Venetia

To be honest, the skeleton motif took me by surprise here in Mexico and then I stayed with it⏤creating about a dozen paintings so far. Certainly there are those who have followed and collected my artwork over the decades who are bewildered and perplexed by my departure from landscape painting. All I can say is this is Oaxaca, Mexico and I have been influenced and like it. People ask when I will go back to landscapes. I don’t know.

My latest is called Venice Vanitas. It shows that even in one of the most desirable places, Venice, Italy, amidst youth, luxury, pomp, élan, gaiety and romance, death is a commanding presence. 

Everyone is always aware of death on an unconscious level. It is omnipresent. We are born with our days numbered. A germ can take over the body and cause it to fail. Sudden accidents occur. People can even die of melancholy. In the 18th century, death certificates signed by the British clergy listed as many as 41 different causes of death, including 'suffocated by wet nurse or mother'. 

Not that we dwell on all this and live fearfully. That is perhaps why I am bringing death to the fore. As if to say, “I see you, and I am okay with you being always around.”

In the painting Venice Vanitas, a lovely young woman is enjoying a gondola ride on the grand canal. She holds red flowers, symbolizing life. A mask is nearby, symbolizing deception⏤life can be deceiving. The water is flowing life force; bringing us from birth to death and always onward. The bridge is passage from one world to the next. The skeleton gondoleer is death, determining when life will eventually end.

A story:

Once upon a time in Venice, there was a young woman named Venetia. She was known throughout the city for her beauty and her love of life. One sunny day, she decided to take a gondola ride on the grand canal, the main artery of Venice.

As she drifted along the canal, Venetia held in her hand a bouquet of red flowers, symbolizing the beauty and vitality of life. But nearby, a mask lay on the seat, a reminder that life can be deceiving, that appearances can be false.

The water flowed around her, a reminder of the life force that carries us all from birth through death. A bridge she passed often spanned the canal, a symbol of the progress from one world to the next, from the living to the dead.

Guiding the gondola stood the Grim Reaper, a reminder that death is always with us, determining when our time on earth will come to an end.

Despite the reminder of death, Venetia was not afraid. She knew that life was meant to be lived to the fullest, and she was determined to enjoy every moment of it. She smiled at the skeleton behind her, knowing that one day they would meet again, but for now, she was content to enjoy the beauty of Venice and the joy of being alive.

As the gondola glided along the canal, Venetia breathed in the salty sea air and felt the warmth of the sun on her face. She knew that life was fleeting, but she also knew that it was beautiful, and that she would always cherish the memories of this moment. And so she continued to smile, holding her bouquet of red flowers, enjoying the ride, and living her life to the fullest.

Magical Doors

The highlight of all our recent traveling was the incredible art we were exposed to. 

Experiencing the high art of the Renaissance inspired us. We are both artists. As we moved among masterpieces in many museums and churches throughout Venice, Assisi, & Rome, Italy, we were in awe. 

Much of todays art is degraded in comparison. 

I will give an example: 

Alessandro Algardi (July 31, 1598 – June 10, 1654) Flight of Attila. It was created for St Peter's Basilica from 1646 to 1653.

And detail:

Compare this to a sculpture that looks like garbage bags full of rotting meat, spray painted by Sir Anish Kapoor (born 12 March 1954, British-Indian.)  We saw it prominently displayed alongside some of his paintings at the Venice Biennale, a major international exhibition:

As for paintings, compare the Frans Hals (Dutch, 1582 – 26 August 1666) we saw in the National Gallery of Art in Washington DC:

And the painting we saw at the Venice Biennale . . . I don´t recall the artists name:

Here is another comparison:

During our sojourn, it seemed one magical door after another opened, revealing glorious glimpses of high culture from previous lifetimes. Amy remarked more than once that art of the Renaissance was more advanced than the present day.

Buen Viaje

 

Travel has become so complicated. Today’s world is one of peril.

My earliest memory of flying was when I was about four years old. I was with my father in a commercial prop plane flying at night. People were happily smoking in the cabin so it was hazy. My father pointed out the window to city lights gleaming below us.  A young stewardess came, spoke with my dad, then took me by hand to the front of the plane into the cockpit. The pilot smiled, said hello and pointed out all the glowing controls. I could see the vast darkness the plane was hurdling through. Given my flying wings, I went back to my seat. Maybe I remember all that because of the openness and love of that magical journey.

It could not happen in today’s world. The tragedy of airplane hijackings and mass destruction on 911 changed travel. Hidden bombs have blasted airplanes full of passengers out of the skies. Everyone is suspect of evil. People and items are scanned for contraband. Everyone must partially undress before proceeding to the gates, and go through scanners. Multi document checks are required. 

Now, in the time of mass pandemics, even more obstacles must be negotiated before reaching a seat aboard a plane.

In two days I leave Oaxaca, Mexico.  Amy already is in Minneapolis with her family. We meet on May 17th in Washington DC. I will attend a high school reunion and see my brother and his family. Then on May 22 we go to Venice, Italy. We will also visit Assisi, and Rome before returning to Oaxaca June 9.

When Amy left, I started coughing, sneezing and had congestion. After a couple days, it dawned on me that if I have covid our trip would be ruined. Everything is booked in advance. In a bit of panic I went to a local lab and paid 25 dollars for a test. A half hour later I got the result: negative. Good Lord! 

To get into the United States, test results taken 24 hours before boarding is required. I still have slight cold symptoms. 

I have been praying a powerful prayer called the Long Healing Prayer. 

Meditation tells me I do not have covid. I hope it is right.

My neighbor Mayolo, his wife Marta, and granddaughter Frida came to the house on my birthday a couple days ago. They brought dinner and a birthday cake. Then we watched the Disney movie, “Coco”. I don’t speak Spanish and they don’t speak English. No matter.

Mayolo will come get me on Tuesday and take me to the airport for my 10 AM flight to Washington DC.  His daughter Kaoni, son in law Carlos  and Frida are house sitting for us. I saw them today. We went over details about the house. 

The last thing Kaoni said was “buen viaje” or good travels.

Kaleidoscope of Sensual Surprises

Life is a kaleidoscope of sensual surprises.  During travel, I leave familiar surroundings to engage in the unknown and see with fresh eyes, hear with new ears, and think new thoughts. All the while being mesmerized and awed by little revelations. Yet even without going anywhere, the kaleidoscope of patterns, sights, sounds, tastes and smells is always turning; a bite of cold wind across the face, coming indoors to fragrant aromas of cooking foods, hearing the song of a strange bird for the first time, a fabulous sunset or sunrise.

A surprise can be simple and appear like a gift from an unseen hand. I have deep windowsills at home. In my bedroom I placed a model of a sailing ship on a window ledge. Recently, before taking a nap after lunch, I pulled the curtains closed. After rising, I went to the curtains and saw the ships shadows cast upon the fabric. It captured my imagination and I went and got my camera. The rippling folds of cloth were like ocean waves that took my vessel into an etheric sea. Why did I notice it? The winter light and angle of the sun made the picture come to life. Also, I was willing to see . . . because if my emotions and thoughts had been obscuring my perceptions, the little shadow theater would have had no attraction. I had seen it before. Now the elements lined up to capture my senses and I was ready.
 

I like happy accidents and am open to experiencing them during my creative process. Recently, during my month sojourn in Venice, Italy, I fell into a hobby of making photographs of people taking “selfies.” World famous Rialto Bridge was just minutes from my flat. Everyday, thousands of selfies are made there. So whenever I was passing over the bridge, 2 or 3 times a day, I would linger to photograph. Once, I spotted two fellows making a portrait, and surreptitiously became involved with my camera. Just as they were composing, I shot my picture from behind, capturing the subject’s face through the triangle of arm, shoulder and head of the picture taker.

Because I am creative, poems arise from what is garbage to others. One day I was walking on the stone sidewalks of Cuenca, Ecuador. I often look down at the patterns and crevices of the walkways as I sojourn. Something stopped me. A picture had fallen face up onto the grimy patterned  stonework. It was a family portrait of a boy. I noticed how the smiling, lovely face was vulnerable on the dirty sidewalk where it would be stepped on. Why did the scene attract me to take a photograph? Most people would ignore it. I found the incongruity evoked pathos in me. I reflected upon what happens to people in life. The purity of their beginnings fall to earth. At early stages innocence suffers degradation, injury, abandonment, death. Yet the smile and light is in the picture.

Along The Way

We are slowed down sound and light waves, a walking bundle of frequencies tuned into the cosmos. We are souls dressed up in sacred biochemical garments and our bodies are the instruments through which our souls play their music.    -Albert Einstein

I have been home for two weeks now, and the sights and sounds of the previous two months continue to reverberate in my being. The photographs I took, the paintings and writings, all testify to my soul journey.

This blog is over ten years old now, with 582 posts to date. It is a book—a record with photos.

So many experiences in life are bound to be buried. Little surprises that happened along the way come to life with pictures or writing.

Like this. I was walking in Paris on the left bank, heading back to my hotel in Saint-Germaine. I came to a woman in a wheelchair, surrounded by pigeons she was feeding. It was cold, and she was wearing tennis shoes. An oversized beige beret sat on her head. When our gaze met, she smiled warmly with light in her eyes. I wondered about her life and circumstances, and asked to take her picture. She had no pretensions and to my surprise spoke fluent English. “I love speaking English,” she said. We chatted some small talk, then I took her picture. I noted that she was not begging, but imperturbably living on the street, taking care of pigeons in the midst of the flowing crowds around her.






I have close to two thousand pictures from my last sojourn—from Washington DC to Paris, on to Venice for a month, then Egypt for three weeks.

Memories jump to life with pictures that add "a thousand words".

Deep To My Soul

I am glad I had my paints, camera and pen along with me. Oh, and my laptop. Two pair of shoes was enough. So was two pair of pants, four shirts, socks and underwear. I used the umbrella in Venice a few times. Never wore the shorts and decided to leave them in Egypt.

Everything fit in a medium size suitcase and carry-on with wheels. I never needed anything more and came home without a pair of shoes I gave away, and also left shorts, and shirts behind. The special item I brought back is the Jellabiya, (man’s gown) that was made for me in Egypt.

Oh, the four paintings I sent from Italy and two from Egypt arrived safely by courier. No equipment damaged, over 1,800 photos safely stored, and some foreign money in my pocket for souvenir.
The damage that occurred was in my body when I took a flu medication in Luxor and it wreaked havoc on my urinary system which is already slowing down because it is over six decades old. I had to come home sooner than expected. That was the biggest of the problems that arrived. All part of THE DREAM.

Friendships and bonds deepened. With my brother Wade and his family in Washington DC, with Cristiana in Venice, Italy, Fred the hotelier in Paris, and my Egyptian brothers, Hagag and Abu’l Ezz in Luxor, Egypt along with their families.

 

Perhaps I left a footprint behind in the places I sojourned. A memory that I was there.  My friends remember me, and cried when I left them. They went deep to my soul as well.

Ciao Venezia

The fog I hoped for never arrived during my month in Venice. I kissed the city goodbye—with light so brilliant it seemed the canals were alive, covered with glistening jewels.

Cristiana stopped by to bid farewell. We embraced, took a last deep look into each others eyes and she went off to work while I headed through the passageways with my luggage.

I walked slowly. Passageways are intimate, only three people wide. An excited, bubbling boy brushed by with his mother. He seemed about nine years old and brimming with enthusiasm. It’s good, I thought.

Suddenly I wanted to hold the last moments and looked intensely around. Campo stones, crumbling brick walls, windows with green shutters, the trembling canal waters underneath foot bridges in all directions—pressed to my soul for safe keeping.

For some reason I felt healthier, stronger than when I arrived. The luggage was not so burdensome and my spirit felt light.

At the Grand Canal I waited to catch the boat to the airport. Everything was at peak brilliance in early afternoon light. I felt remorse having to leave. My camera was packed and I wanted it. Wow, I thought, look at the sun glowing from the buildings. Reflections on water danced and leapt like light from iridescent scales of fish.


I finished four paintings and shipped them back the United States. The last five days found me with my camera walking endlessly through the sestieri, hunting for reflections, for gondolas in canals passing beneath bridges or bobbing alongside the lagoon. I went numerous times to Piazza San Marco and reveled in its dimension and supreme workmanship, photographing with throngs of people becoming a blur of motion.

Up until the last day I added to a series of pictures of tourists taking “selfie” photographs. Just on Rialto Bridge I figure about 3000 a day are made.

Ciao Venezia.

Incredible Uniqueness

Van Gogh, Garden at the Asylum at Sant-Remy_

Each day has its own incredible uniqueness. I find it best to live in THE DREAM consciousness. That way, when I have weird experiences that are bewildering and a bit dark, I am easy about it and say Oh wow, look what THE DREAM is doing now!

Last Thursday morning Cristiana and I arranged to go on the train to Vicenza to see a special Vincent VanGogh exhibition. She had to push back our departure to noon because of some urgent business. A text had arrived and a business paper had to be finished that day and mailed at the post office.

As I headed out walking under a cloudy sky on a cold day, she called and said she could not meet me at the station. “Unbelievable” she said, “the post office is not there anymore. I have to go to another one. I am sorry I cannot go with you.” OK, so now I am going by myself.

I felt happy anyway. At the train station I bought my ticket to Vicenza and the return ticket as well. The trip took about an hour. In Vicenza, I asked a cab driver about getting to the Basilica Palladiana. He told me I could walk, it was not far. In ten minutes I was there. The building is grand and famous—a Renaissance structure designed by a young architect Andrea Palladio (Italian, 30 November 1508 – 19 August 1580), whose work had a significant effect on the field during the Renaissance and later periods.

Basilica Palladiana, Vicenze, Italy

Van Gogh, Drawing of a Peasant

The exhibit, VAN GOGH, Between the Wheat and Sky, is an important reconstruction of Van Gogh’s art work. From hopeful beginnings, with drawings of peasants and nature, to life in France with loosening of strictures and embracing of vibrant strokes full of color and life, to the painful end, where his paintings become dense and jagged, yet always with the ray of hope somewhere. I paid extra for an audio guide that helped fill out the story the masterpieces were telling. At one time I felt Vincent’s spirit come visit me, a fellow artist. I believe in such occurrences so said hello and made a bow and prayer.

For some reason I was having to use the toilet frequently. After a few visits I was annoyed and thought, what is this, a joke?

After the exhibit I went out in the cold and drizzle and walked around Vicenza, taking pictures. Arriving back at the station, I checked the departure board and saw that a train was scheduled to leave for Venice in about fifteen minutes. I noted the track and on the way there, checked again to be sure.

Van Gogh, Portrait of a Young Woman

On the train I passed my time reviewing my photos and lounging. Mid-way I had a strange feeling about my locale but tossed it off.  I was having to use the toilet and thought, but I am not drinking water! Where is it coming from? The train stopped a few times, as it had on the way. I sat in my seat looking up causes for frequent urination. One was anxiety. Yes, the weather was shifting, Cristiana had a weird occurrence, VanGogh visited me after he cut off his ear and committed suicide, I am a bit lost in a foreign land, and in flux without a ticket home . . .  so? About this time, the train stopped. Everybody got off and I looked out the window to see that we were in Verona. Wait, Verona? My phone showed Verona to be in the opposite direction from Venice. Maintenance people starting coming through, cleaning up. I asked one if we were going to Venice. “Si, Venezia.”

After a long stop in Verona, the train headed back to Vicenza, an hour away. I felt trapped in my body on the phantom train ride. The thought came that I could not get out of the scene I was in. Then I thought of my dear Naomi, who was thrown into a much more morbid drama as she had to live with cancer. I remembered her struggle fighting a sadistic monster and how she managed to stay in the light and win the battle though lose her life. In the end, some of her last words were, "I love my body, it has been so good to me!"

OK, the train would take me four hours instead of one to arrive in Venice. Along the way a conductor asked to see my ticket, which never happens. I was standing near the doors, outside the toilet when he came up. He spoke in Italian and said I had to pay a fine. I tried to explain I had not left the train and had a ticket to Venice. No matter, I did not pay from Verona. He took my money and put it in his wallet.

THE DREAM is comical too.

At last we came to Venice. I felt as though I was in a fantastic Van Gogh painting.

Grab The Moments

My first week of one month in Venice seems to have flown by quickly. Sometimes I want to grab the moments and make time stand still. I feel I am in a special situation—living in a city I love, one that people the world over are attracted to visit.

From my apartment overlooking a busy "calli" or pedestrian avenue, I walk down a flight of stairs and open a door to the heart of the city. Within moments I am at Rialto Bridge, the main walkway across the Grand Canal which divides Venice and also serves as perhaps the grandest thoroughfare in the world.

Water busses, called vaporetto, travel up and down the Grand Canal, taking passengers. I have a boarding pass that I brought along from my previous stay but to my surprise I have barely used it. I am walking instead.

Today has been typical. I woke from nine hours of sleep at about 9 o'clock, made breakfast with eggs and prosciutto ham, and coffee. Then to the fish market, which is the main one, and only a couple minutes away. This being Saturday, it was very busy. I chose the fish stall I like best and waited in the crush of people, with my eye on some fresh "pesci". As I stood, something caught my attention—some of the fish were still alive and thrashing around on the ice. I felt a pang of sorrow for the little creature taken from the sea and dying in front of my eyes. A woman next to me bought a wide assortment of fish, squid and lobster. I imagined she owned a restaurant or something. Next I went to a nearby stall selling vegetables and bought fresh broccoli.

I was now very near the Rialto bridge, and went to take some photos. I have developed an odd hobby. I take pictures of people taking "selfie" pictures. If I stood on the bridge from morning until night I could probably make about 1000 photos of people, mostly couples, taking pictures of themselves, most often using poles with their smartphones attached. Some folks get a bit annoyed that I am in on their intimate moment, but today a Chinese man had a good laugh when he saw me taking a picture of him and his friend taking a picture of themselves.

On the way back, I stopped for a "pasticceria" pastry and "macchiatto," a type of expresso coffee with dollop of foamed milk on top.

Back at the apartment, I got back to work on a painting I am making. I bought my linen canvas at a local art supply store I like. In my kitchen I work on a sturdy marble table under good light, with additional light from windows nearby. Mid afternoon I stopped to nap for about forty minutes.

Usually, just before sunset I go out walking and take photos. Yesterday I took some pictures of gondolas moored along the Grand Canal, their silver prows gleaming in the fading light. But now, my painting was demanding attention so I did not go out. I finished the first stage, called an underpainting. The subject is from a photo I took of a "ponti" or small bridge over a canal. It is stone and just at the top two women are lounging. Behind them tall old buildings loom upward in the darkening twilight. Some windows are lit with a warm glow, and a street disappears behind.

Dinner was the fish and broccoli.

Haven't decided whether to go out. It's just me.

Nebbia

In the early evening, my brother and I walked up to the long line of people at the Icelandair ticket desk at Dulles International Airport outside of Washington DC. He glanced above the counter and noticed a sign with a number that said "flight cancelled". "Is that your flight?" While I stood at the end of the line with my luggage, I checked my itinerary. It was.

My brother Wade and family

 I was heading off to Paris after visiting with him and his family for a few days. I only had a short while in Paris before I was to arrive in Venice, Italy for a month. Venice beckoned me with its season of "nebbia" or fog. Now, I was in another kind of fog.

My brother went to watch at the ticket counter and reported back that people were being re-routed and given hotel rooms for the night. We hugged goodbye.

By the time I arrived at the desk, the agent was obviously frustrated and edgy. She gave me a flight on Air France for the following evening—24 hours later. With a hotel and meal vouchers. I felt at a loss, as if in a muddle. The path in front of me became more obscure that evening as I checked online and could not locate my itinerary. I tried calling Icelandair. The calls kept dropping. When I reached a bot, it said 80 people were in front of me. It was around midnight. I hung up and crashed.

At four AM I woke and tried calling again. 60 people in front of me. I lay in bed listening to the announcements and music. 52, 48, 37, 22, 18, 11, 4 . . . voila a human voice! Air France out! British Air in!

Hotel Saint Andre Des Arts, lobby

 
The next day I arrived in Paris, delayed by about thirty hours. I took the metro railway from the airport and arrived at Hotel Saint Andre Des Arts, a place I have stayed before. In the lobby I was greeted by Fred, the desk manager who remembered me warmly. The fog receded.

I had planned to go to Versailles, the former seat of political power in the Kingdom of France from 1682, when King Louis XIV reigned. Now I lacked time, having two days instead of three. So I did what I love best: wandered the city and made street photographs.

Now I am in Venice. My apartment is in a lively central neighborhood, close to the famous Rialto Bridge that spans the Grand Canal.

My second night here was Friday. I fell asleep but was wakened by lively people walking on the pavement below my window. Weekend nights produce more revelers into the early morning hours. I could not fall back to sleep. Eventually I moved to a small bedroom in the apartment rear and flopped onto a tiny bed.

At eight in the morning I was wakened by a text alert. It was my friend Cristiana: "Nebbia right now."

What a happy surprise so soon!

Too Late To Turn Back Now

Too late to turn back now. I have bought my tickets, except for my return.

A thousand small, cautious voices voices tell me to stay, don't go. I can hear them: What you are doing is dangerous, extravagant, foolish. Money will be lost. You will be lonely away from home. A thousand things could go wrong and you won't even speak the language. You will go missing, be taken advantage of by strangers. People will hate you because you are American. You might get killed in unknown parts of the planet.

The voices of the crowd that have seeped through my unconscious aren't my own voice. At times I have heard the words spoken from someone's lips. 

My authentic inner voice says to go back to Venice, Italy, a place I love. Go when the tourists have disappeared and the fog comes. Take photographs and paint. Re-unite with friends there. On the way, stop and see brother Wade and family in Washington DC, where I grew up. Mingle and rejoice with him, his wife and two children. Go to Paris and kick around on the cobbled streets of the left bank that I know. Roll around in the subway . . . take the train and discover Versailles. Be entranced. Let the creative juices flow. Take a cheap flight on Air France and arrive in Venice. Stay a month.

Let yourself be silently drawn by the deeper pull of what you truly love. -Rumi

Montmartre street, Paris, France

Egypt is poor and has been convulsed by the Arab uprising that has roiled the middle east. Yet, whenever I go I am welcomed and feel at home. Sure, I don't speak Arabic, look different, don't know my way around . . . but that is part of the fun. After two visits, now when I arrive in Luxor, there are two families waiting with open arms to see me. Each family has five children and is extremely poor by western standards. But I love being in the earthen homes with the animals all around, the children sitting next to me, relaxed, drinking tea . . . all the while the Nile River flows just steps away. I am drawn by this; it is what I truly love. 

Karnak Temple, Luxor, Egypt

 

I can stay a couple weeks, a month, who knows? It is cheap to live there. My home in Santa Fe will be rented. Hopefully, my gallery will have sales enough during the slow season. 

I will dream, be absorbed in the ancient land of the Pharaohs' near the Temple of Karnak, photograph, paint and write.

Masai young men and boys, Serengeti

I want to go back to the land of the Masai people in Kenya and Tanzania. I believe I will go to Arusha, in Kenya. I can find the Masai . . . and maybe hike to the top of Mt. Kilimanjaro. Sure, I might get mugged or have something stolen. But the local newspaper here in Santa Fe has a daily police report, and those things and worse happen regularly.

So, with a full heart I will go forth.

What you seek is seeking you. -Rumi

Stop acting so small. You are the universe in ecstatic motion. -Rumi

Thankful For Confirmation

Recently an art collector called to give her credit card information so that she could finish paying for a painting I made in Venice, Italy. The subject is a lovely stone bridge with decorative iron railing spanning a canal. A restaurant with outdoor tables is in the background. I lived in the neighborhood where I painted it.

When the client bought it from my gallery in Santa Fe, New Mexico, USA, I was in Ecuador making art, photographing and writing. At the time, I remember being thankful for confirmation that I could live the life I love.

While the collector was on the phone with me, she mentioned another painting of Venice she had seen on my website. It is of a gondola passing under a stone bridge. We talked, and now she is buying that as well. Add this to the painting I sold to American collectors who visited my apartment in Venice during my sojourn there and that more than pays for the entire trip.

Today I felt great gratitude knowing that higher powers are in play. I throw myself at the feet of Divine Fate with absolute trust. It is a happy activity. I am very thankful that I live my passion with trust—and see results.

At another moment today I heard myself say, “Thank you Lord for what you give, and thank you for what you take away.”

To see more Boone art click: Steven Boone

Portal To Another World

 
One of my favorite subjects to paint and photograph is water. Why? Mostly because it is fluid and reflective. The water molecule is made of 2 hydrogen and 1 oxygen atoms. When they are bound together they form a very flat surface with the oxygen and hydrogen alternating in the same direction. This is great for causing photons (light particle) to bounce off in a consistent direction. They bounce because water is denser than air. Water is much flatter and smoother than most surfaces. You see reflections in water but not, say, sand, for the same reason you see your reflection in a polished piece of steel but not a rough-sanded piece of steel. All materials reflect light to some extent, but a rough surface scatters the reflected rays in all directions, so reflected images are blurred beyond recognition. On the other hand, with a very smooth surface, all the reflected light rays stay arranged in the same way they were arranged before hitting the surface, (except for being flipped into a mirror image, of course).

If the water is flowing rapidly, there is little reflection because the surface is not flat. Usually it picks up some surrounding colors, especially the sky. I have had fabulous outings in autumn, when the blazing fall colors are reflected in rivers.

Last fall I was living in Venice, Italy, the magical city built upon water. Some of my favorite photographs are of reflections. With the slightest movement on the water, the images shift and distort—a portal to another world.

Enough To Fill Volumes

At the Banteay Srey Butterfly Centre, near Siem Reap, Cambodia

I had not intended to leave the United States in mid-September and travel around the world, but this is what happened. Yes, for certain I knew I would go to live in Venice, Italy where I stayed five weeks, and maybe visit India and Thailand.
On November 2, I was in Varanasi, India and by the end of the month living in Chiang Mai, Thailand. In Thailand I realized I could only legally stay 30 days and began imagining where my footsteps might wander next. I chose the neighboring country of Cambodia and a visit to the famous Angkor Wat Temples. I only stayed one wonderful week, and circumstances brought me to Bali, Indonesia. By then I knew I would continue circling the globe east back to the USA. From Bali I went to New Zealand—and then my mother died and I hurried back to attend her memorial in Santa Barbara, California.

Over the course of 119 days, I made 25 paintings, shot thousands of photographs, wrote 17 blogs and made scores of journal entries, traveled by boat, train, car, rickshaw, bus, airplane and foot. The experiences are enough to fill volumes and will be woven into my future like so many brightly colored and various threads woven into a composition of exceptional fabric.

Now, my traveling is inward, into stillness, psychology, spirit.

On The Horizon

View of Vernazza, Cinqueterra, Italy

India is on the horizon. Tomorrow, I leave Rome, Italy to fly through the night and arrive in New Delhi. Thus will end my six week sojourn in Italy. The journey began in Venice, continued on to the Cinqueterra region and its five villages hugging the steep cliffs at the Mediterranean Sea, and ended in the Eternal City—Rome.

Rainbow over Venice, Italy

Friends in Venice welcomed me, and I made new acquaintances. Delightful characters emerged all along the way, and I tasted some of the best food anywhere in the world. The art, from thousands of years ago to the present day has filled my senses and stirred my imagination. Experiences will dwell in my heart and storehouse of my mind for years to come, feeding my imagination and calling forth transformation in my perceptions and creative pursuits.

Roman Forum, Rome

Indian civilization is perhaps older than Italy . . . and will work its own special magic. I do not expect the same qualities as Italy, and may have fewer comforts, but I know what to expect from having visited before, (see the blog Surrender). And I will be experiencing Diwali again on the banks of the Ganges River . . . in Varanasi, the spiritual capital of India and one of the oldest continually inhabited cities in the world.

I eagerly anticipate being awestruck.

Alive In A Fantastic Dream

Sometimes, when we are hiking in challenging terrain, we stumble, but get up to keep going. We are thrilled to be traveling, exploring and expanding.

I am on a train heading toward Corniglia, a little village in the region of Cinqueterra, a group of tiny towns that hug the steep cliffs of northeastern Italy and look out to the Mediterranean Sea. I just spent a month in Venice and it cast its spell as usual with plenty to sway the senses, and for an artist like me, inspire with subject matter worthy of my paintings and photography. Venice—the aristocratic and storied European city with deep history that is unique for its absence of cars or street traffic. To go anywhere requires walking or a boat ride, and this way everything is seen leisurely, not just a blur. In the end, I found myself particularly captivated by the ephemeral flickering and trembling reflections of the city that were cast upon the water in the canals. It is like an emblem of the dream that Venice represents.

A week ago a friend from America visited and we went to a concert together. She was ill, and I paid no heed since I have always had the attitude that I don't get sick under any circumstances. I got sick. For a week now, I have had a cough with upper respiratory discomfort. Last night I barely slept for all the coughing. I had to wake early to catch an early train. My alarm did not go off but I woke at the last minute and managed to get my considerable luggage to the train station on time. And here is the kick: I dozed off and at Florence missed getting off to switch trains for La Spezia, so had to travel all the way to Rome. I am now heading back north to Pisa, La Spezia and then Corniglia. All while sick and at more cost. I managed to notify the people who are expecting me.

Somehow something has shifted in my mind that allows me to stumble without it ruining my outlook. I am sick, so what? I missed my train? So what . . . I am a smiling being alive in a fantastic DREAM.