After that first snow, we walked through wood smoke and the weighted arbors of birch trees, our boots heavy from salt and sand. A passing car slowed, stopped, and the driver asked if we needed a ride.

You said, “No thanks, we’re seeking adventure,” and I laughed.

The man in the car laughed, too. He knew you were joking, probably thought we were renting for the week, up from the city shopping for a weekend place. We looked like that.

Today is seven snows since. I walk outside for more wood, glance up—and you’re there in the study, writing.

Under dim lamp light / a dragonfly’s wings whisper / welcoming autumn.  ~me

A weathered hammock / flutters from the kiss of pine / –October morning.  ~me

In an open meadow / even though the bees are stirred / –we share this sunlight.  ~me

Leaves like confetti / hide sets of dried-mud tire tracks / on the country road.  ~me

Metallic streamers / shimmer in a neon dusk / –Saturday’s street fair.  ~me

Through pastille sunrise / water tower silhouettes / arrive on rooftops. ~me, city

On Sixth Avenue / between Manhattan canyons / the sound of wind chimes. ~me, city

Above the West Side / a hazy sunset weaving / balconies to clouds.  ~me, city

September bee sting / lingers in the morning chill / first hint of woodsmoke.  ~me, country

On the heavy leaves / beaded raindrops reflecting / a blundered forecast.  ~me, country

Today it’s raining, and I was thinking earlier—while sitting and listening to the sonic beauty of rain—about what brings city people, some very unlikely candidates for country living, to the country. Whenever I hear that a musician or writer or artist acquaintance of mine is thinking about giving up Manhattan for an adorable cottage near a babbling brook, I have the urge to grab her, sit down with pen and paper, and outline the ground rules. I grew up in the very rural South, and I wasn’t at all prepared for the realities of country winters in the Northeast. Maybe I’ll do a post about that. It would be a very long post, though. So today I remembered why we do the country thing—why we shovel the snow, rake the roof, bear-proof the trash, and gaze unfazed at rain methodically dripping into the living room.

There’s something about the way
this house settles around me.
A conspiratorial shift, the subliminal
sigh, then expansion—
Portals of rough-hewn wood
holding back the rain,
a fraying porch stair, paths
of uneven stones—
inviting me out, inviting me in.

Here’s a journalistic-prose-poem about a gallery lecture in Upstate, NY. As you will see, it was said to be interactive. And it’s true.

Gallery Lecture/This Really Happened

The teaching artist
wore a box on his
head and carried a seven-
foot stick. The leaves that
were glued to the box
came from the ground
around the shed
where the axe
leaned against the painting
of a rocky stream sketched
last year when the artist
wrote home to Sweden
at the desk that’s over there,
to the left,
underneath the photo of the
shed. The students hung
the electric blue tarp
that keeps out the
rain on the gallery wall
nearest to the illuminated red
Exit sign, and taped black
and white copies of the firewood
photos three-quarters of the way
up and glued gingham boxes
close by to offset the ropes
and mesh hanging from the
rafters. The artist poured
water where a mouth
hole should be, took off the
soggy box, then recited
a poem in almost-dutch
before putting the
box back on and going
outside to sit on
Main Street and watch
people in cars drive
by and stare at a
man carrying a big
stick with a box
on his head.
There was no lecture.
The event was
said to be interactive.

Beside the river / West Side Highway’s stone and steel / traffic blurs my view. ~me, today

Sometimes in moonlight / iridescent birch trees / shine through my window. ~me, Upstate

Behind the live oak trees / where boats dock, men mending nets / marsh grass, tides mark time. ~me, the South

After the rainstorm / fog drapes the mountain cottage / two friends lingering. ~me, the country

It’s not quiet here / as rain pings against the old / air conditioner. ~me, the country

At low tide, the sand / tinted gray and glistening / held pools like hot springs. ~me, the South

Summer rain drags on / patterned like a crazy quilt / even koi complain. ~me, the country

Asphalt streets glimmer / under stoplights, honeycomb pools / mimicking seascapes. ~me, the city

Wisteria vines / reach for a creaking porch swing / through the summer rain. ~me, the country

Promoting History

WAAM Fine Art Auction

The Fine Art Auction benefiting the Woodstock Artists Association Museum was held yesterday at the WAAM. This event is both an important fundraiser for one of my favorite nonprofits and a vibrant community event promoting the history of Woodstock Colony of the Arts and the influence that the Arts Students League had on this area of the Hudson Valley. Most of the pieces in the auction have historical significance. Bidding, presided over by art dealer and appraiser James Cox, occurs on the floor of the WAAM, by phone and also through live internet connections during the auction.

Sadly, Hurricane Irene hit this region hard, flooding areas surrounding Woodstock and leaving many without power even as of today. When I spoke to James Cox on Saturday, he said that getting ready for the auction had been a challenge. Although the WAAM had power and was crowded to capacity yesterday, it seemed that early bidding wasn’t as enthusiastic as usual, but over the afternoon, phone and internet bids created lively competition for bidders in the room. The home town crowd applauded and cheered when locals won treasured pieces.

Celebrating Now

Yale Epstein at Lotus

One of the things I value most about Woodstock is the generous exchange of ideas and ways of working that artists freely share through artists’ talks, readings, workshops—and even while just meeting for coffee in town. My own photography and writing have benefited greatly from this aspect of the Woodstock community, and it’s something I appreciate very much.

Last weekend when I attended the opening for Yale Epstein‘s solo photography show, Intelligent Design, I was fortunate to get to spend a few minutes talking to Yale about this body of work and the way he’s currently embracing photography. The pictures are beautifully shot and printed, and in them, I could see traces of all the years of painting that came before these images.

Yale will speak at Lotus Fine Art and Design in Woodstock on Saturday, August, 20 at 4pm. This is a great opportunity to hear an artist talk about finding new ways of working and continuing to look closely at the world around him.

(Several weeks ago I wrote this short piece that ran in the Woodstock Times on August 18 about local painter and photographer Yale Epstein. Later I attended the talk and found Yale to be as engaging and entertaining when speaking about photography as when he is when lecturing on painting.)

Sometimes in moonlight / the iridescent birch trees / shine through my window. ~me

After the rainstorm / fog drapes the mountain cottage / two friends lingering. ~me

Country mailboxes / leaning from the memory / of last year’s snowplow. ~me

It’s too hot even for this guy today….

The same old bullfrog / lounges on a patio / belly to bluestone. ~me