Archive for the ‘Art’ Category

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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Last night I received a short, wonderful email from my friend Niki that read in its entirety:

Thought you'd enjoy this quote....

"In the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter, and sharing of pleasures. For in the dew of little things, the heart finds its morning and is refreshed." ~~Kahlil Gibran

 

 

Sunday Afternoon, Vizcaya P. Crockett

 

This one is dedicated to Leslie, a hotshot Boston architect, her remarkable son Tommy, and the woman who will become his wife on Sunday, here in Miami.  Hard for me to believe, but it’s been four years since the afternoon our paths crossed at the very spot captured above.  Leslie and her son, visiting Miami to look at the U of M campus, had taken some leisure time to just relax and enjoy Vizcaya.  There they chanced to find me on my feet, easel before me, thoroughly engrossed in the birthing of the canvas you see above.

So they walked up to have a look, we met, and in short order fell into an easy, comfortable conversation as I kept splashing away. They were both truly remarkable individuals, in different ways.  Something of an “odd pair:” you know, a loving, powerful mother and her gentle and gifted boy, recently grown to strong man.

It was only a “little thing,” really, the whole event, but I am grateful that four years later Leslie and I remain in touch.  So that, for example, I  learn the good and great news that Tommy had found his “one,” and am given a chance to say “Hey, I’m really glad we met, and I wish you guys all good things in your new life together, and as much Grace as you can stand.”

And true, this posting is but a small gesture, one small candle, perhaps.  Yet in this quiet moment in which I’ve yet to release the piece, when it is still mine alone, I pause to feel the reflected heat and small light of this candle most earnest.  Then, for some reason deeper than my understanding, I know that I have somehow been already blessed in the sharing.

Thank you.

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