Bloom Where You Are Planted

At times in my present nomadic existence, I wonder, who am I now that I do not have a home? The thought might come as I am standing in a shopping line, and people around me are speaking in a language I do not entirely understand, and I realize I have no one but myself to turn to, or while on a bus as it is taking me somewhere in a city half a world away from my native land. Always, the answer comes back to me; I am comfortable in my own skin, and at home wherever I am. During my crazy teen-aged years, during the hippie revolution, I remember reading a slogan that a flower child had painted on a wall, and it has stayed in my consciousness all these years: Bloom where you are planted.

The combination of Frederique’s artistic encouragement and Granada’s creative atmosphere and bravado has resulted in my reaching for a new space in my painting. I am painting closer to my heart, and not thinking of marketability. My self-portrait came out with an edge to it: blurred borders, three hands, and an intense gaze. I have made three other paintings as well, and they all are different from my normal approach when I am painting landscapes.

As usual, I am walking a great deal. Thank God for my Clark shoes, which are holding up under brutal exercise from walking the streets and exploring. I remain intrigued by the graffiti I see splashed everywhere on the walls in Granada. The textures too, are like abstract paintings. I am amassing quite a collection of photographic images. So much, that my hard drive is becoming crowded. I have to burn pictures onto DVD’s for backup and then destroy most of them from off of my computer as I go along.

Frederique is coming to visit. We have such wonderful dialogue and I welcome her presence and willingness to share moments with a nomad, living in THE DREAM.

Dig Deeper

Van Gogh, All Hung Up, oil on linen, 22 x 24 inches

Is it possible that only three months have passed in my year long odyssey? The last month has been so fantastic as to be almost unreal; beginning with my trip from Greece to Venice, the days and nights in that eloquent city and meeting Frederique, and then unexpectedly going to Provence in France, and now experiencing the bold flamenco flavors of Granada, Spain. Along the way, something great happened in France. The Foundation Vincent Van Gogh D’Arles is also a museum in Arles, devoted to artwork by famous artists who pay homage to Vincent Van Gogh, who lived his most famous years in Arles. Frederique and I visited the museum and came away impressed. I left a catalog of my Steven Boone Hang Ups for the director, and called back the next day. We had a delightful conversation and she said that yes, they would love having my painting “Van Gogh, All Hung Up,” for their collection. Soon, my artwork will be included in this world-class museum collection. Frederique agrees to be my French liaison.
I am in Granada because I was here a year ago and found I liked it. Frederique has boldly encouraged me to dig deeper in my art . . . and get my mind off the marketplace for landscapes that has influenced my painting. So now, I am doing a self portrait that is realistic, abstract, and surreal. I have determined to stay in the deeper flux of creativity as I work.
Granada is great as a backdrop. The city is old and young both, and has plenty of character. Flamenco music thrives here, and an artistic stream flows freely. Although graffitti and tagging is major nuisance in cities throughout the world, here the street art can be incredible.
My apartment is in the Sacromonte, an elevated area overlooking in a historical district. From the main road, a cobble road takes me to my door. There are two narrow levels, and veranda that has an incredible view, with the world-famous Alhambra on hilltop directly in front.

View from my patio

Intellect And Mystery

Now, when I wake in the morning, the sound of the Mediterranean Sea is present. It is directly in front of my eyes, churning outside the little breakfast room. There is almost always a fisherman perched by the shore, casting into the waves.
Frédérique is just next door in another apartment, and we wake each other in the morning with a knock on the door. I find so many surprises in her. She has told me we are opposite . . . and it is true. She is quite controlled, and lives in her intellect, while I am tactile and thrive in the realms of senses. Her opinions are frank, thoughtful and unequivocal, while I am more starry-eyed, in the land of mystery. We both share passion for art.
Fortunately, Frédérique is on holiday, so we spend all our time together. She is showing me the region of Provence in the vicinity of her home in Grande Motte. Her grasp of history is good, so I have an excellent guide as we stroll through streets in towns such as Montpellier and Nimes that began before the medieval age. Last night we went to Aigues Mortes, a small, nearby town within original fortified stone walls. We attempted to find seating at several restaurants but were turned away, even though they seemed half full. Frederique told me that France is not like in the United States, where patrons come and go all evening. A limited number of dinners are served, and a table is used once. If a table is reserved, it sits empty until the client arrives. When we found a restaurant that took us, to my astonishment, the elderly hostess was the owner, director, and also the only waitress. Frédérique explained that if there were more employees, then wages would be paid, but also an equal amount in social security taxes for the worker. 

The most memorable part of dinner was the une entrée, called “Tellimes.” They were fingernail size clams, baked in a tasty cream sauce and sprinkled with herbs. Simply put your hand in the bowl, pick one up and suck out the tender morsel of flesh. This is what the sea churns up, elaborated and made into food in the French way. Frederique said that there are over 7000 unique recipes in France. The next greatest number is Italy, with a little over 1700.

The Soul Of Venice

The soul of Venice has brought me together with Frédérique, a French doctor of letters. She teaches aesthetics in art at a university in Nimes, France. Her Italian is perfect, and she speaks enough English that we have been able to enjoy each other’s company and share observations and philosophy. She is on business but has mostly free time, and I am alone and want company. We have walked miles together, day and night, reveling in the grandness of this place that so remarkably arose from the sea, and just as remarkably is still keeping its head above water after 1500 years. Frédérique has authored a book exploring the ancient Greek principles of eros and Thanatos, or longing and death, in art. Venice is full of these feelings. The many splendid buildings and churches that dot the city are emblems of grand aspirations and have hosted countless magical moments, but there is a sadness hovering over them too. Crumbling walls, stained with time, and foundations precariously close to falling into the sea give a taste of death. It is bewitching, and for the creatively inclined, inspiring. That is why so many artists have gravitated here over the centuries.

I am mesmerized, and so far into THE DREAM that twice I have locked myself out of my apartment. It is as if I lose consciousness of borders, or arbitrary divisions such as walls, doors and locks. Possessions are meaningless. Only the unfolding DREAM and Spirit are real . . . until I reach for my house key and it is not in my pocket, then I am facing a night on the street or in a hotel.

Frédérique has invited me to visit her in Nimes. It is in the famous region of France called Provence, bordering the Mediterranean Sea. I will go, since it is on my way to Granada, Spain, where I will live for a month beginning May 14.

Under A Spell

I have returned once again to my beloved Venice, where cars do not exist and church bell towers lean precariously close to falling. Although I have lived here and visited often, I still get lost in the maze of passages that connect various parts of the city. Perhaps, getting lost in Venice is not so bad. Watery canals are everywhere, and over 400 lovely bridges to cross. Gondolas float languidly by, as they have for centuries. It is easy to get lost in reverie. Time seems different. I have been here a week and already dread leaving. The more I look, the more I fall under a spell.
Thank God I have friends in Venice. They open my heart, and especially, I feel fortunate to be able to converse. Regretfully, learning a new language is exceedingly difficult for me. I don’t remember words, and feel frustrated when my mouth struggles to speak in a foreign tongue. Thankfully, others make up for my inadequacy by sharing their own language skills in English. Then, we sit in café’s and share thoughts, or walk through this magical place and tell the wonder of being conscious together.

Inspiration To Fly

It occasionally happens while I am painting that there is a moment of impasse and I must choose to either continue working in a way I know but that is not proving successful, or else, go into the unknown. Choosing the unknown is fearsome, and yet frequently, something happens—a fresh impulse comes through and a new experience is born. It is like a young bird forced out of the safe nest it has always known. Suddenly it is falling through the air and must fly, never having known what it is to float on currents of air, but a deep yearning takes hold and flight is born.
The first days in Corfu were like getting acquainted, and then came an impasse. Corfu Town is lovely, with cobbled streets, and many reminders of the Venetian culture that occupied it for centuries. Yet I wanted more and decided to rent a car and get out of the city. The first day, I drove in rain and could only look through the windshield. When I returned to my hotel, I flopped down on my bed in frustration. The next day, the rain stopped and sun arrived. Heading north, I became lost on winding mountain roads, and decided to go into the unknown, where THE DREAM lives. Although I was lost, every turn held a surprise, and somehow I felt I had found my destiny. Villages dotted the hills, with roads through them that can barely accommodate two tiny cars to pass by each other. Olive orchards abounded, standing as they have for centuries. Spring flowers bloomed magnificently in the wild, so that I could not pass by, but rather stopped and walked among them. Then, as I came around a bend through wooded hills, an old wall covered in vines and a half open gate made me stop. Peering through the gate, amid an area of tall grass and wildflowers, a old stone building stood empty and open. I felt like a gift had been given, and walked gingerly, aware that I could browse undisturbed and would not bother anyone. To my amazement, the place was an abandoned church over a thousand years old. Inside, in the half-darkened room, I could see hand hewn beams supported the intact roof, while the cracked and damaged plastered walls showed remains of Byzantine Christian images. It felt incredible to my American eyes, unaccustomed to seeing artwork 600 years old except in museums. The more I lingered, the more I felt a special experience unfolded; I stood suspended between centuries, and THE DREAM provided me the inspiration to fly.

To Honor The Gods

THE DREAM is taking me backwards, away from my destination of circling the globe. Instead, I am now circling the Mediterranean Sea. How could I be so near to Greece and not visit? The journey brought me to Athens, and now I am on the island of Corfu, off the northwest mainland. Athens felt cramped, with block after block of plain building facades. The National Garden, downtown, needs some serious pruning and tender, loving care. Underwhelming until my walking brought me to the foot of a hill overlooking the city and sea. On top stands the Acropolis. My tired legs pushed on and healed quickly as I stood next to the marble columns of the Parthenon (begun in 447 BC, and the building was substantially completed by 432). Even with the crowds, and restoration work underway, something told me I was having a peak life experience. It was the same feeling I had when I saw Michelangelo’s sculpture of David in Florence. Awe. How could it have been humanly possible to create? The site is dramatic, and impossibly difficult for the fantastic, grand and beautiful buildings that were erected by hand. It was all done to honor the gods, and the gods must have helped because man alone could not have accomplished it.
Now I am in Corfu, away from big city noise. I hear birds outside my window, and footsteps on ancient stone streets. The six-month tourist season is barely beginning. Shops are sleepy, yawning toward the full awakening of the high season. I flew in from Athens, and learned from the taxi driver that the island practically shuts down for six months; the airport closes during the off-season.
Some loneliness comes and goes. Mostly, it is from being rootless, changing places often, and not having the easy pleasure of conversation and association. The last four countries have spoken Arabic, Hebrew, Turkish and Greek. Anyway, I am experiencing so much . . . and only begun! I have my ticket for a boat that sails all day and overnight from Corfu on the 19th of April to Venice, Italy, where I have a good friend, Cristiana who is waiting for me. And she speaks English!

Adrianople

Edirne, near the Greek border, is the last city in Turkey where Baha’u’llah was forced to live in exile outside of His native Persia. During His time, it was called Adrianople. I took a three-hour bus ride from Istanbul and stayed for five days. As we cruised past city and farmland, I sat in a comfortable seat next to a big picture window, and imagined the hardship Baha’u’llah and His family endured in 1863 during a bitter, harsh, winter while traveling on foot for twelve days with little protection against the elements. Baha’u’llah’s son, Abdul-Baha, nineteen years old at the time, suffered frostbite on his feet that caused him pain the rest of his life.

In Edirne, very near to the house of Baha’u’llah is a wonderful mosque called Selimiye, built between 1568 and 1574 and now considered one of the highest achievements of Islamic architecture in the world. As it is at every mosque, shoes must be removed before entering, and women must put scarves over their head. Standing inside, I felt a bit like an observer since I am not Moslem and people were praying. I pray as well, but do not know the proscribed practice of Moslem prayer to be followed. It includes facing Mecca, saying a verse, bowing, turning the head to face left and then right, kneeling and prostrating with forehead to the ground.

I am now back in Istanbul, in a wonderful part of the city called Sultanahmet. Rug shops are everywhere, and little bistros, anchored by the Palace Topkapi, Hagia Sophia, and the Blue Mosque, also called Sultanahmet.
I have made more friends, and as sometimes happens, offered all kinds of delights, high and low alike, but I choose to be careful and not lose my head in pursuit of every pleasure. THE DREAM gives me the best satisfaction, and it unfolds astonishment that is pleasure enough for lifetimes.
Each day, the weather lightens, and now, as if all of sudden, bright tulips are blooming everywhere. Turkey claims that tulips are its own native flowers, and only later arrived in Holland. I am grateful I have seen them here in their eye-catching beauty. Tomorrow, bright and early I go to the airport to catch a flight to my next stop—Athens, Greece.

An Authentic Turkish Experience

Early in life, I always pictured places in my mind’s eye by the images I gathered from books; especially art history books. New York I associated with the Empire state building, Paris, with the Eiffel tower, and London with the Monarchy, and Westminster Abby. Later, in Art College, I added other associations, such as Barcelona and the eccentric, grand architecture of Antonio Gaudi, and Istanbul with the Hagia Sophia.


THE DREAM has given me a flat in Istanbul that looks across the busy Marmara Sea waterway to a distant hill, where the domes and spires of the Hagia Sophia stand as they have for 1000 years. Istanbul is one of the world’s largest cities, about the same in population as all of Greece, and sits between the Black Sea and the Marmara Sea. It has been the seat of empires and was once called Constantinople, where the Roman Emperor Constantine established the capital of the Holy Roman Empire. It has served as the capital city of the Roman Empire (330-395), the Byzantine Empire (395-1204 and 1261-1453), the Latin Empire (1204-1261), and the Ottoman Empire (1453-1922). It is the only city in the world to straddle two continents: Asia and Europe.
I find the people more taciturn than in Egypt, and for the most part, more upwardly mobile. Nonetheless, I’ve made friends in only a week. Bahri, a father of two young daughters took me along to visit a nearby Turkish bath house. We arrived in the morning, and once inside were greeted in a small courtyard. We took off our shoes and put on sandals, then went upstairs into tiny private rooms to undress. Wrapped in a towel, we went down to a large room with a flat marble slab in the middle and domed ceiling. Portholes letting streams of light inside punctuated the dome. Several men were already lounging when we went into a dry sauna, where we worked into a sweat. Bahri had only come for the sweat and bath, but I got the full treatment. A husky man took me aside and had me sit next to basin of running water where he proceeded to rinse me. Putting on a mit with mildly abrasive palm, he rubbed vigorously over my entire body. After a few minutes, rolls of dead skin were gathering. Evidently, he was quite satisfied with his efforts, since he made sure I saw the amazing amount of skin that was coming off. He rinsed me again, brusquely massaging as he went, with a surprising smack in the middle of my back that could be heard out in the street. Under the dome, I lay on the slab, and was thoroughly soaped from head to foot, getting massaged at the same time. A rinse, and one more soaping next to a basin, then rinse with another whack on the back before I was wrapped from head to knee in towels and headed to my little cubicle to lie down and rest on the bed. Later, meeting Bahri, and striding into the clear light and beautiful spring weather, I felt like a new man . . . with an authentic Turkish experience.

Read interesting facts about Turkey.

Fragrant Breezes

If sometimes the streets of the world are hell, I have found heaven on a mountain in Haifa, Israel. Being on the grounds of the Bahá’í world center is about as close to paradise as I am going to feel in a physical place. Bahá’í’s are expected to visit on pilgrimage at least once during their lifetime. This is my second visit and it is more beautiful than ever. Both the Bahá’í’ prophets, Bahá’u’lláh and the Báb are buried in this area, and the seat of the Bahá’í’ world governing body, called the Universal House of Justice is here. Each day I have been rejuvenated and uplifted, as if my spirit drinks from heavenly streams and my feet do not touch the ground. People from all over the world are gathered under one tent, as one family. Just looking at the diverse humanity is a feast for the eyes.
Bahá’u’lláh gave Bahá’í’s their own calendar, with March 21 marked as the beginning of each new year. This year, the full moon is in conjunction with the spring equinox. Refreshing and fragrant breezes have blown over me, and I feel revitalized to carry forth my trek into Turkey, and Istanbul.


From the writings of Bahá’u’lláh:
"The world is but one country, and mankind its citizens."
"Let not a man glory in that he loves his country; let him rather glory in this, that he loves his kind."
"Ye are the fruits of one tree, and the leaves of one branch."

THE LIFE OF BAHA'U'LLAH; A PHOTOGRAPHIC NARRATIVE

Travel In An Unfolding Dream

To travel in an unfolding dream is to live every moment within mystery. Egypt is mysterious and inscrutable as the hieroglyphics inscribed in the stone walls of its temples and buried for millennia under desert sand. I hear Arabic, see it written, and don’t understand, yet feel connected by THE DREAM. As often happens when Egyptians on the street see me, someone says “hello, welcome,” and then the solitude of my travel is broken and although for the most part, we cannot understand one another, a bridge is established and it is as if an oasis opens before me. Since my arrival, many Egyptians from all walks of life have spoken this word to me and smiled. With a few, I have become friends, and then the bond is great and they share everything.
Alexandria is the nations second largest city, and I have been here 1 week. In ancient times, it was renowned as a center of learning and housed the world’s largest library. It eventually fell into decline and the library vanished, but recently through international efforts, a gleaming, ultra modern library, called Bibliotheca Alexandria, has opened with over 8 million volumes. It is almost an anomaly in this country of crumbling and unfinished buildings, with donkey carts sharing the streets with taxis.
Next week I will be in Haifa, Israel, and will also have many photos available from my travel thus far.