Linked Forever

I am with Sarah when she was about 1 year

Both of my children, Naomi and Sarah, were born at home, but to different mothers. My eyes were the first to gaze upon them as they were brought into existence from their mother’s womb. I assisted during the births to the extent I could, offering encouragement and support.  With my first child Naomi, I cut the umbilical cord.

Naomi and Sarah

Today is the birthday of my second daughter, Sarah. Two midwives and myself attended her birth. Jean’s labor began the previous evening and Sarah was born around six on a cold morning, November 11, 1986.

Both daughters attended Waldorf School from elementary through 9th grade. For that, I think that they gained a well-rounded education that did not ignore their soul, but rather encouraged harmony between spirit and the physical world. Both girls went to public high school. Naomi died of cancer the year after she graduated, and Sarah has gone on to finish University with a major in dance, and now lives in Chicago.

Sarah Boone

I feel entirely blessed to be linked forever with these two souls. One is ahead of me, in the next world, and Sarah is beside me in this one. Naomi, because of the tremendous difficulty she faced gallantly before she died, I regard as my teacher. Sarah is my delight and a reminder of beauty and grace.

Sarah, 2011, age 25

Juxtapose

"Quantum Of Solace" Kolkatta, India

Here is a word that is not often used but ubiquitously seen: juxtapose. It means to place together and contrast two or more separate phenomenon. Juxtapositions are everywhere, e.g. the position of the sun relative to the horizon, the temperature inside as different from outside, a fat person standing next to a skinny one, or an old person holding a newborn child. In the arts, juxtaposing brings drama to work. A bright landscape painting is made more thrilling with dark shadows, music is deeper with climactic surges mixed with interludes of softer passages, and theater is fuller when humor and sadness both enter the stage.

"Tango Passion",  Mixed-media

Juxtaposition can be embarrassing and detrimental as well. We see this in current political campaigns, where one candidate proclaims himself as good and points to the other nominee in contrast, as bad. Class prejudice is built upon juxtaposing of extremes of wealth and poverty.

I use juxtaposition in my art and photography to bring drama and surprise to the work. While I was traveling and making my street photography, I often sought stark juxtapositions, such as setting my camera up and focusing on interesting walls so that people walking in front of me became blurred while passing by. In the photo I am showing here, an innocent oriental child, dressed in her native attire, stands in contrast to a violent western poster proclaiming an action movie. The dissimilarity adds to the intrigue and drama of the picture.

In my tango images, drama comes from juxtaposing stark light with the tension of male and female interaction that is intimate and ritualistic.

Juxtaposition gives us reference and allows our imaginations to soar.

Gushing Water

"Little Church At Ojo Caliente" oil on linen, 9 x 12 inches

“I wonder how long this water has been pouring out of the ground . . . probably hundreds of years.” Heidi Of The Mountains mouth dropped open as we soaked in the hot springs near the gushing water. “How do you know that?”

We had arrived at Ojo Caliente Mineral Springs in the late afternoon, after I had completed a painting of an old adobe church nearby. It seemed incredible that the gift of mineral water, hot enough to soak in, had been pouring 100,000 gallons a day out of the earth for centuries. “Well,” I said, “Before this spa existed, Native Americans dwelled here and used the water . . . the history goes back centuries.”

Four different types of mineral waters: lithium, iron, soda and arsenic, continually stream to the surface, revitalizing the many who come here to soak. I first visited about thirty years ago, when the place was a sleepy, rundown resort, mostly used by locals. Not only did I soak in the primitive pools in need of repair, but also drank the four types of mineral water. Since then, the place has been substantially upgraded, and now, Ojo Caliente Mineral Springs and Spa is an international destination.

After we finished our soaking, and I had swam in the outdoor, spring fed pool, we were walking to the car in the brisk autumn air, and I asked Heidi if she had drank any of the water. “No” she replied. “The Lithia water would be good for you, since sometimes you get anxiety attacks.” I was half kidding her, because she is a hyper energetic type of person and I remembered how when I drank the water, it made me feel calmed; although the soaks in hot mineral water does that too.

In truth, studies have shown that: 

1. Individuals with heart disease, learning disabilities, and incarcerated violent criminals were found to have lithium deficiencies (as measured through hair sample analysis).
2. Research studies measuring the effects of trace levels of lithium, commonly found in lithia waters, have demonstrated neuroprotective abilities, improvements in mood and cognitive function, and positive outcomes as a treatment for manic-depressive disease.
3. Research studies published the British Journal of Psychiatry 2009 found that communities with naturally occurring lithia waters have lower suicide rates, mental hospital admissions, incidences of crimes, and arrests related to drug addictions.
4. On February 8, 2011, German researchers at Friedrich Schiller University Jena published their findings in the European Journal of Nutrition (Nature Publishing Group) indicating that lithia waters lead to an increased life expectancy in humans and metazoans.
5. A clinical pilot study using ĔDJ lithia water from British Columbia is underway at the University of British Columbia. It will investigate whether daily use of lithia water will improve new brain cell formation (neurogenesis) and reduce neuronal oxidative stress.

For the entire lithia water article : wiki/Lithia_water

True Currency

I believe experience is the true currency. And among experiences, the practice of virtue is of the highest value. Money cannot hold memory, cannot inform or teach, and although it represents happiness to most people, essentially, it is inert and without life.

Four years ago, exactly this time of year, I lived on a houseboat in Kashmir, India (see my blog, My Astonished Eyes.) My floating world was Dal Lake, at the foot of the Himalayan Mountains. Water lilies drifted all around, and my houseboat was very comfortable with hand carved wood decoration throughout. I met local people who came to visit me and sell their crafts, and my servant Mansoor would paddle me to the nearby town of Srinagar.

Perhaps, a financial analyst would have advised me to keep my savings intact and not spend the way I was spending then—traveling around the world. The USA economy had begun a freefall and my savings were falling like most everyone else’s.  Yet, I was hungry to experience life in all its facets.

At the time, I called my existence and traveling THE DREAM. Along the way, I made paintings, took photographs and wrote. My bankroll was diminishing, but my inner treasury was growing rich with vivid life experience. Going forward without fear, I trusted that since I am DREAMING, a bigger hand controls destiny, and furthermore, scenes change—including scenes of birth and death, but EXISTENCE in THE DREAM only transforms—never ends.

Someday, THE DREAM will unfold my death. I believe I will witness this occurrence and then, step onto a different stage to continue to be in awe of how fantastic and inspired is the universe and its Creator.

The Sky Above, The Earth Below

The sky above, the earth below. So is human existence given reference and meaning by nature.

The sky represents limitless possibility, spirituality, constant change, and by the succession of light and darkness—advancement, retrograde, and the struggle for progress. The earth represents nature, sustenance, and the cycle of life and death.

How potent is the combination of earth and sky! In between is a horizon where the two meet.

Two days ago, the autumn winds blew chilly air over Santa Fe, and marked the end of summer. The skies grew dark with clouds and hail fell down with a rat-a-tat-tat sound. My gallery closed at five o'clock, and I knew by the battle going on above, with glinting light darting down through the moving holes in the clashing clouds, that I must find a place to watch and photograph the drama unfold. I asked Heidi Of The Mountains if she wanted to go with me, but she declined and said she would meet me at a friend’s house on the outskirts of town where we are house sitting.

I drove to a park that overlooks Santa Fe, and walked in the cold, blowing rain. Not a soul was around as I looked toward the sun, blocked by clouds in the west—but the view was a grey one. Nevertheless, I knew the potential existed for a fantastic sight because everything was changing rapidly. Cold, I got in my car and began driving to the house.


When I reached a two-lane highway going out of town, the sky was changing drastically. The setting sun was shooting rays of light low on the horizon and an ethereal color permeated the pregnant air. When I saw a rainbow, I pulled over to find a vantage point to capture it. I climbed a hill, but was stopped by a barbed-wire fence. Looking behind in the opposite direction I saw the plains and mountains veiled in supernal light. By now my artistic soul was completely enamored and excited. I had to find the perfect vantage to take pictures, even though I had no coat and was wet and shivering. Then my cell phone rang with Heidi complaining she was lost. I was only partly hearing her because my attention was focused on the sunset. Frustrated, she shouted in exasperation. I was torn, because the grand moment was about to disappear. I tried giving her instructions that she barely understood, and hung up. Turning once again to the drama unfolding, to my dismay, just then my camera battery gave out! Heidi called again, and I began driving back toward town to meet her. Along the way, I saw one of the most fantastic sunsets I have ever witnessed, and felt awe but also was chagrined that I could not photograph.
When it was all over and we safely arrived in the dark at the house on a mountainside, I felt something special had occurred, and while I “captured” some of it, the wild performance of earth and sky let me play along but could never agree to stop and wait.



Click to see more artistic photography.

Each Moment A Gift

There is a beach on Kauai that is my favorite swimming spot in the world. It is Lumahei beach—the same cove where the famous movie South Pacific was filmed. Recently, when Heidi Of The Mountains and I arrived, I went right in to the waves and began swimming. On a short ledge nearby, a middle-aged couple were jumping from the rocks into the water, and then clambering out to do it again. I had the thought “Have fun you two, because you will die soon!” Immediately, I wondered about my thinking . . . then decided against judgment, because in fact it is the truth. It is the truth for all sentient beings that life is short. Compared to the lifespan of mighty Sequoia trees that live over 2000 years, we live briefly, but compared to the age of twinkling stars in heaven, or the galaxies beyond, it is less than the time it takes for ray of light to glisten on a crashing wave.

Count each moment a gift because life is fleeting. Rejoice, because death will arrive sooner than later . . . so, like the couple on the rocks, jump joyfully into the swirling, limitless ocean—and swim.

Ineffable And Awesome

Each morning, when Heidi Of The Mountains and I go to our car that is parked outside our bungalow in a tropical forest, a fresh flower has arrived on the hood or windshield. It is as if a wind fairy has thought to pluck it from a tree to delight us. Outside our back door is a fresh water stream that laughs as it runs over the rock and earth amid trees that drop flowers into it on its way to the nearby ocean. Ah, the ocean! What a marvelous, ineffable, and awesome presence. It informs all of life here on Kauai, Hawaii. As the ocean goes, so goes the island.

It is easy to be transported into fairyland here. The temperature does not fluctuate out of the comfort zone, gentle breezes play continually, the rain comes and goes and the sun arrives bringing rainbows, the volcanic earth is fertile and provides abundance, delicious fresh fish are always ready for the dinner plate, and the ocean is near enough to jump into.
If there is a downside to all of this, it is that it feels like being a kid at summer camp. You have tons of fun, but eventually you will get bored with the limited opportunities and want to go outside the boundaries. Meanwhile, the surrounding ocean is a formidable restraint and says, “My kingdom is vast, ferocious and uninhabitable, so do not venture here.”













It is remarkable, and one of the great mysteries of the greatness of human spirit that many years before modern times, people on crude rafts or by canoe ever arrived here at all.

The Miraculous Cycle

Aspen Glory, oil on linen, 36 x 48 inches

The earth is tilting further away from the sun each day as the northern hemisphere enters the autumn season. All the plant life is responding to shorter days and cooler temperatures. Leaves are changing colors on trees that will soon be bare, and plants are busy casting seeds from spent flowers, ensuring that come spring, progeny will come forth to repeat the miraculous cycle of life.

I enjoy the cooler temperatures and changing colors, and relish the autumn season before it gets too cold. Especially, my artist eyes are dazzled by color. Here in northern New Mexico, the greatest display of color is found in the masses of aspen trees that grow on the mountainsides. They are called “quaking aspen,” because their small, heart-shaped leaves tremble at the slightest stirring of a breeze, and the light reflected off the leaves dances. In autumn, their color changes from pale green to brilliant gold. Because the aspen share a root system, they grow closely together, and the creamy white trunks shoot straight up in the air up to 100 feet. It is awesome to see entire mountainsides covered with aspen, shimmering golden before deep blue skies.

It is a favorite subject of mine to paint.

Autumn Path, oil on canvas, 12 x 16 inches

 To see more artwork, go to The Steven Boone Gallery, or Steven Boone Fine Art.

Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower.  ~Albert Camus, (French, 7 November 1913 – 4 January 1960)

Destiny is Always Unfolding

Path into the Himalaya mountains.

“The future will take care of itself.”

This became my motto while traveling, and even now that I travel less, I believe it. Essentially, this thought promotes a feeling that destiny is always unfolding inexorably, so go with the flow without fear—when the future arrives, trust that it is meant to happen and be thankful.

My wife does not quite get this attitude, and she objects to my fearless living, especially when my savings plummet because I withdraw money to live fully according to my inspirations.

In fact, most people are afraid of “not having enough.” This means constantly struggling to keep assets to survive comfortably . . . especially in case money stops. Enough must exist to insure survival in emergencies.

Something strange happened to me after my oldest daughter, Naomi died. I gave up trying to hold on, and instead practiced letting go. I even stopped trying to hold onto my own life, and instead abandoned myself to what I call “the matrix.” This is the place where life and death is always shifting and dancing together. My marriage fell apart, my ex-wife bought my half of our home and I became “homeless,” leaving the USA to go around the world. For one year I lived in a state of flux, journeying through nineteen countries until I had gone completely around the earth. I occasionally found myself in places where people from my background would never tread—e.g. the slums of Cairo, Egypt, the ghettos of Nairobi, Kenya, a houseboat on a lake in Kashmir . . . but then, I always felt safe in “the matrix.”

Chain of Life

“Wow, it is cold outdoors!” This is what Heidi Of The Mountains said when she got out of bed on Saturday morning. We have been accustomed to higher temperatures, and now a cold blast reached us to herald the coming autumn.

Here in Santa Fe, most of the trees are still green, but soon, they will begin to turn color as the russet hues of fall  arrive.

Now is the time of final harvest for farmers in this region, and our local farmers market is bustling on Saturdays. When Heidi Of The Mountains and I arrived in the morning, I had not taken ten steps when the colors so thrilled me that I ran back to my car to get my camera. 

All the fruit, vegetables and flowers had been plucked fresh and simply were bursting with vibrancy. And this is what nature does . . . it packs a punch at the end of summer to ensure that the seeds will survive until spring, and thus the chain of life is fulfilled once again.

A Unique Brand

"Road To Bliss"

In business, it is important to create a “brand” which identifies a product as desirable to the public. There are many examples of highly successful branding in commerce, where the name and image become so engrained as to gain legions of faithful followers. Even in the wide-open realm of art, it is often remarked that to be successful, a brand must be established. There are many artists that develop a style that is uniquely their own, and when they become successful, they continue within the brand that they have developed, afraid to go outside its boundaries.

"Target Hangup"

I never have been able to live within creative boundaries. I like to experiment, and even though I have been most successful as a landscape painter, and established a recognizable style that could be called a brand, I have nonetheless continued going beyond boundaries. It would be much easier, and I would be richer if I just stayed on a branded track. People like dependability and are uneasy being surprised. They want to know that what they like is current, and not a passing phase.

Artists need to be able to go through phases and explore. This worked for Picasso, DaVinci, and a handful of other art greats, but for the most part, once an artist has developed a unique brand and is identified with it, he is also slave to it—at the risk of being rejected and having to start again from scratch.  

                 

How did Pablo Picasso pull it off? The force of his personality became the brand. He was PICASSO—and everyone expected new surprises from his genius. This would not have worked for his American contemporary, Norman Rockwell, whose brand was his marvelous illustrations of homespun Americana. To change his formula even a little, would have elicited howls of complaint.  

"Migration"

I have written of this creative dilemma previously: The Tightrope Walker

See more Steven Boone artwork: Stevenboone.com

Spirit Is Manifest

The tree on the right died at the same time as Chamo.

“Every one who is seriously involved in the pursuit of science becomes convinced that a spirit is manifest in the laws of the Universe-a spirit vastly superior to that of man, and one in the face of which we with our modest powers must feel humble.”
Albert Einstein

When I traveled in Asia, I often saw homemade shrines with offerings to Spirit. These shrines held a place of sacred importance and took up but little space in a home or place of business. Often they sat in a corner somewhere. A figurine representing Buddha or Krishna, or another saint sat on a pedestal, and all around were placed offerings . . . candles, incense, food, money—even cigarettes. These offerings were given to please Spirit, and in so doing, the giver hoped to get a blessing in return. This might be health or healing, or prosperity, or any of many other forms of blessing.

I am aware that the spiritual world is powerful and invisible, and that it affects every element of our physical existence. Spiritual signs can be read from physical phenomenon.

Chamo, at about three months.

Recently, this was made apparent to me again when we lost our puppy, Chamo, to an illness. He had come to us with a hidden birth defect that caused him to become ill. He was operated on and recovered, but then became ill again, and we had to put him to rest. Two weeks before, I noticed one of the trees outside my art gallery was dying. It had stood in a vase outside the entrance—opposite another tree on the other side. When Chamo died, the tree died also.

I had seen this sign from Spirit, heralding death, on another occasion. When my daughter Naomi was eighteen, she was fighting cancer. As a child, she had brought home two pine tree sprigs, and planted them on our property. They sprang up and grew until I decided that they would be better at the top of our driveway, framing the entrance, so I moved them. They continued growing, and I often thought that they symbolized Naomi and I. At one point, midway through Naomi’s struggle, during a drought, one of the trees began withering, despite my watering it. At one point, Naomi arrived home from California where she was living and being treated, and the tree had died. She was upset and scolded me for moving it from its original spot. Naomi died soon afterward. I planted a new tree, which has flourished . . . as I am convinced that she is flourishing in the spirit world.
See my previous post: Endlessly Changing

Endlessly Changing

“Physical bodies are transferred past one barrier after another, from one life to another, and all things are subject to transformation and change, save only the essence of existence itself -- since it is constant and immutable, and upon it is founded the life of every species and kind, of every contingent reality throughout the whole of creation.” - Abdu'l-Baha

This quote is so beautiful and profound. I found it because a few days ago my dog had to be euthanized in front of my wife Lori and I. He was not even one year old, but had come to us with weaknesses that led to his demise. In the brief time he was with us, he had made our hearts more open and full. Now, we were faced with ordering his death—and in that we were also dying a little.

During this sadness, I felt again the feelings I experienced losing my beloved daughter, Naomi, who died from cancer at the tender age of nineteen. I have always known Naomi went from one life into the next, and she is in an exalted realm now. But what about our dog, Chamo?

The way I have been living is so simple, that I do not even own a shovel, or piece of earth. Lori has a house 45 minutes from Santa Fe, but when we put down Chamo at 6 AM, August 16, I could not go back there immediately, so we had him cremated. And that is all that is left. Our memories of him fill us with emotion . . . but nothing else remains. In this world, only humans have rational souls that can communicate through all eternity, from every dimension.

As for the physical elements that were held together by divine love and made the creature that we called Chamo—they have returned to dust, to be scattered and rise again in many forms, endlessly changing in the play of cosmic unfolding.

Turning Point

"Claustrophobia and Insanity"

When I was in my late teens I was surprised to find violent darkness within myself. I will always remember that the surprise came when I suddenly had a violent thought, and the thought was directed at someone I was intimately close with. This experience came at me like a thunderbolt from the underworld and it shook me to the core. Life was not the safe place I relied on, especially now that my peaceful inner world had been violated. 

From that time on, I became guarded about the world, and worst, guarded against the vast mysterious places that existed inside myself and were the “invisible” realm of the universe. When I had unsettling thoughts typical for teenagers, I was shaken, and the divide against myself widened. Essentially, I could not accept psychological violence anywhere in the world or universe, and loathed it.

As I was so embroiled, I continued to be an avid reader, and read heavyweight books, especially classics like Tolstoy’s War and Peace, Dostoevsky’s Brothers Karamazov, The Idiot, and Crime and Punishment, and various books on psychology. I began reading a book in my mother’s vast arsenal of literature, called Our Inner Conflicts, by the esteemed German psychoanalyst, Karen Horney. This book had a profound impact on my thinking, and I realized that I must not set up ideal pictures of life to enforce, but rather accept all of it, including the darker, less ideal parts. I must discover myself, rather than idealize. To do otherwise would only lead to neuroticism. 

I began practicing allowing all my thoughts and feelings to flow uninhibited through my being. Immediately, I sensed freedom and even joy, but also great fright because of the power of the demons that lurked within. 

About this time, I had also become religious, having joined the Baha’i Faith. I reached a crucial turning point of continuing on a path of freedom, joy, and suffering, or turning to embrace only the light and reject the dark. I succumbed to my fear and went on a path of war—the war of light against dark. Essentially, I fell back into the war of opposites. This led to even deeper suffering.

Over the course of many years, my perceptions have shifted countless times. I perceive this physical existence as illusion and I am unafraid of death or the darkness it represents. Life is THE DREAM, and I am actively watching and participating, but know that I cannot be harmed by experience.

All Things Pass

Today, instead of writing much, I am sharing a picture. I took the photo at the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe, in Berlin, Germany. I was there this time of year, four years ago. During those days, I wandered across the city, camera in hand, prepared to meet the unexpected, and thriving on chance and surprise to fill me with awe.

The photo is mysterious, in that the angles are sharp and clear, but a blurred figure is running among the rows of concrete slabs. You the viewer do not know it, but he is pushing a baby carriage with a little child. It is strange to be at this memorial, and find people playing games there. Little children dart in and out of the rows, playing tag, and hide and seek. You can hear their laughter. They seem unaware that during the holocaust, over 11 million innocents were killed, including 1.1 million children murdered.

Underneath the stone slabs are exhibit halls that detail the slaughter of Jewish people during the reign of the Nazi’s—1933-1945.

“All things pass...Perhaps the passage of time is a kind of healing, or a kind of salvation granted equally to all people.”
― Mizuki Nomura, Book Girl and the Suicidal Mime

To see more artistic photography by Steven Boone, go to Graphixshoot

Thank God For Beauty

May the wings of the butterfly kiss the sun
And find your shoulder to light on,
To bring you luck, happiness and riches
Today, tomorrow and beyond.

~Irish Blessing

Lately, I have been waking up from sleep with some anxiety, since my gallery is floundering under the poor economy. Especially difficult is that during the last four months, a large investment was made preparing for and installing a critically popular and well attended show of portraits by twenty-five artists, called HEADS UP—but the sales have been negligent. So I am scrambling to survive.

This morning, I arrived at my gallery to open, and noticed across the street that a garden is in bloom. I took my camera and walked over to take pictures. Right on cue, a beautiful butterfly landed on a flower and opened it’s wings to share with me it’s beauty before it fluttered off, not a care in the world. 

Thank God for beauty.

Faces of Innocent People

At the Jewish Museum, in Berlin, Germany

Janice and Delphine walked together across the campus of their University in the fall of their freshman year. They were assigned the same dormitory room and decided to go for a walk and get acquainted. Janice came from a working class Jewish family in the boroughs of New York City, while Delphine, a Christian, came from an upper class family from Tulsa, Oklahoma. As they walked, they looked around at their new surroundings and talked of their interests as well as the lives they were leaving behind. 

While Janice’s father had been bringing suitcases and boxes into the dormitory, Delphine had noticed a peculiar tattoo on his left forearm. It was simply a string of numbers, rather crudely etched. The vision had stayed in Delphine’s mind and haunted her, since she had a vague notion that it might be from a dark past. As they walked across a grassy lawn, strewn with fallen oak leaves that rustled underfoot, she got up the nerve to ask her friend what the numbers meant. Janice was slightly taken aback, but spoke solemnly, saying, “My father was a teenager when Germans took over his little village in Poland. They summoned all the Jews to the central square and made them begin walking out of town. The people that resisted or tried to hide were all shot to death."

The two continued strolling, but Janice slowed, and kept her eyes down. "A long line of people—whole families, including the elderly and mothers with babies were marched to a nearby village, and the German’s shot anyone who could not keep up. Eventually, the survivors were herded into freight train cars and taken to Auschwitz concentration camp. My father, when he arrived was in good condition, and received his tattoo. Many unfortunate souls never received a tattoo—they were intended to be killed in the gas chambers."

As Delphine listened to Janice speaking in a sorrowful tone amid the gayety of their first days at University, her heart sank and she struggled to comprehend the incomprehensible. Her footsteps, that had been light earlier, became heavy, and the leaves that crinkled underfoot seemed too brittle and she felt embarrassed by their sound, as if they were clinking iron, and the faces of innocent people were staring up from the earth that had become their grave.



This is a story I wrote to go with my photograph, seen above. To see more of my artistic photography, go to Graphixshoot

Ambience, Intrigue and Warm Hospitality

The crowd filled all the rooms

People poured onto the street. Here, some artists are chatting.

As art openings go, our show of portraits, called Heads Up, set records for attendance, generating great excitement and praise. The Steven Boone Gallery began planning four months in advance and worked every day to reach a high level of professionalism.

Lori and I

Twenty-five artists shared their work—all the pieces selected by a skilled curator, Geoffrey Laurence. The gallery offered food service and the combination of fine art, ambience, intrigue and warm hospitality assured success.

Sculptor Ted Fleming in front of my self-portrait

HEADS UP, The Art Of The Portrait, runs from July 6 – August 5.

Inhabited By Ghosts

A dark story to go with the picture I made, above, which is a composite of photographs:

As a child, a young woman, who we shall call Jill, lived in a chaotic household with her younger brother and parents. The father had a violent temper and drank heavily, especially while home from his job as a mailman. Jill’s mother was prone to depression, and numbness of feeling, so barely kept the household in order. In earlier days for the family, some happiness existed, but the home went into a downward spiral with the father’s anger and drinking. He could become abusive when he was drunk, hitting the other family members and cursing. The mother once found John, Jill’s brother, had taken old photographs and a recording of his father, speaking affectionately to his wife during happier days, out of a drawer. She walked in to a room where the boy, entranced, was playing the recording to a friend, and became hysterical, crying and furiously scolding at once. John, even at an early age, dreamed often of leaving home.

Jill too, especially as she reached her teen years, thought of escape. But when she dreamed, terrible fear eroded her heart. She felt responsible for her mother, and wondered, “Who will protect her and be her aide?”  Yet she hated the house and its dark energy. It felt inhabited by ghosts.

Jill felt unworthy of finding someone to take her away. Although a teen, growing into a woman, she still played with dolls, alone in her room. She sat them up beside her and talked to them. And she dressed them in pretty outfits . . . better than anything she wore herself. 

After high school graduation Jill stayed at home and made small efforts to find work. She did not have a sense of style, so could not know how hopeless she looked. More and more, she stayed in her room and fantasized, so to escape the anxiety that gripped her chest and the dark thoughts that invaded her mind—thoughts that would suddenly come upon her out of nowhere, like a flock of dark birds, circling her very soul.

The Surgeon General's report estimated that 20% of the United States population was affected by mental disorders and that 15% use some type of mental health service every year. Community surveys estimate that as many as 30% of the adult population in the United States suffer from mental disorders.

Read more: Mental Health and Illness - How Many People Are Mentally Ill?

The Art Of Portraits

When I had the idea to use The Steven Boone Gallery for a portrait exhibit, I almost simultaneously thought of Geoffrey Laurence as a possible curator. Geoff is the quintessential realist painter.and he has been around the block many times. He is talented, and so knowledgeable about art and painting techniques, that he is sought after as a highly respected instructor.

When I asked Geoffrey to consider curating a show of portraits, he was honored and thrilled. That was over four months ago, and now, in barely two weeks, our show, called HEADS UP, The Art Of Portraits, is about to commence. Geoff has gathered twenty-five highly respected artists and over sixty works of art.

I have been amazed at how much work our gallery has put forth, and also astonished how much effort Geoffrey has dedicated. As I write this article, Geoff is busy with a scale model he built of the gallery, and is placing small-scale prints of all the artwork in the model, to visualize the best presentation for exhibition.

From the start, we have planned, selected artists, communicated with them, selected art, made graphic art for advertising, written promotions, made contracts . . . the list goes on, and continues, probably until the hour of the show opening.

In the end, this will be a fantastic show, and leave its mark on the consciousness of Santa Fe.



To see all the artwork, click here: HEADS UP

Mosaic of a Life

 

Today I am lazy, and since I have blogged for six years without fail, I am not writing, but rather, giving this link to visual entertainment:

http://www.my-fairytale-life.com/view/mosaic

It is a fun excursion though pictures I have used in my blogs. Enjoy.

The Zone

In "the zone" on a street in Madrid, Spain

In 2008, while I was traveling solo around the world for one year, about three months into the journey, I shifted away from painting as my main focus of art, and became a photographer of the street life that surrounded me everywhere. I developed a pattern of walking through the cities, keenly aware of my surroundings, and as I looked, I would go into what I called “the zone.” Thus, I became one with my surroundings. An ephemeral vapor with eyes. I sought to capture with my camera the unusual and unexpected confluences of life.

Fashion meets the street.

For example, in the picture above, I found a large panel of reflective red glass bordering a narrow walkway near my apartment in the downtown area of Madrid. I stationed myself there and simply snapped pictures of people passing by, framed by the red expanse, and also, sometimes my reflection was in the picture too.

I am sharing some pictures I took in Madrid, Spain, since it was exactly this time in June I was there.

For more artistic photographs, see my photo website: Graphixshoot

She is always standing outside of the bar, holding a gun in  her hand.

Chamo Bamo

Chamo, on our hike, the day before he became ill.

Chamo Bamo, Monster Man, Sharp Sales Dog; I have many nicknames for our six month old poodle.  He came into our house and has not skipped a beat until a week ago. Then, the doggy day-care center called mid-afternoon to say something appeared terribly wrong with Chamo. He had thrown up ten times. I went to get him and he looked awful—barely able to walk and almost lifeless. Heidi Of The Mountains met me at the vet. We surmised that he had eaten something dead in the woods while we were hiking the day before, since he had disappeared for fifteen minutes and would not come when called, and when he did arrive, he had dirt all over his nose and mouth. Now, he needed an IV to pour fluids into him, and medication to keep him from vomiting more. After the IV, he perked up, but slowly began sinking again the next day, until near midnight, Heidi was so scared at his condition that we decided to take him to the veterinary emergency room. We arrived about 1 AM, and I was surprised to find the place busy with emergencies. Eventually, a vet saw our dog, and we were advised that he needed tests, and that the bill would be over $1000.00.
To make a long story short, Chamo was referred to an internal specialist in Albuquerque, 1 hour away. Heidi took him there and after ultrasound tests and observation at the hospital, we were told that he had a large cyst on his prostrate, and a birth defect, since his urethra was not normal. The bills are very high so far, and now we are looking at more expenses.
Both of us are attached to our “little man.” At the dog obedience school, the instructor said Chamo could lead the class if he wanted. He is the smartest animal I have ever owned, and very affectionate. Every morning, he jumps on the bed when I wake up, puts one paw on my chest and licks my face all over, and nibbles my ear. He has a way of biting my face so that it feels good—quick little love bites.
We have had him home now for several days, and he seems back to his old self, but we are stressed thinking we might lose him. And to think that we might have to limit his help for financial reasons is awful.
I find that my worries are familiar, and bring back memories of my long journey through the “valley of death’ with Naomi, my oldest daughter who died when she was nineteen.

321

I have written 321 blogs in a row—each week for six years. Today I am taking a vacation.
Here is my blog from one year ago:
A Complex Labyrinth