Carrer Verdi (Barcelona) 1993 P. Crockett
I still see paintings in your eyes
where love blooms bold and beautiful.
The vistas of your work break out in rich luscious color
like Jacob’s
Scott, 1992 Journal Entry
As time passed I sensed the power of the path opening up before me, but also knew that my old life and many of its guiding assumptions had come to an abrupt and final end. Assuming I’m meant to still be here, I thought to myself, where am I supposed to go, and how am I to spend the many slow hours in each day? Suffering seemed real enough, but in most other respects I was simply going through the motions day after day, step by tentative step. Deep in my heart I felt the importance of acting as if life mattered, carrying on in the ways closest and most important to my heart. I was still here for a reason, and was not to waste my time. And so I survived by seeking the support of the friends who loved me and diving into my painting.
Key West Lighthouse 1990 The first painting undertaken with knowledge that the virus coursed through my bloodstream.
I had begun painting seriously following my HIV diagnosis in 1990, and found a freedom in the solitude of my artistic process that eluded me elsewhere. Often with Scott by my side, I would pack up my paints, carrying my tape player with me, and seek out the beaches, mangrove swamps, tropical hammocks, and other rare and sacred places in South Florida not yet laid low by the hand of man. Painting was sometimes a struggle, and the anxiety of the blank canvas with me often, but there were times, blessed moments, when the colors were splashing on just right and I was really getting it. Lost in a process having little to do with the conscious mind, I was capturing nature’s beauty and in the process seeing it as for the first time. Such peak moments refreshed my soul and carried me far.
Ibiza 1993 A World Suddenly on Fire, Everywhere I Turned
The Wednesday before, only days after Scott’s passing and my heart heavy with sadness, I had headed out with my paints as a leap of faith. Sitting outside listening to the tape Scott had made for me, splashing paint on the canvas as tears ran down my face, I captured in intense swirling color a wall overflowing with lurid bougainvillea, a tropical sky in motion above. On the bottom right of the painting I painted in light blue, lavender, golden yellow, and magenta the words My Dear Scott I will always love you. “This one’s for you, baby,” I thought as I completely broke down and cried there on the street. “They always will be.”
Love Never Dies 1996 P. Crockett
From the very beginning, I felt a need in the deepest part of me to honor and celebrate this man, and the mystery of our love. It was during times of such remembrance, it seemed, that the clouds parted somewhat and I felt most alive. In the month of May, I dedicated myself to the project of preparing in Scott’s honor a quilt panel to become part of the Names Project in San Francisco, California. I had heard that a showing of the complete quilt, perhaps the last one possible as a result of its monstrous hugeness and constant growth, was scheduled to be held on the Mall in Washington, DC the following October. I felt it important that Scott’s panel be a part of it, and read that a deadline of June 1 had been imposed in order to guarantee inclusion in the display.
Scott and I had been stunned by the quilt’s visit to Miami Beach a couple of years before, and he had volunteered as an assistant during that exhibit. Each six by three foot panel eloquently documented the pain of yet another soul lost, and the overall effect was staggering. To me, as majestic the project and joyful some of the panels, the exhibit as a whole cried out of an anguish beyond measure or depth. My sadness turning to rage as I’d been brought to tears by one panel after another, finally finding myself only numb, my mind raced with painful questions. Why had not Reagan even spoken the word during the first several years of the epidemic, turning a blind eye as all these good people suffered and died? How could that precious window of opportunity to save lives have been lost? And how long would we all be paying the price?
I had no idea what form Scott’s panel was to take, but I knew that it had to be beautiful and had to express our love. In struggling to find a concept suitable for this enormous task, I came across a copy of the invitation I had painted just weeks before to a party planned in celebration of our sixth anniversary. It was to have taken place on Saturday, March 9, and we were to have flown out the following afternoon for a pilgrimage to Mississippi, where Scott had planned a long-awaited reunion with the college friends he dearly loved. Our plans were changed by Scott’s death on the morning of March 1.
When I’d shown Scott my first sketch for the card, he’d smiled with pleasure. He had one reservation, however. As he studied the colorful image, he’d said “It’s great! I love it. But do you really think we should include that hospital panel on a party invitation?” Returning his questioning look, I told him “Yeah, I thought about that. But I really do.” Pausing a moment, I said “Honey, think about it. It’s a big part of our experience. How can we leave it out?” “O.K.,” he’d agreed, “Let’s go for it!” On the bottom of the card, underneath the images, I exuberantly scrawled the words SIX YEARS TOGETHER! In the face of Scott’s illness, we had known deeply and fully that each new anniversary was a real cause for celebration. But this one was not to be.
As I undertook the project of the quilt panel, I became fully engrossed in priming and then painting the large canvas panel, acquiring the materials, sketching out the drawing and the panel’s composition, and marking out the spaces for the text. On the top of the panel, following his name, I planned to paint the dates of his birth and death. First, I painted in light blue the day of his birth, Sept. 27, 1959. Then, as I began to outline for painting the date of his death just below, I broke down. March 1, 1996 was just a date, simply a collection of letters and numbers, yet it seemed to suddenly slap me in the face and sting me with its awful finality. Though to others it might signify little, simply another day on the calendar, to me it drove home hard the point that Scott was now forever gone. Since his body had been cremated according to his wishes, the canvas laid out on the floor before me was the closest I had seen to a tombstone for him. On some level, I suppose, the creative endeavor of bringing the panel to life was healing for me, but I had to stop for a while. Crying from my gut, I suddenly saw through the intensity of my focus on this new “project” and felt it was all meaningless. Filled with rage and pain, I stood back for a moment and realized with horror “My God, I’m making a quilt panel for Scott!” That was something I’d never wanted to do. Yet here I was.
“What does this really mean?” I thought to myself, storming off in frustration. “What difference does a damned piece of painted cloth really make? Is this any kind of substitute for having him here? What was I thinking?” After the shedding of many tears, I finally came to peace with an understanding that the quilt was just the quilt, and each of its panels just a panel. It was what it was, nothing more nor less.
Nevertheless, I knew that this tribute was one I had to make. Scott’s memory, and the love we had shared, had to be celebrated.
Rooftop 1990
To Chapter 15
Stumble It!