Best Posts of April

Random Act Of Kindness

April 13, 2007

 

Inspiration To Fly

April 18, 2008

Chicago

April 26, 2009

Pleasurable Dance of the Senses

April 10, 2010

Delirium

April 24, 2011

Spring Fragrance

April 22, 2012

No Bitterness

Naomi Boone, age 18

"I love my body, it has been so good to me." These were among the last words my daughter Naomi Boone spoke as she died at age nineteen. What is remarkable about Naomi's exclamation is that it came after a grueling two year battle with cancer.

I had been an intimate witness to her suffering. As soon as Naomi entered high-school she immersed herself into meaningful activity—joining the German club, the Ski club, and in sports running track and field and cross-country. When her cancer was diagnosed, she had been painfully lifting her leg into her car to drive to school. The verdict was grim for her survival.

The next two years were full of pain, exhilaration, uplifting victories and dreadful defeats. Naomi had expressed that she did not want to die a slow, painful death, but this is what fate had in store for her. In the end, she was forcing herself to eat, she could not walk, and was attached to an oxygen tank. Her lungs were full of disease, so that she suffocated to death. How was it then, that her final words were, "I love my body, it has been so good to me."

Naomi formed a special relationship with her mortal form. She knew that her body was in a life and death struggle, and she developed a tremendous compassion for it. She cheered it on, begging and supplicating, caressing and loving it. She saw her terrible conflict with cancer as an epic spiritual battle of light and dark, and she firmly planted herself on the side of light. As the disease gained the upper hand, and the life force she loved so dearly could not save her crippled form, she remained loyal and praised her troops for such a brave fight against insurmountable odds. Not a trace of bitterness.

When I meet tests, and get frustrated, I think of Naomi and her walk through the "valley of the shadow of death."


23rd Psalm, The Book of David

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. 
 He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. 
 He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. 
 Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. 
 Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. 
 Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.
                                                         ~~~~~~

Groundbreaking

Paul Cezanne, (French: January 19, 1839 - October 22, 1906)

Pablo Picasso, (Spanish:  25 October 1881 – 8 April 1973)

In the pursuit of artistic creativity, it often occurs that an artist is influenced by his peers, and by art history. Even when someone does something radical and new, essentially, a groundwork has been laid by others that allows this new breakthrough to occur. For instance, Picasso was a seminal figure in art in the twentieth century, and when his cubist paintings emerged, they shattered the barriers for art. And yet, these paintings did not appear in a vacuum, for Picasso had been a great admirer of Paul Cezanne, who years earlier had been taking impressionist painting into new territory with his careful constructing of picture planes using basic shapes of cones, rectangles and squares.

Claude Monet, (French: 14 November 1840 – 5 December 1926)

The crucial quality of groundbreaking artists, is their fearless pursuit of new ways of seeing, and their willingness to take risk and break from the crowd. Another great innovator of the twentieth century was Georges Seurat, who developed his signature style of painting, called pointillism, using uniform sized dots of color to make a depiction from nature. Yet, Seurat was keenly aware of the work of the impressionists, who had broken with traditional painting styles when they went from depicting stories in their paintings, into painting light itself.

Georges Pierre Seurat, (French: 2 December 1859 – 29 March 1891)

Piet Mondrian, (Dutch, March 7, 1872 – February 1, 1944)

Steven Boone, (American: 13 May 1952 - present.)

The Dutchman Piet Mondrian, migrated to Paris during the time Paris was the art capital of the world, when Picasso and a slew of other famous artists were there. Mondrian developed a highly refined abstract style of his own, which broke the picture plane down into a grid of horizontal and vertical bisecting lines, using some of the resulting  shapes to carefully be filled with primary colors. Many years later, I hearkened back to Mondrian in my street photography, when I captured images that resembled Mondrian's abstracts, using a lens instead of brush and paint.

Wanderlust

A bedouin on his camel. at the Great Pyramids of Egypt.

“One’s destination is never a place, but a new way of seeing things.” – Henry Miller (American, December 26, 1891 – June 7, 1980)

In some profound ways, I have not adjusted to the ending of my year of travel, in 2008. Then, I was single, unencumbered by material things, free to move in any direction, was full of wanderlust, and leisurely moved across the face of the earth, living in exotic and fascinating places, making new friends and acquaintances. Since I arrived back in the USA, I have not felt the urge to own a home or settle down in any fundamental way, even though I have married. My lovely wife owns a home and I also rent a separate home, studio, and art gallery—but I am not attached to any of these places. Since 2008, I have been to Brazil, Argentina, Uruguay, and lastly, with my wife, Morocco. Now, I wonder if my dancing vagabond days are over for me.

During the early days of my traveling, I carried two suitcases—one for clothing, laptop, camera and supplies, and one for my painting gear, i.e. paints and easel, canvas and brushes. I made paintings along the way, occasionally sending them back to my assistant in the US and my gallery. Midway through the journey, I sent the cumbersome painting suitcase home, since I had evolved into a passionate street photographer. Each day, camera in hand, I would saunter forth to find the unexpected and seek to capture ephemeral moments of sublimity.

A field of poppies amid olive trees, in the Puglia region of Italy

The task of landscape painting is different than photography. To paint, a subject must be found, and then the easel set up and as the day goes by and the sun moves across the sky, I stand in one spot, studying and recording until a finished work is completed. For example, see: Flux Of The Street.
Photography is simply having the camera at hand, with a heightened sense of awareness, ready to click the shutter at an opportune time . . . and then go forth again for more. For example, see: Ducking.

Chicken seller in a market in Hoi An, Vietnam

Generally, paintings are far more valuable on the market, since they are made entirely by the artist’s hand are unique, whereas photos become prints that are massed produced.

 “To awaken quite alone in a strange town is one of the pleasantest sensations in the world.” – Freya Stark (born 31 January 1893 in Paris, France; died 9 May 1993 in Asolo, Italy)

Writings From The Month Of March

March 25, 2012

Mysterious Circumstance

This time five years ago, while on the island of Sicily, . . .

March 27, 2011

Absurdity

Of all animals, only human beings can be absurd.

March 21, 2010

Home Is In My Heart

When I travel for extended periods I become homeless and a true wanderer.

March 08, 2009

Violin Played By Ethereal Hands

Imagine living without water or food for nineteen days.

March 08, 2008

What I Want And More

THE DREAM is giving me what I want and more. Here in Luxor, . . . 

Monday, March 19, 2007

Segesta

I almost cried when I found the temple at Segesta after being lost, . . .

Playing Tricks

Ice-cream Hangup, by Steven Boone

I enjoy surprise in life and art. Surprise is what challenges our perception, and makes us wonder. Most people prefer predictability because it offers a sense of safety of sorts, and scientists need the laws of nature to be fixed in order to compute and invent, but oddity and absurdity are never far away. In fact, chaos is ever present, and scientists must allow for it in equations. This is why weather will never be absolutely predictable. All living things depend on predictability to survive and prosper, but the universe will forever be playing tricks.

In art, the arena allows for chaos and surprise. The surrealists made paintings depicting melting watches, flying cows, or trees growing in mid-air. Pablo Picasso (Spanish, 25 October 1881 – 8 April 1973) painted bold portraits with faces that had two eyes on one side and a mouth on the other. 

Portrait by Pablo Picasso

I like the unusual, and it often comes into my artwork as well.

A man, walking past a billboard. Berlin, Germany.

Trading Books

Gondolas, Venice, Italy

These days are among the slowest of the year for tourist traffic on Canyon Road in Santa Fe, New Mexico, the famed art avenue with more than 100 galleries. The weather is cold, and with far fewer world-class events scheduled in the city than in summer, sometimes only a handful of people browse the shops. My wife and I share duties tending our gallery—The Steven Boone Gallery.  It is almost a joke when we call each other and realize that not one person has visited. And then, there are days when of the four people who appear, two are trying to sell something or asking for donations.

Masai boys, Serengeti, Tanzania

The other day was like that. An older man came in, looked around cursorily, and asked about a large photo on my wall. I said it was taken in Kashmir, India. “I bet you do not have many people who see that and who have actually been there—like me!” We began talking and he took a card out of his pocket to hand to me. It promoted a book he had written  a few years back,
about his journey around the world in 1968. I told him that I had gone around the world in 2008, forty years after him,  and had lived in 19 countries. “I visited 27 countries,” he said. I responded, “Wow, you must have been moving fast.”

We ended up trading books. I gave him a signed copy of my award winning book, A Heart Traced In Sand, about the struggle of my daughter Naomi, who died of cancer at the age of nineteen. He promised to send me his book about his travel adventures around the world in 1968.

Dal Lake, Kashmir

Carnival in Rio

 

This time of year, in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil,  excitement builds in anticipation of the start of carnival. The annual event is huge, and world famous. Visitors from across the globe flock to witness parades in the sambadrome, the venue built especially for the samba parades. The samba groups prepare all year long for one night of show and an opportunity to be listed among the best. The events begin on a Thursday night with novice groups, culminating on Saturday and Sunday night with the best groups—winners from previous years. The samba schools that comprise the groups number in the thousands, so that in one evening, over fifty thousand costumed people, walking, singing, dancing or on fabulous decorated floats, will have paraded.

 

The Sunday night that I went, I took the subway from my hotel, and it was packed. When I arrived near the sambadrome, I walked with the stream of people through the street until I arrived at the gates and was directed to my section. I had paid a high sum to be seated close to the action. Inside, the crowd swelled until about 8:30 PM, when the first group began their long march down the avenue, under the floodlights, amidst blaring samba music. The march starts at one end of the sambadrome, and finishes about ¼ mile at the other end. I was near the end . . . a good vantage point.

All night, the groups flowed past and orgasmic throbbing never stopped. The happiness level was at a high pitch. In fact, the groups are judged partly for the enthusiasm they display, as well as for creativity, skill and artistry. I took hundreds of pictures until dawn, when my camera battery died. The parades were not done, but after ten hours of witnessing the spectacle to end all spectacles, I had my fill.



Enjoy this:  My Carnival show on YouTube

Going With The Creative Flow

Art, like life, should be free, since they are both experimental. George Santayana

When you're experimenting you have to try so many things before you choose what you want, and you may go days getting nothing but exhaustion. Fred Astaire

It is often said to me, when visitors to my gallery have seen the work on the walls and discovered that I made it all, “It is surprising to see the diversity!” The Steven Boone Gallery shows the full range of my work, not just what sells. Usually, artists find a formula that works for them and if it is successful, then they repeat it—making a “brand” that it identifiable to the public and drives sales. I admit I have a style of my own—landscape painting using a palette knife and thick paint with bold color, which has driven sales for me. Yet, along the way, through thirty-five years of being a professional artist, I have frequently left the familiar path and gone into the unknown. This deviation is from inner necessity, not for financial gain. In fact, trying new approaches to art is scary, since it requires going into the mysterious and the public may not want to go there with you.

Art flourishes where there is a sense of nothing having been done before, of complete freedom to experiment; but when caution comes in you get repetition, and repetition is the death of art. Alfred North Whitehead

It is winter, and this is the perfect time to go into the unknown. Sales are down because tourists are gone, and I am not distracted by needing to replace inventory. The hours are plentiful to just experiment.

Twenty-five years ago I went through a period of producing abstract art, and now, I am returning to that realm. I am going with the creative flow . . . using the palette knife and thick paint, but experimenting with surprising combinations. Entirely new for me are mounting my figure drawings on board, coating them, and painting. I am pushing the color envelope into new territory.

I would say to any artist: 'Don't be repressed in your work, dare to experiment, consider any urge, if in a new direction all the better.' Edward Weston

Nude Depiction

Yesterday's painting, oil on linen, 18 x 24 inches. Took about six hours to make.

Some of my greatest pleasures come when drawing and painting the human form. Thankfully, there is a tradition in art of copying human anatomy that goes back thousands of years, to the ancient Greeks, who exalted nudes in classical studies—especially sculpture.

Societies around the world have placed taboos on nudity, but in art, it is sanctioned. Why? Because for the most part, the nude depiction in art goes beyond sexuality and touches the sublime.

It is pleasurable when a model takes off clothing to reveal his or her form. The moment can be powerful, and there are anecdotes about famous artists not being able to handle it—Cezanne for instance could only paint clothed subjects.

Models come in all shapes and sizes. I have worked from skinny people, short and tall, and one woman so fat that her flesh rolled in waves over her body.

Nude, oil on linen, 18 x 24 inches.

I met my wife, Heidi Of The Mountains, for the first time when I showed up at a drawing group and she was the model. I have drawn her many times now, since she continues to model for artist groups.

Yesterday, I gathered with a regular Saturday group who hire models to take one pose all day. The group begins in the morning, takes a break for lunch, and returns in the afternoon. The model poses for twenty minutes at a time, with five-minute breaks, before resuming the same posture. Both men and women artists participate.

Every group is different, depending on who is running it and who participates. Sometimes, there is no talking while a serious work attitude prevails. The groups I have gone to for years are far more relaxed, and conversations unfold, with a fair amount of joking and laughter.

See: Steven Boone Figures

Charcoal on paper, 11 x 14 inches. "Heidi."

Holiday Cheer

It took me sixty years before I experienced being thrown out on the street. Thank God, I can laugh about it. My wife owns a home in White Rock, New Mexico, a community about 35 miles from Santa Fe, where my gallery and studio are located. I do not like living in White Rock, so I have kept a residence in Santa Fe. Traveling is my passion, and I choose not to own a home . . . that would tie me down. I rent places that are furnished, and come and go as I please. Heidi Of The Mountains stays with me one week, and then lives in White Rock the next and I go a couple nights to be with her.

Here is my story, to which I could laugh or cry—but mostly I laugh. A gentleman named Joe had come into my gallery, seeking representation for his photography. He owned a poodle dog, and became acquainted with Heidi, because, at the time, we owned a poodle puppy (since deceased.) The man and his wife had traveled out of the USA, and he called himself an “international” photographer. This fellow brought his wife in to meet us, then invited us to dinner at his house in the foothills of Santa Fe. We dined with them and began to become friends, sharing poodle stories and tales from overseas. I agreed to show the man’s photos for one month. Meanwhile, I had been occasionally sleeping in my studio, since I had a residential lease expire. The gentleman and his wife suggested that, since they had three homes in three different states, and they spent most of their time in Colorado, we could pay a small rent and stay at their home in Santa Fe, for a duration of four to six months. The woman, Sheila, told Heidi, “It is a win-win situation.” Initially, I had a slightly weird feeling about the suggestion, but agreed anyway.

The couple left town, and Heidi and I moved some belongings into the house. Although the home was outside of town, it was quiet and comfortable. Sheila and Joe had said that they might visit us for brief periods occasionally, but that we could remain. We lived at the house for three months with only one visit. Meanwhile, I took Joe’s work out of my gallery because it did not sell, and my own photography was selling. After that, things changed.

Just before Christmas, the homeowners arrived. I had known they were coming for a few days, so had done extra cleaning. Joe seemed less friendly, and I noticed that Sheila berated him when he tracked snow into the house. Heidi and I left after two nights, and went to White Rock. The day before Christmas, we received an Email demanding that we get our belongings out immediately. That would mean that on Christmas day, we were expected to move. Impossible, because we were with Heidi’s family that day, and furthermore, my daughter who I do not see often, had arrived from Chicago. Heidi said that from her experience as an officer of justice, they could not expel us on such short notice. But they did. They took all our belongings and piled them in their driveway, in the snow, covered with a tarp. They sent us an Email as explanation, citing several complaints, including that the kitchen dishes were not in the proper order in the cabinets, that we had clothes strewn around in our bedroom, and that we had tacked a blanket over the large window in our bedroom to block the cold air.

I have found another place to live—a sweet, furnished guesthouse, just a few minutes from my gallery, and close to my studio. Heidi told me she had sent light and love to Sheila and Joe but the message came back unopened. “Did you send them an Email?” I asked. “NO, it was telepathic,” she replied. And so, that is my little story of holiday cheer.