Quarry Dance

Two years ago Ina Hahn realized her vision of producing a public dance concert at Halibut Point in collaboration with Dusan Tynek, resident artist at Windhover Center for the Performing Arts. Next weekend they will offer Quarry Dance #3 at Deep Pit Quarry in Lanesville (see below.)

Lisa Hahn photo 

Ina "I walk at Halibut Point every day. It's like a pilgrimage for me, and for many other people....It's a combination of inner and outer worlds. The inner world being the quarry itself and the outer world being the ocean."

 "It was built by local people, wonderful families that suffered through all the difficulties of the men quarrying....They didn't realize the were creating dreamscapes for the rest of us."

Lisa Hahn photo

Dusan "Ina has been extremely important to me personally. She was one of the first people who offered their hand to me at the beginning when I started my own company in New York City....She comes from a very specific artistic background, from the Doris Humphrey/Jose Limon area. That's not my training, but I have a huge respect for what all those pioneers of modern dance did. Her carrying the legacy is so important. It's so rare to have a place like Windhover dedicated to dance."

Sallee Slagle photo

 "For me, creating a dance is spiritual. You're reaching into those parts of you that you don't really know they're in there, and you're suddenly connecting, especially when you're outside with nature, and with the people."

 

"The architectural makeup of the site obviously dictated certain things. But then also the history of the workers, the granite, and then of course the elements - the water, the air, the rocks....It was an abstract piece, but these were the influences."

Sallee Slagle photo

"I wanted to use some distance as well as something up close. I had the dancers move to the other side of the quarry. In front of them would be the entire length of the quarry, with the cliffs and the water. Then right behind them was the ocean. I needed a pop of color. So the red, I thought, worked beautifully.... It's such an unexpected contrast in an area where everything is blue and green and gray, a beautiful element to bring into the natural environment."

"Each audience member brings a certain memory or a thought or an experience from that particular place, to how they view the performance, how it links to them. Some part of the dance might just hit that note in their psyche and bring these memories back, so they're affected by it."
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Quarry Dance #2 was performed last summer at Valley Pit Quarry, former home of Sylvester Ahola.

Quarry Dance #3 will be performed at Deep Pit Quarry, former home of Walker Hancock and now of Deane Hancock French. Friday, Aug 1 at 5:30pm and Saturday Aug 2 at 11:00am and 5:30pm. See the Windhover website for directions and parking.

Star Party

For a deeper appreciation of the night sky I headed over to Halibut Point one Friday evening to mingle with the Gloucester Area Astronomy Club. I arrived early enough to admire the sunset, the day's gorgeous finale from our own life-giving star.

I stood alone on the rim of the continent for the spectacle. It dawned on me that the astronomers were looking the other way.

Sure enough, they were waiting for the heavenly colors to blacken, tinkering with telescopes up on level ground by the Visitor's Center. Their fabulous instruments and shop talk had the buzz of a NASCAR warm-up, except that these folks wanted all comers to join in the fun. As twilight deepened the voices around me called out celestial attractions like carnival hawkers. Their red laser pointers zipped around the constellations to help orient us to stellar topics.

One way to gauge the quality of darkness is the brightness of the Milky Way. It surrounds us on all sides with billions of stars each billions of miles apart, one among billions of galaxies. With no wind nor moon we had great conditions.

Club 'host' Michael Deneen quipped, "When you see another galaxy you have to wave back, because mathematically, with the number of planets in that galaxy, there's got to be someone looking back at you."

Michael Deneen

Michael located Messier Object #57  (M-57) overhead, the Ring Nebula. "Everybody see The Cosmic Bagel? It looks like a tiny Cheerio at the bottom of the bowl, a little ghost of a Cheerio. It's a dead star, 1,500 light years away, over a light year in diameter. You could fit a hundred of our solar systems inside that circle."

Elaine called out, "I've got M-13in the scope. The Globular Nebula. Who wants to look?" Michael explained why, when you see those particular stars, you're looking back almost to the beginning of time.

The winning attraction of the evening was the planet Saturn, which "has sold more telescopes than anything else." It shimmered breathtakingly a billion miles away in the unfathomable nothingness. All "its" light originated in the sun, reflected back to us.

Was it possible to take a picture? No one in the Club tries to do much with astro-photography, though it's possible with telescope adapter rings and long exposure experiments. But Steve Smith said he'd had occasional luck with an iPhone generating a snapshot to remember the night.

That was exactly what Jackie wanted. She and her Aunt Kim have set out to visit all seventy-six State Parks in Massachusetts. "I can't believe I'm seeing Saturn tonight, a million times. It looks like a UFO. This is so cool! Oh, if I can get this, it's going to be a great picture."

Right on the spot Jackie emailed it to me from her iPhone. Billions of nano-circuits transmitted the image to my home. It was an awesome night for an earthling.

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The Gloucester Area Astronomy Club, 11 years and 120 members strong, meets monthly on Friday evenings. See their Facebook page or website. Says Michael Deneen, "We're a minimalist organization. No dues or bylaws. It's kind of a Woodstock thing."

Blueberry Heaven

When the blueberries ripened at Halibut Point, my grandchildren wanted to get there before the bears scooped them all up. Sami set the pace.

Vivian could already taste them on the waffles.

Kay, Becky, and the kids got right down to picking berries.

When Patrick ran by with Mila, Marcus gave him a treat.

It was the prettiest place we ever worked.

Lily brought home the most berries. The boys ate all theirs.

Blueberries made the waffles extra special for Mom and Dad.

Little Audrey popped a few in her mouth too.

Cape Ann Light

Excerpts from an interview with Betty Lou Schlemm.

Our Cape Ann light is constantly changing. I go right back to what John Carlson told us about the veils of atmosphere. We have them all here, the fog, the mist. It's like a stage with veils dropping down.

When there's only a single veil of atmosphere it's very bright out. Just a little bit of mist in the air. Oh, it's kind of exciting. I'm up in the sky right now, at noontime on a bright day, the sky coming down, the blue sky, and the sun. The veil of atmosphere is very thin, a lovely color, softened. It softens the day.


Morning Sunlight at Eastern Point

Now I'm dropping another veil down, the sky blue and the sun yellow-orange. They're touching each other. One coming straight down, one coming on angle. They're forming another color as they hit this atmosphere. They're joining together. How damp is the air? The particles? It becomes softer yet. The light lessens and lessens until it's just gray.

But it's so intense! That gray light comes down, hits the earth, bang! The light bounces. The luminosity of every object that it hits plays beautiful color.

Tuesday when we discussed this in class, we thought, well, maybe it's the ocean. Our rocks are warm. In Maine they're gray. Maybe that brilliant light hits the ocean and reflects into the rocks, which already have color, so it's going to become nicer.

Rain Coming In, Tenants Harbor

Somebody said Tuesday that the light of Cape Cod is different than the light of Cape Ann. They have lovely sand dunes. It seems natural then, when the light hits the sand dunes, you get a different kind of light. Light hits the gray rocks out West - no atmosphere - maybe that's why so many great painters go out West. The values and the color are magnificent there. Plus they have the sandstone.

When you paint outdoors the light constantly changes. From the minute you get up in the morning there's atmosphere. It's damp in the morning. That light goes against the heavens. At this low angle it creates a different color shadow. The shadow is always the complement of the light. The light is always stronger than the shadows,  except out West, where there's no atmosphere, and you get brilliant shadows.

Cape Ann's beautiful. At the end of the day when the light is so intense, just before it goes down, you get that brilliant light. Your shadows become black! You're going into a one-source light. Two hours earlier you were still working with  a two-source light, seeing a complement. But come the end of the day you're getting a Rembrandt light of the sun.

Why is a day lovely? People are responding to it. It's an artist's duty to show the way of why it's so beautiful.

Betty Lou Schlemm

I have to dream, dream to become the day. The subject matter doesn't really matter that much. When I go out to paint the primary importance is, what's the light of the day?

Betty Lou Schlemm's art class has met weekly in Rockport for  half a century. Proceeds from her current exhibition of 350 works at the North Shore Art Association - “The Gift” - will be donated to the Cape Ann Animal Aid Association, to Open Door, and to Wellspring House.

The Nature of Art

 

Reverberating with my Halibut Point green heron endeavor a reader sent along this photo of a mythic moment between Nature and the human psyche. Her photograph is a work of art.

Green Heron
Lois Brynes photo

What can we say of beauty? Perhaps that it is an awareness uniquely planted in people to temper our species' capacity to alter our environment. A conservative, cautionary, bonding element. It exists independently of art, and is only one of the qualities that art may choose to portray. Nature is bigger than art.

A few decades ago Slow Turtle of the Wampanoag Tribe gave a talk on Cape Ann with a dark outlook on modern life. I asked him what 'beauty' meant to him. He said "I see beauty wherever things are as God intended them." It was a satisfying answer, removed from logic, and comforting.

 
Art may also appear ironic, didactic, or angry. It may suggest non-aesthetic associations to the intellect, such as an Oriental cast to Lois's heron photograph.

Having rendered our green heron experiences in our particular ways  we have exchanged gifts like emissaries taking up diplomatic posts at an exotic station.

The Eye of the Hunter



Positioned between brain and beak, a bird's eyes guide it's every movement and meal.  These eyes differ in size, placement, and anatomy according to the lifestyle adaptations of each species.

Magnolia warbler

Migrating warblers pass through Halibut Point just as spring-green caterpillars are hatching among the spring-green leaves. Where we employ three sets of sensors to make up our color world, most birds have four or even five.⁽¹⁾ The high concentration of red- and green-sensitive cones in their retinas enables warblers to find tidbits in the verdure more easily than we can.

 

Birds also have colored oils in their light receptors that filter out certain wavelengths to sharpen others. The proportions vary from species to species to give particular advantages.  Just as the yellow tint of aviator sunglasses sharpens clouds against a blue sky, a warbler benefits from red filters to enhance differentiation among greens.

Brown thrasher

A thrasher's eyes are positioned on the side of its head as a compromise between vigilance and foraging. This location, and the somewhat flattened shape of its eyeballs, give it a panoramic but monocular view in all directions for maximum safety. Its eyes can focus together only where these paired fields of vision overlap directly to the front. In this overlap zone the bird has its best judgment for flight maneuvers, and for the use of its  beak, the critical meal-catching spot requiring good depth perception made possible by the binocular vision that we humans  emphasize  in our reliance on hand-eye coordination.

Snowy egret

As befits a hunter of fast-moving prey, an egret's eyes are oriented frontally for increased concentration on minnows. The penalty it pays of diminished sight to the rear has been an acceptable tradeoff in egret  habitat where predators would have to cross wide-open spaces undetected.  

Light bending at the water surface confuses our eyes on the precise location of objects underneath. Egrets are able to correct for refraction. Their strikes are most successful when made at an acute angle, where they seem to be less detectable to fish.  

Phoebe

Seeing and snatching bugs in midair is the sustaining life of flycatchers like the phoebe. Notice the protruding eye lenses for superior scanning and binocular overlap. The lateral placement of its eyes, and specialized receptor areas, enable it to track images to either side independently. 

Birds that hunt on the wing tend to have retinas highly enriched with cone sensors, several times that of humans. They can process images more quickly than we do into a series of discreet sights that to us may appear as an undifferentiated picture, like seeing individual film frames in slow motion.

Pigeon skull (2)

Birds' eyes take up a larger portion of their heads than any other creature. Surrounding tissues reveal only a small part of the bird's eye to the outside world. 

To save space for optical developments birds have given up the muscles that allow us to move our eyes from side to side or up and down. Neck muscles move their whole head instead. As food gulpers rather than chewers they streamline their skulls without teeth and large jaw muscles.

Grackle

Grackles search the meadow with one eye to the ground and the other cocked to the sky. Their brains synthesize bilateral information in their own version of multi-tasking, then converge the overlap binocularly to peck or fly. 

This hunter's posture is all purpose and focus, leaning into the prospect of taking a life to carry on its own. The full force of its intent lies poised behind the eye in a chilling acknowledgement of survival equations. The eye reveals the bird's nature as acutely as it guides its actions.

 ***

(1) Physiology resources: Wikipedia article "Bird Vision"; and the website "How Birds See their World" by Dr. Esteban Fernandez-Juricic, Purdue University  

(2) Image from Skullsunlimited.com

Homesteading Birds

Chickadee

A hard-working chickadee pair sensed the potential of this dead birch tree for rearing its brood.

They hollowed out a knot hole to family specifications.

After many trips out to dispose of their excavations they were ready to line the nest in time for the eggs.

Kingbirds

High overhead a kingbird pair had chosen a tree fork for their domicile.

They foraged for construction material.

 

The nest would have to be strong and cozy for the coming nursery,

as well as for the long days of brooding.

Phoebe

Beside the quarry a phoebe searched  for a sheltered crevice in the cliff.

A promising nook with an overhanging roof drew a closer look.

The phoebes got right to work adhering their nest to the wall with mud. It's just visible at the top of the recess.

Once the family is born the parents have a busy job keeping the chicks fed with their fly-catching forays around the quarry. 

Do we devitalize our wonder with the explanation: instinct?

Common, But Seldom Seen

It's one thing to know a bird is there and another to get a good look at it. For visual appreciation you need clear sight lines, which some birds are explicitly reluctant to grant. Trying to obtain a clear view, such as across a pond,  gives the bird an open look at your stealthy moves and the chance to disappear. If you have to approach through the brush you might as well be crunching bubble wrap en route.

Green Heron

On a lucky day in the spring I got this photo of a green heron beside one of a network of small quarries. It whetted my hope for further sightings, maybe even a rookery, but no luck until last week when we surprised each other at his fishing post on a pond near the tip of Halibut Point. He dashed into the woods and flew off a bit later with a companion (the missus?), in the direction of the first quarry, silhouetted like a pair of short-tailed crows against the sky. 

The next morning I tiptoed back to the pond at dawn thinking to be ahead of the herons. It seemed a more reasonable plan than spending the night. Unfortunately my portable hunting blind malfunctioned. Any possibility of staying invisible was lost, but I lingered quietly for a while in Little Eden.

Almost subliminally I became aware of a soft hooting sound which gained volume as a mysterious creature drew closer in the brush behind the pond. I never got a look at it. Later, in a rather comical email exchange with a birding expert at Mass Audubon, I tried to describe the sound. Once I got him the right combination he zeroed in on the black-billed cuckoo. I went to the Cornell Ornithology website to hear a recording of that very sound from the bush, along with this assessment: "Common but secretive, the Black-billed Cuckoo is heard far more often than seen." 

Now I had a double incentive to infiltrate that charmed terrain for photographic trophies. Early the next morning I threaded down a 'game trail' to the rear side of the quarry and set up station beneath an oak tree. The solitude nurtured reflections on strategy, and on obsession. 

Obsession? How else do you stretch experience? I was mobilized, yes. I wanted those photographs, but not necessarily at all costs. Hmmm. I could admit to being fairly far to the right on the interest - passion - obsession spectrum. Those words slide into one another. 

 

It's not a zero-sum game. I don't see any losers. Time outdoors with a quest makes for winners. Of course you will be tested. I, for instance, am learning to accept that the trees have to have their leaves even though they interfere with bird watching. But couldn't science give us a mini-laser to snip out an annoying branch or two?

Something moved off to the left of my lair. This little fellow peered back at me from within the canopy, then flitted to a spot that revealed a bit more of its identity to my Mass Audubon consultant: female common yellowthroat.  I have a new acquaintance.

The last couple of outings to Halibut Point I've heard the cuckoo again, sotto voce and alluring beyond the catbrier tangles. Oh, what a coup that photo would be!  Let's see...cut a trail...build a tree blind...play a recording to bring him closer...

Black-billed Cuckoo
Christopher L. Wood photo
Courtesy of Cornell Ornithology Lab

Years ago on a field trip a novelty came into view. My companion remarked, "Well, I guess that's a life bird for you." I replied, "No, it's just the first time I've seen it." Remembering that perspective helps keep my obsessions in check.

Misty Morning



After a nice run of fair weather to advance the spring we awoke one day last week in a fog. Without highlights and shadows to sharpen images and locate tiny birds in tall trees my intended camera quests were nullified, but an excursion around Halibut Point brought serendipitous alternatives.

The mood seemed to imply consolidation more than progress, a maintenance day. The gulls seemed to be as limited in their aerial reconnaissance as I was in photographing warblers. We all refocused our plans to the advantages of the moment.

The headlands were eerily quiet, a far cry from yesterday's riot of birdsong. The pulse of the morning was as diffuse as the light. As long as I kept my mind off missing out on flashier ephemeral subjects, the visual world was pleasantly soothing. Some of the regulars just went back to bed.

It was so quiet that I wondered if the songbird migration had moved on. I shifted periodically between states of reverie and of pondering for logical explanations. Was the silence a result of inactivity brought on by diminished light, or had the gloom deflated the songsters' emotional spark? A mourning dove's plaintive notes keynoted the atmosphere. 

I came to realize that there actually was bird sound around me, just not bird song. Messages on the order of "I'm over here, where are you?" resonated here and there. But a lyrical quality was missing along with the sunshine.

A towhee tried to get things going with repetitions of "bang, bang, ch-ch-ch" from a lofty perch. I interpreted it as a wistful gambit on his part, akin to "How about if I lay down the first song?"

 

A voice responded in the grayness with a spirited mimicry of various other birds currently silenced by the day. A catbird. A new hero. Perhaps in the shame of its personal meow voice it has developed a supplemental repertoire of musical 'covers' from avian neighbors, phrases it reiterates somewhat tediously on your average day, but most enchantingly in the flatness  of the fog. 

 

There was the catbird silhouetted in full throat, newsy and vaguely melodious like the town crier, or like a tipsy fellow joyous in imagined after-hours company. I thank you, friend, for the smile you bring forth pro bono. If I can't repay you directly I can at least listen more fully. 

 

It's seeing that whetted my expectations for the day and listening that gave sight.