Dunes on the Napeague Stretch, oil on canvas, 26″ x 36″, private collection

Between Amagansett and Montauk lies an area of dunes along the Napeague stretch. It’s one of the few unspoiled beach front areas left on Eastern Long Island. I spent a few summers teaching at The Art Barge, located east of Amagansett, situated almost in the middle of this narrow stretch of land. “The Art Barge was the creation of Victor D’Amico who was founding director of Education at The Museum of Modern Art in New York from 1937 to 1970. Having built a home and established roots in Amagansett in the 40s and initiated MoMA-sponsored art classes in the 50s at Ashawagh Hall in the Springs, East Hampton, he enlisted the help of local fishermen in 1960 to bring a retired World War I Navy barge from New Jersey and beach it on the pristine shoreline at the head of Napeague Harbor.” Quoted from the Art Barge website. A wide and interesting range of art classes are still being taught there still. There’s a convenient place close to the Barge off Cranberry Hole Rd where I would meet my class for painting on location. It’s an area of secondary dunes sometimes referred to as Double Dunes where the dunes close to the ocean taper off and flatten out before they build up again.

Dunes off Cranberry Hole Road, oil on canvas, 20″ x 28″

Shrub pines and beach pea are growing next to each other in the sand. The dunes are a study of light, bright contrasts and subtleties in color. When it’s sunny it can be blinding. You need a wide brim hat and sun glasses. Shades help but I find there’s a problem correcting color when wearing them. Sometimes the glare gives me a migraine.

Dunes in Napeague, oil on canvas, 30″ x 40″

During one summer and into the fall I painted in the dunes on the Atlantic side not far from the Art Barge with a friend, Gordon Matheson. I met Gordon through the Art Barge. He joined a class I was teaching in plein-air painting. If we knew we were going to have a few days of good weather we’d load up my car and drive into the state park area, unload and stay all day. I’d go one way, Gordon would go another and we wouldn’t see each other until it was time to pack up. What I liked most about painting there was that no one else was around. One can think where it’s quiet, surrounded on all sides by dunes and beach pines. They block out the noise of traffic speeding by just a few hundred yards away. You’d never know they were there.

Napeague, oil on wood panel, 18″ x 24″, private collection

That was years ago. I doubt much has changed. However there’s not an unlimited amount of land on the East End and the Nappeague stretch is a very small area. During the hurricane of 1938 the stretch was under water from the tidal surge. For a brief time Montauk was an island. It could happen again. Summer now brings the 4-wheelers and this stretch of beach gets invaded like every other beach on the East End. That means beach fires, trash, broken bottles, plastic litter. And when nature calls, where do you go? Most visitors are aware of their footprint on this environment. Unfortunately not everyone cares. If you come here remember to take home what you bring in. It’s your East End so help keep this place unspoiled and ready for the next visitor.

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WHAP, ball field sign at the Bridgehampton Fire Dept.

One year I asked if I could pay for my own advertisement. Some old signs were coming down and fence was in need of some new recruits. I was given a new 4′ x 8′ metal sheet that I could have painted by someone or paint my own design. I thought the best idea was to appropriate an idea by the pop artist Roy Lichtenstein (without the ben-day dots). It’s really not an advertisement. More like a piece of art work in center field. After a few years, Butch Lowe who was in charge of taking care of the signs for the FD said he wasn’t going to charge me. Who knows why. I guess Butch felt the same way about I did. It’s just a piece of public art that has less to do with advertising than crediting the game and baseball. As far as I can recall this is the only piece of public art I’ve ever done.

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Studios By The Sea, by Jonathan Becker and bob Colacello

Here’s an appropriate quote from the book by it’s author. “This book is not about how horrible the Hamptons have become, not about Hollywood east, hip-hop invaders or Ira Rennert’s mega-mansion in Sagaponack. It’s about a whole other, largely unreported, but quite glamorous life on the East End of Long Island, which centers on work instead of play, and which has produced some of the most important art of our time. The fact is, more than a century after the great painter Thomas Moran built a gabled house and studio on Main Street in East Hampton and became the first artist to make the Hamptons his permanent summer home, and more than fifty years after Jackson Pollock and his wife, Lee Krasner left Greenwich Village for an unheated farmhouse in the backwoods hamlet called Springs, America’s leading artists are still spending their summers and increasingly their winter too in the Hamptons.” Bob Colacello. Bob mentions the East End and views it a little like I do. It’s not just the Hamptons. This place has a rich artistic and cultural history that the Hamptons doesn’t have.

Studios By The Sea, a few shots of my studio.

The book does in a way focus on the glamorous. On the cover there’s Andy Warhol’s summer home Eothen, perched on the bluffs in Montauk. Not exactly the ‘Factory’ work setting. The photographs are beautiful and artists are cast into the limelight. However, the work side of being an artist is a mostly solitary job. The book only hints at what this place has evolved into for those like myself. And it’s not always as it seems, there are many very good artists from this area not mentioned in the book. Most of the artists in the book are bright stars in the art universe. I’m not sure why I was included, it must have been my studio, but I appreciate the fact that I’m considered in this peer group. I’m also not sure why I was on the cover of Long Island Newsday but why not, look at that handsome guy or that I made the A-List in Avenue On The Beach. When I saw this I jokingly said to Mac Hoak of Mecox Gardens, “Is there another Terry Elkins living out here we don’t know about?”. Kidding and bragging aside I’ve known many of the others on this List for as long as I’ve lived here, some as close friends, some going back to early years in Texas.

Avenue On The Beach, July 2013, The A-List

By the way, I don’t actually consider myself an art world “heavyweight”. Some days I don’t even consider myself an artist, more like an illustrator. Artists today seem to be pushing the envelope, doing things that I wouldn’t think of or attempt to try. I’m not a biennial artist. I wouldn’t say my work is that sophisticated, certainly by today’s standards. I basically draw and paint from nature, employ the subject matter I find around me and only occasionally think outside the box. How chic can a landscape painting be? One piece doesn’t fill up the gallery, pile up and spill all over the floor, spread across the ceiling and hang down in your face. In today’s art market there’s a lot of smoke and mirrors, or the Emperor’s New Clothes as I like to say. Although I find some of it entertaining. I do enjoy and greatly admire the work of friend and artists like Donald Lipski. Also my paintings haven’t yet sold for hundreds of thousands of dollars like my a few of my peers but unlike Van Gogh I make a good living and I’m still working. I may not be as coveted as my friends on the auction block or in my next museum show but my work sells well, I’ve always got a commission to finish or start on. My print business does surprisingly well also and it reaches an incredibly large audience. However, I feel very much a part of the East End picture. It’s evolved and grown since I arrived and there’s a lot going on in this small but thriving community. There are more openings and shows that one can see on any given weekend during the summer and plenty to do in the winter as well. Thirty years ago when I moved out here it wasn’t this way. Things only happened in the summer. My first winter you wouldn’t see a car parked on the main street at night in Amagansett. You’d find a half dozen people on any given night of the week at the Talkhouse. Double that on a weekend unless a band was playing. How times have changed!

Newsday Cover

Trust me though, I’m not as glamorous as the A-List would lead one to believe. At one time I thought so. I could go up in the VIP elevator to Saturday Night Live, rub elbows with Cher and sit backstage because I knew someone. Those were the days. I’m not making any fashion statements today. My wife corrects my choice of clothes and reminds me to comb my hair before I step out the door. I tend to shy from the scene as much as I can but once I’m out I enjoy it and seeing some of the many friends I have here. I also don’t like driving anywhere unless I have to. Driving to Amagansett for an opening, back to Southampton for another one and then home can be a challenge, especially on a summer weekend and who wants to drive 40-50 miles in heavy traffic on a two lane road at night. I’ve seen too many accidents as a volunteer EMT. How many art world heavy weights are EMTs or volunteer firemen? I’d rather give back to my community and stay at home, have dinner with family and friends. Maybe I’m getting old, HA! Unlike a lot of artist friends I haven’t had a one person show in New York City in decades. Maybe that will change one day. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not lamenting the fact that I feel this way. It’s always nice to show up for a friend’s opening or be included in a group show. But I do feel the same as probably every other artist that is successful, it takes a lot of hard work and long hours to create something out of nothing. You need to spend a lot of time alone to get anything done. There have been plenty of evenings in the summer when my friends were getting together and having dinner and I was painting outside until almost 9 o’clock and then I was too tired to go out afterwards. The sun rises early here in the summer and I’m usually up before 6am. I inherited a good work ethic from my father. Those first few years I lived here I worked odd jobs to make ends meet and painted at night. So did a lot of other artists I know. Hard work does pay off. The harder one works the luckier you get. I’m happy to be part of where I live and I thank my lucky stars everyday. I can stop what I’m working on and in five minutes be throwing the ball with my dog on the beach. That’s what I call ‘living the dream’.

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Hendrickson’s Farmhouse, oil on canvas 30″x47″, private collection.

The house was built in 1866 and is still surrounded by the other original buildings on the property. I wanted to paint here, on the property but first I needed permission. So I mentioned this one day to a long time friend and art dealer, Gary Kephart who happened to know the owner, Dr. John Anton. He accepted my request to work there without actually trespassing. It’s definitely not a good idea to go on this property unless Anton knows you. This basically meant I could set up anywhere I wanted and Dr. Anton wasn’t living there at the time. The house, buildings and farm sits on 67 acres and still exists today much like it looked 100 years ago. After I met Dr. Anton and started working there he mentioned something about his farm in Vermont and said he intended to keep this farm in Bridgehampton just as it was, undeveloped. Before Dr Anton arrived, Richard Hendrickson lived in the house most of his life. He was born in Bridgehampton in 1913 and grew up here on his family farm. Beside his duties as a farmer collecting eggs, milking cows and cutting hay he is the record holding 80-year member of the Weather Service’s Corps of Cooperative Observers. This network was established in 1890 to help track meteorological data, usually consisting of daily maximum and minimum temperatures, snowfall, and 24-hour precipitation totals, required to define the climate of the United States and to help measure long-term climate changes. Mr Hendrickson was still recording the weather until he died in 2016 at the age of 103.

Only a few of these old farmhouses still exist around Bridgehampton and the East End and the vistas of wide open landscape we used to take for granted have begun to disappear. Some old houses have been torn down or the land around them sold and subdivided. A field I used to look across from Town Line Road and see farmland with Strong’s barn in the distance is now fronted by a 75 yard long row of 12’ privet hedge along the road that blocks my view. I painted this view before the developer showed up. Privet is a popular planting used to create a fence like barrier that blocks passersby from looking in, offering the owners a little privacy and blocking the owners of their own view of this beautiful landscape around them. They seem to luxuriate in their privacy and in a small view of their own backyard. This hasn’t happened at the Hendrickson farm where you can stand in the middle of the fields and still have a 360º view of the night sky down to the horizon.

Hendrickson Farmhouse, front view, oil on wood panel, 28″x22″, collection of the artist

The architecture of the house is beautiful in a simple way. I think one of Wyeth’s paintings of the Olson farmhouse inspired the view and a perspective of the house taken from the front. I like the direction my eye goes from left to center to right and out to the horizon. It’s one of my favorites and probably a keeper. The next time I painted here I sat behind the house. I tried to capture the essence, none of the grounds around the house or the trees in the background. The house has an elegant yet simple architectural appeal. It sits on a stone footing and has a storm entrance to the basement, usually open to let the air circulate. The house is beautifully proportioned, made almost monumental by the wide molding underneath the eaves and around the overhanging roofline. The shingles show off an almost luminous texture that becomes more apparent by the shadows created as the sun moves past it’s zenith, their color reflecting warm and cool shades in shadow or full sun. But what interested me the most were the windows. They’re weathered inside and out from over a century of harsh winters, warm summers and sometimes violent winds.

Hendrickson Farmhouse, oil on wood panel, 24″x30″

I tried a closer view on the next one, looking up toward the peak of the roof on a blue sky day. My own visual experience of looking at this perspective for hours and days was not unlike looking up through the oculus of a James Turrell piece. Light and shadow create some interesting color and emotions when you’re focused on one point in space long enough to notice the subtle changes. There’s a rippled reflection in panes of the old windows that offer an opaque look into the house, the interior empty at the time yet the panes reflecting enough sky. The old electric lines going to the house and the silhouette of an outbuilding across from the house redirects my thought away from the flatness of the canvas, the flatness of the house it’s one point perspective.

Hendrickson Farmhouse, rear view, oil on canvas, 24″x30″, private collection

One summer night I decided to try painting there under a full moon. I worked from about 10pm until almost 2am. The reflection of light on the house against a dark sky was a study in contrasts. Painting under the light of a full moon is almost as easy as reading a book under the same conditions. It is possible but a strain on the eyes. Colors don’t appear in the dark as you would see them in daylight, even with the help of my Coleman lantern to set up by. The pupils of my eyes constricted and dilated back and forth from starring off into near darkness to finding colors under the light of my lantern. But I thought I’d done a decent painting considering. Cassiopeia is there but maybe not where it should be? What I didn’t notice until the next morning was how my stigmatism affected the way I laid in the vertical lines of the composition. Apparently in the dark my vision is worse than I thought. It’s bad enough having to wear glasses, much less bi-focals. The structure was leaning dramatically to the left, like the house was about to fall over. But this is what I got and it seemed to capture a nocturnal mood.

Hendrickson Farmhouse, oil on canvas, 30″x24″

Anton always has a flag hanging from the front porch. I thought about this idea for the painting, American Dream, for a while and what that means today. It’s getting more difficult to own your piece of the American dream. It’s certainly harder to own land and build where I live. I was fortunate to move here 30 years ago before things got crazy. The idea of owning a home today for your average person out here is a dream that most likely will never be realized. An 1/8 acre lot is half a million dollars and the house is a tear down. It’s not in the most desirable neighborhood either. The prices keep going up and the locals are being priced out. The average person buying a house here today can buy and renovate or just tear down and rebuild. For example, people do come along to buy a fairly new 7,000 sq.’ home for the view with the intention that it’ll be torn down and replaced with a 12,000 sq.’ (or larger) home. I thought about that as I looked through the emptiness of the house, in one window and out the other side, the impossibility of a dream fading with the light of day and how it used to be here and the rest of America. It’s depressingly apparent here when the house you grew up in on Main Street, that your grand parents probably built for $30,000 is on the market for $8,000,000. The American Dream is lost here unless you were lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time or lived in a different time when houses like this were more common. That’s what this painting means to me every time I see it. I’m glad it’s sold. The reminder of having it around in some regards is painful. But I think, I hope the Hendrickson farmhouse will be around for a while longer.

American Dream, oil on canvas, 30″ x 24″, private collection

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The Pond, 2017. oil on canvas, 56″x74″

Wainscott Pond looks today much how it has looked for the last several hundred years. In my opinion it is one of the most beautiful undeveloped panoramic vistas on the East End. A thousand cars drive by here everyday and rarely does anyone pull over to take notice. That’s especially true on the weekend in the summer when there are even more cars going up and down Wainscott Main Street. Some people are in a hurry to get home, or they’re on the way out from the city to their second home or summer rental. It might save a little time to come this way and you avoid the traffic on Hwy. 27. Besides the view the best reason to come this way is Bill and Lisa’s farm stand. But normally in the off season there’s not that much traffic. In the very early morning or late in the evening it’s as quiet as anywhere around here.

Wainscot Pond, oil on linen, 34″x55″, private collection

There are several ponds along the shoreline of the East End and many more kettle ponds moving inland. Hook Pond, Georgica Pond, Sagg Pond, Fairfield, Mecox are just a few along the shore. They all formed about the same time when Long Island was shaping up 15,000 years ago and all share similar characteristics but today the land around Wainscott Pond is less developed than the others like Sagg Pond to the west. Wainscott has the least number of homes built by it due in part and thankfully to the Osborn family that still owns a good portion of the land north and east. The Topping family farmed the west side of the pond and that hasn’t changed a lot. The south side is bordered by dunes and the Atlantic Ocean. And unlike Georgica or Sagg Pond, Wainscott Pond is never opened or “cut” so it drains out. The dunes in front still offers some protection, it’s not as large as the others and there’s a natural breath of rainfall runoff and evaporation.

Wainscot Pond, oil on canvas, 24″x34″, private collection

I’ve been painting this scene for about 20 years and looking thru some of the pieces I’ve done my compositions haven’t changed much either. I tend to set up in about the same spot as the year before. I’ve looked at the pond from all sides but this seems to be the most interesting. It’s certainly the easiest to access. I can leave my studio and In literally less than ten minutes I’ve set up by the side of the road and I’m painting. I’ve noticed subtle changes in the plant growth around the pond. The Lythrum, sometimes called loosestrife used to grow around the perimeter but for the last few years I haven’t seen it. In the late summer the field around it is full of Queen Anne’s Lace, not to mention deer, geese and ducks. The light, atmosphere, time of day or year all play their part in the way it looks. It’s the view I’m interested in, not the painting. Painting is just an excuse for being there. I could open a folding chair and just sit there for a couple of hours every day but people would think I’m crazy. I set up my easel and paints and look like I’m working and people think I’m an artist.

Wainscot Pond, oil on canvas, 24″x30″, private collection

Between the ebb and flow of traffic it’s usually quiet and peaceful. Occasionally someone will stop, get out of their car and take a picture. They get it. One evening I was painting, there’s no one else around, the traffic had all but ended. A car pulls up, parks right next to me and this guy gets out of the car and starts talking on his cell phone. C’mon there’s a 1/2 mile stretch where the person could have pulled over but he pulls up right next to where I’m working and starts yaking away. It may have taken 30 seconds before I walked over, interrupted him and explained my objection to his cell phone etiquette. He left immediately. I’ve also met some very interesting people while painting there. Some stop to say hello and ask if I don’t mind them looking at what I’m painting. Generally they’re polite and recognize, like I do, the beauty of this place. Sometimes they even live nearby, like the day Rob Hector pulls up and stopped to talk. I’d met him the summer before and he bought the painting of the pond I did that year. He doesn’t even get out of the car and yells out his window, “I want to buy that painting”. I turn around and recognize Rob. I think he’s kidding me and I say it’s not finished yet. He says, “Well, I want to buy it as soon as it is, can I give you a check now”. I laugh. Sure! One afternoon a couple pulls up in a $175,000 Porsche 911 Turbo S Cabriolet. The man driving gets out and talks to me for a minute. He asks if the painting is for sale and how much. When I tell him the price he says, and I quote, “That’s too much money, would you take…”. I’m thinking. that’s too much money for a car but I say, “No, if you want a discount, try K-Mart.” He got back in his car and drove off. Still I go back every year. I’ve gotten used to the traffic. I’ve gotten used to the comments good or bad that I tend to ignore and the compliments that are always appreciated. It’s a place I never get tired of and it’s one of the most beautiful places I know of anywhere nearby. It’s been an idea for awhile now, to have a show at the Wainscott Chapel of as many of the Wainscott Pond paintings as I’ve done that I can borrow and exhibit them together. Maybe one day.

Wainscot Pond, oil on canvas, 30″x44″, private collection

The following are members of my own Wainscott Pond Collectors Society, those who have a Wainscott Pond painting: Jeffrey M & Suzanne D Lyons Ttee, Henry and Anita Clifford, Bob and Diane Cummings, Karen Mary O’Neil, Jean and Judith Lanier, Peter Croncota, Dr. Mark Kot 2001, Dr. Lloyd Harris, Mark and Monique O’Neil, Dr. Mark Kot 2002, Robert Hector Jr. 2005, Mitchell and Kathy Mezynieski, Charlie and Wendy Butler, John and Maureen Ferrari, Robert Hector 2007, Jackie Szcepankowski, Bunny Shankman, Darron Weinstein and Stacey Naven,  Dan and Bess Mulvihill, Dan and Marisa Mulvihill, Ron and Carol Alhers. I know I’ve left someone out. If you’re reading this please let me know.

Wainscot Pond, oil on wood panel, 4.5″x7.75″, private collection

composite photo of Wainscott Pond

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Smith’s Corner, oil on canvas, 28″x44″, private collection

Smith’s Corner lies in the middle of some of the most desirable farmland in Bridgehampton just to the east where Bridge Lane crosses Sagg Pond. The old Smith family home still stands on the west side of the pond but I’m not sure the two are related. I met Dinwiddie Smith by chance in 2007. I was a volunteer EMT with the Bridgehampton FD. John White another member and EMT asked if I could help drive “Din” to the Hospital in NYC. Din was a past volunteer at the Fire Department and as a courtesy to it’s current and former members the Fire Department would allow us to drive Din into the city in one of our ambulances. Our trip was planned but tenuous. It was winter and we’d just had a heavy snowfall the day before but cleared out enough to make the long drive in. I honestly don’t know why I volunteered to do this, it would take up my day when I could be painting but I said I would. John and I drove the ambulance over to pick up Din. The first thing I noticed when I walked into the Smith’s house was that we would have to maneuver around a Steinway grand piano. No problem, move the sofa instead. The living room was open to the second floor and next to the piano was a pipe organ with pipes lined up to the ceiling. I was somewhat amazed but we were there to pick up Din. No time to ask questions. It would be a seven hour drive to and from New York City, uneventful except for rush hour traffic. I navigated by myself while John rode in the back with Din. I could hear Din telling stories, something he was good at and John carrying on with him. When we finally got Din situated in his room he asked for a cup of ice, then asked John to reach into his overnight bag for a flask of his favorite scotch and to pour him a cocktail. He winked and put a finger to his lips motioning to keep quiet. So very like Din! The next day Charlotte called to say thank you and insisted I come over for dinner. I agreed on one condition, that she play Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D minor on the organ. “Very well,” she replied. When I showed up for dinner at the Smith’s house a few days later Charlotte asked what part of Bach’s piece would I like to hear. She played the Toccata. Hearing this played live is absolutely amazing. Sitting right next to an instrument with a full body of sound was something else. The room filled with music. I found out later that Charlotte had been teaching piano and organ most of her adult life. Her students went on to become some of the most noted musicians of their generation. Charlotte was also the founder of The Choral Society of the Hamptons and she was the organist at the Bridgehampton Presbyterian Church for 40 years. I didn’t know it at the time but this was the beginning of an amazing friendship. Unfortunately that was the first and last time I saw Din, on that trip to New York. He passed away shortly after that. Dinwiddie left a Frederic Remington painting to the Frederic Remington Art Museum. I ended up doing an artist in residence there one summer in part because I was friends with Charlotte. Another summer Charlotte and I were co-chairs for a Habitat For Humanity fundraiser. Once a week we’d get together and discuss our plans and progress over dinner along with any other board members who came over. After dinner we’d ‘retire to the parlor’ and listen to Charlotte play something classical on the piano. She had a substantial library of sheet music. Occasionally other musicians were there and would accompany Charlotte with a stringed quartet. It was a great education of classical works in piano and organ.

Charlotte’s Garden, oil on canvas, 26″x40″, private collection

In the summer it is also light enough to step outside after dinner and walk through the garden. The backyard was over an acre, designed and laid out with pathways through sections of flowers, ornamental grasses and an enclosed area for vegetables that kept the deer out. I also learned that Din had deeded a right of way to Sagg Pond, where anyone could park and access the pond. This is where I set up to paint Smith’s Corner, on the edge of the lawn by the old Smith home. The view looks north to Sagg Bridge, the sun has set illuminating the landscape in subtle pastel tones in the humid air before nightfall, the phragmites with their flowers a dark purple panicle stretching around both sides of the pond. I didn’t realize it at the time but I know now why I volunteered to pick up Din that day. The real reason was to help someone, to participate in my community, to be part of the solution of which I hope I succeeded. But the answer to my question on that first day when I met Charlotte and Dinwiddie presented itself in way I wasn’t able to calculate. When you help others something good happens in return. It’s been an invaluable lesson. It really wasn’t until I became a volunteer in the BHFD that I started to make a decent living as an artist. The more time I gave away the more time I had to make art.

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Strong’s Barn, watercolor, 18″x24″

Most of the countryside around Strong’s barn is still farmland. The barn was still being used last year to store potatoes but I’ve noticed a for sale sign posted. Peter Dankowski who’s family has been living and working there for several generations still farms the land around here. This barn and others like it have a long footprint so trucks can bring potatoes from the field, back in and unload. They’re piled to the upper level floor joists, 10′-12′ high, from back to front during harvest. There are two levels, the lower for trucking in the potatoes. The lower half of the structure is set into the earth and the upper level roof slants downward on both sides almost to the ground. The dirt around the outside is pushed up against thick cinder block walls to just below the eaves of the roof and graded down and away from the building so the rains sheds away. It keeps the lower level of the building a little drier. Most of the East End has a constant ground temp below the permafrost line or about six feet deep of about 50˚ year round. That maintains an even temperature year round inside the lower level and helps keep the harvested crop of potatoes at a non perishable temperature. Crops brought in early need to be stored while the rest of the fields are being harvested.

The landscape around the barn reminds me of what it used to look like before the big homes started going up. At one time land wasn’t expensive but since I’ve lived here it’s value has skyrocketed. Farmers have sold some small parcels off which has helped them financially and saved enough land for themselves to keep farming. Farming is a risk-taking business and, like making art, some years are better than others. I can’t blame a farmer for selling a couple of acres of land for a few million dollars if he needs the money to buy new equipment or build a new barn. But bit by bit new homes have filled in the rural landscape. Some families have turned to organizations like the Peconic Land Trust and donated land in order to preserve the open space and a way of life that has existed for hundreds of years here. There’s a large piece across from the barn that has been preserved so we hope this landscape stays undeveloped as long as possible.

Strong’s barn is set into a gently sloping terrain where one field slopes about 20’ down over a few hundred feet to another field. The perfect spot for a potato barn. Not that long ago Wainscot Hollow Rd was a dirt road. One field rolled into the another. Now the road’s paved. The junipers have grown large around the barn over time and one last migrant shack still stands nearby in spite of the storms and wind we have here. It was used to house migrant workers who helped with the harvest. It’s overgrown with vines and weeds, the door is missing, the window sashes to the left and right of the chimney are falling apart, still barely in their frame.

Migrant shack

It’s small, not more than 400 sq.’ I’ve fantasized about buying the shack, renovating it and living there just so I could say I lived in the smallest house in Wainscott. The houses in close proximity are at least 6-7,000 sq’ each. There’s a old crab apple tree growing there too. It’s one of those places nearby that doesn’t take much time or energy to get to or set up to paint. It’s on a street without much traffic and very little development around it and about a mile from my studio. I’ve painted there for years and love that spot. The building itself seems to have a soul of it’s own, alive in the summer, hibernating in the winter. I feel comfortable working there. Not too many cars pass by. Occasionally someone will stop to see what I’m doing. This barn speaks to me without words. It is a patient model that sits quietly still for hours without complaint. But the property is up for sale, and unfortunately I can’t afford to buy it or I would. It’s priced well into the millions and in a most desirable and prestigious location. Still it would make the perfect artist studio. It would be a tragedy to see it razed and some monstrosity built in it’s place. I’ve seen that happen all too often around here. I’ve driven by this barn more times than I can count, just to see what it looks like in different light or times of the day or to see a change of shadow that wasn’t present earlier. Unlike other places I’ve worked, I’ve

Wainscott Winter, oil on linen, 32″x52″, private collection

also painted here year round. In the summer I use my garage, now my workshop, as a painting studio. I can hang as large a canvas as I’d like to do on the wall. The light is good and since I don’t particularly enjoy the fumes of oil paints there’s plenty of fresh air. I keep all my gear handy so when I want to paint somewhere on location I can quickly load up the jeep with all my gear and head out. Last fall I’d been working on another Strong’s Barn painting for several days non stop. I was painting there one morning and came home for a break. In the afternoon I reloaded my gear in haste to go back. I parked in the exact spot as before, set up my folding table and easel, laid out my paints and brushes and then realized I must have forgotten my palette. Could have sworn I brought it. No problem. I left everything right where it was by the side of the road with a note saying, ”Be rite back!” and drove back to the studio to retrieve my necessary tool. It still had the wet paint from that morning. But when I got home it was nowhere to be found. I had this sinking feeling as I realized I’d put it on the roof of my car while I was loading up and forgot it was there. I drove back to the barn hoping it had blown off on the side of road and I’d find it. I did but it was lying in the middle of Hwy 27. It slid off the roof where I had crossed the highway. It’s now 4:00, the cars and trucks are flying by in both directions. I pull over to park, get out and wait, and wait, and finally I make a mad dash to pick it up.

Broken Palette now retired

Honestly, I felt a little embarrassed for being that forgetful, not to mention running out into the road like some crazy person. I probably used a few choice words to describe my own stupidity when I got back in the car. Anyone passing by didn’t realize what I was doing but one of our neighbors who just happened to be driving by at that moment saw me and sent my wife a text wondering if that was me running across the highway. There was one large tire track pressed into the paint and it my palette was broken in a couple of places. Any fresh paint that was left over from the morning was now squished into the tread of someone’s radials. Ugh! I got back to Strong’s barn and tried to forget about it. I scraped down what paint was left, wiped off the tread marks and road grime with a little turp and continued to work. But every time I’d grab some color with my brush there was a tread mark to remind me – don’t leave things on the roof of your car and drive off. Well, at least I was painting. When I got home I did a quick repair and used it for the rest of the summer.

Inscription on the back of a damaged palette

The end of the summer turned into fall. The change happens rapidly on the East End. One day you’re walking barefoot on the beach, a month later you’re shoveling snow and scraping ice off your windshield. Within a few weeks the leaves of the crabapple tree had dried up and fallen off. The grass in the fields began to turn brown as the weather turned colder. Summer was a distant memory. Too many things were going on and I didn’t have the time or inspiration to finish what I’d started. Life gets in the way and time flies by. Fall turns to winter and it’s incredibly difficult to work outside although I try. That’s not a bad thing though. The next piece might take on another direction than where I was going before I set the last one aside. I might see something I didn’t notice last summer. The light will change, I might catch it on a foggy day or an early morning. I’ll drive by there again just to look and think about starting another piece.

Wainscott Winter, pastel on paper, 22′ x 28″, private collection

Wainscott, oil on linen, 35″ x 52″, private collection

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Townline Sunrise, oil on canvas, 30″x40″, private collection

Town Line Road, like the name implies divides Southampton and East Hampton. When you’re driving east from Bridgehampton, Town Line Road is on your right just after Town Line Bar-B-Q. Turn right and two miles down the road is the beach referred to by the same name. To the east you can see the late Michael Kennedy House, now for sale, on the dunes and the jetties just past Georgica Pond. To the west lies Peters Pond. Town Line beach is usually easy to access but in the evening there might only be a few people there so I’ll find a parking spot close to the beach. I’ve spent countless evenings watching the sun set here. Always beautiful.

Looking east from Town Line Toad

Looking west

I’ve also spent countless nights here watching the moon rise. In the summer the sun sets late and the sky remains twilight until after 9:00. Friends meet impromptu for a beach fire sometimes. In that event I load up the jeep to set up before dark. I bring firewood, a shovel, some beach chairs, a table, a grill, a Coleman lantern, a garbage can, a cooler and anything else that we might need, drive onto the beach and unload everything. Others show up and bring their own blanket or chairs. Sitting by a beach fire with your friends and having a cold beer and a hotdog on a paper plate is more enjoyable than waiting 15 minutes for a table some place that can’t make anything as good as hotdog or hamburger at the beach. The ambience compares to nowhere else. Fires are allowed on the beach by permit in Southampton, although the Town is somewhat lax unless someone complains. On my birthday one year I set off fireworks, the largest loudest ones I could buy legally. I brought them back from a trip to South Carolina. What a show, no one complained. There are times I enjoy just hanging out down there by myself. I look out to ship lights on the horizon, the ocean stretches on for thousands of miles from there, the world and all it’s troubles are behind me, ideas for paintings start to take shape in my head. How can one not be inspired or at least calmed by the moon rising over a reflective sea casting back the light on the face of waves rolling in.

I’ve sat on the beach and watched the stars, the moon and the night sky often since I’ve lived here. I remember one night when I first moved here, a friend and I were walking back from beach and a shooting star lit up the sky directly overhead. It went from night to day to night in 2 seconds. The flash of light was incredible. There is very little light pollution this far away from the city. I’m at the end of an island that sticks out into the Atlantic Ocean. The South Fork is surrounded by nothing but ocean, bay and sound. The moon looks incredibly large rising over the sea, the sky darker, the stars brighter. One night I set up my painting gear on the beach. I put my folding table and easel as close to the water as I could and began to paint. It’s not easy painting in the dark. A lantern helps. The air was warm, the water calm and the reflections from the moon were like sparklers on the surf. Every wave that rolled in carried those reflections along the surface, closer and closer to the beach until it washed in and turned the sand white with foam from the moonlight. The waves are darker than any black on my palette. The light on the horizon turns into a luminous blanket of cover as moisture settles over the sea. As I worked the legs of my folding table began sinking into the sand. Every wave that rolled up dropped the table a little lower, the tide rising, chasing me back as I’d pick up table and easel and move a few feet up, bare feet and long pants getting soaked, moisture settling on every surface including the canvas until I could work no longer. A painting can do the experience justice little more than a snapshot. There’s an indiscernible amount of subtlety in the color of night. The contrasts are extreme. It takes a while for your eyes to adjust to seeing in the dark, it takes hours longer for your thought process to relate. I woke up the next morning, looking at the painting in the daylight, it was alright. I’ve had this painting Moonlight Symphony in my collection for a long time. One of my favorites because it brings back a memory, a close observation of the sea at night and a sense of achievement. I can pull this one out of the racks and my thoughts immediately flow back to that night.

Moonlight Symphony, Oil on canvas, 24″x30″

It was a mid summer night, I was at the beach by myself. The air was warm, the moon was up, the sea calm and peaceful. I wasn’t there to paint. I just came down to take in a moment of nature, to relax after a hectic day. What I saw were ships on the horizon, their lights reflecting, the moon rising above a cloud bank that started to move in, changing shape as it lifted up from the horizon, following the moon as it rose. I tried as best I could to remember what that looked like, to etch that scene in my memory, looking again and again, telling my mind’s eye this is what I see. What I was able to bring home was a momentary impression of that night. It’s tough to recall the details, it’s a struggle trying to imitate nature, difficult to duplicate. I worked on this canvas for weeks layering the darks, letting the whites dry so I could glaze them, going back in and raising the contrast, trying to get the color of the sky, clouds, the rising waves and sand right, creating the texture and surface of the paint, thin in places, heavy in other areas. The results of my labor finally came together. The painting titled Town Line Moonlight sat around the studio for a year longer. No one took an interest. My friend and art dealer Peter Marcelle once told me people aren’t drawn to dark paintings, they’re hard to sell. Time went by and one of my reps Mecox Gardens wanted to ship it to their store in Pittsburg. Fine with me, it’s just taking up room in the studio but I thought no one in Pittsburg is going to buy a seascape. I was wrong. Perhaps inlanders need something to reming them of the coast on a moonlit summer night. I love doing these nocturnes. They don’t always turn out though. Still it’s worth a try.

Town Line Moonlight, oil on canvas, 58″x78″, private collection

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I was alone in my studio, far away from the gallery I’d deserted and New York art scene I was becoming a part of, wondering if I’d made a mistake and lamenting what to do next. One of the first images that seemed to float into my imagination was the interior of a boathouse.

The Boathouse, oil on canvas, 61″x72″, private collection

I was aware of the Baymen and knew that sometimes boats were stored inside for the winter. One day I cranked out a painting that bridged the distance between abstract and representational. Working on a large canvas at night under spot lights in the studio completely from my imagination is entirely different than standing in a landscape and working on a 30”x40 canvas in the tradition of plein air, which by the way I had not tried yet. Opposing schools of thought, two separate primary experiences, one in my opinion neither more legitimate than the other. But this was somewhat of a breakthrough for me. It captured the essence of something inside my subconscious, existing in a space and looking out at the world in a fog.

Boathouse with Hanging Dories, AKA the one with the upside down cross that my art dealer would’t sell, oil on canvas, 58″ x 68″

The boathouse was a real place though I’d never actually seen or been in one. My friend Lana Jokel, a film maker I had met in the city, had a home in Bridgehampton and wanted to come by to see my new studio. She was surprised to see this painting and asked if I had seen the old boathouse off Dune Road in Southampton. No, I had not so one day I drove out to find it. Five miles out Dune Road, it seemed like twenty, I saw this structure on the bay side about 75-100 yards off the road. At first I thought it was someone’s house sitting on the water’s edge. No other buildings were around, this must be it. It was abandoned and looked like no one had used it in years. I pulled to the side of the road to park and walked along a sandy trail thru waist high salt grasses up to the back of the building to peer in. The water side was completely open, the other three sides were clapboard covered and had large window like openings that were probably shuttered at one time.

The Shinnecock boat house, photo by Jonathan Becker.

The space was large enough for a couple of city buses. It had a strange eerie feeling about it but calm within it’s interior, dark and dilapidated yet solid and sturdy, a place that at one time had seen a lot of commercial and or private use but today was a place forgotten. Inspired by it’s presence I came back over and over to study it. I borrowed a friend’s hand held movie camera and went back to film the interior. I panned around the inside for several minutes. It was calm and foggy that day. Looking towards the bay the horizon disappeared. I let the camera run for awhile and when I got back to the studio I plugged the camera into my small Sony Trinitron TV and watched. Over the next few days I set up a large canvas and ran the video over and over while I worked on the second boathouse painting. It’s probably the most accurate description of what it looked like when I found it.

The Boathouse, oil on canvas, 62″x72″ private collection

I’ve done at least a dozen paintings and drawings based on that experience, an ongoing series that I’ve returned to over the years. It’s like visiting with an old friend and sharing memories. It’s comfortable to work on something I’m already familiar with and difficult to divert from the original composition. I still remember the way it looked then. I don’t want to change that. Unfortunately the boathouse is gone now. In 2012 Hurricane Sandy completely destroyed it. I drove by there shortly after the storm, looking for the place where it was. It felt like I’d momentarily lost my bearings. Even the shoreline had changed. The boathouse had disappeared. I’m sure I probably have some old photos in a box that show what it looked like when I first saw it and the video tape would be there too. Mostly I just have paintings to look at.

Chalkboard Boathouse, white pencil on slate chalkboard, 25″x36

The Chalkboard boathouse was one of the last ones I made. I’ve done a few of these in different sizes, a few on old chalk boards kids used to write on or calculate math problems before they had even pencil or paper in schools. It’s interesting to me with this medium I’m not actually drawing the boathouse but the space around the it, the light and reflection in the water. I tried another one on a nautical chart. The boathouse is filled in with heavy layers of pencil to make the drawing darker. The chart represents it’s nautical setting. Or make of it what you feel. Metaphors are comparisons of life.

The Boathouse, George’s Bank, pencil on collage, 24″x35″, private collection. Print available.

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Maybe because of it’s location Town Line isn’t too crowded. Gibson Beach and Sagg Main Beach to the west are popular. Parking at Gibson is like Town Line, you have to get there early. Sagg Main has a parking lot and you can pay per day to park there or by permit. They also have a shower and bathrooms. There’s a beach between Town Line and Gibson called Peter’s Pond, named that because there used to be a pond by the ocean there. The pond dried up years ago. Ira Rennert bought the property where the now dried up pond was and built a 73,000 sq.’ house, THE largest house on the East End, that by the way is only a fraction, 1/10 the size of the Palace of Versailles. Still who needs a house this big. Obviously somebody with lavish sums of money to spend. But you can access the beach right by Rennert’s property via Peter’s Pond Lane. It is the most rutted out, half paved roadway to any beach around here. I think Rennet pays the town to keep it that way, to discourage people from using it. After a a good soaker it’s worse than a mud bog track. When the water recedes enough you can see a small strip of dry land on the edge of the road to park. The daredevils and stunt drivers come out. I wouldn’t advise parking there at all, especially if you leave the top down on your convertible. Some local in a pick up truck might accidentally cover it with mud as they 4W down the road looking for their own parking place. You need a permit to park there also and as bad as the road is, even in good weather, people still want to go there because once you carry your belongings down to this beautiful wide beach, life is good, until you need a tow truck. Peter’s Pond, is my second closest and second favorite beach. Or as my wife would call it “Left Left”, as a beach destination. There’s Sagg Main, Gibson is Left and Peter’s Pond is Left Left.

In the early 90s I did a painting titled Peters Pond. I’d go there every day I could and watch the surf roll up over the sand and out again, trying to focus on details like how the wave washes up on the beach and flows out again leaving those tiny bubbles coming up from the sand. After watching for an hour I could take that picture etched in my memory home and try to remember or visualize a few minutes of what I’d been watching. I spent months on this painting, trying to catch what I saw each day, then coming back to the studio and working out the ideas in my head. It was ever changing which I think added to my perspective of what the place really looks like. At different times of the day the surf conditions or light change. In the winter, more so than in the summer, there can be a channel of water that runs down the beach, caused by the storm surge and waves washing over the beach and flowing out sometimes a hundred yards down the beach. It was almost impossible to work every day on the painting so it took about a year to complete. It’s a large painting in three panel totaling 6’h x 21’6”w. In 2013 I showed this painting at The Parrish Art Museum. The curator Alicia Longwell chose this piece for the show and in between that time and the opening I repainted it entirely from corner to corner in three weeks. I don’t think they noticed. I didn’t change the composition but I tried to work out some things that I hadn’t finished years earlier. Did I get it right? Someone once asked me, “How can you tell when a painting is finished?” When it’s sold!

Peter’s Pond, oil on canvas, 6’x21’6″

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