I wasn't expecting much. It was a gloomy morning, and the pink tinge out over the island portended rain. Still, I took the camera with me because you never can tell what you might see.
As I set out, words like spare and sere were in my head. From the cold grey prison walls, to the hidden sun gleaming bleakly off the aluminum surfaces of a sculpture at the marina, to the lake, already looking like molten lead, as it does when you just know its nearly gelid; everything spoke of limitation, of decline. I walked past the sometimes spooky, reputedly haunted, and empty asylum, hoping for at least a frisson. But instead I saw a broken window transformed into a darkly beautiful mirror.
Form and texture have become pre-eminent, and everything is quite still..
This makes the colour that is left, wet green algae, duck feathers of impossible brilliance, garlands of persimmon- hued bittersweet, all the more precious.
The view out to the Island is like a Japanese meditation garden, and I could stand and look at it for a long time.