Come swim with the sharks
"Great Barrier Reef" (archival pigment print), by Jane Paradise, at Galatea Fine Art, Boston, Feb. 5-March 1. She’s based in Provincetown
'Like seams of lead'
“Still life with mackerel, lemon and tomato,’’ by Vincent Van Gogh (1886)
“They lie in parallel rows,
on ice, head to tail,
each a foot of luminosity
barred with black bands,
which divide the scales’
radiant sections
like seams of lead
in a Tiffany window.’’
— From ‘Display of Mackerel,’’ by Mark Doty, formerly of Provincetown
P Town's jarring juxtapositions
“Herring Cove Bathhouse Provincetown’’ (archival pigment print), by Jane Paradise, in her show “Classic Provincetown: Photographs of Provincetown and the Province Lands,’’ through Sept. 29, at Galatea Fine Art, Boston.
The gallery says:
“Provincetown is a jarring combination of natural beauty and thriving commercial enterprise. It is incongruous in its landscape and culture. Parts are so pristine that your eyes hurt with the raw beauty, but in summer it is sometimes so crazy with throngs of people that one can get lost and life can slip by quicker than sand in an hourglass. Two irreconcilable sides. Where the human and natural landscapes mingle to tell a unique story.’’
On Commercial Street in Provincetown.
In the Province Lands
Maybe go back to Europe?
The Pilgrim Monument, in Provincetown. The Pilgrims landed near this spot in 1620.
"They thought they had come to their port that day,
But not yet was their journey done;
And they drifted away from Provincetown Bay
In the fireless light of the sun.
With rain and sleet were the tall masts iced,
And gloomy and chill was the air;
But they looked from the crystal sails to Christ,
And they came to a harbor fair.
The white hills silent lay,—
For there were no ancient bells to ring,
No priests to chant, no choirs to sing,
No chapel of baron, or lord, or king,
That gray, cold winter day.
The snow came down on the vacant seas,
And white on the lone rocks lay;
But rang the axe ’mong the evergreen trees,
And followed the Sabbath day.
Then rose the sun in a crimson haze,
And the workmen said at dawn:
“Shall our axes swing on this day of days,
When the Lord of life was born?”
The white hills silent lay,—
For there were no ancient bells to ring,
No priests to chant, no choirs to sing,
No chapel of baron, or lord, or king,
That gray, cold Christmas Day.
“The old towns’ bells we seem to hear:
They are ringing sweet on the Dee;
They are ringing sweet on the Harlem Meer,
And sweet on the Zuyder Zee.
The pines are frosted with snow and sleet.
Shall we our axes wield,
When the chimes at Lincoln are ringing sweet,
And the bells of Austerfield?”
The air was cold and gray,—
And there were no ancient bells to ring,
No priests to chant, no choirs to sing,
No chapel of baron, or lord, or king,
That gray, cold Christmas Day.
Then the master said: “Your axes wield,
Remember ye Malabarre Bay;
And the covenant there with the Lord ye sealed;
Let your axes ring to-day.
You may talk of the old towns’ bells to-night,
When your work for the Lord is done, 45
And your boats return, and the shallop’s light
Shall follow the light of the sun.
The sky is cold and gray,—
And here are no ancient bells to ring,
No priests to chant, no choirs to sing,
No chapel of baron, or lord, or king,
This gray, cold Christmas Day.
“If Christ was born on Christmas Day,
And the day by Him is blest,
Then low at His feet the evergreens lay,
And cradle His church in the West.
Immanuel waits at the temple gates
Of the nation to-day ye found,
And the Lord delights in no formal rites;
To-day let your axes sound!”
The sky was cold and gray,—
And there were no ancient bells to ring,
No priests to chant, no choirs to sing,
No chapel of baron, or lord, or king,
That gray, cold Christmas day.
Their axes rang through the evergreen trees,
Like the bells on the Thames and Tay;
And they cheerily sung by the windy seas,
And they thought of Malabarre Bay.
On the lonely heights of Burial Hill
The old Precisioners sleep;
But did ever men with a nobler will
A holier Christmas keep
When the sky was cold and gray,—
And there were no ancient bells to ring,
No priests to chant, no choirs to sing,
No chapel of baron, or lord, or king,
That gray, cold Christmas Day?''
"The First Christmas in New England,'' by Hezekiah Butterworth (1839-1905)
Land of Pilgrims and motels
‘’I think of the Pilgrims whenever I walk to these emerald-green marshes at the end of town (Provincetown}….If I have a drink in me, I begin to laugh, because across from the plaque to the Pilgrims {whose first stop in America was at what was to become Provincetown}, not fifty yards away, there where the United States began, stands the entrance to a huge motel….Its asphalt parking is as large as a football field. Pay homage to the Pilgrims.’’
-- From Norman Mailer’s novel Tough Guys Don’t Dance
The most dangerous ones
"Some Artists Are Models Too,'' by Robert Henry, in his show opening Aug. 19 at Berta Walker Gallery, Provincetown.
Artists on the edge
"Clam Warden's Domain at Dawn'' (oil on canvas), by SALVATORE DEL DEO, in a show opening Aug. 14, at the Berta Walker Gallery, Provincetown.
He focuses on the Outer Cape's dunes, clam flats, sea, solitude, shacks and fishermen in all weather, and his work speaks to their relationship with Provincetown's large and storied arts community, in all its moods, fads, sociability and reclusiveness.
The somewhat weird effects of having a busy town like Provincetown so close to a wilderness of vast dunes adds, we suspect, to the area's allure to so many artists, more than a few of them very eccentric.
'and our little life is rounded with a sleep'
"Floating'' (oil on canvas), by SKY POWER, in the group show "Mystical Landscapes,'' at the Berta Walker Gallery, Provincetown, Mass., July 27-Aug. 9.
POBA the preservationist
''Deluca's Market'' (Provincetown), by NANCY WHORF (1930-2009), as seen in POBA -- Where The Arts Live,'' a new virtual art gallery "dedicated to preserving the works and creative legacies of exceptional artists whose talents were not fully recognized during their lifetimes.''
A hard-won crop
"Shuckers'' (Homage to the Patricia Marie Series, 1976-2001, oil on canvas) by SALVATORE DEL DEO, at the Berta Walker Gallery, Provincetown, through March 8.
Tedious work but not nearly as unpleasant as being out on a cold wet clam flat and raking them up. No wonder they're so expensive.