First Big Snowfall

Orchids, blooming in a windowsill.

The first big snowfall of this season took us by surprise. We awoke from dreamy sleep, and looked out the window to see the whole lot covered in white . . . and silent. A big cape of white, thrown atop everything—as if to stop the world.

We ventured forth despite the cold and cumbersome streets, slipping our way along to a coffee shop that dared to open. Not as busy this morning. After coffee and the Sunday paper, we trudged for a walk in the old part of town. Our dog, Gracie, liked this new experience very much, leaping about with glee. She comes to us from California, where she never knew what cold is.
I love photographing in snow . . . it is poetic, and shapes become minimal—surfaces serene.

The Storehouse Of My Mind

The storehouse of my mind is bursting and begs to be released. The most fluid, direct, and succinct way to accomplish this is by writing. Writing from memory is typically in the form of memoir. For a good memoir, there needs to be vivid recall, and studies have shown that our memories are more profound when they are accompanied by emotion. In other words, a boring life does not make for a good memoir. My life has been far from boring—especially the year that I gave up home, car, typical security, and traveled solo around the globe . . . feet firmly on the ground. I have begun writing chapters from that year; and chosen to write in the third person.

Here is a sample, taken from a chapter on Belize:

They ambled casually together, past the run-down shops, enjoying one another enough that each day when they happened to meet, they grew friendlier. The black man, Hugh, had buttery cocoa skin and wore his hair in dreadlocks. He wore old jeans, a tank top, and flip-flops on his feet. Outside a cafe one afternoon, the traveler asked Hugh if he would have his picture taken. Hugh posed bashfully, eyes twinkling and lips tightly shut. The traveler had to put down his camera and smile himself before Hugh at last grinned. Then the best picture was taken, with Hugh smiling broadly and showing a gaping hole in his top row of teeth—so that his tongue pushed through the gap.

One afternoon, Hugh took the traveler to his house. They walked out of town, about a half mile along the beach, past some respectable private homes until they reached a curve, and then, looking past a little fresh water stream emptying into the sea, Hugh pointed toward an area where it appeared a jungle had marched to the shoreline. "My place is back there," he said. They walked on and soon could spot a ramshackle hut. “My girlfriend Susie is home . . . we been together awhile . . . she is good!” He said, winking at me with his toothless smile. As we neared the hut, I noticed how primitive it was. “I built it myself” he said, “out of stuff I found.” The traveler peered into the windows lacking glass or even screens and imagined what might happen during a storm. “What about when it rains?” he asked. Hugh grinned and replied right away, “My girlfriend and I fight over the dry spots.”

We came to the front steps and Suzie stepped outside, smiling broadly.
She was plump and homely and had dreadlocks like Hugh. They went inside. There was nothing there but a few kitchen utensils and dilapidated sticks of furniture. They went out back and Hugh showed his primitive operation for collecting juice from harvested Nomi fruit, which he marketed. The traveler suggested photographing Suzie. She perked up to the idea, put down her glass of rum and changed into a hand knit dress in Rastafarian colors, barely covering her torso and ended just above her knees.

For some reason, Hugh decided to leave. He gave a knowing smile, and said he needed to go to the store and get something. Inside with Suzie, she flopped down on a chair, leaned backward with her eyes half open and spread her legs. The episode seemed odd, and he got her to stand up and pose on the front porch for photos. In a reverie, she acted sexy and posed like a model. The air was perfect and the sky clear.

Hugh did not come back before the Traveler left. That afternoon, he burned a cd with the pictures of Suzie. The next day he went back to Hugh’s but the place was empty. Looking around at the shack one last time, he placed the cd on the kitchen table and left.

The Passage Of Time

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When the days grow cold in Santa Fe, at least once a year, Heidi Of The Mountains decides that we will go visit her parents in their second home in Sun City, Arizona. They spend time there when the temperatures are perfect, which is usually between late October and end of April. At other times, it can be blistering hot and nobody goes outdoors. 

On our way from New Mexico, we take highways that go near the Grand Canyon, and this time we stopped there on our wedding anniversary. It is only three hours from Phoenix, but the elevation is higher and the temperatures are much lower—below freezing at night now. It is such an inspiring place—an open book on the passage of earthly time. We rented bikes and rode along trails that border the rim, stopping often at lookouts that offered breathtaking views.

Sun City is a retirement community that is within the Phoenix metropolitan area. It is very clean and quiet, with trim houses of five different designs lining the mostly empty streets. The minimum age to own a home is 55. Children are rarely seen, and for that matter the place seems rather empty, with life limited to the golf courses and shopping areas. Furthermore, it is entirely homogenous, since it is essentially white retirees, and mostly second homes—poor people are not around. 

 A wealthy community of old people with no diversity feels odd to me. On the other hand, it is entirely safe and folks passing by in their golf carts always wave hello. Yet the safety is bought, and comes from being insulated from outside society.

Fascination In Life

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My first blog post was seven years ago . . . on October 7. Since then, I have posted 384 times, almost every week without fail. It surprises me to have been consistent . . . since I have posted throughout the seasons and from over twenty different countries.

At times, the challenge has been to find a topic to write about. When traveling, this is not a problem, but through the years, occasionally nothing comes up during the week, and then, I must be philosophical, or simply observe nature, the elements, and emotions.

I find fascination in life, and in my own life which has had it's share of ups and downs. I came from a big, complicated family, lived like a hippie early, became religious, went to art school, had a mental breakdown, traveled across the USA, settled in the southwest, started businesses, married three times, had children, been successful as an artist, had a child die, written books and magazine articles, sojourned around the world and taken 50,000 photographs . . . and kept a weekly blog going for seven years now . . . and counting. 

The archive is on this page.

A Tinge Of Sad Feeling

There is something about the dying of summer bloom and leaves falling from trees—scurrying to oblivion in cold autumn wind. . . that brings a tinge of sad feeling. Oh, beautiful colors bring delight to the eyes, and often, after a cold night, the air warms to perfection, but there is no holding on; winter comes and with it cold death. 

The beauty to all this is renewal. We know that life comes back again in the spring and with it a new face of youth. And this is the stuff of poetry and art: the wheel of life, death, and resurrection. The eternal working of the Creator in His Cosmos.

Autumn Song
Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1883)


Know’st thou not at the fall of the leaf
How the heart feels a languid grief
   Laid on it for a covering,
   And how sleep seems a goodly thing
In Autumn at the fall of the leaf?

And how the swift beat of the brain
Falters because it is in vain,
   In Autumn at the fall of the leaf
   Knowest thou not? and how the chief
Of joys seems—not to suffer pain?

Know’st thou not at the fall of the leaf
How the soul feels like a dried sheaf
   Bound up at length for harvesting,
   And how death seems a comely thing
In Autumn at the fall of the leaf?

An Urge

"Feeling The Pinch," oil on board, 12 x 16 inches, by Steven Boone

Sometimes an urge arises inside of me to shake things up—like an earthquake that rumbles forth and topples the established order of things. Only what is true and strong survives. This rumbling has been going on inside of me for years and is seen in my art; with its variations in style that often appear to not have correlations. Revolution keeps me on my toes and far from complacency. 

This weekend marks the beginning of a show I will share with another artist—Dirk Kortz. The exhibit is titled Twisted Portraits. We are both including portraits that have an oddness inherent in them. Something unsettled. It could be a grimacing face, or a hand reaching into the picture, smearing paint, or even a face dangling from a clothesline. I expect that these paintings won't sell easily . . . for they are disturbing. Life too is unsettling . . . and art must reflect life.

"Untitled," six 8 x 10 inch panels, oil on canvas, by Dirk Kortz

A Remarkable Phenomenon

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The mountains above Santa Fe are called the Sangre De Cristos, or, “Blood Of Christ” mountains. They are covered with fir and pine trees, and large swaths of aspens, and rise to 12,000 feet, (3,658 meters). 

Each fall when the days grow shorter and colder, around the 1^st of October, the aspens change color and turn golden. It is a remarkable phenomenon and draws crowds of people to hike in this wonderland. Every painting I have ever done of golden aspens has sold. 

There is something charming about the white paper-like trunks of aspens that grow close together, tall and straight, crowned with shimmering gold, splashing against the blue sky  . . . it is like a dream of heaven.

An Overnight Trip

If I wake with a feeling of sadness, and during the day I panic with a sense life is ending, well, it may be because summer is over and nature is shifting into the season of death for all things green and deciduous. The days grow shorter and the air grows colder.

"Cliffs and Lake" oil on linen, 12 x 12 inches

Heidi Of The Mountains and I took an overnight trip to a beautiful lake and camped out in my van. We do not need much to make us comfortable. All we had was a foam pad to sleep on and an overhead light. Most of the other campers were in expensive recreational vehicles with all the luxuries . . . but that distinction did not help one couple who were several sites away in their RV. After the sun sank below the horizon and darkness fell upon the land, they began fighting and the altercation escalated to what sounded like blows and screaming and crying. 

"Heidi's Mountains" oil on canvas, 11 x 14 inches

It is wonderful to paint outdoors. The first step is to find a location that offers the right view. This can take time . . . to search the landscape for the right elements and perspective to make an interesting and captivating composition. On day one, I made a painting of jagged cliffs at the lake edge. Heidi is becoming an ardent artist and stayed behind at the camp site, choosing a different view to a distant mountain. The wind picked up and we both had our painting knocked over. Mine blew down at the start, before I had begun much work, so I secured it better, resumed, and was able to finish. The wind blew Heidi's into her, and ruined it so that she had to begin again. In the end, she almost cried with frustration since the piece never regained its likableness and she had to throw it away. 

The next day, we decided to paint in the morning before the wind came, and we both came up with artwork we fancied.

"Bluffs at Ghost Ranch" oil on canvas, 20 x 20 inches

To see more paintings go to Steven Boone Paintings

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.

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.

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.