Portland Maine: Possibly the best city-town in the country.

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I believe in working-class New England city-towns such as Portsmouth, Brattleboro, Groton, and New London, as well as North Adams, Glouscester, Provincetown, and Jamestown. They're authentic. When it comes to grit and "hand-cut-beam-solid" types of towns, Maine is as real as they get. Known commonly as The Pine Tree State, which is a fine and proper nod to the state's logging history, it could have easily been crowned "The Coastline State". This is territory with a healthy dose of "can-do" attitude that's as honest as the coast is rough, raw and beautiful. Other than the Pacific Northwest, there's no place quite like the small cities along this state's coastline.

This is a working waterfront state supporting thousands of independent fishermen, lobstermen, oyster men, clam mets, scallopers and other shell fishermen: seafood harvesters, and the industries that are necessary to support and sustain a network of such fresh food industries. And pound for pound, this state's output is measured in bulk tonage where work is a vocation that's handed down from one generation of fisherman to the next.

Like a patchwork quilt, the swath of cultures and the languages they bring is extensive, especially in the larger cities such as in Portland where the local hospital, The Maine Medical Center provides translators for over 80 different languages. Nearly every culture has a component of its society that are fishermen, and the waters off the coast of Maine have been attracting fishermen from countries around the world for hundreds of years. Workers come from away to earn a living in Maine as the waters of the Northern Atlantic have been bountiful for centuries.

Whether you're in Bath, Bristol, Rockport, Belfast, or Eastport, the raw honesty of Maine, the soul of this state is often along its working waterfronts. 

 

The Whites

I've been hiking the White Mountains since I was 17. Each excursion, each exploration has been life changing. In 1977, on a hot August day, my father and I set out for the summit of Mt. Washington. Blue skies gave way to a whiteout of fog that was illuminated by a fierce electrical storm; exposed and above treeline we learned what it meant to be father & son. 36-years later I shared the details of our story during his eulogy. Then in August of 2013, on their first hike to the Summit of Washington, my three sons and I set his ashes free just above the head of the Dry River Trail.

At the end of summer in 1982 I did solo hikes into Madison Hut, Zealand Falls Hut, and explored numerous trails whose names have all been lost to my aging memory. The solitude and the freedom experienced then has guided me back time after time. There have been many discoveries I experienced in the Whites; It was along a riverbed and by candlelight that I explored the writings of John Muir, as well as trout fishing while backpacking, nude bathing at dusk, and the sheer pleasure and satisfaction that a bottle of red wine can bring to any camp site at the end of a long exhausting day. 

I recently returned, exploring the western edge of the presidentials with a dear friend and again with my three sons. The trails were as unforgiving as I remembered them, but the bottle of single malt scotch we portered in mended our aging joints. (My sons' joints were just fine, but miraculously three cold silver bullets appeared to join our toasts with eager smiles and good hearts.)

There is a camaraderie earned when traveling wooded trail and sipping whiskey, especially beneath the blue black sky of a mountain night sky that almosts hums with the power of life. Perhaps John Muir understood this best when he wrote, "Keep close to Nature's heart...Wash your spirit clean."

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QUOTE: "I DON'T TRUST WORDS. I TRUST PICTURES." -- Giles Peress, Magnum Photographer

Strong words from any photographer, but even more so when we consider that Peress has been documenting the brutal truth of war and conflict for several decades. Whether he is focusing his lens on the brutalities in Rwanda or the atrocities of Bosnia -- Giles Peress faces some of the darkest aspects of human nature. His philosophy towards photography as art has evolved too: 

“I don't care so much anymore about 'good photography'; I am gathering evidence for history”

 

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JAZZ - PHILLY STYLE

For the past several years I have been documenting musicians; in particular, their live performances. For me, no other art form expresses itself as raw and personal as does music. Few artists work as soulfully "live" as they do. Perhaps it’s because their connection to the audience is through two of our most used and interpretive senses: sight and sound. It's one thing to be moved by song on radio, it's another to see and hear that music performed live, front and center, "in-the-spot-light" where song takes on a physical form. It is in these magical moments where we can also see the agile skills of the artist, their physical talents, even what I would describe as their athletic abilities. (If we consider race-car drivers athletes, why not musicians? Timing, eye-hand coordination, split second precision, endurance, personality, entertainment value… are these not the qualities of a great formula one driver…are these too not the qualities of any accomplished musician? But I digress.) Live performances are victory laps, they are the trophy moments in a musician’s work. Much would be lost if music were only heard and not seen.

The truth about music is this: it is the only language in the history of mankind that can be understood without being taught. We do not have to "learn it" - we do not have to read a text book, an instruction manual, use an assembly guide, or sit through years of classes in order to master it -- we can enjoy it right out of the box. A child will connect with music as readily as an adult, and as easily as they can see light. No one need learn the meaning of notes, the importance of measure, the difference between 4/4-time and cut-time in order to connect with a musician's sound. Not that all music speaks the same language, delivers the same message or evokes the same response, but no other form of communication is more readily understood as is the language of music.

For me watching a pianist, a saxophonist, a guitarist or singer express themselves through their work is as close to what I imagine a priest must experience when an individual bares open their soul during pure confession: music is an expression of our emotions, the essence of humanity, the heart of beauty: Music is the soundtrack of life.
 
Recently, I hit the live music scene in a small Philly jazz club. Here the musicians are a tight knit community who can drop in on one another's sessions without invite, but always welcomed. Some are students at Temple University who move in the same circles, understand what it means to perform together, and take no offense when asked to give way to another artist who has the urge to jam. Drummers hand over sticks, a base player their well-worn base, and even lead saxophonists bow to a stranger with a trumpet when they appear at side stage. Their code is to create: friend, stranger or even audience members; all are welcome. I've discovered no other club quite like this. Yes, I've been around open mic nights, improv and amateur hours, but rarely have I seen a performing trio stop their set to welcome a stranger center stage, a fourth member, the way they do in Philly. This particular night I watched one piano player take over the baby grand in mid-song, in mid-rift. Right hand gave the upper scales to the new player, while the lower scales were maintained until the newcomer's left hand landed on those same ivories; legs where gracefully stretched over and around the bench as one artist exited and the other took charge. Both were smiling, both in sync, like dancers in unison. We applauded the feat. Had our eyes been closed we wouldn't have noticed the changing of the guard. Not a note was out of place or tempo lost. It was a physical dance where the dancers were also writing the score to which they performed… all before our eyes. There’s nothing like music, but it's never better than when it’s live.

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IN THE KITCHEN

Food craft always attracts my attention. Perhaps it's the burst of light, the flash of flame, the sizzle and crackle of ingredients on hot grills, or the voices of chefs calling to their wait staff, "Broccoli Rabe on 12, Sea Bass on 28...lets go people! It's hot!"

I'll turn my lens towards such action any night of the week. Give me access to a kitchen and I'll take on the heat... What's that expression, "If you can't stand the heat stay out of the kitchen"? Truth is, I usually can't tolerate high temperatures, but if my camera is in hand and a working scene unfolds, I won't feel the heat or cold or even the wind and rain. Capturing the moment seems to numb such pain, and connecting with my surroundings becomes all that matters.

Bon appetite!

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LIVE FROM NEW YORK

Spent three nights in New York City...hitting the streets and the small music clubs of this all night town. Nothing energizes me more than great music. And nothing charges me up quite like a LIVE performance; close and personal. Maybe it's the proximity to the passions of musicians or the kindred souls within the audience, but finding a new band, hearing a new talent fills me, fixes my junkie-like need to experience life anew and raw. And a good single malt scotch or two always helps the music take hold. Here are a handful of images of the talents playing in Manhattan last Thursday.

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