Tag: Menemsha

Dry Dock

Posted on by heather

The space between this artist and her easel has been filled for these last many many many months with the voice of the great narrator, Patrick Tull, reading all 20+ volumes of Patrick O’Brian’s PRODIGIOUS series of novels featuring the swashbuckling seafaring adventures of Jack Aubrey and Stephen Maturin. Well over 200 hours of being immersed in that world and for me, it was the second time through. I have two hours to go. The last two chapters he wrote before his death. The last sentence of which was never complete.

As many before me, I was lead to the books by my love of the movie Master and Commander. Definitely falls under the category of IYKYK. The first time I heard the thrilling command of “BEAT TO QUARTERS !” I was hooked and it opened up endless chests of drawers, oak planked decks and scores of floating wooden barrels for my curiosity to play amongst.

The lubber’s holes of history, masted ships and sailing slang have come in handy for one of my other pursuits which is the editing of old ship’s logs. I am currently working my way through the American Naval Vessel USS Jamestown during her Civil War service from 1861-1865. The Old Weather Project is a citizen scientist venture to record and digitalize the handwritten log books. They started with Whaling Ships and once completed have moved on to US Navy, US Coastguard and British Naval vessels. I chose to start with a schooner of war only a half century distant from Captain Aubrey’s ship the Surprise.

It has been a thrilling adventure for me and a huge learning curve requiring an ever growing stack of reference books by my side ranging in subject from, “Seamanship in the Age of Sail” to “The Sailor’s Word Book”, to historical texts about the founding of the US Navy and Civil War. I have bored the socks off of any of the friends who dare to ask and have raised a glass of port with one or two of stalwart among them as we carried away long into the night with a shared love of all things maritime. And it rattles Herself out of her chair when I come home and tell her I got to transcribe…”Beat to Quarters” today.

We are currently moored in the harbor of Rio de Janeiro, (my ship and I) in December of the year 1862. Having spent over a year as part of the very young but rapidly growing US Navy, where she was stationed along the eastern coast as part of the North Atlantic  Blockading Squadron, charged with preventing Confederate ships from sailing and capturing ships, crew and cargo as spoils of war, we are now headed to do the same somewhere in the southern hemisphere…I don’t like to peak ahead.

While restocking in port, the men are busy at work painting and tarring the ship, taking on water and firewood, rounding up deserters (the temptations on land are hard for these sailors to resist so almost every day I have to write…”confined in double irons…so and so, and there are some frequent flyers on that list). And every so often, taken in shifts or “watches”, the men get a day off.

In the O’Brian books this is known as a “Make and Mend Day”. I just love that. Look for a painting with that title in the near future…simply for the love of the phrase.

     When I look back at this painting and write these notes, I see The Little Lady taking her own make and mend day.
Come to rest with her bloomers open to the fresh island breezes for a spell,
she spends her day “down island” for a bit of shore leave.
The comings and goings of the boatyards in Vineyard Haven do have a bit more bustling for her to watch.
But her basin home tucked into the “up island” village of Menemsha must find a way to cope…
until all her decks have been swabbed
and her yards strung taught
and she can sail away home…
from the Dry Dock.

Basin Breezes

Posted on by heather

48 x 32 Oil on Panel

On tenterhooks and steadfast stillness
Nature hovers ever on the watch

Leviathans of the fishing fleet
Powerful floating machines of endurance

Scarified from weather tossed midnight trawls
Battles with beast and swell

Hatches battened and ropes cinched
Hauling, drifting and hauling again

And when the sea is done with them
And they are tied in to safe harbor

The rigging allowed to rest
The sailors lubbering homeward

In between the rhythmic lapping
dock to boat
saltwater
hull
saltwater
hull

There is a space
for quiet reclamation

And Nature
always
always
finds a way.


School’s Out

Posted on by heather

Seeing it through…the eyes of a child

The day after the Derby ended
there was a moment
in the very late afternoon
in the very late fall
when I was buzzing the bite.

I parked at the beach
to wait for my chowder to cool
and I noticed the birds
fighting the frigid wind
had stopped for their own reasons.

I smiled to see the youngster
heading out to the rocky pier
sun dancing on the tip of his fishing pole
and then noticed
that all of the fishermen were kids.

You could tell
because they were running
and jumping
and helping each other
secure their lures
and their hats.

I opened the bag
of oyster crackers
pulled down my hat
thought about
how good it felt to run.

Little Lady

Posted on by heather

Another gift from my early spring wanderings
this familiar peek behind the fishing shacks
in Menemsha was brought into a different kind of focus
which only a winter of island weather could provide.

I’ve taken hundreds of photos from this vantage point
over the decades but in the three growing seasons of the year
that bank across the water is a wall of green vines and scrub oak
which all but obscures the old wooden stairways
and hides most of the foundations and some of the porches.

On this day in late March
there was the barest hint of warming sap beginning to run
into the tips of the shrubbery and the capillaries of the tree branches
a glowing harbinger of the promises of spring.

I wrote in the Coast Guards notes of the peaceful solitude
that accompanied me on the walk around the harbor that day
I was able to stand in this scalloped niche
for an extended time of totally uninterrupted observation
watching and listening to the light play with the reflections
and the water lapping the mossy pilings
the breeze whispering through the rigging
and the ropes slackening
then pulling taught
over and over and over again
in a rhythm as old as the sea itself.

Coast Guards

Posted on by heather

One unexpected gift
of being on the island of Martha’s Vineyard in March
is the season of solitude.

While winter has snuggled the humans
behind closed doors
the verdant thickets of vegetation
along stone walled roadways
have fallen back to sleep
throwing open an early spring curtain
to reveal new and ever deepening
glimpses into old and familiar views.

And with those newly opened views
came the added blessing
of exploring the island in deep silence and peace.

The contrast of the bustling tourist season
with the quiet stillness of the winter
was sublime.

Happening upon this Menemsha moment
is the perfect example.

With Pat and Jane and Maggie
safely tucked into their recliners
I walked the sandy road
down to the beach
where the lifeguard chair
was the sole onlooker
back down the wooden dock
where the only sound
was the basin water lapping on the boats
up and over Crick’s hill
then out back of the Galley
where the every single post and rooftop
rail and piling had one seagull
sitting or lying as if on their lunch breaks.

Full disclosure
I cheated a bit here
In the real world
on that late March morning
there was one other human to be seen
I came upon him when I had drifted
further out that dock
just past the coast guard station
as I was looking back across the water
he was behind me coming ashore
from a morning of scalloping
I nodded
he said it was a beautiful day
and that was that
except that here
I turned him around.

When I started this painting
it was all about the solitude
and that peace
and quiet
with only the gulls standing guard
but it is a working village
and one lone fisherman
enjoying the sun and the sea
and a peaceful walk to work
seemed to tell a better story.

Rock Solid

Posted on by heather

Rock Solid – 48 x 34

I’m writing this from the old studio back porch
Been sitting here all morning
Watching big machines moving heaven and earth
Well mostly earth
And big stones
They move in sync with slow motion arcs
A graceful and very loud dance.

I’ve also been thinking my way into writing this,
the last of the painters notes for this year’s GG show.
In my head for days now
The focus keeps shifting
And I keep putting it aside
Recognizing that I’m not settled enough yet
So I step back and out of my own way.

This morning’s air is clearing and blessedly cooler once again
And maybe that’s all that I needed to see
That this painting began as an homage to that wall.

It’s Jane’s wall, but she’d be the first to tell you
that the great stone walls of Chilmark
belong to the island, the islanders, and the town not the landowners.

This one runs through the backyards up on crick hill in Menemsha
But long long ago
When that land was farmland
It was built to make use of the tilled up boulders
And to fence in
or out
the pasture.

Jane remembers walking through that gate opening as a girl
So I took out the shrubbery that lives there now
And gave her back the passage.
She believes it to be the tallest original stone wall on the island
And I believe Jane.

So last October when we came to visit
And she and Herself were solving all the problems of the world
I stepped out on Jane’s deck to explore
And the Muses had lit the place up.
The wall was raked with that brilliant autumn island light
And it was as if seeing it for the first time.

The sun streaming through the crystal clear air was similar to this morning’s back porch light
And maybe that’s why I’ve finally found my way back in.

Yes the painting is about the wall
It started there
And never was about anything else
But today
As I sit watching the work being done
to build the foundation of my new studio
I see that it is also about the people who built that wall.

Solid is absolutely one way to describe the islanders.
A disposition bred out of the challenges of living on a rock in the middle of the ocean
Moving heaven and their own patches of earth
To raise themselves and their families into generations of community.

I guess that’s what humans have always done
And Vineyarders would be the first to tell you they’re nothing special
But the ones I know
Are pretty special to me
And that’s about all I was really ever trying to say with this painting.

The Coming and The Going

Posted on by heather

Now it’s time to zoom out…
Remember that dear little blue painted hinge ?

The Coming and the Going – 36 x 24

The Coming and the Going

That has come to signify this era for so many.
Writ large or writ local
some of the shiftings have been tectonic
while others mere whispers of change.

The Painter’s Notes for Unhinged…

(Which you can read by clicking on the image above)

…well that journal entry sets the scene for… The Going

This painting gives you the harbor’s perspective
of this particularly seismic change in the town of Menemsha.

In Menemsha all manner of vessels and humans
are constantly in the pursuit of both…

Coming into port
Going out to sea
This gentle village is always in motion.

On this day last October there was a fair bit of going
as Larsen’s Fish Market was being demolished
to make way for a new version of that special old salt.

If you take the time to compare with Unhinged
you will see that in this composition
zoom in closely…
that dear blue painted hinge still holds fast
and there is just this one last corner of wall
left standing.

As in all artistic endeavors
the artist is free to edit.
I have gently done so here
removing most of the heavy machinery
and repainting the green dumpster.

For years now I’ve been looking for a way
to bring that great big landing net into a painting
ever since I found it washed ashore on Stonewall beach.
It was hopelessly beyond use for a fisherman
but I loved the brokenness and it has been reminding me
as it leans against my old studio stairs
of the power of the sea.

So it was sorta fun that here
in proportion to the old and now broken fishing shack
it could stand tall and represent.

Over the decades
of studying those rhythms
of steady comings and goings
I have learned
that while there can be stillness…

those spaces in between

…there is always some manner of change
on the horizon.

Coming to the end of a year of sometimes brutal
and always jarring shifts in our world
there is wonderful and joyous change on our horizon.

This week the concrete is to be poured
securing a literal foundation
for my new studio.

That great big light at the end of the long tunnel
coupled with the shipping off of this year’s worth of paintings
for next week’s Granary Gallery show
has afforded me one of those precious
moments of in between.

My spirits are lifting
and the peace is familiar
and kind.

At rest finally
with both
the going
and the coming.

Unhinged

Posted on by heather

We are going to zoom in
before we zoom out.

Unhinged – 24 x 20

I heard the wrecking machine before I saw it.
Creak creak creak then…Crunch.
The small crowd of onlookers took a collective three steps back.

Suspended high above the little fishing village of Menemsha
was the front wall of Larsen’s Fish Market.

Swinging high over the heads of the townsfolk
were shredded bits of cedar shingle and broken off lumber.
The crane creaked as it deposited the bits of building into a giant gaping roll-off.

The rumors of reconstruction were making the rounds on the island
but witnessing the demolition up close and personal like that was powerful.

Larsen’s is an institution.
The steady and reliable provision
of fresh off the boat
catch of the day seafood
is surpassed only by the warmth and kindness
of the always smiling family who runs it.

That day in October
I followed my long time routine
when scouting the island for painting ideas.
Parking down at the beach
I walked back up the dock
with sketchbook in my back pocket
and camera slung over my shoulder.

The main show was out front
so it was out back that I went.

The dock was empty
except for Betsy and her husband.
She’s the proprietor
and you’ve met her before
or at least her largess
in the painting Betsy’s Gift.

But again,
I heard before I saw.

Bang bang bang…crunch.

The two of them had heavy handtools
and were whacking the shit out of the back door.

I approached quietly
lens zoomed at the ready
as the Muses have taught me.

The two of them started laughing
Betsy turned and saw me
saying, “This stubborn old hinge is not letting go.”

Over our heads the big machine out front was lifting roof timbers
and complete sections of walls
flying them across the sky and into the dumpster
then rhythmically thumping them into smaller bits.

Chunk after chunk
they were getting closer
to this last wall
and the back door.

Now a sledge hammer was brought in.
Whack whack whack…creak.

By god they got that thing off
but it was the door that broke loose first.
The hinge held fast.

I know something of its strength
and a whole lot about its fortitude.

I’ve swung through that screen door a thousand times.
Out from the melee of islanders and tourists
ordering steamers and clams
through the steam of the tiny kitchen
over the freshly hosed down concrete floor
picking up where the swing of the last customer
banged that door shut
and pushing it out  once again
then walking onto the dock
in the brightening light
of that familiar harbor.

They had wanted to save the door
a powerful talisman indeed.

I wanted to mark its passage as well.

The hat is the very first one I ever bought.
Like the hinge
it signifies
and holds me fast
to that island.

Drawn Butter

Posted on by heather

Right at the stop sign and just over the little tidal bridge and our first stop is…

Drawn Butter – 30 x 24

This is Poole’s
Ok Not any more
But it was back then
And it’s hard to teach this old dog new tricks

The captain of this ship was Everett Poole.
He left the helm a while back
and left the planet a few short months ago.

He wore many hats over his 91 years in Chilmark
but I remember him in a red hat
on the stool
in this corner of his shop
pipe wisping away
with that hammer in his hand.

The reference photos I used were from a few years ago.
Donald took over for his dad Everett for a while there
and now Stanley owns it.
Someone could probably date those old pics just by reckoning the price of the lobsters.
And lordy that butter was a bit salty.

But remembering all those last minute trips
to pick up the catch of the day
and the cups of warm chowder
we picked up along the way to the brisk autumn beach…

priceless.