I’ve lived much, perhaps even *most* of my life in old houses. With the exception of late middle and high school, 3/4 of college, briefly in Santa Fe (1996-9), and briefly in Paris and Rome, my homes have been within old houses. And, come to think of it, some of my boarding school years were in old homes too. And yet each new home was revitalized — and revitalizing — when it became my personal (or familial) residential oasis. Old house, new home.
Hyde Gate, Essex, New York (Illustration by Kate Boesser for All My Houses, By Sally Lesh)
With Rosslyn becoming our place of residence, starting in 2006 and fully by 2008, this old house, new home combination took on new levels of significance. The oldness of the house wasn’t just evident in the architecture and design, the building materials and dated/failing mechanicals, and the time-earned gravity that many enduring old buildings exude. All of these were in evidence with Rosslyn, for sure. But there was something more.
Rosslyn’s history included a notable human legacy: lives lived and recorded; stories told and retold; images made, circulated, and collected. Rosslyn’s backstory as a prominent presence along Merchants Row; built by one of the two founding families in Essex; plus the iconic boathouse attracting the eyes of generations of photographers, artists, travelers; the years spent as a local enterprise (restaurant and watering hole, vacation accommodation, and boating regatta hub); and well documented home and preservation subject of George McNulty who helped catalyze Essex’s recognition in the historic register;… Rosslyn was an old house, new home with an outsized history. This was new to Susan and me.
The questions. The advice. The judgement. The memories and stories and artifacts. The responsibility. The stewardship. The pride… It’s been an adjustment. A learning curve. A deeply formative journey. A privilege.
Once upon a time this handsome old house became our new home, and along with it almost two hundred years of backstory, lives, styles, and lifestyles. I try to gather into a basket or a tapestry, a moving picture or a singalong, the colorful threads, the adventures, and the text textured tunes.
A few days ago I came across a provocative Facebook post that artistNick 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!
Champy spotted at Essex ferry dock?!?! Once upon a time…
Champy Spotted at Essex Ferry Dock (Photo: Kathryn Reinhardt)
I’m gambling that it was around 1980 for no reliable reasons except the look and condition of the Old Dock Restaurant, the presence of ice shanties on a throughly frozen lake with no ferry canal, and the incredibly well executed snow/ice sculpture just north of the Essex ferry dock. It’s this last one that triggered a cascade of memories and lead me to hope that the photograph was taken by Jan Peden around 1980. More on that in a moment.
I make no effort to disguise my enthusiasm for hyperlocalephemera and other artifacts, especially yesteryear photographs and other representations of our fair village. So you just might be able to imagine my excitement when I received this message from friend and neighbor, Kathryn “Kathy” Reinhardt.
Sorting papers and I found two Essex postcards you might like. One of the Split Rock lighthouse with a postmark and message from 1910. The other card was not used and shows the snow covered ferry dock with a frozen Champ swimming alongside. Photo is by Jan Peden; card was published by ECHO.” — Kathryn Reinhardt
I’ll get to the historic image of the Split Rock Lighthouse in a moment, but let’s pause a moment to appreciate the legendary Lake Champlain monster (aka “Champ”, “Champy”).
Champy & Nostalgia
I’m hoping that this post might rekindle community memory enough to learn who helped sculpt this superb likeness of our favorite surviving dinosaur. The uninitiated may remember Champy from the Sid Couchey painting/illustration of the friendly monster cavorting off the end of Rosslyn’s boathouse. I shared it waaayyy back on April 27, 2012, so it’s say it’s time for a resurface.
Champy in front of Rosslyn’s boathouse (Art: Sid Couchey)
Ostensibly a cousin to the Lock Ness monster, our Lake Champlain mystery monster is considered a myth by some, a fundamental fact by others. Happy hour sightings along the lake’s waterfront apparently offer particularly plausible viewing opportunities, though I’ll admit having never witnessed the friendly fellow (or is Champy a she?).
I suggested earlier that my instinct to date this postcard photograph sometime near 1980 derives from vivid memories of the years prior to and after the 1980 Winter Olympics which took place in Lake Placid. I was a boy, so my memories are likely ripened with nostalgia, but it seems that there was community-wide embrace of winter in those years. Likely catalyzed by preparations for the Olympics and then the afterglow, it seems that there were abundant winter happenings — toboggan runs, outdoor jogging contests, cross country ski races, skating rinks, fish fries with freshly caught smelt, and snow sculptures — that drew people outside into the out-of-doors from community revelry. I remember competing in a cross-country ski race on the Westport Country Club golf course, and “red nose runs” in Elizabethtown. I remember fish fries at the old Westport beach, and the most horrifyingly thrilling toboggan chute down the hill and out onto the frozen lake. I believe that much of these memories are clumped around an annual midwinter event that was called the Westport Outdoor Weekend (WOW). And one of my favorite parts of this annual festival was the snow sculpture contest. Homes throughout the area competed for the bet snow sculpture. We used to drive around and admire them all. I believe I recall the Valley News even showcasing winners some years. And so this flood of nostalgia underpins my suspicion that this handsome facsimile of Champy might date to those years.
It’s interesting to me that the postcards, produced by ECHO, drew attention to the Essex-Charlotte ferry pier and history of service without a more inclusive mention of the Essex waterfront or the handsome snow sculpture!
Back side of Champy at Essex ferry dock postcard (Photo: Kathryn Reinhardt)
Split Rock Light
Let’s turn now to the second postcard that Kathy sent me. Although I and others usually refer to the historic lighthouse presiding over the dramatic geographic promontory jutting out into Whallons Bay as the Split Rock Lighthouse, I’ve notice this older references, especially the further back into history they fall, refer to it as Split Rock Light. That’s neither here nor there, but I find those little linguistic shifts intriguing.
1910 postcard depicting Split Rock Lighthouse (Photo: Kathryn Reinhardt)
I recently shared an almost identical postcard of the Split Rock Light, likely created from the same source photograph. The coloring, layout, and captioning differs between the two, but I imagine both images were late at the end of the 19th or beginning of the 20th century and then repurposed. It’s a compelling angle, especially because this same view today is less open. Here’s the postcard that I published on November 21, 2022.
Split Rock Light, Essex, NY (Vintage Postcard)
It’s fun to flip back and forth between the two images to see what’s similar and what differs. Back in November I was struck then as well by how thinly forested the Split Rock Light grounds were at the time.
The historic lighthouse located at Split Rock in Essex, NY reigns over a promontory bearing a curious resemblance to an arboretum, more landscaped and less wild than today. A copse of diverse specimen trees here, a granite outcrop there, a grassy bluff here,… I can’t help but see a sort of Split Rock botanical garden. (Source: This is Not a Metaphor)
That notable difference with the same location a century or so later vies for my attention, but so too does the message on the reverse of the postcard that Kathy sent.
In many respects this is the most formulaic, most universal postcard missive. We’ve all read (and possibly written) versions of this, right? But there’s a personal pleasure in the final two lines:
Having a delightful sail on this. — B.H.
As a boater in general, and a sailor in particular, this subtle sign-off hooks me. So often Susan and I spy this beautiful, historically significant spot by boat, and often by sailboat. So even though B.H. mostly went through the motions in the message area of the card, the fading memory of a sail on Lake Champlain, indeed on the enchanting broad-lake-to-narrows transition, appeals to my romantic imagination.
Back side of 1910 postcard depicting Split Rock Lighthouse (Photo: Kathryn Reinhardt)
I’d best conclude this post (definitively in need of an editor!) before I wander too much further afield. And yet I can’t resist acknowledging that one of the great satisfactions of these artifacts is not just the bridge across time, but the invitation to meander. To wonder and wander. And this post is proof that meandering is a favorite pastime for yours truly.
Thank You, Kathy!
This Rosslyn blog and the Essex community blog have been meaningful projects in large part because they have catalyzed a sort of community crowdsourcing, gathering all sorts of curious anecdotes, memories, stories, renderings, and relics from current and past members of Essex and environs. Any time I receive a message like the one that Kathy sent, my heart skips a beat. My anticipation builds and builds until the meeting or the phone call or the email or the letter completes the excitement provoked by the initial “teaser”. And so I close off this post with a holiday hug (stretched by distance but invested with bountiful gratitude) for Kathryn “Kathy” Reinhardt.
Kathryn Reinhardt preparing to “polar plunge” on May 1, 2016 (Photo: Geo Davis)
I hope she’ll chuckle good-naturedly at this fun photo that I took a half dozen years ago. It perfectly captures her perennial joy, her contagious laughter, and her warmth. I couldn’t resist mentioning this last 100% accurate description of Kathy’s character because she’s about to take an early springtime plunge into Lake Champlain in the photograph. Brrr…
Revisiting my mid-March boathouse illustration as a black and white watercolor. Aaahhh… the magic of digital! (Source: Geo Davis)
Back on March 28, 2022 I shared a whimsical boathouse illustration including some of my creation process. At the time I conceived of the exercise as a way to exercise my rudimentary watercolor abilities while enticing the universe to hasten the spring-to-summer transition. Verdict is out on whether or not my efforts wooed the universe. But the practice was a pleasure, and I’m resolving to make time for more watercolor illustrations this autumn and winter.
You can click the back/forward arrows in the original Instagram post below to see some of the pre-finished phases.
https://www.instagram.com/p/Cbqit9bOz6P/
B&W vs. Color Boathouse Illustration
So why revisit this potently pigmented image with achromatic ambitions?
I’ve been experimenting for about a decade with black and white as a visual storytelling medium (carpemidlife.com and @carpemidlife). It’s part of a larger project stretching my comfort with creative risk — in poetry, essay, and storytelling and in photographs, collage, illustration, mixed media mashups, and even a little bit of video — as a way to repurpose midlife malaise into midlife motivation. One of the early decisions I made for focusing and structuring the project was restricting all image-making (and writing, for that matter) to black and white. We live in an era of magnificent digital imaging, stunning verisimilitude, oversaturated colors, and a panoply of intelligent filters, algorithms, etc. to augment reality.
Make no mistake. I’m profoundly grateful to experience these magnificent modern advances in image making, but I find myself missing the granularity and character of the analog world. I explore this more at Carpe Midlife if provoked your curiosity. If not, I’ll return to the present context.
So often in our sweet sixteen years as the stewards of Rosslyn, I’m drawn to the juxtaposition of old and new. In many respects rehabilitating Rosslyn and making our life here has blurred past, present, and future. History is alive. And similarly much of our quotidian existence is timeless. There’s a whimsical simultaneity of lives and times that infiltrates our lakeside lifestyle. And rather than resist it, I often find it enriching, even entertaining. And so I’ve come to playfully experiment, sometimes renovating that which is vintage or antique. Others times I accelerate aging. Or agelessness. And sometimes these shifts in perspective yield surprising, often refreshing new experiences.
I was curious to see what might happen by repurposing a colorful new illustration as a colorless facsimile. Stripping away the cheerful colors, what remains? Is it an anemic phantom image? Does the emphasis change? The feeling?
In my opinion there’s a world of difference between what I notice visually and what I feel internally in response to the black and white boathouse illustration at the top of this page and the color-soaked original below. What do you think?
Original boathouse illustration watercolored cheerfully in hopes of hastening grey spring into technicolor summer! (Source: Geo Davis)
From Boathouse-lust to Wonder-lust
If you’re a longtime reader and you’re detecting a subtle shift in some of these recent blog and social media posts, you’re not wrong. You’re perceptive.
There is a shift underway. Like so many whose views and lifestyles have evolved over the last couple of years — pandemic year and post-pandemic year (if we’re bold enough to assume the latter) — Susan and I have new stories to share about Rosslyn. We’re navigating a liminal space that is still unfurling it’s mysteries for us. As we find our way, I’ll share the experience. With a little luck, we will share the experience.
But for now, I just want to acknowledge that this period of introspection and reflection and significant transition for us is undoubtedly woven into posts like this one. Sometimes familiarity and comfort are exactly what we need. And sometimes wondering and wandering away from the familiar and the comfortable can be just as important.
I am on a quest for permission. Permission from Susan, from Rosslyn, even from family and friends. Most of all I am on a quest for permission from myself. This morning a serendipitous swirl of accidental-coincidental happenings helped me realize this. Chief among them (and the rightful recipients my profound gratitude) in the order they fluttered across my morning:
newly arrived “intense black” (actually deep green) fountain pen ink from Wordsworth & Black;
a joy-filled (cheerful words and jolly doodles) letter from my mother, Melissa Davis;
timely, astute, perspective bending counsel from Virginia Woolf; and
even more timely but equally astute, epiphanic insight from Nick Bantock.
In the photograph above, a few artifacts hint at the serendipitous series of events that, to my arguably esoteric way of thinking, fall into a phenomenon I refer to as rhyming. Sometimes the universe rhymes, or as poet Jeffrey Harrison might offer, if you’re receptive to it, you might hear “The Singing Underneath“. I’d best stand aside and let him guide us.
“just beneath the world we see,
there is a silent singing that breaks out
at moments, in flickering points of light.”
— Jeffrey Harrison, “The Singing Underneath”
The fountain pen, clogged with dry ink, awaiting new ink, had been a metaphorical reminder that I was stuck. Clogged. I wasn’t flowing as I needed to be. But new ink arrived just in time. The crusty piston pulled clean water in and pushed it out again. Unclogging with each plunge of the piston. Anticipation as I drew up the new ink. And then lines on paper. Perfect. Flowing again.
My mother’s 2-page note, complete with her unique illustrations, was an attentive parade of grateful acknowledgments gathered during a recent adventure together. Unselfconscious. Whimsical. Honest.
Virginia Woolf’s words needn’t be explained, only shared.
“He chooses; he synthesizes; in short, he has ceased to be a chronicler; he has become an artist.” — Virginia Woolf
I don’t know where I came across these words, and I’m failing now to find them. Perhaps I’ve misattributed this quotation? This morning at least, it doesn’t matter. The shift in perspective is precisely what I needed to consider. to prepare me for the keystone concept that gathered it all together.
Artist and author, Nick Bantock, shared a reflection on Griffin & Sabine that resonated right for me.
THE idea of writing a love letter to oneself sounds both indulgent and cheesy, and yet done in the name of self-acceptance rather than narcissism, I feel there’s much merit to the act.
I think when I wrote the following passage, from Sabine to Griffin, I was doing exactly that, I was articulating an inner need to bringing together and unite my opposite selves, my logical and intuitive personas:
“I have loved you in every manner that my imagination could contrive. I have wanted you so deeply that my body sang with pain and pleasure. You have been my obsession, my passion, my philosophers stone of fantasy. You are my desire, my longing, my spirit. I love you unconditionally. Do you hear me, Griffin? Do you see that I cherish you beyond question, that you have nothing to prove to me? You are making your journey to secure yourself. I am already tethered to your side. If you can love yourself, as I love you, there will be no dislocation — you will be whole. Bring yourself home to me and I will immerse you in every ounce of tenderness I possess. Sabine.”
Looking back, I can see that whilst the tale of G and S was certainly an expression of romantic longing, it was also a quest for permission. I was trying to give myself, and others, the encouragement to be both opposite and whole. — Nick Bantock (Source: Facebook, November 14, 2022)
Eureka! In revealing what he’s come to understand about what compelled him to create the Griffin & Sabine books, his words struck that ineffable something that Susan and I are grappling with and that I’ve been exploring in Rosslyn Redux — wondering, yearning, exploring, growing toward, backsliding and second guessing, and then venturing tentatively out again — over the last couple of years. I genuinely believe that he has captured succinctly and lucidly our journey: it’s “a quest for permission.”
I’ve referenced frequently, perhaps too frequently, an ongoing transformation in our relationship with Rosslyn, an evolution in our scheming and prognosticating and brainstorming. I’ve acknowledged liminality and the sometimes bittersweet, sometimes conflicted emotions that manifest suddenly and unpredictably as we attempt to navigate from comfort and stability toward the unfamiliar, unknown. At last I’ve stumbled on what I’ve needed to know. My quest for permission needn’t require such wayward roving. It is first and foremost my own consent I’m questing after. And part of accepting this is granting myself permission to embrace art above chronicle. I’ve suspected this. Dithered. Wondered. Worried. But this morning a confident confluence is flowing. And I’m ready…
When I stumble upon artifacts specific to Rosslyn or Essex or Lake Champlain or the Adirondacks I’m usually unable to resist collecting and showcasing them for others to enjoy. Often I can explain precisely why the artifact is of interest, but other times I’m unable to explain clearly, succinctly the appeal. Today’s discovery is fated to this latter purgatory I’m afraid.
1882 Harper’s Weekly: Children’s Excursion to Lake Champlain
This antique print appeared at auction but its purchase eluded me. It would have been nice to get a closer look, and to properly decipher the artist’s name (not 100% ineligible in this digital facsimile).
According to the auction listing, the page was pulled from the July 1882 issue of Harper’s Weekly, and the title offers a glimpse into the narrative it was illustrating.
THE “TRIBUNE” FRESH-AIR FUND—CHILDREN’S EXCURSION TO LAKE CHAMPLAIN
Harper’s Weekly, July 1882
This evocative antique drawing captures the hope and energy of a children’s book illustration, inviting daydreams of carefree country living along the shores of Lake Champlain.
There’s plenty to appreciate in this drawing. My eye is especially drawn to the vignette subtitled “At a bee swarming” and located near the center of the image. While the drama of finding and trapping a bee swarm (presumably to populate a bee hive) is the clear focus of this freeze-frame, it’s the background which leaps out at me. Do you see building boasting a sunburst ornamented pediment? The architectural illustration may or may not have been inspired by a visit to Essex on Lake Champlain, but it certainly appears likely!
