An Overnight Trip

If I wake with a feeling of sadness, and during the day I panic with a sense life is ending, well, it may be because summer is over and nature is shifting into the season of death for all things green and deciduous. The days grow shorter and the air grows colder.

"Cliffs and Lake" oil on linen, 12 x 12 inches

Heidi Of The Mountains and I took an overnight trip to a beautiful lake and camped out in my van. We do not need much to make us comfortable. All we had was a foam pad to sleep on and an overhead light. Most of the other campers were in expensive recreational vehicles with all the luxuries . . . but that distinction did not help one couple who were several sites away in their RV. After the sun sank below the horizon and darkness fell upon the land, they began fighting and the altercation escalated to what sounded like blows and screaming and crying. 

"Heidi's Mountains" oil on canvas, 11 x 14 inches

It is wonderful to paint outdoors. The first step is to find a location that offers the right view. This can take time . . . to search the landscape for the right elements and perspective to make an interesting and captivating composition. On day one, I made a painting of jagged cliffs at the lake edge. Heidi is becoming an ardent artist and stayed behind at the camp site, choosing a different view to a distant mountain. The wind picked up and we both had our painting knocked over. Mine blew down at the start, before I had begun much work, so I secured it better, resumed, and was able to finish. The wind blew Heidi's into her, and ruined it so that she had to begin again. In the end, she almost cried with frustration since the piece never regained its likableness and she had to throw it away. 

The next day, we decided to paint in the morning before the wind came, and we both came up with artwork we fancied.

"Bluffs at Ghost Ranch" oil on canvas, 20 x 20 inches

To see more paintings go to Steven Boone Paintings

Raspberries

Heidi Of The Mountains is an outdoors type, and this week amidst the whirlwind activity at my gallery, she said, “I have to go to the mountains . . . and soon.”  I agreed to stop work, and today, we drove together to a ranch outside of Santa Fe that is renowned for raspberries.

When we arrived around noon, I was surprised to see a dirt parking lot crammed with cars, and looking out to the raspberry field, about 100 people ambling through the rows, buckets in hand, picking berries. We gathered our baskets and set out io the raspberry patch. A field manager took us to a row, and said, “The field has been picked over, especially since so many people were out on Saturday, but look under the leaves along the way here, and you will find berries.” I asked him about the growing season, and he told me the plants would continue replenishing berries for a few more weeks. “By Tuesday, they will all be back” he said. We stepped into the field, and soon, found ourselves each alone in our own meditative space, looking down, concentrated on spotting the ripe, ruby red berries amidst the green leaves and prickly stems.

While picking the berries, it is impossible not to sample the juicy fruit. To taste a freshly plucked raspberry is wonderful. The soft flesh almost melts in the mouth, oozing sweet and slightly tart flavors. The tiny seeds are all that are left to crunch upon before swallowing. In forty-five minutes, the two of us had gathered about 2 ½ pounds, for which we paid $12.00.

After our picking, we went to the quaint ranch café and ordered a slice of raspberry pie, then sat in the shade and shared.

As the sun moved slowly across the afternoon sky, I took my paints and easel out, and while Heidi Of The Mountains stood next to me making a watercolor painting, I captured a scene of an old adobe warehouse standing along the road. Its weathered tin roof pitched at an angle and reflected the bright sky, while the faded stuccoed whitewashed walls stood accented by deep green shrubs, sunflowers, and a few decrepit windows. A grand old tree grew at the end of the building, almost like an exclamation point.

On our way home, Heidi Of The Mountains massaged my head and neck while I drove, saying, “Oh thank-you . . . I had a wonderful day!”

Random Act Of Kindness

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 11
Sometimes while I am outdoors painting, my activity arouses people’s curiosity. In the old quarter of Rutigliano, in a neighborhood of stone streets so small cars cannot enter, I set up my easel and painted. A dozen or so curious people at various times arrived at my side to look. Youngsters especially were unafraid to approach. An old, slow moving, toothless fellow came along and took a pleasurable interest. He spoke but I could not understand, so I said in Italian, “I am an American artist, and can speak a little Italian, but not very well.” Turning to go, he halted and speaking in Italian, asked if I wanted a cigarette. After he was gone, I returned to my painting, and a few moments later he re-appeared and asked if I would like it if he brought some coffee. I said, “yes,” then he disappeared around the corner and five minutes later brought me espresso. For his random act of kindness, I thanked him profusely. He vanished again and I painted in earnest because the sun was moving across the afternoon sky causing the light and shadows to rapidly change so that my subject looked different with each passing moment. Twenty minutes later the fellow came again and strolled up, holding a plastic bag in his wrinkled hand. He opened and held it out, and I saw a pair of used, but nice, Italian leather shoes. Momentarily confused, I wondered what he was doing. The shoes looked about my size, and he pointed to my feet and then put the bag in my hand. Looking up into my face with a smile, he said something. I leaned over and kissed his whiskered cheek, then he shuffled away.