Protection

“Oh God, protect that child.” I said this to myself as I left a coffee shop I frequent. It is a friendly place and serves coffee that is roasted in-house and served strong. A man had been in line ahead of me with his two young boys and ordered a cup for himself and to my surprise, one for his boy, who barely was as tall as my waist and could only have been six years old. As I was leaving, I smiled at the child in his baseball cap, holding his coffee in both hands. “You like coffee?” A slight, shy, smile crossed his face as he looked up at me and then he quickly looked down without a word.  His father smiled and said, “Yeah, he likes it.” I knew the father loved his boy, and I thought of the strong black brew I held in my hand, and then for some reason I had the thought of protection for the child’s innocence. As I walked to my truck, I thought, “And God, protect other people; like the protestors in Libya who are fighting for their freedom and getting shot.” And then I wondered, does prayer matter? I remembered an incident I wrote about in my book, A Heart Traced In Sand. In Kentucky, a group of young women had arrived early to gather for Christian prayers at their high school. As they stood close, praying, a deranged boy approached, pulled a gun and began firing, leaving three of them dead. The episode is stunning and received national news coverage. See: Heath High School shooting. I have reflected and thought, “God was listening to their prayers, but He also knew what was in the heart of the boy and could see what was coming. What protection did He offer?”

People pray for all manner of help. Prayers are said for healing, assistance, prosperity, salvation, justice, and freedom—the list goes on and on.

I pray frequently during the day. It is communion, and a way to offer my thoughts up in consecration. I sense that my thoughts go into the universe and are received. Furthermore, I sense that higher beings record the impulses and confirm them. If I think positively, positive confirmation comes back.

Maybe, in the end, there is very little protection in the world. As my dear daughter Naomi said while she struggled with cancer, “Life is not fair.” During her lengthy ordeal, the only other complaint I remember her saying was, "I do not want to die a slow, painful death." Despite continual prayers from all sides, fate handed Naomi a slow, agonizing death. In the end, with her bones breaking, and suffering slow suffocation, some of her last words were, "I love my body, it has been so good to me."

And it is true, life is not fair, it is really about struggle.

Lost In Adventure

"The poet is a madman lost in adventure." Paul Verlaine

Invariably, lunatics are on some grand adventure or another, and the trail is one that few choose to follow. On February 6, I set out from Santa Fe to drive 1662 miles to Miami, Florida, with my van full of artwork.  After a harrowing day of battling blizzards, iced highways and then rain, my first stop was in Dallas, Texas, where my two cousins, Ben and David live. They are both orthopedic surgeons and bachelors. I am particularly close with David and stay with him when I am in Dallas. For a man who does serious surgery on people, chopping out bones and replacing them with prosthetics, David is very low key, and likes to joke. We easily make each other laugh. He has my paintings on his walls and since they are signed Boone, he can tease people that he did them himself, showing that not only is he a brilliant surgeon but also has a sensitive side. Years ago I made a painting of his two Irish Setter dogs and he loves it. His girlfriend’s daughter recently asked if I could do a painting of her dog, and we discussed a small price. He commissioned me, and gave me a photo to work from.

After Dallas, I arrived in Houston where a collector had made arrangements for me to stop and show her my art. I arrived at her house as scheduled and took my artwork in her home. She showed me her art collection, which was extensive. Then she said, “As you can see, I have no wall space left.” So I packed up, said good-bye, and hit the road, glad that I gave her some worthy entertainment.

I have reached Orlando, Florida where my first art festival is underway. About 200 artists have set up tents on a college campus. Many of them are on a “festival circuit” leaving cold climates to do art shows under palm trees. Except that it has been cold in Orlando and only a few hardy souls go about in shorts. The show has been a flop and all the artists are dismayed. When they hear that next weekend I am doing the Coconut Grove show in Miami, they all breathe a sigh of relief and say, “It is great. You will do so much better.”

Anyway, I take it in stride because THE DREAM never fails to entertain me. Across the street from my motel is a carnival, and every night I wander in it, watching the flying contraptions with their flashing lights, studying the crowds and observing the circus people. Time flies, as they say.

Infinite Worlds

What we know with our mind is but a drop in the ocean, for vast realms exist outside our experience. We struggle to understand ourselves, and nature, and make feeble efforts to go further into the universe, but alas, the finite mind cannot comprehend the infinite. We live within vast mystery. One of our biggest puzzles is the world of Spirit. Since birth, we have come to understanding through physical imprints. For instance, we learn numbers by counting objects, and we learn speech by associating sounds with actions and things that can be seen or touched. We learn the laws of nature by falling, or burning our fingers, and experiencing the revolving days and nights. Yet, the Spirit world exists beyond the confines of the physical realm, and for this our understanding is limited—which leads to speculation, and arguments of faith. I, for one, believe there are infinite worlds and that just as there are elemental kingdoms, so too, there are Spiritual Kingdoms that are even vaster since they are not bound by time and space.

Many years ago I had a dream: I stood alone at night on a grassy knoll and gazed up at the starry sky. A little cluster of bright lights caught my eye and I recognized the Pleiades, also known as the “seven sisters” in the constellation Taurus, (my sign). I pondered the light reaching my eyes and realized the immense space between me and the stars. Light from stars can take billions of years to reach us. I thought, “How could God be in me and at the same moment be so far away in the farthest reaches of the universe?” I was confused that He could be so intimately in my life and intimately in life throughout the cosmos, even billions of light years away. No sooner had I had the thought when a voice spoke from behind my shoulder, “He is closer to you than your own life vein!” At that instant, space collapsed to nothing and I realized the oneness of The Creator.

The Spirit world permeates all of our physical existence and furthermore, informs and comprehends everything. If we watch closely, we can be in touch with angels. This requires that we get outside the confines of rigid thinking. Then, we can see signs from Spirit in dreaming, through nature, especially plants and animals, and even in numbers.

After my beloved daughter Naomi died, signs appeared that lifted me from grief. I will just relate a few: A peach tree we planted on our property was always but a stick, with a paltry plumage of leaves and no fruit. A nearby peach tree did fine, but not this one. After Naomi died, almost like a miracle, this thin, withered tree made  a basketful of delicious peaches. This happened one year only—immediately after Naomi had gone into the Spirit world. I took this as a sign that she had gone into a place of abundance and fruitfulness, and was giving us confirmation through the plant kingdom that all was well and not to be sad, but rather, glad. Another time, on the first anniversary of her passing, a group of us gathered in my back yard to pray and remember her great and gentle spirit. We all had written prayer wishes and wrapped them into small pouches, then tied them to a long cord. Standing in a circle, holding the cord between us, we each spoke from our hearts, remembering Naomi. A gentle mist fell, and suddenly a rainbow appeared. When the last words were spoken we stood silently, when out of the blue, two doves appeared directly above our circle and began an incredible dance that astonished and mesmerized us. The birds plunged down in a tight spiral, their wings almost touching, then paused and spiraled upward only to plunge in a spiral down again. Then they disappeared as quickly as they had arrived. It was a once in a lifetime sight. We were all breathless, and not word was spoken until a woman shouted, “Thank you Naomi!” And a child chimed in, “I hope she keeps sending us messages like that, showing us that everything is okay!”

I have further observations about how Spirit world speaks to us in numbers, but I will save that for another time.



To read more about Naomi, see: A Heart Traced In Sand

Everyone Is Colored

Whenever I hear the term “people of color”, there is a deafening silence that ensues. The silence is my own, since I object so much to the term and have to swallow it quietly. Certainly, this particular saying is the offspring of America’s troubled racial history—when it was necessary to separate people by skin color. I have traveled the world and know firsthand that to describe someone as “colored” in a country like say, Egypt, would bring laughter and bewilderment. It is so obvious that everyone is colored.

To say “people of color” is like saying “apples of the trees” or “horses of four legs” and yet, people continue to make use of this phrase and it is often heard in otherwise serious conversation. I have written on this subject before, see: People Of Color.

Recently, I have been working on a series of images using photos I took several years ago. At the time, I arranged to work with a very light skinned young woman, and asked her if she would model with a male. She told me her roommate would probably agree, and that he was black. Immediately, I welcomed this arrangement and soon, we were in my studio to work together. The entire session was delightful, especially since the two young people were perfectly at ease with each other and uninhibited enough to be naked and close and without tension. They were like little children—innocent, free, and untainted by guilt from notions of original sin.

I have been re-visiting the images from those sessions. With my wide-format printer, I can print on paper or canvas, up to almost four feet wide. Then I stretch the canvas on to stretcher bars, as I normally do with paintings. After that, I can paint them, making them into more than simple photographs. They become mixed-media art.

While I work, I love the contrast between her pale skin tones and his rich, chocolate color. In places, I intentionally blur areas that separate them, so that they are melding together.

See more Steven Boone Artwork

Elements

The cold days of winter have wrapped their icy fingers around me. To step outside is to shiver against the elements. My girlfriend, Heidi of the Mountains, has escaped to a secluded beach in Costa Rica where she writes me love letters and describes long walks on beaches, swims in the sea, relaxing hours spent observing monkeys in the trees surrounding her deck, and adventures with her girlfriend exploring the surroundings.

Meanwhile, my daughter and ex-wife are in Hawaii, swimming in the ocean, snorkeling among sea turtles and hiking among wild orchids.

This is the time of my oldest daughter’s birthday. Naomi was born January 11, 1980 and since she died in 1999, I have always come a bit undone when her birthday comes around. In some ways, I lose my bearings and free-fall into a state of bewilderment. One year on her anniversary, I was in a car accident (my fault) and in 2008 while I was in New Zealand, on her birthday I slipped and fell down an embankment near a river, crashing down with my camera, hitting my head on a rock and briefly going unconscious. My camera lens smashed and I had to find a hospital to stitch me up.

In my last letter to Lori, (Heidi of the Mountains), I told her to have fun and bring me back good stories. I am not jealous because each moment life knocks on my door and offers surprise and revelation . . .  wherever I am, I do not need to be somewhere else. Yesterday, I was selling some imported things at an indoor flea market and met a man who had chiseled good looks—like an older Anthony Quinn. He tried on several sheepskin hats I was selling, and looked good in anything he tried. We spoke, and shared warmth between us. He bought the hat, and invited me to come visit his workplace. He is a hair stylist and artist. I said maybe I would see him. He turned and looked earnestly in my face and asked, “Just say yes or no. Are you going to come or not?” I was taken aback but realized the value of his directness. “I like to be positive” he said. I told him I would definitely come visit. After he left, other fascinating people arrived, and all this is to say, life is full and wonderful, whether in the cold of winter or a sunny tropical paradise.

In a couple weeks I will be driving with my art to Orlando, Florida for an exhibit, then on to Miami for the Coconut Grove Art Festival. I will be in warm, sunny Florida for almost three weeks.

Muse

What is a muse? Muse in Greek mythology, is one of the nine daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne, goddess of memory. Muses inspired and presided over the different creative arts. Sometimes artists are well aware that something bigger than themselves has taken over their creativity. In these moments they become like a hollow reed upon which a mysterious wind blows a sublime and fathomless melody. Afterwards, the startled artist steps back and says, Wow! Where did that come from?

As William Blake so eloquently wrote, the muse allows us
To see a World in a Grain of Sand, 
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower, 
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand 
And Eternity in an hour.


Thomas Edison was a great inventor, but I take issue with his statement, “Genius is one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent perspiration.” I believe that when Michelangelo, at the age of twenty-four, produced his colossal sculpture, David, he was completely inspired by a force greater than himself that blew through his every fiber, giving him strength. Certainly he was a unique channel and his talents begged for inspiration that attracted Spirit.

One of the greatest minds of all time acknowledges as much. Albert Einstein said: “One of the most beautiful things we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and all science. He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead: his eyes are closed. Imagination is more important than knowledge. For knowledge is limited to all we now know and understand, while imagination embraces the entire world, and all there ever will be to know and understand. 
” And he said, “To know is nothing at all; to imagine is everything.”

Imagination is the ability to dream while awake and in that heavenly state, be surprised by the “sirens songs,” blowing from across eternity. Walt Whitman knew this. The great American poet wrote:

As for me, I know nothing else but miracles,

Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,

Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,

Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the water,

Or stand under the trees in the woods,

Or talk by day with any one I love,

Or sleep in bed at night with any one I love,

Or watch honeybees busy around the hive of a summer forenoon...

Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, 

Or of stars shining so quiet and bright,

Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring...

What stranger miracles are there?

The greatest artists, writers, inventors, et al. know that to truly be fulfilled is to actually lose oneself and wander in mystery . . . to be guided by strangeness and trust that a wild ride is towards the mystical ocean that is the beginning and end; both.

“I have no fear of making changes, destroying the image, etc., because the painting has a life of its own.” Jackson Pollock

When I was but a twenty-two year old art student, my homework was to do a self-portrait. Every night I stood in front of a mirror and painted. The task was arduous for I stared at myself for hours on end, trying to faithfully represent myself in oil paint on canvas. But something took over so that I became inspired to continue. In the end I produced a painting that went beyond myself and once I stepped outside of the creative reverie and brought my painting to class, I thought did I do that?  Well, I did, but my muse stood next to me, singing her siren songs.

Magical Territory

"Is not life a hundred times too short for us to bore ourselves?" Friedrich Nietzsche

“There is no end. There is no beginning. There is only the passion of life.” Fredrico Fellini

I live on a hillside in a home nestled among a cluster of dwellings. When Santa Fe had it’s big snowstorm last week, my vehicle was buried in snow and ice, so I decided to just wait until conditions improved before trying to drive. But I am not the type who can stay at home for long. While the snow came down one afternoon, I went for a walk and took my camera. Everything was a blur of white, and I had to be careful not to fall on the steep terrain. In the silence I walked, carefully choosing my steps. Soon, the poetry of nature was casting a spell and I became entranced by familiar surroundings that had drastically changed their countenance. Colors were subdued to tones of white, broken by objects not completely concealed in snow. Soon, I was covered with snow as well. I made my way to the small creek at the foot of the hill and though my feet were cold and fingers inside my gloves were chilled, I plunged down the snowy embankment to explore. I have written previously about this area, and you can read how only recently, it was ablaze in fall color: Stopped In My Tracks.  Now, whiteness prevailed. The beauty took me by storm, and I walked, stopping to take pictures.

There are times for artists during creative moments when an inner contentment is reached. Their passion is heightened and happiness is found—so that nothing else matters except being in the “zone”. Think of Michelangelo, working on his back for hours high upon scaffolding in the Sistine Chapel. Sometimes paint would drip in his face and his body ached, but he was ecstatic, oblivious to the outside. When he reached home, bone tired, the spell was still upon him and he slept in his clothes with his shoes on, only to go back again the next day.

How often the siren song of the creative muse drowns out everything else . . . so that time vanishes and hours fly away in moments. I have missed appointments because of being in the zone.

During the snowstorm, as I became more excited by the magical aspects of my surroundings, I entered the magical territory. Nothing else mattered . . . the cold or even the oddness of stepping in the creek while taking pictures. My muse stood by my side and I was happy as a lover with his beloved.

“Reverie is not a mind vacuum. It is rather the gift of an hour which knows the plenitude of the soul.”   Gaston Bachelard

Sweet Light

Oh, for sweet light! People around the world rejoice in and praise it. Light represents hope, sustenance, and illumination.

Into my heart's night

Along a narrow way
I groped; and lo! the light,

An infinite land of day.
 ~Rumi


In Santa Fe, New Mexico, USA, where I live, there is an annual tradition of giving light on Christmas Eve. Paper bags are weighted with a layer of sand and a candle is lit and placed inside, then, scores of these “farolitos” (Spanish for “little lights”) are placed along paths, streets, sidewalks, on walls and even rooftops. Streets are closed to vehicles in an old and historic part of town along Canyon Road, where the art galleries line both sides of the avenue. As night falls, people gather in masses to walk among the farolitos, or gather at luminarios (bonfires) to sing carols and be festive. The tradition lights up the heart and soul, as thousands of people stroll. Amid joyous sounds of Christmas music, the revelry of friends and families greeting each other fills the air.

The lights have their roots in the 1800's. Small bonfires were used to guide people to Christmas Mass. Quite often they were set out during the final night of Las Posadas, the symbolic representation of Mary and Joseph seeking shelter in Bethlehem walking from home to home before Jesus was born.

 In later days, children carried small farolitos as they reenacted Las Posadas.

This year as I walked among the darkened masses of people and flickering firelights, Heidi of the Mountains walked by my side. “This is my first time!” she exclaimed with glee.

No matter how fast light travels it finds the darkness has always got there first, and is waiting for it.  ~Terry Pratchett

Your life is something opaque, not transparent, as long as you look at it in an ordinary human way.  But if you hold it up against the light of God's goodness, it shines and turns transparent, radiant and bright.  And then you ask yourself in amazement:  Is this really my own life I see before me?  ~Albert Schweitzer


A couple years ago, during October, I arrived in Varanasi, India, just at the beginning of Devali, "festival of lights"; an important five-day festival in Hinduism, Jainism, and Sikhism. Mounds of marigold blossoms were heaped in the streets, to be gathered to make garlands. In the evening, a man rowed me on the Ganges River to see fireworks and watch the huge cremation fires on the riverbank. As night fell, little handmade boats were floating everywhere—set upon their voyage carrying flower petals and candle, lit with someone’s hope.

My mind withdrew its thoughts from experience, extracting itself from the contradictory throng of sensuous images, that it might find out what that light was wherein it was bathed... And thus, with the flash of one hurried glance, it attained to the vision of That Which Is.
Saint Augustine

After I left India, by chance I arrived in Chiang Mai, Thailand, at the beginning of Loi Krothon, a festival where firelight plays a central role. "Loi" means "to float" and a "krathong" is traditionally made from a section of banana tree trunk. A krathong will be decorated with elaborately folded banana leaves, flowers, candles and incense sticks. A low value coin is sometimes included as an offering to the river spirits.

During the night of the full moon, Thais will float their krathong on a river, canal or a pond lake. The festival is believed to originate in an ancient practice of paying respect to the spirit of the waters. In Chiang Mai, night parades wind through the streets, with many of the costumed participants marching with candles aglow. Also, candles are lit under canopies of paper and as the warm air rises and is trapped, the lit paper bags rise into the air—thousands through the night, glowing all the way. It is quite the sight.

And of all illumination which human reason can give, none is comparable to the discovery of what we are, our nature, our obligations, what happiness we are capable of, and what are the means of attaining it.
Adam Weishaupt

There is not enough darkness in the entire world to put out the light of even one small candle.  Robert Alden

Serendipity

There are always two people in every picture:  the photographer and the viewer.  ~Ansel Adams

When I was in Kashmir, India, I went on a trek in the Himalayan Mountains, and during the journey stopped in a tiny hamlet to paint. I set up my easel to get a view of houses with the mountains rising behind. Children were the first to arrive by my side, but before long adults too, came to watch. I was entertaining them. Fortunately, I had my camera, and occasionally turned and snapped pictures of the onlookers. That day was quite memorable, and I came away with a painting, wonderful experiences, and a trove of photographs. Many are favorites from among 30,000 pictures I took in 2008. One in particular is a photo that came when I had finished painting and stood to smile at the young people. I motioned to a group that I wanted to take their picture and without a word, they quickly gathered and focused all their attention to me. In a second I had taken a marvelous photo, and then, a few more in succession. I have printed it as large as 34 by 44 inches and lived with it for many months . . . and never tire looking at it. The children are present, free from confusion and gaze openly with candor. They are dressed nicely in mountain garb, and have chapped skin from the climate. In some of the pictures, the village children show clothes that are stained and faces with dirt . . . and it's understandable since they do not have washrooms or toilets, but live close to nature. In the above photo, I like that they stand shoulder to shoulder as comrades.

I had similar moments of serendipity when in the briefest of seconds an unlikely slice of time is captured forever. For instance when I was outside a mosque in Istanbul, Turkey, and noticed a big congregation of pigeons bustling about. A homely woman turned to me, and in a moment I had taken her picture as she offered me seed to throw to the birds. She is smiling bashfully and missing teeth.

Some photos can be planned. When I was driving on the island of Corfu, in Greece, I came to a place called Ipsos and spotted a rickety dock that jutted into a lake. I stopped and as the gentle waves lapped the shore at my feet, set up a tripod and leisurely snapped photos. The result is a picture that has fullness and emptiness both. I call it Zen Dock. 

Sometimes, I knew a picture was waiting for me, but I would need to make special effort to get it. When I was in Hoi An, Vietnam, I heard of a fish market that was especially lively at dawn, when the fishermen arrived at a dock amid a crowd of clamoring and bartering women. Several mornings I rose with the sun to ride my bicycle to the place. Sure enough, I got great pictures. Among them is this shot of a woman who was squatting on her haunches, smoking a cigar under her straw hat.

Photos can record in a moment a picture worth a thousand words. While in Africa in the Serengeti game preserve, I met a group of Masai boys and could not have made a painting of them. But my camera was with me, and my brief encounter is now more than an isolated memory in my head.

It's weird that photographers spend years or even a whole lifetime, trying to capture moments that added together, doesn’t even amount to a couple of hours.  ~James Lalropui Keivom

Photography records the gamut of feelings written on the human face, the beauty of the earth and skies that man has inherited, and the wealth and confusion man has created.  It is a major force in explaining man to man.  ~Edward Steichen

See more travel pictures:  Artistic photography by Steven Boone
Also my full website for photos: Graphixshoot

God Within It

 My mother, who lives in Santa Barbara, California, called and left a message on my phone the other day. Her voice was emotional as she spoke slowly and deliberately. “Hi Steven, it’s your mother. Our dog, Sarah, died December 1st. I put a sign out front for the neighbors—to tell them she had died . . . because everyone loved her. And I put on the sign a writing from Baha’u’llah that said, ‘Nothing do I perceive but I perceive God within it, God before it, and God after it.'  I wrote the name of Baha’u’llah on it, along with a picture of Sarah. Then everyone knew she had left us.” Her voice trembled and she cried a little as she spoke. I noticed the crying because my mother never cries.

They had brought Sarah home after a previous dog died. Sarah was already three or four years old. A German Shepherd, she had been abused by someone and was not trusting. Once she became a part of my parent’s household, she barked at anyone else who entered the house. I went to visit them a couple months ago and Sarah always barked at me when I came inside, even though she was deaf and too tired to stand. I noticed that she did the same with my brother who lives near my parents and has visited thousands of times. I had to laugh about that.

Sarah was treated with great kindness and even reverence. When she slowed down and could barely walk, my father cordially walked slowly by her side as she went out to do her duty every day. Both my parents, who are infirm themselves, would help her when she could only climb halfway into the car, and had to have her back legs lifted and then be scooted in. They said kind things to her every day, even after she had gone deaf. When my father noticed she was not eating, he'd get on his hands and knees and feed her. She ate the same food as my parents. I once joked with my mother that I was eating dog food when I noticed she had the same food in the dog dish as on my plate. She said resolutely, “Sarah gets the same food as we do.”

The dog lived much longer than perhaps possible, due to the love she received. My mother liked to say she was “the oldest German Shepherd in Santa Barbara.”

I spoke with mother after she left her message for me. She said many neighbors had seen the sign and come with flowers, or gifts, and to pay their sympathies. Surely, they had noticed a great love and now part of it had gone away.

"The one absolutely unselfish friend that man can have in this selfish world, the one that never deserts him, the one that never proves ungrateful or treacherous, is his dog. A man's dog stands by him in prosperity and poverty, in health and sickness. He will sleep on the cold ground where the wintry winds blow and the snow drives fiercely, if only he may be near his master's side. He will kiss the hand that has no food to offer, he will lick the wounds and sores that come in encounter with the roughness of the world. He guards the sleep of his pauper master as if he were a prince. When all other friends desert he remains. When riches take wings and reputation falls to pieces, he is as constant in his love as the sun in its journey through the heavens” ..... Unknown  (Possibly from an early American trial re: the killing of a neighbor's dog)

The Tightrope Walker

Being an artist is like being a tightrope walker, trying to keep balanced between creativity and staying in public favor. To lose either is to fall, but losing creativity is death, whereas public favor is capricious, not essential for life. Most artists depend upon public sanction and approval in order to provide for themselves and family. Everyone knows the tragic story of Vincent van Gogh (30 March 1853 – 29 July 1890). He passionately gave his talents to the world, but the public did not receive his gifts. Thus he was impoverished and depended upon the charity of his brother to survive. At the tender age of 37, he killed himself, and then some years later when public taste shifted, his work gained favor. Now, van Gogh is an icon and his work is among the most sought after in the world. And what if he had acknowledged and followed advice? We all would be poorer if he had conformed to the taste required by society and painted academic paintings with subdued tones and little flair or personality. Then, his unique and wondrous gift of authenticity would have been diminished and blighted and his greatest work would not have been achieved.

In contrast, Pablo Picasso (25 October 1881 – 8 April 1973) set the world on fire and after a brief initial struggle getting established, had the public eating out of his hand. Much of his work could not be understood, but perhaps because society was hungry for change and he was the man of the hour and capable of fantastic feats of creativity, his bold advances were met enthusiastically and he became very rich. His art is also among the most sought after in the world.

Common advice for an artist is to create a niche and be identified much as commercial brands are recognized. Then, grow the brand.  Most artists do this.  Norman Rockwell, Andrew Wyeth, or even Jackson Pollock, are painters who settled upon a technique and then harvested results. This practice extends to other art forms, such as poetry and writing, where some are haiku writers or fiction novelists, but not both. Very few are like Leonardo daVinci, a painter, inventor, sculptor, poet and scientist.

I admit that the public sometimes factors into my thoughts when I am in my studio. I have had success as a landscape painter, but other work has met with less enthusiasm. Some of my paintings, like the Hangup series, (faces hanging from clothespins on a line), have met with delight and wonder, but also revulsion and hatred. When I made the first, I was responding to a quirky inner vision, not public taste. I had decided to follow through with an odd momentary vision, and eventually produced thirty-five paintings. At one point I stopped painting, since I felt I was coming unglued, but now count the Hangup paintings as among my most important work. To prove the point, one of them, Van Gogh, All Hung Up is part of the permanent collection of the Foundation Vincent Van Gogh, in Arles, France, among paintings by luminaries of contemporary art.

Writing, photography, painting, drawing, making books, graphic design, public speaking, traveling, meditation, philosophy . . . the main thing is to follow the thread of the heart.

Visit the Steven Boone website.