During a recent visit to the Boston area, we drove up to Rockport and spent some time at Front Beach before walking along Main Street and Bearskin Neck, a pedestrian-friendly street lined with restaurants, shops and galleries that, when followed to its terminal end, features a northeasterly view of the Atlantic.
During our excursion, I resisted the urge to buy pastries that looked like nothing I’d ever seen before. I also resisted the urge to buy souvenir tee shirts, hoodies, postcards or driftwood baubles. Ultimately and unbelievably, I resisted the urge, more than once, to buy an ice cream cone to enjoy as I walked with R. and took in the sights along with sea air and sunshine.
Every window caught my eye, but I refused to go into the shops. Knowing my time was limited, I chose to stay out in the street and conduct a shallow survey of all that was there as opposed to conducting a deep dive down any one particular rabbit hole that might swallow up the entirety of my visit before belching me out into the street in a boat captain’s cap or sporting lobster scented breath and wearing butter stains on my white poplin shirt and linen trousers.
I was initially stopped in my tracks by a painting by Christine Mosher, evidently inspired by Gustav Klimt. Hey, I once stole a pocket knife from Grandpa Pigeon’s and a pack of Marlboro Reds from the Broadway IGA, so who am I to judge? The other window of that particular gallery displayed a loose painterly seascape by her deceased husband, Donald A. Mosher. Both obviously talented artists. I doubt that I could match them.
I kept my distance, maintained my aloofness and moved on.
Eventually my eye was arrested by the colorful abstractions of Morgan Dyer. The work seemed fresh, not what you’d expect to find in a traditional coastal village. (The landscape and seascape paintings by Donald A. Mosher were exactly what you would expect.) Seeing us standing in front of her shop, Ms. Dyer beckoned us to come back to her studio space to see what she was working on. R. led the way and I followed. R. did the talking while I smiled and took in the workspace. A freshly painted commission piece lay drying on the floor at the artist’s feet; the commissioner was to visit later that day. Canvas rolls, paper scraps, painting supplies, other things were scattered all about the white-walled perimeter of the space. Overhead lights were on, but illumination of the space was dominated by sunlight pouring in through large windows that offered a grand view of the harbor. I was immediately excited for her—and envious.
You see, this was exactly the kind of space that I had mined from my subconscious during a visioning exercise I had undertaken after retiring from full-time employment. While sitting in meditation, on the verge of a new chapter in my life, I had attempted to conjure the ideal future for myself. The result: a single image, one that led me to the goal of becoming a painter and working—if not that day then apparently some day—in a bright, airy space with white walls and large windows that let in ample natural light. The sparkling harbor full of boats wasn’t a concrete feature of my Dream Studio, but I could live with it!
Morgan was easy to talk to: cheery, bright, genuine. She shared some personal information, talked about her art education, described her working methods. R. seemed interested in one particular image, I felt compelled to support the artist. A purchase seemed inevitable—it really was only a matter of how much to spend. Original canvases were available, as were more affordable prints in different sizes, including greeting cards. We chose two prints, and it seemed unnecessary to say aloud that this transaction was the conclusion of our day in Rockport. We silently walked back down Main Street past the beach, climbed into our car, and drove back to Boston.
theotherjeffrogers.com 