Sunday, September 15, 2013

The Artist And The Model


When I first set eyes on my wife Lori, she was undressing to pose nude. I was in a drawing group of about ten people. During the next three hours, she took about ten poses with three five minute breaks between sessions. 

I had recently returned from world travel, and now was getting back to my regular practice of drawing weekly. Over the next few months, I had occasion to draw Lori again, and eventually, the hand of fate drew us together—to become husband and wife.

Last night, we went to a movie called, The Artist And The Model, about an aging artist living in a secluded mountain village in southern France during the second world war. His wife brings home a destitute young woman who lives with them and becomes the sculptor's model. Lori and I sat arm in arm in the theater, watching scenes unfold that were familiar to both of us. 

Lori continues to model, with the agreement that it be for groups only—no private sessions with men. I draw as usual, and over the years have made thousands of figure drawings. It is life.




Sunday, September 08, 2013

Gates Of Heaven


At unexpected moments lately, when I am tired or have complaint, a gentle breeze will waft through my being causing me to pause and be thankful. I wonder where this gift comes from and perhaps it is because I am growing older that an inner perspective and appreciation of life's fluidity has arrived. 



 For instance, I might be hot and bothered about cleaning my studio, which takes time away from creativity and is messy drudgery. As I carry smelly garbage bags to the trash bins outdoors, I find myself tired and complaining, and then, in a moment, something comes over me and I laugh about it and take notice of the fresh air outdoors, the light that plays everywhere around me, and maybe I hear a bird call. In an instant, it is as if I am cured from a morose malady and leave the prison of self and enter the gates of heaven.

Sunday, September 01, 2013

Zephyr

It may happen soon that I will be leaving the United States and moving to Andalucia, in southern Spain. Heidi Of The Mountains has determined not to fight my wanderlust, but rather develop in new ways, and will come too. We will have easy access to all of the Mediterranean area, which is rich in history, archeology, and culture. 

About five years ago, after living in Venice, Italy for three months, a shift occurred in my being, and I only wanted freedom like the wind. Since then, I have travelled around the world and become even more like the zephyr. I cannot settle down in one place and have no taste for possessions that most people crave—home, car, television, etc. etc. 

I live in an idyllic town—Santa Fe, New Mexico, USA. It is a tourist destination, and I have a grand situation of owning an art gallery that features my artwork, with a house and studio just steps away. Yet I find the responsibilities a burden and do not want the attachments. I am willing to trade more for less. Heidi is willing to fly with me into the unknown. 

The village in Andalucia is an almost forgotten place with a just a few whitewashed dwellings clustered on a a mountainside. There are no stores in Darrical, and sometimes, only fifteen people live there. But my friends Carol and Rolf have a home with a few casitas, and they have extra space to live in. I have lived with them before, ( see my blog Muy Tranquilo ) and it is a sleepy, ethereal existence perfect for poetry and art without distraction. Last time I spoke with Carol, she divulged the exciting news that Darrical now has internet service.

Sunday, August 18, 2013

I Love Your Stories


“I love your stories Steven. Thanks for them.” 


Reply: ”Every week for over six years now Christine. This kind of consistency in my life is mostly confined to prayer and drinking coffee.”

This brief conversation arrived via Facebook, when Christine McIntyre, a friend I met in Belize, during my trip around the world in 2008 reacted to a posting from my archives that appeared. My blog is getting rather deep, so that now, every so often, I can pull an interesting story from the past and post it on the exact day of the year in the present.

Here are some selections from August postings:

August 19, 2012

Endlessly Changing

 

 

 

 

August 07, 2011

A Leap Of Faith



August 08, 2010

Gifts





August 02, 2009

Woven Together Into Eternity





August 10, 2008

Scratch Under The Surface



August 26, 2007

Rainbow Of Chaos





Sunday, August 11, 2013

Summer's Fare


Late summer is always a colorful time at local farmers markets. At our farmers market here in Santa Fe, New Mexico, USA, open Tuesday and Saturday mornings, the place bustles with vendors and buyers. Of course, people come primarily to buy the fresh produce, but also the wholesome ambience with music, and flowers, and smells of roasting food contributes to the happiness. Here in Northern New Mexico, there is a tradition of roasting green chilis over flames—and the smell is fabulous.


I am an artist, so relishing the incredible colors and shapes of produce is a treat. Recently I made a still-life painting from items I bought at the market.



Lately, I have been bringing home an armful of fresh food and making flavorful soups that lasts for days.

Sunday, July 28, 2013

Crashed


And they write innumerable books; being too vain and distracted for silence: seeking every one after his own elevation, and dodging his emptiness.
T.S. Eliot (American, September 26, 1888 – January 4, 1965)
 

It took me by surprise when I crashed yesterday evening and a feeling of total inertia struck. All my inspiration vanished, and as I sat on the couch with my wife nearby I could not clearly remember a time when I had felt this way. I thought of things to do but lacked motivation. It all felt empty. 
 
I told Lori how I felt and then got up and turned all the lights off so that we just sat in darkness, not touching. I stretched out and sank into nothingness. Then I began feeling like I was gently being carried on a river and it was peaceful. At some point my wife started a conversation, but all I craved was silence and nothingness.

Today, I am back to my old self, with my normal cares, tasks and ever present agenda. And now I know why people die without sleep.


We cannot let another person into our hearts or minds unless we empty ourselves. We can truly listen to him or truly hear her only out of emptiness.
M.Scott Peck (American, May 23, 1936 – September 25, 2005)
 
I think about that 'empty' space a lot. That emptiness is what allows for something to actually evolve in a natural way. I've had to learn that over the years - because one of the traps of being an artist is to always want to be creating, always wanting to produce.
Meredith Monk (American, born November 20, 1942)

Sunday, July 14, 2013

The Human Family

Each year in Santa Fe, New Mexico, USA, during the month of July, the Folk Art Market unfolds to great fanfare. Heidi Of The Mountains and I always go, and visit all the booths, enjoying the fabulous crafts from all over the globe. The artisans dress in their native garb, and seem just as excited as the big crowds of people that come to admire their work.


We always spend money, and usually, more than we intended.

I especially enjoy the grand show of humanity and the flavorful atmosphere. This year, I became nostalgic for my former days of world travel. Seeing the Tuareg silver jewelry reminded me of Morocco, the emerald cotton shirts with simple designs of Thailand, and the fellow from Egypt with his artwork made me remember how welcome I felt there.

This annual market is an example of our glorious world and its human family. In the words of Baha'u'llah, “The earth is one country, and mankind its citizens.”




Saturday, July 06, 2013

Creative Spirit

Mayan Woman in Belize, photo on canvas, 18"x24"
Nexus, Acrylic on canvas, 12 x 12 inches

Koi, mixed-media, 20"x42"
Since I have a creative spirit, I thrive on surprise. So when a friend of mine made the decision to add to his art collection and buy a wide variety of my art in various styles, I felt overjoyed. I could not have predicted that this person would collect six pieces—five last week, and is considering more. What gratifies me most is that he has explored my world, and chosen to be as broad in his collecting as I am in my creating.
Sicilian Coast, oil on linen, 36"x48"


As my friend adds to his art collection, his home grows in stature, ensuring a pleasurable and sophisticated atmosphere.
The Red Scarf, oil on linen, 18"x24"

Friday, July 05, 2013

Remember The Love


Fourteen years ago, my daughter Naomi died at the the age of nineteen. She fought two hard years against cancer, and held to her hope and faith until the end. Four days before she died, we flew home to Santa Fe, New Mexico from San Francisco, California, on a private jet—an air ambulance, because commercial travel was too risky. We wanted her home to die.

Once home, waiting for the inevitable, Naomi remained calm . . . even when she looked up at me from where she sat on a couch reading and gazing steadily into my eyes, said, “Dad, I am concerned.”

Naomi had kept a diary since she was twelve years old, and continued writing until the end. The morning of the day before she died she scribbled down in weak handwriting on a crumpled piece of paper: Dream of a blissful cruise, I don't remember much of it. I just remember glimpses of it. I am happy, and I can eat a lot. Because the cancer had made her feel so sick, she had been forcing herself to eat.

The same afternoon, a friend came over, and while he massaged her back, she managed to ask after him and his family, and then say, “I love my body, it has been so good to me.”
The next morning she was drifting in and out of consciousness and gasping for air. A doctor arrived and said her heart was beating violently because her lungs were collapsing with pneumonia and not giving oxygen. “It will give out soon” he said.

Naomi died in the afternoon, and a gentle breeze blew in, clouds came and a light rain came to end a drought we had been experiencing. The sun shone through the clouds and a rainbow formed over our house where her body rested in her bedroom.

Since her death, I have asked God that Naomi be my spiritual ally—a guiding light. She has visited my body and taken away ills. I have felt washed by her presence and since her death have only been sick a couple of times. Her spirit always gives me encouragement, and when times are tough, she whispers in my ear, It's not so bad; keep smiling and remember the love.

Sunday, June 16, 2013

A Mystery


I must admit to being a bit startled when I found myself sitting in a theater and the audience all carried programs with a simple cover—only a single image—one that I had made and then forgotten.

My wife and I were given complimentary tickets for an intimate performance of a little-known play: Miss Jairus, A Mystery in Four Tableuax by Michelde Ghelderode (3 April 1898, Ixelles – 1962, Brussels). The play opens with a scene of a distraught father outside the room where his 16 year-old daughter is on the verge of death. Immediately, I came under a spell . . . because at one time I was in the same situation when my own daughter Naomi fell ill and died—and now here I was watching my own life being acted out. 
As the moments unfolded, I began to see that the hand of fate had put me in the audience, with one of my images on the cover of the program.

 The grand scheme had begun earlier, when David Olson, director of Theaterwork had begun preparations for production of a mystical play and while he was in an eclectic resale shop in Santa Fe, had spotted a piece of artwork that had resonated with him. He thought it was apropos for the play he was directing, so he bought it and then tracked me down for permission to use it for the cover of his program. When he spoke with me, at first I did not know what image he was describing; “A woman dressed in cloth, walking with the moon behind her head.” He brought the painting to my gallery and I immediately recognized it as a piece from my past, and the "moon" was actually a halo. In the brochure, and on an easel in the lobby, the piece is now called, “Moon Halo”.

Here is brief description of the play, taken from The Harvard Crimson, by Joel Cohen, October 19, 1964:
De Ghelderode sets Miss Jairus, in the house of a merchant in medieval Bruges. As the merchant Jairus and three old hags who are professional mourners keep a drunken vigil over his dead daughter, the daughter's fiancé suddenly brings in a sorcerer who has been confounding the local clerics and physicians. The fiancé, Jacquelin, cannot stand to lose Miss Jairus and demands that the sorcerer awake her.
When the sorcerer does, Blandine objects to being awakened; she no longer knows her mother, father, or fiancé. Neither truly alive nor truly dead, she begins the long, sleepless wait for another death.
The ringing of distant bells, the coming of Death, as Lazarus, the whining and howling of mourners and a premonitory dog are all techniques of mystery and horror de Ghelderode has used in other plays. They combine in Miss Jairus with a plot-skeleton which is parable. In the final act, on Easter, as Miss Jairus dies, the townsfolk commemorate the Holy Day by taking the sorcerer to a hill outside the town and crucifying him.

In short, I feel that a conjurer acted behind the scenes to put me in this play, and we witnessed this stunning performance on the eve of Fathers Day.