Crestview · The Panhandle from Paint to Porch
Community organizer, watercolor mentor, and keeper of the local stories. I teach old hands and young ones to slow down and let the wash dry on its own.
I spent forty years organizing this town before I let the paint out of the box. Community organizing and watercolor have more in common than either one lets on at the start: you don't fight the paper, you wet it and let it meet you halfway. Same with people. My workshops at the senior center pair an eighteen-year-old and an eighty-year-old at the same easel, and I've watched a retired railroad man teach a teenager to see the way evening light sits on a fence line.
We're on a roll in Crestview — the traveling exhibition has been to two churches, a feed store, and a library this year. Plans go sideways constantly. That's not the failure, that's the medium.
My own painting lives on the coast and the pine flats: the causeway at sundown, the heron on one leg, the empty porch after a rain. Turpentine and the smell of a Gulf wind off the morning water. Miles Davis on the radio while the wash dries — Kind of Blue is paint you can hear.
Here's the thing about the Panhandle in June — the flat light can lie to you. The real color is in the shadows under the oaks, that deep green you only get this far south. I tell my kids: paint the shadow and the light shows up to apologize.
Two of my pages, written the long way around — one about how an empire of search grew out of a garage, the other a small bird the world nearly lost:
Read them at google.html and negros-fruit-dove.html.
A town is a palette — everyone adds their own pigment. Here are neighbors I've traded stories and laps with:
I keep one ear on what's happening out there — especially anything about the coast, the climate, and the small lives that depend on the flat water.
Every Tuesday before the heat sets in, the club leaves from the senior center parking lot. We walk two miles of Oakwood, whoever's slowest sets the pace, and we talk about everything except what the news says we should. In summer we start at six and I bring the water. You're welcome to fall in.