Dusk was fading into night as we walked the block or so to the recently restored historic building. We followed others into the building and looked for seats. We were delighted to be sitting with our old friend Don Rhodes and we chatted about how we knew about Christine and her music. We had not seen her in concert, but Susan and I had found her creativity and motivational blog and then her music. Don had searched for links to the music to get information for his weekly newspaper column.
her voice gave blessing to this place, the people who had come and to their hopes for the school which bears her name. She waved the keys high and thanked Peter Knox IV for the building and, as the cake was cut, seemed uncomfortable that everyone got to sing except herself! Then she greeted her old high school classmates in the row of chairs, hugged old friends, met some new ones and patted her makeup with a bright blue napkin for a quick TV interview.
I served two years on the Advisory Council and saw the kinds of things which can be done with an intense after-school program for teenagers through the Jessye Norman School of the Arts.
The day began quietly out in the country, the rumble of the distant Interstate traffic mimicking the ebb and flow of surf. The birds had not begun their cheerful/grumpy/joyful calling and the sun was not up. I lay in the old bed, only partly awake. As morning's first light pushed up from behind the trees, the sounds began with the thump of a squirrel landing from a tall pine onto the tin roof. It was followed by another and their little feet scratched their path across the peak. Suddenly, there was a harsh scream and some commotion as the birds called out "danger! danger!" and I knew that the big hawk was also awake . . . and catching breakfast.
When you grow up with Saturday Evening Post covers peering out of magazine racks, sliding across coffee tables and slipping from your sleeping grandfather's lap, it is difficult to imagine that they would be important enough for an art museum exhibit. Oh, I know all about how folks have decided that the illustrations created for these covers is now considered to be "Art with a capital A." I know how the painter is considered to be the Chronicler of American life -- the way we all wished it were and the way it often was. And I know that my friend, Starkey, respected both the work and the man.
But when it came to taking time to actually go to see an exhibit of Norman Rockwell's work, I wondered if it would be 'worth my time.' Linda and Karen seemed to feel the same way. We circled the parking lot, looking at the buildings of the wonderful complex where the Orlando Museum of Art is located.
We paid our money and entered the galleries. We noticed a few other paintings and spotted some work we wish we had done. Then we saw the Rockwells. There were 41 originals just hanging there for an almost nose-to-glass look. There were 373 pristine framed covers. Technique, design, inspiration in an amazing legacy of painted stories; it was all there.
Oh my, I think my life flashed before my eyes. I think it did for others as well. I watched as a man with a familiar profile leaned in to get a better look. I pulled out my iPhone and captured an image or two -- mostly of the other people who seemed mesmerized by the art. (Linda and Karen told me the sign said, "No photos." I put the phone away.)
The late afternoon sun bounced off the bronze of a large nude figure and we began to wander in that direction. We suddenly realized that we were being followed and thought perhaps we would be asked to leave.
On the contrary, we were greeted by the horticulturist for the gardens who shared anecdotes and information about a place he obviously loves. We were properly impressed by the delicate figure called "Unfettered" which he explained depicted a woman reaching for her destiny and freedom from ignorance and superstition.
There on the shores of Lake Osceola, the breezes seemed to guide us along the paths and past the sculptures of Albin Polasek. The spirituality of his figures is strengthened by his ability and by his Czechoslovakian heritage, but it is in his "Man Carving His Own Destiny" that his spirit soars.
We celebrated all week by the candlelight of Belle's First Birthday (along with an evening by candlelight when the power was out after a major thunder storm.)
On Tuesday morning, Linda and I prepared to make the airport run for Karen's flight. The traffic was light and, as we drove through the area where we would eat that night at their favorite Greek Restaurant, Linda casually remarked that she had been told of a great little shop nearby, but had not located. 
There was the sign and there was a SALE going on with racks of goodies on the sidewalk. Serendipity!
The sun was a white hot glare on the street when we parked at the Maitland Center for the Arts. We weren't sure we wanted to brave the heat for what seemed a boring little tour of Old Florida. We gently refused entry to the current exhibition, choosing instead to wander the grounds in hopes of uncovering the mystique of Maitland and the old artist colony. (Would the spirit still be there?)
We wondered if artists still come to this place (they do.) We began to move through the gardens -- together, yet separately -- peering in windows, checking the foliage, wondering about this place, and yes, catching a whiff of cigar smoke -- a sure sign to some that the creator of this fantasy is still here. We did not know the story of the old Research Studio, but we felt the vision of its creator Jules André Smith (1889-1959) through his carvings, his architecture and his courtyards. (Should we have known? Should we have planned more? Would it be better if we had come with preconceived notions? I hope not.)
And then we saw Dorothy's brightly painted pieces of metal shifting with the touch of the breeze. Her swirls of color shimmered in the shade, hung dizzily from tall trees, winked through the landscape, and floated in the koi pond. Dorothy Gillespie (b. 1920 - ) would be speaking about her installation at the Maitland later in the week. We did not plan to attend.
Just as the sun peeped through the red gate near the Koi pond, I unpacked and prepared for a relaxing day of getting settled and talking art. As most institutions of beauty -- museums, gardens and hair salons -- are traditionally closed for rest and repair on Monday, we had put nothing on our schedule. Suddenly, Linda discovered that the Leu Gardens were not only open, but FREE until noon! We hurried!
We noticed water patterns on nasturtiums, the velvet colors of hundreds of roses, filtered light on sculptures, and nature's positioning of reds against greens. In the quiet, we found a sense of place which I would continue to find throughout our week.
Linda and I had toured together before and had learned to be comfortable with each other. Way back in New York City for the Gates of Central Park, the two of us had taken a late night walk through the gently waving orange banners. Patches of snow glowed in the sparkling light and the banners whispered just to us. We were as exhilarated by the experiences and ideas which were humming in our heads as we were by the cold. We ended that final night at the top of Rockefeller Center overlooking that spectacular city knowing that our views of ourselves as artists had been changed.
When the invitation to visit Central Florida came from my friend, Linda. I jokingly announced, "I'm going to Disney World!" as if I'd won some major event which could only be topped by such a prize.
As we shared our plans with the Internet friends* who had traveled together to see The Gates in Central Park and the galleries in Atlanta, the ideas began to fly and the week became a real art adventure.
I have come home from this walk on the beach. It will take me a while to absorb the conversations and the images of Central Florida. I will write about some of the special things, but I have learned that whenever artists are together creative juices bubble, eyes are opened to new possibilities, opinions change and ideas flow -- an indescribable Magic happens.
As last year, the days with Frankie and Charlotte were filled with fun and conversation. We sat in the rockers under the Hilton Head lighthouse; we shopped for things we didn't need, but which, as Frankie says, "called our names;" we lunched on shrimp and oysters and she-crab soup; we napped in the heat of the day as all good beach girls do; and we caught up on the news since last year. We just celebrated the days together.
I just wasn't ready to turn back.
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