My Whole Life

 

Golden Path, oil on linen, 24x18 inches 

"How long did it take you to paint that?" I have heard this question many times from people as they stand next to me gazing at one of my paintings. It happened again today at an art festival in Denver, Colorado. Two young women were in my booth looking at the paintings. Pointing to a piece, one asked the question.

Years ago, I would recoil and think that since the price is apparent, I would be telling how much I make per hour, which might seem like alot if taken by itself. But what about all the failed attempts, the schooling and experimentation, the hours of promotion and gallery work, etc.? So much more is behind the scenes that is included in the price.

After more thinking about what really is in each painting, I began responding, "It took me my whole life to paint it." And it is true. I find that when people hear this, they have a glimmer of recognition, and after a brief shock, enjoy the answer. "Why yes, of course," I hear them reply with satisfaction.

For more art: Steven Boone

A Dazzling Sunset

 

A dazzling sunset is food for my soul. The fiery spectacle is fleeting and lasts but a short while before turning to dusk and then black of night. Clouds must be present and form in the west as the sun is setting.

In Santa Fe, New Mexico, USA where I live, dramatic sunsets occur regularly. Over the years I have watched them with eyes wide open and heart thankful. I photograph and make paintings from the scenes.

Before

I posted a sunset photo to Facebook about a month ago, and an art collector in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, messaged me: "Steve - Really like that picture you posted yesterday of the sunset.    Simply breathtaking!     Really like the deep blues in the sky!   Are you going to paint this?    I would be interested!     Could you do it on a 40"x40" canvas & paint the sides?    I'd want it for my living room to hang above my fireplace mantle."  

I responded that I would love to do the painting. He sent me a photo of the space, then I photoshopped an approximation of what it would look like.

I made the painting and as good fortune would have it, I needed to drive to Tulsa, Oklahoma for an art show and so drove it to Roger's home, installed it and enjoyed his hospitality for an evening before saying good-bye and continuing on to Tulsa.

 

 

Now

 

 

 

More art by Steven Boone

A Title Is Evocative

Sublime Touch, by Steven Boone, oil on  linen, 30 x 40 inches

After thirty years of making art and thousands of paintings, occasionally I have run out of ideas for titles. Probably some have been used twice. Especially since my sunsets are so popular—how many titles can I invent for sunsets? I have used Sunset Sublime, Sunset Song, Western Glow, Western Drama, Path To The West, Western Touch, Sunset Surprise. One of my very favorites is Heartfire, a title I collaborated on. It is a large painting.
At present I am working on a commission, a large sunset that I might name Heart Song.

A title helps a viewer get in touch with an artists' feelings about his work, and perhaps understand the intention behind it. A title is evocative at best, and disappointing at worst, e.g. when a work is labelled "Untitled".

During the heyday of abstract expressionism, titles were kept to a bland neutrality, so as not to influence someones experience of the artwork. A work might be titled Monday, because it was created on a Monday. Jackson Pollock (American, January 28, 1912 – August 11, 1956) gave his pictures conventional titles at first, but changed to numbers. He commented: “…look passively and try to receive what the painting has to offer and not bring a subject matter or preconceived idea of what to look for.” Pollock’s wife, Lee Krasner (American, October 27, 1908 – June 19, 1984), said Pollock “used to give his pictures conventional titles… but now he simply numbers them. Numbers are neutral. They make people look at a picture for what it is – pure painting.”

Jackson Pollock  Number 1A, 1948

Wind Howling

 

A thunderbolt woke me with a start at three AM. I had fallen asleep in my hotel room the evening before as the weather was rapidly changing to storms. Heavy rain pelted the roof and I could hear wind howling. I wondered about my artwork that was sheltered in a tent in a park at the Art Festival in Oklahoma City. Nothing I can do about it, I thought and fell back asleep. Later in the morning I made my way past broken tree limbs and closed streets with downed electric lines, nervous about what awaited me. As I approached the festival grounds I saw tent tops and hoped mine would be standing too. It was, and I lifted the canopy to find my work intact and safe.

"The Note" oil on board, sold to a collector from Oklahoma City

Despite the crazy weather that had summer like conditions some days and stormy winter conditions others, fate has looked kindly on my participation and I have had sales enough to warrant all my effort in Oklahoma City. I start home in the morning.

Sign From Spirit

I usually say my obligatory prayers before bedtime. It is a Baha'i tradition to recite Allah'u'Abha, which means God is Most Glorious, ninety-five times at least once a day.

Yesterday was a full day and I was tired from preparing for a trip to do an art festival in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma. As I sat on a wood chair in my kitchen saying the phrase (as I have done forty years now), I was looking down and noticed a small black beetle at my feet that seemed  to appear out of nowhere, walking slowly as if feeling its way about. I was barefoot and watched it go to my foot. I finished the prayer, rose and went in my bedroom to fall sleep.

In the morning I dressed, and went for my Sunday ritual of getting the New York Times, coffee and pastry, then reading at a table in the cafe. Afterwards, I went to my spa to swim.

After taking time in a steam room and swimming laps, I showered and was dressing in the locker room when, as I pulled my leg through my pant, I felt something—and out came the little beetle. It hit the floor with a click of its shell. I was surprised and amused. It walked along the edge of the locker room wall and stopped. I finished dressing, then bent low to scoop the critter up. It was not moving and I thought, "Must be praying for guidance." It tried to crawl away from my grasping fingers but I got it in my palm and closed around it. As I walked outside I felt the creature moving in my hand, but did not let it go until I reached a lilac shrub where I set it free.

I think the beetle appeared because of prayer and being a sign from spirit. It is a spirit guide harboring a message for me and encouraging me on my path. I am on the verge of transformation and also traveling.

"As a symbol of the spirit, the beetle carries messages that bring our attention to renewal, spiritual maturity, and the powerful influences of the invisible side of life." See: beetle symbolism

Thankful For Confirmation

Recently an art collector called to give her credit card information so that she could finish paying for a painting I made in Venice, Italy. The subject is a lovely stone bridge with decorative iron railing spanning a canal. A restaurant with outdoor tables is in the background. I lived in the neighborhood where I painted it.

When the client bought it from my gallery in Santa Fe, New Mexico, USA, I was in Ecuador making art, photographing and writing. At the time, I remember being thankful for confirmation that I could live the life I love.

While the collector was on the phone with me, she mentioned another painting of Venice she had seen on my website. It is of a gondola passing under a stone bridge. We talked, and now she is buying that as well. Add this to the painting I sold to American collectors who visited my apartment in Venice during my sojourn there and that more than pays for the entire trip.

Today I felt great gratitude knowing that higher powers are in play. I throw myself at the feet of Divine Fate with absolute trust. It is a happy activity. I am very thankful that I live my passion with trust—and see results.

At another moment today I heard myself say, “Thank you Lord for what you give, and thank you for what you take away.”

To see more Boone art click: Steven Boone

Power In A Picture

The expression, “One picture is worth a thousand words”, has special meaning to me as an artist—most of my life is visually inspired. I have stood painting in silence for countless hours. No words transpire but the pictures that arrive speak volumes.

In silent wonderment I have experienced the earth in its many mysterious expressions. In my archives are tens of thousands of photographs from many travels around our globe. Occasionally I come upon one that warrants a closer look. The photo from Agra, India, included here, is an example of a picture that can elicit a story:

It does not matter who the figure in the foreground is, she is everywoman. Standing on a balcony, dressed in a simple and elegant white sari, her flowing robe disappears into the dark shadows surrounding her. Her hands rest on a protecting barrier that offers safety from accident. If she were to fall she might die. She is wrapped in thought and reverie, pondering her life on the threshold of a dream. The place she stands is remarkable, at a ledge—as if at the prow of a grand ocean vessel, taking her forward into a vast unknown. She is above the fray, at the level of the treetops where birds sing and monkeys play among the limbs. How has she arrived at this moment in time? Where will she advance next? Maybe she is simply breathing in the moment with no care to the past or future; exhilarated being on the edge of something bigger than her.


Behind her head are many rooms. Each is connected, has its own vantage and holds its own integrity. All are part of a greater whole, yet are independent. They could be storehouses of her mind. And when she has passed through each of them, she will arrive at a tower that is not limited. It is above all, and offers a viewing point that is not circumscribed. It is a place of clarity and peace. But it is not easy to arrive at.  Many doors lead to it.

Our woman is in her process. She stands in shadow but is robed in white. She is on a journey of many levels in a place of wonder.

These are the words that come to my mind as I ponder the image. The story can extend to a thousand words . . . this is the power in the picture.

Mystical Place Of Meeting

 

About a month ago I was sleeping in a tree. My room at the village of Olon along the Pacific coast of Ecuador was built ten feet off the ground around the trunk of a tree that came through the center of the floor and up through the roof. Ocean waves surged toward me and with but a few steps, I could throw myself into them.

At night, with stillness all around, the sea kissing the shore lulled me to sleep.

Land is a barrier for the sea. And the sea is likewise a barrier to land. They contain each other. The two have made poetry since the beginning of life on earth.

Now I find myself at home in Santa Fe, New Mexico, USA . . . high among mountain ranges, and far from any ocean. The vast sky kisses the earth in silence. At sunset, the drama where the two meet can be spectacular. Just as the ocean called me to leap in and engage, so the drama of sunsets calls me . . . and I go to witness the mystical place of meeting at the most special of moments.

The Dancing Feather

 

A dancer and ballerina met in a dance company and quickly fell in love. When they danced together it was if a grand drama played out between them, captivating everyone who witnessed their mesmerizing performances.

They lived together in a chalet outside of the town where their company kept its theater. Both loved nature and longed to set their sore feet into the soft earth somewhere far off and secluded. Their housekeeper told them of a place she had visited as a child that was forested and where magical birds sang incredible songs from the tree tops. She had dreamed of it later in life and always when she arrived she was a child again.

So the dancer and ballerina set off to find the woods and venture barefoot into its meadows. They rode their horses all morning and into the afternoon. The air was perfect, the horses strong and they so enjoyed each other that time went by without notice.

Suddenly a light breeze came to ruffle them. A beautiful feather flew by, then came back and flew past again. The horses ears perked up. The feather played in the wind just in front of their surprised eyes. "Let's follow it" cried the ballerina. They galloped after the soaring feather into a deep forest. Of a sudden the feather shot up in the air and disappeared.

The two got off their horses, took off their shoes and sank their feet in the cool grass and earth. "It feels magical here." said the dancer. The fresh scent of earth and forest, the sparkling bird songs, the peaceful quiet that had come over the horses—led them into a happy trance.

They sat by a brook to refresh their feet in the gurgling water. Without speaking, the two sat in reverie. At last, the ballerina looked around and did not know where they were. "How are we going to find our way home?" Her companion was lost in dreaming, and did not answer. A bird flew down and landed on a limb nearby. It cocked it's head to see the ballerina, chirped and flew away. The ballerina followed it as it fluttered into the forest and suddenly faces began appearing from each tree trunk. She grabbed her companions arm. "I see faces in the trees!" The dancer had his eyes closed and was smiling. "Yes, I know. They are the ancestors."

Then one of the tree faces spoke. "We are glad that you two have found us. We know your love of life and dance, and that is why we sent the dancing feather to bring you here. You are now refreshed and though you think you are lost, you are not. You have found magic. By one of your horses you will find a small stone box inlaid with pearl and garnet. Open it and you will find a shell. In the shell is oil. Take this oil on your finger and rub it onto the forehead of your horses. They will take you home." With this, the faces disappeared into the forest.

The day had grown long. The ballerina found the tiny inlaid stone box by one of the horses. She opened it and saw a glistening seashell with oil. Dabbing it on her fingers, she rubbed it on the horses forehead. They shook their manes and danced their hooves on the ground, ready to gallop.

 © Steven Boone 2017 All Rights Reserved

The Lost Archives

A forgotten archive appeared recently on my computer. It was simply titled "Poems" and by chance I found it on one of my backup hard drives. It reminds me of the power words have to heal.

When the folder opened, I discovered my writing from around fourteen years ago. My oldest daughter Naomi died in 1999. She opened and transformed my heart during her struggle with cancer. When she passed away I had become a different person.

A couple years later I regularly wrote poetry to convey my intense feelings.

Here is a sampling of verse that I found in the lost archives:


Nostalgia in a Japanese Garden

In the garden
by the pagoda
a breeze rustles bamboo stalks,
stirs wind chimes.
White blossoms fall
into a dark pond.

When you were here, you
walked slowly on
the stone path,
pointed to glistening goldfish.

The moss has grown
greener since then.


 Nectar

Always a step ahead,
You arrived before me

At the gate. I  hear
hummingbird wings!

There must be nectar nearby.
The scent of jasmine—

Is this a perfumed memory,
Or a vivid hallucination?

A falling leaf reminds me
I am alone in the garden.

As the dazzling light fades, 
The air grows cold.

Barred by my beating heart
From an immutable threshold,

I linger, like some poor dog
Awaiting its master.

Breath 
               
Gathered in your heart
were all the flowers of creation.

With every breath
the angels came
and tended the garden
until its beauty was so great
the world fell away in shame.

Suddenly a fire of longing
came upon you—its
consuming flame leaping forth . . .

You vanished,
leaving only ashes
mingled with
                 the
                   earth.

Broken into One

Along the stream
where we drowned
iris bloom.
(Lovers approach
arm in arm, the sound
of their laughter
mingling with the murmur
of flowing water.)

When we loved, the moon watched
while the scent of pines
dazzled our senses.
Our fierce longing ignited
a flame that sealed our fate.
Throwing ourselves into the water,
we succumbed to the current.
As our bodies dashed
together upon the rocks,
we reached the place
where the ancient songs arise.

(Now embracing,
the lovers listen—
our melody mingles
with the beating
of their hearts.)



BE

Be a falcon
on the wrist of God
excellent in the art
of conquest.

Be a whale
swimming in the primeval ocean
sifting mysteries from
fathomless deep.

Be the wind
soaring above mountains
gathering perfume from the fields,
caressing lovers embracing.

Be a rainbow
that blesses the darkening day
like a necklace of pearls
worn by the bride of the sun.

Be a tree
reaching to heaven
while rooted in one place
a thousand years.

Be a thought
that precedes birth
dancing on the shore of dawn.

Be an emblem
of God’s remembrance
shining light in
deep dark eternity.



 © Steven Boone 2002 -2017 All Rights Reserved

Conquer Mountains

These days I arise before dawn for breakfast. After the sun touches the horizon, nothing passes my lips until night comes. No food or water. The Baha'i fast occurs from March 2 - 20th annually. This is the 46th year for me of observing it.

I always lose some mental quickness and feel cold more readily. Sensitivity to light, sound, smells etc. increases. I get tired during the day and yet thrive on the changes. My mind might complain but my heart and spirit rejoice. The grace and bounties of God come to refresh and renew my being. I do not need to use my mouth.

Instead of craving food, I crave the experience of sacrifice that brings the reward of Spirit.
In a way, during this period I am entering a prison. I realize I am at a disadvantage physically. But also know what I gain, and that imprisonment is temporary. When the fast ends, I have become so accustomed to renunciation during the day that when I see a water fountain, my first response is abstinence. Then I realize I am free, and the enjoyment is heightened. Same with eating. . . it becomes special again.

Meanwhile, I am stronger internally and feel I can conquer mountains.