Kelleys Island has been an endless source of information, store house of material and locus operandi for the sculpture and painting on which I spent my working life. I have walked the beaches of the island since I was able to walk. Later, at around seven, I began a lifelong exploration of the interior. In my walks short and long, I have watched tilled fields and tended vineyards turn to brush, then woods. As habitats shifted, the pheasants vanished, the coons arrived and fox. Cattle grazed over the land later home to the deer and coyote. The coyotes cry out now in the evening. The rabbits are there now as always. Wild turkey cruise through the woods and fly high up in the trees to roost as darkness falls.
I photographed fields in the late fifties and over the years have photographed the same spots many times always finding something new. I photograph the water in the morning, then in the evening. The water is never the same, nor am I, or you. In winter the ice is magical, not static, as one might imagine, but dynamic, powerful, a churning force for light to play on. Perhaps Kelleys Island is not a better or richer place than any numbers of others, but it is my home. If it isn’t already yours, enjoy the visit.