Living Designs

Two weeks ago, I had been alternating between jobs as a sternman on a lobster boat. In one position, I was opening lobster traps, pulling out lobsters to put into a keeper's tank or throwing others back into the ocean, throwing various sized and species of crabs, sponges, or sea-squirts back into the ocean, or perhaps small sharks called dogfish, then passing on a trap to a stern-mate, and then finally banding keeper lobsters--those big enough to pass as mature-enough lobsters to sell to eat. In the second position, I received an open trap, strung dead fish on a bait line in the trap, closed the trap, and swung the 90 plus pound trap onto a table-like contraption in the stern of a boat, in a certain configuration. We wanted a string of four, or seven or eight traps, when the captain was ready to set a line of traps, to slide off the back of the boat in an orderly way without all the ropes getting entangled. My captain had started using five-foot traps, whose weight is of less issue

In 1992, two artists comrades and myself drove to New York City to see a few shows and visit some galleries. I parked my Volvo station-wagon on Prince Street, or thereabouts, as I recall, between SoHo and Chinatown. When we returned, my camera, my Ricoh manual, entirely manual, had been stolen out of the car. The two parts of the event that I remember are the car I was driving and the type of camera I had. The Volvo stationwagon drove like a insect, maneuvering turns on a mere wing-beat, had the weight of a small tank and so could plow over snowbanks and sidewalk curbs without disturbing the driver much, and sounded like wind over sand--quiet. I also knew it had a steel interior frame with resilience of the body of a 20 year old. It also had enough space between the front seat and rear window to carry six-foot paintings that were five feet wide. I also knew my Ricoh camera could operate as well as any high fancy $1000 camera, so long as I knew how to use it. I was the operating instruc