The Letters by Luanne Rice & Joseph Monninger

Author:Luanne Rice & Joseph Monninger [Rice, Luanne & Monninger, Joseph]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780553905915
Publisher: Wheeler Publishing
Published: 2008-09-23T07:00:00+00:00

And islanders. There’s a camaraderie that exists here just by nature of living so far at sea in so few square miles. When I walk back toward town from the inlet, I see smoke wisping out of chimneys and feel a kind of coziness and homecoming, as if I’m somewhere I belong. The town is tiny, just a street and a general store and a post office and the ferry dock. There’s the Island Inn overlooking the harbor and un-inhabited Manana Island, and the sunsets, and there’s a tiny library.

Now that I’m officially a year-rounder (at least this year) they’ve told me the big secret—Jamie Wyeth doesn’t live here anymore! The myth of Jamie looms large over the summer art community. People really do make pilgrimages here to connect with the Wyeth mystique. I’m not sure whether they’re afraid that if tourists find out they wouldn’t come, or whether—and I think this is more like it—they enjoy the joke. But the truth is, there’s an austerity to the beauty here that reminds me so much more of Andrew Wyeth, Jamie’s father.

That subtle palette he always used, shades of wheat and gray, white and cream. Voile curtains at the window, weather-beaten barns, salt-silvered shingles. When I used to visit my aunt in Hartford, she’d take me to the Wadsworth Atheneum, and my favorite painting was by Andrew Wyeth, of a house on the coast; it was painted from the perspective of the wood-shingled roof, looking past a lightning rod with a pale-yellow glass ball pierced by the needle, and the late-year beach and sea spreading out behind and below in the distance.

The canvas was so simple, so not showy. His brushstrokes were fine, almost invisible. He used gouache, the first time I took note of that as a medium. The painting had the sense of a photograph, very fine and precise, the view neither added onto nor subtracted from but simply rendered, not exactly black and white but delicately colored, almost as if time and memory had bleached it of any rich or strong hues. The feeling was pure November—clear light, a sort of sadness, a moment of reflection. I loved it.

That’s what Monhegan feels like to me: that painting, my favorite by Andrew Wyeth. No matter that the seasons will pass, there’s a November quality to this island. Summer is over, the prettiest part of fall has gone by—there are no bright yellows, no sugar maple reds, no flowers left. Christmas is still to come—no lights yet, or trees, or wreaths or decorations. There’s no artificial cheer. Everything is brown, gray, black, white, and dark, dark forest green. It suits the way I feel, and it’s beautiful.

I’ve rented the house through May—and I know I said I wanted to buy it, sell our house and stay here, and maybe I still will. But after all my enthusiasm in the first few letters, I’m suddenly not sure. This might sound crazy, but I feel I was meant to come here for right now, this very winter.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.