December 14, 2010
Two and a Half Hours
The train headed north from 125 street. On the two hour ride, I listened to Mr. Dylan and responded to emails in typical Saturday morning fashion. By noon, the train made its last stop in northern Connecticut, and half an hour later, I was walking down the snow dusted driveway of the Wijnberg’s house in Ashley Falls, MA.
Worlds away from my Manhattan apartment, I set down my pack in the mudroom of the 200 year old house and set off on a walk with Nick, Jacob and their eight month old puppy.
The cold New England air and rolling farmland took me back to my time in Maine, clearing my mind of the distractions amassed spending 12 hours a day in an office building in Midtown. As we trolled down the country road, the occasional farm dog barked and ran to the edge of the fence. Every so often a pickup truck gave us a wide birth, slowing and echoing a friendly honk.
Making it back to the house at twilight, Lorenzo (the Wijnberg’s eight month old Italian Spinone) fell to the floor in a deep sleep, resting on his crossed paws. After starting a fire and stocking it with enough wood to last a few hours, I followed suit, measuring my length on a couch.
Late afternoon’s light.
104 years old.
Early morning light.
The next morning, I woke early, cherishing the country quite and cold before heading back to the city. Like sitting in a hot tub and then jumping in the snow, the contrasts invigorate, making each extreme more pronounced and apparent.
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December 9, 2010
Prints go in frames. They go in albums and hang against the wall. Despite representing the same image as a digital file, they tell a much more tactile and approachable story. As a student of the digital photography and blog era, I mostly experience images through the screen of my iMac. This makes prints all the more impactful.
Recently, I ordered a handful of prints to give to friends and family for the holidays as gifts. Seeing and touching these prints and the happy results from their recipients made me realize that some of my readers maybe interested in ordering prints of my photos.
Here are a few images that I had printed on 8×10 recently shot on a turn of the century butcher block
I love this Willys. It’s now on my wall.
Prints are availible in in 8×10 ($40) and 11×14 ($80). If you are interested, take a look at my online albums, (Picasa), send me an email (email@example.com) with the images you are interested in and sizes and I will get back to you with information about payment and shipment.
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December 7, 2010
In my wisdom, I left my gloves in my apartment back in Manhattan. The biting cold assaulted my hands as I walked down the gravel road tenderly clutching my camera. Ten minutes earlier, the sun’s light had cut through large windows on the converted barn and awoken me, cocooned on the couch. Afraid of disturbing the other sleeping twenty-somethings and excited to explore my foreign surroundings, I dressed quickly and headed to the door.
Sleeping by the door, the family Golden Retriever jumped to his feet and eagerly shook his tail. Without hesitation, I held the door open and followed his bounds out into the early Vermont morning.
The night before, I had packed my things into a rented Penske truck and left my beloved coastal Maine, heading south on 95 towards the rolling hills and farmland of Vermont. Arriving late under the cover of darkness, the bright stars of the moonless light illuminated the silhouettes of barns and the impenetrable darkness of the Vermont woods. When I took a wrong turn on the three-mile dirt road leading to the Durkin farm, a friendly Vermonter, and proud owner of the Dodge Power Wagon pictured in this post, gave me directions better than any iPhone and sent me on my way.
Following the syrup lines, I walked down the road towards a large field, once used by local dairy farmers. In the distance, wisps of smokes emerged from the stone chimney of a 200 year old farm house, signaling the start of the day.
The sun broke the levee of darkness, casting its first shadows of the short November day. Enjoying the early light, I wondered for another twenty minutes before heading back to warm my hands and toes by the fire.
As I arrived back at the farm, the first snowflakes of the day’s flurries rode the light winds.
Ian and Barkley standing guard.
Heating with wood.
Skis of yesterday.
Snow fell for the rest of the day, gaining from distant flurries to a relative whiteout. Periodic, under-prepared adventures in the snow made stretching out next to the fire on a couch that much more enjoyable. Delayed by the weather, I stayed around for an extra day. Do you blame me?
December 1, 2010
Dark at 4
Flights to and from Portland Jetport (PWM) never leave on time and always run late. Thick fog often blankets the bay, limiting hourly traffic at the one-horse airport. In the cold months (September to April), Nor’Easters sporadically slam into the coast adding another layer of flight delays. At first, these delays pissed me off like a scratched DVD from Netflix. After hours spent meandering through the magazine shops in airports , I realized that these systematic delays contributed to the remote appeal of Maine.
Without fail, fog and rain delayed my flight to Portland from LaGuardia the Tuesday before Thanksgiving. Excited to have nothing better to do than read emails and articles on my phone, I waited at the gate. On the flight, I sat at the window, face pressed against the safety glass watching the lights pass miles bellow. Flying out over the Connecticut sound and up 95 through Mass and New Hampshire, the pilot signaled the initial approach some 25 minutes into the flight.
Walking through the airport with its familiar windows and posters, I bypassed the baggage claim and stepped into the cold November air. I didn’t see a single cab.
For the next three days, I wondered the familiar country with my college roommate and frequent accomplice, Tucker.
The Old Port, Portland.
A Portland land mark.
Darkness descended early with shadows stretching eastward at 2:30. By 4, the last glimmers of light bounced around the clouds before sinking down for a sixteen hour night.
Red, yellow and green.
I like this hanging light.
The last leaves of fall.
Enjoying the warm light afforded by a mere eight hours separating sunrise and sunset, I shot often. Protecting my cold fingers in the wool pocket of my Mackinaw jacket, my memories of living in Maine for four years quickly came back. However as a visitor, my perspective changed slightly, making me thankful to smell the cold sea air and see the dark night sky far from the shinning lights of twenty million people.
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