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

Captivated In Wonder

Every picture tells a story, and in art, it is remarkable how different that story can be from one person to the next. For instance, a painting of an apple sliced in half with a knife nearby can look juicy and appealing to one person, but not to another because the apple is cut open and the knife is sinister. In short, artists create pictures, and once they go public, the doors of interpretation are flung open. I have seen this many times in my years of being an artist. This is especially so with figurative work that is “controversial.”

This week I posted a photo on Facebook that immediately provoked debate. The photo was of a young woman, nude, on her side, holding herself closely in an almost fetal position. There is a great deal of movement around her, with textures, and symbolic elements, such as flowers and contrasting values of light and dark. The first comment was from a woman; “Beautiful!!! This is tasteful and gorgeous. Feminine loveliness.” The second commenter, also a woman, made several remarks— “She looks beat up.” “Sorry, maybe it's my healthcare background.... maybe it reminds me of what I faced last yr....queasy feeling . . . reminds me of.... can’t! Tears!” Did she mean it reminded her of death?

First off, I am always grateful for strong response to my artwork one way or another, for the Bible warns, “So then because you are lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will spew you out of my mouth.” I have had to make choices as an artist, to either stay away from controversy, or pursue and then share visions that may be met with disapproval. (See my Hangup paintings.)

This particular piece began because I have a huge archive of photographs and enjoy combining them into new forms. I like working with nudes because of the divine qualities of the human form, and also because bodies are powerful symbolically. The textures were created in my studio, painting on glass and they are fast moving, like the wind. The flowers are white roses, and an iris seen from above. I like the color red as a symbol of blood—life. Blood can also be threatening, seen as a wound that brings death. For there to be breadth in art, contrasts must be included, thus darkness and light.

After all this, it is up to you the viewer to bring whatever emotion and experience you have into the picture. Or else, look with fresh eyes, like a child, and be captivated in wonder.

Here are the photos that were combined to make the final artwork:

A Wind Came

Among the myriad memories of my youth, some episodes stand out more than others. When I was 13, I was with friends playing basketball at the outdoor court at our local playground, when, from outside the fence my mother appeared and began yelling, “Steven, Steven! It is your birthday!” We all had forgotten. My mother was aghast that she had not remembered. But in the grand scheme of things, it is just another day.

Today is Sunday, the day I always post to My Fairy-Tale Life. It also happens to be my birthday. Yesterday, Heidi Of The Mountains planned to take me out to dinner, so we dressed up and went downtown. She said she had to make a quick stop at one of our friend’s home, because she had left something there. We pulled up to the house and I recognized a couple artists I know, getting out of a car. I thought, what a coincidence! We parked and we headed to the house, I noticed they had greeting cards in hand, but it took me a few minutes to begin realizing what was happening. Then, at the door, with friends inside all smiling at me, I knew Heidi had arranged a surprise party. The evening was fantastic and when it came time for the cake, I sat at the table and a chorus of song broke out. The candles were lit, and I made my wish and leaned over to blow them out, but, at the same moment, a wind came through the window and began blowing them out before me, so that they were easy to get out all at once.

Maybe I should not say what I wished for, but I am sixty now, and have had some aches in my body that bother me. Heidi is eleven years younger, but she too has some aches . . . so I wished for good health for both of us in the coming year, and prosperity. When the wind began blowing out the candles before me, and made it easy to get them all out, I thought, “This is Naomi, in spirit, making the wind blow.” And I believe my wishes will come true.

Visual Vocabulary

How often does it happen that after visiting an art museum, we walk back out onto the same streets, but with different eyes.  After spending hours looking closely at art, we have begun to see differently, because the artwork has given us a new visual vocabulary.

Many times, I have stepped out of a museum, and suddenly I am aware of even the cracks in sidewalks seeming to speak to me . . . informing me of their unique lines and the shapes they carve into a picture.
Since the twentieth century, there have been two main themes in visual art: abstraction and realism. Common thought is that the two do not meet, but are opposed. I do not think the contrast is so stark. How often is it that we look up into an abstract sky that is constantly in flux, and notice how the clouds have taken a “realistic” shape. Someone points a finger upward and says, “Look, it is a horse!”  Likewise, looking at large, realist paintings, if we bring our eyes close to the work, it becomes abstract, so that we need to step back in order to get the full picture and read the story. 

Yesterday, a woman bought a painting from The Steven Boone Gallery. She bought a small, square shaped oil painting of mine, called “The Pleasant Path.” She may or may not realize it, but she has many paintings in one—both realistic, and abstract. Hopefully, the painting is broadening her visual vocabulary, and doing what artwork does for us, enhancing life.