Here on Rocky Neck for two weeks now.  The work feels multi-directional, if not totally scattered. On one studio wall are the knots, to the right of the knots are the powdered graphite drawings. Over by the kitchen, the impulse purchase of three antique charts hang crookedly from a pair of silver bull clips.

The computer holds the weighty gigabites of sound and image from the Paint Factory, rocky shores, boatyards and beaches. 

My daily routine is a cross-fade between these bodies of work, wondering if they will ever knit themselves together like the acres of nets spooled to the stern of the hauled-out trawler in the neighboring boatyard.

I have been reading some, and recording some, and exploring a lot. Water shapes everything here - the boats, the shore, the people. The salt-encrusted flow of a community in its 400th year of ranching the ocean.  I feel very welcome, very included in this place. 

Rocky Neck, especially, is loved by its residents. The artists seem relaxed and revered. Their studios are sequestered away on misshapen piers and in the former bedrooms of grand old homes. Tides and breezes flow under, around, and sometimes through these provisional spaces for making art.

The sonic signature is very strong. Nuns and bells and buoys pepper the waves in a quiet cacophony. Coves, harbors, and inlets relentlessly lap their waters against all surfaces, everywhere. Docks creak their throaty lament while boat captains belt out the disparaging notes of a well-rehearsed call-and-response, yelling not in anger, just to add emphasis.

Cape Ann is surrounded by water on all sides but is also, somehow, not an island. 

From Inner Harbor, the path to open ocean is a lazy slalom between lobster traps. From the marsh, it's a switchbacking maze of channels through muddy banks and tall grasses. Just when the back-and-forth begins to get tedious, the marsh spreads itself wide into the Annasquam and the Atlantic, birthing lobster boats and pleasure craft in equal measures.

I wonder how many miles of rigging are in this harbor. I have a mischievous desire to disassemble all of the working cordage and cables, and stretch it out, end to end, just to see how many laps it would run around the world.

I wonder where one goes to hear fish stories.

There is a pragmatic repurposing of fishing gear into outdoor furniture, driveway edging, and home decor.

There is not only an art colony, but also a writer's guild.

And there is rain, lots of rain. A deep soaking rain that brings fresh purity, and salty puddles.

Water above, water within, and water below.

Rocky Neck stands firmly on liquid ground.