Umbral (50 x 40 cm), captures a native Oaxaqueña standing at the threshold of a weathered wooden doorway with deep turquoise trim. The vibrant hues of the wall—burnt ochre, orange, and crimson—frame her presence, contrasting with her humble yet striking attire. She wears a simple white blouse and a richly textured yellow skirt, cinched with a red woven sash. Barefoot, she exudes quiet strength, her expression introspective as she gazes into the distance. The impasto brushstrokes imbue the scene with movement, light, and raw emotion.
The painting is from our studio in Oaxaca, called Dos Venados, or Two Deer. Amy and I live on Cuatro Venados Road, which goes from our village up into the mountains, and ends at a Eco-resort, called Cuatro Venados. The scene from Oaxaca is timeless, despite modernization that has occurred here.
She stands at the doorway, poised between past and future. The sun-soaked wall exudes warmth, yet her shadow lingers cool on the stone. In her silence, a story—of resilience, of waiting, of belonging.
Meanwhile, my writing continues for The Weight of Air⏤the story of a one year journey around the world in 2008. So many indelible, phenomenal occurrences and adventures to draw from. Documented in a timeline of travel blogs right here on My Fairy-Tale Life.
As previously mentioned, focus has returned to words. Combing through decades of writing, essays are taking shape drawn from years of travel and introspection. A foundation is forming, and at its core, the year 2008.
A year of surrender. A year of dissolving into the matrix of life. Traveling the world with no fixed plan, disappearing into The Dream. That journey reshaped everything—perception, identity, the sense of what is possible. Now, its echoes call to be gathered into writing, to be shared.
Perhaps, someday, they will find their way into a book, titled, The Weight of Air. A collection of journeys—both outward and inward—woven together with the same thread that has always guided me: surrender, discovery, and the dissolution of boundaries. But for now, the task has begun; offering through words and images, glimpses into worlds both spiritual and sensual, taking flight between wakefulness and dreaming.
The first chapter is called, The Moment I Chose to Vanish. An excerpt:
Into the Matrix
Preparing to give myself into the unknown, my thoughts were becoming doorways; portals into experience. The physical world, I understood, was where the true value of my visions would be revealed. A recurring desire took hold of me: I wanted to disappear into the matrix of the earth. Not to carry anything with me, but to become fluid and free.
What did this mean? To disappear—to vanish from being seen as a separate, formed being and dissolve into oneness with life. Life, the vast, interwoven fabric where everything is connected—people, events, places, emotions, and time. I desired to be in this matrix, surrendering to the flow, allowing experiences to inspire and shape me rather than trying to control them. Children remained close to it, still forming in its embrace, unshaped by the boundaries that adults constructed.
Looking back now, I see I stood on the threshold of an exploration—one that would take me beyond those boundaries, into a vast unknown. I had been preparing to strip away the artificial walls that society had built around life, to step into something raw and unfiltered.
For most of my life, I have been an artist—a painter first and foremost. Many times I have felt like pinching myself, asking, “Can this be true . . . a successful artist?” Standing in nature painting beauty, while listening to birdsongs and feeling wind and sun, and then getting paid for the painting. What could be better? My hands have moved with color, form, and instinct, bringing visions to life on canvas.
Art has been a constant companion, shaping existence, giving purpose, and serving as conduit to the world. It has been my identity.
But now, at 72, I find myself at a crossroads, making a shift never anticipated.
It is strange to acknowledge: my creative wellspring hasn’t dried up, but the way it flows is changing. Painting—once the beating heart of daily rhythm—feels quieter now, like a tide receding. In its place, something else is rising. Writing. Storytelling. The art of weaving my lived experiences, insights, and dreams into words that might reach others in a different way than my paintings ever could.
I have been a writer all along. But it has been mostly in the background. Awards have been won, magazine articles published. Like my photography that has occasionally adorned a book cover, I have given creative energy to art other than painting.
Now to immerse myself in writing! To shape and share my thoughts more expansively. Friends have suggested for years that I combine my images with my writing, (See: Plenty To Write About). Yet, it is bittersweet. I am abandoning painting, at least for now, because writing must consume the hours. Not to choose this lightly; rather, it is the natural pull of a creative current, something I have always trusted.
Fortunately, it is not from scratch. For nearly two decades, I have been writing about my journey—art, travels, philosophies—on My Fairy-Tale Life, this blog that now holds almost 800 entries. These writings, layered with the richness of time and experience, form a vast reservoir to draw from and shift toward publishing on platforms like Substack and Medium. They hold the stories of a life lived with intensity, surrender, and wonder. In many ways, I have already been writing my next chapter—I just didn’t realize it.
And while my paintbrush may rest for now, the visual world does not. With thousands of images—paintings, photographs, moments captured over a lifetime—I can now pair them with writing. In this way, my artistic spirit continues, even as the medium shifts. Perhaps I am not leaving painting behind, but rather allowing it to merge with language in a way that feels inevitable.
The journey has been anything but linear. From a year of "disappearing into the matrix" in 2008, traveling the world in THE DREAM and surrendering to the currents of life, and to the deeply personal journey of grief and love that shaped my book A Heart Traced in Sand, life has always been a dance between artistic expression and storytelling. Now, it seems, words are taking the lead.
Who knows where this shift will lead. But then again, I never knew where painting would take me either. That is the beauty of creative life: it is never truly static, even when we believe we have found our singular path.
Others have felt this shift in their own lives—the unexpected pivot, the realization that reinvention is not the territory of youth alone. Even at 72, there is room for sudden transformation. Perhaps the true art is in the letting go, the willingness to follow the currents when they change direction.
So here I am, stepping into something new. Not abandoning the past, but expanding the horizon. If you have followed my work as a painter, I hope you will join me on this next phase of the journey—through words, through memory, through the ever-unfolding dream of life.
Because at any age, and in any form, the art continues.
Soon to come: My Substack and Medium websites where you can enjoy my literature.
For over thirty years, photography has been an integral part of my artistic journey. It began as an addition to my work as a fine artist and painter. Initially I wanted to simply be able to make high quality records of my artwork for preservation, advertising, and producing fine art prints. But soon, photography became another way to explore composition, light, and subject matter. Then in 2008, as I traveled around the world for one year, photography evolved from a complementary skill into a full-fledged passion. Especially street photography, where I found an immediate and raw way to capture the beauty, chaos, and humanity of everyday life.
While travelling, I continued painting with supplies I brought. Making a painting took hours of concentration on one subject matter. I loved painting. Yet with so much to see in new countries that thrilled me to the core, I steadily evolved to photography, spending endless hours in the world at large, submersing myself in every aspect of it and making images by the thousands.
Angkor Wat, Cambodia, 2015
My background as a painter informed the way I shot photographs. Just as I approach a canvas, composing with an eye for balance, movement, and emotion, a street scene can be a symphony of gestures and expressions, frozen in time with the press of a shutter. The ability to make on-the-spot creative decisions became second nature. It was exhilarating—watching, waiting, anticipating, then capturing something ephemeral and turning it into something lasting. And I visualized what was before my eyes as a canvas to paint upon.
Paris, 2008
Over the years, I have lived in over thirty countries, and in that time, amassed an estimated 300,000 photographs. That number is staggering to consider, but each image is a thread in the larger tapestry of my life. Recently, at the age of 72, I’ve begun the painstaking process of backing up my digital archives—transferring files from aging hard drives to new ones. Several of my old hard drives have already failed, taking many images with them, so this act of preservation feels urgent.
Oaxaca, Mexico, 2023
The photos are all originally in color. Using software, I convert many of them to back & white. An essential difference in feeling between black & white and color photography is the way they evoke emotion and perception. Black & white strips an image down to its core elements—light, shadow, form, and texture—creating a timeless, often dramatic or nostalgic effect. It emphasizes emotion through contrast and composition, allowing the viewer to focus on mood and structure without the distraction. In contrast, color photography offers vibrancy and realism, capturing the full spectrum of life as the eye naturally sees it. It evokes different emotional responses through hue and saturation, bringing warmth, energy, or melancholy depending on the palette. For me, both styles have their place in storytelling, each offering a unique way to interpret and experience the world through images. I slightly favor black & white.
Rome, 2016
Angkor Wat, Cambodia, 2017
As I sift through the vast collection, I rediscover forgotten moments—glimpses of beauty, sorrow, humor, and wonder. There are countless gems among these files, tributes to my well lived life and a world well traveled. Now, with this rediscovery comes a renewed sense of purpose.
Florence, Italy, 2008
I don’t want these photographs to simply gather dust in digital vaults. I want to breathe new life into them—curate, create, and share them in a meaningful way. Perhaps it’s a book, a digital archive, or an exhibition. Maybe it’s a new project that blends writing and photography, weaving stories through images.
Luxor, Egypt, 2017
Whatever form it takes, I feel a deep responsibility to honor this work—both for posterity and as a service to humanity. Photography, at its best, is not just about capturing a moment but about revealing something timeless, something that connects us all. And so, as I embark on this next phase, I feel gratitude, knowing that the images are not just a record of where I’ve been, but a bridge to magic and wonder.
For the last several years, the difference between Amy’s art and mine has been nothing short of stark. My wife´s work celebrates enchantment, natural connection, and storytelling, capturing the magic of life in bright colors and symbolism. My art embraces the spectral inevitability of death, portraying it as a journey and reminder of ultimate transformation.
Together, our styles create a rich dialogue: her vibrant, dreamlike imagery invites wonder and warmth, while my skeletal motifs—rooted in Oaxaca’s Día de Muertos traditions and European vanitas art—are a haunting meditation on mortality. The balance of light and shadow, joy, reverence and sense of fate, gives our studio, called Dos Venados, a unique and deeply meaningful identity. Our art isn’t just about individual expression—it’s a shared narrative of transformation, memory, and the cyclical nature of existence.
This past week, Amy and I, along with a friend visiting from our former hometown of Santa Fe, New Mexico, USA, set out on a much-anticipated road trip from our village outside Oaxaca, Mexico to the Pacific Coast. With Highway 175 stretching before us, we embarked on our scenic drive. We had been to the coast on the same route about a month prior and the newly finished highway was smooth, clean and fast. This time we were stunned to find heavy damage along the way. Rocks and earth slides slowed down our drive and left us in awe and trembling. Men working heavy machinery were tasked the huge job of clearing the damage.
Our destination was Mazunte, a small coastal town known for its bohemian charm and laid-back energy. Nestled along the shore, Hotel Casa Ofelia became our sanctuary for three nights—a simple yet delightful hotel where the ocean itself seemed to breathe tranquility into every moment. Our days melted into a dream of sunlit waves, salty breezes, the lulling sound of crashing waves, and endless relaxation. Amy does not swim, but I went headlong into the surf when I could. The ocean there is dangerous for its forceful action and somewhat steep slope, so at least once I was warned by a lifeguard to only go in up to my knees. Fortunately there is another, spectacular and safe beach called San Augustinillo, just minutes away.
Mazunte has a way of slowing time. It attracts travelers, artists, and wanderers, all drawn to its eclectic, free-spirited atmosphere. To me, it has the feeling of Haight-Ashbury in San Francisco during the height of the hippie days in the late 1960´s. Very relaxed elemental people are on a permanent free-spirit groove. The ocean, ever-present, is guide—a steady force softening thoughts and smoothing away lingering tensions. We found a new favorite restaurant, grabbed delicious local coffee, visited a marvelous Turtle Museum. Spent sunset time walking along the shore, watching the sky transform into a canvas of fiery colors.
By the time we packed up to leave, we felt renewed. Three nights in eclectic Mazunte had worked its quiet magic, offering us space to breathe, to be still, and to simply exist in the presence of the sea.
The drive home was reflective and slightly strained with the landscape shifting once again. Then suddenly when we entered Oaxaca city I felt it—the warm embrace of home. The cobblestone streets, vibrant markets, and artistic soul welcomed us back.Charms we had momentarily left behind now felt even richer, layered with the peace we carried from the coast.
Sometimes, a journey is not about seeking something new but about stepping away just long enough to return with fresh eyes. Mazunte gave us that gift, and Oaxaca, in turn, received us with open arms.
"Hombre Sandía" oil on canvas, 60 x 80 cm, (sold to a collector from California, USA)
When one of my favored paintings, such as Hombre Sandía, from my Memento Mori series, is sold to an art collector, it feels like both a blessing and a quiet farewell. It’s a joy to know that someone has connected deeply with the work, giving it a new life beyond my walls. Yet, there’s a tinge of remorse, like parting with an old friend who has shared my space, my thoughts, and my journey. It’s bittersweet—an honor to see it cherished, but a reminder that art, once released, belongs to the world as much as to the artist.
"La Catrina" oil on canvas, 50 x 70 cm
There’s a comfort in knowing that my work has embarked on its own journey, while I remain in my studio, immersed in the process of creation. The subject evolves, just as I do, taking on new shades, textures, and perspectives. Nothing in art—or life—is truly static. Every goodbye carries the seed of something new, and with each painting, I feel both the familiar and the unexplored unfold before me.
"Viaje Final" oil on canvas, 80 x 120 cm, (sold to a collector from Vermont, USA)
When a cherished painting leaves my hands to find its place in the world, I find myself returning to the canvas with a sense of renewal. The act of parting inspires me to explore the subject again, as if seeking to rediscover the essence of what first moved me. Each brushstroke becomes a conversation—not to recreate what was, but to deepen my understanding of the moment, the feeling, or the vision that sparked it. I made La Catrina to replace Hombre Sandía . . . and recently, Going Home to replace Viaje Final. Like most of the work on the walls of our home, they are for sale if a buyer comes forth. Until then, they are like intimate friends in our immediate surrounding.
"Going Home" oil on canvas, 100 x 120 cm
This cycle—of creation, connection, release, and renewal—fuels my artistic spirit. I am assured that the well of inspiration is never dry, only waiting for me to dive deeper. The process itself is a testament to how art transforms.
This 72 year old artist often feels the horizon pulling closer, the once-distant line now brushing against the edges of his days. No longer in a hurry or feeling pressed to create, the creative juices flow, but not like a raging river . . . rather as a broad expanse in no hurry to get anywhere.
Especially since moving to Mexico, I see how my art has transformed and now, it is as if I have climbed a high mountain and can look back to vast territories my journey has taken me through. Fortunately I have kept records. Slides from before the digital age have been in boxes. A life’s worth of images—photos of four decades of work, sketches on scraps of paper, grainy shots of exhibitions long past. Each a fragment of a story, a frame in the reel of becoming.
Recently I have been re-making the website that bears my name. My art collectors might be bewildered at the stark shift in my subject matter since moving to Mexico. For public pleasure, I have made a movie, piecing together and crafting a film that spans four decades of artmaking.
It is strange, this act of looking back. I had to explore many territories before stopping to look back. The artist once lived only for the present canvas, the immediate stroke, the urgency of now. But in this reflection, he finds a quiet pride—life not measured in mere years but in creations—in every brushstroke, every finished piece, every fragment of beauty left for the world.
As the final credits roll, the work will carry forward, long after I am gone. I have given all I could, and perhaps that is an artist’s greatest triumph: to leave behind a world more beautiful than he found it.
For many of us, the winter solstice marks a time to reflect, recharge, and reconnect with the rhythms of nature. For my wife Amy and me, this year brought a longing for the Pacific Ocean’s embrace—a call we couldn’t ignore. After all, it is not that far a drive away. From our quiet village on the outskirts of Oaxaca, we set off on a journey to Mazunte, a jewel on Mexico’s Pacific coast. Known for its pristine beaches, bohemian charm, and soulful tranquility, this small seaside town seemed the perfect place to honor the year’s shortest day and longest night. Our plan was simple: to escape the everyday, soak in the ocean’s timeless wisdom, and welcome the return of longer days with an offering while surrounded by beauty and peace.
The joy of the Pacific Ocean is irresistible. As we reached Mazunte after a four hour drive—mostly on a new highway, the rhythmic crash of waves called us like an old friend, and soon we were in the water, laughing and leaping through the surf. Well, I was in the ocean. Amy does not swim, but likes to stride the sandy beach, waves licking her toes. The ocean’s embrace was cool yet invigorating, a timeless reminder of life’s playful, unrestrained energy. Frolicking in the shallows, we felt the weight of everyday worries melt away with each rolling wave. We enjoyed seeing people of all types and ages, in families, solo, with partners and dogs. A nude beach is not far away and sometimes young women were topless and unbothered.
Our days unfolded with a natural rhythm, guided by the sun’s ascent and descent. Walking along the beach at sunrise felt like stepping into a dreamscape—the light casting a golden hue across the sand, the ocean shimmering with the first blush of morning. As the day gave way to evening, we found ourselves in awe of fiery sunsets, their colors spilling across the horizon, mirrored in the rippling tide.
Mazunte’s vibrant charm extended beyond the shore. Strolling through town, we discovered eclectic shops offering everything from handmade jewelry to vibrant textiles. Each store felt like a small treasure chest, inviting us to linger and explore. The smell of fresh coffee and pastries often drew us into cozy cafes where time slowed, and we savored the simple pleasures of buttery croissants and rich, aromatic brews. Mexico’s coast produces some of the finest coffee in the world.
Beachside grills became our favorite dining spots, where we indulged in fresh fish grilled to perfection, seasoned with local spices, and accompanied by tangy salsas, ensaladas, and warm tortillas.
For me, during the three day sojourn, I felt the weight of troubles lift by the hour, until a new found sense of freedom settled inside.
When we returned home, our trusted house sitter greeted us warmly, our two dogs safely in tow, tails wagging with excitement. The house was just as we had left it, a comforting welcome back to our life in the village.
The next evening, we joined our dear neighbors, Mayolo and Marta, for Christmas Eve supper. Their home is just a short walk from ours, and over the years, they’ve become more than friends—they feel like family. Sitting around their table, sharing food and stories, it was clear how much our lives had intertwined, weaving a shared sense of belonging.
On Christmas Day, our neighbor Remedios and her young daughter visited to bake Christmas cookies with Amy. Without an oven of her own, Remedios brought her heartfelt enthusiasm to our kitchen. The house quickly filled with the sweet aromas of cinnamon and sugar. Her husband has been away in the United States for several years, and she raises her two children on her own with boundless love and resilience. Watching her laugh with her daughter while they rolled out dough was a touching reminder of her strength and grace.
Just last night, we hosted a gathering of ten neighbors at our home, a beautiful mix of Mexicanos and ex-pats. Around the table, we shared a meal accompanied by laughter and lively conversation. The hours slipped by as we toasted, told stories, and celebrated the season, the warmth of connection lingering long after the last plate was cleared. It was one of those evenings that deepened our gratitude for this little village and the incredible people who make it feel like home.
Last night, Amy and I drove into Oaxaca and headed to Llano Park, where a lively "feria" has been set up for the holidays. These traveling fairs, which appear in different locations throughout the year, are a delightful mix of mechanical rides, games, food stalls, and cultural exhibitions—bringing joy to communities wherever they go.
We arrived just as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden glow over the park. The feria was beginning to come alive, with flashing lights, swirling rides, and music building to a festive crescendo. The air was thick with the smell of roasted corn, sweet churros, and fried delights, mingling with the excited chatter of families and children.
Amy has a knack for games of chance and skill, so we plunged into the action. She threw darts at balloons, went fishing for surprises, operated cranes that teased at stashes of stuffed toys, bowled oversized marbles into numbered holes, and even took her chances at a horse-racing game.
Later in the evening, I decided to join her at the horse-racing table. Standing side by side, I reached into my pocket for some change, but as I faced the track, I felt a gentle tug on my sleeve. Turning around, I found a young woman looking at me with concern.
“You dropped your money,” she said, gesturing to the bills at my feet.
For a moment, my heart skipped a beat. I had left my wallet at home to avoid the risk of pickpockets, opting instead to carry cash in my pocket. I bent down to pick up the bills, feeling both relief and gratitude. Smiling, I thanked her profusely and offered a tip, which she accepted with a gracious nod. As I watched her walk away, I couldn’t help but feel touched by her honesty and kindness.
4 minutes
By the end of the night, Amy was triumphant, returning home with an armful of stuffed animals and prizes. True to her generous spirit, she plans to share them with our neighbors’ children—a small token of the joy the feria brought us.
Since October 2006, my blog, My Fairytale Life, has been a space where I’ve shared 797 episodes of my journey through art, life, and love. Over the years, it has become an archive of my life experiences; joys and struggles, triumphs and setbacks, including two unforgettable trips I’ve taken around the world.
I began the blog as a way to share my artistic life, and perhaps supplement in writing my paintings that I was fortunate enough to successfully market. The name, My Fairy Tale Life, is a bow to my deep reverence for the tradition of fairy tales, made famous by the Brothers Grimm and Hans Christian Anderson, who collected them and made them into books. Many times in life I have thought the world and life is a grand fairy tale. As Shakespeare famously said: "All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts."
Pictures accompany text that reflect my experiences. Each post serves as a chapter in the unfolding story of my life lived creatively and fully. When I began, I never imagined reaching such a staggering number of entries.
Now, there are times I pause and wonder: What more is there to say? But as I step into each day, something always emerges—a spark of inspiration, a memory, a lesson, or simply a reflection on the beauty and challenges of living authentically.
Through this blog, I’ve connected with readers around the world, who’ve followed my journey and perhaps found inspiration for their own. There have been 1.15 million views so far. For that, I am deeply grateful.
