The Southern Island keeper’s house and light tower were getting their very first coat of white paint under Betsy Wyeth’s care.
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From within this peaceful image, mixed messages emerge; there’s a sense of solitude and isolation, even as the presence of the church connotes community.
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This time of year we gather the quiet . . . In winter we can better see the skeleton – or skeletons – of the land and the communities.
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The sun hangs low in the sky - twenty three degrees at noon in January - but upon December’s Winter Solstice at least we know that we have once again turned the corner, each day now bringing a little more light.
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This is when we gird ourselves for mud-season, followed by black flies and then mosquitoes. Spring is not particularly kind in Maine. If you’ve been here for long you know not to get your hopes up too much or too soon.
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We were out on the boat poking around the islands off the St. George peninsula, a perfect way to spend a winter day.
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I was asked to make a portrait of Andy Wyeth for the cover of his authorized biography, Secret Life.
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A three day nor’easter had kept all boats in all harbors and at the tail end of the storm, I headed over to Spruce Head to see how they had made out.
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Upon seeing this I thought of Benjamin Franklin’s dry observation at the time of the signing of the Declaration of Independence, “We must all hang together, or assuredly we shall all hang separately.”
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I was steaming home from parts East and knew there were a number of dories anchored up in this cove by a fisherman staking out – guarding - his claim in the event that a school of fish might enter.
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Driving around Vinalhaven, I saw a few dories behind a small house. Upon knocking on the door to ask permission for a little creative trespass, I was greeted by Isabelle Osgood . . .
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Bearing witness to the end of a once thriving saltwater farm is a sad undertaking, yet sometimes one can do little but observe.
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Running the boat through a tight little gut late one afternoon, the low sun had the place lit up, with this skiff moored directly in front of the dark loom of an island.
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Poking around the perimeter of an islet not much bigger than a tennis court, I happened to look down as an imperceptible surge rolled back the island’s fringe of rockweed to reveal this old wooden trap.
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On Father’s Day, a few years back, my two kids, friends and I were out for a picnic on a tiny island up Penobscot Bay.
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A frigid morning, with northwesterly air gnawing its way down from Canada gave us the sort of pure, crisp daylight that had me out and about in Camden.
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Rowing my old 14 footer, MARTHA, slows me down and gets me looking at things on - and in - the water very differently.
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When the water temperature hovers in the 40s and the air temperature dips down below zero, the bay begins to steam with sea smoke.
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It was a perfect Fourth of July evening and as I made several exposures of the local fireworks show. . .
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Poking around an old mid-coast cemetery I was struck by this juxtaposition of stones. I think I titled it even before I made the image.
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