Welcome to Florida! by Jane Tolbert

Carl Hiaasen has done his best to scare away outsiders from Florida by writing about political corruption in the state. But the siren’s song about a lack of a state income tax and balmywinters beckons the masses.

Several years ago, my sister held a dinner party for two newcomers from Manhattan, who pursued their dream of exchanging the congested city for lakefront property in Florida. Their conversation with the realtor had gone something like this:

- Do you have pets or children?

- A dog. No kids.

All Floridians know that alligators thrive in small pockets of water, emerging to snatch pets, hunting dogs, children, and grilled food. The lake provides the semblance of a calm, placid site on a hot summer day when crickets and katydids chirp. But come nighttime, those hot-day sounds give way to the throaty bellows of alligators gators. The glow of gator eyes reflect light.



Just as the Manhattan friends told of their relief at having escaped the dangers of lakefront property and purchased a city residence instead and vowed to limit water activity to boating, the Swedish dinner guests arrived. They had just returned from a boat trip, exploring some of the lesser-known Florida springs, those bodies of clear, crystal waters that emerge from the aquifer and maintain a constant temperature of 72 degrees. They excitedly about the dangers of flying sturgeon.

--Sturgeon! The Manhattan group looked up.

A sturgeon is a prehistoric-looking fish covered with hard plates that lives in fresh waters. These fish can weigh as much as 200 pounds and attain lengths of 8 feet. They have an uncanny ability to fly through the air and flip onto a boat, injuring—even “killin”--the passengers.

Over a few glasses of wine, we focused our conversation on sharks, red tide, jellyfish and Portuguese Man of War, avoiding the story of the Burmese python that died while attempting to swallow a live alligator in a Florida swamp. We casually mentioned an early-morning bike ride along the sandy trails of the San Felasco Hammock, which was punctuated with intermittent showers. Deer appeared but also we saw fresh bear prints in the damp sand. According to the National Audubon Society’s Field Guide to Florida (p. 371), the Florida black bear is a “powerful swimmer and climber; can run up to 30 mph. . . will usually flee, but can cause serious injury.”

The next time we had dinner with the Manhattan friends, they announced their recent purchase of Florida cracker house in need of renovation. There were no lakes, streams, or pockets of water near this city house. It was near an elementary school so surely a street crossing guard would signal any wayward gators, flying sturgeons or bears. They talked with gusto about the hands-on experience of pulling off rotting beams and working with the contractor, something they would have never experienced in New York. The brown recluse spider could wait for another evening.

Those Eureka Moments at the Kitchen Counter by Jane Tolbert

My friends and I use the terms “eureka” experience or “epiphany” to refer to those moments of lucidity that come about—not in a think tank, but at my kitchen counter. Conversations over coffee or wine usually result in enlightenment. Is it the caffeine or the alcohol or just the “time out” from the daily routine?

The Wall Street Journal ran an interesting article that provided scientific evidence in support of the eureka experience, something we kitchen-counter aficionados have known without the benefit of empirical data. In other words, those gray cells work harder when our mind is “wandering,” writes Robert Lee Hotz in his June 19, 2009, article, “A Wandering Mind Heads Straight Toward Insight.” Moments of insight often follow daydreaming.

Thomas Kuhn (The Structure of Scientific Revolutions) popularized the concept of the “gestalt switch”—the bird-rabbit phenomenon--whereby we see the familiar in a “new” light. The drawing of the bird "becomes" the rabbit in the same way the data that seemed to support a geocentric world view could actually support a heliocentric world as well.

The eureka experience often refers to scientific insight because Archimedes used this expression when he found the solution to a problem, jumped from his bath, and ran through the streets to proclaim the news. In his eureka moment, he forgot his towel. Writers, dancers, musicians, poets and artists have these experiences as well. Whether an individual is working on a literary plot, a musical partition, choreographed or improvisational dancing, an oil painting or a filmscript—a mental block looms large. The harder the creator works to solve the problem by a plodding, analytical method, the more elusive the solution becomes. The artist in us all needs time to daydream. How else will we have the likes of Q’s laboratory in James Bond or an interpretation of Argentine tango music by the Mandrágora orchestra?

With innovation on the decline, at least in the sciences, according to one article in the New Scientist, more research and development companies should opt for settings propitious to the eureka experience. They should shift from the business paradigm of managed days of meetings and time clocks. . . to one of kitchen counters to enable the mind to wander, dream and achieve that moment of insight.

For my friends and me (and sometimes a dog who goes by the name of Bear or a greyhound called Fay), the Kitchen Counter has become a metaphor for a break in the routine and a chance to dream. No rules of parliamentary procedure guide these informal meetings. The only criterion is that of a positive state of mind. We leave with the feeling that solutions are at hand. I experience the same insight after walking around Lake Alice, dancing a tango with my favorite tanguero, or paddling in the Florida springs. Probably Archimedes felt the same way when he sprang from his bath.

A Tribute to Small Walls by Jane Tolbert

The Collector in Us All. . .

Mosaics by Margaret Ross Tolbert, Gainesville, Fla.

Visit an art museum, and few of us can escape without thinking, “If only I could have that piece.” With the going prices at some auctions, ranging from thousands to millions, where does this leave the amateur collector who would like something more than reproductions or posters?



Munro Leaf's drawing of me.



Amateur collectors have options, the flexibility to experiment and discover. They can patronize new artists, those unknown talents--students in a university fine arts program or an 90-year old woman who has found the muse. They don’t have to follow mainstream collectors who focus on art for investment or attend auctions at Christie’s or Sothby’s. And although it may seem inherently prestigious to buy art on the Left Bank in Paris, good art can be found locally.

Many of our great Impressionist artists began careers in porcelain factories or even decorated restaurant menus in exchange for a meal. Today, rising artists will paint storefront windows with holiday greetings, have a show in a local restaurant or participate in a downtown art festival. They will work with a designer who insists the red vermilion in the oil painting needs to match the credenza planned for the corporate lobby. They may experience that momentary elation at a group show in Soho, only to have the gallery director return their canvases cut from stretcher frames to save shipping costs.

While the rest of us get “day jobs” with benefits packages (health and retirement), artists support themselves, and they take risks. They are involved in forms of self expression that may reap reproach or reward. But they are called upon to support philanthropic efforts—fundraisers for museums, radio stations, hospitals or theatres—by donating their works.


I had a slight edge to starting my own small walls art collection. My first portrait consisted of a small pencil drawing Munro Leaf, creator of Ferdinand the Bull, gave me as a child. From there my sister introduced me to the world of talented student artists who dedicated many all-nighters to preparing for annual critiques. Through these connections, I have developed a “small wall” that includes an ethereal-quality photograph by Anna Tomczak, a fantasy seascape engraving by Lyda Toy, a charcoal drawing of a plump frog by Swedish artist Anna Löwdin, as well as lithographs, oil paintings and drawings by my sister, Margaret Ross Tolbert.





Anna Tomczak, Lake Helen, Fla.



Lyda Toy, Pensacola, Fla.

Many of these artists who started 20 years ago—the time when I visited their studios--are now internationally known. I’ve watched their work evolve, and I have to travel farther to see their shows, but I continue to cherish these earlier pieces displayed on my small walls. After I fill my small walls, the next step is a commission.

Claire-Lyne Xylena Apotheloz, Cross Creek, Fla.

Although I could never afford something like a Park Güel (Barcelona) designed by Gaudi, I could come pretty close with some of the work by Claire-Lyne Xylena Apotheloz as well as other new artists. Of course, I need to update my small walls with newer pieces by my favorites. And then, I must find space for the larger paintings and sculptures that I hope to add.


Margaret Ross Tolbert at a show of her work in Miami

Enjoy a visit to the websites of these talented artists!

www.annatomczak.com/
http://www.annalowdin.se/
www.margaretrosstolbert.com
www.xylena.com/

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Mr. Peiresc, Meet FaceBook! by Jane Tolbert

I stumbled across an interesting gentleman more than 20 years ago, attracted by his vision of the new science and collections of curiosities. During his lifetime, he worked in Aix-en-Provence, but he valued retreats to his family home in the country at Belgentier. Nicolas-Claude Fabri de Peiresc, a French magistrate and scientist, devoted hours each day to social networking, using both personal contacts and correspondence.

Although he frequented the movers and shakers and luminaries of the time, he also consulted artisans. His correspondents, scattered throughout Europe and the Levant, provided data (observations of a lunar eclipse for work on a method of terrestrial longitude), reports (natural history, culture, religion, philology) or artifacts and curiosities (talismans, crates of hooded chameleons from Tunisia, an Egyptian mummy and ancient Roman coins or manuscripts).

On a given day, this inquisitive polyglot could churn out as many as ten letters--some of which were 3500 words long with sections resembling the materials and methods of a lab report today. Needless to say, these letters were written in a painful scrawl and included marginal notations (Thomas D’Arcos said he was not circumcised). His letters also provided an amalgam of personal health (his hemorrhoids were acting up), weather conditions, politics (he preferred living in the South of France, at a distance from Paris with its scandals and machinations), recipes (the salubrious benefits of small melons or flamingo tongues), gossip and opinions about women.

Peiresc described himself a type of “midwife” in helping projects reach fruition. He promised rewards to those who participated in scientific ventures, most often tedious and time consuming.

He came to the defense of friends. He asked Cardinal Barberini to lighten up on Galileo or arranged ransom payments for a Barbary captive. He stressed the importance of tolerance at a time when science clashed with religious beliefs and the threat of the Inquisition loomed.

Even though Peiresc generously rewarded his correspondents, many did not reciprocate. When he requested telescopic observations, they used the naked eye or copied data from existing tables. The main point of the new science was the use of observation and inquiry to correct past errors and misconceptions. He sent lengthy missives, awaited responses and experienced mail delays caused by pestilence, pirate raids or wars and adverse meteorological conditions. Then some correspondents just disappeared from the radar.

Would FaceBook have alleviated Mr. Peiresc’s woes? He would scrupulously complete the sections of his profile, interests, hobbies and activities. His 500 or more friends would include cardinals, politicians, Copernicans, Aristotelians, renegades and freethinkers. He would send frequent “news feeds”-- “OMG Mass lasted too long. Missed transit .” “Thx for the orange trees .” He would “poke” his contacts and write on their “walls” (“Send data ASAP”) or read postings of others to learn who got “wasted” or feigned illness instead of collecting data. He would upload drawings of the gazelle, Alzaron, engraving of the lunar topography or videos of his dissections. He would be tagged in numerous photos.




Given the period in which he lived (1580-1637), Mr. Peiresc left an impressive legacy—notebooks of observations and a plethora of letters. What more could he have done with FaceBook, SMS and IM! Involved “friends of friends”? Sent reminders on Twitter? Or recognized that many collaborators then as now preferred trivial pursuits (ummm, slept late; shopped hard) to scientific investigations?
Photos: Belgentier
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For more information on Peiresc, visit this site: www.lesamisdepeiresc.fr

What did not fit in my suitcase! by Jane Tolbert

Travel is about experiences and memories. I used to collect souvenirs—salt and pepper shakers, mugs, ashtrays--but now I realize the most special parts of a trip are the intangibles (sights, sounds, smells, memories) and all those other things that just won’t fit in my suitcase--parasol pines, the azure and turquoise colors of the Mediterranean Sea and the cobalt blues of the mountains, the hillsides of poppies and olive trees.



Just to the west of Juan-les-Pins, the Boulevard Bijou Plage runs down to the beach, the Bijou Plage and the restaurant.


Starting in April, the ferries make frequent runs to the nearby Iles des Lerins, where the Man in the Iron Mask was imprisoned. But that is just one small incident in an area with a rich history of numerous civilizations.


Although Antibes offers an old city, a market, and port, my favorite place to visit is the Picasso Museum.


There, the Nicolas de Staël painting, “The Concert,” and the view from the terrace with the Giacometti statues leave me breathless. For obvious reasons, I could not put these objects in my suitcase. . . .



My other favorite museum is the Maeght Foundation near St. Paul de Vence, which has an enviable sculpture garden and collection of Mirò, Calder, Arp, Giacometti's figures and animals, and Chagal as well as the Braque basin with the fish mosaic.

In Nice, the Monday morning flea market on the Cours Saleya has numerous stalls of books, furniture, glass chandeliers, toys and curiosities.

One vendor sporting large, round glasses, has a wonderful collection of Art Deco jewelry. But I am tempted by the larger and colorful chandeliers. The pragmatic concerns (e.g., airline excess baggage) deter me in my purchase. I end up by contemplating options from the terrace of a cafe.

In the streets of Valbonne, that red Ferrari would go well with my red shoes and, of course, THE red carpet at the Cannes Film Festival. For now, these are musings. I am not sure I could afford to fill up the Ferrari anyway.

Florida Storms by Jane Tolbert

In the late spring, the media go into “storm mode,” the countdown for the six-month hurricane season that begins June 1. Most Floridians would rather avoid the reminder. After all, the four hits in 2004 are still fresh in our minds even though most of the blue tarps covering damaged roofs have disappeared.

As we move into the summer, grocery stores issue storm-tracking maps printed on the sides of the brown paper bags. The bank provides hurricane survival lists. Weather forecasters show images of a storm forming off the coast of Africa. Day-after-day they track its development, predicting it will gain strength, become more organized and then intensify. Once the storm arrives in our proximity, reporters in nylon parkas appear on the scene, braving winds and rain against the backdrop of blowing palm trees. With our safety foremost in their minds, they promise to continue live broadcasts. Stay tuned.

Our garages provide a constant reminder of hurricane preparedness. Since many homes do not have permanent storm shutters, corrugated aluminum sheets or wooden planks remain stacked against the walls, some still bearing captions like, “Good away, Charlie” or “We’re ready, Ivan.”



Our cupboards contain jars of peanut butter and cans of beans with a long-past expiration date. The batteries stored on a closet shelf can no longer bring a flashlight to life. Our three-day supply of bottled water has gone the way of the gym. The emergency cash in the kitchen drawer has long since been used for more pressing purchases. Since that last storm when all the cell phones either died or the towers jammed, we have planned to buy the traditional cord phone. Our cars should contain a full tank of gas for an evacuation.

We had two hurricanes in rapid succession target the Melbourne area in 2004. We evacuated the barrier islands for Hurricane Frances along with 70 percent of the inhabitants. One neighbor loaded family heirlooms in a rental truck. Others felt a storm might be a way to get rid of unwanted belongings. We filled our Mustang with laptops, pets, a surfboard, a box of CheeseIts and our homeowner’s insurance policy. We headed up the coast then inland through the Ocala National Forest, following a stream of cars and horse trailers. Once with family in Gainesville, we waited for the storm to make landfall. There, most of the damage came from pine trees that snapped in high winds. Cleanup crews and utility trucks spent days clearing debris from the main roads. We joined neighbors armed with chain saws, ropes and pickup trucks to clear residential streets. We headed back to the Melbourne area, this time following utility trucks. Fragments of street lights, advertising signs and political campaign memorabilia littered the beachside roads and blocked storm sewers. Service stations had lost their awnings and covers. Grocery stores had no frozen or fresh products. Few canned goods remained. Beachfront hotels appeared gutted, the facades damaged or missing and plate glass shattered. Parking lots and Dumpsters now overflowed with water-logged mattresses. It looked like a war zone. On our street, tree limbs, shingles and planks created an obstacle course. The branches of my stately Norfork Island Pine now clogged a neighbor’s swimming pool. But our roof remained intact. A week or so after our electricity came on, Hurricane Jeanne targeted our area. But this time, 70 percent of the residents remained. And once again, our communities were plunged into darkness.

The media had provided blow-by-blow coverage of the hurricanes, but after several days of reporting on the financial cost, they moved on, often missing the poignant stories, a juxtaposition of good and bad. The firemen willing to help but the numerous blue tarps that remained for more than a year. The absentee insurance adjusters, the shyster roofers or tree cutters, or the shelters that closed, leaving many area inhabitants and their pets homeless. In some cases, families took in friends, and neighbors organized candle-lit dinners. Surprisingly, many things did not blow away--the mermaid figurehead on what was then the Pineda Inn on US 1, Mrs. Mango’s small house, known for its herbs and teas and for the county teachers, all those student essays that still needed to be graded.
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Inland on the Riviera

Grasse and the Gorges du Loup by Jane Tolbert

In past years when the crowds thickened and coastal traffic intensified on the Riviera, I used to seek respite in the hillsides of the backcountry. The inland villages, once strongholds against Saracen invasions, have replaced pots of boiling oil, bows and arrows and war machines with boutiques filled with perfumes, lavender honey or provençal herbs and pottery.

Grasse, once a city of tanners, gained renown for its perfumeries that developed after Catherine de Medici (16th c.) ordered perfumed gloves. Until recently, travelers needed to take a bus or drive here, but a train now links Grasse to the coastal cities. For the tourist, the city provides a cathedral with paintings by Rubens and Fragonard, museums, perfume factories, a labyrinth of old city streets plus the market and bistros on the Place aux Aires. Although ornate buildings and exotic vegetation give the old city a turn-of-the-century elegance, it continues to struggle to attract new businesses and year-round residents. The networks of narrow alleys and the lack of convenient parking within the city walls would probably discourage most of us from settling.

On a road that climbs inland from Pré du Lac to the 11th-century fortified village of Gourdon, I cross a few tour buses, quarry trucks and determined cyclists. This perched village, built high on a rocky crag, has withstood centuries of invasions but now caters to tourism. Instead of entering Gourdon, I head in the direction of the Plateau of Caussols, known for the CERGA observatory, and I turn off on the Chemin des Claps. The landscape is desolate, and I feel like I am at the top of the world. Below is Gourdon and a glimmer of the Mediterranean Sea. Paragliders hover, suspended in the in the air. Traces of the Via Aurelia, or Roman Road, and abandoned sheep folds are all but camouflaged in the rocky landscape, which contains ammonite fossils, hints of the marine environment once here. Tufts of wild lavender have gained a foothold, but small vipers also lurk here.

Returning to the entrance of Gourdon, I head in the direction of the Gorges du Loup (Loup Valley) along switchback turns that bring out the rally-car driver in us all. Signs point to Gréolières, a small, local ski station, then Bramafan, plunged in perpetual darkness because of its dismal history. According to legend, a 15th-century seigneur locked his wife away in a tower to die of starvation. Her cries were heard by villagers (hence the name, Bramafan, or “cry of hunger”). A large American ragtop, a relic from the days of cars with big fins, scrapes by on the narrow road. Pont du Loup, the end of the circuit, has a candied fruit factory, worth a detour to sample my favorites--the rose petal, fig or citrus jellies. From here, the courageous hiker—which has never been my case—may opt to climb a small footpath marked “Chemin de Paradis” (Road to Paradise) that leads upward to Gourdon. However, I remain in my car. Bar-sur-Loup is a small village directly below Gourdon with a micro-climate favoring the cultivation of citrus. The village has undergone a substantial facelift. The once-dark alleys now have brightly painted village houses, and the town boasts two gourmet restaurants--the Hostellerie du Chateau, opened by a former opera singer, and La Jarrerie, located on the main road. Historically, the village has ties to the States. In the American Revolutionary War, Admiral François-Joseph de Grasse, who was born here, played a critical role in the defeat of Cornwallis at the Battle of Yorktown. The village church (13th-15th c.) houses the “Danse Macabre,” or Dance of Death,” a painting depicting dancers dropping dead amidst festivities, surely a sign of divine retribution for revelers.

Over the years, even the backcountry has become increasingly populated on a year-round basis in part due to the development of the research park of Sophia Antipolis and its employees who seek housing. Although small corners of the region remain inaccessible to tourism, but they were likely already known to the Saracens or earlier invaders.

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Photos: Grasse, Place aux Aires. Bar sur Loup seen from the Chemin de l'Hubac.