The Giants Are Gone.

The Giants Are Gone. Watercolor, pen & ink on paper. 9"x12"

    I parked outside my fence, on a small patch of grass next to a giant. It was a great shady spot, where I knew my car would remain cool for the day. Early the next morning, I got a text from my neighbor across the street that said, “You might want to move your car. They are clearing the lot next to you”. I ran outside and stood in disbelief when I saw the giants being chopped away mercilessly. Sounds of heavy machinery and loud beeps filled the air, with occasional hair raising noises of cracking wood immediately followed by thumps that shook the ground. They advanced quickly into the densely wooded lot. An osprey stood  on a giant's branch around the middle of the lot and far above me. It held its freshly caught breakfast in its talons while ripping it apart. The limp fish draped on the branch and its silvery scales glittered in the morning sun. An ibis circled the scene assessing the possibility of landing somewhere, but it quickly changed course beating its wings frantically. Within minutes, the osprey and all other birds were gone as the giants' limbs and trunks were cut methodically by the climbing man with a chainsaw, while others on the ground finished cutting them into smaller sections, dragged them to a pile facing the street or readied them for pick up by the grapple truck’s claw, to be placed in a dump truck. I stood watching, taking in the moment. A dragonfly came by and hovered within two feet above my head. We stood in silence looking at the men work, trying to understand the logic of it all. It fluttered away moments later, escaping the wretched noise. 

    The lot next to my property has been a dense forest since I moved here. I listened to an endless concert daily, made of sounds of woodpeckers pecking, owls hooting, an extraordinary amount of birds chit-chatting and an occasional frog clamoring as it was eaten by a snake. The giants stood majestically, providing shelter and playground to innumerable species living next to me. They gave my property a feel of indomitable wilderness that I respected and valued. They stood quiet at night, their silhouettes black and clearly discernible against the starry night sky, while I sat poking at fiery coals on cool nights and listening to my closest neighbors attentively. Living next to the giants wasn't always easy, as my neighbor to the south of the wild lot can attest, after repairing his roof twice in the last twenty years. Although they were kind to me and never damaged my property, I always evacuated before a major storm. 

    The giant's home was offered to me for twenty seven thousand dollars ten years ago, when I purchased this house. It was landscaped in the same manner as my lot, with carefully selected specimens hand picked by the former owners of my house, who were gardeners and lovers of tropical and exotic plants. Knowing it would be too much for me to handle alone, I declined the offer. For a decade, I hoped to someday buy the property, keeping it the pristine wilderness it became and home to all the creatures I heard daily. Until this morning. The lot sold for fifty-two thousand dollars early this year and the new owner is here.

    I was told by a man with a chainsaw that everything will be cleared eighty feet into the property, for the construction of a new dwelling. The lot will be landscaped anew afterwards, surrounded by a six-foot tall white vinyl privacy fence. Construction will begin as soon as they are done clearing the vegetation and may be completed in as little as six months. The giants are gone and everyone who lived on the other side of my fence got an eviction notice. The racoons, armadillos, snakes, woodpeckers, frogs, lizards and occasional ducks. The thirty year old water oak whose dense foliage cooled my side yard, the sabal palms, bromeliads, bamboo, giant birds of paradise, plumerias and pines are gone. So are the owls, squirrels, ospreys, dragonflies and all else.

     That evening, the silence was deafening. I was immediately taken back to Ghost Forest, a painting depicting my experience at mile marker (MM) 574.9 North bound (NoBo), on my 2020 Florida National Scenic Trail (FNST) thru-hike. After walking through a lush and vibrant forest, I confronted destruction and silence abruptly as I entered an area recently cleared for construction. The creation of this work was emotionally exhausting for me, forcing a response to it. The second half of the diptych shows a female figure in the nude, enjoying and honoring the wealth of life that used to live there. The figure was inspired by my drawing of the beautiful Janna Yves, created a few months earlier while I assisted a summer drawing class. I painted my hair on the figure to experiece a sense of calm and gratitude while imagining I was standing in front of what used to be there. This is the first large work where I am uninhibitedly receptive to the creative process and understood it as an integral part of my message. I explain details of my process and findings while creating this work in my thesis, titled Evolving Perceptions of Self and Others: The Effects of Communing with Nature While Thru Hiking the Florida National Scenic Trail (pages 31-37). 

Stella Arbeláez Tascón. Ghost Forest I and II. FNST, MM574.9 NOBO, 2023. Acrylic and oil on canvas. 130”x 74” (170.18cm x 184.96cm)

    I thought about my new neighbors and the excitement they must feel, eager to have their new house constructed to their exact specifications. Perhaps they are a senior couple wanting to be close to The Villages without paying the high price; or a young couple dreaming of starting a family and growing old in their new home. In reality, it is probably an investor who saw the opportunity to build on the only lot available without a back neighbor, in a well established neighborhood slowly being engulfed by overpriced, homogenous looking housing developments, popping up like weeds around it.

   The osprey returned carrying a fish in its claws the following morning. It circumnavigated the destroyed space and disappeared south, searching for a new favorite breakfast spot. It now visits my backyard regularly, and once surprised me opening its large wings fully as it took flight from the ground. Regardless of who ends up  there, I will have a crockpot full of food and a smile ready when they move in. And I will forever mourn the death of the giants and the absence of everyone else who once lived and thrived next to me

On Location

Alligator Alcatraz, Part II- The Camera Man is Run Over.

 

The Camera Man is Run Over. Watercolor and ink on paper. 9in. x 12in.

The weekend after independence day, my friend Thomas and I sketched at Alligator Alcatraz. Read part one of this article here. 

    After taking photos of the signs, we crossed back to the south side of the road, snapping shots as we headed back to my belongings. I walked towards the oncoming traffic on the shoulder, next to the outside of the white line, with BooBoo in my arms, cell phone on my hand and Thomas immediately behind me. At this point cars slowed down significantly to observe the demonstration. Around a hundred yards before me, I noticed when a beige SUV moved to the left lane, as it was about to pass a camera man’s tripod set up on the shoulder. Traveling eastbound, this was probably the driver’s first encounter with an open area and a person on the shoulder, after passing a number of cars parked there. I expected this to happen, as in Florida it is the law for drivers to move over and yield to vehicles stopped on the shoulder when traffic allows, and there were no vehicles heading west. I noticed the next car inmediately, a blue Jeep moving significantly slower than the SUV. I looked straight towards the driver as I neared it, hoping to make eye contact with teh driver and expecting the vehicle to yield. 

Walking forward fixated on the Jeep, I thought to myself: “Wow. When is this car moving out of the way?” Well, It didn't. The Jeep was about ten feet way from us when we passed the camera man. Thomas stepped to the left, heading deeper into the shoulder, and I rounded the tripod to the right, with little space left between the tripod and the approaching Jeep. It was at that moment that the front right tire of the jeep passed me at arms’ length and I tapped the vehicle in disapproval, still trying to make eye contact with either driver or passenger. The two women inside were distracted, looking at the demonstrators across the road. I was next to the passenger’s door when I heard loud screams behind me. Stepping back, I saw the camera man on the ground, with the Jeep’s right front wheel completely on top of his lower left leg, sandwiched between the tire and the road. His right leg was hidden by the jeep and his body was bent towards the leg, head struggling upwards as he screamed in panic. I turned to look at the driver and asked her to back up. The driver was mortified; surprise and horror distinctly visible on her face. The Jeep backed up gently, as the driver stretched her neck trying to see, saying "Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God!" nonstop. She stopped the vehicle once she saw the man’s body on the ground, remained in place and hyperventilated in a stupefied state. 

My head went back and forth between the driver and the man on the ground. People assisted the man promptly, as he tried to get up. A trooper came to the driver’s window and asked her to calm down and take deep breaths. Photographers, camera people and reporters swarmed the scene, snapping photos and trying to get an explanation from the victim, who was advised to remain in place. The reporter from Tampa told me the camera man worked for EFE. He was given water, shade and a funny looking hat while someone fanned his face. The driver and passenger were stunned and maintained that the camera man was on the road. Voicing my disagreement, I was asked to give my information to police as eye witness. I felt terrible seeing the driver and her young companion trying to make sense of this chaotic scene, desperately blaming it on the camera man. I approached the driver and tried to comfort her, telling her " I’m sorry this happened to you and him. We all make mistakes, I know you didn't mean to do it. Everything is going to be ok". Her hand reached out for mine shaking, and she offered me many blessings. Unbeknownst to me, the reporter from Univision was already at work at this time and captured me in the background of her video, while talking to the driver. The camera man was picked up by an ambulance and taken to the detention  center's grounds to be examined. When it was all over, a female officer spread her arms open and signaled for everyone to stay behind the white line. She said " Thank you for being here, I appreciate you being here."

       I was talking to a new reporter when a man in full National Guard uniform approached us smiling ear to ear, asking for permission to pet BooBoo. He assured us that everything was going to be ok, while he teased and played with my canine companion. He shared the love for his dog excitedly, a sweet chihuahua named Josephine Coco Pebbles. Smiling, told us the origins of her name and that she has her own instagram page. It is in moments like this that I appreciate the privilege of being encharged of BooBoo, and his ability to remind us of our commonalities, no matter where he is. 

   We drove directly to a quiet lunch place in Miami, where we sat in silence to write and research while we ate. That night we shared a room at THE worst LaQuinta Inn Hotel I have ever visited (‘nuff said). Thomas completed a sketch based on a photo I took at the scene and quickly published it before the end of the day.  I composed the first part of my article and went to bed. It was around 3:30 am when I woke up still disturbed by the event, and walked with Boo on the unkept patches of dirt around the hotel, with the image of the camera man under the tire seared in my mind. Thomas woke up when I came in the room and asked in the dark: “Can’t sleep? Wanna work?”, I replied yes, and we got busy reenacting the accident. We looked at photos and videos taken at the scene, relied on our memory as trained visual artists, and knowledge of anatomy and movement as former animation artists to make sense of the man’s final position. Thomas acted as my model while we gathered our observations and figured out the mechanics and physics of the possible movements involved. We asked ourselves: “Where exactly was the camera man? What happened after the first push by the bumper? What side of the hip led the action? How fast did he move? What leg followed the movement through  in order for him to land this way? What did his ankle do? Where was the white line in relation to the Jeep?” I created the rough sketch of my drawing urging Thomas to assume the man’s position as I described it, still vivid in my memory. I finished the sketch on our way back to Orlando.

    As traumatic as this event was for us to witness, it is not news worthy. I researched further information on the camera man's recovery, but have no leads on the story other than what I have shared here. It could be because it was not caused by malice, racial or politically divisive ideas. 

Here are photos related to parts I and II of this article.

On Location

Alligator Alcatraz, Part I

Entrance to Alligator Alcatraz. Watercolor, Ink and color pencils on paper, 9in. x 12 in.

    On independence day weekend my friend Thomas and I drove down to Alligator Alcatraz, to record the protests happening there, as urban sketchers and visual reporters. We also thought it was the most appropriate way to observe U.S. independence day this year, by highlighting the loss of freedom many are experiencing today. It was a failed attempt. Thomas completed a sketch from the reference materials we gathered and wrote about it in his blog.  I was prompted to go back after reading a letter written by the Florida Division of Emergency Management, circulated on social media the following Thursday. The agency invited Florida state legislators and members of congress to visit the location after being denied entrance the week prior. This denial was an illegal act towards said officials, which  resulted in legal action against governor DeSantis and caused said invitation. 

Letter circulated on social media. July 10, 2025.

    As a law abiding naturalized citizen, I was surprised by the fear I felt driving back to this place. The thought of being a Latina amongst demonstrators concerned me, as I remembered recent headlines of  detainment practices by ICE agents. However, above all, I am an artist, which means I must be courageous and true to myself no matter what, so my work remains honest. I put my fears aside and got ready to observe and absorb. This time we arrived Saturday morning, when people congregated under a press tent set up on the south side of the road, listening to congressman Maxwell Alejandro Frost of Florida’s 10th district. I moved away from the press tent once Thomas set up to sketch and headed to the side of the road instead, facing North towards the entrance. BooBoo, my loyal canine companion, sat on my lap taking advantage of the shade my wide umbrella provided. I eventually moved him to rest under the shade on the ground, where he laid on the cool, damp earth, leashed next to me, after drinking some water. 

    Reporters circled us shortly after I started working. They asked about my involvement and personal opinion about Alligator Alcatraz: Are you a Meekosukee indian? (because you look like you could be one). Do you have any relatives incarcerated here? What’s your dog’s name? Why are you here? Does the dog have water? What do you think of this detention center being so close to indigenous land? Where are you from? What do you think of the Major of Miami not being able to visit?  I answered their questions the best I could, informed by my experience in Big Cypress National Preserve as a thru-hiker of the FNST, a research artist and author of my thesis titled, Evolving Perceptions of Self and Others: The Effects of Communing with Nature While Thru Hiking the Florida National Scenic Trail. It is here that I discuss the importance of respecting Nature as an entity, working with indigenous people as stewards of the land, and healing through Nature.

    Honestly, there were so many reporters that I could not keep their agencies straight. I talked to a reporter from Univision Digital in Spanish, the Miami Herald, a newspaper from Tampa and another from Boca Raton, to name a few. Reporters, camera men and photographers seemed to outnumber demonstrators at times, and caught up to the representatives as they arrived in black SUV’s. I was talking to a reporter from Tampa as I worked when he showed me a rusty nail, about three inches long. He and others found a number of them off the shoulder of the road, where demonstrators park their cars. I was surprised by the malice of this action, so I drew a number of nails floating in the lower half of my sketch. 

    This was a difficult location to sketch for three reasons: a) Answering questions by the media made it difficult to concentrate and work quickly. b) Even sitting under my double layered, oversized umbrella, the heat was distracting. Sweat ran down my face and arms constantly, making it challenging to hold my tools and metal umbrella shaft without slipping. c) Unbeknownst to me, fountain pens leak at the nib under heat, due to the expansion of air inside the pen and the thinning of the ink. High humidity also affects the pen’s internal seals increasing leakage. In short, since it was both hot and humid, my loved fountain pen had a major temper tantrum. Lesson learned: Always carry a Micron pen when sketching in hot, humid weather. 

    Demonstrators for both sides of the issue stood next to each other, held their signs, were interviewed or photographed, waved at drivers passing by and minded their own business. The overall atmosphere was serene, occasionally disrupted by loud, encouraging honks from cars. Drivers slowed down to read signs. Co-pilots filmed or snapped photos, and some people traveling alone held their phones on their steering wheel as they drove, filming the protestors on both sides of the road. Some people stuck their head and hands out the window giving thumbs up, clapping or shouting “Thank you, Thank you for being here!” as they passed, while others whooped and pumped a fist on tempo to their shouting of “Trump, Trump, Trump!”. At one point a family of three appeared and stood under the sign to the facility. Mom and dad took turns waving an oversized Betsy Ross flag with the numbers 1776 printed in yellow in the middle of the circle of stars, against the dark blue background. The daughter, in her early teens, held a flag that said Trump! Make America Great Again! with her arms opened wide. She wrapped the flag around herself when her arms tired. The three of them adopted serious countenances and heroic poses for the cameras on command from the moment they appeared, as they were engulfed by reporters on the hot asphalt. 

    As noon approached, the heat intensified. Although it had been almost two hours, I was far from finishing my sketch due to the interruptions. I took the closing On location photo at this point, when I decided to end the session and finish the work later. I packed up and set my belongings aside, carried Boo on one arm and maneuvered the umbrella between my shoulder and him as I crossed the road, cell phone in hand, towards the North side to photograph signs. Thomas waited under a shady tree there. Everyone was kind when I asked for a photo, regardless of their political stand. 

    I led the way and with BooBoo still in my arms, quickly crossed back to the South side of the road, snapping shots and making my way to my belongings. We walked on the shoulder, next to the outside of the white line, when I noticed a blue jeep heading slowly towards me. 

Here are photos of the day, up to this point.

On Location

                           

Stay tuned for Part II of Alligator Alcatraz, where I reconstruct how a news camera man was run over on this day. 

Webster’s Market and $40 Worth of Food.

    

A Day at Webster's Market. Watercolor and ink on paper. 9"x12"

    Last weekend I dug deep into my drawer of forgotten art supplies and found my old fountain pen, from my high school days at Fiorello H. La Guardia. I remember purchasing this pen at Pearl Paint on Canal street. Going to Pearl was a meticulously budgeted odyssey that deserved hours set aside in my busy schedule. Even with a list in hand, the place was magical and engulfing, filling my head with daydreams each visit. This little investment from my high school days (1985-1988) is an inexpensive, easy to fill, transparent Shaeffer pen that brought me great joy to hold again. It soaked in warm water for more than an hour, changing the clear water to blackish as it released the ink forgotten by time within its cavity. Eager to try it in action, I added it to my urban sketching kit and headed to Sumter County's Farmer's Market (aka Webster's Market) the next day. BooBoo, my 9lb poodle came along with me. I settled under a large tree with benches built around, where Boo enjoyed the view and everyone who came to pet him while they looked over my shoulder and kindly complimented the work. 

    The morning was unusually cool and cloudy for this time of the year, with chances of rain menacing the area. Still, the produce pavilion was bustling with action. As I sketched, I could hear puppies yapping in the pavilion to the left of us, where three vendors had a number of them in crates for sale. I also heard a bilingual kid who spoke dog fluently and greeted little BooBoo by barking. Boo sat quietly admiring the wonder of humans and followed him intently with his gaze until he disappeared amongst the crowd. I heard kids asking their parents for ice cream from the truck parked nearby and a Puerto Rican family sharing a sweet watermelon under the shade of the tree, behind me. The Sumter County Farmer's Market was established in 1937 by local farmers to repurpuse and trade household items. Nowadays it takes place every Monday and occupies forty acres of vendors selling produce, antiques, plants, oddities, knick-knacks and anything under the sun. I was informed by a visitor that one of the sellers is a four-generation produce vendor here. I wondered what my life would be like if my parents had stayed in the cities where they were born (Cali and Pereira, in Colombia), and if I had stayed as well.

    When I got to applying the color to my sketch, I realized that in my eagerness to test and use my precious pen, I filled it with water soluble ink, which dirtied the bright watercolor pigments used. I moved forward nevertheless, trying to avoid crossing lines; much like I did when I was younger. 

With my finished sketch, I headed down the aisle and got my picks for the $40 I withdrew from the ATM earlier. The highlight of my shopping was finding three different types of fruit from my childhood in Colombia: mamey (zapote), tamarind and passion fruit. YUM! I will attempt to grow my own passion fruit vine from some of the seeds. This is one of my favorite fruits and one that I portray in my largest woodblock print produced up-to date, titled Playing in the Forest of Life (2024).

Left: Food purchased for $40 at Webster's market. Right: Mamey (zapote), tamarind and passion fruit.

    I also visited the pavilion next door, with the puppies and plants, looking for the person who brought a beautiful Black Zaphire Elephant Ear (like this one) for sale the last time I was here, in early May. Unfortunately, they did not carry this specimen today. Other vendors sold surinam cherry bushes, moringa trees, spearmint, hydrangeas, hibiscus of different colors, rose bushes, goat soap, honey, junk food and more.

    While at the market, I got clearance to sketch the cattle auction, which happens every Tuesday, starting at noon. I have never attended a cattle auction, so I’m looking forward to it, with new ink in my fountain pen’s well. See you then, Webster's market! ; )

On Location

Karaoke Night at Mystic Ice Cream

Kareoke Night at Mystic Ice Cream, Fruitland Park. Watercolor, pen & ink on paper (9"x12")

    Fun after graduation means enjoying the company of my good friend Thomas Thorspecken and sketching karaoke night at Mystic Ice Cream. There was much humming, daring to sing, laughter and delicious ice cream. YUM! 

    I met Thomas thirty years ago while working at the Walt Disney Feature Animation Studio in Florida (WDFAF), when he joined the Lion King's crew as a character animation artist. He was a recent graduate of the animation internship program that basically staffed the recently established Orlando studio with eager, bright eyed and bushy-tail new talent from top national and international programs. Like me, Thomas attended art school in NYC. I completed the same internship the season prior and was now part of the special effects crew. Although we worked in different departments, we ran into each other at dailies, the weekly life drawing sessions we both attended religiously, and social events such as the studio's awesome Halloween costume contest, ice cream socials and wrap parties. I have always considered him to be one of my Disney Studio family friends. 

    I was already in Los Angeles when the Florida studio closed in 2002, so I never knew what happened to everyone I admired and had the privilege to work with at WDFAF. However by 2016, I was back in my beautiful Florida, getting used to life as a recent divorcee. It was then that we had a studio reunion and I was able to catch up with a large number of friends I had not seen for more than two decades, Thomas included. I found that he was still living in Orlando and was going through similar growing pains stemming from his own divorce. Seeing my Disney Studio family at this crucial time not only helped me forget temporarily about the breakage of my family, but also inspired a sense of belonging that I missed a great deal. I felt surrounded by sheer happiness and people who knew who I was before I met my former husband. People who knew how hard I had work to be there, who respected and appreciated me. Since then, I renewed friendships via facebook and other social media outlets bringing myself up to speed and keeping abreast of their successes and life chances, such as Thomas' publishing of his first book Urban Sketching: The Complete Guide to Techniques (2014).

    I invited Thomas to midterm review of the fall semester in my third (and last) year of grad school at UCF. In his website, Analog Artist Digital World he shares a drawing and a story each day for the last sixteen years, often featuring cultural events around town, so I thought this would be a great opportunity for both the graduate program and Thomas. Well... it turned out to be an amazing opportunity for me too because Thomas continued to show up to many of my events at UCF. He was there for the Spring's Midterm Critique, my Thesis Defense, my Last Final and Graduation, to name a few. He helped me make grass paper for my final piece, recorded me prepping materials for a class, accompanied me to this year's Earth Day celebration dance and even sketched my sister's wedding proposal. Thomas was a key figure in the making of my largest installation, titled The Cathedral: Within and Without, as I nursed a recent shoulder injury at the time. This work would have been impossible without his assistance, following through to the breakdown of it after my grad show.

    In the last few months, Thomas and I have become good friends who reminisce about our common past and speak candidly about our present as artists, divorcees and dreamers. As I write this article, I am painfully aware that my time with my friend is coming to an end, as he readies himself to move back to NY state, to set roots in our former home state. After three decades of living in the same area, I can’t blame him for wanting a change. I am concerned by the fridgid winters he will have to face but I am excited about the possibilities in front of him, while I prepare myself for the void his move out of state will create. That is indeed what good friends do: They fill your life while they are in it. 

So, here I am. Enjoying ice cream and Karaoke night with my good friend Thomas. 

On Location