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 . . .

To Be in THE DREAM

Just being alive is exciting, and my perception is that THE DREAM is a single entity. In other words, every moment is part of the one preceding it, and the one to come. I do not divide them but live in the universal. The present time gives me all that I need.   From My FairyTale Life, February 07, 2010 

During all of the year 2008 I travelled solo around the globe, completely circling the earth, mostly going eastward. I had so many fabulous adventures. They became part of this blog, which I call My Fairy-Tale Life. From the start of the sojourn, my consciousness shifted from deliberate planning to more of observer in a state of flux. The constant flow of surprising sights and sounds in unknown environments left me feeling as if I lived in a dream. This is what I adopted as normal⏤THE DREAM.

Me with Ash. I rented a houseboat from him on Dal Lake, in Kashmir, India. 10/2008

When traveling ended and routine life resumed, I noticed also my perceptions and consciousness slipped back to occupation with matters of health, income, community and family. Thoughts became compartmentalized again. Occasionally I remembered that I am dreaming in real life, but the sensation would go away as exigencies required attention.

Lately I have been reading passages from my days of being totally in THE DREAM. True now as it was then, living in Mexico I can see that THE DREAM has wonderful gifts. The lesson is to be grateful under all circumstances, not discriminate, and see that each experience is woven into all other experiences creating the fabric of existence called life.

Returning to the sea of life

Quotes from My Fairy-Tale Life, spanning years:

Life cannot be held, only experienced. To try and hold it is when we realize it is but a dream. - December 06, 2015

I shook off notions of nationality, race, wealth—all the usual prejudices that are obstacles to oneness. The more I let go, the more I realized the world is phenomenal, fluid—and ever shifting sands. -April 08, 2018

My mind shifted from analysis and planning to complete acceptance of the moment. I began having total trust in what was being presented to me, seeing the gift of life everywhere and in everything. Opportunities arose and I had no fear because I did not live with feelings of opposition or separateness. My surroundings and I were one, and as events unfolded and I met people, the experiences were more profound because I was open to them—even expecting them. Events and consciousness seemed continuous and woven together, full of wonder and surprise—as if in a dream. I was the dreamer bearing witness. 

Thoughts and emotions are not permanent. I have been looking to a higher reality to gain perspective—to find immutable truth. Everything depends on it or else falls apart. My life has come undone so I have been ardently going to the place of truth, longing only to stay in that sacred temple. The more I am there, the more I see that THE DREAM is not only the fleeting occurrences all around me, but the terrain of my mind as well. Truth is independent of mind, beyond time and space. I am not talking about relative truth but rather the absolute: God, the uncreated Creator Who dwells in all, and is first recognized by our souls. - April 05, 2015

THE DREAM, to me, is a function of consciousness and interpretation of perceptions. I prefer not to interpret and judge my experiences but rather live them entirely as to “know” them. THE DREAM goes before me and I trust it because it is myself, in dialogue with God. -November 21, 2009

Dar Timitar, El Kelaa M'gouna, Morocco

“We must give up the life we had planned in order to accept the one that is waiting for us.” -Joseph Campbell

For more: THE DREAM writing

¡Viva! Art On The Streets

 

Amy and I are artists who spend time together creating art in our wonderful home in a village outside of Oaxaca, Mexico. We go to the city at least three days a week and feel excitement. I always make a new discovery and am surprised by something I have not seen before. Much of it is art on the streets. 

The street art is awesome and mysterious because we assume it is done for free by artists who create masterpieces.

My daughter Sarah during a visit

One group, called Subterreneos, is a collective of artists. They have their own atelier and make woodblock prints, sometimes on a massive scale. Much of the work is of somewhat political nature, making social justice statements. The prints are for sale, but often also are printed on special papers that are then glued with a wheat paste substance on walls around the city. I have seen fantastic works. They deteriorate naturally, but are replaced with something new, often  in a different location. 

Mural being created by the group Subterreneos for a local food market

Artist working on mural

Native culture, heritage, tradition and “raíces,” or roots, all run deep in Oaxaca. Travel and Leisure Magazine has awarded Oaxaca first place in its annual best cities in the world issue⏤more than once. Amy and I chose to live here after an initial visit. We felt a definite allure. When we found our dream house at a price we could not resist, we made the move. It was like holding hands and jumping into the unknown, but trusting something bigger.

We live outside of the big city in a growing community called San Pedro Ixtlahuaca. Not much around but cornfields and rolling hills, but it has a town center with businesses and is not far from a hugely important Mexican archeological site called Monte Alban.

Oaxaca and its charms are all close by.

More about Oaxacan street art

To Paint A Dream

 

Since moving to our little village outside Oaxaca, Mexico, Amy and I have have been strongly influenced by our new culture. From our second floor studio in our home, we have been slowly but steadily producing “las pinturas con una diferencia.”  At some point we hope to mount a public show together.  Our styles and subjects are different enough to make it quite interesting.

Amy has completed a new work from our studio, called, Into the Mystic, acrylic on board, 24"x39".  She says:

"Xoloitzcuintle or xolo dogs are revered in Mexico since ancient times for their profound, otherworldly abilities. They are uniquely hairless and are considered to possess healing abilities, as well as guides for their Master on his/her journey to the spirit world. I decided to paint a dream I had of the end of the fifth sun, when the old paradigm departs and the sixth sun commences. In my painting, the xolos challenge Quetzalcoatl. The humans are in partnership with the xolos⏤conjuring the New Day. The female xolo with her newborn pups represent the coming of the sixth sun. We see the phases of the moon…the passage of time.
My true hope is to have a xolo. But for now, I can only visualize them as part of my world."

Bloom Where You Are Planted

Amy and I moved to our house in the village of San Pedro Ixtlahuaca 331 days ago. It is on the outskirts of Oaxaca, the famous city in southern Mexico. We love our home and agree it is the best we have ever lived in. Built by a Mexican architect and his German agronomist wife, money was not an object and great love was poured into it from the beginning. It has survived two earthquakes with barely a crack or dislodged clay roof tile. 

We are Americans in Mexico with permanent resident status. Amy read somewhere that the first year living in Mexico is the most difficult. Certainly it was shocking at first, and even now, there are some aspects we don’t like. The change has been more difficult for Amy. I don’t exactly know why, but I have adjusted from the start⏤even though Amy is much better at speaking Spanish. It is probably because I have reinvented myself so many times in life. I have been around the world twice, lived in many poor countries, been a homeless wanderer, and lost my oldest daughter to cancer at age nineteen in 1999.  I learned this life is THE DREAM, and we do not control it. It is phenomenal, surprising, sparkling, terrible, dark, light filled, wonderful and dramatic. It is best not to resist, but rather be in it totally and observe intently.

It is evident Mexico is poorer than the USA. We live amidst poverty here. A preponderance of streets are broken and dirty, maimed dogs wander around aimlessly, most people do not have cars and rely on little “moto taxis”. Homes are nothing more than concrete block walls or tin shacks. We live in grandiosity compared to our neighbors. 

Yet good values can be seen in the way love exists in families. Often people can be seen walking hand in hand. There is plenty of laughter, music, and occasions for celebration. Mexicans love festivities and participate whole heartedly.

The cost of food is about 1/4th what the USA charges. It is good and fresh year round. Oaxaca has fabulous restaurants. Archeological sites abound and indigenous cultures have deep historical roots going back millenniums. The climate here stays comfortable year around. There are two seasons; dry and wet. Our home is made of adobe and has neither heating or cooling systems. It stays comfortable all the time.

During my hippie days in the 60´s I read a slogan painted on a wall, something from the flower child revolution: “Bloom where you are planted.”