Timeless Faces

We see masks often here in Oaxaca. There are many celebrations throughout the year when masks are worn along with a traditional costume.

Mexican masks have a rich history deeply intertwined with cultural and religious practices. These masks have been used since ancient times, dating back to 3000 B.C., initially by priests for summoning gods and during sacrifices. When the Spanish arrived, they introduced the devil to Mexico. Soon after, horns were added to the masks of native gods, transforming them into "devils" to promote Christianity. Devils often appeared alongside death at festive occasions. Yet, the Aztec underworld was not a place of punishment, thus, people were less fearful of death. The devil became a benign figure. 

Recently a new friend we made on the coast insisted we simply must see an exhibit of masks in Oaxaca. Called Timeless Faces, at a museum founded by artist/philanthropist Fernando Toledo in the village of San Agustin Etla the exhibition of 700 pieces is from the anthropologist René Bustamante's collection.

Amy and I made the 50 minute drive from our village to see the exhibit. For a Saturday, it was remarkably quiet. The building is grand and the grounds too. Climbing the grand, broad stairway in front, we entered the cavernous space full of masks. What a delight for two artists that love culture. Immediately we became engrossed, wandering off separately then recombining to marvel and discuss.

Most traditional masks are made of wood, while some are made from leather, wax, cardboard, papier-mâché, or other materials. They commonly depict old men and women, animals, the fantastic or supernatural.  

Masks, including devil masks, have been an integral part of Mexican cultural and religious life, with mask makers being revered members of society. Today, devil masks in Mexico retain features of ancient gods, showcasing a blend of pre-Hispanic history and Spanish influence. These masks are used in various dances and rituals, symbolizing a fusion of the two cultures and serving as a link between Mexico's past and present traditions.

Wearing masks during mystical, religious or communal celebrations is practiced across the globe.

Personally, I have always enjoyed masks and own a small collection of African, Asian and Venetian masks. 

My brother from Santa Barbara, California is coming in a couple weeks to visit us. His wife is originally from Mexico. Amy and I will return with them and see the exhibit again.

Fractured

Fractured is a theme I can relate to, having experienced much personal trauma and fissure in life. That's ok, I believe what my darling daughter Naomi said before she died, "Hardships can make us stronger. Every situation in life has some good in it."

When I learned that an important photography gallery in Santa Fe made a call to submit work with "fracture" as theme, I knew I had enough images of merit to enter. 

The show syllabus is as follows

“Today, our world can seem divided in a multitude of ways. Between debates over the climate emergency, corporations literally breaking our earth with fracking, families split at national borders and our divided political systems, concepts like societal unity and harmony feel like a distant hope. Even on a personal level, humans have the capacity to feel fissured, split, and incomplete in our thoughts and emotions. Shifts in perspective, breaks from tradition, and experiencing loss can all encompass the idea of the fracture. This concept can have both positive and negative connotations. However, acknowledging that something is broken is the first step in working toward healing. How can art be a platform for expressing, and ultimately bridging these personal and social divides? What role does the photographer play in observing, documenting, and healing the fractured landscapes around and within us all? “

I entered five images, gathered from extensive travels and street photography, as well as studio work. Camera photos I take are simply starting places because they go into my “digital studio”. Then I manipulate them to bring out a story poignantly. 

Sometimes I combine images into collages, and transform them with tools available in photoshop. 

I can't show the pictures included in my entry.

The one above is from Andalusia, Spain, in ruins of a home with my friend Pepa dressed in flamenco attire holding flowers.

Enchantment

The little cobbled streets bend and turn in every direction. An average sized American car would be useless. Amy and I have arrived in Ronda, Spain driving a rented Peugeot that is small enough to get through narrow streets, but at times I get frustrated how close I am to other cars, curbs or walls. Looking around I am amazed that I do not see vehicles with dents and scrapes. Getting to our apartment using Google Maps proved almost impossible. We stopped from frustration and walked, knowing we were close to where we wanted to be. It was then that we we felt enchantment for we were in a very old part of the city, with winding cobbled paths, a bridge built by Romans over deep gorges with a spry river running underneath, and little plazas with statues. Eventually our proprietor met us at a plaza and guided us to our flat.

We have learned that Ronda has enchanted and invigorated some very famous artists including the German poet Marie Ranier Rilke, American writers James Joyce and Ernest Hemingway, and actor Orson Welles—who chose to have his ashes scattered over the earth here. He loved Ronda and said, “A man does not belong to the place where he was born, but where he chooses to die.”

Hemingway came for the bull fights. Ronda’s spectacular bullring is the oldest in Spain, built in 1785.
Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926) was suffering terrible writer’s block and overcame it after leaving Paris and sojourning in Ronda. He said, “The spectacle of this city, sitting on the bulk of two rocks rent asunder by a pickaxe and separated by the narrow, deep gorge of the river, corresponds very well to the image of that city revealed in dreams. The spectacle of this city is indescribable and around it lies a spacious valley with cultivated plots of land, holly and olive groves. And there in the distance, as if it had recovered all its strength, the pure mountains rise, range after range, forming the most splendid background.”

We knew nothing of famous people, bullfights, or legends when we arrived. It is on our way to Algeceris, Spain near Gibraltar where we will be in a few days to hand over our rental car and take a boat to Morocco. On the map it looked like an attractive stop on route. Today, Amy said, “I like Ronda better than Granada or Cordoba . . . it is my favorite place so far.” We extended our stay.
I have to agree because the setting is wonderful, it has a historic yet urban demeanor, is lively, but respectful and in short, a great place to be creative.

Windmills To Vanquish

After leaving cosmopolitan Granada, Spain, Amy and I have gone north. Every night in bed we read from Don Quixote, written by Miguel de Cervantes in 1605 - 1615. “The story follows the adventures of a noble (hidalgo) named Alonso Quixano who reads so many chivalric romances that he loses his sanity and decides to become a knight-errant(caballero andante), reviving chivalry and serving his country, under the name Don Quixote de la Mancha. He recruits a simple farmer, Sancho Panza, as his squire, who often employs a unique, earthy wit in dealing with Don Quixote's rhetorical orations on antiquated knighthood. Don Quixote, in the first part of the book, does not see the world for what it is and prefers to imagine that he is living out a knightly story.” (Wikipedia). How appropriate that I have also followed in his footsteps—referring to my life as THE DREAM. Amy is totally with me, so we have gone searching for windmills to vanquish, and found them.



Our first stop was Baeza. In the two days we stayed there we saw hardly a soul. Some if its streets are a thousand years old and the town is so preserved with antiquity that in 2003 it was added to UNESCO's list of World Heritage Sites.It seemed we were in a movie, with a stage set in the renaissance and all the actors were gone.



Heading north again, following road instructions on Google Maps, we immediately found ourselves amidst immense tracts of olive orchards. Both of us were amazed at countless olive trees in neat rows as far as we could see. They sometimes overtook entire mountains; marching up one side and down the other. At one point, a gleaming golden wall caught my eye in passing. It was shrouded on a hillside not far off, amidst trees. I knew from my previous trips to Andalusia that there are many deserted estates. “Oh, I want to explore!” I said. Amy replied, “Well stop and turn around.” We found a little road and it was slick with mud in places. Adventure called and I managed to get to a dry place and stop, almost entirely confidant I could get us out again. We walked in wet grass and slippery clay to get to the place.

 
I felt such excitement and nostalgia too. The walls were holding up but the roofs were caved in and gone. Rubble filled the inside but I found a way in. Just then the sun came out from behind clouds and I felt the grand nature of the place as it once was. I took pictures as Amy sat  pondering by an old well. When we reached our car we were both covered in clumps and splatters of white clay. “Oh well, “ I said as we drove out, “it was worth it.”

Now we are in Consuegra, Spain. Our flat is spacious but does not seem to get warm enough. Our first excitement was to find the windmills that stand on a hilltop next to a castle built circa 1183 overlooking the town. Amy and I imagine these are the mills that Don Quixote took to be giants and charged at on horse with his lance intent on doing battle—heedless of the entreaties of his squire Sancho Panza that he was only fighting windmills.

Thick Of Tradition

Until death it is all life”
― Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, Don Quixote

Now that we are in Spain, a curious ritual has arrived unexpectedly. In bed at night in our quaint apartment tucked on a hillside along a stream we read to each other Don Quixote of La Mancha, by Miguel Cervantes, (Spanish, 29 September 1547 (assumed) – 22 April 1616). At separate times in our youth both of us attempted reading the famous work from the Spanish Golden Age of literature but were daunted by its idiosyncrasies. Now in the land of its birth and on our own Quixotic journey of sorts, chasing windmills of our imaginations, we feel the pathos and understand the humor—exclaiming out loud and laughing with one another. When lights go out we continue to adventure side by side in dreamland.


Our first sojourn as a couple in the Old World begins in Granada. Years ago I lived here briefly and liked the part of the city called Sacromonte. It is best known for the flamenco venues. Caves in the mountainside are home to troupes of dancers and musicians. We will go tomorrow night and be in the thick of tradition. I am taking Amy to the same cave I experienced earlier. It is a narrow room with whitewashed earth walls and wood plank runway down the middle. The audience sit on either side within touching distance of the flamenco dancers as they strut and twirl to the strident notes of the musicians just behind them.




My fair lady Amalia de Córdova of Santa Fe, Nuevo Mexico USA is wounded but carrying on gallantly as a woman of high lineage does. Before we left Mexico City less than a week ago, she was bitten by bed bugs. Maybe I was bitten too, but it had no effect. Our hotel was highly rated and we were pleased, yet I saw a bug on the bed our last morning and killed it, thinking nothing much about it. When we arrived to Europe after a long trip, Amy had inflamed bites on her chest, back and neck. It got worse. The red circles around the bite centers expanded so much that a bright red welt became one mass the size of Texas on her torso. It has hurt terribly. So with some difficulty we ventured forth to Alhambra, the awesome palace overlooking the city—and just above our apartment. Amy has refused a doctor so I have been concocting home remedies to help. Thankfully, a paste of honey and turmeric applied over the welt is slowly helping. A spice shop just on the cobbled street out front along a little river has all the herbs we need.

Don Quixote and  Nasrid emir Mohammed ben Al-Ahmar of the Emirate of Granada would approve.
Amy has said she feels “at home” here although it is her first visit. Even more so than when she stayed in Córdoba, the town that is her namesake.

We will venture forth soon in quest of windmills that stand like giants and once battled Don Quixote at Consuegra, then on to Córdoba.

Take my advice and live for a long, long time. Because the maddest thing a man can do in this life is to let himself die.
― Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, Don Quixote

(For more from my previous adventures here, type Granada in the search bar at the top right of this blog.)

Zephyr

It may happen soon that I will be leaving the United States and moving to Andalucia, in southern Spain. Heidi Of The Mountains has determined not to fight my wanderlust, but rather develop in new ways, and will come too. We will have easy access to all of the Mediterranean area, which is rich in history, archeology, and culture. 

About five years ago, after living in Venice, Italy for three months, a shift occurred in my being, and I only wanted freedom like the wind. Since then, I have travelled around the world and become even more like the zephyr. I cannot settle down in one place and have no taste for possessions that most people crave—home, car, television, etc. etc. 

I live in an idyllic town—Santa Fe, New Mexico, USA. It is a tourist destination, and I have a grand situation of owning an art gallery that features my artwork, with a house and studio just steps away. Yet I find the responsibilities a burden and do not want the attachments. I am willing to trade more for less. Heidi is willing to fly with me into the unknown. 

The village in Andalucia is an almost forgotten place with a just a few whitewashed dwellings clustered on a a mountainside. There are no stores in Darrical, and sometimes, only fifteen people live there. But my friends Carol and Rolf have a home with a few casitas, and they have extra space to live in. I have lived with them before, ( see my blog Muy Tranquilo ) and it is a sleepy, ethereal existence perfect for poetry and art without distraction. Last time I spoke with Carol, she divulged the exciting news that Darrical now has internet service.

Worth A Thousand Words

My ritual of writing a blog every week has resulted in 350 posts to date. Once the cadence established itself, remarkably it took on a life of its own, so that the postings have occurred even from the far corners of the planet.

Usually, a story or theme presents itself during the week prior to my Sunday posting, but occasionally, Sunday arrives and I am at a loss to write anything. Fortunately, life is like a kaleidoscope, and with a little twist, fantastic shapes and colors arrive that offer new patterns for viewing.

I once took a poetry workshop from Arthur Sze, a poet laureate of the city of Santa Fe, where I live. It so happened that he collected poignant pictures, clipped from magazines and newspapers, and he used these images to provoke his imagination in new ways. I think that this is the power of images, for it is said, “One picture is worth a thousand words.”



The picture I include today is worth at least a thousand words.

While I was out photographing on the streets of Madrid, Spain, one summer day, I came to a bustling plaza, and as I wandered, I heard the jangling of coins in a cup. A man with no arms stood gripping a canister by his teeth and wagged his head to and fro, shaking coins to make them clink together. This was all he could do . . . his handicap was great. I felt pity, and wondered at his existence in such a state.

Later, I was on a street nearby, walking slowly, when I came upon the same man, seated on a curb, smoking a cigarette. Next to him on the pavement was a man with no legs. I stopped in my tracks in front of them. The man with no legs had lit the cigarette for his friend and put it in his mouth. I motioned to take their picture and they both grinned.

This photograph is worth a thousand words.

Worth A Thousand Words

It is said that a picture is worth a thousand words, and a Native American proverb says, “It takes a thousand voices to tell a single story”. Every painting contains stories, and that is the beauty of art—that we can look, and if the artist has been masterful and we are awake to the moment of observance and communion, stories can unfold.
There is a story behind my recent piece, called The Gypsy. It begins when I was visiting my friend Carol, who lives in a tiny mountain village, Darrical, in the region of Spain called Andalusia. Carol is Scottish by birth, but has lived in Spain for years with her German, accordion playing husband, Rolf. They lived a vagabond existence on a boat for years before finding their place in the almost deserted village of Darrical. While I was staying with Carol and Rolf, I met Pepa, a young woman artist who spoke English. Immediately I was struck with her “Spanish” looks—dark hair that flowed in wild rivulets around her broad face, olive skin, sparkling eyes, and an almost fierce proud beauty to her.
Soon we were friends and I wanted her to model for me, for photography, which she gladly agreed to. I told her I wanted her to dress in traditional Spanish garb and she found some dresses that worked, and we took her guitar for additional flavor.

Darrical has many homes that have been abandoned and are in various states of ruin. At one time the government planned to create a dam in the valley and made people move out of their homes before the water rose and flooded them . . . but the dam was never built and the homes remained abandoned. I wandered in and around these places, letting them tell me their stories and feeling the passage of time. Pepa and I spent hours exploring the village ruins and I took hundreds of pictures of her.
Now the pictures are available in my archives and I have begun using them in my artwork. I have developed a method of making mixed-media art that combines digital photography and painting. First I begin with an image I like, and then work on it in Photoshop, sometimes adding layers of abstract nuance. Next it is printed on canvas and stretched onto stretcher bars, like a painting. Then I coat it and paint on it as my imagination inspires me. In the end, a final finish unites all the layers and the art goes to my gallery. The new works are not the landscape painting I am known for, yet, I believe in the old Chinese saying “Perseverance furthers” and by nature I am an adventurer and like to experiment in my art.
Click to see more Steven Boone artwork

Muy Tranquilo

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

Dig Deeper

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

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

View from my patio