brown bird october 2011

In October 2011 we kicked back, grabbed a cold one (in all forms of bottles) and were delighted by the sounds of David and MorganEve and the beautiful music of Brown Bird.  Pulled together by our friends (who we say with admiration are groupies), we showed up to a quiet side street in Barrington and shot the sh*t until they were ready to play.  The garage was open and ready, instruments gently resting and available for the wee ones to stare at and admire, and for the adults to discreetly drool over.  When they were both ready we assembled for the most private concert I have ever attended.  The notes drifted off the guitar and the bass as easily as they have played on repeat in my car.  As we lazily reclined back and tapped a toe we witnessed artistry, passion, and soulfulness.  Those of us who had been following the band kept pinching ourselves.  David and MorganEve were quite absorbed in their performance and did not skip a beat as little artists produced chalk drawing in front of them or danced wildly with abandonment.  When their set was over they quietly packed up.  We grabbed their ear and chatted.  I had the chance to tell them that their music was in my ear during the entire course of my first half marathon just 2 months before.  Their steady beat propelled my legs and my head to compete and I was extremely grateful.  Ever humble they smiled and nodded their head to my story as I went on and on, gushing.  We grabbed a couple of t-shirts and have worn them proudly since.  Who knew that a few clicks of my shutter one quiet day in October, 3 years ago, would now bear so much meaning for us.  Thank you David and MorganEve for sharing so much of yourselves with all of us.  Your music is part of the soundtrack of our lives.  

portrait session with mr. p. brendan harney

Resident Rockstar.   This quiet neighbor of mine lived across from me for a couple of years before I really got to know just how extraordinary he was.  Unassuming, minimalist, and so habitual in nature (very Steve Jobs like) you can set a clock to his habits.  Just when you feel like everything is out of control you take a peek out the window and know that on Sunday morning his trip to the grocery will happen, a declaration that the life will continue.  I have come to realize that his calm and steadied life is paramount to achieve the creative output he consistently partakes in after sunset.  Occasionally the beat of a drum can be heard drifting through our windows. More often than not the basement light is on late into the evening as he is plugged into the keyboard, taping away a new sound or riff  that will make it onto an album...an album that will eventually make its way into our music collection.  He has toured America and Europe with his band, Wheat.  He throws out big names like Sony and Rolling Stone, but in such a casual and understated way that you miss the references the first time and make him repeat it.  Throwing my elbows onto his counter and stirring my cup of french pressed coffee (his speciality) I listen to the stories of a career that has spanned 20 years.  My ears are tuned into this world he inhabits on weekends and in the dead of night.  We shake our heads and smile and ask for more...more gossip, more descriptions, more examples of a rockstar life.  He laughs at the title.  He is not impressed by the big names.  It's the small venues and joints that the band cut their teeth on or the recording studio in Upstate NY that make his eye twinkle.  His presence is infectious.  His music is a culmination of a life of giving oneself to making art.  He is Fall River born. He lives across the street. He is Brendan. He is our Rockstar.

silent spring

Tonight I let the bourbon sit on my tongue far longer than usual.  The sting is comforting, I enjoy that I have lost the grimace it once gave.  The warmth is expected and I give in and let it wash over me.  Today, my arms ache.  I carry too much as of late, invisible packages with no return labels.  The saloons are filled and glasses have been raised.  My weak arm muscles do not bear the strength to partake anymore.  My anger is directed with clenched fists at the burden left behind as we try to make sense of it all.  With what energy still residing in me I raise the camera to my eye.  The light is as warm as the sugar in my glass. I do not want to miss a drop.  I think she knows.  Without a complaint she sits for me and allows my lens to capture the ever-fleeting here and now, replaced by gut wrenching pain and longing for what once was.  Tonight we let the music play and pour some more. 

portrait session with nicky

There isn't a manual for motherhood.  It is not a one size fits all deal.  No universal S, M, L, or XL here. I say, throw your guidebooks away.  They are full of dribble and will underscore the job you have taken on.  Perhaps the sweetest measurement will take years to cultivate.  When you (with authority) pause and say, "you know what my mother always says..."  It is then, that you will understand that the job never ends.  There are days you will be right.  Days when you are wrong.  But it's the big picture that matters, full of tiny little dots of moments and memories that you have forgotten, each creating its own unique museum worthy Seurat.   This is motherhood.  You hope for the best and close your eyes and leap as far as their imagination will take you.  Holding, not only their little hands in yours, but also firmly grasping your own mother's hand.  Your guidebook isn't something you can take out of the library.  And maybe she wasn't always right.  But you will be the judge of that.  Take what she has given you.  Mold it to what you think it should be and do your best because that's how she would have done it as well.  Motherhood is a narrative that hasn't ended.  Started long ago, you now make your own chapter.  

portrait session with lynne

To Lynne,

  One of the most beautiful women, friend, mother, wife, daughter, etc I have ever known.  

   You are the glue that holds us together.  

Home.  What is this notion of home? It might be within the walls of a house.  It might be a town.  Is it a state?  It is a state of mind?  The word home has been screaming at me for weeks, popping up in photos and in conversation.  Home is consistency.  It is structure.  It makes my soul feel comfortable and cared for.  It is a hug that won't let go.  Home is where I am, it is my story.  Home is where I will be when you have travelled far and need to find me.  Right here I will be.  I have put my roots down to void the hurricane winds and have opened my arms ready to protect you.  I have filled my closets with treasures of your youth.  To come and find me simply point your compass to where you were last.   I am there, waiting.  H  O  M  E