Drawing in conté crayon and pencil, charcoal, ink, graphite, lithographic pencil, vinylic emulsion, and gouache on rag paper,

22 x 15 inches (55.88 x 38.10 cm)

This drawing — part of series inspired by the landscape of Deer Isle ME — was inspired by many kayak outings along Crockett Cove. I often pass this stretch of granite ledges along the southeastern shore. The layers of granite are violently folded upon each other, dramatically showing the volcanic and tectonic action that formed this island many eons ago. These rocks are constantly scrubbed by wind and waves, and the high tide marks its passage, while the lower portions that remain submerged are encrusted with barnacles and seaweed. Above the waterline, ferns and evergreen trees grow in tangled profusion, some at the very cliff’s edge with their roots clinging to cracks in the rock. It’s a landscape that at once seems eternal yet constantly in flux. Rocks tumble into the water to create new shelters for fish and lobster, covered and revealed with the daily changes in the tide. New trees push up through the forest litter while others are knocked over by storms. The scene remains constant, but is never the same.

Along this stretch of the cove, depending on the time of day and level of the tide, I often encounter schools of Atlantic menhaden — locally called “pogies” — group filter-feeding on plankton. Their dorsal fins will periodically break the surface of the water as they move in coordinated tight groupings, looking like miniature sharks plowing through the water while they vaccuum up their meals. Like a starling murmuration, the pogies will often suddenly and simultaneously change direction, leaving small ripples across the water sounding and looking like someone had thrown a handful of gravel. If you look closely at the water in the foreground of this drawing, you will see those pogie echoes on the surface.