Flux Of The Street

Polignano, Italy
He appeared with two friends and stood nearby, watching me paint. His friends interest soon waned and they caroused off, but he stayed close by. I continued at my easel, painting a tall narrow house, rising from the foot of a small public square, with a few trees in the foreground. The afternoon light illumined the surroundings under a cloudless sky. He watched in silence only a couple feet away, studying my every move from over my shoulder. After awhile, I felt something unusual was occurring. Breaking the silence, I asked him a couple questions, and learned he was eighteen, liked skateboarding, did a little artwork and originally came from Romania, where he began school late, at eight years old. His handsome look was of the sensitive type. I painted, and noticed feeling slightly uncomfortable at moments, being that my activity was so closely observed without falter and in silence. Other friends arrived, watching, then leaving to play soccer in the streets. The lad’s mother strolled along, spoke in English then disappeared. He did not leave my side, standing motionless for what seemed like an endless sojourn. I felt him become an extension of my being, and was embarrassed if I made a mistake and had to correct myself. Late in the afternoon, he said, “I have to go now.” We smiled, said “ciao,” then he vanished.

I remember him, and I am sure he too remembers me—and our chance encounter in the flux of the street.

Random Act Of Kindness

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 11
Sometimes while I am outdoors painting, my activity arouses people’s curiosity. In the old quarter of Rutigliano, in a neighborhood of stone streets so small cars cannot enter, I set up my easel and painted. A dozen or so curious people at various times arrived at my side to look. Youngsters especially were unafraid to approach. An old, slow moving, toothless fellow came along and took a pleasurable interest. He spoke but I could not understand, so I said in Italian, “I am an American artist, and can speak a little Italian, but not very well.” Turning to go, he halted and speaking in Italian, asked if I wanted a cigarette. After he was gone, I returned to my painting, and a few moments later he re-appeared and asked if I would like it if he brought some coffee. I said, “yes,” then he disappeared around the corner and five minutes later brought me espresso. For his random act of kindness, I thanked him profusely. He vanished again and I painted in earnest because the sun was moving across the afternoon sky causing the light and shadows to rapidly change so that my subject looked different with each passing moment. Twenty minutes later the fellow came again and strolled up, holding a plastic bag in his wrinkled hand. He opened and held it out, and I saw a pair of used, but nice, Italian leather shoes. Momentarily confused, I wondered what he was doing. The shoes looked about my size, and he pointed to my feet and then put the bag in my hand. Looking up into my face with a smile, he said something. I leaned over and kissed his whiskered cheek, then he shuffled away.

Artist Eyes

This morning before dawn a rooster crowed, setting off a cacophony of barks, howls, chirps and more crowing. Usually I fall back asleep, but this morning I dressed and walked out into the dawning day to watch the sunrise over the sea. The old woman next door was already sweeping the street in front of her house, and a rooster crowed loud and hearty from behind her backyard fence. A dazzling red orb hung over the sea horizon as I arrived, and in the opposite direction, Mt. Etna’s snow covered peaks were turning pink; awash in supernal rose-color hues of dawn light. A few men were already fishing out on the black lava flow, waves crashing in white foam at their feet.

In the afternoon I walked around the old quarter of Acireale. It must be strange for local people to see me in their streets looking so intently at everything. I stop and take pictures of sights that they are accustomed to and barely notice anymore. Like the centuries old, graffiti marked, crumbling, cracking walls. To my artist eyes, the aging walls, color and textures are fascinating and like a big abstract expressionist canvas. Nothing man-made in the United States has this kind of age to it.

An Old Vine

THURSDAY, APRIL 5
This morning I walked along the sea wall to the coffee bar by the tiny harbor. Cappucino is served in a little ceramic cup with a froth of white milk on top. Standing at the counter, I finished it in five minutes. Working men came to the bar, usually ordering espresso’s that are served in even smaller cups. A drink of water is offered first, to wet the mouth, then the espresso goes down in two satisfying sips.

Arriving back at the apartment, the produce man was sitting in his truck out front. I picked out a zuccini squash, but did not need anything more. As I began to pay, he put the squash in my hand, spread his feet, faced me squarely and touched both my shoulders. Then, with a look that said, “ this grand acquisition of your's is not going to make me rich,” he waved me off, touching his fingers to his lips and kissing off, as if to say, “ it is yours, and bon apetito.” It was a bit of a joke for both of us, and I laughed, saying grazie as he climbed back in his truck.
Yesterday I went to Messina in search of the Museo Regionale where a couple of Caravaggio paintings are on exhibit. The drive took 45 minutes to the city limit, then, I had to squirm in traffic snarl. Arriving at the museum, it was chiuso, closed for the day. I thought, this is part of the 15% chaos to be expected along the way. Nonetheless, I did not like having come so far to be denied. Furthermore, the sky was cloudy and occasionally spitting raindrops. Traffic was bad, the streets noisy and not particularly interesting, and I felt I was not accomplishing anything. Frustration grew, and then, serendipitously, I felt a spirit touch me. In the next moment, fresh air flowed into my lungs and with each drink of breath I felt more relaxed and rejuvenated. Grace had come. Standing near a busy market, with the wet, rubbish-strewn street at my feet, an old vine tied to a fence caught my eye. A wisteria was blooming, with pale purple flowers in delicate masses spreading along the railing. The moment I leaned forward to look more closely, I found an incredible fragrance permeated the air. Just the contrast of circumstances was wonderful in itself. In the midst of feeling denied, a reminder of renewal and beautiful life. Grace works without effort.

Struck With Awe

SUNDAY, APRIL 1
At unexpected times, I am struck with awe by the sublime beauty of people. At the Villa Del Casale, several times I was swept into a crush of ebullient teenagers, a high school group on an educational outing. Packed together in the narrow passages, I observed their facial expressions, conversation, dress, manners, etc., but most of all, the incredible uniqueness which made each individual special to the group. The miracle of this!
The other day Giuseppe was in Rome, so he arranged for his younger brother, Mario, to meet me at a park in central Acireale, then take me to their apartment where I could connect my computer to the Internet. As I sat in the car, he arrived on his scooter, and hopping off, he came to my window with a warm, open smile. “Hello, I am Mario, brother of Giuseppe. I take you to our apartment. Follow me.” All in a moment, I could see something quite beautiful and suddenly felt touched by the youthful vigor of the youngster arriving in the midst of the crowded streets, handsome face grinning from under his helmet as he pressed forward to greet me. Without effort, the lightness of being, élan, and beauty infused my consciousness. Silently, I was dumbstruck that an ordinary scene could impress me as so special, and that nobody else noticed.

Letting Go

FRIDAY, MARCH 30
The moments when I am conscious of the presence of grace are mysterious and powerful. Before it happens, ego control must be abandoned, a difficult matter when control is greatly desired. The other day, I took up the task of a 2-hour journey to the center of Sicily, to visit Villa de Casale, a Roman estate of grand proportions built in 3-4 AD. It is famous for its extensive mosaics, well preserved because the place was flooded and encased in mud until only recently when excavations revealed the splendor.
The drive to Catania is a bit hectic, and the city is even more so. The chaotic streets had me desperate to find the highway towards Caltagirone, an inland city which is on the way. I let go of trying. Instead, Spirit would do it—a higher power to make the crooked way straight. I pulled into a busy gas station, then went inside, map in hand. The girl behind the register spoke no English and could not help, so I turned to the young fellow next to me. He said, “I am going there. Please follow me.” The trip out of town was convoluted, and I followed him for about 45 minutes until we came to Caltagirone.
It has happened before, that the first person I approach, a complete stranger, has offered to guide me exactly where I want. Furthermore, it seems a larger hand is at play. When ego is not involved, angels can direct the drama.

Lost and Now Found

MARCH 27
Sometimes my plans collapse as conditions dictate, then other forces come to play and bring possibilities. Today, I anticipated painting early. As I drove with my supplies on the narrow roads through tiny towns, it seemed I was not finding what I wanted, so I kept driving. Soon I was at a town called Zafferana, written about in a travel guide, and stopped at a nice plaza with a baroque styled church as the centerpiece. Going into the church, I was surprised to be the only one within the soaring and ornately decorated interior. Sitting down in a pew, I meditated in the silence, and said prayers. The weather had become colder and grayer going inland into the mountains, making me unsettled and frustrated about painting. The time alone praying refreshed me. Still not knowing exactly where I was going, I drove in the direction of a sign marked Etna. At this point, I gave up my plans so that a bigger force could operate—which took me up into the snow packed south base station of Mt. Etna, the volcano. Driving, I felt a bit doomed to be in cold, drifting layers of fog that obscured the views. Something kept pulling me forward and eventually the road broke through the clouds near the top, into dazzling light. The snow, brilliant white, made an incredible contrast with black lava rock, exposed in places by wind and sun. As I started walking upward, I thought, “how did I get here, and now that I am lost in this foreign landscape, how is it that I am now found?”

The Place In My Heart

FRIDAY, MARCH 23
The weather has been blustery, tempestuous at times. Nonetheless, I venture out, seeking adventure. The Riserva dello Zingaro is about 1/2 hour drive from Bonagia. It is a nature reserve along the northern coast, near the city of Castellmare del Golfo. Despite some rain, I visited and had the blessings of sparkling light and sun as I walked. Along the way was a small path leading to a tiny sand beach among the cliffs. A grotto offered a nice place to sit and watch the waves crash upon rocks. I realized, that whatever the conditions externally, the place in my heart is always safe and secure.
At the end of the day, sitting on the fortress walls of Erice, gazing at the sunset, I realized how impossible it would have been for a companion to have journeyed along. I drove through rain and hail, walked in mud, and never had a convenient toilet so used nature, meandered aimlessly, got lost in unfamiliar towns and often detoured off course to just have a look. Then, at the end of the day, in a silent reverie, I kept going, up to Erice where the cold wind chilled the rocks. But, it was the light that called. The light that I had to see—glistening upon the wet stones of empty labyrynthal ancient streets.
For more, go to Steven Boone Fine Art

Segesta

MONDAY, MARCH 19
I almost cried when I found the temple at Segesta after being lost, despairing it was not easier to find. After driving over flat land, the terrain became mountainous, and the hillsides, covered with vineyards, orchards, and masses of flowers was totally distracting. Signs indicated it was not far, then, making a curve on a tree lined drive, suddenly it loomed straight ahead above me. It was if I had found the mystical ship, an ancient vessel set to give me passage into a misty past. Nothing in my American existence could have prepared me for stepping so far back in human civilization. Part of the potency of the immediate impression is the size and beauty of proportion of the temple. It seems a miracle.
The theater, built two centuries later in 3 BC atop a nearby mountain, looks out above the temple site. The row of seats form a steeply inclined semi-circle, viewing the central stage area, with an incredible view over the far reaching landscape behind. It is as if sitting at the throne of the Gods.
In places like Erice and Segesta, it occurs that the ancients, chose not to build in places merely from convenience, but more importantly, for power.

As The Days Unfold

SUNDAY, MARCH 18
As the days unfold, my life follows like a blank empty tablet, being writ upon by an invisible hand. There are no set plans, and decisions come from momentary inclinations.
This morning, Erice beckoned so I returned, driving the long winding road up to the mountaintop. To build a town on this setting was a brilliant consideration. It overlooks every direction so as to dominate the region. The views are breathtaking. Pieced together with stone and mortar like a giant jig-saw puzzle, Erice has been painstakingly woven together—a mosaic tapestry of pure medieval poetry.
Often, I had the streets to myself. Oddly, even the homes lining either side of the narrow passages seemed empty. This Sunday morning, I walked slowly, going inside churches scattered about along the way. At times, it was only Jesus and myself inside. The walls held the prayers of all those before me. I threw mine in with the rest.

Initiation

FRIDAY, MARCH 17 One way to quickly become initiated into Italian life is to drive anywhere. The streets for the most part are narrow, sometimes with barely room for cars to pass. This is why motorcycles and smaller vehicles are the norm (some with only three wheels.) Traffic signals are few and far between, perhaps because they would only make people mad, interrupting the vital flow containing its own irrepressible logic. Most people want to get where they are going as fast as possible. Quickly passing others is a serious game. If you are the least bit slow, forget it. In Palermo, sometimes the streets are entirely clogged with cars and cycles, all within inches of each other. Miraculously, there are no collisions, but then, this is the only rule. Palermo sprawls from the Tyrrhenian Sea upwards into the steep hills and valleys inland. It is the fifth largest city in Italy. When I arrived I had only a faint idea how to get to Monreale, a locale adjacent to Palermo with a famous cathedral. Lost, I parked on a corner and got out to ask directions. Spotting the first person, a swarthy man with stubbly beard and rotted teeth, dressed in work clothes, I asked, “dove Monreale?” He smiled and said, “O di qua, Monreale.” Amazed at my luck that he was going there, I watched him get in his midget car and followed closely behind for a memorable chase through twisting streets, up steep hills and around hairpin turns until my little Fiat, giving all it had up a vertical incline of cobbled stones, spilled out onto a Piazza, where my guide pointed to a grand old cathedral. I waved thanks as he disappeared. From the cathedral are breathtaking views out over Palermo. It is amazing that the soaringwalls were built on a mountain ledge 800 years ago. Inside are stupendous 12th – 13th century mosaics occupying the nave and aisles, choir and transepts. They illustrate scenes from the old and new testament.

Initiation Into The Rhythm

TUESDAY, MARCH 13
Having arrived in Sicily, I am getting quickly acquainted. For initiation into the rythym, every morning, bright and early, a singing sheepherder with his dogs and flock pass by my little house on a hillside. As sun floods in the windows and I step out on the shaded veranda, I look below and see the little town of Bonagia hugging the mountainous coast.
My first painting is at the shipyard, among rotting hulks of old boats lined up on the shore. The view I choose is out across the harbor to a spectacular promontory called Monte Cofano, a mountain that looks like a colossal castle rising from a point jutting into the sea.
Although I finish my painting late in the day, excitement gets the better of me and so I get in my midget car, and race up the winding hills to find Erice. As the road climbs, and the sun sinks, the scenery becomes eerie. With each kilometer, it seems I go further back in time. Wisps of cool fog envelope the rocky slopes dotted with spindly blackened pine trees standing in sparse clusters.
At the top, I park near massive stone walls, older than Christ, that surround the town. It is eerily quiet, except for the occasional laughter of groups of Italian teens on visits from schools. The narrow streets hold the same polished stones from centuries ago, painstakingly placed in attractive patterns between neat rows of stone buildings. No cars are allowed. With my first steps, immediately I want more time to explore, but the sun is now almost set, and I know if I go further into the maze of labyrinthal passages I will be in danger of getting lost—like Alice falling into a rabbit hole of time, and might not get out.

The Priceless Necklace

THURSDAY, MARCH 8
It would seem that one week would be ample time for preparing to leave on a trip. It is not if the trip is for three months. I have two days before leaving, and still feel pressed despite devoting almost all hours to being cleared for take off. I need to deal with mail collection, and arrangements for bank deposits and bill paying. I acquired euro’s and an international drivers license and put software on my laptop so that I can keep my website up to date. Magazine subscriptions had to be suspended and my art supplies gathered together. The cost of shipping my supplies turned out to be way too expensive, so I am taking them along in an extra suitcase, (ughh!) I have had to take care of tasks at Jean’s house, and then at my house, get personal items out of the way and make sure everything is spotless for the person coming to rent when I leave. I ordered and received an international cell phone, and lost my glasses but don’t have time to get them replaced, (will get a prescription filled in Italy.) The tasks keep coming non-stop. Saturday at 6 PM I will get on the airport shuttle, and surely there will be things left undone. But once I am in Italy, I won’t look back.
This evening I went to an auction benefiting sick children and their families. I am on the board of Friends Forever, an organization that affords help to seriously ill children, especially by offering them, their parents and siblings, all expense paid vacations. One of the auction items was an exquisite silver, gold and diamond necklace. It came to the table where I sat, and as I held it in my hand and gazed, the light from it’s finely crafted, faceted surfaces danced and gleamed in a glittering display of dazzling beauty. As it left the table, I kept thinking of it, and then I thought of the children it was to benefit. These kids are pure and innocent, yet the dazzling light of their gem-like lives are clouded with pain and uncertainty—it is not known if their talents and gifts will unfold. They have to be warriors when those around them take pleasures for granted. For their efforts, they each deserve to wear necklaces of exquisite beauty. The children's preciousness cannot be matched by all the world's wealth.
My next blog will be from Italy, but the date of the posting is uncertain.

Living in Spirit

FRIDAY, MARCH 2
Growing up in Washington DC, my best friend Lonnie and I spent endless hours of adventure with each other. In 1968 we worked during the summer on the Navajo reservation in Arizona as volunteers, then hitchhiked to Los Angeles and up the coast to San Francisco—following the hippie trail. When I went away to college in 1970, and returned changed because I had adopted a religion, the Baha’i Faith, my friend was perplexed. As we walked together in our neighborhood he confided his concern, and I have remembered this exchange through the years; “Steve, you tell me you don’t drink (booze), smoke (dope) or have sex anymore. What do you do?” At the time, his question left me momentarily speechless, and I could see that he thought I was living on air.
Today is the beginning of the annual period of fasting that Baha’i’s observe for nineteen days. No food or water from sunrise to sunset. This year, I am living alone, practicing chastity, and perhaps to some it might seem that I am living on air. It is 35 years since Lonnie’s comment, and now, I could more easily answer his incredulous inquiry.
It is fun stripping away desires of the flesh, because living in Spirit is to invite a state of blessing. As to the question of what do I do for enjoyment: being in grace, and feeling every moment is perfect, complete and wonderful, well, that is mostly enough.

The Process Of Happiness

THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 22
For years at different intervals, on a regular basis I have met with an eminent psychologist. Today, it was as if I could not find a problem to discuss. For what seemed a long time, we sat smiling at each other. I admitted to feeling my life has become the process of happiness. The future, past, and present, are melded together—like a big dream that is TIME, and behind this dream is reality: GOD. As long as my journey is returning to GOD, then each moment, I am happy.
As precious Naomi said, “Everything is important, and nothing is important. Everything is illusion, back to GOD.” (See my book, A Heart Traced in Sand.) So it does not really matter where I am in space . . . palace, paradise, or hell, because my journey is always back to God, the source of my being and highest good. The path seems more mystical with every step.

The Incredible Terrain

WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 14
Drawing a nude model is such pleasure. The first few moments are the most fearsome because there is only a blank page and the pencil in my hand. The task seems intimidating, almost impossible, given the complexity and awesome grandeur of the subject. Once some marks have been made, then there are reference points upon which to build perspective and proportion. The human anatomy is like a marvelous and complicated landscape of rolling hills, fissures, caves, peaks, valleys and forests. To draw is to take a journey, looking intently while trying to map this incredible terrain. It is exhilarating to experience the process unfold. Then to see some measure of success in the outcome is quite satisfying. 
The Sicilian part of my sojourn is now fully arranged. I have plane tickets, 2 houses reserved and a car. After sending some supplies ahead, the only task then is simply arrive March 12.

Experiences are Equal

SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 10
On weekends, after I awake and dress, I have been walking to a coffeeshop in the art district, about a half-mile away. Some winter mornings are freezing, and the walk seems quite longer going than returning. This morning has been warmer and immediately, every step along the way seemed enjoyable. The old, uneven sidewalk through the neighborhood seemed to be telling me its history. Birds in the tree branches overhead sang out their morning salute to the new day as I noted the soft sound of my footsteps.
On the way, my shadow was behind me, while returning, it stayed in front.
As usual, the return seemed shorter, and I wondered again: why? It is entirely perception. On the way, I am going to a place where I expect a pleasurable experience, and that expectation of better moments, makes me hurry to arrive. Impatience actually heightens my awareness of time so that it stretches out. Afterwards, my goal has been accomplished and the moments are unhurried, languid, and seamless—they seem compressed into one, and before I know it, I am home again. So the trick is to always be in a frame of mind that all experiences are equal, and that nothing is worth having more than the present moment, which is the goal. There is nothing to hurry to.

The Invisible Thread

SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 3
I am conscious of an invisible thread that weaves between my life and others. Even when I am alone, I sense the presence of others. We are bound together in profound ways that go beyond our understanding. When I recall someone in thought, in a way, I communicate with him or her telepathically. How many times has it happened that when I think of someone, they happen to call and say, “we must be on the same wavelength.” It is because of the invisible threads that bind us, and also act as lines of communication.
This weaving is sacred. When I think of someone, I am also sending love.

I went to a wonderful movie last night called Pan’s Labyrinth. It is by Mexican filmmaker Guillermo del Toro and has English subtitles for American audiences. Check out its fantastic website at http://www.panslabyrinth.com/

Eternity

Each moment contains fullness and emptiness both. In our union with God and creation, we can know complete contentment of oneness. On the other hand, that same union can make us aware that our separateness exists as well, and how utterly dependent we are on the whole. Lately, I have been blessed to experience non-separateness and letting go of preconceptions of mind. In the Baha’i writings, Baha’u’llah has said that the soul is first to recognize its creator. Since soul is eternal and always linked to the Creator, when we live entirely through soul, we are also aware of eternity. I enjoy so much the feeling of eternity, where past, present and future meld seamlessly. Perhaps it is part of aging, but often these days, I look with fondness at my past, enjoy tremendously the present, and trust the future entirely.
I have my tickets for Europe. I depart March 11, and will arrive in Sicily the evening of the 12th. On June 7th I will leave Paris for home. The details are taking shape and the trip is full of promise. I am in no hurry. The days take their own beautiful course and the future is somewhere else.

Painting in the Venetian Style

SUNDAY, JANUARY 21
This past week I participated in an art workshop, called “Painting in the Venetian Style.” The class was taught here in Santa Fe at the Andreeva Portrait Academy by Geoffrey Lawrence. For years, since I graduated college with a degree in painting, I have stubbornly pursued my own vision and resisted instruction from other artists. Furthermore, I developed a successful style of palette knife painting.
I must say the week of intense instruction and work suited me. I liked building the painting up in layers, as the old masters did for centuries.
Below is my painting, seen in the beginning stage with the underpainting apparent, shown beside the completed image.

Our Bodies Store Memories

FRIDAY, JANUARY 12
Our bodies store memories. While swimming on Wednesday afternoon, I had not gone far when I felt as if floundering. Staying in my lane was difficult and I felt lost, in another world, one without boundaries. Feeling something was wrong with my routine, I stopped early. Although I have not been sick in eight years, I wondered if I was falling ill. I fantasized I had a brain tumor. Driving home, any bright light zinged my brain, and I fought off a headache. At home, weakness forced me to rest in bed. After a half hour, my stubbornness got me up to go out for dinner, and then join the figure drawing group I attend weekly.
Thursday, when I woke I felt the same rolling waves of unreality and dreaminess, tinged with remorse and loss. It is my daughter Naomi’s birthday, January 11. If she were alive, she would be 27. Even though I feel I have become more adjusted to her death at nineteen, I realize just how little control I have over the profound influence and effect her dying has had on my life. At the cemetery, while I stood in the snow at her grave, her spirit came, more expansive and loving than ever. She expects me to be happy, and shown brightly in my mind the promise of a joyous future.
Today, normality for the most part returned, and I wonder at my “episode ” which I mistook for illness.
The picture here is of Naomi when she was fifteen, two years before her diagnosis of cancer, and four years before her death.
For more, go to: A Heart Traced in Sand

Beautiful Places to Paint

SUNDAY, JANUARY 7
I could not finish listening to the audio book, "Madame Bovary." Gustave Flaubert's writing is superb, with exquisite descriptions of characters, physical settings, and the minutiae of life. For me, following Emma Bovary’s pent up inner yearnings while she has affairs, dismissing her marriage and fortune as too provincial and not up to snuff . . . well, if it were not one of the great works of literature, my listening would not have continued until almost the end, (which I know ends in suicide.)
Plans for Sicily are becoming solid. I will arrive in the second week of March and rent a house on the Northwest side, near Trapani, on the Mediterranean. I want to paint sunsets over the water. There are great towns everywhere nearby, like Erice, a historical city with ancient Greek ruins that sits on a mountain top overlooking the sea. Two weeks later I will go to the other side of the island, nearer to the active volcano Mt. Etna . Taormina sits on a bluff above the Ionian sea, at the foot of Mount Tauro. For centuries it has been Sicily’s most famous tourist spot, dating from the time of the Greeks. The town has preserved its medieval layout. It will be easy to find beautiful places to paint.
Afterwards Venice beckons . . .
The image above is a new work created from a photo of a Rodin sculpture I saw in Frankfurt, Germany combined and manipulated in Photoshop with an image of painted glass.

Anticipate Happiness

TUESDAY, JANUARY 2
It is the New Year and I anticipate happiness. My heart connection with the world is strong, so that every situation is positive in some way. New forms of creative expression are developing. Photographic and digital modalities are coming to the fore. Now, I am creating large photo based collages and painting on them. In the spring I travel for three months, painting, photographing, and absorbing life in other lands.
Sometimes I feel guilty at my pleasure, especially at this time when I am separated from Jean. But why feel guilty at being happy? My heart is pure as I can make it, although God knows I have more work to do, and I ask for His mercy and guidance. Certainly, I pray that Jean be happy and strong in herself, and likewise look with eager anticipation to the future.
So much of my new art has to do with naked bodies, and I wonder how people perceive this. I am an artist and the world is my canvas. The human form is sublime and I am held enthralled. I work to exalt it.