Then a film called "The Islander" came on, about an artist recluse named Walter Anderson who had lived in Ocean Springs, Mississippi and created thousands upon thousands of water colors and pen-and-ink drawings of every imaginable creature that swam the water, flew the skies and crawled upon the land. Packing forgotten, I watched with fascination the story of his life. Professionally trained in New York, Philadelphia and Paris, he nevertheless spent most of his adult life in Ocean Springs. He frequently rowed fourteen miles out to Horn Island, one of the narrow barrier islands within sight of his home on the Gulf coast, to live as a hermit and paint.

He was considered an eccentric. People often saw him high in the branches of an oak tree in downtown Ocean Springs, sketching blue jays in their nests, and they would laugh. For Anderson, trying to make a living as an artist, the professional isolation of a small southern town and his inability to support his family was often more than he could handle. He had bouts with mental illness. After a petition to paint over his murals in the community center was circulated, he became increasingly reclusive. The seclusion of Horn Island was his salvation. He died in 1965 virtually unknown.

Among other subjects, Anderson painted the obscure creatures that we at Gulf Specimen Company sell to laboratories and schools. And he breathed life into them. His brush strokes captured the essence of wind-tortured, salt-dwarfed coastal pines, the radiance of sunrise, the glow of colors, the spirit and energy of all living things. I knew I would have to see his work firsthand, for we both actively appreciated the complexities and beauty of the Gulf of Mexico, were drawn to its life and its mysteries. Years ago I would have been amazed at the coincidence that I was leaving for Mississippi as I happened to see the TV show. But by then I knew there are no coincidences -- it is all part of one connected cosmic tapestry.