Well, I didin’t really expect that I wouldn’t write annything for nearly a full week, but … wow. It’s true. I guess taking over a thousand photographs tends to hamper free time.
I don’t feel like I can really explain what’s happened here; I arrived at dinnertime last Sunday and came around the corner, a stranger, into the vicinity of the dining tent ((yes, I said dining tent) and the picnic benches (picnic benches! Am I going to have to repeat everything?) were full of high school kids. My first thought: OMG: I’m at camp. I’m the oldest person here”) turned out that this pace is bustling with people of all ages. (there is also, a contingent of hs kids who are kind of segregated from those of us taking the workshops who range in age from 20-60, at least)
I’ve almost cried a few times, walking around these very dark rural main roads, past old shingled building after another, feeling the deep cold water that’s just out of sightc. This place is sort of a collection of ramshackled yet memory-filled old houses mixed in with a couple of capital building projects (a dorm building) and a whole bunch of photography and film related notions, props, tools, and most of all— thoughts, ideas, stories and curiosities.
The Workshops are full of creative warm people. everybody smiles and I quickly learned that it’s best just to go straight to outright friendly. I meet new people every day, have laughs with people every day, talk photography and philosophy and “life the universe and everything” every day. and there’s beer to drink – good beer — every day! It appears in plastic cups next to plastic cups of box wine every night after the frayed rope is pulled aside and the dinner bell is rung, announcing the opening of the serve-yourself buffet line which as featured all manner of vegan and carnivore delights. The beer, though— that’s been my first stop every night, somewhat serrepticiously filched w/o waiting in the long line. After that, I’ve been content to sit at a table, have a conversation with “somebody new” or in busier times, furiously plow through some of the hundreds of photos that I’ve taken of the belties and the kids who take care of them, in preparation for the Union Fair, which begins sunday. I’m staying extra long here so that I can finish out my project with images of the kids showing their cows.
Today was actually the last day of our class, and that makes me sad if I were to stop and think about it. I’d rather think about what I’m going to take next year, though. This place is … paradise. On the one hand, it’s coastal Maine. It’s pretty, rural, cool, foggy at night, it reains nearly every day for a bit, etc. I wouldn’t want to live here, it’s pretty rich and white, but as a place to … focus on something, or a place to take a step back from the harrying world, I doubt it can be beat.
And then there’s the workshops. The Workshops. The Workshops! By that, I don’t mean “the workshops” but rather the proper noun that is the casual reference to the Maine Media Workshops, which is just simply one of the greatest educational resources/concepts for photography and filmmaking in the world. Rather than me blabber on about its history, why don’t you just check it out here?
I gotta go on to the next post. I know there’s typos here. I don’t care.