Update - I have edited the picture flow to better sync with the music.........I have done my first music video. These are images of mine synced to the adagio movement of Beethoven's Fifth Sonata for Cello, played by YoYo Ma and Emmanuel Ax. The music is deliciously slow, and my pictures mean a lot more to me after I have seen them with this music.
Update - The video and audio are now merged.........I have done my first music video. These are images of mine synced to the adagio movement of Beethoven's Fifth Sonata for Cello, played by YoYo Ma and Emmanuel Ax. The music is deliciously slow, and my pictures mean a lot more to me after I have seen them with this music.
I have done my first music video. These are images of mine synced to the adagio movement of Beethoven's Fifth Sonata for Cello, played by YoYo Ma and Emmanuel Ax. The music is deliciously slow, and my pictures mean a lot more to me after I have seen them with this music. This link will take you to the page on my website, but you can just play them below using the You Tube video controls. You need to start both videos at the same time as I have synced the music and video. Better to start the music first. Once they are both started you can use the you tube controls to put the pictures on full screen. Enjoy !
This is a 24"x34" pigment ink print on rag paper, varnished, backed by stretched canvas in a black shadow box frame. It is #1 of 5 in a limited edition of prints this size. I took this picture in 2012 and have done a version where the water is very gold. Inspired by a recent visit to the MFA and some Rothkos, I decided to make it more of a set of variations in white, and printed it on 12/21/2017. The price is $1200.
If you are interested please email me, message 774-269-6846, or call. You can also click here.
Here are four framed prints lined up in my studio, ready for pickup by the customer. The one on the left "Sail off Wing's Neck" is 24"x48", a varnished pigment ink print on rag paper, pressed into a black shadow box frame by a stretched canvas. The three on the right are each 17"x22", also varnished pigment ink prints on rag paper, also in black shadow box frames held by stretched canvases.
There are many appealing features to this mode of presentation, not the least of which is how light and easy to handle each of these pieces is.
I have never done much with flowers, nor thought myself interested or capable with them (might be the same thing :-)). But recently as part of my discovery of the power of the camera in the iPhone 6 Plus I've started taking some I like. Here's a poppy.
I am pleased to say that with a recent order, number 5 of 5 20x30 prints of this image has been sold. This is the first time I have sold the committed quantity of an image at a given size (smaller sizes are still available). Thanks to all who like this tribute to Herreshoff and who have supported my work.
"June Twelve" at the Quissett Harbor Boatyard, 2004
Love at Newcomb Hollow
Will you spend the night with me?
About 45 years ago a young woman in Wellfleet asked me this (I was younger too !), and in some confusion about what she wanted or what I wanted I declined.
I think that was a mistake.
Yesterday I spent a few hours at Newcomb Hollow beach in Wellfleet watching lovers of all kinds come and go to the beach. Little dramas of affection and closeness..... and distance.... played themselves out before me. They connected me with my past and a chance foregone, and with my present, and the chance that I am taking.
Newcomb Hollow is a major landmark not just for my love but my art. In 1968, a year before the invitation I didn't accept, I tried to channel Thoreau and walked the outer beach from Orleans to Provincetown, taking pictures along the way. The image of Newcomb Hollow is the one that has lasted, and holds for me my first understanding of the ineffable beauty of the ocean shore of the outer Cape.
Yesterday, a little before 8, families, friends, pooches, and sunbathers were treading down the path cut sideways into the cliff and spreading themselves on the beach, vast and rolling at low tide. A pair of grandparents, their terriers, their daughter, and her daughter meandered along the shoreline, more engaged in each other than the ocean. Surfers were already paddling in the glassy water seeking something more than a ripple. A comrade perched high on the cliff watched them, and the water, just in case they looked too much like seals to an unwanted predator.
A young woman carried her beach chair down and occupied a spot where the streams of the falling tide made her sand an enchanted island. A muscular bicyclist took a break from his ride, and explored the beach with his iPhone.
Soon the cyclist had discovered the girl on the enchanted isle, and for the next 30 minutes he could not keep his iPhone off her. I became curious.... would they connect ?
Mr. Cyclist seemed to discover that the most advantageous view of Newcomb Hollow beach was any perspective within a thirty yard radius of this woman, and that it might just show his strength to advantage if he went into the deepest possible squat when he clicked. She seemed to respond to his presence.... she stretched her legs, she crossed them, her knee went high in the air. She moved her chair to another angle, and immediately Mr. Cyclist could not get enough of those surfers who were directly in the line of her new view.
I cheered them on silently. How was he going to get across those last few yards of sand? He had no lens cap to lose, no water bottle to roll, no beach ball to catch.
After thirty minutes of this dance of display and enticement, Mr. Cyclist had had enough of the beach, his lack of imagination, or maybe just my fantasy, and he trudged up to the parking lot. He took a remarkably long time to get his shoes and helmet back on, I was sure he was lingering, and suddenly I too was engaged. I looked at him. Should I say, "go for it man", she's interested, I have the pictures to prove it". Maybe I blew it again too, for I said nothing to him, and let him cycle off to his further explorations.
Soon, my attention was drawn by a different couple, of an earlier generation. He with cane and black hat, she with bright pink. They were on the edge of the surf, and they moved together. Sometimes next to each other step for step, and sometimes one off to explore some pool, but soon returning to his mate. Their gestures of connection were so transparent that I could just about hear their words from 200 yards away. "Let's go this way, okay, no.... it looks brighter down here, okay, down here then, but then let's try the north side of the beach"
I thought that he with his cane would tire first, but no, after a half hour, he was still going, and it was she who came up to the parking lot for a rest, while he chugged off in the direction of Provincetown. More Thoreau??
I did talk to her as she passed my bench, told her I had been watching, taking pictures, got permission to use them, shared my thoughts about the earlier couple. Betty and I chatted for a while until Dick returned, she stood and waved so he would see her, we shook hands, they chatted with another couple, dove into some conversations about science and then drove off.
85 and still going strong.
I would like what they have.
it was a cloudy morning at skaket beach last week, but that didn't really matter. The amphitheater quality of that space at low tide is magnificent in any weather, and watching the early risers enjoy the beach and each other I felt, strangely, that the sun was not needed.
There were two little boys practicing their slide boards in a puddle while mom and dad chatted and watched. The younger boy was in constant motion and utterance. "my turn!" floated urgently over the flats. Mom and Dad gave each other a high five and I wanted to give one to the whole happy family.
Right by them went a very nice couple holding hands. I watched them out onto the flats, until I almost couldn't see them; it seemed they were going to walk all the way to Provincetown, holding hands forever.
I never even walked. I just stood up at the top and watched these people quietly happy on the beach below. There was so much good cheer that they didn't need the sun - they made the light.
It was a darkening morning in Woods Hole, no rain, but a palpable thickening of the air and lowering barometer as I walked around. I ended up sitting next to Rachel Carson staring optimistically out to sea, notebook and ballpoint pen in hand, as if one more note would undo the devastation she chronicled. I guess the weather affected my mood, which was, to put it positively, reflective.
Woods Hole didn't feel like such a safe harbor, but why should it? Harbors may be refuges, but they are also the center of our comings and goings, our darings and dangers. I have crossed that hole maybe a thousand times and managed to miss the rocks ..... although I hung up late at night on a lobster pot line ..... and I marvel at the way the ferry backs out of its berth, stops short of the ledges every time, and steams positively to the Vineyard bearing its charges safely.
Carson's message was that same hope in the face of swirling eddies and perils seen and unseen. I took solace from her company, and from the very nice popover I was munching, and went on.