Our Banner in the Sky, 1861, Frederic Church, private collection
Normally on Fridays I introduce readers to one of my own paintings, but all day yesterday I was thinking of Frederic Church’s Our Banner in the Sky. It’s tiny compared to much of Church’s work: just 7.5X11 inches and done on paper. This is the same painter whose show-stopping The Heart of the Andes is a whopping 5.5X10 feet. Our Banner in the Sky is from the heart, and The Heart of the Andes was for the pocketbook. Both are wonderful, but they’re very different.
Church painted Our Banner in the Sky just weeks after the fall of Fort Sumter in 1861. The nation was electrified by the story of our flag being removed by rebel forces. At the time, nobody had any idea how the Civil War would play out.
Church was inspired by a sunset that glowed red, white, and blue. He took that as a sign that “the heavens indicated their support for the United States by reflecting the nation’s colors in the setting sun.” Whether or not you share his theology, it certainly points to a faith in the enduring nature of our country. That’s why I think it’s such an important painting for today.
In my travels in England in May, strangers talked to me about their fears for American democracy. These are sentiments I’ve heard here as well.
In two years, we’ll be celebrating our national semiquincentennial. (That amazes me, since I vividly remember our bicentennial in 1976.) In the 248 years since our founding, we’ve suffered small rebellions, a full-blown Civil War, multiple economic depressions, two world wars, and 9/11. None of these were pleasant, but our nation endured. Our social compact is stronger than we credit. As long as we continue to love our fellow citizens, that will continue.
It seems like it’s taken forever, but it’s really only been about three weeks…
I usually open my gallery on Memorial Day, but I was mucking around in Britain until early June. (I don’t regret that one bit.) When I got home, I still had to build the darn thing from scratch. My absolute drop-dead date was the 4th of July, and I’ve made it by the skin of my teeth.
When I moved to Rockport, my gallery was in my studio, which is a lovely, airy, large space on the back of our house. Visitors got a behind-the-scenes look at what I do. However, when COVID came to town, that space was closed down. My solution was a tent in the driveway.
Window frame, by little old me! Good for setting your drink on, but I wouldn’t lean on it too hard.
In the meantime, I started teaching on Zoom and recording how-to-paint classes. When social distancing disappeared, there was no longer room for a gallery inside my studio.
There were things I loved about the tent gallery. People could see it from the road, and there was enough fresh air for even the most dedicated social distancers. But there’s a reason we don’t store paintings outdoors. Wind and rain have done real damage to my inventory. Plus, there was no space to gather people and host an opening.
I researched using a tiny house (not handicapped-accessible) or another structure (difficult to place on this lot). The best solution was to put my gallery in the first 11 feet of our garage. I’m very grateful to my friend Barb Whitten and my husband. If it were up to me, we’d still be trying to figure out places for all the stuff that was in there. My husband worked with me every day since. It’s the most time we’ve spent on a project since we built our first house in 1987.
These are fake walls, in sections so they can come down if necessary.
Coastal color combination
You’d think after all that work, I’d enjoy picking out the paint, but instead I punted to my kids. I made about a half-dozen photo montages of my paintings in front of various paint chips and asked them to choose. The blue you see was not my first choice, but seeing it with the paintings, I think my kids were right.
“This house is becoming fifty shades of blue,” I told my daughter. But that deep blue-violet is a perfect foil for landscape paintings.
I’ve never installed a door before, let alone a door in a false wall. These are interim views of my theater set.
How to find me
My gallery (and studio) are at 394 Commercial Street, Rockport, ME. Hours are noon-5, Tuesday-Sunday until at least Labor Day. See you soon!
Heavy Weather (Ketch Angelique), 24X36, oil on canvas, framed, $3985 includes shipping and handling in continental US.
“I’ve done a lot of drawing in pencil and charcoal, and anime and computer art, but I don’t know how to paint,” a young man told me. He wanted to know how to learn painting starting from the very beginning.
I checked his drawing portfolio (because if you can’t draw, you can’t paint) and he has good chops, including work from real life. He is ready to start working in color. But since he can’t break free to take one of my workshops this summer, what can he do?
Skylarking II, 18×24, oil on linen, $1855, includes shipping in the continental US.
First, I signed him up for Seven Protocols for Successful Oil Painters, my self-directed how-to-paint class. I’d rather people took the first section before they ever bought a single tube of paint, because Step 1: the Perfect Palette, explains in detail why I recommend paired primaries to my students. Then I gave him a mini-kit of QoR watercolors in quinacridone magenta, nickel azo yellow and ultramarine blue, a Pentel water brush, two bound Strathmore watercolor pads, a soft flannel rag and a small bottle to hold water. Even though he’s interested in oils, that is a cost-effective first introduction to color. (And, no, I can’t afford to send you all starter kits; he just caught me on a good day.)
But here’s a step-by-step guide on how to learn painting for the absolute beginner:
Gather Supplies
If you’re unsure whether you want to pursue painting, go with the kit I outlined above. If you know you want to paint, here are my supply lists for oils, watercolors, pastels and acrylics. These are based not only on my own usage, but on decades of students’ comments.
Breaking Storm, oil on linen, 30X48, $5579 framed includes shipping and handling in continental US.
Learn the basics
You’ll need to understand color theory, how to mix colors, basic brush techniques and fundamental rules of composition. In addition, you need to understand the basic steps from drawing to value study to final painting. You can get that from my classes and workshops, or from the self-directed Seven Protocols, above. If you prefer to read, I recommend Kevin MacPherson’s Landscape Painting Inside and Out for oils and Gordon MacKenzie’s The Complete Watercolorist’s Essential Notebook for Watercolors. However, there are many good books out there. (And I’d love your recommendations in the comments if you have favorites. I’m not that ‘booky.’)
Find a group of fellow enthusiasts and practice regularly.
“Iron sharpens iron,” and you’ll learn from your fellows at least as much as you do from your teacher. Investigate plein air groups, figure painting groups and urban sketchers for opportunities to paint from life. Plein air painting with a group isn’t just about becoming a better painter; it changes how you see your home turf. I’ve learned about many great parks, museums and gardens from my fellow painters.
Study art
Read about art history and visit galleries and museums. There are many ways to put down paint, and art history gives you a capsule lesson in all of them. You will also start to understand why modern artists paint the way we do, and where you fit in on the great continuum of art.
Sunset sail, 14X18, oil on linen, $1594 framed includes shipping and handling in the continental US.
Seek intelligent feedback
I’m a little nervous about social media groups or local art clubs for critiques, because some feedback is worse than none. Sometimes people repeat untrue cliches about painting. Others have axes to grind.
However, there are some very smart people out there, and they’re worth cultivating. My best feedback comes from my students (who aren’t afraid to tell me when I go off the rails) and my family. And I apply the same rules of formal criticism to my own work that I teach.
Speaking of my students, this is Rachel Houlihan from Camden:
Keep plugging
Learning to paint takes time and practice. Don’t be discouraged by initial challenges. If you focus on the product, you’ll never be satisfied, but the process of learning is sublime.
Marshall Point, oil on archival canvasboard, 9X12, $696, includes shipping and handling in continental US.
If you paint at the Marshall Point Light, someone is bound to ask, “Did you know this lighthouse was in the movie Forrest Gump?” It’s a lovely lighthouse and deserves its status as an American icon. I’ve painted it and its approaches many times. There is nothing wrong with painting lighthouses (despite what art snobs say). However, that doesn’t mean you have to be obvious about it. Spend enough time with any lighthouse and you start seeing other things that interest you—the ubiquitous brick oil house, or the porch, or the surf spraying onto the rocky headlands.
Marshall Point Light stands on a bedrock outcropping that can be completely awash depending on the weather and the tide. It’s connected to the land and the keeper’s house by a long wooden walkway. Visitors usually walk out to the white brick tower, stop at the steel door, and turn around and walk back. There’s really nothing to see out there—unless you lean over the railing and examine the bedrock.
A basalt dike.
Most of what is exposed is metamorphic rock that has been highly deformed by geologic pressures. Interlayered quartzite and gray mica schist are wildly contorted. Dikes of younger black basalt crosscut this metamorphic rock. Even though I don’t want to paint those formations in detail, I’m still fascinated by them every time I’m in Port Clyde.
On this day, Poppy Balser was visiting. We didn’t have a lot of time before the tide turned, so we set out to do quick sketches. I’m happy that I focused on the rocks.
How to paint a lighthouse
If I were visiting Maine I’d want to paint a lighthouse. They’re iconic, beautiful, and historic. As with any new subject, I’d start with a view of the scene in its entirety. Some lighthouses, like Pemaquid Point, or the Portland Head Light, have keepers’ houses attached. These create a very pretty roofline rhythm. Others, like Owls Head or Marshall Point, have separated keepers’ houses. After I did one overall scenic painting, I’d start looking for details that interest me.
The Late Bus, oil on archival canvasboard, 6X8, $435.00 framed, includes shipping and handling in continental US.
“I want AI to do my laundry and dishes, so I can do art and writing, not for AI to do my art and writing so I can do laundry and dishes,” wrote Joanna Maciejewska, in what is probably the most apt comment of our times. I’m inundated with AI images. Their funny imperfections are offset by internal biases that are downright scary, especially when casual observers can’t tell them from reality.
Deadwood, oil on linen, 30X40, $5072.00 framed, includes shipping and handling in continental US.
Wabi-sabi art says that the maker is human
Wabi-sabi is a Japanese aesthetic that embraces the imperfect, impermanent and incomplete. It is trending right now in interior design and in the preciousness of Meghan Markle’s American Orchard Riviera, but there’s a legitimate heart call there. If you’ve ever attended a wedding in a barn or had a drink in a Mason jar, you’ve lived wabi-sabi art, American-style.
Wabi-sabi occupies the same position in the Japanese aesthetic as the Greek ideals of beauty and perfection have occupied in western art for more than 2000 years. It’s the perfect antidote to the increasingly slick imitation of reality that AI represents.
The Logging Truck, oil on archival canvasboard, 16X20, $2029.00 framed includes shipping and handling in continental US.
Most of us, if we think about wabi-sabi art at all, think of it in terms of kintsugi, or the art of repairing broken things that makes them better than they were when perfect. That’s cool, but it’s only one aspect of wabi-sabi. How can thinking about the imperfect, impermanent and incomplete improve our art?
That’s a real bummer if you’re painting in the hope that your fame will outlive you, but that goal is a trap. It stops us from focusing on communicating with our fellow men in the here-and-now. “Yesterday’s the past, tomorrow’s the future, but today is a gift,” as they say.
All Flesh is as Grass, oil on linen, 30X40, $5072 framed, includes shipping and handling in continental US.
Art history is replete with examples of paintings that never seemed to get done. Leonardo da Vinci picked away at his Mona Lisa for sixteen years; he only quit working on it when his hand became paralyzed. That is less painting than obsession.
‘Finished’ presumes that all the questions are answered. That sounds boring to me, but luckily I can’t say I’ve ever gotten there. I just get sick of working on things.
Nothing is perfect
The more technology gives us perfection, the more we embrace imperfection.
This is hardly my idea; it’s been the general thrust of painting since the advent of photography. Photography explains tangible reality faster and better than paintings do. What we do far better than AI and photography is reveal the hand (and therefore the psyche) of the maker.
Is this an excuse for half-hearted work?
Of course not! You still are being held to high standards; you’re just not required to be perfect. And as we all know, perfect is the enemy of good, which is why I’m ending this essay on a cliché.
Lobster pound, 14X18, oil on canvas, $1594 framed includes shipping and handling within the continental US. I drove by the place where this used to be on Friday; it’s so depressing to see a new building, now empty and for sale.
I like living in an old house. It’s small and worn, but it’s also charming and durable. It’s only when I want to fix or replace something that it annoys. Nothing is straight. Some walls and ceilings are plaster-and-lath, some are drywall, and some are board. Channels have been cannibalized for water or power lines, so you’re never sure what you’ll find inside a wall. For most of our remit here, we’ve been able to hire professionals to experience those “oh, no,” moments. But not for this project.
This house was a classic New England farmhouse: a barn was attached to the main structure through a series of sheds. In the 1940s, the barn burned and took out the sheds and the kitchen ell. Charring can still be seen in the main section’s rafters.
Evening in the Garden, 9X12, oil on archival canvasboard, $869 framed includes shipping and handling in continental US.
The owners replaced the barn with a detached garage on the same foundation. Other than a new service panel and new doors, it stands as built 80 years ago. It’s no straighter or less quirky than the house; it’s large and has a plank floor. My friend Ken DeWaard suggested I use part of it for a gallery. This year, I dived in.
Most artists are good with their hands as a matter of necessity. That can be a rabbit hole at times; for example; I’ve wasted lots of time and money in making frames when it’s just cheaper and faster to buy them.
But there are jobs you can’t get done in a timely way, and small construction projects are high on that list. My recently-retired husband is my helper. When I’m done, I’ll have a 20X11 space with new lighting to showcase my work. That’s just about the size of my former tent gallery but it will be much nicer.
This is where I got to as of Friday afternoon.
Some of these jobs, like building window frames, I’ve done before. Some are new to me, like rough-framing and hanging a door. For those I turn to YouTube. Watch five videos and you’ll see five different techniques, but common sense helps you sort them out.
Then there are the jobs that you won’t find on YouTube because there’s no audience for them. The back wall of my new space is removable like a stage set. At the same time, it should be as solid as a real wall, as it will have paintings hanging from it. I won’t take it down often, so a lightweight false wall seemed, well, cheesy. The whole thing is held onto a beam with a lot of lag bolts, and a couple of strong guys should be able to tear it down in an hour.
Can you take this approach with learning to paint?
Well, yes and no. There are lots of good how-to paint videos out there about specific techniques, like brushwork. Longer videos tend to be demos, which are fun to watch but not great at developing skills. Videos that deal with something I already know about are more useful than ones that deal with new concepts. For example, I watched several videos about stretch ceilings, but I still won’t try putting one up.
Last light at Cobequid Bay, 6X8, oil on archival canvasboard, $348 includes shipping and handling in continental US.
Just as nobody would mistake me for a master carpenter because I’ve built some things after watching YouTube videos, nobody is going to learn to be a master painter from watching how-to paint videos.
When people tell me, “I’m gonna take one of your workshops someday,” I sometimes feel like asking them if they think I’ll live forever. I’ve filmed the seventh and last of my how-to-paint interactive classes this spring. Unlike Zoom classes or workshops, they have the potential to keep teaching long after I’m gone, unlike how-to paint videos.
Home Farm, 20X24, oil on canvas, $2898 framed includes shipping and handling in continental US.
I’m off to an opening at the Red Barn Gallery in Port Clyde this afternoon (4-7 PM) If you want to join me, drive to the foot of Port Clyde Road, turn right on Cold Storage Road and it’s on your right.
Having just returned from Britain, I’ve contemplated the 18th and 19th century estates that the du Pont family were copying when they dreamed up Winterthur. Winterthur started as a small Greek Revival mansion, expanded until it contained 175 rooms and more than 2600 acres of land, and is now a public museum. That’s the same trajectory as followed by many British Great Houses, except that their transit took hundreds of years, not a mere century.
Henry Francis du Pont was a shy, awkward man. After studying horticulture at Harvard (really), he came home to manage Winterthur. Although he was an autocrat in many ways, it’s to Henry Algernon du Pont’s credit that he didn’t force his only son into the shark-infested waters of early-20th-century business.
The younger du Pont styled himself a farmer, and became one of America’s premier breeders of Holstein Friesian dairy cows. But with 250 field employees, he didn’t have much in common with the typical American farmer of the early 20th century. That fellow and his family were doing grinding chores, often in terrible weather, and always one jump ahead of crop failure. In contrast, Du Pont was a gentleman farmer, insulated from disaster by his family’s wealth.
Winterthur’s estate was assembled by buying up a few dozen local farms. By 1925, the estate was raising turkeys, sheep, chickens, hogs, cows, vegetables and flowers. Winterthur also had greenhouses, a sawmill, a railroad station, and a post office. There were the show-stopping gardens and the du Ponts’ premier collection of Early American interiors.
The lovely stone house I painted above was the home of one of the farm managers. It is not the fanciest of the 90 outbuildings on the estate, but it’s my favorite. I imagine it is far pleasanter inside than the manor house, which is now our premier museum of American furniture and decorative arts. These artifacts, sometimes including whole rooms, were bought up and salvaged when nobody much cared about Early American design. That, rather than farming, was Henry Francis du Pont’s great contribution to our culture.
Larky Morning at Rockport Harbor, 11X14, on linen, $869 unframed includes shipping in continental US.
I’m thinking about Camden on Canvas and an impractical location occurs to me. It’s a glacial erratic on Fernald’s Neck. It would be long hike with a large canvas and my gear (although not nearly as onerous as painting from the top of Bald Mountain. Even when I get there, I’ll be confounded by the composition, as it’s just a huge rock by the shore. However, it’s one of those subjects that always excites me when I see it, so this might be the year I do it.
Glacial erratic with my friend Marjean for scale.
The problem of choosing plein air locations is compounded when one is teaching or organizing an outing for a group. There are practical considerations that aren’t as important when I’m painting solo.
At Rest in Camden Harbor, 12X16, oil on birch, $1159 unframed includes shipping and handling in continental US.
Here’s how I approach the question:
Does the view interest and inspire? That’s a moving target, but I look for places with interesting compositions and varied elements. That way there’s something for everyone.
How’s the lighting? I consider the time of day when it’s possible to be in that location. And, of course, at midday, I generally encourage people to down brushes and rest.
Is it accessible? This is far more important for a plein air class or an event where you have spectators than it is for solo painting. However, with big canvases come big equipment, and that’s where park-and-paint can be very helpful. There’s a famous location in Schoodic that’s now off-limits to groups. I never took mine there anyway; I judged it to be just too easy to tumble off that cliff.
American Eagle in Drydock, 12X16, $1159 unframed includes shipping and handling in continental US.
Is the terrain negotiable? I don’t mean just for me, but for everyone in my plein air group. The best locations are ones where the agile can move out and explore, but others can paint from near their car.
Can painters set up chairs? I have a duff back, and I no longer stand to paint. I want a place I can sit, and where my students can set up chairs if they wish. There’s no shame in sitting to paint.
What’s the weather forecast? It behooves a plein air painter to know all the overhangs, bridges, gazebos and other places he or she can shelter from the weather. That includes the sun if it’s blistering hot as it will be this week. A contingency plan is a must. In Maine, mine is my own studio as a backup location. In other areas, it can be a rented hall.
Do you have permission? I will never forget being yelled at because other painters who were not part of my group had trespassed on private property. Make sure you have permission before you go on someone else’s land. One of the hidden costs of my Schoodic workshop at Acadia National Park is the required permit (and a hidden cost for all my workshops is insurance).
Main Street, Owl’s Head, oil on archival canvasboard, $1623 includes shipping and handling in continental US.
Leave no trace. If you brought it in, bring it out. Police your workstation before you leave.
Are there amenities? We all need restrooms, food, and water. While I can fend for myself, I need to be clear with students about their options before we arrive. There’s no Starbucks at Schoodic, and I hope there never will be.
Can I get help in the case of an emergency? If there’s no cell-phone reception, I want to be within minutes of a ranger or a road.
Can we get away from the crowds? In Maine (and other popular destinations) that’s not always possible, but I work hard to keep people out of the worst traffic jams. Some people like talking about painting, but others really want privacy in which to work.
Are there multiple points of interest? There are many plein air painting sites with one great view, but they’re inherently less interesting than those with a variety of points of interest. Is there depth, with distinctive features in the foreground, midground and background?
I spend a lot of time scouting in the area in which I paint (and teach), usually with sketchbook in hand. You should, too.
The four locations in today’s paintings are all places we’ll be painting during Painting in Paradise, here in Rockport.
Two openings this week:
Thursday, June 20, 2024, I’ll be at the Camden Art Walk, at Lone Pine Real Estate, 19 Elm Street, Camden, ME. That’s 5-7 PM, and the Art Walk is kind of a street party. It’s rather short notice, but I would love to see you there. Especially as my husband is threatening to bring his bass guitar and plunk away in the corner.
Friday, June 21, 2024, I’ll be at the Red Barn Gallery in Port Clyde, ME, from 4-7 PM for the opening reception of their first seasonal show, Barns. I’ll have three of them in the show, and my fantastically-gifted student Cassie Sano has taken my spot in the cooperative. I’m curious to see what she (and the rest of my friends there) is up to.
Ever-Changing Camden Harbor, 24X36, oil on canvas, $3188 includes shipping and handling in continental US. This is one of the places I’ll be teaching in next month’s workshop.
Last week in my Color of Light class, the conversation turned to water-miscible oils. I haven’t used them in years, and only to test them to see if they were a reasonable alternative to conventional oils (yes, although I don’t like their hand-feel). It’s your turn to teach me, and answer the question raised by my students: do miscible oils hold up over time?
Several of my students described problems with cracking, inner layers that didn’t cure, paint surfaces sticking to other things, or paint softening after varnishing with Krylon Kamar Varnish. “But the color is so much better when the painting is varnished,” said the person who’d used the Kamar.
Seafoam, 9X12, oil on archival canvasboard, $869 framed, includes shipping and handling in continental US.
Since I’m a novice on the subject, I’m hoping that those of you with extensive experience with water-miscible oils can share that, good or bad
Kamar is, according to its material safety data sheet (MSDS), full of solvent. At least two of these—heptane and acetone—can dissolve oil paint, so I’m not shocked that Kamar could loosen up the surface of a painting. I’m no chemist and I’m not interested in reading MSDS for every spray varnish, but it makes sense that spray varnish needs plenty of solvent to be sprayable. On the other hand, I’ve used spray damar varnish on conventional oil paintings with no softening of the surface.
Apple Blossom Time, oil on archival canvasboard, $869 framed includes shipping and handling in continental US. Or, go see it at the Red Barn Gallery in Port Clyde this month.
Winsor & Newton makes a line of brush-on varnishes for their water-miscible oils, in matte, satin and gloss. I recommend my student try one of those.
Miscible oils are oil paints that are engineered to allow them to be thinned and cleaned up with water. The idea is to avoid using volatile organic compounds like turpentine, which are harmful when inhaled. A disclaimer, however: we haven’t been using turpentine as a solvent in this country in this century; it’s been replaced with odorless mineral spirits, or OMS. In a sense, miscible oils are fixing an obsolete problem.
The typical way of making oil and water mix is to add a surfactant. That’s how detergent works to remove oils from your clothes and dishes. For water-miscible oils, the end of the oil medium molecule is rejiggered to help it bind loosely to water molecules. The key here is loosely; you want the water to evaporate.
Sea Fog, 9X12, oil on archival canvasboard, $696 unframed includes shipping and handling in continental US.
The top-tier oil paint manufacturers, such as Gamblin or Michael Harding, do not offer miscible oils. Rather, they have solvent-free systems for working with regular oils. To me that indicates that miscible oils cannot yet be made to the highest standards of oil paints. In fact, the biggest complaint I hear about miscible oils is that their pigment load is lower. I don’t have enough experience to answer this with authority. Do you?
The issue of paintings not setting up or cracking is far more serious. This may be a simple fat-over-lean question. (I think that’s why my Kamar-using student’s paintings were dull and lifeless in the first place.) Fat-over-lean is every bit as true for miscible oils as it is for conventional oils.
In addition, miscible oils can crack is too much water is used, for the same reason that acrylics degrade if excessively diluted. There must be enough medium present to form a bond.
That’s all I know about the subject, so I’d love to hear from you painters with experience with miscible oils: do you like them? What problems have you had with them? Do you have paintings a decade or more old, and if so, how is the finish holding up?
Drying Sails, 9X12, oil on canvasboard, $869 framed includes shipping and handling in continental US.
I have paintings in Camden for the first time in several years. They’re at Lone Pine Real Estate at 19 Elm Street, which is a very good location indeed. Rachael Umstead, the owner, is one of my church buddies and the mother of two very entertaining boys. She and her staff have made a great success of the office. It’s downright swank, something I could never manage in a million years.
Camden harbor is a terrific place to paint boats, and I love bringing students there. You can get a hot dog (or something fishy) and a soda at Harbor Dogs, which has been there for more than 50 years. Ambience? None, if what you’re looking for is fine dining. I’m more inclined to sit in the sun and watch the schooners, the little kids fishing, and the ducks.
That painting under way.
It’s always fun to paint at the harbor after a stiff rain. Sailors will be busy bailing out their dinghies and raising sails to dry. That creates a lovely geometry of docks, sail and other boats.
I painted Drying Sails with my pal Björn Runquist. We were practicing our chip shots for Camden on Canvas, although I no longer remember why we felt that was necessary. I do remember that I encouraged Björn to paint one of the schooners, who waited until he was well underway and then dropped her frills. Sorry, Björn.
Another day, another iteration of the same subject. (Private collection.)
Camden harbor is one of the must-paint places for my students at my July workshop, which is right around the corner. If you’re considering it, you want to register soon, since it’s both close and nearly filled up. My other workshops are listed below.) And if you’re coming from out of town, email me and I’ll give you some suggestions about where to stay—the Maine coast fills up fast during the summer months.
