Miami River Rapids, as of July 15, 2010

…so this baby remains in progress.

A 10 year-old artist once asked me an important question.

His name was Victor, and I’d agreed to help guide him along with his work. If this one was not a born artist, I’ve not met one. (His Mom shared with me that he called me “My artist.” I got a kick out of that. “I love him, too, Myra.” I said.)

All suitable drama and popular mythology aside, the life of the true artist tends to be unusually challenging. Perhaps never more so than during those childhood/ teen years. And a boy does need a father, and Victor’s was sadly absent.

As we once sat painting together, he suddenly paused and turned to sit staring at my canvas. “Paul,” he asked, “how do you know when a painting is done?”

The question stopped me short. This was not the kind of situation in which an answer could be just “made up.” Pause. “Wow. That is an excellent question,” I responded. “The reason I know it’s so good is that I really can’t give you an answer.”

“Your Mom is right;” I teased him. “You really are a pain in the butt!” He giggled with delight.

But still, he awaited his answer. Damn!

“I mean, I wrestle with that one all the time,” I told him. “If you think about it, whenever you’re working on a painting in ‘layers,’ or in a series of sittings, the painting on the canvas—whatever it might be-- has to die so that the one you envision—you know, the one that you first set out to create-- can finally take its place.”

Miami River Rapids, first sitting

“Or at least, so we hope.”

“Part of the challenge is that, it’s not like your vision of ‘the finished painting’ is always that clear, at all. Sometimes it’s much more like, the path starts to become clear only when you’re already some ways along on the journey.” Victor nodded.

I knew that Victor had taken it upon himself to study the entire oeuvre of Pablo Picasso with an intensity and degree of care that touched me. “Our man Picasso said, ‘When an artist sits down to paint, he should have some idea of where he’s going.

But only some idea.”

Miami River, 1907

“So the best answer I can give you,” I summed up, “is that that's not really the kind of question that anyone can really answer for somebody else. "

"Even for myself, I can’t really say. I just do. I know it when I get there.’” (Upon contemplation, it seems generally easier to say “Here I am!” than to clearly chart out for another's understanding that place to which I am bound. In this realm, after all, there are no kind of maps. And so it must be.)

“At least, I hope I do!”  He understood. We both returned to our work.

And so we move along.

Thank you for joining us today.

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Niece Alianne and younger brother Thompson Grant offer noble assistance in the ongoing documentation of the art done by their errant uncle.

Who seeks for Heaven alone to save his soul May keep the path, but will not reach the goal; While he who walks in love may wander far, Yet God will bring him where the blessed are.

Henry Van Dyke, Story of the Other Wise Man. V.

Painting: Key Biscayne Trail P. Crockett

Today I thought I’d take an opportunity to share with you a few of my paintings that you may not have seen, just for fun. Just a little time you are invited to set aside, for your enjoyment and refreshment.

Coconut Palm P. Crockett

The intensity of current events has left me contemplating questions of balance. I felt it important for myself to stop, take a few deep breaths, and consciously focus upon the love and beauty so abundant in my life.

Otherwise it can feel as if we are losing everything, all the time, and become easy to forget the true treasures with which we’ve been graced in our lives. Sometimes it only feels as if we are falling.

Even if we are, why not make the plunge with grace, and such style as we might be able to pull off, under the circumstances?

(Just for the record and to be clear on the subject, however, my heart tells me that we are not falling. We are simply continuing onwards in an unbroken line with the experience of of our ancestors. Every single one of them, back to the very first. The end of the world has always been nigh, even from the epoch of its birth.)

Still Life with Flowers, New York Apartment P. Crockett

A gift to my parents, Anne & Jerry: a view from their former apartment in New York City.

It’s always worth taking just a few moments to be still, and consciously call to mind and count these pearls most personal. They are there always, whether appreciated or not, but failing to accept their gifts when most needed seems a lost opportunity. They can easily be lost in the shuffle, for the world, always fully involved in its epic and unfolding and never-ceasing drama, is typically loud. At times the noise of its constant construction and de-construction, its eternal re-invention, can howl in our ears like the shriek of hurricane winds, or rattle like the roar of a freight train whooshing suddenly past in the night.

Treasures held closest in the heart, in contrast, tend towards quietude. They never need crow, or even seek to compare. They are never shrill. Each is a sufficiency, and more than we might have felt entitled to ask for, even if we could have imagined that such people or things even existed. Our relationship with them is less about deserving, than simply belonging, in that deeper sense.

Shenandoah Nightfall P. Crockett

There is much that is bound to remain mysterious in the realm of the spirit, and our inner lives, and I suppose so it must be with questions of great power. (Where is the room for real growth in questions already answered?) Yet contemplating the possibilities in the question, “What are the ways in which I have been blessed?,” at any given time in our lives, is always completely practical, possibly even essential.

It may be true that your answers next week, or next year, or even tomorrow might be quite different. Even so, I can think of no better gateway into the “now.” Something tells me that here is where the angels live, and that it is our rightful place, yet we more visit than live there. That ancient, restless Human feeling of having been somehow cast out of the Garden, leading us to wander around a small area of desert for a generation, seeking that elusive place we might at last call "home," I suspect, involves our separation from our own experience of the only moment that has truly existed, ever: right now.

La Paz Garden P. Crockett

Collection of Eric and Katy Raits

No matter the richness of this kind of treasure, there is never a feeling of having had to diminish or take away from another to have it, in any way. To the contrary: its truly wonderful qualities are that it resists being held by one hand alone, tends to be amplified in the sharing, and somehow benefits all in a way that is much more immediate than abstract.

When any single one of us are lifted, so are we all. That awareness, I believe, is part of the truly critical knowledge that has been forgotten. The idea should require no explanation, I feel, yet it does. And so we persist in our convincing imitation of isolation.

Royal Poinciana P. Crockett

Much pain is caused by blurring (or even forgetting completely) the distinction between “cash” treasure and the more personal kind, which has everything to do with love, and sharing. The former is of course quite useful, but also is among the greatest of pretenders, promising far more than it can ever actually deliver. If asked, we would explain that we see the former as a means of reaching the latter. Ideally. Yet we sometimes forget that anything greater might lay beyond the acquisition of whatever we can grab! Hey, it's a Human thing. We get carried away.

And yet if we should have huge sums in the bank, live in the finest of surroundings, and so on, yet feel a bit cold inside and live in a world deserving of no trust, without genuine companionship, then where are we?

Both sorts of treasure most certainly have their place, and the two need not bear hostility (or even discomfort) towards one another. There it is again, that greatest of questions to which we seek answers in the living of our lives: what is balance here, for me?

Prospect Park, Brooklyn P. Crockett

Let’s move right along,with this little creation I recently put together for my friend Steve. I’d received from him one of those “Hey, you matter to me” e-mails that then asks you to return it to the sender and pass it along to five others. Steve is the “wizard behind the curtains” at Redfish Publishing Company in West Palm Beach, and has made giclee reproductions of some of my paintings. He has done great work, and we've both enjoyed the connection.

I did want to return the message to him, just because. But maybe something a little more. So I grabbed an image of my Palm Trees to Heaven Go, copied and inset the text, and returned that to him.

Now it is also for you.

Last month I took a little trip up to the NYC area just for fun, and to visit family. My parents Jerry and Anne have found a new New York apartment that already feels to them quite like “New York City” home.

Here is a painting I did for them of their old place, so they could enjoy its memory while at home in Miami:

New York Apartment P. Crockett

A HUGE blessing in my life. In December Dad will turn 80, and Mom’s not far behind, yet there is nothing remotely “old” about either of them. Also, they throw one hell of a great dinner party.

Here is another I did for them, of their place in Miami (my childhood home), which enlivens the walls of their apartment in New York:

Homestead P. Crockett

My other "family" in the “Big Apple” area is brother Whitney and his wife Samantha, currently just across the bridge in Leonia, N.J. (“the Athens of New Jersey”), along with their legendary offspring, Alianne Claudia and young Thompson Grant. Here is their “home sweet home:”

The place is lousy with musicians. As it happens, both Whitney and Sam are bassoonists; Sam’s specialty is the contrabassoon. I know that she is the “One” for him, because ten years before they met I dreamed that he walked through a door into a room filled by an entire orchestra, dressed to play and all holding their instruments, but not yet actually playing. As he walked in, a beautiful brunette woman holding a bassoon stood up and turned back towards him, and their eyes met. In the dream I did not know exactly who she was, or what was happening, but knew that the meeting was important—a connection on the level of soul.

>Here are their mugs. Whit is not nearly as pensive as this shot suggests, even though it has gone “viral” (bassoon-wise, at least) on the Net. The picture of Sam really captures her. (I wonder if she will agree!):

Whit is one of the truly great bassoon maestros alive, and not in my biased opinion alone. He is currently a principal with the New York Metropolitan Opera Symphony Orchestra, and formerly principal with the Montreal Symphony Orchestra (l’ Orchestre symphonique de Montréal). Sam plays freelance, and has earned an excellent professional reputation in her own right. She is also an amazing mother, although she never saw that one coming.

One night in the city, we all shared an excellent meal together, and I snapped a couple of pics:

Sam ‘n Mom ‘n Dad ‘n Whit.

There is love. You’d best enjoy this one before Whitney (who is a reasonable, private kind of guy) calls me up in a huff and asks me to take it down. Fortunately, at the moment he and the family are all out of the country. : )

Their home is so filled with my artwork that it’s become something of a nuisance, really, with guests tripping over it, and so forth. We’ll start off with the one filling one wall of their dining room, done for Samantha. It captures the view from the wonderful 1930’s “cabin” on the small wooded island owned by her family in Lake Bras D’or, Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, Canada. (!) Since getting to the island from Miami involves the long flight, a couple of smaller charter flights and finally a boat ride, bringing a stretched canvas with me was an impossibility. So I lugged along a bolt of canvas, figuring I could parse it up however I became inspired.

As it turned out, I used the entire canvas for one humongous painting, each section I was working on in turn draped over a picnic table on the wonderful front porch. If the painting captures a sense of motion I hit the mark. As one stands on that narrowing point of land flanked on either side by stretches of wide, open flowing lake, it feels distinctly like a prow in motion, slicing its way forward through eternity.

Thus, I suppose, the name given this precious piece of Earth:

Ark Island P. Crockett

Then there's the one dashed off on a fine old piece of cypress plank, at the family beach house up in my Mom's native and sweetly beloved North Carolina. By chance, it fits perfectly on this wall above the old-fashioned "window" from kitchen to dining room:

Ocean Isle, II P. Crockett

Of course, all of my “babies” are alive with memories:

Artist as Beach Bum.

Casual family shot. Here's my sister Lisa, Whitney chasing a very little Alianne, my nephew Scott, and an excellent view of the back of Sam's head.

Young Scott, by the way, has grown to approximately 7 times the size he was here, is studying at the University of Florida (a proud family tradition), and is always up to something. Please check out his band, ABCDE, at

http://www.myspace.com/abcdemiami No harm is one of my favorites. My nephew! Hey, he's good!!

Now, having saved the sweetest for last, I’d like to introduce you to Alianne and Thompson.

Lending me a hand as I try to shoot Nightfall, Winter on 57th Street

Caught in an impossibly cute moment only three years ago. It’s one of those cliches that mean little, until it finally registers upon you. They really do grow up so quickly.

>Some of my old-time followers might recall this painting I did of the pair in their backyard, one evening two years back. It is called Fireflies:

On a more recent trip back, Whit mentioned that “they love that painting.” For some reason, I was surprised. And delighted. “They do?’” I asked. He looked at me askance, and said “Of course they do.”

Though it was not much to her liking or to Thompson’s (he’d been busily engaged in crashing toy trucks together and howling with the sheer joy of it all), they helped me out by posing for a couple of shots I needed for reference as I painted them into the picture. They are sweet children, and amazingly aware. Forces of nature, more like it.

They are each a gift.

Ali, like her uncle, is definitely a “night owl.” (She hates going to bed, and can be convinced of no worthy reason whatsoever why she should have to retire to her dark room to lay down her head, while the adults are still up downstairs, talking and laughing and carrying on, and the lights are on and music softly playing.) I keep telling them I plan to draw up this book, Alianne Doesn’t Want to Go to Bed!, and even have an outline in my mind. Maybe one day I’ll even get around to actually putting it down on paper.)

So, the two of us had the best time one evening, sitting outside working on our respective paintings and chatting. At some point into the session she suddenly whispered, “Hey, Uncle Paul." I turned toward her, and she had this solemn look upon her face. It was all I could do not to just hug her to me, and just keep sitting there. Then, in a conspiratorial tone, she whispered "Let’s stop talking, so we can hear the crickets singing.” Her eyes opened wide. She brought such a smile to my face.

I nodded slowly, and whispered back, “OK, yeah!”

Ready to jam!

So there we sat quietly painting, but the night was not silent. How rude we had been, to talk through such a concert! “She is a trip,” I thought, savoring the Great symphony of night’s light and music as I followed my paintbrush wherever it might lead.

Here was little Thompson back then, going about his business. Little, maybe, but as stubborn, fearless, and invincible as a Tonka Truck Tractor.

Their common favorite, I believe, is Nightfall, Winter on 57th Street. Here’s another view:

Thompson, having put a fair amount of thought into the matter, earnestly set about to share with me his “favorite parts” of the painting. There were most definitely two.

This was the first…

And here the second (especially the area above the roof line, near center):

He was also of the opinion that this one is all right:

I certainly had a great time painting it, back “in the day” when Whit and Sam still lived in the City, in a place just off Amsterdam on 83rd. As we drank and chatted and carried on generally, I stood by the windows, splashing away on brown paper.

It brings to my mind a simple, sweet memory of a singular slice of time.

River of Light, New York City P. Crockett

And right here is where we shall drop off our visit, for now.

Thank you so much for joining us! We hope to see you again soon.

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Traditional Art, Alaska. Illustrations throughout the posting reflect the aboriginal art of some of the points around the globe that the Grandmothers call home.

It is my privilege today to introduce you to thirteen extraordinary women.  Thirteen grandmothers, to be more specific, from different parts of the world and each grounded in the unique heritage, traditions, and ancient culture of a distinct indigenous people.  They have joined together to form the International Council of Thirteen Indigenous Grandmothers with a singular intention of utmost power: to offer themselves up individually and together, in a spirit of service and healing, to a hurting world.

They pool their talents and individual knowledge, both immeasurable, teach and lean upon one another, go wherever the Spirit leads them, or remain  wherever they may be, and pray, or teach, or learn, or love, or ask important questions, or shake up the status quo as needed here or there, in ways that may be least unsafe only for grandmothers.  In short, they do the work that needs to be done. As much as they can take on.

The Grandmothers, group shot. For more information, please visit http://www.grandmotherscouncil.com/

They are drawn to contribute all over the world, led by urgency and circumstance to areas of the most pressing and critical need.  Unfortunately, there is never any lack of need for their gifts.  At the moment, the focus of their prayer, and subject of their considerable combined intention, is very close to home. They are engaged in active prayer for the healing of the Gulf of Mexico. And they say our help is needed, desperately. As many of us as might be willing or able.

The Louisiana Shore.

Now, if prayer is an idea that "turns you off," because of your experience or for whatever other reason(s), that is all right.  I want you, especially, to know that all who love the Earth, and are pained by the despoiling of the sea, have a place at this great table.  In fact, I suspect that the Grandmothers would push the point a bit further, and ask you to “sit right down,” in that way of “asking” Grandmothers sometimes have that cannot be refused. "Not only do you and yours have a place here, but you and everything you’ve got is going to be needed to make this whole thing work. "

All I might ask is that you stick around for just a bit, if you can, and hear me out.  It is quite likely that the prayer these women have offered is much different than any you might have encountered before.  And, if you recognize he importance of clean seas and consider it a wonderful thing to fish, or enjoy seafood, you will want to do something about it, hopefully not involving blind rage or violence though those options might seem tempting.  Those responses are understandable, but will not move us forward.

If we are to survive and to thrive, we will have to move forward, together.

"Aggie" with the Dalai Lama

Before moving on to their prayer, I wanted to briefly introduce them.  (That is so, I suppose, because it is my sense of these women, their knowledge, power, and rare purity of purpose, that transforms the idea of the prayer from a well-intentioned "New Age" Hallmark Greeting Card to a shot at true miracle.  (It may be that an important part of the power and promise of the prayer involves its “working vision” of ourselves as parts of a Greater Whole, joined in a common positive purpose and committing ourselves to Hope through action.

As for myself, I stand fully ready to express my love for the Earth, and gratitude for the bounty she has so long and freely provided us, however I can.  If she is suffering, I care.  And so do you, if you stop to think about it.

Bottom line: if there are any ways we can even possibly help the Earth, our only home, we must.)

Guatemala

Mexico

The womens’ stories each partake of heroic journey.  From different parts of the world and wildly dissimilar backgrounds and experience, each carrying perspectives that are genuinely unique, they have faced up to tremendous challenges, inevitably been stung, slammed, or sidelined with walls of resistance, and yet still found the courage and strength to persevere.   Since most or all of these women emerge in their wholeness from tribal groups that have been either casually or with direct intention targeted for genocide, their commitment to self-respect, and tending to the ancient traditions once found so very fearsome,  sing of Human victory.  Against all odds. And now, still here, they focus their wealth of experience and most sacred intention upon the well being of the younger generations, and those still to follow.  Individually and collectively, they seek to tend to the well being of Mother Earth, herself.

Cheyenne Girl, 1815

Alaska

The joy with which they undertake the dead-serious task of global healing, their apparent affection for one another in undertaking the work and intuitive recognition of the importance of actual diversity, the abiding love for Humanity burning steady and constant within their breasts that is its own miracle, a Love that apparently cannot die—all shine as a bright light offering promise of hope to a world quickly fallen into the outer edges of a very long and very deep shadow.

Click on the image below, and you will be find a gallery of "portraits"  of the women just so you can see their faces, and a brief biographical sketch on each:

Today they engage together in active prayer for the Great Gulf-- even as its so recently blue and green waters blacken with flowing rivers of oil, or devolve into a lurid rainbow sheen that is really no color at all. They pray for the Earth as beach shorelines that have been forever pure white, or shades of delicate pink, are "going under the oil" for the first time, and forever. Even as you read these words, a clean Florida beach is being silently claimed by the dark filth.  The truth is too much to bear.  Life sometimes just sometimes lacks any clue whatsoever of when to pull its punches, even a little.

Alaska

.

The women meanwhile pray for the innocent animals poisoned outright, or orphaned and left to burn alive on the edge of a ruined sea, fixed firmly in place by black goo under a blazing sun.  With their parents killed off, who then will hear their tiny cries and come for them?

WPA, "New Deal" art at my alma mater, Coral Way Elementary.  I have always felt lucky to have been born and lived in Miami.  Only recently have I realized that this playful art "I always knew," together with the cold clean water enjoyed from this very fountain, played a definite role in helping create that feel of "magic." (Just for the record, by the way, I'd like it noted that I always found the city's tap water, drawn fresh from the vast Biscayne aquifer below, actually delicious.  I'd  just never heard that said before, and figured I'd take the opportunity.

May that remain so for your grandchildrens' children.)

There is quite literally an entire world of suffering being played out in the vast underwater realm--  always closer to home than we imagine--and its environs.   For some reason, and feel free to believe what you will, I can feel it.  In much the same way as I might imagine one without hearing feels music.  (Not the same as our listening, but then again, we cannot presume to know their experience of melody, harmony, and percussion )   Most unfortunately, I am not speaking poetically.  It is indeed a terrible thing to experience even on the sidelines, but I cannot doubt that it is for a reason.  And I know that I am not alone.   It is all far beyond my ability to describe, and in any event you wouldn't want to hear it.    These innocents are taking a punishment we would not inflict upon even the most murderous of villains, and the Goddamned shame is ours.

How sweet it was. Photo by Tony Ludovico.  Tony achieves magical effects with his camera, and part of the reason is that he generally works without scuba equipment.  This shot shows images captured in one dive, and ascent.  More of his work can be seen at http://tonyludovico.com/

WPA Art, Coral Way Elementary School

And so the women pray for relief from suffering on behalf of the fine living creatures, tragically forced to rely upon us and our wisdom to safeguard their very atmosphere.  Their innocent faith has been badly broken, as has ours, yet they now swim within, breathe of, and finally die from exposure to the consequences.  The difference is, they were never able to understand or given a voice with regard to the affairs of Man.   We were. Even if hypothetically we could communicate, how far would we get in trying to explain, when they know not of the word "greed?"  We ourselves stretch and strain to try and understand exactly what has happened, how and why, for all that we know.

Lovable Turtle, with Coconut Palm.  WPA.

The Grandmothers pray for the recovery of the plant life, submarine and near by the shore, all essential to the health of the planet in ways we cannot fully understand.

WPA Art, Coral Way Elementary.

And, they pray fervently for the People affected by the dark, swelling shadow always in motion upon the sea and under its surface-- sadly a  number growing daily, and exponentially, with neither end nor even any limits anywhere yet in sight. They pray for you, and for me.

They have asked for our help: yours and mine.  They say, they cannot do it without us.

Tile Art Installation, 1937  WPA

Hopi

After some thought, I decided night before last (for all the stacks of correspondence littering my desk) that I had nothing more important to do  than to pass along their request.  And here it is, finally.  At this point, we cannot afford to be without a prayer.  I fear that the extent of our naked desperation will become ever clearer, more quickly than we realize.  Part of our challenge is that we lack even a basic vocabulary for disasters on this scale.  Especially when things get uncomfortable, we tend to stick with what we know.  Completely understandable, but not at all helpful in dealing.  For example: those here in South Florida (or, more horrifyingly, New York City) mustn't let ourselves imagine that, because we are not Louisiana, we are off the hook.  It only works that way with hurricanes. An event of this magnitude is as patient and deliberate as it is utterly grim.

All you need to do is smell it coming, people say, and it's... just awful. There’s no words for it, one friend told me. Enough to literally sicken.  Enough to kill hope.  And it's not even yet in sight.

The oil coming is like a hurricane approaching, in that something ominous is taking shape out there, and heading our way.   We know that if a hurricane comes (especially one “big one” like Andrew, or two in succession, like Katrina and Wilma), everything can be changed forever, in a moment.  Yet for all of its drama,  the destructive force of a hurricane is relatively simple and straightforward. It announces itself in noise and fury, wreaks what havoc it can, and finally resolves into cloud.

In contrast, the growing sea of toxic black oil knows no season, it comes in absolute silence, and it never leaves.

What has prepared us to even conceptualize this experience?

There seems no better time than this moment to begin taking up arms against despair. Perhaps you can tell: I am more than a little upset.  And I have been called Chicken Little or a Cassandra in a light spirit by my friends, and that comforts them.  But I know what I know, and will not hide what I feel to be the truth: that all of life on Earth as we know it will shortly be hanging in the balance.  What brand of foolishness is it, to believe that thoroughly poisoned seas will allow life on Earth to proceed, as usual?

I ask not because I am of a fatalistic spirit, but because if I am to ransom Hope it will not be based upon some pretty lie, or convenient oversight.  Please, may we pray?

Tibet

Here is the prayer of the Grandmothers. Its manner of expression is a bit different from the way I generally pray, but then again I have never needed prayer as I do now.  I will defer to their profound understanding of the Earth and its needs, and our place within it all. They know much that our scientists have long forgotten, or never considered.

It is possible that we can make a difference, and we can afford no lost opportunity.   I am throwing my all into this “practice,” and invite you to do the same. However you might feel it, though, is exactly how you should play it.  This prayer is by no means exclusive; consider adding it to those you might know and find comfortable.

If you feel lost, beyond hope or ability to pray,consider asking that the prayer pray itself through you. Ask for help. Ask for Hope. For your own benefit, and for those looking up to you to keep themselves from falling apart.  And for the generations to come.

Please send whatever light you can. Come what may, if we are in this together, we will at least be assured that we are none of us facing this nightmare alone. When the stakes are high and prospects fearful, that simple assurance can make it all much easier.

Now, from the Grandmothers:

Amen.

P.S.  A "clean" copy of the Prayer is available for download in a number of formats, on scribd.com:   http://www.scribd.com/doc/33516494/Prayer-for-Mother-Earth

Thank you.

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