I came across these abandoned pediments on a small island not too far from home. Like so many other islands along the coast, it once had a thriving quarry, home to hundreds of stonecutters and their families.
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This was one of those moments that come along and happen fast, gone almost as quickly as they begin.
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Decades ago, fishermen used to tar their lines and nets to preserve and make them more resilient against the Maine coast’s abrasive rocky bottom.
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During the first big snowstorm after Andy was buried I drove down to Cushing figuring the storm would keep most people off the roads. I wanted some time alone with him in this, my first visit with him.
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I believe that love and faith are the primary sources of goodness in this world…hence the title. Conversely, I believe that the absence of either quality is the source of most societal malaise.
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One day I chanced upon the abandoned one-room schoolhouse and entered. It was one of those breathtaking moments when suddenly and unexpectedly I was fully in the presence of many generations.
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In the calm before the storm, the light and dories compelled me to swing Raven over into Sand Cove to see if there was an image waiting for me.
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Great Gott is one of 285 islands off the coast of Maine that have lost their year round communities, and the island exists today as a beautiful seasonal home for a couple of dozen summer families.
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Early the next morning I awoke and went up on deck to reconnoiter. I beheld my friend’s two sailboats on the neighboring moorings, and quickly made this image as the morning fog silently ghosted around us, the friend’s boat closest and her husband’s in the background.
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From a friend’s island porch we saw these girls skipping their way across the field, and then one of them started doing cartwheels.As they frolicked their way past us, I was struck by the juxtaposition of youthful exuberance against the aging houses down on the bar...not to mention the old cemetery.
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Walking alone on a island beach, lost in early morning reverie, I came upon this little tangle of pot warp and rockweed. Nothing to it, really, but I stood there mesmerized…floating away into that other world where I sometimes go.
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This stretch of water, out at the mouth of Penobscot Bay, is on the inner edge of the Gulf of Maine, which basically means North Atlantic. Cold, wholly unforgiving water, with challenge and danger ever close at hand.
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As we took off an incoming sea of fog obscured much of the bay in the muted pre-dawn light. We almost aborted the flight but it was a gorgeous morning and the light, thanks in no small part to the encroaching fog, was exquisite, so on into the rising sun we flew.
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The intoxication over what I beheld before me was compounded by the sudden realization that the Milky Way hung directly over the assembled fleet.
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In 1980, Betsy Wyeth bought Allen Island, off Port Clyde, and asked me to help her figure out what to do with it. One of the first priorities was clearing the northern end of the island, knowing that once cleared, the challenge would be keeping the land open. There was one answer to that need, one with great historical precedent, and that was sheep.
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In 1980, Betsy Wyeth bought Allen Island, off Port Clyde, and asked me to help her figure out what to do with it. One of the first priorities was clearing the northern end of the island . . .
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I anchored and rowed in and there it was. On the outer island named and famed for its jet-black brimstones, someone had scoured the beach for white stones and graced the island with a benediction invoking a quality all too rare in these times.
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Inspired by the work of the great 19th century American painter, Fitz Hugh Lane, especially his paintings that so directly refer to the end of the age of sail, I thought to try juxtaposing some local symbols of the past, the present and the future within one image.
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This photograph is so simple, and, perhaps because of that, when I look at it, then close my eyes, my imagination smells the wharf, and hears the voices of these men in their work together.
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