image size: 12" x 12"
edition of 22
signed and numbered on the front
- The unframed print is in the "medium unframed category". Up to three unframed prints this size will fit in a box without increasing shipping rates.
- The framed print is in the "medium framed category".
Little story for you:
A few years ago, I did an oil painting in Boothbay Harbor, Maine that has turned into the inspiration for this multi-colored woodblock print.
It reminds me of visiting the Beach Cottage that I used to visit as a child:
With the car stuffed full of clothes, toys, food, dogs, a cat, a fish, four people and the perennial last minute live plant, we head off to the cottage.
It isn’t that far from where we live - only about an hour and fifteen minutes - but we pack every single thing we might need for our month away.
At some point during the journey, the cat stops screaming from her box and we know what that means - she has escaped again and peed on something. She pops her head up in the way back and smiles, flicking her tail smugly.
The dogs are taking up all the room in the back seat area and are fast asleep. We two kids fidget and complain, but the adults ignore us. Luckily there aren’t air bags or seat belts to interfere with the tight quarters.
During the journey, bags fall on us, fall on the plant, fall on the dog and there is more fussing.
We know we are almost there when the air suddenly chills and we can smell the sea. The dogs awaken and stick their noses out the windows, snuffling and snorting. They wag a little. This makes the whole situation in the back seat tighter and more uncomfortable, but we don’t care because we also know that we have arrived.
The yearly pilgrimage to the Beach Cottage. The old, barn-like structure on the edge of a New Hampshire marsh that barely keeps the wind and mosquitos out and the cat in.
Across a busy state road from the ocean. The views would be spectacular if the windows weren’t scaled with sea spray.
Before we’re allowed to swim, play, walk on the beach, or even stop to look, we must unload the car. That begins with doors opening and suitcases falling out.
We lug many loads up the rickety wooden steps, onto the sloping porch and through the front door.
Inside, the smells are different, but not unpleasant. It is a different smell of home. A temporary smell, a fleeting one. We will only smell it for this one month a year.
Anyone who can relate to this post knows what we knew: If you are lucky enough to have a place at the beach, you are lucky enough.