, he made dough for the pie and put it over the fire. He replied to the girl, you only get the pie if you promise me that you will chop off the lions head as soon as he is asleep. “No way”, she said, “I never will do that as the lion was always good to me.” The frog answered: “if you don’t, you will never see your brother again and you don’t harm the lion either.” She took all her courage, took the pie and gave it to the lion. “The pie looks very good” commented the lion, sniffed on it and ate it all. As the lion was sleeping the girl pulled out a sword, closed her eyes and took off his head with one blow. As she opened her eyes again, the lion had disappeared and next to her stood her brother. He kissed her and spoke: “You unburdened me from the spell because I was the lion until a girl’s hand will chop off my head out of love.” After that they went together in the garden and wanted to thank the frog for his advice. As they arrived, they saw the frog franticly jumping around looking for wood shavings to make a new fire. As it was burning bright he himself jumped inside. Out of the fire came a beautiful girl, as she had been under a curse as well. All three returned to the castle and the prince and the beautiful girl got married. It was an awesome celebration with lots of food and drinks and nobody went home hungry. And if they are not dead they are still eating and drinking. “
—Brothers Grimm, The Complete Fairy Tales

I Can't Find Words

Over ten years and there are times that I can't find words for my weekly blog.
None the less, there are 630 now.
Click on the picture for an interesting mosaic view:

Encounters

The image, called The Traveler, is blurry. The mysterious human subject is a man but has been mistaken as woman. Strange light and shadow are all around, with golden luminescence falling from above onto the lone figure who is otherwise dark. The scene is absent of color and the landscape is so amorphous as to be almost anywhere . . . including another world.

The image is popular in my gallery. 0riginally a photograph, I manipulated it somewhat in photoshop. I print it on canvas, stretch it on stretcher bars like a painting, and work on it with other materials so that in the end it is called mixed-media on canvas.

To take a photograph is often called, “the capture.” Usually but a split second. I like the term because it describes indelibly recording a moment in time and preserving it for viewing later in the form of a picture. Most photographers are trained in camera fundamentals and techniques, then use fine equipment to set up shots that are esteemed for detail, contrast, proportions of light and dark, as well as subject matter that is universally acknowledged.

Not so this photo. In October 2008 I was living in Kashmir, India on a houseboat on Lake Dal, at the foot of the Himalaya Mountains. One day I set out with the owner of the boat to ride horses in the mountains and trek. The day was marvelous and included a stop in a village where I painted and met locals. On the the way back, as the sun was going down we drove on a primitive road that twisted down along a river. Occasionally we went by homes and people. I was rather delirious with joy, feeling the air streaming against my face, full of happiness for the encounters of the day and all the beauty I experienced. I had experimented with using my camera for shooting pictures that included my movement and the turning of the earth . . . in other words, taking photos that did not try and stop movement but rather used it in the composition. We passed a man in the road. He wore a phiran—a native costume that is like a cloak that goes to the ankles. I leaned out the window, turned back to look and took his picture. A “capture” that took half a second. The moment proved serendipitous for the image has been enjoyed by many.

When one sells, I make another and add different strokes and textures so that each piece is unique and the art keeps refreshing. Prints on paper also are available.

For more on this photo, see: Footprints

For more on Kashmir, type it in the search field at the top of the toolbar to the right.

Eager To Be There

Before Amy and I set foot in Madrid, Spain, I was already eager to be there. It is one of the great destination cities of the world for many reasons, but I hungered for the art in its museums.

I grew up in metropolitan areas, especially Washington DC where there is a plethora of world-class museums. Furthermore, my travels have taken me to wonderful art museums around the world. Usually I am in my hometown of Santa Fe, NM. It is an art mecca in its own right, but this is because of living artists that work and exhibit in its galleries. My gallery is in Santa Fe.

There are three fabulous museums in Madrid that are above the others: The Prado Museum, Museo Nacional Thyssen-Bornemisza, and Museo Nacional Centro de Arte Reina Sofia.
We went to all three during our week in Madrid. There are many highlights in each that would take pages to describe.

Center panel

Left panel

Right panel

The Prado Museum is the most famous and has the richest collection of art in Madrid. There are always lines of people outside the doors queued at the ticket booths. We bought our passes online and did not wait long to enter. The first room we went in was devoted to paintings by Hieronymus Bosch, ( Dutch, c. 1450 – 9 August 1516) described as a “hugely individualistic painter with deep insight into humanity's desires and deepest fears." A crowd stood in front of perhaps his most famous work, The Garden of Earthly Delights. We were able to edge our way in front of it and stand mesmerized, studying its mysteries.  The painting is full of curious, magical and meticulously rendered imagery and to me, was worth the price of entry if only to stand in front of it. “The inner centerpiece is flanked by heavenly and hellish imagery. The scenes depicted in the triptych are thought to follow a chronological order: flowing from left-to-right they represent Eden, the garden of earthly delights, and Hell. God appears as the creator of humanity in the left hand wing, while the consequences of humanity's failure to follow his will are shown in the right.” -Wikipedia.

Museo Nacional Thyssen-Bornemisza is a gem of a museum and incredibly, built upon the collection of one family. When we went, there was an in depth exhibit featuring the work of Max Beckman, one of Germany’s leading 20th-century artists and among those the Nazi’s mocked during the infamous Degenerate Art Exhibition (Munich, 19 July to 30 November 1937). But the knockout that was worth the price of admission was a gem by Rembrandt, Self-portrait wearing a hat and two Chains (ca. 1642 - 1643.) Rembrandt painted numerous self-portraits throughout his long career and this is among his finest. I was impressed by the excellent condition the work is in. Lushly painted in a style that many have copied since but none have achieved, the painting breathes—as though you stand in front of Rembrandt and are in conversation with him.

Another day, from our Madrid downtown apartment, we walked to Museo Nacional Centro de Arte Reina Sofia. It is the “modern” art museum. There, we found one of Picasso’s most famous paintings; Guernica. He painted it in Paris in 1937 in response to a vicious bombardment on a Basque village in northern Spain just prior to the outbreak of WWII. Although the piece is immense, measuring 11 feet high x 25 feet wide (349.3cm × 776.6 cm (137.4 in × 305.5 in), a crowd stood in front. It is absent of color, but profound and absolutely daring—“regarded by many art critics as one of the most moving and powerful anti-war paintings in history.” — “for Picasso: ‘The women and children make Guernica the image of innocent, defenseless humanity victimized. Also, women and children have often been presented by Picasso as the very perfection of mankind. An assault on women and children is, in Picasso's view, directed at the core of mankind.’ (- See article)

Amy and I felt as though Picasso painted our emotions about conflict and its disastrous result.


While Picasso was living in Nazi-occupied Paris during World War II, one German officer allegedly asked him, upon seeing a photo of Guernica in his apartment, "Did you do that?" Picasso responded, "No, you did."

A Sojourn of THE DREAM

 

Can it be we have arrived back to where we began? It feels as though a thousand suns have risen and set; not the sixty we experienced.

Amy and I began our sojourn exotically enough in Oaxaca, Mexico during the peculiar celebration called Dia de Muertos, or Day of the Dead. Dancing skeletons, candles in cemetaries, masks and music on the street all began us in a sojourn of THE DREAM.



Next, Mexico City brought us face to face with Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera. Streets teemed with moving masses of humanity, rather childlike . . . even as little boys strummed guitars for endless hours gathering small change from tips. We found fake money in our wallets that local people spotted right away and refused to take.

Onward to Granada, Spain, in the “Old World.” Alhambra and its exquisite moorish castle perched above the city looked over to Sacromonte flamenco caves where every evening plaintive guitars, singing, stomping feet and castanets held forth.

Don Quixote, by Miguel Cervantes, entertained us each night before sleep. We read his knight-errant quests with his squire Sancho Panza, and attack upon windmills that he thought to be giants . . . then we visited the windmills, set high on a hill above a sleepy town called Consuegra.

Our rental car took us through seemingly endless landscape of olive trees to Cordoba, another famous Spanish city. I took plenty of photos of Andalusian horses and riders of the equestrian shows there.

We arrived by chance to Ronda and found it entrancing . . . so much so that Orson Welles chose to have his ashes thrown over the grounds . . . not far from the famous bull ring where Ernest Hemingway and Pablo Picasso took in the action.

At Gibraltar, on a Mediterranean beach under the famous ROCK looming nearby, Amy collected tiny seashells strewn on the shore. A short boat ride across the sea and Morocco captivated us with spices, veiled women, donkeys, sheep, hashish, and ubiquitous mosques calling to prayer five times daily. Chefchaouen and its blue walls painted poetry all around us in the Atlas Mountains. By taxi we reached Fes and found ourselves living in a mansion with courtyard in a labyrinth old town surrounded by thousand year old wall. A modern train ride to Tangier gave us respite from the chaotic grit and grime of street life and quickly we fell under the same spell that bound the beat poets and writers.

Back in Spain we rented a car again and found a hotel in Seville, then an apartment in the old walled part of Toledo where vehicles aren’t allowed. Narrow cobbled passages lead from church to church, castle to castle, with shops lining each side. El Greco spoke to us through his portraits from the sixteenth century in his own museum.

At last Madrid and an apartment for a week one block away from Plaza de Espagna. There is found Don Quixote and Sancho Panza—at a monument with Cervantes himself looking over them. Every day we ambled among masterpieces of art in museums Madrid is famous for. These artworks celebrate THE DREAM in all its facets. And now we are far richer for the adventures it has offered us.

Tokens Along The Way

View of the old tannery, Fes, Morocco

Our taxi drive from Chefchaouen to Fes, Morocco, took just over three hours. After a brief wait at an arranged meeting place, a middle aged woman in long gown and head scarf gently approached and peered inside our car. Seeing two foreigners, she smiled. “Rachida?” I asked her name. She nodded.

Dining area and kitchen

Rachida works for Tara, the British owner who lives in Fes and Barcelona.

We gathered our things and walked a few minutes to a plaza and mosque. A couple zig-zags took us into dark, grimy passageways having to unlock gates. I felt bad for Amy’s fist impression of Fes. This would be our living experience for a week. It all changed when the massive wood door to our home opened. Rachida began showing us around. The house is an artist's delight. Intricate tile mosaics abound. Doors from previous centuries adorn, as well as tapestries, candle chandeliers, two bedrooms and baths, two kitchens and a delightful rooftop veranda with views over the city. The place is in the shape of a square. An inner courtyard is in the middle and goes straight up three floors—so each floor has rooms surrounding the inner court, connected by a flight of stairs. As we toured the second floor we turned a corner and found a reading room. Curled in one of the chairs we found Tiger, the resident calico cat. He is a welcome housemate.

 

We did not know that Rachida would be our breakfast cook and housekeeper. One special afternoon we went with her and her twelve year old daughter, Doha on a walk through the old Medina. to a famous restaurant called Cafe Clock. An Englishman started it and the woman who owns the house we are in in produced a cook book with Moroccan recipes for the restaurant. She has employed Rachida for about ten years.






Fes is a complicated maze of boulevards, hills and narrow passages filled with shops. So many things to delight the eyes. The second largest city in Morocco, (pop. 1.1 million), it first established itself in 8th century. Kingdoms have risen, fallen and risen again, leaving historic symbols and tokens along the way.









Tomorrow we leave for Tangier. We must be at the train station at 08:30 for the five hour trip. In three days we return to Spain. This is THE DREAM we are in.

Blue the Color of the Sky

 

Blue the color of the sky covers the walls in Chefchaouen, Morocco—founded in 1471. It is said to symbolize the sky and heaven, and serve as a reminder to lead a spiritual life. Some say that it didn't get its distinctive color until 1492, when it received an influx of Jews escaping the Spanish inquisition, who brought a tradition of painting buildings blue. Since nobody seems to have a definite answer, and the town is high in the mountains and close to the celestial vault anyway, I like the sky and heaven story.

This is my second visit to Chefchaouen also known as Chaouen—and the first for Amy. It is great for picture taking, writing, poetry, painting and being refreshed spiritually.

Chefchaouen’s soul reminds me of Venice—another totally unique city.




Amy and I are staying in a quaint “Dar” or house. A family lives here and has let out apartments beautifully decorated with Moroccan flourishes.
Dar Aldea is in a Medina, the walled historic city center off limits to cars.




 
Cats make for good portraits in the Blue City. They are abundant and know that they are honored. On the other hand, dogs are second class and far more scarce. Amy has encouraged me to do a picture story called The Cool Cats of Chefchaouen.

Also see: The Worn Tracks of Common Man
and Destiny