A Metaphor

Shadowman amid ruins, Andalucia, Spain

A metaphor of my life of the last few months might be a traveler who is on a journey with a close

partner and along the way, the partner decides to permanently go in a different direction alone. Suddenly the journeyman feels abandoned in a foreign land, and laments his separation. The landscape becomes tangled and even threatening. He is in a jungle of snares and brambles that cut his flesh and at night he is assailed by ghosts and mosquitos. He does not fear death, but is perplexed at being so anxious of his predicament. Meanwhile, his partner is completely vanished.

The difficulties usurp his appetite so that he does not eat. He wonders at his plight and how his life has changed so drastically. Occasionally sunlight filters through the dense coverage of brambles and vines, and he hears bird songs, but it all seems abstract and without meaning because he is ensnared by sorrow. He notices that his cuts heal, so his body is working . . .

He finds an abandoned house—the occupants left it long ago and it is in shambles. He takes shelter, but it reminds him of loss—the walls are crumbling, the roof caved in, furniture broken.

Abandoned home, Andalucia, Spain

The outer world has no charm. He turns inward to find inspiration when Spirit comes to take his hand and sit with him. He receives grace, and sees everything that has happened is really a gift to bring him to the sacred place of his true self that is beyond time and space. The terrain was all meant for him, the journey ordained to make him master of his destiny. He is shown his inner compass to his destination in the higher realm. The spirits rejoice that the soul, fearful of being lost without help, is knowing his true path and can call on higher power anytime. His troubles have led him to greater freedom and made him more powerful.

The wanderer sets out from the broken home, compass firmly in hand, and listening to spirit, feels jubilant and knows he is well with good fortune ahead. He begins receiving gifts from strangers . . . the terrain becomes unencumbered and beautiful. He finds palaces that are welcoming, and hosts who are happy to greet him. He has many tales to tell of life. A physician examines him thoroughly and announces that he is as fit as a man twenty years younger. 

The traveler is thankful and gives praise to the Creator and spirit for always being with him. He knows he would still be lost if not for the compass and power that comes from invisible guides and allies. He prays never to forget his true life and destiny in Spirit.

My living room. (The big painting sold recently.)

Gardens, Kashmir, India

Suddenly Vanished

The most difficult experience in life is separation. At birth, it is the baby being forced apart from the mother, coming from the womb and the umbilical cord being cut. Then the weaning from the breast, and if it is too sudden there is much crying. Later, the first steps away from mother and father, going off to school for the first time. As the child grows, new bonds of affection form with friends, and eventually, another separation unfolds with the leaving of home and family to start a new life of independence.

All the while, special care is taken to maintain the all-important bond of spirit. This way, a certain safety and security is assured. Even when there is great distance, the bond of spirit is beyond time and space doing its work.
That bond depends on trust. If trust is broken, then the bond breaks. This is worse than physical separation.

When my teen-aged daughter died at the age of nineteen, it felt as though my best partner in life had suddenly vanished. As if we had been hiking together on a wondrous and difficult mountain, helping each other along, crying and laughing together, in awe and also some fear, holding to one another and absolutely bonded, when of a sudden, she vanished—as if from a ledge she leapt into thin air, leaving me alone on the mountainside . . . taking some of my joy with her. We both knew in advance the perils, and she spoke of her uncertainty that she would remain by my side; not that she did not want to, but the hand of fate had written to her. If she spoke of this, I would respond that we could overcome even the hand of fate. But the higher powers wanted her and my love could not keep her from going to a realm even more high and mighty than the feeble mountain I clung to. Now, I found myself on the same wonderful and difficult mountain, but without my dearest friend, and nothing looked the same.

And so here I am fifteen years later in the same situation. Through a physical, mental and

emotional bond, in marriage to Heidi of the Mountains, we had been exploring the heights of our existence, gaining perspective from our vantage on a mountainside, seeing the low places below us, and dreaming of higher places, when the journey became more strenuous and suddenly tiresome. She doubted, and began longing to go back down. I held her hand to convince her of the most beautiful places we had been and just ahead, more sublimity and our lofty goal within reach. We must be loyal, and patient, to give each other strength to get there. I worried she was abandoning me, reminded of my experience with my daughter. I pleaded, but she turned away . . . I could not go with her, and though heartbroken, kept to the mountain.

It has secrets and charms that speak to me every day—bringing healing. The angelic winds play all around, with lofty, wondrous songs, the air is clear and bright, the path strewn with wildflowers. I will travel on, and deal with my loneliness. I trust that the longer I stay on course, the stronger I will become and more wise. The mountain will offer up its joy to me because I do not leave it, but remain faithful.

Imagine Love

Imagine love between a man and a woman in the strongest terms. William Shakespeare (26 April 1564 – 23 April 1616), regarded as the greatest writer in the English language wrote of such love in his plays. The Merchant Of Venice, written between 1596 and 1598, includes a subplot where a beautiful young woman of noble heritage, Portia, is to be wed, but her wealthy father sets a test to determine who will win his prized daughter. A handsome noble Venetian, Bassanio, wishes her hand and makes considerable effort to arrive at her side.
“Her father left a will stipulating each of her suitors must choose correctly from one of three caskets – one each of gold, silver and lead. If he picks the right casket, he gets Portia. The first suitor, the Prince of Morocco, chooses the gold casket, interpreting its slogan, "Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire," as referring to Portia. The second suitor, the conceited Prince of Arragon, chooses the silver casket, which proclaims, "Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves", as he believes he is full of merit. Both suitors leave empty-handed, having rejected the lead casket because of the baseness of its material and the uninviting nature of its slogan, "Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath." The last suitor is Bassanio, whom Portia wishes to succeed, having met him before. Bassanio chooses the lead casket and wins Portia's hand.” (From Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Merchant_of_Venice}

When Bassiano wins her, Portia almost swoons with delight since he is her true love, and here are her words of devotion:

    “You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I stand,

    Such as I am. Though for myself alone

    I would not be ambitious in my wish

    To wish myself much better, yet for you

    I would be trebled twenty times myself,

    A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times more rich,

    That only to stand high in your account

    I might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends,

    Exceed account. But the full sum of me

    Is sum of something which, to term in gross,

    Is an unlesson'd girl, unschool'd, unpractis'd;

    Happy in this, she is not yet so old

    But she may learn; happier than this,

    She is not bred so dull but she can learn;

    Happiest of all is that her gentle spirit

    Commits itself to yours to be directed,

    As from her lord, her governor, her king.

    Myself and what is mine to you and yours

    Is now converted. But now I was the lord

    Of this fair mansion, master of my servants,

    Queen o'er myself; and even now, but now,

    This house, these servants, and this same myself,

    Are yours- my lord's. I give them with this ring,

    Which when you part from, lose, or give away,

    Let it presage the ruin of your love,

    And be my vantage to exclaim on you.

Then replies Bassiano: 

    Madam, you have bereft me of all words;

    Only my blood speaks to you in my veins;

    And there is such confusion in my powers

    As, after some oration fairly spoke

    By a beloved prince, there doth appear

    Among the buzzing pleased multitude,

    Where every something, being blent together,

    Turns to a wild of nothing, save of joy

    Express'd and not express'd. But when this ring

    Parts from this finger, then parts life from hence;

    O, then be bold to say Bassanio's dead!”

If one can delve into the early English language and get the import of these sweet words, Portia is opening her full heart to her love Bassiano, and telling him she feels unworthy, (though she is beautiful and with great riches), and that she gives to him her all, and if she could, would give herself a thousand times more. Though of higher rank than him, she bows and asserts that he is her lord, her governor, her king. That she is now happily converted to him. Then she gives him the ring that won her hand and exclaims that if he ever loses it that he must also lose his life.
Bassiano replies that she has left him speechless—so full of love and joy, and that if the ring were to ever leave his finger than may his life depart as well.
Such prose!

Divided

The marriage of Heidi of the Mountains and Steven the Artist is ending. It is agreed that love exists, yet various problems plagued the relationship from the beginning. The two never lived together full time, since Heidi owns a home in another town forty minutes away, where her teen-aged son lives with her half time. Steven resides in the city of his work and where he feels he belongs—Santa Fe, the art capital of the United States. The town where Heidi lives is a suburb of Los Alamos, the birthplace of the atomic bomb—all the homes are the same and the brainy-headed science people are more or less the same too. Of all the places on earth, it is on the list of impossible places for Steven to live. But he tried for awhile. He always anticipated the day her boy would graduate and Heidi and Steven could buy a home together.

Before Steven met Heidi, he had spent over a year living abroad without home or car—like the wind that is free, full and strong, blowing over mountain and ocean, through metropolis and village. He was as comfortable on a camel as he was in a limousine. Happy in a tent amidst lions and water buffalo in the Serengeti or in a marbled palace in Bangkok, Thailand. When he arrived back to Santa Fe, his life had broadened from so many profound experiences gained living in a multitude of cities and traveling over all the continents.

When the two first met, Heidi was modeling nude and Steven was drawing her. The two struck up a business relationship with Heidi acting as an art broker, and affection developed then marriage. The two shared wonderful intimacies and especially love of nature—relishing places such as the sandy beaches of Hawaii, the vastness of the Grand Canyon, the mountains of New Mexico and Colorado, and the excitement of Paris and London and Marrakesh. During this time, Heidi had quit a job she did not like and went to work for Steven in a gallery he opened. Steven had thought initially to work alone in his gallery, painting and selling. Heidi at first said, “maybe we should not work together.” But Steven naturally trusted, and so they became a team. The costs were extraordinarily high, since the rent alone was $5,500.00 per month, and then there was Heidi's salary and other expenses. Steven struggled and Heidi became unhappy to see that the business took all the resources. The gallery closed, Heidi took her former job, and Steven found another gallery to show his paintings.

From the beginning, Heidi insisted that Steven draw inward with her into a very private world. She always suspected that he wanted to go off without her and resume his travels. Steven could not understand why Heidi insisted that he must cut off the loving thread that went from his life out into relations he had with the world at large. He remained by her side, anticipating an eventual fuller life together when they lived as one. Yet, eventually, the two felt unhappiness intruding into their love. It became apparent the marriage—meant to be a fortress of well being for the two to enjoy, had indeed become divided. Heidi built an emotional wall that was more distant than the miles between their homes and said, “I am more comfortable this way.” Steven said, but we can't live like this, you must be hot or cold or it is nothing at all. Heidi shrugged and said she could not change. The two separated on a trial basis—not sharing nights or fond times. Heidi felt more peace; but not Steven. He pleaded that the issues were not insurmountable because love is stronger than mountains. Changes were near, opportunities abounded, happiness just a heart beat away. Heidi admitted as much but said, “I am too weak, and it is unfair to you.” Then she said, "Maybe someday we will get back together, who knows?"

And this is what it has come to. She is keeping my artwork and I am planning to sell off all my possessions and follow spirit where ever it takes me. Probably Europe first. And Heidi, she is planning to sell her home and buy one where I always had hoped that we would live together—in Santa Fe. She will have my art to remind her of me.

A Circle

Street photo, Madrid, spain

The longer I live, the more often experiences come that make a circle in my life. For instance, I happened to be on YouTube the other day, and arrived at a video of Jim Morrison (December 8, 1943 – July 3, 1971) and The Doors. Somebody had commented that Morrison had taken inspiration from the poet Arthur Rimbaud (French, 20 October 1854 – 10 November 1891). I have always liked Rimbaud, who remarkably made his work before the age of 21 and then quit writing. I did a Google search and found a movie about him called “Total Eclipse” a 1995 film directed by Agnieszka Holland and starring Leonardo DiCaprio. I watched the whole film, and this brought me to my memories from twenty years ago, when I read a biography of Rimbaud. So, a circle was created from my interest in The Doors, the influence upon Jim Morrison of the French poet, back to my original reading of poems by Rimbaud and his biography, and then the closure of watching the movie depicting Rimbaud's meteoric rise and tragic end.

In the film, Rimbaud says to his fellow poet Paul Verlaine, “I understood that I was to experience everything in my body—it was no longer enough for me to be one person. I decided to be everyone . . . I decided to be a genius . . . I decided to originate the future.”

Street photo, Florence, Italy

I relate to the notion of finding oneself by losing oneself and becoming “everyone”. This is something that happens when I go into the “zone” and lose my self in the streets of the world photographing people. The photos become my poems.

SENSATION
In the blue summer evenings, I will go along the paths,
And walk over the short grass, as I am pricked by the wheat:
Daydreaming I will feel the coolness on my feet.
I will let the wind bathe my bare head.
I will not speak, I will have no thoughts:
But infinite love will mount in my soul;
And I will go far, far off, like a gypsy,
Through the country side-joyous as if I were with a woman.
-A. Rimbaud

Street photo, Barcelona, Spain

To see more photos: Artistic Photography by Steven Boone

Private Sanctuary Of Love

“Nothing do I perceive, but I perceive God within it, God before it, and God after it.” -Baha'u'llah, (Persian,  November 12 1817 – May 29 1892)

I stayed in a spare bedroom while I visited my mother in her home in Santa Barbara, California. She is weak with a slowly failing body, but her spirit is strong. Her caregivers, noticing a sudden decline, urged me to visit—yet, what was to be my final farewell trip across state borders to her bedside was nothing of the sort. She revived, was glad to see me, and we took advantage of the visit to reaffirm our eternal bond. My trip lasted one week.

Simultaneously with my mother's precarious condition, I have another serious issue pressing upon me, so I am compelled to pray far more than usual. Twice a day for a month now, I have been reciting The Long Healing Prayer of Baha'u'llah. Although the pain is not taken from me, I find my mind shifting enough that I clearly see the difference between temporal and eternal. My strength is in the eternal . . . where the discerning mind sees reality.

My last day in Santa Barbara, the weather was perfect—balmy, sunny and serene, with slight caressing breezes. My mother's home is on a corner lot, and surrounded by an immense hedge so that it is completely private. Birds are always present at the feeders, the grass is green and kept trim, and a lovely rose garden holds eighty bushes that bloom most of the year. It was my custom to walk around outdoors and pray, and as I did, the fragrance of jasmine and orange blossoms filled the air. The beautiful roses bloomed beside me, and I heard birds singing. The great trees sheltered me from above and as I concentrated on the Creator,  I felt I was in a private sanctuary of Love.

The Jig

A few days ago, I received a phone call from one of my mother's caretakers who sounded urgent and exhorted me to think of going straightaway to her side at her home in Santa Barbara, California; although I live 900 miles away in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Immediately I became troubled and doubtful. My mother has had close brushes with death in the past. How could I be sure of the right time to be with her when she passed away? I asked the other caretaker as well, who concurred that my Mom had suddenly declined and might be on the way out. She suffered irregular heart beats, and her body was retaining fluids, although medication helped somewhat. She was on oxygen as well. I explained that I could not be going back and forth, but that I would come if the opinion was that I might not see her again.

 

I booked a one-way ticket, not knowing the course of future events. In one day, I arrived at my mother's side. She was sitting in her favorite chair at the dining table, next to a big picture window where she can watch the birds in her yard. Beautiful roses were in vases on the table, fresh from her garden. We hugged and she said, "Steven, I am so glad you came!" By the evening, we were playing gin rummy—and she beat me.

Sometimes, her sentences wander off into nonsense, but most of the time, her mind works normal.

My daughter Sarah was concerned enough that she has also arrived to pay last respects . . . but maybe my mother will be doing the jig next. She barely walks, but I don't put it past her to dance at her own funeral.

You Must Do Something More

I think that the reason I am still alive, is that I am continuing to work through the veils that are between me and God. And I have things to do yet, although I might not know exactly what.

After my daughter Naomi died in 1999 at age nineteen, I often slept in her bed, where she took her last breath. It comforted me and I felt nearer to her. One night I had a dream:  
I was on a wooded hillside, and below, in a valley, was a little village. I could see that festivities were occurring. The next thing I knew I was at the carnival, and holding the hand of a little girl. Then I was alone, and jumped on a carousel that was slowly spinning. I watched the landscape going past and as the big wheel turned, suddenly I saw a door in front of me. I realized the door led to another dimension beyond time and space, and I thought “If I hesitate, the opportunity will be lost!” I had a moment of trepidation, but nonetheless, hurled myself forward. At the same moment, a voice spoke into my ear, “If you wish to go beyond the door, first you must do something more.” At that instant, my body lurched up from bed, and I banged my head against a textured plaster wall, cutting myself and bleeding.
The dream could be interpreted in various ways, but I can see that perhaps I was anxious to get off the big merry-go-round of life and enter the realm of pure spirit, leaving the mortal world behind—and Spirit warned me that my wish was premature . . . I had more work to do.
Since then, I have had so many valuable experiences and my soul has deepened. My fruit is not ripe enough yet to fall from the vine.

I'm just sitting here watching the wheels go round and round,

I really love to watch them roll,

No longer riding on the merry-go-round,

I just had to let it go,

-John Lennon, from Watching The Wheels

The Whole Picture

Self-Portrait, Berlin 2008. Oil on linen, 24x18 inches.

Lately, I have spent time meditating on my life. It is amazing that our minds hold so much information . . . and we are only able to access bits of it through memory. Why do some episodes stand out more clearly than others? I am depending on long-term memory when I look back at the beginning of my life. The complexity is unfathomable. I imagine that every smell, touch, sound or even ray of light is encoded in my brain, yet I only access a fraction. Before I learned language, I was gathering information from my mother and father and surroundings. Has this formed me into who I am? Of course, my unique biology, what I am genetically, influences the way in which I perceive. I am of a sensitive nature, and learn especially through sensory experience.
So far, I have gone through my memories from birth to the beginning of college. I am trying to see who I am by looking at the movie of my life . . . and watching myself from the beginning. I don't want to censor anything either . . . but see the whole picture as it has emerged. I am an artist, and as I see the artwork that has been created thus far, I can take my brush in hand, and then more confidently paint the future as it is meant to be.

All Improvisation

"January Jazz",  final version, 20 x 16 inches, acrylic on canvas, January 2015

To make an abstract painting is different than painting from life. There is no subject matter except the painting itself.

"January Jazz" beginning version

I paint both from nature and abstractly. In the last couple days I made the painting depicted here. I did not know what the outcome would be when I began . . . it was all improvisation. What informed the progress was work that I have done in the past with scumbled, open areas that are punctuated by rectangles or squares of pure color, that float in the field. The pictures are dynamic in the way space is created by color and shape alone, without reference to a particular subject.

"Moroccan Drift" early 2014. oil on canvas, 24x18 inches
 
Click for more abstract paintings by Steven Boone

The Disappearing Passage

A motif has captivated my imagination since my earliest days as a budding artist: the disappearing passage. As a boy, I sometimes would sit at my school desk with my pencil and draw on paper a horizontal line, and then make a road that steadily grew slimmer, until it disappeared at the horizon. Those simple lines gave me great pleasure and left me satisfied. Perhaps, it was my path into eternity.

Now, a half century later, I continue making images that lead the eye into a central location and end in ambiguity. Often, in the beginning, it is an unconscious attraction and only later I see that I have come to familiar territory. Most often the road or path seems to begin underfoot, and travels to a place of disappearance. But it can also be a river or a street . . .

It is as if I am in dialogue with time and travel, and I love symbols of issuance and continuity, even as they go to the mysterious place of vanishing.