These days, especially, a little diversion just because may be exactly what the Doctor ordered.

In the process of preparing to paint a landscape that has itself been history for over a century now, I’ve gathered a host of images of all kinds, and thought it might be fun to share some of them with you.

The more thought I have given the matter, the clearer has grown my realization about how much affection I carry inside for that troubled but fine little waterway. In a very un-Miami like fashion, the river simply flows along quietly, rarely drawing attention to itself despite its importance to the city, on many levels. And, despite all of the notable abuse we have so constantly heaped upon it for over a century, it continues to gracefully and reliably offer itself up for service, however possible.

And it is still beautiful. As it flows through the very heart of one of the most utterly fragmented urban areas on record, it serves to gently remind us that there is something that ties us all together. (Such is the grace of Nature. Although the river might cross your mind only rarely, just take a moment to imagine how very different a place the City would be without that meandering ribbon of blue or black breaking up the paved sprawl of an ever-widening urban mass. It just wouldn’t be Miami.)

Granted, the occasional inconvenience of its bridges can be annoying, on top of the traffic nightmare already our experience. Even so, isn’t it kind of cool to look at the kind of boats passing through? (I know, I’m reaching…) To wonder what kind of cargo they might be loaded down with, how much of it might actually be legal, and what its destination? I guess that is a cheap thrill I allow myself, at times when I’m not muttering about that **%%##@@2 BRIDGE!!

Dade County, 1859. Interesting to note that the Miami River was then clearly marked, but no settlement of “Miami” merited mention. In fact, Miami as a city would not exist until nearly 40 years later.

The river was ancient long before the white man made his characteristically dramatic and devastating entrance. Since all life in an area, Human and animal alike, is drawn in nature to a river’s banks, we can only imagine the sights it has seen, the real life dramas it has witnessed, the blood spilled into its waters. The always-unfolding pageant of the "true story" undoubtedly far surpasses in color, drama, and kaleidoscopic variety any notion we might be able to conceive.

Without further ado, let’s go on down to the River for a while, and allow some open time for wonder. Feel free to leave your iPhone or Blackberry on your desk, back wherever.

JUST BELOW you will find the album. To get started, just click on the image, and the “scrapbook” will open. Click on any of the thumbnails that might interest you; by moving the mouse around a bit you’ll see arrows to guide you.

There is no place to go, strictly speaking, just avenues of exploration. Please enjoy the trip.

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As of Saturday night:

“Imaginary landscapes” certainly present their challenges. It has now been over 100 years since one might have been able to follow the crystal-clear Miami River upstream to this place, a point on the very easternmost edge of the Everglades now marked by NW 27th Avenue. Here the Great Mother River-of-Grass at last released one of her children, the Miami River, to make its own proud way some four miles distant,

unto the warm and all-embracing waters of the Great Mother's beloved sister, Biscayne Bay.

Though I might devoutly wish to, I cannot make passage to this place on foot or by boat (or both!), and experience the quiet triumph of stepping suddenly from dense forested hammock into the sun-filled open.  I cannot grab a seat on a comfortably-worn stone or huge fallen log, take a deep breath, slake my thirst with a long, serious draught of cool water, pure and clean as only the Earth can yield it up, and be still.

And yet…

The overwhelming experience of such a place must have felt very like music, and not alone for the sounds everywhere surrounding: the rushing, tumbling water, the resounding cry of birds’ call from high above (and somewhere over there); the play of mighty breezes sweeping in always from the Great Green Open to the West, on the one hand, and from the Bay just yonder on the other. colliding and dancing, touching the leaves of the countless trees as one million harps eager to be of use and to join in to the chorus they felt born for.

In those days there were no broken cycles, no orphaned “disconnects” or portions left derelict or uncared for. I like to imagine that standing upon such sacred ground, one need not worry or even wonder about their place in it all. Not really, not if they simply listened. As sure as you are, the Earth might whisper, as certainly as there you stand and take breath, it is here that you belong. There is a certain quality of stillness to be found only in motion, and the sense or permanence and constancy part of us so longs for is to be found, if at all, only in a full embrace of change.

There were indeed change, death, and rebirth: in fact, everywhere and all the time. Consequently the scoring of the ancient symphony, its musical phrasing, remained always new. At the same time, one could be assured that the music partook of something ancient and right.  And in an ultimate sense, even the worst thing that could happen was never completely out of place.

It is the loss of that sweet assurance that we grieve.

1904

Riding out these paradoxes in the Human heart is no small challenge, and neither could the questions so troubling us be more pressing, or important. The only real chance we have, for ourselves and one another, is in cultivating our sense of compassion. Hearts that feel (and there are many) are struggling and in pain, many approaching their very limits and almost ready to give up for lack of a perceived way out. Despair never sleeps, and might not actually follow us, yet is never far behind.  Its grim forte is patience. 

Hope is exactly as essential to our spirits as oxygen to our bodies, yet is stretched thin, and would seem to search in vain for a place to safely alight.

On a level of knowing deeper than I understand, the message comes through that only kindness will see us through. As much of it as we can imagine, in whatever forms, and then some, just may together be enough to lead us into a tomorrow worthy of its promise.  What exactly might that mean, in practical terms? Don’t know. I am fairly certain, in fact, that no one will be able to fully answer that question for you with regard to the specifics of your own life.  Yet that somehow seems to me a good thing, because the answers to any inquiry so great and fine partake directly of whatever it is that we are here for, and therefore must be essentially our own, and far from "cookie cutter."  Such "digging" may not be the easiest challenge, but offers up the promise of turning up the only kind of gold that really matters.

In that sense, we are each of us a resource, and not one of us alone.

Just a few thoughts and ideas for your consideration.

I thought I would share with you, by the way, the place from which I travel when I am not outside, painting views that still (for the moment) exist. With the dedication and talent of Alan for lighting, general organization, and decor, my home studio:

Thank you, thank you for joining me upon my journey. Having you along makes all the difference.

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My most recent work-in-progress.

THE MIAMI RIVER RAPIDS, anytime from the dawn of time until 1908, when the oolitic limestone (I prefer the generally used “coral rock”) waterfalls and ledges were  destroyed by dynamite as part of the bold new campaign to “drain the Everglades,” and redeem the perfectly good land from “muck.” Here you see a view of the North Fork of the Miami River, the primary point at which the massive quantities of clean water flowing from the Everglades marked the beginning of the Miami River.

This was an area popular with residents at the time.  Much was written of its beauty.  Especially in the wintertime, it was a wonderfully picturesque setting for a picnic.  The sound of falling water is always refreshing, and soothing.  And just imagine the variety and abundance of birds flying overhead, and the “fresh Earth” smell of the living forest meeting the open Everglades.

For a more modern reference, think of the planet Pandora in James Cameron’s Avatar, and turn up the color just a couple notches.

An illustration of the site from Harper’s Magazine, early 1900’s.

Things were different, before man came.  Fresh water bubbled up from the white sandy bottom of the river itself, and in fresh water "boils" out in the Bay from which my Grandfather used to replenish his water supplies while out boating, or fishing.  No one thought twice about the laying of the sewage lines from Flagler's lovely yellow Royal Palm Hotel so they'd empty their raw content directly into the River.  Considerable damage resulted from that alone, but the people had then only started to come.

Disposal of Refuse, Saturday, Miami River.  Behavior like this, if you think about it,  could result only from a working belief that "this is somebody else's river," and an assumption that the most short-term of  "solutions" would resolve even the nastiest and most serious of  problems .

Oh, but before!  How it would have taken your breath away!

The view from this site of the painting would have been sensational in all directions.  If you turned your gaze toward the racing river, you’d see deep green forest, thriving and ancient, with the white foaming terraces of clean water making their way down, down  to the River’s mouth at Biscayne Bay, about one mile away.

Mouth of River, 1871.  The site would be homesteaded by visionary pioneer Julia Tuttle about 20 years later.

Between this point and that, the water dropped 10 feet , to sea level.  Much of that descent happened quickly, dropping nearly seven feet down within the first 450 feet of flow.  The area was called a “rapids” for good reason, and no joke, or exaggeration.   The force of the flowing water made rowing or paddling one’s craft upstream nearly impossible.   The custom for those heading upriver to “see the Ever-Glades” was to disembark and walk along the shore, tugging their reluctant craft along with a rope held tight until they’d arrived at their destination.

The location today would be around NW 27th Avenue and the Miami River. Near the site, in fact, is a city park called Miami River Rapids Mini-Park, on NW 27th Avenue at 21st Terrace.

Its name is the only remaining evidence of what once was.  Oh yeah, and my painting.

A simplified  “color negative” (OK, so I made that term up!) to help clarify my understanding, and focus on shapes.

IT is a fascinating and enriching process to undertake an “imagined” historical landscape.  It is my intention to capture with the greatest possible accuracy what was.  And so, I look for clues.

Here was a great find, an “A-Ha!” moment.  Upon study and contemplation of the picture above and that below, I discerned an “overlap” between them.  The first provides a more complete panoramic view of the scene, but misses almost completely the real drama of the rapidly falling water.

The second, fortunately taken  by a photographer from a lower point of view, captures beautifully the terraced effect of the rapidly falling water.  I can almost hear its ancient song of motion, dancing. Even now:

With a little color thrown in, to help me understand.

I cannot bring back what was; it is forever gone. But I can and will honor the Earth, and help you remember.

And invite you to imagine, and enjoy a moment of rest.

Thank you.

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Return to the Peacock Inn P. Crockett

THEY are not long, the weeping and the laughter,
Love and desire and hate:

I think they have no portion in us after
We pass the gate.

They are not long, the days of wine and roses:
Out of a misty dream

Our path emerges for a while, then closes
Within a dream.

                --Ernest Dowson, 1867-1900

The Last Days of the Peacock Inn P. Crockett

So long, old friend I never really had a chance to know...

Is it foolishness to feel for an old house, a simple one, really, even falling apart at the seams?  A building that was once a home, but had quite obviously been given up on long since? Houses, exactly as those who build them, are held together only by the attentive care, sustained efforts, and generous time of those who might care, and there is no hiding its lack.

Is it ridiculous to wish to simply acknowledge it that it had once been very much loved, and feel the need to express to the house (as if it had ears, or (for that matter) were even still here) a sense of gratitude that it had loved in return?  To remind it that, in the deepest and truest sense, it once had a place in a world that was rapidly changing?   To simply bear witness, and declare, “I remember?”

Abandoned houses are done, because we consider ourselves through with them.  And they go without a protest, returning to the Earth from which they first took shape or under the focused might of a wrecking ball.  And I can only imagine their spirit calmly whispering, all the while, “Thank you, for I have been given to serve,” knowing in some mysterious “house wisdom” that this will always remain true.  No matter what. Always.

For all that we fancy ourselves, for all that we are or will ever know, having a place in such a way may well be the one and only thing that ever has really meant anything, or ever will.

THE PROPS assist the House

Until the House is built

And then the Props withdraw

And adequate, erect,

The House supports itself

And cease to recollect

The Auger and the Carpenter--

Just such a retrospect

Hath the perfected Life--

A past of Plank and Nail

And slowness then the Scaffolds drop

Affirming it a Soul. 


     Emily Dickinson

The property immediately across the street, now green lawn and steps leading graciously to nowhere.

Just beneath the thriving, hustling surface of today’s Coconut Grove, in fact all around for any who take the time to see, are remains.  Not simply architectural remnants, stubborn stone and mortar and brick, but evidence.  Of an era now forever gone, of a way of life that we can scarcely imagine, try how we might.
From where this house once proudly stood, an excellent vista of open bay could be enjoyed, and its cooling breezes savored even in the most relentless waves of summer’s heat. One can still make out a sliver of the blue water, just over the rooftop beyond.

Is it madness that some part of me devoutly hopes that there may be a Heaven for old houses?  Homes that stood faithful and strong for as long as they were needed, and able?  Piece together a well-built roof, walls, floors, and doors all fashioned from fine Dade County Pine, and an abundance of large windows (with panes now melting slowly downward, for glass itself is less a stable thing, like stone, than a sort of celestial hourglass, the molten sands forming its smooth surface always in motion, slow and certain, towards the end of time), and you sometimes have something more than a house.  Even if the whole of it had not once been part and parcel of the first hotel in Dade County, thus playing a prominent part in a most notable and singular history.

An old house that once gave families comfort and shelter from the assault of howling hurricane winds that came out of the blue, and as well, helped them through the ravages more harsh (yet equally unforeseeable, or even imaginable) of human tragedy and its resonating aftermath of excruciating loss.

There are times when one has lost all: received that dreaded call in the middle of the dark night from the Highway Patrol, attended faithfully and with full devotion one who will always hold their hearts but now lays dying, all the way through to their final breath.  The journey can be epic, yet its final end disarming.  Even anticlimactic.  Quite suddenly, and most gently, the one that has meant the world to them finally takes one last breath, and is gone.

IN such times, the familiar roof over one’s head can keep a spirit grounded, maybe offer gentle support in resisting that call from above, amplified in heart badly broken, to just let go, because it’s suddenly so awfully heavy down here, to simply slip loose of those clunky and graceless chains at last and float on up, upwards into the Great Big Blue above.

It is true that in the fullness of time we must all answer that final call, but how we experience each loss boils essentially down to a question of timing.  There comes a time when there can be no greater blessing, and before that time there seems no tragedy greater or more wrong. Many times, it’s somewhere in between.

Events must happen in their turn, we come to believe, or they make no sense. Consequently, many a stone is thrown in utter desperation at the mocking Heavens, and hard, bearing the burning question, “Is it too DAMNED much to ask, to at least have let it make some sense? Well, IS IT?? HUH?”

Yet the Heavens throw back no stones. The cries are indeed heard, and heard as prayer most urgent. The Higher Realm knows only compassion, but its answer comes in whisper too soft for mortal ear.  There must be a reason.

The Artist’s Home at Night    P. Crockett

In its deepest sense, home is wherever our hearts tell us that we really should be, the place that is good and right to call “ours.” Where (hopefully) we are needed, and others rely upon us.  Robert Frost said: “Home is the place where, when you have to go there, They have to take you in.”

So, where is home? None can know truly know the answer to that most sacred of questions, but each of us alone.  If you can reply without doubt or hesitation, realize that you are blessed.  For many of us, it is the ultimate question to grow into, to come to understand in the living.  And that’s for ourselves.  For those that we love, or would love, all we can ask for is the clarity and courage to recognize and communicate our wishes and feelings, and for the grace to hope.

If we are to speak of home, it seems imperative to remember the growing number of our friends and neighbors that have either already lost theirs in the “perfect storm” of foreclosure actions sweeping the country, or who even now stand trembling on the precipice. They need more than our prayers and good wishes alone. Though the thought itself be painful, we must stop to realize that it could be any of us, next. Is there no organized voice to speak clearly and with sufficient authority to be heard at last, ENOUGH?  Is there a point beyond which the People will not be pushed?

A subject for another posting.  I will say only that there is clearly something wrong with this picture, in a “night is day and up is down” sort of way, and that despite all distractions and smoke screens fanned by this industry or that, it is not the People who are primarily at fault here.

Yet we are the ones suffering.

Now. Would you join me on a brief visit?  Just a couple of stops. First, Mandeville, Louisiana.

 Little Flower P. Crockett

“Little Flower Villa,” a true classic in a  historic Louisiana town, before the storm.   Beautifully tended and well- loved by my cousin Charlie Roberts and his family, the property unfortunately sat on the shores of Lake Pontchartrain across from New Orleans, where it met with the utter devastation of Katrina’s storm surge.  (The view across the street is below.) I’ve not met this cousin (technically a second cousin; his Mom being first cousin to mine and yet closer than many sisters, one of a true-blue “steel magnolia meets Ya-Ya sisterhood” unholy alliance who periodically get together and raise Hell!) but somehow nevertheless feel a strong connection.  As I felt him stand in utter desolation with his huge heart badly broken (as if life had been without sufficient challenges before the storm!), grappling with the huge practical issues of where to send the boys to school and whether or not to rebuild, I felt to do this painting for him.  Upon request, he sent me a cd with pictures from “before.”

I conspired to “surprise” him with the delivery of the painting.  Just a few minutes after opening up the wooden crate he called me, crying, and left a message I will always treasure.

Lake Pontchartrain

Now, back to Coconut Grove.

 Cocoanut Grove Homestead 1880  P. Crockett

 Back in 1993 I painted this fine old home across the street from the old Peacock property, and just north of the empty lot with the steps leading only to memory.  It is situated atop the silver bluff on one of those great old lots fronting Bayshore Drive, running the entire distance through to Tigertail Avenue.  I had the great life experience there of being received with gracious hospitality by the property’s owner, Marshall Connally.  Her great-grandfather had built the family home in 1880, and at the time I met Marshall was living there, taking care of her elderly, ill mother.

It was a hot day, and she offered me cold iced tea while we sat on the expansive porch and chatted.  It turned out to be one of those simple moments that, before you know it, add up to the greater part of a life’s real treasure.

The view was amazing.  It was a magical experience; time itself seemed to grow sleepy in traversing the long swath of emerald lawn stretching way down to the street in the distance, and curled up to catch a little nap.   Even the clouds seemed a bit sun-dazed, for the moment overcome by the celestial ennui of just drifting.

I casually brushed the icy glass against the sweat on my forehead as I listened to Marshall hold forth, leaning back in a lounge chair, feet up.  She set about sharing with me a bounty of great stories about the house and its family, in a casual and earnest tone.  The property had never been anything but proud, comfortable, and solid, its walls made of huge, thick slabs of solid coral rock quarried locally and then hewn by hand before being lifted into place, according to the design of her Grandfather’s father.

The luxuriant green avenue and its towering palms all conspire together to pull one gently back in time, to the sweeter moments of life in an era now long forgotten.  All of it boggles the mind: how very green the world had once been, and expansive, and how much room there had been for everybody.  A world in which I have to imagine there seemed less need for hurry. There was always time enough to drop whatever one might be doing and “visit” with guests in the welcoming shade of the monumental front porch, always open to the Bay’s breezes.

I learned several years ago that Marshall had passed on, in her 50’s (or so it seemed) and relatively young.  I am grateful that I had a chance to meet her; she gave to me a great gift.

Her mother had quite certainly preceded her.  Ever since, the house has sat empty.  Even its its porch waits, silent.  No cold iced tea is served, and there is no casual gossip. Or laughter.

Just for now, I like to think.

Just for now.

Finally, it’s just a couple of neighborhoods over and a little back in time, to visit my dear long, long-time friend Vicki de la Torre at the truly grand Old Spanish mansion that she and her sisters and brothers all grew up calling home.  Occupying an entire block along date-palm lined South Miami Avenue, the property always felt a wonderful world of its own, its expanse of buildings, hidden gardens, and romantically decaying fountains and benches all fitting together as poetry.  The “castle” was gracefully surrounded by a low wall, built of coral rock and inset with iron scrollwork, and guarded by two majestic stone lions.

After the divorce the home had to be sold, a hapless victim of the real cost in today’s dollars of maintaining the finest dreams of Yesterday. The children were heartbroken.  The new owner, fearing the imposition of a historic designation that would have encumbered his right to destroy, lost no time in seeing the place utterly demolished.  The pool has long since been filled in, and virtually every sign of what had once been, removed.  Only the wall and rusting iron remains, and the fine lions.  Even they have at last begun to crumble, the plaster breaking away and exposing to the corrosive elements the rebar that has for so many years held up their tails at a suitably proud angle.

Vicki now lives with her family in California, and a few years ago commissioned these paintings from two old, badly faded photographs.  This one is called Vicki’s Inner Child at Home.

Here is Vicki, close up.  (Actually, as it turns out, her older sister Chris.

That’s all right, it works for both of them.)

Finally, a view of the “back” view of the house, which actually faced the broad avenue.  This house most certainly did not have any "ugly side."  The way the sunlight poured through those windows into the monumental living room, so high above, was a simple glory to behold.

Vicki’s Home              P. Crockett

Now, safely back where we began, I must get back to my life, and leave you to yours.  Before you go anywhere, though, I want to thank you most sincerely for your companionship upon this little jaunt.

Take a moment to think about the people and places you might have come to love, and the dreams you hold most dear, for yourself and for them.  Now is always an excellent time to cherish, for burnishing to its finest glow that most sacred to you.  The practice requires no reason.  It partakes of the reason that we are here, meaning (in practical terms) that it will provide you with a reason.

And it occurs to me to say: should you find yourself put to a choice, allow love to pass reason. If it’s really love—and that’s where the discernment comes in—it will never, ever let you down.  Despite all the hype, the voice of reason sometimes makes little real sense.

Wherever you are, is the best place to start.  (Yes, that includes you.) Each breath, until our last (and quite possibly thereafter) can truly be seen as a new beginning.

If we believe it!

See you--

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