Astonishing Artwork

THE DREAM has re-united me with my daughter Sarah in Italy. I had not planned to return here so soon, but the currents of life and affection have brought me to Florence, and now, the Amalfi coast as I drive her and her friend to Brindisi where they will catch a ferry to Greece.

Florence is simply saturated with astonishing artwork of the past. Two major museums are the Uffizi and Accademia. I am now quite familiar with them both, and always thrill at seeing special masterpieces, such as Michelangelo’s spectacular sculpture David in the Accademia, and paintings by Bottecelli, Da Vinci, Caravaggio and others at the Uffizi. Another artist, Artemesia Gentilleschi has a tremendous painting of Judith, severing the head of Holofernes while he is in bed sleeping. The sword is just passing into the flesh and blood is squirting all over the place. She has his hair clasped in one hand and the sword firmly in the other. He has a look of horror and she is determined. In the same room always are Caravaggio paintings. One is of a snarling Medusa with writhing snakes coming out her head, and another is a relaxed partially nude Bacchus, holding up a cup of wine. Imagine all these paintings together and you have a real Italian experience.

The Amalfi coast is simply stupendous. The drama of mountains and ancient villages spilling abruptly down to the sea is scenery at its best. We have spent a night in hotel called Le Terrazze that is high up on a mountainside, overlooking the Mediterranean.

After dropping the girls off in Brindisi this evening, I will go to Bari and stay with friends for several days. Eventually, a new tooth awaits me in Florence.

I Love My Body, It Has Been So Good To Me

Written Saturday, July 5th, posted Sunday
Several years ago, after a dental checkup, my dentist, an excellent physician, told me he discovered two teeth that had slight cracks. They were next to each other in my upper right molars. He told me I should have crowns placed on both of them, and then gave me a price that I knew was high, and I backed away from the procedure. He said “it is better to have it done now than have them fracture and have to make a more expensive bridge later.” I went to another dentist who told me the teeth did not seem in danger.
Yesterday, I drove with Carol down from the mountains to have my tooth pulled out because the fracture had spread to the root and the area had become infected. As I lay in the chair and the dentist was pulling my molar out, I felt a passing sadness to lose a part of myself, even if a tooth.
Today, I have dull pain, and my tongue often goes to feel the hole left in my gum where my tooth was. I realize something else about this day. It is the anniversary of Naomi’s death, nine years ago (See the website for my book, A Heart Traced in Sand.) Whenever I have pain or discomfort, I remember her, and think that whatever happens to me is not as bad as what happened to her, and she never complained. As I pondered about her last moments, I thought about how she died. Cancer had spread over most of her body, one leg was swollen almost twice as big as the other, and she could not walk. She had lost so much weight as to be almost a skeleton, with eyes like gleaming orbs in hollow sockets. Overwhelming pain had plagued her for over a year, robbing her of rest. Her lungs slowly weakened from disease until she suffocated. Incredibly, some of her last words before she died at the age of nineteen, were, “I love my body, it has been so good to me.” Naomi practiced loving with such conviction and ardor that she overcame all negativity, and this is a lesson that I will always carry inside my heart.
I go to Florence, Italy on Wednesday, 9 July to meet Sarah. I will need to get a temporary tooth put in, so the way things are playing out, a Spanish doctor pulls my tooth out, an Italian puts a temporary in, and one from India implants a permanent false tooth. How is that for international cooperation?

Muy Tranquilo

I have once again found my way to the remote mountain village of Darrical, ( see my blog of May, 2007 ) where my friends Carol and Rolf live. Carol says that sometimes during the year, as few as 15 people reside here. It is on the opposite side of the Spanish social and cultural spectrum from Madrid: no fashions, stores, telephone lines or Internet, no commerce except goat cheese from the goat herders wife.
In big cities, all the noises tend to blend into a cacophony of clatter. Here in Darrical, I notice and appreciate every sound, such as the rooster crowing, wind blowing in the trees, birds singing, a child’s laughter, or the goats passing by with their bells jangling. These months, it becomes hot during the midday, so people stop work and take siesta. Life is “muy tranquilo,” meaning, very peaceful.
I am painting landscapes, and also, going with my camera into the many abandoned and ruined homes that dot the hillsides. I like being in the midst of the crumbling remains of houses that once contained the lives of generations of villagers, and see how time and nature paints over the hand of man.
I am getting emergency dental work done in a nearby town, and find the dentist excellent and very inexpensive compared to the USA. I have a fractured tooth that became infected and now I am on antibiotics, waiting for my next appointment, when the tooth might be pulled out, depending on what the doctor decides.
Again, my plans are shifting away from my original vision of going eastward around the world. Since arriving in Egypt, I have been circling the Mediterranean Sea, and now I will backtrack and revisit Italy. My daughter Sarah is coming with a friend to Europe, and I will meet her in Florence on July 9, then on the 12th, drive them to a port on the Adriatic where they will catch a ferry to Greece. Afterwards, I might return to Florence and live for a while. In Madrid, the streets were exciting enough that I became quite happy going out everyday for photo shoots. Now, I am envisioning a book of street photography from around the world, and so I think I will go from Italy to Berlin, Germany. I have been told it is a wonderful, artistic city. I can go there, then Paris, before going into the hot climates of Africa. In the end, THE DREAM is what matters . . . and has its own life.
Late note: Spain has just won the European Cup soccer match against Germany, and there is pandemonium in the streets!

Common Humanity

The surface of the moon became a stage when the astronauts landed there, and Madrid became my stage when I landed here. I have taken to the streets with enthusiasm and enjoyed the wide avenues, fashions, museums, street performers, vagabonds, and café life. My apartment is in the midst of it all, so I am part of the pulse. The Indian consulate issued me a visa, Nikon fixed my lens, I took a thousand photographs, made a new “three hands” painting, and visited some of the best museums in the world. The weather has been perfect, and I have not had a bad day.
Thyssen-Bornemisza Museum houses an art collection that originally was collected by the Thyssen-Bornemisza family for over two generations. The largest and most important part, over 800 important masterpieces, was acquired by Spain in 1993. It is one of the finest and well-organized bodies of art I have seen, and kept in a palace originally built in the 18th century, and then expanded and remodeled. The artwork spans the ages from classical to modern. A fantastic, large, Caravaggio painting, called Saint Catherine of Alexandria caught my eye in a prominent position in a smaller room. I arrived at the same time as two other admiring people, and within minutes we began talking with each other excitedly. Francesco is Italian and Deniz is from Turkey. We all understood and appreciated art and could talk about it, and fortunately for me, the other two spoke good English. Deniz happens to be an art historian living in Berlin, but she lived in Venice for two years and speaks Italian. I am an artist and know quite a lot about art, so our conversation stayed elevated. Francesco became animated and took us around to other important Italian paintings in the collection, talking all the while. The paintings themselves offered us topics and thrilled our senses. This is what art does; speaks to our common humanity in a universal language. It breaks barriers between people and offers dialogue.

In-depth Feeling Of Spain

Fate brought me to Madrid, and I am glad. It was not my intention to come here, but I need to repair my camera lens, and also, get a visa to India, since the Indian visa I received in the USA is expired. I have a nice apartment in the heart of the city, and I like the life. Every shop imaginable is nearby, the streets are vibrant, nearby subways take people anywhere they want to go, and the museums are fantastic.
I have been working on the next “three hands” painting. It is a landscape of a house in a village setting, with three hands intruding from top and bottom.
I went to the Indian Embassy, and was told to come back Friday, June 20th to pick up my visa (if it is granted.) My lens is being repaired, and meanwhile, since I have become so addicted to street photography, I bought another lens (50mm f/1.8D Nikkor) that is proving even better for shooting people and close-ups of buildings. Every day, I go out and “get in the zone,” a kind of trance where I am not particularly aware of myself or where I am, only textures, color and light. People too, are objects that are reflecting light . . . and I use my camera liberally. I don’t feel timid, or if so, I overcome the timidity quickly in order to get candid photos and be ready for the unexpected.
So far, I have been to two great museums of art: The Prado, and the Reina Sophia. These are two anchors of Spanish culture, and great ambassadors for Spain. As an artist, I am very thankful for the opportunity to see masterpieces of the past, carefully preserved and on display for the public, housed in grand buildings that are inviting. The great giants of Spanish art are well represented: El Greco, Murrillo, Goya, Velasquez, Dali, Picasso, Miro and Tapies. And there are more collections that I have not seen!
Madrid gives me an in-depth feeling of Spain and it’s heritage that is surprising. It feels as though I could live here.

Grand Confusion

What is the difference between our dreaming and wakened consciousness? Sleep is often maligned as the poorer cousin of wakened consciousness. There are phrases that describe common attitudes about sleep, such as, “it is only a dream,” or “you were only dreaming.” But during sleep and dreaming, incredibly lucid and illuminating episodes of our lives occur and are etched into our memories. Before leaving Santa Fe to begin my solo traveling around the world, I woke one morning remembering a sentence I had heard moments before. A voice had spoken to me, saying, “The vessel he entered was a grand confusion between his world and the world outside of him.” Immediately, I knew that the words referred to my soon to come journey. The description was in the past tense, as if it had already occurred. Who was speaking and from where? The voice was other than my own, and spoken for me to hear. Some people will say that everything I dreamed was merely my own invention, but I never speak of the future in the past tense, nor do I describe life experiences so obtusely and symbolically. I believe that in sleep and dreaming, I experienced a meeting with spirits that live outside of time. They comprehend mortal life easily, and even interact with us beings here on the physical plane. Unfortunately, our minds are troubled going outside time and space, so we call this sort of experience fantasy.
How delicious and wonderful are moments when they are not isolated entities like words by themselves on a page, and when we are conscious that they belong to sentences in the grandest of all novels, and are part of a magnificent story that began beyond the limits of our consciousness and extends forever.
As the spirit foretold, I have been experiencing life as a grand confusion between my inner and outer world; a captivating journey that is very real and nonetheless I call THE DREAM.
In two days I leave Granada, and go to Madrid.

Three Hands

Granada, Spain and I have mixed together so much that our boundaries are now obscure. Textures, winding cobbled streets, sounds of clapping hands and guitar chords, imaginative tagging and gritty ambience all have overwhelmed my consciousness and senses.
Frederique has been here a week and we have explored together. Her intellect is sharp and my enthusiasm great, and we both have deep passion for art. She claims to love observing me in my process of seeing, and she notices what I miss. When we first met, she objected to being photographed, but my persistence won out. I painted her portrait, and at her suggestion, will do a series of portrait paintings with three hands.
We have seen some good flamenco shows. Frederique is quite knowledgable about this dance form, since her sister is married with a world reknowned flamenco guitarist and composer; Jean Baptiste Marino. Fortunately, Sacromonte, where my apartment is located, is also the best neighborhood for flamenco establishments. The “caves” are intimate, and the vibrant music, mixed with the twirling and stomping dancers and plaintive bold notes of singers have maximum effect.

Bloom Where You Are Planted

At times in my present nomadic existence, I wonder, who am I now that I do not have a home? The thought might come as I am standing in a shopping line, and people around me are speaking in a language I do not entirely understand, and I realize I have no one but myself to turn to, or while on a bus as it is taking me somewhere in a city half a world away from my native land. Always, the answer comes back to me; I am comfortable in my own skin, and at home wherever I am. During my crazy teen-aged years, during the hippie revolution, I remember reading a slogan that a flower child had painted on a wall, and it has stayed in my consciousness all these years: Bloom where you are planted.

The combination of Frederique’s artistic encouragement and Granada’s creative atmosphere and bravado has resulted in my reaching for a new space in my painting. I am painting closer to my heart, and not thinking of marketability. My self-portrait came out with an edge to it: blurred borders, three hands, and an intense gaze. I have made three other paintings as well, and they all are different from my normal approach when I am painting landscapes.

As usual, I am walking a great deal. Thank God for my Clark shoes, which are holding up under brutal exercise from walking the streets and exploring. I remain intrigued by the graffiti I see splashed everywhere on the walls in Granada. The textures too, are like abstract paintings. I am amassing quite a collection of photographic images. So much, that my hard drive is becoming crowded. I have to burn pictures onto DVD’s for backup and then destroy most of them from off of my computer as I go along.

Frederique is coming to visit. We have such wonderful dialogue and I welcome her presence and willingness to share moments with a nomad, living in THE DREAM.

Dig Deeper

Van Gogh, All Hung Up, oil on linen, 22 x 24 inches

Is it possible that only three months have passed in my year long odyssey? The last month has been so fantastic as to be almost unreal; beginning with my trip from Greece to Venice, the days and nights in that eloquent city and meeting Frederique, and then unexpectedly going to Provence in France, and now experiencing the bold flamenco flavors of Granada, Spain. Along the way, something great happened in France. The Foundation Vincent Van Gogh D’Arles is also a museum in Arles, devoted to artwork by famous artists who pay homage to Vincent Van Gogh, who lived his most famous years in Arles. Frederique and I visited the museum and came away impressed. I left a catalog of my Steven Boone Hang Ups for the director, and called back the next day. We had a delightful conversation and she said that yes, they would love having my painting “Van Gogh, All Hung Up,” for their collection. Soon, my artwork will be included in this world-class museum collection. Frederique agrees to be my French liaison.
I am in Granada because I was here a year ago and found I liked it. Frederique has boldly encouraged me to dig deeper in my art . . . and get my mind off the marketplace for landscapes that has influenced my painting. So now, I am doing a self portrait that is realistic, abstract, and surreal. I have determined to stay in the deeper flux of creativity as I work.
Granada is great as a backdrop. The city is old and young both, and has plenty of character. Flamenco music thrives here, and an artistic stream flows freely. Although graffitti and tagging is major nuisance in cities throughout the world, here the street art can be incredible.
My apartment is in the Sacromonte, an elevated area overlooking in a historical district. From the main road, a cobble road takes me to my door. There are two narrow levels, and veranda that has an incredible view, with the world-famous Alhambra on hilltop directly in front.

View from my patio

Intellect And Mystery

Now, when I wake in the morning, the sound of the Mediterranean Sea is present. It is directly in front of my eyes, churning outside the little breakfast room. There is almost always a fisherman perched by the shore, casting into the waves.
Frédérique is just next door in another apartment, and we wake each other in the morning with a knock on the door. I find so many surprises in her. She has told me we are opposite . . . and it is true. She is quite controlled, and lives in her intellect, while I am tactile and thrive in the realms of senses. Her opinions are frank, thoughtful and unequivocal, while I am more starry-eyed, in the land of mystery. We both share passion for art.
Fortunately, Frédérique is on holiday, so we spend all our time together. She is showing me the region of Provence in the vicinity of her home in Grande Motte. Her grasp of history is good, so I have an excellent guide as we stroll through streets in towns such as Montpellier and Nimes that began before the medieval age. Last night we went to Aigues Mortes, a small, nearby town within original fortified stone walls. We attempted to find seating at several restaurants but were turned away, even though they seemed half full. Frederique told me that France is not like in the United States, where patrons come and go all evening. A limited number of dinners are served, and a table is used once. If a table is reserved, it sits empty until the client arrives. When we found a restaurant that took us, to my astonishment, the elderly hostess was the owner, director, and also the only waitress. Frédérique explained that if there were more employees, then wages would be paid, but also an equal amount in social security taxes for the worker. 

The most memorable part of dinner was the une entrée, called “Tellimes.” They were fingernail size clams, baked in a tasty cream sauce and sprinkled with herbs. Simply put your hand in the bowl, pick one up and suck out the tender morsel of flesh. This is what the sea churns up, elaborated and made into food in the French way. Frederique said that there are over 7000 unique recipes in France. The next greatest number is Italy, with a little over 1700.

The Soul Of Venice

The soul of Venice has brought me together with Frédérique, a French doctor of letters. She teaches aesthetics in art at a university in Nimes, France. Her Italian is perfect, and she speaks enough English that we have been able to enjoy each other’s company and share observations and philosophy. She is on business but has mostly free time, and I am alone and want company. We have walked miles together, day and night, reveling in the grandness of this place that so remarkably arose from the sea, and just as remarkably is still keeping its head above water after 1500 years. Frédérique has authored a book exploring the ancient Greek principles of eros and Thanatos, or longing and death, in art. Venice is full of these feelings. The many splendid buildings and churches that dot the city are emblems of grand aspirations and have hosted countless magical moments, but there is a sadness hovering over them too. Crumbling walls, stained with time, and foundations precariously close to falling into the sea give a taste of death. It is bewitching, and for the creatively inclined, inspiring. That is why so many artists have gravitated here over the centuries.

I am mesmerized, and so far into THE DREAM that twice I have locked myself out of my apartment. It is as if I lose consciousness of borders, or arbitrary divisions such as walls, doors and locks. Possessions are meaningless. Only the unfolding DREAM and Spirit are real . . . until I reach for my house key and it is not in my pocket, then I am facing a night on the street or in a hotel.

Frédérique has invited me to visit her in Nimes. It is in the famous region of France called Provence, bordering the Mediterranean Sea. I will go, since it is on my way to Granada, Spain, where I will live for a month beginning May 14.

Under A Spell

I have returned once again to my beloved Venice, where cars do not exist and church bell towers lean precariously close to falling. Although I have lived here and visited often, I still get lost in the maze of passages that connect various parts of the city. Perhaps, getting lost in Venice is not so bad. Watery canals are everywhere, and over 400 lovely bridges to cross. Gondolas float languidly by, as they have for centuries. It is easy to get lost in reverie. Time seems different. I have been here a week and already dread leaving. The more I look, the more I fall under a spell.
Thank God I have friends in Venice. They open my heart, and especially, I feel fortunate to be able to converse. Regretfully, learning a new language is exceedingly difficult for me. I don’t remember words, and feel frustrated when my mouth struggles to speak in a foreign tongue. Thankfully, others make up for my inadequacy by sharing their own language skills in English. Then, we sit in café’s and share thoughts, or walk through this magical place and tell the wonder of being conscious together.

Inspiration To Fly

It occasionally happens while I am painting that there is a moment of impasse and I must choose to either continue working in a way I know but that is not proving successful, or else, go into the unknown. Choosing the unknown is fearsome, and yet frequently, something happens—a fresh impulse comes through and a new experience is born. It is like a young bird forced out of the safe nest it has always known. Suddenly it is falling through the air and must fly, never having known what it is to float on currents of air, but a deep yearning takes hold and flight is born.
The first days in Corfu were like getting acquainted, and then came an impasse. Corfu Town is lovely, with cobbled streets, and many reminders of the Venetian culture that occupied it for centuries. Yet I wanted more and decided to rent a car and get out of the city. The first day, I drove in rain and could only look through the windshield. When I returned to my hotel, I flopped down on my bed in frustration. The next day, the rain stopped and sun arrived. Heading north, I became lost on winding mountain roads, and decided to go into the unknown, where THE DREAM lives. Although I was lost, every turn held a surprise, and somehow I felt I had found my destiny. Villages dotted the hills, with roads through them that can barely accommodate two tiny cars to pass by each other. Olive orchards abounded, standing as they have for centuries. Spring flowers bloomed magnificently in the wild, so that I could not pass by, but rather stopped and walked among them. Then, as I came around a bend through wooded hills, an old wall covered in vines and a half open gate made me stop. Peering through the gate, amid an area of tall grass and wildflowers, a old stone building stood empty and open. I felt like a gift had been given, and walked gingerly, aware that I could browse undisturbed and would not bother anyone. To my amazement, the place was an abandoned church over a thousand years old. Inside, in the half-darkened room, I could see hand hewn beams supported the intact roof, while the cracked and damaged plastered walls showed remains of Byzantine Christian images. It felt incredible to my American eyes, unaccustomed to seeing artwork 600 years old except in museums. The more I lingered, the more I felt a special experience unfolded; I stood suspended between centuries, and THE DREAM provided me the inspiration to fly.

To Honor The Gods

THE DREAM is taking me backwards, away from my destination of circling the globe. Instead, I am now circling the Mediterranean Sea. How could I be so near to Greece and not visit? The journey brought me to Athens, and now I am on the island of Corfu, off the northwest mainland. Athens felt cramped, with block after block of plain building facades. The National Garden, downtown, needs some serious pruning and tender, loving care. Underwhelming until my walking brought me to the foot of a hill overlooking the city and sea. On top stands the Acropolis. My tired legs pushed on and healed quickly as I stood next to the marble columns of the Parthenon (begun in 447 BC, and the building was substantially completed by 432). Even with the crowds, and restoration work underway, something told me I was having a peak life experience. It was the same feeling I had when I saw Michelangelo’s sculpture of David in Florence. Awe. How could it have been humanly possible to create? The site is dramatic, and impossibly difficult for the fantastic, grand and beautiful buildings that were erected by hand. It was all done to honor the gods, and the gods must have helped because man alone could not have accomplished it.
Now I am in Corfu, away from big city noise. I hear birds outside my window, and footsteps on ancient stone streets. The six-month tourist season is barely beginning. Shops are sleepy, yawning toward the full awakening of the high season. I flew in from Athens, and learned from the taxi driver that the island practically shuts down for six months; the airport closes during the off-season.
Some loneliness comes and goes. Mostly, it is from being rootless, changing places often, and not having the easy pleasure of conversation and association. The last four countries have spoken Arabic, Hebrew, Turkish and Greek. Anyway, I am experiencing so much . . . and only begun! I have my ticket for a boat that sails all day and overnight from Corfu on the 19th of April to Venice, Italy, where I have a good friend, Cristiana who is waiting for me. And she speaks English!

Adrianople

Edirne, near the Greek border, is the last city in Turkey where Baha’u’llah was forced to live in exile outside of His native Persia. During His time, it was called Adrianople. I took a three-hour bus ride from Istanbul and stayed for five days. As we cruised past city and farmland, I sat in a comfortable seat next to a big picture window, and imagined the hardship Baha’u’llah and His family endured in 1863 during a bitter, harsh, winter while traveling on foot for twelve days with little protection against the elements. Baha’u’llah’s son, Abdul-Baha, nineteen years old at the time, suffered frostbite on his feet that caused him pain the rest of his life.

In Edirne, very near to the house of Baha’u’llah is a wonderful mosque called Selimiye, built between 1568 and 1574 and now considered one of the highest achievements of Islamic architecture in the world. As it is at every mosque, shoes must be removed before entering, and women must put scarves over their head. Standing inside, I felt a bit like an observer since I am not Moslem and people were praying. I pray as well, but do not know the proscribed practice of Moslem prayer to be followed. It includes facing Mecca, saying a verse, bowing, turning the head to face left and then right, kneeling and prostrating with forehead to the ground.

I am now back in Istanbul, in a wonderful part of the city called Sultanahmet. Rug shops are everywhere, and little bistros, anchored by the Palace Topkapi, Hagia Sophia, and the Blue Mosque, also called Sultanahmet.
I have made more friends, and as sometimes happens, offered all kinds of delights, high and low alike, but I choose to be careful and not lose my head in pursuit of every pleasure. THE DREAM gives me the best satisfaction, and it unfolds astonishment that is pleasure enough for lifetimes.
Each day, the weather lightens, and now, as if all of sudden, bright tulips are blooming everywhere. Turkey claims that tulips are its own native flowers, and only later arrived in Holland. I am grateful I have seen them here in their eye-catching beauty. Tomorrow, bright and early I go to the airport to catch a flight to my next stop—Athens, Greece.

An Authentic Turkish Experience

Early in life, I always pictured places in my mind’s eye by the images I gathered from books; especially art history books. New York I associated with the Empire state building, Paris, with the Eiffel tower, and London with the Monarchy, and Westminster Abby. Later, in Art College, I added other associations, such as Barcelona and the eccentric, grand architecture of Antonio Gaudi, and Istanbul with the Hagia Sophia.


THE DREAM has given me a flat in Istanbul that looks across the busy Marmara Sea waterway to a distant hill, where the domes and spires of the Hagia Sophia stand as they have for 1000 years. Istanbul is one of the world’s largest cities, about the same in population as all of Greece, and sits between the Black Sea and the Marmara Sea. It has been the seat of empires and was once called Constantinople, where the Roman Emperor Constantine established the capital of the Holy Roman Empire. It has served as the capital city of the Roman Empire (330-395), the Byzantine Empire (395-1204 and 1261-1453), the Latin Empire (1204-1261), and the Ottoman Empire (1453-1922). It is the only city in the world to straddle two continents: Asia and Europe.
I find the people more taciturn than in Egypt, and for the most part, more upwardly mobile. Nonetheless, I’ve made friends in only a week. Bahri, a father of two young daughters took me along to visit a nearby Turkish bath house. We arrived in the morning, and once inside were greeted in a small courtyard. We took off our shoes and put on sandals, then went upstairs into tiny private rooms to undress. Wrapped in a towel, we went down to a large room with a flat marble slab in the middle and domed ceiling. Portholes letting streams of light inside punctuated the dome. Several men were already lounging when we went into a dry sauna, where we worked into a sweat. Bahri had only come for the sweat and bath, but I got the full treatment. A husky man took me aside and had me sit next to basin of running water where he proceeded to rinse me. Putting on a mit with mildly abrasive palm, he rubbed vigorously over my entire body. After a few minutes, rolls of dead skin were gathering. Evidently, he was quite satisfied with his efforts, since he made sure I saw the amazing amount of skin that was coming off. He rinsed me again, brusquely massaging as he went, with a surprising smack in the middle of my back that could be heard out in the street. Under the dome, I lay on the slab, and was thoroughly soaped from head to foot, getting massaged at the same time. A rinse, and one more soaping next to a basin, then rinse with another whack on the back before I was wrapped from head to knee in towels and headed to my little cubicle to lie down and rest on the bed. Later, meeting Bahri, and striding into the clear light and beautiful spring weather, I felt like a new man . . . with an authentic Turkish experience.

Read interesting facts about Turkey.

Fragrant Breezes

If sometimes the streets of the world are hell, I have found heaven on a mountain in Haifa, Israel. Being on the grounds of the Bahá’í world center is about as close to paradise as I am going to feel in a physical place. Bahá’í’s are expected to visit on pilgrimage at least once during their lifetime. This is my second visit and it is more beautiful than ever. Both the Bahá’í’ prophets, Bahá’u’lláh and the Báb are buried in this area, and the seat of the Bahá’í’ world governing body, called the Universal House of Justice is here. Each day I have been rejuvenated and uplifted, as if my spirit drinks from heavenly streams and my feet do not touch the ground. People from all over the world are gathered under one tent, as one family. Just looking at the diverse humanity is a feast for the eyes.
Bahá’u’lláh gave Bahá’í’s their own calendar, with March 21 marked as the beginning of each new year. This year, the full moon is in conjunction with the spring equinox. Refreshing and fragrant breezes have blown over me, and I feel revitalized to carry forth my trek into Turkey, and Istanbul.


From the writings of Bahá’u’lláh:
"The world is but one country, and mankind its citizens."
"Let not a man glory in that he loves his country; let him rather glory in this, that he loves his kind."
"Ye are the fruits of one tree, and the leaves of one branch."

THE LIFE OF BAHA'U'LLAH; A PHOTOGRAPHIC NARRATIVE

Travel In An Unfolding Dream

To travel in an unfolding dream is to live every moment within mystery. Egypt is mysterious and inscrutable as the hieroglyphics inscribed in the stone walls of its temples and buried for millennia under desert sand. I hear Arabic, see it written, and don’t understand, yet feel connected by THE DREAM. As often happens when Egyptians on the street see me, someone says “hello, welcome,” and then the solitude of my travel is broken and although for the most part, we cannot understand one another, a bridge is established and it is as if an oasis opens before me. Since my arrival, many Egyptians from all walks of life have spoken this word to me and smiled. With a few, I have become friends, and then the bond is great and they share everything.
Alexandria is the nations second largest city, and I have been here 1 week. In ancient times, it was renowned as a center of learning and housed the world’s largest library. It eventually fell into decline and the library vanished, but recently through international efforts, a gleaming, ultra modern library, called Bibliotheca Alexandria, has opened with over 8 million volumes. It is almost an anomaly in this country of crumbling and unfinished buildings, with donkey carts sharing the streets with taxis.
Next week I will be in Haifa, Israel, and will also have many photos available from my travel thus far.

What I Want And More

THE DREAM is giving me what I want and more. Here in Luxor, along the Nile River, where the Egyptians built vast temples and tombs 7000 years ago, I find myself amidst a family in their mud home in a little village, playing with four children, and lounging on a straw mat over the earth floor with my friend Abu. We drink tea his wife has brought and he smokes his water pipe. It is the end of the day, and the family cow is brought in from the pasture and goes right through the house into the back, next to the donkey, amidst ducks and hens. Pigeons that are raised for food flutter about, pecking crumbs from the dirt floor at our feet. There are flies from the animals, no shower or bathtub, a single toilet sunk in the earth, and a single fire pit for cooking all the food. The children, two boys and two girls, all sleep in one bed, sometimes amid hordes of flies. The woman dressed in a long robe with a scarf over her hair, keeps with the children, except to bring us a delicious meal of steaming food. I feel entirely relaxed and safe, lost in the matrix of the earth.

Abu is the captain of a felucca, a type of sailboat common on the Nile, at present, mostly used to take tourists for rides. We became friends while he was working on finishing a new coat of paint on his boat and I offered to paint the name of his youngest daughter, Amira, in English on both sides of the bow and on the cabin. In Arabic, Amira means princess. Through Abu, I have met his two closest friends; both named Ahmad, and joined for the time being their tight circle. One drives a taxi and the other hires his felucca to take tourists sailing. They are poor, barely scraping by, but as Ahmad said, “we are so close that we keep nothing from each other.”
Here is a funny thing that happened to Ahmad the sailor: Two Japanese were aboard and spoke poor English. They tried to explain their ages, thirty and thirty two, but instead one of them said, “I am dirty, and my friend is dirty too!” Ahmad replied that if they wanted to clean off in the river it would be okay.

Welcome to Egypt

The news from the Middle East has been mostly violent for many years, so I built up some trepidation about visiting. I pictured myself getting nabbed off the street and ransomed as American booty, maybe tortured for good measure. Thus far, my experience in Cairo has been just the opposite. Strangers, who do not know how to speak English, see me and smile, often saying, “welcome.” In THE DREAM, what matters is the heart, and this is the universal language. So I throw myself into the crowded streets, taking pictures as I go, jostling with the common men and women, smiling when someone eyes me in my cowboy hat, grins, waves and says "welcome!”
Women are often covered from head to foot in flowing robes. Younger woman too, have scarfs over their heads. Females do not show flesh. Men sometimes wear loose fitting gowns. Middle-aged and older men often have permanently bruised foreheads. The discoloration is from prostrating so often in prayer. At regular intervals during the day and early evening, chanters from mosques send calls to prayer over loudspeakers into the street. As one prayer subsides, others farther away can be heard continuing the melodic drone.
I joined up with four young Canadians at our hotel and went on a tour of some important places in Cairo. The most exciting part was riding a camel to the foot of the Pyramids in Giza. At that point, our guides were two young locals; Mohammed, the leader, and his protégé Hassan, a youngster who was incredibly nimble around the camels. Mohammed kept a jovial banter in broken English, and occasionally got the camels to kneel down so we could dismount and walk around the incredible expanse surrounding the Egyptian world heritage “wonders of the world.” He was good at taking pictures and skilled using our cameras. Once, as I stood at the base of a pyramid and gazed toward the faraway Cairo skycaps, I faintly heard the call to prayer begin all across the city, drifting like an ancient wail riding upon a magic carpet across the desert sands. It all felt like another part of THE DREAM.

Fragments From THE DREAM

Fragments from THE DREAM: I am on Tobacco Key, a tiny Belize reef island, 45 minutes boat ride from Dangriga. I have come to snorkel in the pristine Caribbean water. Stopping to chat with a couple workers under the shade of Coconut trees, I look up and jokingly wonder if the coconuts ever fall on people. One guy says yes, and that he had been hit on the shoulder, and knew a little girl who had been severely injured. The next day, as I sat by a dock waiting for the first boat back to the mainland, suddenly I heard a thud, and loud cry from a man in a group nearby. A coconut had fallen from a tall tree and hit him in the shoulder. Ouch!
I went with Windell, a native of Belize to see his house in the jungle, and make a painting. His Pontiac is a complete mess held together by wire, but he is a mechanic and loves it nonetheless. The windshield has cracks going every direction and the front hood is wired down. To start the ignition, he touches two wires together under the dashboard. A butane tank behind the back seat provides fuel, and as we drive, he cranks up the volume on the CD player, which skips every time we hit a bump. We listen and sing along to the blues as we drive through the jungle, waving to people as we go. The car slows to a crawl going up hills, and I joke about the story of the Little Engine That Could, and say, “I think I can, I think I can.” Windell shoots back, “No. It is: ‘I know I can, I know I can.’ ”
In Belmopan, I spent a couple nights at the lodging of Christine, a friend of Windell’s who rents rooms. It’s relaxing except for noise from a house next door, and a rooster in the back that belongs to a neighbor and that crows loudly at dawn. Christine says the rooster is a nuisance and that she has complained to city hall because it disturbs her guests. Friends have suggested poisoning it. Jokes go around about the possibility of it’s demise. One night, I have strange, violent dreams. At 12:30 AM, in the midst of deep sleep, I wake from vivid dreaming and hear a man’s voice saying, “I am going to fuck with your brain!” Immediately, the rooster crows loudly. I am dazed, and lay paralyzed, wondering if I am hallucinating and maybe have been drugged with something like LSD. I hear many noises; dogs barking, party sounds, and cars. Getting up, I go downstairs, where another guest is on the patio. Disoriented, I ask him if he heard the rooster, and he says, “Yes, it is crazy!” I can’t go back to sleep, and think, well, I’ll go to the party. Getting up, I get dressed and go out on the street, but by this time the party has toned down and I can’t find it.
Today, I went to a big Baha’i gathering celebrating Ayam-i-Ha in Belmopan. People from all over Belize were there, and I enjoyed being in the crowd of mostly brown and black people of all ages.

Wind And Waves

I am growing accustomed to the ceaseless sound of the wind and waves on the beach outside my room. One morning it was quiet when I awoke, and felt strange.
Dangriga folks are the most relaxed group of people I have ever been around. They seem to be absent of anger, and it is remarkable how open they are. There are also regular beggars, and at least one woman said I could live at her house.
I have friends, and often someone will see me and call my name hello. One guy took me to his shack tucked into the woods at the end of a beach. He lives with his girlfriend in a place thrown together with boards and tin. There is a garden, and chickens and dogs. I looked at the holes in his ceiling and asked did the place leak during rains? He said yes, and that then his girlfriend and he scrambled to find dry spots, and fought over them.
There is very little glass in Dangriga . . . most windows stay open all the time.
I am a bit bewildered these days since I do not feel driven or impelled to succeed. I wonder, have I lost my bearings? Where the heck am I and what am I doing? Is my life important while I do not oil the capitalist machine? What if I become a barefoot native, and play dominoes under a thatched roof every day?

Entering THE DREAM

This world is alive with visible and invisible forces that constantly play together. Imperceptible tides cause the sea to rise and fall, while hidden gravity keeps the moon circling around the earth. Scientists might have explanations for consciousness, but how do they explain the difference between human and animal thought? Dream thought and waking use the same brain for cognition but the experiences are different.
Belize is my first stop on my way around the world, and I have experienced stepping into THE DREAM I love to live in.
The first step to entering THE DREAM is letting go of preconceptions. I know that when I travel, so much is foreign that I feel like a child experiencing the world anew. Then surprises happen and if consciousness is fully open, a sense of wonder occurs; just like in a dream.
I wanted to come to Belize to get relaxed and start dreaming and also, to live among a community of black people. Dangriga is a black community on the coast. It is poor like most of Belize—people don’t have wealth and live simply. Ramshackle houses are everywhere, and are not seen in the USA except in the poorest regions of the south. Yet natives are friendly and almost always smile at me with a greeting, most often saying, “hello sir.” Their accent is sort of British but also mixed with a Caribbean dialect that is rythymic to the ear. Women sometimes stroll with parasols and children play everywhere. I’ve seen some climbing to the top of coconut trees to knock off the fruit. Belizean black people have skin color that is quite dark, much darker than typical blacks in the United States. I find them wonderful to look at and easy to become friends with.

Onward Into The Unknown

The journey has begun and I am in a slight state of shock. It took more than a month to disburse of my former life. There were moments of grace, such as selling my van on the last day at the last hour, and also, intriguing episodes as when I lost my iPhone after setting it on the table in front of me in a restaurant and telling my friend that soon I would not be caring about such things.
My possessions for the coming year existed in two suitcases in hand as I left Santa Fe at 6:00 in the morning on February 1. One of them held art supplies. I am in Santa Barbara, California now, visiting my family, who are grateful to see me before I disappear for Belize on February 7th. My parents are getting up in years and have slowed down noticeably. I worry that something terrible might happen while I am away, but my brother and sister live here, and in an emergency, I will simply come back.
I feel disoriented but it is to be expected embarking on such a new life. I am sallying forth into the unknown.

To Live Without Fear

To live without fear is to really live. What are our biggest fears? The biggest for most people is death. Like other animals, we run from death as fast as we can. Poverty, illness and failure all are potent worries that seemingly bring us closer to death. It follows that if we can come to terms with death, then we can also negotiate our emotions regarding everything else.
Death does not particularly bother me, which means I can live audaciously and with abandon. When I travel, I think what will bother me is the nagging feeling that I must always be productive and earning a living. Something inside might say that if I simply live as an observer and philosopher, I am not keeping up with the American Jones family, and after all, the professionals say that a million dollars in the bank is necessary during the senior years. But really, I want to be sure I have what is priceless—the memories from a life fully lived. So I plan to leisurely travel the world, and smell all the roses along the way. Friday, February 1, 2008 is the beginning of the journey.

The Homestretch

I am in the homestretch now. Only two weeks until I begin living without an address. Today I had a sale of my household and personal belongings. People were lined up outside in the cold when I opened the front door at 10 AM. Almost everything is being sold now, and I feel pretty good although I cried a little inside—selling my fine books at a fraction of their value. On the other hand, someone else was shouting with glee at the bargain.
Whatever is left when it is time to leave will be donated to worthy causes. I find it amazing how every day, all my moments are spent simply trying to divest of belongings and make arrangements for leaving. See how possessions can bind us? Anyway, glorious days are ahead. The itinerary is being written now.

Here are some passages from the the writings of the medieval Persian poet, Rumi (September 30, 1207–December 17, 1273):

When what you own can vanish, it's only a dream, a vanity.

Let the beauty we love be what we do.

We are pain and what cures pain, both.

The soul is here for its own joy.

A Cloud And The Sun

A cloud has come between the sun and my usually cheery life. I know it will pass, but I feel stranded with a heavy heart. This change came about suddenly and is unexpected. Friday, I left early to catch a flight to Raleigh, NC where I am the featured artist of a one-man show this weekend. The paintings being exhibited are works from my last sojourn in Europe. The gallery owner and his wife are hosting me and I am staying at their house. I did not realize it, but Friday was Naomi’s birthday (A Heart Traced in Sand). I have been feeling pressed by all the details which I have to grapple with before leaving the USA and beginning my extended travels. Getting on a plane for a long flight brought home to me what I am facing in the days ahead: rootless solitude. Then, I remembered my loss of Naomi and the huge hole her absence creates.
After Raleigh this weekend, I continue on to Washington DC where my brother lives. He is 52 and recently wed a lovely young Vietnamese woman who bore his first child nine months ago. My daughter Sarah is flying in and together we will see Wade, Huong, and Henry, our new family member.

So Much Room In A Life

Every day, as the time of my homelessness approaches, I feel incredulity, anticipation, wonder and a little bit of healthy fear. Will I have all my affairs in order before going solo in the world? Possessions can take so much room in a life and I have my share to get rid of. Furthermore, some of them, like my auto and bed, I need to keep as long as possible, but in the end, come February 1, they too will be gone.
I received my vaccinations. There is a physician in Santa Fe who does nothing but travel medicine. When I arrived, his office was quite busy with people preparing for travel. I talked with the doctor and told him of my plans, also explaining that I will be gone a year and cannot predict all the places I will visit. In the end, the medicines I received are: polio booster injection (India), hepatitus A vaccine injection (Central & South America, Africa, Asia), typhoid Oral Vaccine capsules (Central & South America, Africa, Asia) a prescription for malaria pills to be taken as I depart, (Central & South America, Africa, Asia), and a prescription for Ciprofloxacin, in case I get diarrhea with blood and fever. The clinic was out of yellow fever vaccine (Africa) so I have to return this week to get injected. Whew!
I found a great video to share with you:
Also, this one is great:
WHAT WOULD THE WORLD BE WITHOUT ART?
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