Memoirous

Bright Invisible: Word Sketches from Great Spruce Head Island a PDF chapbook, This chapbook will appeal to readers of the New York School—particularly fans of James Schuyler and John Ashbery. Great Spruce Head Island has been a source of inspiration for generations of artists and writers. I was invited to GSHI to spend a week walking where Frank O’Hara, Ashbery, and Schuyler walked. Through essays, journal entries, persona letters where I channel James Schuyler, I attempt to experience the island through their eyes. CLICK on image to the right of the page to request *FREE PDF

Bright Invisible: Word Sketches from Great Spruce Head Island a PDF chapbook, This chapbook will appeal to readers of the New York School—particularly fans of James Schuyler and John Ashbery. Great Spruce Head Island has been a source of inspiration for generations of artists and writers. I was invited to GSHI to spend a week walking where Frank O’Hara, Ashbery, and Schuyler walked. Through essays, journal entries, persona letters where I channel James Schuyler, I attempt to experience the island through their eyes. CLICK on image to the right of the page to request *FREE PDF

In May 1970 James Schuyler mentions Izaak Walton, Complete Angler , Walton Lives—biographies on Donne, George Herbert ,etc and Dorothy Wordsworth, Journals , 2 vols. in his Diary. Later on August 17, 1970 on Great Spruce Head Island, Schuyler quotes from the Memoir of Thomas Bewick. Thomas Bewick (1753 – 1828) English engraver, credited with reviving the technique of wood engraving. His Memoir contains absorbing descriptions of his Northumberland childhood—from Cambridge Guide to Literature in English 8/12/70 (a poem, which appeared in The Crystal Lithium ) In early August among the spruce Fall parti-colored leaves From random birch that hide Their crowns up toward the light— Deciduously needle-nested— Among the tumbled rocks—a man-made scree below a house— a dull green sumach blade slashed with red clearer than blood a skyline blue red a first fingertap, a gathering, a climax

On August 22, 1969 James Schuyler was reading Boswell’s Life of Johnson , London: Oxford University Press, 1922. 1969 was a particularly stable and fruitful year for Schuyler. As a writer he was making inroads with two publications. Free Espousing Schuler’s first commercially published book of poems came out with Doubleday under the imprint Paris Review Editions.   A Nest of Ninnies the back-and-forth book co-produced by Jimmy and John Asbery. Each wrote alternating chapters, passing the manuscript back and forth over oceans, despite Fullbrights and hospital stays, the loss of friends and friendships for 17 years. I don’t think either thought it would see the light of day. The story if like a long evening of storytelling between friends, friends with wit and intelligence who both know dialogue. A tale derived from anecdotal observations of middle-class suburbia. Published by Dutton it was reviewed by W. H. Auden in the NY Times Book Review—destined to become a minor class...

November 5 th is my birthday and just thinking about life a year ago is a bit depressing. It seems the world has cracked and broken into two. November 5 seems so naïve, so innocent. Democracy before reality TV invaded politics. Anyway thinking about this I have compiled a list of how I’ve managed to get through this past year: *Friends *Cds: Josh Garrels The Light Came Down , Carrie Newcomer The Beautiful Not Yet *“fake” news: BBC, The Guardian, The Washington Post, NPR *Podcasts: Radiolab, The New Yorker Radio Hour, Snap Judgment (this is my new favorite, I spend a lot of time listening to these) *counseling (lots) *writing/not writing *bike rides: just this year alone=Nova Scotia, coast of Maine, carriage trails in Acadia National Park, Old Plank Trail, I & M, Centennial Trail, North Shore Channel Trail, Green Bay trail, Des Plaines River Trail, Kal-Haven Trail, Prairie Duneland Trail, Oak Savannah Trail, Lakefront, etc *walks along the lake ( see al...

I’m still working on a hybrid manuscript I started this summer on Great Spruce Head Island on James Schuyler and his connection to the island and the Porter family. In re-reading Just the Thing: Selected Letters of James Schuyler 1951-1991 , I came upon a random footnote. First some context. James Schuyler was crazy. He didn’t start out that way. He was a curious, witty, conversational gay young man. He was a self-taught poet, once serving as a secretary to W. H. Auden at his vacation home on Ischia in Italy. Moving amongst heady circles he associated with renowned poets and artists. Until his breakdown, or series of breakdowns. This was in the days when psychological drugs were still in their infancy. If you were diagnosed as schizophrenic you were sentenced to a life of lithium and being zoned out. No wonder most creatives risked psychosis rather than being medicated. Mostly Schuyler kept his episodes in check. The stability of living with the Porters helped as well as t...

Hello Blog! On the verge of fall and I’m reliving last summer, lost in the manuscript I’m putting together from notes taken on Great Spruce Head Island. Who knew that 7 days would produce such a fount of writing?! And re-arranging. Memories. I have here at my fingertips photos saved to the Google Cloud and all I need to do is search the World Wide Web to pull up a Fairfield painting. It’s all here—yet not. Melancholy sets in as the weather cools, the late season garden fades, colors dropping onto the walkway. Worse is the wind scattering seeds, bending stalks and stems. I’m getting older. When, how does this happen? We say good bye. John Ashbery—I saw you this summer on the path, on the west porch in late afternoon when gold lasered through the leaves and lay slant on wooden planks. You were there in turpentine rags, oils, varnished into this mind. I return, to word sketches. Scenes of Great Spruce Head Island.

I'm back from Art Week 2017 will blog after I sort my notes out until then, enjoy: the buoys of summer a table is set Double Beach sunrise

Marsden Hartley: The Biography of an American Painter Townsend Ludington Lately I’ve been reading about Maine authors and painters ( see Great Spruce Head Island, see Art Week!). Actually I’ve always had an interest in Marsden Hartley. Ever since I saw this painting at the Art Institute of Chicago, where I was simply drawn in. It is in the same gallery as Night Hawk and Georgia O’Keefe, whose subject matter is somewhat similar. There was something about Cash Entry Mines, New Mexico , 1920 that spoke to me. Maybe it was how big nature is or the color palette: dun, washed red, faded black lines, sand colors. We can never know exactly what will touch us, but I suspect it has to do with peace. I bought at a library sale a monograph about Hartley and I learned that while living one summer in Nova Scotia with a local family the family lost 2 sons and another family member. Their boat was caught in a storm and the lads were lost at sea. This was devastating not only...

A few posts ago I announced that I have been awarded a residency on Great Spruce Head Island, once the vacation home of Fairfield Porter who hosted numerous characters from the New York School of painters and poets, namely James Schuyler who had a room reserved at both the Maine and Southampton home of the Porters. Fairfield Porter was an artist that only seemed to grow in importance after his death—like so many artists and writers. While alive the kind of art he pursued had no purchase, no level footing amongst Abstract Expressionism. Jackson Pollack was an acquaintance and neighbor of Fairfield Porter on Long Island (as was Willem de Kooning)—yet the two were worlds apart. Firstly, he was viewed as a hobbyist. This was mostly due to the fact that he owned an island. He came from a wealthy family and in truth didn’t have to work or earn money. Yet he lived relatively modestly. Among the Bohemian crowd he circulated with, he was a bit of a dad, okay, a bisexual experiment...

A new week. A new day. But somehow I am having a hard time shrugging off last week and the election. I am trying to move forward. Winter is coming. When I was younger this might have been the time of year when each week brought something wonderful. Starting with my sister’s birthday in October, followed by Halloween, then my birthday, it was one party after another. Festivities leading up to Thanksgiving and Christmas took over school. I was in choir so we rehearsed for a Christmas program. Industrial arts/home ec was given over to a great selection of craft-making options. My brothers and sisters and I always made some top-notch presents that when we were clearing out Mom and Dad’s last home, an assisted living place we were still unearthing these prizes. That’s tells you either how much they loved junk or how much they loved us. A bit of both. Now—after the passing of my parents, and some of my friends and peers, I’m feeling a bit melancholy about the holidays. Not exactly...