The Greatest Pleasure

Santa Fe Winter, oil on canvas, 26 x 23 inches

Blessed are they who see beautiful things in humble places where other people see nothing.
 - Camille Pissarro (French: 10 July 1830 – 13 November 1903)

Perhaps the greatest pleasure for an artist is to have an idea, and then start from nothing and using his body and senses, create from inert materials something meaningful and inspiring. The more talented and skilled the artist, the more likely is a great outcome. Even the best artists suffer failures along the way. Passion keeps them trying.

Last week, I wrote about a vision I had of making a painting based on an old wall and gate that I have painted in the spring. This time, it is winter, and the scene is changed. The two paintings are the exact same size and it is interesting to see how nature can drastically change the mood. 

The beginning is the most important part of the work.

Plato (Greek: 428/427 or 424/423 – 348/347 BCE)

Santa Fe Splendor, oil on canvas, 26 x 23 inches

An Old Wall

During the night, a winter storm rolled over Santa Fe, and left a blanket of snow covering everything. 

My Sunday morning ritual is to go to a local shop that is known for magazines, newspapers, art on the walls, coffee, tea and pastries. It is usually bustling with people, sometimes in groups, sitting at tables and having animated conversations. I buy a New York Times newspaper, a pastry, and cup of dark roast coffee, then find a place to sit. Amidst the cackling conversations and background music, I begin pouring over the substantial newsprint. The NY times is so rich in content, especially Sunday, that it takes me all week to go through it. The following Sunday, I buy another.

 

This morning, I went to find an old wall that I made an oil painting of in the spring. My thought is to paint it again, this time in winter. It will be the same size and shape. 

A French artist by the name of Claude Monet famously made impressionist paintings in a series, depicting changing times of day—and seasons as well.

 

Click to see Steven Boone artwork

Light That Pours

The natural light that pours in my kitchen window each day is like vitamin to my soul. I can't imagine being without it in the morning. Just outside is an old wood slat fence, with a few tangled vines intertwined throughout. It obscures my neighbors house that sits twenty feet away. Tree limbs are scattered above with ample sky visible. 

A ledge over my sink always has plants. The coleus in a pot comes from a plant that was on my patio and knocked over by the wind. I discovered it late, when it was dying. I took a sprig and stuck it into some earth and now it is about to make little purple blooms. The orchid is not mine. I am watching over it while a friend is out of the country. 

Lately, I have been growing sunflower sprouts. They are delicious and nutritious to snack on, and available almost all the time because I start them in containers every four or five days. I use bird seed to start the seedlings.

All this life—thanks to the window, and light that pours in to bless existence.

Between The Eyes

While preparing to show photographs at an exhibition, I have come across pictures I took in Kashmir. They are among the finest in my collection. Something marvelous must have been occurring that day while I visited the remote highlands of northern India near the Himalaya Mountains. I was in a village that held a loosely clustered group of maybe a dozen families. The autumn weather was getting colder each day, and from what I learned, the people were planning to leave and go to lower elevations before long.

I had set up an easel in a communal gathering place in the midst of wooden homes and started an oil painting. Folks came around to watch, while a wood fire blazed. Especially the children were entertained. Several times, I stopped to take pictures of them as they watched me. Although I was not using a tripod or posing my subjects, a remarkable clarity and beauty came through the lens and as the shutter clicked, all the elements were in my favor. The pictures came out superbly.

I never tire of looking at the faces. They are bright with natural goodness and show a rugged lifestyle close to the earth. The confused, glazed look of modern life is absent, and instead, candor and curiosity are apparent.

On closer inspection, I see that between the eyes, on the brow of some of the young people, a slight furrow exists. They seem intense in looking at me. What is this concentration that gives depth of expression to their face? It is a forthrightness that lets me know that I am being watched as much as I am watching. 

Go With The Magic

A current of cold air has swept down from the arctic to announce winter has officially arrived in Northern New Mexico . . . and is here to stay. Snowflakes are falling and a blanket of white covers everything. It happens every year, and for some it is almost unbearable, but for others, it is magic. I go with the magic. 

A few photos to share the mood . . .

Patrick's Light

A young man with something wrong and a big spirit, he filled the corner of the restaurant with an ebullient gayety and light. He seemed too open and forthright, unaware of his disability. I was working as a waiter while trying to get my art career going and for a moment, we looked at each other, and he positively gleamed. Later, another waiter remarked privately that he noticed something unusual in the young man—almost pitiful. On closer observation, the fellow could not use his right hand, and lacked full brain function . . . as if damaged very early on in life.

Kathleen and Patrick, circa 1967

Later, to my surprise, I learned that this person, Patrick, was the brother of the young woman I was marrying, Kathleen. The marriage lasted five years and produced my daughter Naomi, who died at age nineteen and whom I wrote a book about; A Heart Traced in Sand, Reflections on a Daughter's Struggle for Life. And now, just over a week ago, Patrick died at age 69.

A couple weeks ago, when I learned Patrick was in the hospital in critical condition, I was surprised, and then after he died two days later without many friends or family, I offered Kathleen to write the obituary. It appeared in the newspaper, and a small but interesting group of people showed up at the graveside memorial when Patrick's body, in a simple wood casket was lowered to its final resting place . . . only a few yards from Naomi's grave. 

Among the comments heard from mourners, a simple thread of testimony developed; how Patrick's unassuming sincerity, humility, and lively good humor meant a great deal to those he touched. A former Santa Fe City mayor was present, and remembered how Patrick would often arrive unannounced at city hall and walk straight in to the office with a big smile to say hello. This was when he had a job standing on a nearby street corner selling newspapers. The local paper he sold ran his obituary for free. Another man at the ceremony, a fellow paper vendor, was hit by a car, and when Patrick, who never drove a car, showed up at his bedside, he asked with surprise how he had arrived at such a distance in the dark. “I walked!” 

Another man tearfully remarked that Patrick was the truest human being he had ever met, and had a special inner light. And to this, I added, “Unlike most people who's light flickers on and off depending on if they are happy or sad, frustrated or angry, Patrick's light was always on.”

Patrick lived alone all his adult life, and when his cousin, a lawyer in nearby Albuquerque who arranged the funeral, was cleaning out his apartment, she said that among the memorabilia, were volumes of notes, written on scraps of paper—sometimes paper napkins—detailing the days events when he had been out walking and in stores, including the hour. Especially, Patrick wrote about people he met, friends and strangers, and noted them and how they touched his life. 

Now Patrick, I am writing for you, to say, you touched my life too.

This is the obituary I wrote:

Patrick White, age 69, passed away at St. Vincent Hospital, Wednesday, October 29. He was born in Panama, August 18, 1945, and came to the United States with his mother and sister in 1968—first to Florida, and then to Santa Fe in 1972. He was born with disabilities and did not finish high school, completing the eleventh grade. During the past two years, he took courses to get his GED but couldn't pass algebra.

Patrick worked as a janitor at De Vargas Mall and Paper Tiger, before working as a New Mexican newspaper street vendor.

Mr. White was a true lamb of God, without negativity, anger, or ill will. He was cordial, genuine and friendly with everyone, and had a child-like innocence that uplifted the people he met. He did not drive a car, so could often be seen walking in Santa Fe. He never had material riches but in spirit he was always full—never complaining and cheerful until the end.

He is survived by his sister Kathleen White of Santa Fe.

Graveside services will be held on Monday, Nov. 3 at 10 a.m. at the Santa Fe Memorial Gardens at 417 Rodeo Rd.  

Poses

I wondered if I could draw the figure—it has been so long since I last was in a drawing group. I went Tuesday night and the regulars at the studio were surprised to see me. Our model was a young woman named Maribou, who I have drawn many times. Without much effort, the artwork came . . . as if my brain had been longing to get back to it. I have been drawing for four decades and made a thousand figure sketches.

It is the same when I go skiing in winter—I wonder if I will fall on my face going down the slope . . . because I had not been practicing.

This group likes to mix up the poses in short bursts of time during the three hour session. The poses range from 2 - 45 minutes. The participants are evenly divided between women and men. Most models are female, but men model too. 

Some groups follow a strict code of silence during work, but these people carry conversations while drawing; about art and culture, and occasionally personal stuff. I usually chime right in, it is part of the fun.

Murmuring Sweet Nothings

Cottonwoods at River Edge, oil on linen, 14 x 18 inches, by STEVEN BOONE

To be a landscape painter is is to marvel at the beauty of nature and be its lover. An artist can stand in one spot for hours, looking fondly at his subject . . . caressing endlessly with his eyes, and murmuring sweet nothings.

There are two spectacular fall happenings here in Northern New Mexico. The first is the changing of aspen trees. Aspen are known to be one of natures largest phenomena, since many trees are in fact one—they are a one root system, spreading and sprouting up out of the earth in mass, covering mountain terrain. The “quaking aspen,” are called that because their small heart-shaped leaves tremble and shimmer in a breeze. They turn vibrant gold in the autumn. Here in Santa Fe, entire mountainsides blaze with their color. The show lasts about two weeks. 

About the time that display ends, another is beginning. The mighty cottonwood trees that need more water and grow along the Rio Grande River turn bright yellow. The cottonwood is one of the largest hardwood trees in North America, with thick, fissured bark, and leaves that are flat and diamond shaped. I love to listen to the leaves when they have turned dry and brown, and some remain on the tree. When a breeze blows, the leaves bump each other and make a pleasant clacking noise.

 Yesterday, Heidi Of The Mountains worked half a day at a local art gallery, then came home and we packed up the car to go out painting. We drove north, toward Taos, and at one point the two lane road enters a narrow canyon that follows along the Rio Grande River. And this is where cottonwood trees live. They make a breathtaking display in the brilliant New Mexico light, especially on clear days when their boughs form a fan shape of golden leaves that shout with glee against the deep blue sky. The canyons, purple and grey, and spotted deep green with low lying juniper and pinon trees, lurch downward toward the blue Rio Grande River—and this completes the scene. 

Heidi's River, oil on board, 9 x 12 inches
by LORI BOONE

We found our spot, set up our easels and painted. My wife had never painted a river before. I have thirty years of practice. Once started, she went non-stop until I looked behind and saw that she was half done while I was only beginning. This is her enthusiasm that makes her throw herself into something with all her weight. I relaxed, and let myself be led by pleasure and the dance of my nervous system playing with the paints and making song with colors and brush.

The air temperature was perfect, and the gurgling river accented the silence. Nature blazed all around, giving itself to seed and glorious sight—swooning at the end of gay summer and the entrance of frosty winter. Before long, the shadows had lengthened and the sun was setting behind the plateau. We stood back and examined our efforts, gave thanks for a satisfying adventure and headed home.

Deserved Praise

“Welcome everybody, and I am glad you are here today. We are going to have fun!” And with that greeting, I began the three hour session called, Palette Knife Painting.  The class was offered at a four day art expo, occurring at a sprawling resort and casino complex called Buffalo Thunder, on an Indian reservation outside of Santa Fe, New Mexico.

 

Oil on canvasboard, 16 x 20 inches

Twelve people participated, and took chances exploring territory they had never been before. I insisted that they not judge themselves, but let the creativity flow and experiment. In front, elevated so all could see, I put one of my paintings—a simple composition of a sunset, with a bit of landscape at the bottom and the greater portion of the canvas, swirling, flaming sky, in a sea of blue.

I demonstrated and talked as the class proceeded.

The trick with palette knife painting is to be able to mix proper colors and then apply them on a drawing, keeping fresh and not muddy. It is a great way to show texture, and flare in handling of the paint. 

 

Each person had something in their work that warranted praise. I could see sometimes that they were lost, and in some case the colors had been muddied, but then, I could find some marks that showed resolve and freshness. So I gave praise. 

In some instances, the person was more adept, and the creation was more pleasing and harmonious. 

Everyone deserved praise for stepping into the unknown with me, and learning.

Died and Gone To Heaven

Occasionally I make an acquaintance and they ask me, “How many children do you have?” I always answer two, although only one is living. My oldest, Naomi died of cancer when she was nineteen, and Sarah is a young dancer. I know that one child is ahead of me, and the other behind.

I visited Naomi's grave this morning and after praying and remembering her, I took a step to leave and had the sudden realization that I would also be laid to rest before long. I thought of my body in the earth, and wondered could I be buried near Naomi? But no, that area is filled. Then I wondered, where? I do not know, especially since I am Baha'i and Baha'i law requires that a person be buried no more than one hour distance from the place of death. Since I love to travel, I cannot know where I might be when I die.

Just the realization of passing into the spiritual realm brought a surprising feeling of relief. I imagined the time of death; feeling great satisfaction of having lived fully, completed a cycle, and then entering a vast spiritual domain that has been my goal all along.

In a small way, I had similar feelings recently when I returned from five weeks of arduous and concentrated traveling in Egypt, Morocco and England. I had tremendous adventures, endured many discomforts as well as joys, was transfixed and dismayed, lived high and low, and in sum, felt the broad swath of life in a short time. It satisfied my wandering urges and reinvigorated my imagination, while fulfilling my soul. When I returned home, the first day felt like I had died and gone to heaven and now could start anew.

Destiny

Destiny is turning me in the direction of home. A steady hand guides me as the compass turns west, from London, England to Santa Fe, New Mexico, Unites States of America.

Looking back to when I left on my journey, five weeks ago, I realize there are many layers of experience that have been added to the pages that make up the volume of memory that archives my life. It is because of living intensely that the annals of one month can fill the pages of a book.

A magic carpet ride whisked me to Egypt, settling me at the foot of the Great Sphinx next to the pyramids. I touched the stones that were carried to the tombs of Pharaohs five thousand years ago. The teeming, dirty streets nearby are crowded with restless men, struggling with a poor economy amid political unrest. Nevertheless, I found friendship and cordiality that took me into homes.

Further south, in Luxor the Nile River calmed and refreshed my spirit, even as the sweltering heat limited my daytime activity. New friendships were struck, and old friends emerged. The simple life dazzled me like a poem from the hands of a great writer—Rumi comes to mind. I floated on the timeless river and broke bread with the best of humble company, while seated on nothing but earth and straw.

The wings of flight took me onward, east across Northern Africa, to Morocco, where French is spoken as companion tongue to Arabic. I speak neither, so maintained my silence amid the changing episodes and kaleidoscope, flickering pictures that continued to beguile my senses. I rented a car, and drove across the north of the country, from Atlantic Ocean, over mountains and plains, through towns large and small, to the border of the Mediterranean Sea, and back to Casablanca. Always the readily available cup of tea, fresh orange juice, olives, spiced foods—and bottled water, except when I felt assured of drinking from taps that would not make me sick—like in Chefchahouen, the mountain city of ancient narrow passages and blue walls and gates.

Along the Atlantic coast, I dove headfirst with joy into the onslaught of unending waves, clearing my pores, flesh, and bones of the weary effects of travel. 

When I could, I painted, and always photographed, using my camera as a third eye. 

At the end, my wife arrived in Casablanca and we continued as a couple for five days. I had someone to talk to again, and hold. We flew to London, a major outpost of world civilization, and found entrancement in the well organized bustling streets and attractions. We visited art museums, and became full of ideas and possibilities to take home. And so we will arrive from where we began, in the course of this one day, traveling eastward with the sun.