I encountered this scene a couple of summers ago when Allen and I were guests in the summer home of a colleague of his near New Palz, NY. It’s a modest little hideaway and serves as a quiet writing spot for our host who spends most of his time in Manhattan.
The house is nestled at the bottom of a hill, along side a serene swimming hole at Rondout Creek. You have to drive well into the woods, and maneuver down a winding dirt road that leads right to the front yard. The rushing water from the creek can be heard from every room inside.
We were there for a gathering of academics and creative types, and I busied myself much of the time taking pictures of our surroundings. We drank wine, dining by the fireside well into the nights. Every little thing seemed to take on a mysterious and rare light that remained even with each new sun. In looking over my images after the trip, I’ve settled on this one as a favorite. For me, this picture of a picture captures the light and context in a way that allows me to briefly suspend my disbelief. Each time I look at it, the frozen figures seem freed, if only for a moment.