Testimony

Inspiration for painting art is as broad as the universe. Subjects are endless. Some artists choose to have no subject at all, but let colors and line speak and be interpreted entirely subjectively.

For several years I have made paintings that evoke the most difficult symbol: death. It is the subject behind life that nobody wants to look at. The shadow that lingers in the corners of our consciousness, and for most, the unwelcome guest at the banquet of life.

My most recent painting took great effort emotionally, psychically and on canvas. It came in response to the deluge of horrific information that comes on the newscasts every day, especially with various wars raging in the world. In the painting, death is the ultimate victor, while all the combatants and other actors are decimated.

I usually don’t try and describe symbolism in my paintings . . . but in this instance I will:

Two spectral central figures are toasting with goblets of red wine, oblivious to the chaos and destruction raging around them. They are dressed in black, symbolizing the void, absence of light, mystery, mourning and perhaps comfort. Enigmatically they hold goblets of wine. Red wine represents celebration, opulence, strength, passion, love: it is the blood of life. The glass goblets represent the fragility of the vessel which holds life. 

In art, a skeleton is often used as a symbol of death and mortality. The Latin phrase "Memento Mori" translates to "Remember that you will die," and it's a reminder of the inevitability of death.  One skeleton wears a crown of roses representing the fleeting nature of beauty and life. Here, death is happily taking life that disappears forever. 

In the background are burning cities. Mankind is at war and masses of people are caught in the conflagrations of violence and destruction. They flail helplessly against fate. On the left, a terrorist holding an automatic weapon stands beside death. Bewildered people crowd together, not knowing if they live or die. Fists with swords sweep through the air, while other arms and hands reach toward the sky in anguish. A stunned man gazes next to a death figure on the right. There is no place of safety.

In the midst of death, between the two skeletal figures is a child, looking up in bewilderment. Even children are being swept into the void of death.

The painting came as a response to current events. Our current world is in travail with countless threats to the fabric of existence. 

As an artist, I pictured it. For now, and forever as testimony.

Connection to Nature

Working with the earth has always been a love of mine. It is my connection to nature that is strong. When I graduated art college and could not immediately find prosperity as an artist, I began a landscaping company which thrived. Eventually, after 11 years, I was able to sell the business and find my way as a full time painter. Landscape painting has been my greatest success.

Life has a beautiful way of evolving, presenting us with new avenues for creativity and fulfillment as we venture through its various stages.
I reached my seventies, and my wife Amy and I acquired a home near Oaxaca, Mexico. It is a grand adobe hacienda on a big hillside property with varieties of trees, shrubs, cactus, and plenty of potential for improvement. My attention is drawn towards the raw beauty of nature and the intrinsic allure of architecture. Here, at our house in the pueblo of San Pedro Ixtlahuaca, near Oaxaca, Mexico the stage is set for working with the earth, plants, and structures.
I typically begin the day working outdoors. Plants always need care. We made a patio, remade a cistern, repaired a porch roof that had earthquake damage with tiles needing replacing. Now I am constructing stone stairs in front of our home.

While the physical labor required to shape stone stairs may be demanding, I find solace and gratification in the process. Far from viewing it as toil, I perceive it as a dance with the earth; a collaborative effort between my hands and the materials at disposal. Sweat and aching muscles serve as tangible reminders of dedication and passion. I am surprised how much, after work each day, I ache from mixing concrete, pushing a wheelbarrow loaded with stones, laboring under a hot Mexican sun . . . Anyway, it is something I did many years ago and have not forgotten my landscaping skills.

In the golden years of life, our passions can take on new dimensions, weaving together diverse threads from our past and present. My love for painting, writing, and photography has found a companion in devotion to working with the earth, plants, and architecture. Amidst the picturesque landscapes of Oaxaca, I have immersed myself in the creation of stone stairs, where each step signifies not only toil but also his unyielding passion and love for our surroundings.

Last night a great storm came. First thunder and lightning, then rain, tremendous wind and hail the size of golfballs. It lasted almost an hour. A big potted plant came crashing down on the roof patio. Water came in the house in several areas⏤mostly from the storm hitting windows and seeping inside. The wind bent over trees and shrubs, ripping off limbs. The hail tore through leaves. It was violent nature.

Hail 

Today I went out and swept the stairs I have been creating. Stone is forever.

More than Can Be Read In Books

 

I more clearly see an ending to this journey, with each day bringing me closer to a final scene. I want whatever time is left to be meaningful for myself and others. After seven decades on earth with myriad experiences, all inscribed in God´s cosmic records and my memory, I yearn for more wisdom, understanding and insight into life.

At times in the last few months I have had the feeling, What am I doing with my life? What am I to do with my time?  I have been an artist, writer, photographer, traveler, husband, father and friend. All has helped define me. Now, what more? Of course moving with Amy to a little village in Mexico flipped our lives. My art changed and I ask , Where am I? Who am I?

An excerpt from the writings of Bahaú´llah has been as a lantern in the darkness for me for many years: “O My friend, listen with heart and soul to the songs of the spirit, and treasure them as thine own eyes.” – Baha’u’llah, The Seven Valleys.

An urge recently  took hold to go alone on a vision quest, forsaking food and routine in order to get spiritual clarity. There is a a nature reserve called Cuatro Venados, or Four Deer, about 45 minutes from our house and the road there is paved, with little traffic.

We drove and Amy left me alone, agreeing to return on the third day. An old man took my 500 pesos ( about 25.00 USD) for two nights, then showed me uphill to a cabin made of adobe mud bricks and timber. It could sleep 6 people and had a fireplace. Basically a big room with bathroom attached. Windows with curtains on three sides. Other cabins were nearby on the hillside but I was the only one staying there. Very quiet and I soon felt alone. 

Nearby, a short walk down a dusty road and into the woods is a waterfall that is fabulous. It is part of the attraction of the eco-resort. Also on the property are little trails I explored. A creek runs through on its way to the waterfall. Especially I thrilled at the pine trees and greenery all around. At home, everything is dusty and brown from four months of dry season and no rain. 

Curiously, I had no hunger, and if a small craving came I enjoyed quashing it. My energy stayed good, but eventually I tired more easily during walks. The last night I woke and felt very strange including my heart. If I spiraled into something dangerous I was stuck without help. So I ate a bowl of granola and coconut water.

Everything around was speaking to me: the pine trees, birds, temperatures that went from hot to cold, stars in the night sky, silence and nature. I wrote in my journal: Just being, no agenda—The sound of a gurgling brook. Inhaling pine sap that has been warmed by sunlight. Water flowing over land and through the woods, meandering serpentine until a cliff interrupts its course, causing it to cascade through air, splashing on rock, falling more in spray and thunder until collecting in pools⏤only to resume an inexorable journey. I sit on a hillside that is covered deep in pine needles, under pine trees, while listening to the waterfall. The forest is dappled in light. Air is cool and balmy with gentle breezes wafting all around.  

“Nothing do I perceive, but I perceive God within it, God before it and God after it.” – Baha’u’llah

“Sometimes a tree can tell you more than can be read in books.”  ⏤C G Jung

Stop

Stop signs have frustrated me in life. I get up to speed making real progress going to a destination, when suddenly the sign looms ahead; ordering me to a standstill. The impatience is my fault. But perhaps warranted when I see no reason to stop. Oh well.

Oaxaca does not have stop signs, only traffic lights.  Instead of stop signs are “tope” (pronounced toe-pay). In the USA they are called speed bumps.  After several months living here am I accepting them without much of a grudge. I have learned to ease up just in time to roll over them before gathering speed again. A couple times I did not see the tope before crashing over with a thump. Amy and I have seen them on dirt roads too, where people make them to slow traffic. Amy counted almost forty between our home in the village and the nearest shopping center a couple miles away.

The other adjustment to life we are making is learning to live with insects. For more than four decades in Santa Fe, New Mexico, USA, I often gave thanks for being free of mosquitos, flies and chiggers. That has changed and insect bites are common. And plants are eaten by pests—mostly ants. It brings back memories from my childhood in Illinois, and later Washington DC.

Just today I noticed some flowers gone we had grown from seed, called Jamaica, that make a nice tea. Yesterday 20 were about two inches high in a neat row and today only two were left standing. A similar attack occurred on rose bushes. I had to dig up denuded plants and put them in pots where I can keep an eye on them as they recover. We joke that they are in the hospital.

Standing at our back door this afternoon I remarked to Amy, “Oh well, there is so much to be thankful for. Look at our marvelous plants, and how happy the earth is now.”

A Heartbeat

Hawaii is about 2,300 miles at a distance now but just a heartbeat away in our mind and heart. This is what experiences do when they enter our psyche. They abolish time and space and become immortal, i.e. they live forever in the vault of memory. Now I am very happy to have the last three weeks immortalized within. 

As Seals & Crofts sang in their song, “We may never pass this way again.”

My earthly existence has not been all roses. But I know that when I fully experience life unfiltered, even when it feels unbearable, it is better.

We are writing the book of our lives as we go along.

When we landed in Los Angeles friends took us in. We toured around together and visited the famous Laurel Canyon—of movie, artist and musician fame. Then lunch on Sunset Blvd, and an afternoon at the Getty Museum.

Now we are in Santa Barbara. My two brothers live here. The town has many memories for me. I lived here at one time, and my parents had a home in Santa Barbara for thirty years. My daughter spent some of the last months of her life here—with me beside her.

Today after a family breakfast we went lawn bowling, then I took Amy to see the home my parents lived in. It is close to the Old Mission, so we visited, then walked to the rose garden across the way. Remarkable that roses are blooming. The most fragrant we decided upon was called Peace. 

Meanwhile back in Santa Fe it is snowing. We will be there tomorrow. 

I have to learn to live with shoes on my feet again. 

The Diamond

 

Amy gave me a special potion and offhandedly said, “This will give you sweet dreams.” It is YIang Ylang and comes from flowers that grow on an exotic tree in Madagascar, the island off the eastern coast of Africa. I dabbed a little on my wrists and under my chin and went to sleep. Sure enough, I had a sweet dream. Like everyone else, I probably dream 3-6 times each night in segments lasting 5-20 minutes. Ninety five percent of dreams are not remembered, but with me, it is closer to 100%.

It was not always so. Earlier in my life I dreamed and remembered frequently. I kept a journal that quickly filled a binder with pages of handwritten recollections. Then in mid-life my entries tapered off. For a couple of decades now, I might recall a dream only a few times a year. I explain it away by rationalizing that my waking life is so full of creativity that I need a rest from the fantastic during my conscious hours.

The morning after I sprinkled Ylang Ylang on myself I woke with a dream lingering in my mind. I recalled that I was outdoors in a tiny clearing in a forest. I was seated and looking down at the earth under me. A gleaming stone half covered by dirt caught my attention. It was a diamond about the size of a golf ball. Wow, what a dazzling gem! I picked it up and felt its impenetrable facets and gazed at its magical capture of light. I knew I had something of great value and immediately began wondering if I could keep it safely, and thought it may be taken away. Shortly afterwards I awoke.

Dreams can foretell events in real life and this one did.

Two days later, a man came into my gallery. I was at my easel working. We greeted and he went and stood in front of my biggest painting—a sunset that is easily seen through the gallery window. Many people have admired it and wished they could buy it but the price is high. The man and I talked a bit about my painting process and the way I use thick layers of paint, called “impasto” effects. He asked how the colors were so brilliant and I explained that I use only the finest oils. He then left but came back with his wife. I liked the the couple very much. They began discussing where the painting might go in their home and decided another piece of art would have to come down and be replaced by the sunset. They left but said they might come back.

I went back to work and about an hour later turned from my painting to find the man standing behind me. We smiled and gazed in each others eyes, then met with his wife again in front of the sunset painting. They bought it. As I was writing up the big sale, he said “Hold on a minute . . . my wife is looking at something else as well.” She was entranced with two other landscape paintings and instead of picking one or the other, the couple bought both.

The experience was entirely magical and I could not help but think of the dream—and the diamond delivered into my hands.

 

The Horizon I have Been Dreaming

 

During my youth I daydreamed and used imagination to make simple pencil drawings. I often drew a road beginning under my feet extending toward the horizon, getting smaller until at last disappearing there.

Even now, as an artist many decades later, I make paintings with disappearing roads, paths or rivers in a landscape.

I have a passion for street photography. It takes me on thoroughfares across the globe. I begin with a known place underfoot and start traveling—soon to disappear into the horizon of the unknown. I feel free.

Erice, Sicily, Italy

When I am making street photos, surprise is my ally. I look for the odd, or combinations of elements that combined make for a visual poem.

Venice, Italy

As I grow older, my road steadily nears an unseen and mysterious end.

Central India

I look forward to meeting that horizon I have been dreaming of all my life.


More art of: Steven Boone

White Rabbit

 

At 86 years old, Polly's energy arrived in short bursts and then would fly away like a bird that longed to break free from an old cage. It would come back but fly away again. Her habit was to take lunch at noon, then promptly go nap. In sleep or in visions as she lay on her bed in the afternoons, vivid wonders came regularly—vanquishing the thinnest of veils between worlds.

She had lost her dear husband years ago, and resided alone. Her son lived a thousand miles away. A few close friends visited regularly, bringing her books to read, and sometimes playing a game of cards. Recently in her dreams at night, and regularly in reverie as she rested in the afternoons, a lively and animated little vision would occur. The same four characters would arrive: a white rabbit, an angelic girl dressed in white, and two ballet dancers—male and female. Usually the rabbit appeared first, then the child angel with the dancers.

When Polly was six years old her parents brought a white rabbit home for their daughter, and her father made a cage where it lived in the backyard. It ate greens and carrots and was content, especially when allowed out to hop around the yard. Polly loved to stroke its long ears and feel its twitching nose on her tender fingers. It was so long ago! Whatever happened to it? She could not remember. 

Her mother was an ardent lover of ballet and often booked seats whenever a ballet group came to town. Polly had many fantastic youthful memories of blissful nights seated next to her mother and father, watching famous dance companies. She had seen some of the greats perform; including Rudolf Nureyev and Nadia Nerina. Now, the pas de deux ballet memories came through the mist like whirling dervishes arriving from afar to entrance her mind and lift her heart. 

A tragedy had occurred in her home when Polly was just thirteen. Her best friend visited after school. The two were playing jacks on the hardwood living room floor. Polly got up to get a glass of water and when she came back her friend was choking. Mother was summoned as the girl was turning blue in the face and not able to breathe. Frantically, mouth to mouth resuscitation was attempted but the child expired. Minutes later, the girls father rushed through the front door and gave out a wail of grief seeing his lifeless daughter in Polly's mother's arms. An autopsy revealed that the poor girl had one of the jacks lodged in her windpipe. For many years afterward at random moments of work or play, Polly sometimes fleetingly glimpsed her friend—as if she was not gone at all, but just transparent.

The foliage on the trees outside the living room window were changing colors. The days became shorter and the air chilled. Polly felt a tinge of remorse anticipating the cold coming. One day, she sat in her rocking chair, gazing for hours at the leaves falling, before suddenly getting up.  She went to the refrigerator and pulled out a pot of soup and heated it for lunch. She ate slowly, put the dishes in the sink and feeling tired, went to her bedroom. Outside, the sky was overcast, with bits of sunlight puncturing the clouds. Kicking off her slippers, she laid down in bed and felt her energy gather like a bird and fly out the window. She followed it. It flew and careened past the trees to a field not far away that was bordered by woods. Suddenly on her feet at the edge of a meadow, something white caught her eye. Rabbit stood at attention, one eye cocked toward her, watching, ears standing straight up. With a little hop, he was in the woods. Suddenly, by Polly's side the girl angel appeared and took her hand, pulling her to follow the rabbit. A path became apparent. Rabbit ran ahead. Polly heard footsteps and holding to the angels hand, she looked back to see two dancers, man and woman, in ballet costume coming up fast behind them. Rabbit hopped to the right. Everyone followed and entered a tunnel of earth and vines. It became dark but smelled wonderful. Polly squeezed tight the child-angels's hand who squeezed back and in a second, the darkness gave way to light as they entered a plush theater. Light dazzled from spectacular chandeliers hanging above. Rabbit disappeared. 

The dancers bounded past. An orchestra was tuning and a ballet company waited onstage for the arrival of the two celebrated dancers. Finely dressed people were arriving. The child-angel leaned softly and whispered in Polly's ear, “Look down there darling!” She gestured toward the front row. A lovely couple seated in the middle turned, and beaming with smiles beckoned to Polly. Her parents had an empty seat next to them and waved excitedly for Polly to come join them. Suddenly, Polly's energy came back to her, as if she was not 86 years old but 16. Joyfully she rushed down the aisle to join them. 

Nora, 80, Polly's neighbor, knocked but got no answer. The morning paper was at the doorstep and it was almost noon. She took the extra key Polly had given her and unlocked the door. “Polly, are you all right?” The home was silent. Nora went to the bedroom and opened the door. Polly's hands were folded on her chest and she lay with closed eyes, not breathing. Nora walked to her side and looked close. Polly seemed to be smiling but she was certainly dead. Nora peered tenderly at her friend. "OH! You rascal!” was all she could say.

© 2016 Steven Boone ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

When Summer Passes Away

A girl paddling on Lake Dal, Kashmir, India

During my daughter Naomi's eighteenth year, death was encroaching upon her so forcefully that she despaired thinking of her future. She wrote in her journal that she wanted to do volunteer work, but had a superstition that she would die when her work was accomplished. 

Naomi sensed her life was drastically condensed—shortened by her cancer. Nagging suspicions plagued her and she hated them. Death continually whispered into her ear, “Darling, you're life is ending! You only have weeks and months to live, not years and decades.” She found herself wary of accomplishing goals because her purpose would be fulfilled and life would abruptly end.

This is how death, when it touches us—not as an abstract thought but as an dominating force, can play with the mind.

Death signifies ending. When summer passes away, plant life goes dormant. When a bird dies, its song ends and it falls to earth. Nations and people expire, species go extinct; even great powers like stars in heaven die. Once the purpose for life has been realized, death is sure to come. 

Is anything eternal? Does anything exist that does not die? For this we must go beyond the material worlds. We must touch God, the Uncreated Creator of All. His unborn, undying Spirit inhabits and informs the spiritual realm. What lives there by His grace and love is preserved from decay and death. Naomi knew this and wrote, “I want God to know that my life is in His hands and I know this. If He decides it is my time to leave, well then that is His choice. What I want God to know is that I truly love this earth.”

Naomi Boone, 1/11/1980 - 7/5/1999

Be thou watchful, and strengthen the things which remain, that are ready to die; for I have not found thy works perfect before god. The Bible, Reveleation 3:2

To read my book about Naomi, go to: A Heart Traced In Sand

All Things Will Pass

Backyard of my parents former home, Santa Barbara, California

There is so much that I want to give you. You know Steven, when you turn to God, you find riches beyond measure. All things will pass, even earth and heaven, but God is forever. This is a message I received when my mother's spirit visited me today at her former home in Santa Barbara, California. 

I arrived here to gather with siblings as we sell off the remnants of my parent's estate before selling the house. I see so many familiar objects; tableware, furniture, books, kitchenware, clothing, tools, and hundreds of healthy potted plants around the housed . . . I am reminded of my parents lives. 

People lined up early to burst through the gate at 9 AM and begin sifting through things, gathering armfuls. With glee they collect for a fraction of the original cost or value. The house is emptying. Tomorrow it will be over and what is left will be donated. The money collected will go toward fixing the house to sell.

My father died a couple years ago. He was not a materialist and took after his hero, Mahatma Gandhi of India, who cared not for riches but was passionate about social justice. He left little in the way of things, but bequeathed a grand legacy of a lifetime of activism on behalf of poor and oppressed people. (See a tribute).

My mother died some months ago. She was highly intellectual, wrote, made art, and loved to garden until she became too feeble. Her great pleasure was nature. So it made me happy to see the joy in people as they bought almost all of her beautiful plants, still bursting with life and happily thriving in decorated pots. 

I had the thought that eventually we all end up in graves and our things are passed on or discarded. What we take with us is what we have accomplished in our life and our soul. Nothing else.

Walk A New Path

Imagination is the beginning of creation. You imagine what you desire, you will what you imagine and at last you create what you will. -George Bernard Shaw

The best art allows us to see with our own eyes, but brings us into revelation. Our vision and perception gains strength. A chord is touched inside of us so that we say, “Aha.”

When it goes public, a piece of art is owned by all, so to speak, and open to a myriad of interpretations. From that time forward it is objective and subjective both. The risk an artist takes is that he may value his work highly, but the public does not.

When a new movement in art comes along, it often is met with resistance and some ridicule. It asks the viewer to take a different path from the norm, and often, the viewer says, “You foolish artist, I know what good art is. You can't fool me! The tried and true is apparent to all, so why should I go down this suspicious path with you?” In modern times, this is what happened to the first impressionists, and much later, also the abstract expressionists. First ridicule and resistance, and then through persistence, passion and devotion, a warming occurred with people. In these cases, it took years along with the slow gaining of important allies in the art business, and then the public was swayed. Now there is adulation. Just look at Van Gogh's life.

The same happens in social movements such as women's suffrage, native people's rights, race equality etc. Also, the world's great religions were often met with fierce resistance when they first appeared.

I have started creating art that is a departure from my past. It just seems to be the time, and I have the passion and will to walk a new path. I have not lost anything, I can always go back. Recently, I have been constructing my paintings as much as painting them. They begin with an idea that is fed from my unconscious and I go from there. There are two now, with more coming. The finished peieces are in the public realm since people have seen them—mostly online. I am not showing them in a gallery at this time. Being public they are both objective and subjective now.

As an example of how this type of art can evoke a wide range of subjective responses, I will tell of the interpretations from different people as they viewed my last piece. The main parts are: two dolls—one standing and one falling, a niche where one doll stands and one has fallen from, a window, an open book turned to a chapter titled, “On Love”, and a hand seeming to come from thin air and holding the book open.

A close friend of mine was the first to see it complete, and as we discussed it she formulated a story that the two dolls were actually the same person. She is both standing and also toppled over and entering the realm of the book; falling into the story of love while the Hand of God holds the book open.

Another person said that at first glance it made her feel like someone is trying to hold onto LOVE.

Someone else wrote on Facebook: “People told me to be 'perfect'. Perfect like a doll... Then, some people gave me books leading to imperfect worlds... I took your hand so that I could grow into something I would never have imagined...”

Another Facebook friend wrote: “This is a dream world, and perhaps it has a touch of adobe wall of Santa Fe and old walls of places you've traveled. There is hope and life coming through the top window, so close yet set apart from the innocent girl, the fairy tale girl, with the perfect outfit, part of whom has lost control and fallen,(or perhaps some inner part of the dream has fallen) almost, perhaps it will be a surprise to her, into a book, which seems to be orderly - can't see the title. She doesn't know it but part of her falls into some type of order that this hand, old as the wall, ancient like the soul, has touched. The figure at the top might be mourning for loss, while the hand feels the order of that book, not reading it or holding it, but feeling it. It is a left hand of the intuitive, inner self. Some dream perhaps fallen yet into a book. The hatted doll is in a bit of a precarious position but so close to the window of hope. Perhaps she represents external fantasies (letting go. Just a few thoughts. She is hatted like the men you painted, but here is a feminine aspect, perhaps an inner child waiting to be helped down or through that window. the book is quite balanced...I mean the two pages, like yin and yang. Perhaps the hand knows in this book is the balance. If I want to trip on it, it could be a person, with the doll at the head, the doll and the hand the arms and the book the feet. The head then would have part in life and hope and part in image, possibly fantasy or a young female sense, the hands part letting go and part holding on to the feet holding to balance, truth. But I wouldn't want to project onto it...(ha, ha, smile).”

And now, I confess that my original conception was for the two dolls to represent a sort of fate for two different people. One who would stand firm in life, bearing witness to the window of life and the Book of Love held by the hand of destiny (or God), and the other who falls.

I like all the descriptions and they all work! Art is objective and subjective. That is the fun.

The artist is a receptacle for emotions that come from all over the place: from the sky, from the earth, from a scrap of paper, from a passing shape, from a spider's web. -Pablo Picasso

Logic will get you from A to B. Imagination will take you everywhere. -Albert Einstein

Everything Is Part Of Everything

Life cannot be held, only experienced. To try and hold it is when we realize it is but a dream. When we believe we are in possession of something, in fact, this is illusion too, for nothing can truly be possessed, everything is part of everything else and is continually transforming and subject to external forces beyond personality.

When I lost my eldest daughter at age nineteen, after watching her suffer for two years while receiving the most skilled treatments and care, is when I truly became detached from holding on to anything of this world. Nobody can hold on to their most precious possession—their mortal frame, and I saw how much she loved hers and tried to keep it.

Certainly since her passing, from her vantage point of pure spirit in divine love within illimitable space, she has guided me to experience the world fully without fear, knowing it is a dream unfolding.

The traveling I am doing is full of dream sequences, beginning this year in September, living in Venice, Italy. My apartment was above a little stone bridge that spanned a canal that gondolas passed beneath each day. Nearby was a campo over a thousand years old. I like to paint, take photographs and write each day. After six weeks in Venice, THE DREAM took me to Cinqueterra on the Mediterranean coast, with its five magical villages hugging the steep, rocky shore, almost falling into the sea. From there, Florence, the birthplace of the Renaissance and high art, where my apartment sat steps away from Michelangelo’s marble sculpture masterpiece, David. Each day, the DREAM wind blew me through the fabled streets, until one day it took me to Rome—the eternal city where it is said all roads lead. I have been there many times before and it reawakened an awe of human ingenuity and achievement, with its vast architectural wonders from the time of empire. I heard through the ages the echo of horses hooves as they pulled gladiator carts, and listened to stringed instruments play in markets bustling with commerce just outside marbled churches filled with masterpieces of art. In Rome I relished a stunning art exhibition by a contemporary artist who filled me with inspiration to carry into my own work.

From Rome, into the sky again to land six hours later in New Delhi, India and then to arrive in Varanasi, one of the oldest living cities on earth. Cows roam the streets amid the crush of people, with bodies arriving every day from all parts of the globe to be burned on cremation pyres that are always blazing. The ashes thrown into the sacred Ganges River mean that salvation is assured for the believers. I floated on the Ganges in a boat to watch candles lit and placed in baskets to drift on the water, and experienced the thunder of explosions marking the Diwali Festival. THE DREAM introduced bacteria into my body and intestinal illness, as it happened before when I visited India. I continued painting, but spent more time with photography, taking some powerful images, especially with an American friend who modeled in flowing cloth on temple steps overlooking the Ganges.

Almost in a daze of altered perception, a train ride of twenty hours brought me to the heart of the continent, to Pushkar, the home of the only Brahma temple in India, where I arrived at the beginning of a famous once yearly festival. Thousands of camels were brought there to be traded and sold, with gorgeous horses, tents, festivities and excitement. THE DREAM introduced a young boy to my side one morning to take me to his family who live in tents on a hilltop. The man is a maker of folk instruments, and he and his wife sang and made music for me. We become friends, and THE DREAM brought money to them through one my friends on Facebook who took compassion on their difficult life of extreme poverty.
I am in other worlds, and far from the events of America and other places where news of violence and political intrigue comes to me in bits and pieces.

Now I am in northern Thailand, and do not see camels but plenty of monks in flowing saffron robes amid ornate Buddhist temples with soaring spires above intricate gabled roofs and dragons guarding the doors. My stomach ailments have mostly gone away, and each day is exploration, photography, and either painting or writing. THE DREAM has brought me together after seven years with Thai friends from the past. Our lives are woven in DREAM.

As THE DREAM continues unfolding, I wonder where it goes and where it leads. Soon it will lead to Cambodia but after that, I do not have a clear picture of what lays ahead. Perhaps the misty mountaintop needs time for the the wind to blow away the shrouding haze—and reveal itself entirely in glory.

Arranging To Be Free

Me, in Venice, 2007

Time sometimes flies like a bird, sometimes crawls like a snail; but a man is happiest when he does not even notice whether it passes swiftly or slowly.

-Ivan Turgenev

 I have two months to set my affairs in order before leaving on prolonged travel. In July, I travel to Michigan and Wisconsin for art shows and will probably spend three weeks on the road. Then in August, I will be busy consolidating my life so that beginning September, I will be free to live in Venice, Italy. From there who knows? 

Consolidating means selling off possessions and arranging to be free. I have done this before and so know what to expect.

 

Venice, just before sunset . . .

It is strange that the years teach us patience; that the shorter our time, the greater our capacity for waiting.

-Elizabeth Taylor

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.

Primordial Essence

“A man’s house is his castle.” ~ James Otis, Jr. (February 5, 1725 – May 23, 1783)
This famous saying seems to mean that every man is king of his own home, and therefore rich indeed. In his own home, he can live according to his taste and be satisfied knowing that he has arranged his surroundings for his comfort, safety, and pleasure.

I once owned a home. My former wife Jean and I built it on six acres of land in the rolling hills just outside of Santa Fe, New Mexico. We thought about the design, and then made a beautiful passive solar house. Over the years, we added on to it until it came to be almost 5000 square feet, with beautiful landscaping. The views are breathtaking, especially from the upstairs deck where the vista sweeps unobstructed to the horizon in every direction. My artwork adorned the walls and our children and pets grew up in the house.

Our daughter Sarah eventually went to college, and my first child, Naomi, from a previous marriage died. My wife and I had comfort in our home, but not in our marriage, and we divorced. Jean said she loved the house and could not imagine being without it. She bought my half, and since then, I have traveled the world and lived happily without a home.

I have come to treasure independence and liberty more than possessions and property. When I first set out upon the path of adventure, I told friends that I would disappear into the matrix of the earth. As I traveled around the globe for over a year, indeed, the matrix was my home. I use the term matrix to mean the primordial essence of creation; where life emerges into form and also disintegrates to become born again. It is always in flux and eternal, because it is creation. If we believe in a Creator that is eternal, then so too must creation be eternal for the two must be together and inseparable.

I have come to love the matrix and the Creator above all else and only long to be flowing easily, a deep swimmer in the ocean of life, open to change, flexible and free. My curiosity about the world and universe is immense and because I learn viscerally, I love to flow over creation like the wind, caressing it, being one with it.

When I enter a home, I pray for blessings to come to it, but I also relish my freedom from it. I do not want the responsibility that comes with ownership. No pets, mortgages, debts to pay, contracts, et al. I rent houses that are furnished, move in with a suitcase and move out when I please. In five years, I have not lived in one place for more than one year. I am nomadic and unconstrained. After all, I feel like I am just visiting the planet, and it is temporary anyway.