Tag: Art

  • Framing Rosslyn

    Framing Rosslyn

    No, it’s not my birthday. Yes, I realize that the image accompanying this post might be confusing. Sorry. Framing Rosslyn recollects a previous post celebrating friend and artist Catherine Seidenberg while marking a rewarding step forward toward furnishing and decorating Rosslyn’s icehouse.

    Framing Rosslyn (Artwork: Catherine Seidenberg; Photo: Geo Davis)
    Framing Rosslyn (Artwork: Catherine Seidenberg; Photo: Geo Davis)

    As icehouse rehab winds toward the finish line, I’ve been able to begin shifting from construction mode to decorating mode, finally choosing some of the artwork and artifacts that will be joining me in the icehouse soon. Eith the help of my bride and Nico Sardet at Furchgott Sourdiffe Gallery in Shelburne I’ve started to finalize some new framing including this handsome birthday gift from Catherine back in 2016. This remarkable rendering will make its next appearance once framing is complete and it’s hanging in the soon-to-be completely rehabilitated icehouse. Mark. My. Words. (Especially “soon”!)

    Custom framing at Furchgott Sourdiffe Gallery means experienced service and attention to detail… [and] extensive design services combined with expert craftsmanship… Archival materials and techniques are used to guarantee preservation of your artwork. (Source: Furchgott Sourdiffe Gallery )

    The *Other* Framing

    Although the impetus for this post is gratitude for a gift from Catherine and gratitude to Susan and Nico for helping me consider the most suitable frames for the icehouse artwork, I’m also drawn the idea of framing a home. Not just a painting of a home, but the property itself.

    I’ve reflected elsewhere on the ways that windows and doors frame exterior views, and even the way that the porosity within a building can frame elements of the interior environment. Perhaps I’m a little obsessive with the ways that hearts become a hole. And the ways that we experience those parts and that whole…

    Some years ago when we developed our plans for an historically inspired fence and when we then presented the proposal to the Essex planning board, I tried to convey this notion of framing. The fence, running between the north and south property lines, parallel to the sidewalk and road, and parallel to Lake Champlain, helped define and delineate Rosslyn. Not as a home, but as a property. A collection of four buildings that are related to one another. A cohesive and integrated tableau writ large.

    The desire to explore the interrelatedness of these historic buildings through stonewalls and landscaping has been one of the most enjoyable endeavors over the last seventeen years. A slow motion sculpting of Rosslyn’s almost 70 acres into an aesthetically and functionally appealing program, discrete elements coalescing into a logical and well integrated experience. The relationships between the discreet parts — in some cases fixed in brick and mortar, in other cases evolving gradually with experimentation, maturation of flora, and the patina-ing and aging of the built environment — continue to meld with revision and the passage of time. Editing and reevaluating help distill the successful initiatives from this best abandoned. And little by little relationships develop, an affinity emerges. A wholeness, set apart from surroundings. Or so I conceive as, little by little, we strive to frame Rosslyn…

  • Catherine Seidenberg: Artist

    Rosslyn by Catherine Seidenberg
    Rosslyn by Catherine Seidenberg

    I wrap my digital arms around friend, neighbor, artist, and gardener extraordinaire Catherine Seidenberg for this memorable birthday gift. Thank you!

    Catherine’s whimsical black and white watercolor of Rosslyn’s front facade offers a chance to reflect on the past decade Susan and I have spent reinvigorating this quirky property and an invitation to daydream about its future. The matched tree hydrangeas are a nod to a pair of similar (though far older varieties) hydrangeas that flaked the entrance columns before we excavated the front of the house. The older plants were transplanted with an excavator and now thrive astride a gate in the garden behind the carriage barn. The view to the right of the house, beyond the stone wall, reminds me of photographs of Rosslyn in the 1800s when the rolling hills beyond the carriage barn and ice house were far more open than today, a sea of apple orchards and green pastures dotted with grazing sheep.

    [Sometimes a post is born, neglected, orphaned, left unpublished in blog purgatory. Sadly this is one such case, despite the fact that I’ve enjoyed this painting daily from its perch above the fireplace in my study. The following update reminded me that Catherine’s painting was never properly celebrated, so I conjoin the two newsworthy items here to showcase the multidisciplinary creativity of artist Catherine Seidenberg.]

    Craigardan Artist-in-Residence, Catherine Seidenberg

    After two years assisting with Rosslyn’s vegetable and flower gardens Catherine moved on to new challenges. She notified us this past spring that she was returning to ceramics, and would be spending much of this year in Keene, NY as the Craigardan artist-in-residence.

    Craigardan Harvest Plate Resident, Catherine Seidenberg (Source: craigardan.org)
    Craigardan Harvest Plate Resident, Catherine Seidenberg (Source: craigardan.org)

    HARVEST PLATE RESIDENCY For ceramic artists who wish to participate in Craigardan’s delicious celebration of the farm, the food, and the plate.  9-month Winter residency. The 2017 Harvest Plate Resident: Catherine Seidenberg (Source: Craigardan)

    Craigardan Harvest Plate Resident, Catherine Seidenberg (Source: craigardan.org)
    Craigardan Harvest Plate Resident, Catherine Seidenberg (Source: craigardan.org)

    If you’re in the Adirondacks (or near enough to swing through Keene, NY) I encourage you to meet Catherine in mid-September.

    Slide Talk: a conversation with harvest plate resident, Catherine Seidenberg (Friday, September 15, 2017, 5:30 PM to 6:30 PM) Meet artist-in-residence Catherine Seidenberg, view her ceramic work and learn about her beautiful processes.  Catherine is our summer Harvest Plate Resident, crafting all of the tableware for the fall benefit event, Dinner in the Field. (Source: Craigardan)

    Susan and I are looking forward to the fall benefit!

    SaveSave

    SaveSave

    SaveSave

    SaveSave

    SaveSave

    SaveSave

    SaveSave

  • Mary Wade’s Rosslyn Art

    Mary Wade’s Rosslyn Art

    Rosslyn, Essex on Lake Champlain (Painted by Mary Wade)
    Rosslyn, Essex on Lake Champlain (Painted by Mary Wade)

    My bride refers to herself as “Mama” to our Labrador Retriever, Griffin. It’s always struck me as a bit goofy, preferring, I suppose, to think of myself as my dog’s master. Though anyone familiar with our little family of three would hastily remind me that I might have that backwards, as Griffin clearly rules the proverbial Rosslyn roost.

    I kid Susan that her childfree stance belies latent maternal instincts which she channels into her canine progeny. (N.B. While you might initially balk at this, detecting an underhanded jab, you can rest assured that Susan is quite comfortable with — even proud of — her “Dog Mama” status. And any implication that I’m married to a metaphorical dog, well, let me just suggest that the quick glimpse of my dazzling damsel in the video below will handily refute any concerns. After eleven years she still knocks my socks off!)

    So where were we?

    Mother’s Day.

    Despite endlessly kidding Susan for mothering Griffin (Perhaps over-mothering?), I actually find it endearing. And our almond-eyed-butterscotch-furred best friend is thoroughly content with the arrangement.

    “Hello, my love bug. Mama missed you,” Susan greets Griffin when he races up to meet her at the end of the day. His tail wags excitedly and he stretches his head upward, offering a nice slobbery kiss. “How did Mama get such a drooly boy?” she asks playfully as she wipes off her nose and cheek.

    This year, I decided it was time to accept my bride’s dog mother instinct. No, I decided it was time to embrace it with a surprise gift or two. And the perfect gift? A symbol of our family, our home.

    Rosslyn's boathouse adorning a wooden box (Artwork by Mary Wade)
    Rosslyn’s boathouse (Artwork by Mary Wade)

    Each winter Essex residents celebrate the holidays early during a weekend-long event called Christmas in Essex. It was this tradition which connected me to Mary Wade, a folk artist who lives in Willsboro but runs a seasonal gallery in Essex each summer. She creates painted wooden models, silhouettes, and paintings of historic buildings in Essex that are collected by her fans all around the world.

    Although I’d visited her shop in the past, it wasn’t until last December (when Mrs. Wade was offering her artwork for sale during the Christmas in Essex event) that we discussed her Rosslyn inspired artwork. I spotted a painting of Rosslyn’s boathouse adorning a wooden box (see image) and asked her if she could make a birdhouse modeled on the same structure.

    “I think so,” she said, considering. “I could do that.”

    “What about a painting of Rosslyn?”

    “Oh, sure. I’ve done that plenty of times, you know, all the Merchant Row houses.”

    As soon as my bride was safely out of earshot, we began to conspire. Could she undertake *both* projects this winter? She could. And much more!

    Last week I met her at home where she unveiled these whimsical renditions of Rosslyn and Rosslyn’s boathouse. The small painted silhouettes of the the boathouse were a bonus, unanticipated when we made our plan last December. She had gotten the idea while creating the birdhouse, and she liked it so much that she decided to make almost a dozen to share with her other collectors.

    I suspected that the birdhouse would prove too valuable to allow it to fulfill its intended use, and Susan promptly confirmed my suspicions.

    “What a perfect centerpiece!” she exclaimed arranging the miniature copy of Rosslyn’s boathouse in the center of our deck table to test out her theory. It was a great idea.

    The beautiful painting of Rosslyn will likely be hung in the morning room where a growing collection of artist renderings of the quirky Eastlake inspired dockhouse adorn the walls. And for now, the silhouetted boathouse is in the screen porch. Until I convince her that it would be fun to have in the boathouse…

  • The Art of Thresholds

    The Art of Thresholds

    I’m slightly obsessed with transitions and betweenness. Liminality and interstices. Metamorphosis, reawakening, and transformation inevitably weave themselves into my words about gardening and historic rehabilitation. In fact, in a not altogether exaggerated sense, Rosslyn Redux is a kind of carefree contemplation of thresholds, the art of thresholds, and the artifacts of crossing thresholds…

    Transitions. Flux. Liminality. Interstices. Inflection. Evolving.

    […]

    From carpentry fiasco (boathouse gangway) to carpentry triumph (house deck), from summer to autumn (bittersweet seasonality), from hale and hardy to COVID crash dummy, from perennially postponed icehouse rehab to 100% timely reboot, from Adirondacks to southwest,… We are awash in transitions! (Source: Transitions)

    Supi and Peter Fabricate a Charactered Threshold (Photo: R.P. Murphy)
    Supi and Peter Fabricate a Charactered Threshold (Photo: R.P. Murphy)

    One of the most notable changes in the icehouse rehab is a considerable increase in apertures, transparency, and porosity. With an eye to more seamlessly integrating the interior and exterior experience while reducing the potentially confining ambience of such a small (approximately 18’ x 30’) structure, we have introduced lots of glass.

    Windows and doors blur boundaries between the enclosed environment and the exterior views, landscape, hardscape, decks and courtyard. Within the interior we’ve also endeavored to maximize transparency and porosity by embracing an open plan.

    Only the bathroom is fully enclosed. Other zones (entrance, coffee bar, main room, and loft study/studio/office) flow into one another permitting the small volume to feel more ample. Design continuity and viewshed integration enhance this sense of openness, favoring cohesion and harmony over spatial subdivision by function. And yet, subtle transitions (i.e. a doorway threshold, the staircase and banister to loft.) are present and necessary.

    In these instances delineation and boundaries serve us. Sometimes the utility is practical. For example, the loft is enclosed with a banister that extends from the top of the staircase to the north and south knee walls. Although code compliance is the most obvious reason for this, the underpinning logic is that a railing enclosing the second-story loft ensures that we do not accidentally pitch off the edge. The porosity of railing and balusters affords transparency, but the sturdy boundary ensures safety, as much a visual cue (caution, stay back, etc.) as a functional restraint.

    Flooring transitions and how they help differentiate space and use warrant careful consideration. This is true in the icehouse where the top stair riser meets the loft floor, representing a meeting of dissimilar materials (painted poplar staircase and sealed beech flooring) and a blurring of function (stair tread and flooring). It is also true in the elm and garapa threshold that I conceived and Peter created for the icehouse bathroom doorway.

    The highly charactered elm — grown, harvested, aged, milled, and finished on Rosslyn’s property — will integrate with the ash and elm flooring in the main floor of the icehouse. (Source: Elm and Garapa Threshold)

    Today’s update considers the passage from the east entrance and coffee bar area into the main room of the icehouse. In addition to a shift in function and feel, the 8’ flat ceiling in the entrance and coffee bar area opens up to a 2-story cathedral ceiling in the main room. Accentuating this transition with a pair of columns that flank the passageway adds a touch of drama and playfulness given the incongruity of the diminutive space and the dominant pillars.

    The elm and ash flooring will run east-west, so a threshold of sorts, seamlessly conjoining while differentiating the two zones presented an opportunity. Thresholds — door treads, doorsills, etc. — signal the ending of one space and the beginning of another space. But they often function as weather barrier and/or doorstop as well, resulting in a profile raised above the floor plane. I did not desire this threshold to deviate from the floor. Subtler than a doorway threshold, I nevertheless wanted to offer a visual cue that a transition is being made between two zones, a perhaps subconscious delineation of usage.

    I explained my vision, first to Hroth and subsequently to Peter, for a threshold running perpendicular to the flooring and wide enough to frame the column plinths equally around the outer perimeter. Fabricated out of the same ash or elm that we are using for the floor, I proposed a pair of book matched planks that would cause pause and invite interest. I asked them to think of this over-wide threshold, not as a throwaway intended simply to bridge otherwise similar areas of flooring, but instead as an integrated piece of art. A contiguous embellishment within the broader “tapestry” of the floor. Character-rich grain and coloration. Precise joinery, perhaps an inlaid bowtie if necessary and aesthetically pleasing. An interstitial experience/object as bold and intriguing as the columns that rest upon it.

    Peter Conjoins Charactered Boards for Threshold (Photo: R.P. Murphy)
    Peter Conjoins Charactered Boards for Threshold (Photo: R.P. Murphy)

    As you can see, Peter has begun to transform the vision into reality. A mesmerizing tableau to be tread upon. The art of thresholds.

  • Remembering Mary Wade

    Remembering Mary Wade

    I received heartbreaking news this morning that dear friend and accomplished folk artist, Mary Wade has passed away.

    Mary was a remarkable woman with a huge heart and sense of humor, a vast memory, and an enchanting gift for storytelling. Our community loses so much with her passing, but her caring and creative legacy will endure for generations. I consider myself fortunate to have shared a memorable friendship — from laughter filled meals to Essex memories and stories — with Mary since we moved to Essex. Susan and I will forever cherish her many artworks that we’re lucky to have collected over the years.

    Mary Wade, December 3, 2011 (Photo: Geo Davis)
    Mary Wade, December 3, 2011 (Photo: Geo Davis)

    I shared the following memory a little over a decade ago.

    Mary Wade, a folk artist who lives in Willsboro but runs a seasonal gallery in Essex each summer… creates painted wooden models, silhouettes, and paintings of historic buildings in Essex that are collected by her fans all around the world. Although I’d visited her shop in the past, it wasn’t until last December (when Mrs. Wade was offering her artwork for sale during the Christmas in Essex event) that we discussed her Rosslyn inspired artwork. I spotted a painting of Rosslyn’s boathouse adorning a wooden box… and asked her if she could make a birdhouse modeled on the same structure.

    “I think so,” she said, considering. “I could do that.”

    “What about a painting of Rosslyn?”

    “Oh, sure. I’ve done that plenty of times, you know, all the Merchant Row houses.”

    As soon as my bride was safely out of earshot, we began to conspire. Could she undertake *both* projects this winter? She could. And much more! (Source: Mary Wade’s Rosslyn Rendition | Rosslyn Redux

    The photograph shows three Rosslyn inspired artworks that Mary created for me in 2012 to gift my bride on Mother’s Day. The three dimensional model of Rosslyn’s boathouse is not only meticulously accurate, it’s also a birdhouse!

    Mary Wade, May 11, 2012 (Photo: Geo Davis)
    Mary Wade, May 11, 2012 (Photo: Geo Davis)

    Among our colorful menagerie of Mary Wade artwork are a couple of favorites. A weighty stone, tumbled smooth along the shore of Lake Champlain, was transformed into a functional work of art, a paperweight and an unmistakable rendering of our boathouse as seen from the Essex ferry dock. Capturing the peak of summer in a breezy day, seagulls swooping in front of the quirky lakeside folly that enchanted us almost two decades ago (and that continues to enchant us today!)

    https://www.instagram.com/p/CUFrUiZvGJl/

    You can scroll to see the backside of the stone in the Instagram post above. The simple caption on the reverse of this treasure we received from Mary is especially poignant now. An evocative scene and a handwritten dedication, a bridge back to the twinkling eyes and the rich repository of Essex lore that Mary chronicled with endless energy and a hint of playful mischief.

    Another personal favorite Mary Wade memento is an almost life sized representation of our Labrador retriever, Griffin. This handsome pup, painted onto a wooden cutout, was a surprise that Mary presented to us a decade ago. It stands sentry in our entrance hallway to this day, welcoming guests, and keeping an eye on Carley.

    Mary Wade, May 30, 2013 (Photo: Geo Davis)
    Mary Wade, May 30, 2013 (Photo: Geo Davis)

    I will update this page with additional memories of Mary Wade as I come across them. For now I conclude with a brief recap of something I mentioned to Mary’s grandson, Kasey McKenna, this morning. We’re fortunate when our parents, aunts, uncles, and grandparents are able and willing to guide us and to enrich our life’s journeys. But every once in a while we happen upon a relationship outside of our family, a connection to an acquaintance that evolves into something closer to kin, perhaps a sort of intentional extended family. In this way, I can’t help but feeling as if I am saying goodbye to more than a friend today. And I am profoundly grateful for this opportunity.

  • The Past Lives On

    The Past Lives On

    The past lives on in art and memory, but it is not static: it shifts and changes as the present throws its shadow backwards. — Margaret Drabble

    I return today to a recurring theme, a preoccupation perhaps, that wends its way through my Rosslyn ruminations and my collections of photographs and artifacts. While the past lives on, the present riffs, repurposes, and reimagines the past. Adaptive reuse. Upcycling. Reinvention. Art.

    Buckle up. Or pour yourself a cocktail…

    The Past Lives On: NW Corner of Icehouse and Carriage Barn, September 21, 2021 (Photo: Geo Davis)

    NW Corner of Icehouse

    Before tripping too far into the wilds of my imagination, let’s root the present inquiry in something a little less abstract, a little more concrete. Like, for example, the northwest corner of the icehouse about a year and a half ago, September 21, 2021. That’s what you see in the photo above as well as those below.

    I’ve titled this post, “The Past Lives On”, and if you’ve been with me for any time at all you’re well aware that Rosslyn, the property around which this multimodal inquiry circumnavigates like a drunken sailor, is rooted in the past. And the present. Starting out in the early 1800’s and spanning almost exactly two centuries. 

    I’ve pilfered the title from the quotation above, ostensibly the perspective of Virginia Woolf filtered through the mind of Margaret Drabble. The broader context for Drabble’s perspective is landscape. Let’s look a little further.

    The past lives on in art and memory, but it is not static: it shifts and changes as the present throws its shadow backwards. The landscape also changes, but far more slowly; it is a living link between what we were and what we have become. This is one of the reasons why we feel such a profound and apparently disproportionate anguish when a loved landscape is altered out of recognition; we lose not only a place, but ourselves, a continuity between the shifting phases of our life. — Margaret Drabble, A Writer’s Britain: Landscape in Literature, Thames & Hudson, 1987 (Source: Ken Taylor, “Landscape: Memory and Identity”)

    In the photo above I’ve recorded the exterior of the icehouse and adjoining lawn as it has looked since approximately the 1950s which is when we understand that a clay tennis court was built behind the icehouse and carriage barn for the pleasure of Sherwood Inn guests.

    Actually, I’m slightly oversimplifying the contours of history. Given what I understand, the clay court was installed for Sherwood Inn patrons, but at some point in the decades since, the court was abandoned. Or at least *mostly* abandoned. The +/-10′ tall wooden posts for an enclosure along the northern end of the court remained until we removed them early in our rehabilitation. And one of the two steel tennis net posts will at long last be removed in about a week when Bob Kaleita returns to tune up the site for hardscaping and landscaping. But a long time ago the clay surface was abandoned and a perfectly flat lawn replaced it. We’ve enjoyed using it as a croquet, bocce, and volleyball court for years.

    If you look at the bottom right of the photograph at the top of this post you can see that there’s a topographical bulge in the lawn, sort of a grassy hummock that is crowding the building(s). In the photo below you can again see how the ground is higher than the framing on both buildings.

    The Past Lives On: NW Corner of Icehouse and Carriage Barn, September 21, 2021 (Photo: Geo Davis)

    Not an ideal situation when organics (lawn, landscaping, etc.) crowd wooden buildings. Unfortunately the tennis court was built above the sills of both buildings, and inauspiciously close. Moisture, snow, and ice buid-up over the decades compromised the structures of both buildings because of this miscalculation. 

    Today, both buildings have had their framing rehabilitated, and their structural integrity is better than ever. In addition, significant site work last autumn (remember “The art of Dirt Work“?) and again next week is restoring the ground level adjacent to the icehouse and carriage barn to more closely resemble what it likely looked like in the 1800s when both buildings were originally sited and constructed.

    A landscape altered. A landscape restored.

    A memory recreated with the art of landscaping. The past made present. And yet, not. The new grade has been reimagined as an outdoor recreation and entertaining area not likely resembling the environs a couple hundred years ago. And so it is that the past “shifts and changes as the present throws its shadow backwards”…

    The Past Lives On: NW Corner of Icehouse, September 21, 2021 (Photo: Geo Davis)

    Present Shadowed Past

    What if innocence,
    in a sense, is less
    unbiased naïveté
    than wonder-wander, curiosity,
    and experiment? Or kneading gray clay dug behind the barn, behind the garden, before the forest
    (but barely before)
    after summer rain
    forty years ago. Stiff and cold at first, loosening with touch,
    oozing through cupped palms
    and playful fingers,
    shapes suggest themselves. Contours and textures
    echo yesterdays
    unrecorded and
    likely forgotten
    but re-emergent,
    confections conjured
    of sodded clay, and
    curiosity.

    The Past Lives On

    Indeed, something endures, but rarely should we be confident that we are knowing the past as it was. As it once was. We are informed and perhaps sometimes misinformed by our perspective sometime subsequent to the archival echo we fixate upon. And yet, perhaps allowing for reimagination, adaptive reuse, and even ahistoric reinvention, drawing upon the artifacts and memories we inherit but investing them with whimsy and wonder is one of the best ways of rehabilitating the past. Art from artifacts…

  • Easter Color

    Happy Easter to you from the Adirondack Coast where our seasonal reawakening is picking up pace with each passing day. And since spring is synonymous with the reemergence of vibrant lizard-like amphibians — most notably the red eft and the yellow-spotted salamander — it feels appropriate to substitute creatively died Easter eggs for a watercolor tribute to these brilliant wild neighbors brightening our day with their own unique Easter color if we take the time to observe them.

    Easter Color: Red Eft & Yellow-Spotted Salamander

    If you do any hiking or biking in our area this time of year, you’re quite likely to come across fluorescent orange-red salamanders making their way across roads and trails. Although most of us refer to them as red efts, they are actually adolescent eastern newts.

    The eastern newt (Notophthalmus viridescens) is a common newt of eastern North America. It frequents small lakes, ponds, and streams or nearby wet forests… The striking bright orange juvenile stage, which is land-dwelling, is known as a red eft. –Wikipedia

    I assist them across roadways during my bike rides to ensure that they don’t meet an untimely end in transit from shoulder to shoulder.

    Dissimilar in appearance but similarly vibrant in Easter color and pattern, the yellow-spotted salamander is another startlingly, beautiful amphibian that you just might spot on a damp afternoon.

    The spotted salamander or yellow-spotted salamander (Ambystoma maculatum) is a mole salamander common in eastern United States and Canada. –Wikipedia

    So, in lieu of an Easter egg hunt I bid you a happy, healthy holiday (with a basket full of good fortune in your wildlife wanderings.) I hope you spot some Easter color, whether salamanders or otherwise!

  • Rosslyn Rapture

    Rosslyn Rapture

    A meditative moment today to revisit “Rosslyn Rapture: A Bronze Sculpture by George McNulty” with a poem about the figure and an acknowledgment that memory can be an imperfect copilot.

    Rosslyn Rapture (Sculpture: George McNulty, Illustration: Geo Davis)
    Rosslyn Rapture (Sculpture: George McNulty, Illustration: Geo Davis)

    Perhaps the sub theme for today’s post should be derivative content? The image above is a digital watercolor derived from an edited and altered photograph of the bronze figure sculpted and gifted by George McNulty. My poem below also re-examines the sculpture, also reimagines the bronze figure, also seeks to illustrate why, how this gift from Rosslyn’s previous owner continues to affect me.

    Rosslyn Rapture, Poem

    No homunculus
    this alchemist's art,
    this sculptor's artifact.

    No bronze bauble this
    daily reminder of
    progeny and forebears.

    But rapture itself,
    ecstatic, triumphant,
    lifted with gratitude.

    This marbled, mantled
    rhapsody appeases
    my meandering mind.

    — Geo Davis

    Baby, No Baby?

    In my previous post, I recounted a conversation I had with Jason McNulty about a bronze baby that was present in the sculpture’s upheld hands.

    When I gave George McNulty’s son, Jason, a house tour a few year after completing our renovation, he immediately spotted the sculpture.

    “What happened to the baby?” he asked.

    “What do you mean?” I responded, confused.

    “The man was originally holding a baby up in the air,” he explained.

    It had never even occurred to me that there might have been another part of the sculpture, a part now missing. A baby. That’s what he’s lifting up and celebrating.

    I explained to Jason that we had not removed the baby. We had never even seen the baby. Aside from the addition of a marble base, this is exactly how the sculpture looked when it was gifted to us by Jason’s father.

    Probably his father had made two versions, Jason suggested, one with a baby, and one without. Or perhaps the baby was cast separately and conjoined afterward. (Source: Rosslyn Rapture: A Bronze Sculpture by George McNulty)

    Since then, I’ve had the opportunity to dig through old photographs, searching for evidence of the figure holding a baby.

    I’ve now realized what I must have previously forgotten (or overlooked). Apparently I’d seen both versions — with and without baby — years before.

    There are indeed two versions of the sculpture as Jason suggested. And if you look at the photograph above, you’ll see McNulty‘s sculpture *with baby* on the left side of the mantle above the fireplace. You may need to zoom in a bit, but the darkly, silhouetted figure clearly holds a baby high in the air.

    However, our version of the figure, as you can see in the photograph below, holds no baby. Hence my fanciful notion that the figure, a metaphorical, stand-in for the homeowner, is holding aloft — in adulation and gratitude — a magnificent abstraction. Rosslyn rapture!

    Rosslyn Rapture: Bronze Sculpture by George McNulty
    Rosslyn Rapture: Bronze Sculpture by George McNulty

    It’s worth noting that the hands of the figure above betray no evidence that a bronze baby was cut out or ground and sanded off at some point.

    George McNulty's Bronze Sculptures in Entrance Hallway
    George McNulty’s Bronze Sculptures in Entrance Hallway

    The photograph above shows Rosslyn’s entrance hallway about the time we began looking at the property in 2004 or 2005. If you look at the top of the bookshelf, on the right hand side of the photograph, just short of the far end (ie. near middle of photograph) you can just barely make out the sculpture with baby, similar to the one on the mantle piece above. Here’s that same view from the opposite angle.

    George McNulty's Bronze Sculptures in Entrance Hallway
    George McNulty’s Bronze Sculptures in Entrance Hallway

    The sculpture is clearly visible in this photograph of the entrance foyer along the north wall.

    Now comes the exciting part. Reviewing my early photographs from visits to this house when we were still considering whether or not to purchase the property (as well as in the photographs that Jason McNulty generously gave me taken during approximately the same timeframe) the bronze sculpture appears in both of the locations here documented: on the bedroom mantle, and on the foyer bookshelf.

    But I remembered another location: George McNulty’s basement sculpture workshop.

    George McNulty’s Bronze Sculptures in Workshop
    George McNulty’s Bronze Sculptures in Workshop

    Perhaps you’ve noticed the sculpture (with baby) just left of the G. McNulty, Sculptor sign that is propped against the back wall?

    Here’s a slightly different angle, zoomed in a little tighter…

    George McNulty's Bronze Sculptures in Workshop
    George McNulty’s Bronze Sculptures in Workshop

    In both of the two images above, and there’s some thing else that might catch your eye. If you look directly to the left of the sign, I’ve described, you will see a head. And behind the head? I believe that squinting a little bit and looking closely, you’ll see the empty arms of a second sculpture with no baby.

    And, so it would seem, Jason McNulty was correct. Two versions were made. So I will choose to imagine our figure holding high, not a baby, but the glorious abstraction of HOME.

  • Rosslyn Rapture: A Bronze Sculpture by George McNulty

    Rosslyn Rapture: A Bronze Sculpture by George McNulty

    After purchasing Rosslyn, George McNulty, presented us with a bronze sculpture born of his own hands and imagination. Standing with arms outstretched, extended skyward, the figure’s celebratory posture exudes joy and pride. In my view, McNulty’s miniature man appears to be celebrating or perhaps praising, arms reaching upward toward the heavens. Rosslyn Rapture, I’ve titled it (albeit only in my mind.) With no permission from the artist to name/rename his work, you’ll note no plaque adorning the base, no engraved nametag competing for attention. In fact, until now I’ve kept mostly mum about my personal title for McNulty’s sculpture. It felt presumptuous to impose my narrative, my interpretation onto another’s creation.

    Rosslyn Rapture: Bronze Sculpture by George McNulty
    Rosslyn Rapture: Bronze Sculpture by George McNulty

    And while we didn’t have Rosslyn Rapture plaqued, we did have it mounted on a small marble base for display. When we received the sculpture a couple of bolts protruded from the bottom of the feet for mounting. Since, at first, the figure could not be exhibited without a base, we held it in our hands. We felt the weighty bronze, ran our fingertips over the textured surface shaped by the fingers of a man who invested almost four decades into studying and documenting and slowly restoring the buildings which we now call home. We traced the figure’s lanky limbs and placed our fingertips into the sculpture’s tiny palms. There was an intimacy. A connection. Or so I chose to believe.

    In time I came to see the sculpture as McNulty’s exaltation for a home and a heritage that he loved. A man exalted with reverence. It was a hypothesis that fit the man I’d briefly come to know. It was a hypothesis consistent with the anecdotes and memories shared by his Essex friends and neighbors. It was a hypothesis that justified his commitment—spanning almost four decades—to preserving this historic property. But mostly, as I’ve come to learn in the years since, it was a hypothesis that helped me explain my own love affair with Rosslyn. I realize now that I was ascribing my own passion for this property onto the previous owner. I was enraptured with Rosslyn, with our new life at Rosslyn, and with the prospect of restoring this stately home and grounds to the restrained elegance still evident but fading. I had reimagined this art as an artifact of the previous owner’s passion and devotion for Rosslyn when in fact my hypothesis was first and foremost self referential.

    Rosslyn Rapture: Bronze Sculpture by George McNulty
    Rosslyn Rapture: Bronze Sculpture by George McNulty

    A Bronze Sculpture

    In short, I realize now that Rosslyn Rapture was my creation. McNulty’s was a bronze sculpture of a man with outreached arms and open hands lifted high. I saw a man grasping for something or praising a higher being. Or perhaps the man’s adulation was for a woman with whom he was impassioned? But fancy clouds my vision. The man’s arms are outreached. That is clear. Whether in praise or celebration or something altogether different, only the sculptor knows.

    For many years the figure has presided over our living room from his perch on the mantle above the northern fireplace. When I gave George McNulty’s son, Jason, a house tour a few year after completing our renovation, he immediately spotted the sculpture.

    “What happened to the baby?” he asked.

    “What do you mean?” I responded, confused.

    “The man was originally holding a baby up in the air,” he explained.

    It had never even occurred to me that there might have been another part of the sculpture, a part now missing. A baby. That’s what he’s lifting up and celebrating.

    I explained to Jason that we had not removed the baby. We had never even seen the baby. Aside from the addition of a marble base, this is exactly how the sculpture looked when it was gifted to us by Jason’s father.

    Probably his father had made two versions, Jason suggested, one with a baby, and one without. Or perhaps the baby was cast separately and conjoined afterward.

    Both possibilities seem possible, probable even. Imagination flushes out the narrative. George McNulty sculpts the man out of clay, creates a mold from the original, and—using the lost wax process—casts several bronze replicas. Separately and by the same process, he casts bronze babies which he then welds to the man’s hands. One of the figures, for some mysterious reason, remains empty handed. No baby.

    I found myself, wondering if his son, now standing in the living room of the house where he had grown up, might perhaps have been the inspiration for the sculpture, maybe even the model. The man did, after all, resemble his father. And the baby? Anybody’s guess.

    It occurs to me later that there’s another possibility. Perhaps each of the figures originally held a baby high in the air. But one broke. Or the sculptor removed it. Maybe that’s why he gave it to me, because it was an incomplete piece. This seems like a reasonable hypothesis, and maybe it’s correct. But I prefer the possibility that he gifted us this  version because it leaves open the hands, open the possibility that Rosslyn is the subject of the man’s ecstasy.

  • Broken & Unbroken

    Broken & Unbroken

    I’ve been reflecting a lot on vessels. Crockery, boats, homes, books, relationships, memories. And conditions. Conditions of vessels, the contents they’re asked to contain, and those of us who rely upon them, who contemplate them.

    Broken & Unbroken (Photo: Geo Davis)
    Broken & Unbroken (Photo: Geo Davis)

    The vessel above, a burly bowl, reminds me of another, gifted to us by Pam, crafted from a burl collected by her late husband, turned into this delicate work of art by Ron Bauer. Like this one, that handsome sculptural addition to our morning room would appear better suited to straining, than containing. And yet this one, one of the few art and artifacts we retained from our time at the Lapine House, cradles a fractured sculpture. The small, fragile figure once sat on a windowsill in our kitchen.

    Haiku

    Broken & Unbroken

    Discovered damaged,
    the fragments reassembled
    in a burly bowl.

    Vessel

    A tree burl is a boon born out of damage. A luxury born out of injury.

    A burl is a strange-looking collection of tree cells, which are called callus tissue. Normally, callus tissue is formed by a tree in response to an environmental injury such as a pruning cut, disease, or insect damage. In forest settings, callus often arises from storm damage that has eroded away or deposited more soil around the tree’s trunk. (Source: Organic Plant Care)

    A broken branch becomes a bulging burl destined to become a bowl. A vessel conjured into existence as a celebration of possibility, purity of form, beauty. Not for serving soup. Not for watering our Carley, our Labrador Retriever.

    A damaged effigy shaped out of soft stone by will, whimsy, and chisel has — not altogether unlike the tree-turned-art — been injured, been offered an opportunity to become something different, something new. Currently cradled by a vessel with enough voids and gaps to appear useless, incapable of containing very much at all, and yet robust and relevant. Not just beautiful. Practical. A crucible.

  • Creative Collisions & Happy Accidents

    Creative Collisions & Happy Accidents

    Boathouse, Essex, NY (Credit: Paul Flinn)
    Boathouse, Essex, NY (Credit: Paul Flinn)

    A few days ago I came across a provocative Facebook post that artist Nick Bantock had shared on December 30, 2022. The date’s not particularly notable, but the author is. Familiarity with Bantock’s work adds context and texture to the explanation about his creative process, specifically how he moves from found ephemera to finished artwork.

    I keep an in-between tank, a collection of part-constructed smaller pieces that are in a state of flux or transition. Resonating bits that touch or brush-up against one another, in a pre-morphing box (or in this case, a studio drawer)… Ideas are rarely plucked out of the ether, in my experience they come from creating an environment where happy accidents and surreal collisions can best occur. (Source: Nick Bantock, Facebook, December 30, 2022)

    I’d be wise to leave his words to stand alone. Unsullied. Undistorted. Unaccompanied. A beacon.

    And I’ll try.

    But trying isn’t enough. Temptation is building, like a wave rising higher, gaining momentum, wisps of foam falling from the curled lip.

    And so I succumb. Slightly.

    Creative Collisions

    The image above, an illustration of Rosslyn’s boathouse by Essex resident, Paul Flinn, was documented by Tony Foster. Between upcycling garapa decking boards into distinctive wall paneling for Rosslyn’s icehouse rehab he popped into Essex Town Hall, spied this handsome architectural sketch, snapped a photo, and pinged it through the ether to me.

    Collaborating with creative characters; emphasizing the merits and possibilities of adaptive reuse while repurposing collected curios, salvage, and surplus; and generally endeavoring to create an environment where “happy accidents and surreal collisions can best occur” just might be working. Thank you, Paul. Thank you, Tony.

    Happy Accidents

    Fusion. Collage. Combinatorial creativity… It’s been immensely satisfying to help catalyze the morphing. And it seems that everyday their are more happy accidents. They’re not all tidy or comfortable. Sometimes there friction and frustration. Sometime fission in place of fusion. But we’re in a flow state that, like an undertow and a strong surface current, are pulling us forward. Where? Too soon to say. But creative collisions and happy accidents suggest we’re trending in the right direction!

  • Bowtie & Broken Memento

    Bowtie & Broken Memento

    Bowtie & Broken Memento, January 25, 2023 (Photo: Geo Davis)
    Bowtie & Broken Memento, January 25, 2023 (Photo: Geo Davis)

    Bowtie & Broken Memento: Poem

    Amidst broken memento
    and fragmented hope,
    fractured sculpture
    and ruptured carpentry,
    a bowtie binds bitter ends.
    A patchwork harvest
    of homegrown cherry,
    felled and milled,
    cured and crafted,
    offcuts conjoined,
    scrappy remnants
    sewn in singalong,
    cradling conversation,
    cutlery, crockery,
    and nourishment.
    Sun soaked, finger
    tipped tenderly,
    inadvertently
    in thought,
    in conversation,
    in fast breaking —
    the only breaking
    the bowtie abides — 
    there's comforting
    contrast and real 
    reassurance
    in an inlaid
    joint pulling
    the pieces
    together.

    Bowtie & Broken Memento: Afterward

    Sometimes, as I shared with a friend the other day, a hug is more articulate than a hailstorm of words. The same is true with a passing shower, a mist passing over, passing through.

    This draft poem is still prenatal. Preliminary. A furtive foray into the curious coalescence of still tender fractures and ruptures that drew me back to Rosslyn (and that continue to disclose themselves each day of my stay, reminders of quaking in recent weeks) but also the durable bonds and the abiding beauty that hold it all together.

    I reflected on the shell in the photograph above (when still unbroken) in an Instagram post a little over a year ago.

    Muscle shell “name tags” for seating arrangement at a wedding reception celebrating Elizabeth — one of Susan’s clever cousins — and Nick in Maine some summers ago. We were invited to keep them, so we did, and they’re now nesting in a maple burl bowl on our morning room table. This beautiful vessel was gifted to us by our friend Pam in memory of her late husband, Bob. He had gathered the burl from a fallen maple at Rosslyn, an immense centenarian, perhaps even a duo-centenarian, that succumbed to a windstorm, nearly striking the house. I watched it fall. Bob had intended to craft the character-rich burl into bowls, but his honorable journey was abbreviated prematurely, suddenly, tragically by the mysterious fates. Pam fulfilled his plans with the help of another friend, Ron Bauer, a local woodworker who built for us the black cherry harvest table upon which this burl bowl rests and where we eat virtually all of our Essex breakfasts and many of our lunches and dinners. Ron turned this bowl, and Pam presented it to us last spring, a year after she lost her husband. So much life and memory and gratitude resident in a few vignetted artifacts, a daily memorial, commingling the stories and characters and nostalgia and beauty that enrich even our most quotidian moments. This is the abundance and texture that invests a poetics of place. This is the “singing underneath”. This is the art of wabi sabi living… — @rosslynredux, October 3, 2021

    Today I met with Ron to collaborate on a new table. We talked about bowtie inlays, turning burls into bowls, wood, joinery, and the unique cutting boards he has made for us out of this same cherry that once grew just west of the icehouse and that we gift to some of guests at ADK Oasis.

    This evening I will hold in my head the memory of our conversation, a meditation on bowtie joints as well as other acts, art, artifacts that resist fragmentation and fracture. I will dwell on the humble bowtie instead of broken mementos.

    A butterfly joint, also called a bow tie, dovetail key, Dutchman joint, or Nakashima joint, is a type of joint or inlay used to hold two or more pieces of woods together. (Source: Wikipedia)

    https://www.instagram.com/p/CUlQoPrPovB/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link