Portal Experiences

Within the church of San Pietro, Corniglia, Italy

I am so happy, this life is so beautiful and intriguing, there is no room for being sick . . . this is what I said aloud, as I coughed and convulsed, walking along the narrow main street of Vernazza, Italy. The crowds were out in midday bloom, laundry hung to dry from lines strung by windows above, shops lined every inch of the passage to the city harbor and of course no traffic and no motor vehicles. I walked and thought, this cough has been going on too long. 

The illness began in Venice and was so surprising because I have not been sick in 15 years; not even a cold. I had developed an attitude of impermeability to sickness. A friend I have been corresponding with in the USA, noticed I was not getting better, so wrote that I must see a doctor.

When I arrived in Vernazza, the apartment owners, a darling older couple, Giacomo and Maria Capellini, helped get me settled. Giacomo speaks English and when the discussion turned to a doctor, said that the clinic up the street was always open—including weekends. He walked with me and I was immediately seen by a physician who took tests and heard my descriptions, then pronounced I have bronchitis.
Now I am on antibiotics and should be much better in three days.

I have been having what I am calling “portal” experiences. These are surprising moments of occurrences that usher in such sublimity that some ancient remembrance of a pure state of bliss results. A few examples of the last few days: Being alone in a 500 year old church at night, long past the time when tourists were going to and fro. Walking up the steps into the dark cathedral and passing over the marble floor to sit at a pew next to a beatific sculpture of Jesus, arms outstretched with nail holes in the palms of his hands, looking down serenely. At his bare feet, candles still burning from earlier visitors. The silence so evocative, and on the wall nearby, a painting of the virgin mother, with the dove of heaven arriving to tell her of the heavenly life to grow inside of her.
Another time, just a couple days ago, in Monterosso, outside my room in the street, a man passed under the window, singing in such a marvelous and melodious voice. Then later, he came back, still singing. It awakened my higher sensibilities.
And of course, the church bells that ring, and sometimes their ringing takes on a melody.
So I finally wondered if my cough could possibly be a “portal” experience.
In some simple way, I think it could be. But I am more inclined to dwell on the sublime experiences that lead me to consider writing a book.

Alive In A Fantastic Dream

Sometimes, when we are hiking in challenging terrain, we stumble, but get up to keep going. We are thrilled to be traveling, exploring and expanding.

I am on a train heading toward Corniglia, a little village in the region of Cinqueterra, a group of tiny towns that hug the steep cliffs of northeastern Italy and look out to the Mediterranean Sea. I just spent a month in Venice and it cast its spell as usual with plenty to sway the senses, and for an artist like me, inspire with subject matter worthy of my paintings and photography. Venice—the aristocratic and storied European city with deep history that is unique for its absence of cars or street traffic. To go anywhere requires walking or a boat ride, and this way everything is seen leisurely, not just a blur. In the end, I found myself particularly captivated by the ephemeral flickering and trembling reflections of the city that were cast upon the water in the canals. It is like an emblem of the dream that Venice represents.

A week ago a friend from America visited and we went to a concert together. She was ill, and I paid no heed since I have always had the attitude that I don't get sick under any circumstances. I got sick. For a week now, I have had a cough with upper respiratory discomfort. Last night I barely slept for all the coughing. I had to wake early to catch an early train. My alarm did not go off but I woke at the last minute and managed to get my considerable luggage to the train station on time. And here is the kick: I dozed off and at Florence missed getting off to switch trains for La Spezia, so had to travel all the way to Rome. I am now heading back north to Pisa, La Spezia and then Corniglia. All while sick and at more cost. I managed to notify the people who are expecting me.

Somehow something has shifted in my mind that allows me to stumble without it ruining my outlook. I am sick, so what? I missed my train? So what . . . I am a smiling being alive in a fantastic DREAM.

Free To Wander

Piazza San Marco on a Sunday—with empty tables because of slight flooding.

To be free to wander is a ravishing pleasure that feeds my artist soul. And in Venice, to wander is extra pleasurable since there are no cars to threaten a person who is dreamy and in an altered state of consciousness. Altered states occur since it is a “floating world,” much like a dream. Accordions play, church bells ring, boats drift by on the labyrinth of canals and one cannot walk far without coming to one of 400 bridges that span the city.

Reflections—Piazza San Marco, Venice, Italy

 I have had a remarkable 24 hours. A friend from the United States arrived yesterday and we met at my apartment to have dinner and catch up with each other before leaving to meet with two Venetian ladies. My American friend, Neely, speaks Italian and immediately was conversing with her Italian counterparts as we walked together to a free baroque concert in a 700 year old church—Chiesa della Madonnadell'Orto. The concert was a fundraiser for ebola victims in Africa, and consisted of recitals from Antonio Lotti (5 January 1667 – 5 January 1740) an Italian Baroque composer. The massive church with soaring architecture and paintings by famous Venetian painter- Tintoretto, (Italian, October, 1518– May 31, 1594) soon filled up and we sat together in pews as the conductor and musicians came forth and stood facing us. The music and singing was sublime and as I closed my eyes I was transported through the ages to other times.

Stevie, self-portrait in Venice

Today, I have been walking with Cristiana for two hours, and amazingly we chatted most of the time, while she occasionally waited patiently while my muse stopped me to photograph something or other.

I realize that when I am in the artistic zone, it is an altered state where I am not really seeing people as personalities and buildings as shops or homes. Rather I am responding to light and reflection, texture and space, intriguing positions of humans in interaction or alone within the environment.

Cristiana recognizes me as an artist and says that anyone who is to be in relationship with me must understand this is who I am. I agree totally.

Venice . . . double exposure

Friendships Have Deepened

"Gondola, Moored Along the Grand Canal." Oil on board

One of the most satisfying aspects of travel is being introduced to people and sometimes becoming friends. All it requires is being open and willing. For instance, when I arrived in Venice, I was immediately introduced to the woman in the apartment next door. She works for the owner. Originally from Columbia, she has lived in Venice about thirty years and does professional work as a translator of Spanish and Italian. She speaks hardly a word of English and the same goes for me with Italian, but we smile at each other and our eyes meet in friendship. She has brought me hot food several times, and we have shared photographs on our computers and become Facebook friends. Thanks to an app called Google Translate, we can speak into my iPhone and have instant translation.

Last night I went to her place for dinner. She had invited me and had a friend of hers, and I brought my friend Cristiana who is good with English. Everyone was comfortable and we sat together and ate the delicious food. For two hours of conversation, I must say I could not understand most of it and a few times I became a bit tired. But mostly, I picked up what I could understand, shared our presence, and simply enjoyed the animation and intent. Throughout, we all had plenty of eye contact and felt at ease, and happy to be meeting.

At the end, everyone came to my flat to see my paintings and admire. I was given a big plate of leftovers, and my friendships have deepened.

Imagine Vividly

Gondola traffic in a narrow canal.

For many years now, when I awake from sleep I do not remember dreams. There was a time when I remembered and wrote prolifically in a dream journal. These days, perhaps my entire life is a journal and is not separated by boundaries—what happens in sleep is simply rolled into waking consciousness and woven into creativity. In conscious thought I imagine vividly.

Now, living in Venice, Italy, the waking hours are even more remarkably like fantasy. A huge window is in my kitchen and the first thing in the morning, I look out upon a small bridge that crosses over a canal below, which is often traveled by gondolas, the way it has been for centuries. Further on is a 1000 yer old stone paved campo lined with little shops and honored with an ancient church that sounds wonderful bell chimes.

When I first arrived in Venice, I bought a vaporetto (water-bus)  pass, but have hardly used it since I walk and explore. It is remarkable how little changed the city is from the last time I visited in 2008. Elegant instrumental groups continue holding court in the evenings at cafes on St. Marks Square, the Doges Palace gleams with gold mosaics, tourists from everywhere pour through the streets and empty starry-eyed onto the campos, and the air feels the same with a slightly pungent smell of sea and canals. One thing has changed and that is that many people are addicted to “selfies,” and walk around with smartphones attached to long rods taking videos of themselves as they go from place to place. They can't take their eyes off of themselves and I wonder how they see anything else!

Tourists, completely tuned into cameras.

Being Italian

"Saluto a Venezia" oil on linen, 16 x 12inches

It is wonderful to hear church bells chiming and the sounds of children laughing and shouting gleefully, with an occasional scream as an exclamation point. These pronouncements of life waft in my open window each day as I live beside the square with its ancient church in Venice, Italy. The area is called Campo San Giacomo 'Dall Orio. The sestieri (neighborhood) is called Santa Croce, and is in one of the oldest parts of Venice—the church goes back to 1200 AD.

I have been here a week and the days seem to race by too quickly—I feel my time is limited and want to slow them. I wake up, make breakfast, begin painting or go for a walk, and photograph. I shop for food, or meet my friend Cristiana. Always something to do and in fact, I have projects on hold. All this, and sometimes I just stop to absorb and assimilate into “being Italian.”

My first painting is complete, and I have good photos; with more to come.

Start Fresh

It is time to cross the water. I am willing to start fresh, be as nothing and merge with everything. To be surprised and live in a floating world. To hear my heart sing and join a strange chorus. To walk the path less traveled until shoes wear thin. To let light pour into my eyes until they overflow with gladness.

My journey from Santa Fe, New Mexico, USA to Venice, Italy, started last night when my beloved daughter Sarah drove me to my hotel at the airport. Today I board three flights: to Dallas, Texas, on to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, and then to Venice. About 18 hours total travel time. Venice is 9 hours ahead of New Mexico, so if it is 1:00 in US it is 10:00 in Italy. My friend Terese has counseled me to do nothing for a few days when I arrive—just sink in to the newness. I know my tendency is to jump into the excitement of photography, writing and painting, but her words echo in my mind, and I will most likely listen to them.

Winds Of Change

The winds of change continually blow over the ocean of my being. A wave has formed and is carrying me to a distant shore. I see that it has gathered force and is sweeping everything in its path: soon I will no longer be living in Santa Fe, New Mexico, USA, but instead, Venice, Italy . . . and from there probably Asia and South America.

The time this happened before, I wrote some blogs in advance that are worthy of review:

Depend On Love

Traveling Around The Sun

 

Grand Confusion

 

 

 

 

Magic Into Perception

In just two weeks I will be out of the United States and free of constraint. Life will flow with surprise and call me to respond in new ways that test my resilience. My home will be Spirit itself—not a place but a path with no beginning or ending that travels eternally free and unencumbered. Where might my address be? Perhaps in the heart of creation.

I will go back to beginnings, to being a boy once again . . . moments magical, since everything is new and never before seen. With no reference, spirit will weave magic into perception . . . because I am willing to die and be born again. Over and over until my last breath when the gates to eternity open and I step through.

Indian Market

The Santa Fe Indian Market bills itself as the “largest and most prestigious intertribal fine art market in the world.“ Truly, it is a celebration of indigenous peoples of North America and their handiwork as they arrive each year in Santa Fe, New Mexico to sell their arts and crafts. 

Having lived in Santa Fe for almost forty years, I have seen many markets. It depends on my mood whether I go or not. Sometimes I think of the big crowds and say “no way!” Other times, my curiosity takes me to the plaza to wander amid the tents.

This year, I am almost part of the festivities. I opened a temporary “boutique” gallery only fifty feet from the plaza—the heart of the market. (See Gallery.)

I am glad to be so close. I feel the warmth and excitement generated by the natives and a reciprocal response of non-native participants that buy the goods. I love the pride that the Indians have of their heritage and how they celebrate in dress, crafts, music and dance. It is quite awesome to see the tribes represented from coast to coast and Alaska too.

Pure Creativity

"Homage to O"Keefe," mixed-media, 24x36 inches

For most businesses it is essential to build a “brand.” Artists are self-employed so have to think of being profitable. Thus, more often than not, they develop their own type of brand.

"Aspen Trail," o/l, 24x20 inches, SOLD

"Traveler," Mixed-media, 24x18 inches

I have always experimented and been uncomfortable being branded. Pure creativity is primal impulse and can be vitiated by commercial pressures to conform. Fortunately, for most of my life as an artist, I have had my own gallery, and could show a broad range of work. Over three decades, I have seen popular taste shift. In the last couple weeks, the majority of the work I have sold is “experimental.” That is gratifying and leads me to conclude I can be authentic and received.

"Afternoon Leisure," oil/canvas, 12x12 inches

"Afro Mask," oil/linen, 20x20 inches

Life and Consciousness

Life and consciousness are interwoven with spirit. Divine spirit is the greatest force in the universe—love that binds together matter and protects creation from disintegrating into formless chaos.

More and more, I am going to that deep well of good fortune. When I feel pain, remorse, despair, or frustration, I know I need to turn my situation around and then I go back to Divine Love. It is closer to me than my life vein so that I can under all circumstances say, "thank you."

As I practice this and smile on existence, my fortunes change for the better.

In The Matrix

I have a plane ticket to Venice, Italy and an apartment waiting for me when I arrive September 15. Venice is divided into seven neighborhoods called sestieri. I have lived in most of them at one time or another and now I am going back to a favorite called Santa Croce. It is the oldest part of the city with some structures dating over a thousand years.

Homage to VanGogh, mixed-media on canvas, 24x34 inches

With six weeks to go, I have found a married couple to take over my home and make payments that cover expenses for three months minimum, maybe more. It works for them because they are looking to buy a home in Santa Fe. Meanwhile, I have opened a boutique gallery to show my artwork in the center of Santa Fe—on the plaza during August, the busiest tourist month of the year. Today was my first day and I had the good fortune to sell two pieces of artwork. (Shown here).

 During my sojourn outside of the USA, I will write, make drawings and paintings, and spend hours on streets doing photography. When I did this before, in 2008, I called it “disappearing into the matrix”. Friends, when I told them my plans, joked and replied that I was going to “disappear into the mattress.” Ha, that is not it at all. What the matrix is to me is the place where elements and primal forces merge in life and death—where creation transforms. It is also the calm place inside the swirling forces of nature, like the eye of the hurricane. A great place to be observer.

Homage to Monet, mixed-media on canvas, 24x34 inches

I am Soul

I seek to be submerged in a limitless ocean and this is what I call THE DREAM. In THE DREAM I am observer as well as all the elements in the ever changing picture. No use holding on to anything—it is all flux.

This is why when I am driving through town and see homes, cars, people hiking on their favorite trails or shopping at their favorite markets, although I participate, I am not attached. I do not identify as homeowner, sports fan, wealthy or poor, American, white race, religious, of a particular physical type . . .. I let go of ego identification and realize happiness is being in flux; part of the ever changing DREAM. I am soul.

My Studio

The high desert terrain stretched all around me as far as the eye could see—rolling hills dotted by short, round, Pinon and Juniper trees, with mountains in the distances and a vast cloud strewn sky above. Waving my hand, I proclaimed, “This is my studio!”

Yesterday I drove to a familiar place along the Rio Grande River between Taos and Santa Fe, New Mexico. I have painted the landscape there in all seasons except winter. This day, the clouds were rolling low over the mountains that rose from either side of the narrow gorge, and I had to wait until a light rain shower ended. The air was perfect and I made my oil painting, standing on the river bank. After I was done, I put on my bathing suit, marched up stream and waded into the rapidly flowing water. Soon I was floating, bouncing over rocks in the shallow area and then drifting free in the deeper part of the river. When I returned to my van, I looked around and gave thanks for such a wonderful studio and a beautiful life to experience.

My studio in New Zealand

My studio atop a camel in Morocco

My studio in Chiang Mai, Thailand

 

 

 

 

 

My studio in Paris, France

My studio in the Serengeti, Tanzania

My studio in Kashmir

 

 

 

 

 

Arranging To Be Free

Me, in Venice, 2007

Time sometimes flies like a bird, sometimes crawls like a snail; but a man is happiest when he does not even notice whether it passes swiftly or slowly.

-Ivan Turgenev

 I have two months to set my affairs in order before leaving on prolonged travel. In July, I travel to Michigan and Wisconsin for art shows and will probably spend three weeks on the road. Then in August, I will be busy consolidating my life so that beginning September, I will be free to live in Venice, Italy. From there who knows? 

Consolidating means selling off possessions and arranging to be free. I have done this before and so know what to expect.

 

Venice, just before sunset . . .

It is strange that the years teach us patience; that the shorter our time, the greater our capacity for waiting.

-Elizabeth Taylor

Minimalism

If there is any doubt that art shapes our way of seeing the world, a recent experience of mine will shed light. Yesterday, my home and studio were open for the Artists Studio Tour, an annual event where artists open there studio to the public for one weekend. This year, the studios are open for two weekends consecutively.

A woman came by and liked my art, but she focused on only a section of a couple paintings. She wanted a vertical piece of art for a particular place in her home and she already had in mind a concept. My landscape paintings attracted her for the colors and nuance of tones, but in a limited way. And this is what she wanted—an abstract painting with only a few colors. This is called minimalism. I told her I could do what she envisions, and have sent her samples.

Before the twentieth century, nobody would dare imagine such paintings. It would have seemed insane to consider it art. But modern art changed all that.

A patron viewing a large color field abstract painting by Mark Rothko, (September 25, 1903 – February 25, 1970),

Adventures Are Myriad

Some people thrive on surprise and are more willing to take risks, other folks are the opposite—more comfortable with predictability, structure and what is familiar. Psychologists offer their own explanations based on the type of person and their traits. Temperament is another explanation of how people learn and behave.

One my favorite books is Narcissus and Goldman, by Hermann Hesse (German: 2 July 1877 – 9 August 1962). He describes the lives of two friends who are similar and very different. They meet in a monastery. Narcissus is older and preparing to be a monk, while young Goldmund is brought by his father to live at the monastery and be trained.

The two bond in friendship and Goldmund comes to revere Narcissus and tries to emulate him. The two share in the practice of prayer and austerity. They have deep conversations, and Narcissus soon observes that Goldmund might not be cut out for a monastic life. Goldmund is handsome and has an earthiness not easily given over to the cerebral disciplines. Narcissus intimates this to Goldmund but it hurts the young devotee.

Before long, Goldmund leaves the safety of the monastery to explore and discover life in all its aspects. His adventures are myriad and he throws himself with abandon into every experience, tasting life and death, becoming an acclaimed artist, knowing many loves, accumulating vast experience and growing wise while he finds his true nature being one with the world. He never forgets Narcissus, but is following his own course which pulls him inexorably forward.

Narcissus remains austere and in sacred study. His life is strictly disciplined and he becomes an initiate of the inner verities of the spiritual realm. He knows his loneliness and accepts it. He gains peace through rational thought and surrender to the divine.

Through plot twists and turns, Narcissus enters Goldmunds life at the end and saves him from execution.

I identify strongly with both of the characters and it is why I have read and re-read this masterpiece.

Some of my other favorite books are by Russians: Anna Karenina, and War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy (28 August 1828 – 20 November 1910), and The Idiot, and The Brothers Karamazov, by Fyodor Dostoyevsky (11 November 1821 – 9 February 1881).

This Dream

On occasion, I have been able to see into another dimension—a spiritual realm of greater reality. It is a place that transcends the material world and goes beyond time and space. I had such an experience just today, but first I will describe a couple other episodes from when I was in my twenties. I was traveling with a few friends to visit a Native American man on the Navajo reservation. We had stopped outside Gallup, New Mexico to visit someone who could tell us the way. I was in a chair, not paying attention to the conversation and instead half dreaming. A vision came to me of driving on a dirt road, and arriving at a place where an Indian fellow was building a house, laying cement blocks by hand. Suddenly it was time to go, so we headed out and in about ½ hour, we were on a dirt road and then came upon the man, building his house exactly as I had seen earlier—including the wall, and him with his trowel in hand laying the blocks.

In my book, A Heart Traced In Sand, I recount another spiritual experience:
For years I had felt the presence of angels that reside in God’s other realms. When I was twenty-two, during a summer break at the Maryland Institute, College of Art, in Baltimore, I moved to a small town in Maryland and rented a room in a YMCA. One evening while ending my prayers, I felt a change occur around me. I seemed to be wrapped in a hazy, otherworldly light, and suddenly the perfumed scent of a thousand roses filled my nostrils. Turning toward the one window in my little cubicle, I saw a shimmering light come down, pass through the wall, and then hover above me in the approximate shape of a person’s aura. Immediately I knew I was in the presence of a spirit and was frightened. The light shimmered in place, waiting for some acknowledgment, until with trepidation I said, “I am afraid. But come into me.” Then it descended into my soul and for a few dazzling moments bestirred my whole being before vanishing.

Every now an then, my third eye glimpses into the spiritual world of light. But I can't predict when the door will open or what I will see. Several times I have been praying from the depths of my soul over some important matter that is weighing heavy on me, such as when my daughter was dying and I could not bear to see it and needed help. I cried out in anguish. And then I got a glimpse of angels who were smiling and  calm as could be. This sort of infuriated me at the time—that I was so anguished and they were absolutely calm in the midst of my storm. I did not understand what help this was to me, but accepted that I was the one whose vision was limited. This happened again today, but it has come to my awareness that in fact, despite appearances here, all is well in heaven. All of us have one foot there already.

Here is a poem by Hafiz:

Forgive The Dream
All your images of winter
I see against your sky.
I understand the wounds
That have not healed in you.
They exist
Because God and Love
Have yet to become real enough
To allow you to forgive
The dream.
You still listen to an old alley song
That brings your body pain;
Now chain your ears
To His pacing drum and flute.
Fix your eyes upon
The magnificent arch of His brow
That supports
And allows this universe to expand.
Your hands, feet, and heart are wise
And want to know the warmth
Of a Perfect One’s circle.
A true saint
Is an earth in eternal spring.
Inside the veins of a petal
On a blooming redbud tree
Are hidden worlds
Where Hafiz sometimes
Resides.
I will spread
A Persian carpet there
Woven with light.
We can drink wine
From a gourd I hollowed
And dried on the roof of my house.
I will bring bread I have kneaded
That contains my own
Divine genes
And cheese from a calf I raised.
My love for your Master is such
You can just lean back
And I will feed you
This truth:
Your wounds of love can only heal
When you can forgive
This dream.

The Unseen Hand

An unseen hand is holding my fragile life. I can feel it. A little more than a year ago my beloved father passed away, and then my wife decided to leave too. Before she left, something was prompting me to pray each day, “Oh God, satisfy my needs, redeem my debts, protect me from deceit, and help me to see the truth.” Pretty soon, all my debts had cleared away, and it became apparent that my wife was not devoted to marriage. OK, that hurt and still does, but almost immediately after our separation, abundance began increasing for me in many ways. Despite my heartbreak that re-opened the wound I have of my daughter's death in 1999 at the age of nineteen, and perhaps my father's death too, I could see good happening and it was as if I was attracting it. As if a tender gardener were lovingly revivifying a crushed flower whose stem was broken. I have been aware and thankful of this and been praying at least an hour a day . . . as well as reflecting and writing.

"The Last Drama", oil on linen, 48 x 60 inches

An example of grace relates to something I wrote about last week (See: Rain On The Parade). I am an artist and have no certain income. It fluctuates depending on if my artwork sells. At this time, I do not have a gallery representing me, but sales have been occurring anyway. I had been accepted to participate in an outdoor art festival in Denver, Colorado, and decided to go all out and have two booths rather than one. There were numerous exhibition fees involved, and travel costs including a downtown hotel, etc. but I had a feeling I might do well.

From the start the weather was bad. I mean by the middle of the second day I knew I was finished. My booth was flooded and people were barely coming to the event. The first evening had been clear for a brief period and there had been promise because I had made good contacts but it was all downhill afterward and I considered the whole affair a loss by Saturday evening. I left early Sunday, despite the sky being clear, because the forecast was for more storms and I did not want to be trapped trying to take down my art in the rain. None of the artists were happy about the show, and a few were leaving early like me. I drove one day and arrived back home in Santa Fe, calculating my loss.

But grace had something in store for me, because from a contact the first night, my biggest painting sold through email conversations! I am shipping it back to Denver to a happy couple who will hang it over their fireplace. Grace and the unseen hand.