Phyllis Bosco was one of the most talented artists in Tallahassee. But she departed this world with only a whisper of public notice.

Such is a reminder that newspaper obituaries sometimes fight a losing battle to record a city's history.

Bosco, 56, died April 7 after a three-year struggle with cancer. Slender and graceful - "she moved like a great blue heron," said a friend - Bosco's passing was noted in our paid obituaries.

But she wasn't written up in our news pages because no one told us she was gone.

This is a lament that no one did.

News obits, as we call staff-written obituaries, are a fading art. Once a staple of newspapers, they now compete with the thousands of other demands on space and manpower.

The New York Times employs three obituary writers and devotes copious space to their publication. But few papers can afford those luxuries. We cope with a never-ending flow of deaths in different ways.

One is the growing use of survivor-paid obits. They allow us to pass off the writing to someone else - and, yes, wrangle an extra dollar to pay for the space.

We also cope by counting on readers to remind us when someone important passes. Too many readers still think newspapers are omniscient, that we instinctively know every time a car crashes, a business closes or a person dies. We don't.

But it is with a person's passing that we can define their contribution to the world. An obituary is a history lesson about the community in which we live. It's an introduction to people we didn't know, and a reminder of the value of individual lives.

I didn't know Phyllis Bosco, who taught for 30 years at schools in Tallahassee and Orlando. But clearly she was an inspiration to this community. As such, her passing was worthy of a story.

After her paid obit appeared in the paper, half the people I knew were sighing. They cherished her as a friend, had enjoyed her art or were grateful she had taught their children.

Last year, she was one of 30 teachers nationwide profiled in a book about the impact of the 1960s-generation of art teachers. The author called them "The Flower Teachers" because they fought a counterculture battle to include art in the curriculum of every school and "usher(ed) in a new era of humanistic, open education."

Yet Bosco was that rare flower that could teach and do - and do both in an inspired way.

Her artwork in numerous mediums (painting, photography, collage, fabrics, etc.) was exhibited in dozens of shows. She turned palm fronds into headdresses, photos into quilts and tomato trellises into "sha-mamas," which were life-size figures honoring her group of artist friends who called themselves "The Dancing Girls."

Her teaching career in elementary, middle and high schools won her the undying affection of thousands of students - who often returned in later years to thank her for lessons that went beyond a sketchbook. When the Gulf War broke out, Bosco had her students paint canvases about their emotions. When a tree was cut down, her students created a totem pole.

"She made art out of anything and everything," said fellow Dancing Girl and art teacher Debi Barrett-Hayes. "She was first and foremost an artist. But she was one of the few who could carry off the dual role of artist-teacher."

The departure of such people bears noting.