Uncharted, Once More — Into the Digital Unknown

 

Another Sunday, another reckoning with whatever imaginative wind has blown this week.

Creative currents have swept me into unfamiliar territory. For better or worse, this has always been my temperament. Experiment and learn. Take risks. Wander into unmapped terrain. Refuse to stay fixed on the same route simply because it is known, profitable, and comfortable.

This time it is video that calls—street photography woven into motion, and AI animation that produces short clips which can be spliced together into something resembling a film. A moving collage. A dream stitched frame by frame.

I have rudimentary skills—enough to splice images together, add sound, create transitions. Over the years I’ve made more than one hundred short videos that live on YouTube, quietly gathering viewers and subscribers. That alone once felt daring. 

Short clip of an outing in Oaxaca. About 2.5 minutes.

But recently there has been a dive into deeper water.

Using a sophisticated creation and editing software called Runway, with a prompt and a photograph, it can generate short animated clips—moments that breathe, faces that turn, streets that flicker into motion. It feels a bit like alchemy.

Half the time, the first attempt misses the mark, the second veers into absurdity and the third surprises me. I fumble with settings. watch tutorials, mutter. Then, generate, discard, regenerate. Gradually, fragments accumulate. And eventually, there is enough material to assemble an intriguing short film.

Short clip of Vincent Van Gogh. About 2 minutes.

It is both thrilling and humbling.

Why do this?

Because it is deeply satisfying to sit in the director’s seat from start to finish—and also be the author. To imagine something that did not exist, and then coax it into being. To orchestrate image, motion, rhythm, and sound. There is a childlike delight in it. A sense of play mixed with stubborn determination.

Yet, a feeling of quiet guilt.

My other loves—painting, photography, writing, have been faithful companions spanning decades. Am I abandoning them for a shiny new fascination? They are never far away. In truth, they flow into this new work. The eye trained as a photographer guides the frame and uses an image to begin. The painter thinks in light, color and shadow. The writer shapes the prompt, searches for tone, listens for story.

Still, there are moments when I feel in water over my head. The technology is already dense and advances faster than I can absorb it. Menus, tools, timelines—so many levers and switches. At seventy-three, one could reasonably decide to simplify. To consolidate. To refine what is already mastered and stay in a niche.

But that has not been my way.

I am still willing to be a beginner. Still willing to look foolish. Still willing to wrestle with something difficult simply because it calls to me.

There is joy in grappling. Joy in not knowing and in watching a small competence slowly grow. The process is awkward, sometimes maddening—but alive.

Perhaps that is the real current I am following.

Not video. Not AI. Not even art in a particular form.

But the current of becoming.

Alive Among the Dead

The days approached steadily, as they do each year—filled with anticipation, hope, and a tinge of sadness. After all, Día de Muertos is a time to honor those we have “lost.” Yet nothing is ever truly lost—and that is why this celebration overflows with life in Mexico.

The fields of marigolds—cempasúchil, the flower of the dead—burst into golden bloom. Their color, like small suns, symbolizes the eternal cycle of life and light, guiding returning souls home with their glowing hue and pungent scent. Alongside them, the deep crimson cresta de gallo (cockscomb) blooms in velvety folds, representing the blood of life and the enduring vitality of spirit. Together they speak a language of remembrance—sun and heart, light and love intertwined.



Armfuls of flowers are carried to home altars and gravesites. Marigold petals spill across store entrances, and hotels glow with candles and color. Parades surge through the streets—comparsas of every kind—people of all ages marching, drumming, and laughing. Happiness abounds, as if the dead were truly alive again.

This year’s grand comparsa wound through the streets for over an hour, lined on both sides with cheering crowds. Bands played in wild rhythm, costumed marchers paraded alongside dancers balancing baskets of marigolds on their heads, and bright floats rolled past in a joyful burst of revelry.

3 min. video

From our village of San Pedro Ixtlahuaca, we drove into Oaxaca City to join the festivities and take part in our own small way. My camera, of course, was always in hand—this is a photographer’s dream come to life.

Our ofrenda

Barbara and Russ

By chance we met Barbara and Russ, a lovely couple visiting from Vermont who collect my artwork—a sweet coincidence amid the celebration. The festival draws to a close this evening, with a band playing at the Zócalo, the heart of town. Amy and I will meet our collector friends there, savoring the last notes of music before the candles fade and we begin to wait again—for next year’s return of the spirits.

Memoir Writing - The Weight Of Air

Painting on the island of Kauaʻi, Hawaii, 2001

For four decades, my workdays were mostly spent with paint and brush, shaping canvases into worlds of light and form. Lately, that has shifted. My hours are given to words, to chiseling memory into narrative. A little guilt has crept in—I haven’t been producing much artwork. But writing, I’ve discovered, is equally creative. It is painting with sentences instead of brushstrokes, summoning images from the palette of experience.

The project at hand is my travel memoir, The Weight of Air. Its backbone is the year 2008, when for twelve months I circled the globe, living in 25 countries. Every moment seemed to demand documentation. I carried cameras, sketchbooks, and at first, even an easel and art supplies. I painted, photographed, and wrote—laying down a trail of evidence that life had shifted irrevocably. Those blog posts from the road became seeds, waiting until now to be pressed into the soil of a fuller story.

Route across the globe, Jan. 2008 -  Jan. 2009

The journey was transformative. Early along the way I stumbled into a mental and spiritual state I came to call The Dream. It was more than just heightened awareness; it was a trust, a surrender, an embrace of mystery. In that current, I felt carried, as though the world itself were the author and I merely a willing participant.

This perception—more than perception really, more like a state of being—opened me to deeper engagement with the world around me. Barriers fell, just as in real life dreaming. It is said that to understand mysterious, indecipherable happenings in dreams, one must become what it is that must be understood. For instance if being trampled by an elephant, to become the elephant as well as the one trampled. So I was unafraid, because I was everything happening all at once.

Section from the current chapter, called Northward to Hanoi. Part 1

"Within a day, a cabin had been booked on a Chinese junk, a flat-bottomed sailing vessel now outfitted as a floating hotel, yet still bearing the elegant lines and fan-shaped sails of another age.

What happens to time and space in dreams? It seems youthfulness exists in dreaming because events occur that are not bound by physical law. All sorts of fantastic actions and experiences occur in dreams, and the occurrences are effortlessly woven together into a symphony of events. 

So it was in Hanoi: guided by THE DREAM itself, within two days of arrival I was carried out upon a Chinese junk with eight fellow travelers and five crew, moving almost without sound across the mirrored waters of Halong Bay—a UNESCO World Heritage Site."

Old ladies, near Hoi An, Vietnam

Now, nearing the end of the memoir, I find myself in Vietnam once again—at least in memory, shaping it into words. Soon the path bends toward Malaysia, then Australia and New Zealand. Within three weeks, the odyssey will be complete on the page, though its reverberations still echo daily. At last I will hold the memoir as a complete volume.

I have been an artist all my life, but this work reminds me that creativity wears many guises. Whether on canvas or in prose, it is the same impulse: to bear witness, to shape experience into something that can be shared, something that endures.

Lost and Found in Mexico City

From rogue taxis to Diego’s grave, tracing art, memory, and spirit through Roma Norte

Plaza Río de Janeiro

Amy and I parted ways on Monday, June 30, under the bright sun of Oaxaca. She flew north to Minneapolis–Saint Paul, where her son Esau welcomed her with open arms. Her other son, Jess, and sister, Carrie, are close by—family warmth to soften the distance between Minnesota and Oaxaca.

I, meanwhile, came to Mexico City and find myself tucked into a quiet apartment in Roma Norte. A pleasant surprise. Tree-lined streets, bohemian cafés, artful storefronts. It feels safe, relaxed, alive. The kind of place where time breathes a little easier. And an artist fits in naturally.

Each day, I set out with camera in hand. I visited the Museo Soumaya—its silver, twisting architecture always catches the light just right, like a seashell turned toward the sun. Built by Carlos Slim and named after his late wife, the museum is a monument to both love and wealth. The collection isn’t quite world-class, but it’s deep, eclectic, and free to all. I admire that—art offered without charge, a gift from one of the world’s richest men to the people of Mexico.

I went looking for a street I remembered—lined with wedding and quinceañera dress shops. I didn’t find it, but I did stumble upon Plaza Río de Janeiro, with its cheerful fountains and a hulking bronze copy of Michelangelo’s David. Mexico City has a way of giving you what you didn’t know you needed.

Later, I did find the wedding district, tucked in a gritty part of town—rows of shops bursting with ruffled dreams: gowns for little girls, glittering tiaras, satin shoes no bigger than your hand. The shopkeepers were kind. I wandered timidly, a gringo in a bastion of Mexican culture—but left feeling part of something grand, and with some fine photos.

Next day, the metro dropped me too far from the Panteón de Dolores, so I caught a taxi the rest of the way. There was no entry fee, but most of the cemetery was closed to the public—only the Rotonda de las Personas Ilustres was open. Photography was limited to handheld devices, a gesture of reverence. Inside the rotunda, I stood beside Diego Rivera’s grave. The great muralist rests among kindred spirits—writers, painters, musicians, and revolutionaries. The Rotonda is a place where Mexico honors its luminaries—those who shaped the nation’s art, identity, and soul. It’s fitting that Diego lies there, surrounded by a chorus of voices that once stirred the heart of Mexico.

Rivera Grave, front and back

That very afternoon, as if guided by some invisible thread, I found myself face-to-face with Las Dos Fridas at the Museo de Arte Moderno. Kahlo’s most famous painting—created after her agonizing breakup with Diego—is raw, haunting, and unforgettable. Two versions of Frida sit side by side, hearts exposed, one bleeding onto a white dress. The work is both deeply personal and universally human—a portrait of love, loss, and fractured identity. Frida and Diego, both in one day. Icons in the annals of art, heroes in the heart of Mexico. Soulmates, despite it all—and now, both immortalized not just in memory and museums, but on Mexican currency as well. 

Uber has been a comfort—clean, efficient, secure. I used it a couple of times without fuss. But then came the lesson: I had trouble locating a ride, and instead flagged down a rogue taxi. The driver refused cash, overcharged my card, and disappeared without giving a receipt. I called the credit card company and filed a dispute. No harm in the end, but I’m too old for this kind of robbery. Still, the city teaches—even in irritation.

"The Two Fridas," 1939, oil on canvas, by Frida Kahlo

The day held these highlights, yet I came home shaken. The taxi incident had rattled me. And the next day, July 5, was tender. It’s Naomi’s birthday in heaven. I spent the day quietly—sweeping, cooking, walking to the market. Praying. Tuning inward.

Health slows me—prostate issues bring discomfort and shadows of worry—but I press on, grateful for each step, each glimpse of the dream unfolding.

More and more, I long to surrender completely to spirit. To let go of striving. To live inside peace, with equanimity, and give myself entirely to God.

Street Art

Everywhere I walk, the walls speak. Mexico City’s street art is bold, defiant, and alive—murals, stencils, and graffiti bursting with color and voice. I’ve taken scores of photos, drawn to the visual symphony unfolding on every corner. Torn posters layered one over another become accidental masterpieces—an abstract collage of texture, pigment, and time. It's as if the city itself is constantly repainting its soul in public.

"Sueño de una tarde dominical en la Alameda Central,"  Diego Rivera, 50 feet wide

Today, Sunday, with camera slung over my shoulder, I walked to the Centro Médico metro station, descended into the city's undercurrent, and boarded a train—intending Bellas Artes but momentarily spirited in the wrong direction. A swift correction, and soon I emerged into the heart of Centro, where broad pedestrian promenades unfolded beneath towering architecture and a blue Mexico City sky. I returned to the Museo Mural Diego Rivera, drawn again to “Sueño de una tarde dominical en la Alameda Central”—that dense dream of Mexican history and myth. It held me, as always, in its spell. Along the way and all the way back, I made photographs—faces, shadows, signs, surprises—collecting fragments of the city's restless poetry.

In a few days, on July 9, I’ll leave Mexico City and fly to Albuquerque. There, I’ll spend the night with my beloved daughter Sarah—always a joy and a grounding presence. The next morning, I’ll head to Santa Fe, where I’ll settle in for a few weeks of quiet living and renewal. Amy will meet me there, and before long, we’ll journey back together to our sweet Oaxacan home—where life is unhurried, and the dream continues.

The Ever-Shifting Dance of Creation

As previously mentioned, focus has returned to words. Combing through decades of writing, essays are taking shape drawn from years of travel and introspection. A foundation is forming, and at its core, the year 2008.

A year of surrender. A year of dissolving into the matrix of life. Traveling the world with no fixed plan, disappearing into The Dream. That journey reshaped everything—perception, identity, the sense of what is possible. Now, its echoes call to be gathered into writing, to be shared.

Perhaps, someday, they will find their way into a book, titled, The Weight of Air. A collection of journeys—both outward and inward—woven together with the same thread that has always guided me: surrender, discovery, and the dissolution of boundaries. But for now, the task has begun; offering through words and images, glimpses into worlds both spiritual and sensual, taking flight between wakefulness and dreaming.  

The first chapter is called, The Moment I Chose to Vanish. An excerpt: 

Into the Matrix

Preparing to give myself into the unknown, my thoughts were becoming doorways; portals into experience. The physical world, I understood, was where the true value of my visions would be revealed. A recurring desire took hold of me: I wanted to disappear into the matrix of the earth. Not to carry anything with me, but to become fluid and free. 

What did this mean? To disappear—to vanish from being seen as a separate, formed being and dissolve into oneness with life. Life, the vast, interwoven fabric where everything is connected—people, events, places, emotions, and time. I desired to be in this matrix, surrendering to the flow, allowing experiences to inspire and shape me rather than trying to control them. Children remained close to it, still forming in its embrace, unshaped by the boundaries that adults constructed. 

Looking back now, I see I stood on the threshold of an exploration—one that would take me beyond those boundaries, into a vast unknown. I had been preparing to strip away the artificial walls that society had built around life, to step into something raw and unfiltered.  

Reinventing Beyond Painting

For most of my life, I have been an artist—a painter first and foremost. Many times I have felt like pinching myself, asking, “Can this be true . . . a successful artist?” Standing in nature painting beauty, while listening to birdsongs and feeling wind and sun, and then getting paid for the painting. What could be better? My hands have moved with color, form, and instinct, bringing visions to life on canvas.

 

Art has been a constant companion, shaping existence, giving purpose, and serving as conduit to the world. It has been my identity.

But now, at 72, I find myself at a crossroads, making a shift never anticipated.  

It is strange to acknowledge: my creative wellspring hasn’t dried up, but the way it flows is changing. Painting—once the beating heart of daily rhythm—feels quieter now, like a tide receding. In its place, something else is rising. Writing. Storytelling. The art of weaving my lived experiences, insights, and dreams into words that might reach others in a different way than my paintings ever could.  

I have been a writer all along. But it has been mostly in the background. Awards have been won, magazine articles published. Like my photography that has occasionally adorned a book cover, I have given creative energy to art other than painting.

Now to immerse myself in writing! To shape and share my thoughts more expansively. Friends have suggested for years that I combine my images with my writing, (See: Plenty To Write About). Yet, it is bittersweet. I am abandoning painting, at least for now, because writing must consume the hours. Not to choose this lightly; rather, it is the natural pull of a creative current, something I have always trusted.

Fortunately, it is not from scratch. For nearly two decades, I have been writing about my journey—art, travels, philosophies—on My Fairy-Tale Life, this blog that now holds almost 800 entries. These writings, layered with the richness of time and experience, form a vast reservoir to draw from and shift toward publishing on platforms like Substack and Medium. They hold the stories of a life lived with intensity, surrender, and wonder. In many ways, I have already been writing my next chapter—I just didn’t realize it.  

And while my paintbrush may rest for now, the visual world does not. With thousands of images—paintings, photographs, moments captured over a lifetime—I can now pair them with writing. In this way, my artistic spirit continues, even as the medium shifts. Perhaps I am not leaving painting behind, but rather allowing it to merge with language in a way that feels inevitable.

The journey has been anything but linear. From a year of "disappearing into the matrix" in 2008, traveling the world in THE DREAM and surrendering to the currents of life, and to the deeply personal journey of grief and love that shaped my book A Heart Traced in Sand, life has always been a dance between artistic expression and storytelling. Now, it seems, words are taking the lead.  

Who knows where this shift will lead. But then again, I never knew where painting would take me either. That is the beauty of creative life: it is never truly static, even when we believe we have found our singular path.  

Others have felt this shift in their own lives—the unexpected pivot, the realization that reinvention is not the territory of youth alone. Even at 72, there is room for sudden transformation. Perhaps the true art is in the letting go, the willingness to follow the currents when they change direction.  

So here I am, stepping into something new. Not abandoning the past, but expanding the horizon. If you have followed my work as a painter, I hope you will join me on this next phase of the journey—through words, through memory, through the ever-unfolding dream of life.  

Because at any age, and in any form, the art continues.  

Soon to come: My Substack and Medium websites where you can enjoy my literature.

Check out a new Stevenboone website: https://stevenboone.myportfolio.com/

With Fresh Eyes

This past week, Amy and I, along with a friend visiting from our former hometown of Santa Fe, New Mexico, USA, set out on a much-anticipated road trip from our village outside Oaxaca, Mexico to the Pacific Coast. With Highway 175 stretching before us, we embarked on our scenic drive. We had been to the coast on the same route about a month prior and the newly finished highway was smooth, clean and fast. This time we were stunned to find heavy damage along the way. Rocks and earth slides slowed down our drive and left us in awe and trembling. Men working heavy machinery were tasked the huge job of clearing the damage. 

Our destination was Mazunte, a small coastal town known for its bohemian charm and laid-back energy. Nestled along the shore, Hotel Casa Ofelia became our sanctuary for three nights—a simple yet delightful hotel where the ocean itself seemed to breathe tranquility into every moment. Our days melted into a dream of sunlit waves, salty breezes, the lulling sound of crashing waves, and endless relaxation. Amy does not swim, but I went headlong into the surf when I could. The ocean there is dangerous for its forceful action and somewhat steep slope, so at least once I was warned by a lifeguard to only go in up to my knees. Fortunately there is another, spectacular and safe beach called San Augustinillo, just minutes away.

Mazunte has a way of slowing time. It attracts travelers, artists, and wanderers, all drawn to its eclectic, free-spirited atmosphere. To me, it has the feeling of Haight-Ashbury in San Francisco during the height of the hippie days in the late 1960´s. Very relaxed elemental people are on a permanent free-spirit groove. The ocean, ever-present, is guide—a steady force softening thoughts and smoothing away
lingering tensions. We found a new favorite restaurant, grabbed delicious local coffee, visited a marvelous Turtle Museum. Spent sunset time walking along the shore, watching the sky transform into a canvas of fiery colors.

By the time we packed up to leave, we felt renewed. Three nights in eclectic Mazunte had worked its quiet magic, offering us space to breathe, to be still, and to simply exist in the presence of the sea. 

The drive home was reflective and slightly strained with the landscape shifting once again. Then suddenly when we entered Oaxaca city I felt it—the warm embrace of home. The cobblestone streets, vibrant markets, and artistic soul welcomed us back. Charms we had momentarily left behind now felt even richer, layered with the peace we carried from the coast.

Sometimes, a journey is not about seeking something new but about stepping away just long enough to return with fresh eyes. Mazunte gave us that gift, and Oaxaca, in turn, received us with open arms.

Rekindled Friendship

 

Amy and I occasionally have the pleasure of meeting friends from the United States when they come to Oaxaca on vacation. This past week one of Amy’s dearest friends from her former life in Taos, New Mexico came with her daughter and daughters fiancé to visit. They booked a hotel in Centro. We arranged a tour guide for them, and spent precious moments going places together and visiting in our home.

A highlight of our time together was El Museo del Tallador de Sueños; A haven of whimsy and wonder, it is small museum of magical woodcarvings called Alebrije´s. Located in Arrazola, the village neighbors ours. 

The museum is a testament to the artistry and imagination of Oaxacan woodcarvers. What made this visit even more special is Amy's connection to the famous family of artists who own the museum. We are friends with the Jimenez family who own the museum. In fact, Amy made the illustrations for a book called Dream Carver published in the USA and made into a muppets play.

Now, a huge mural adorns the wall at the museum replicating her illustration from the book.

As our Taos friends marveled at the intricate carvings and vibrant hues of the Alebrijes, they couldn't help but be swept away by the enchantment of it all.

With carvings in hand, tangible mementos of their time together and the artistry of Oaxaca, they bid farewell to the museum, hearts brimming with newfound admiration for this corner of the world. The journey had not only rekindled old friendships but also deepened appreciation for the beauty that thrives in spaces between cultures and across borders.

For more about the magic . . .