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Saturday, Oct. 17, 1998 Yesterday
I loaded my red pickup truck with
paint and canvases and drove 300 miles north from Rhode Island to
Maine. Today I drive another 1500 feet up Cadillac Mountain to survey
Acadia National Park, where I have been appointed artist-in-residence.
October is more than half over, and the forest below is a carpet
of burnt orange, umbers and fir green. From the summit I can see
Acadia’s 26 mountains, the Porcupine Islands, and out to Frenchman’s
Bay and the Atlantic Ocean.
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As
artist-in-residence I am given the privilege of
living and working for two weeks in this unique place, an unforgettable
experience offered to artists by many of our national parks. The
spacious apartment I have been assigned is typical of park staff
housing—in this wildly beautiful setting, the windows look
out to bare courtyards and the parking lot. The decor is strictly
functional. On one wall is notice of rules, one of which is not
to post anything to their pristine whiteness. Tough for a painter.
I will end up taping my drawings to the refrigerator like a child
back from art class. The only distinguishing feature in the small
bedroom is a green metal door, topped with a glowing red EXIT sign
to serve as my night light. Nevertheless, I will sleep there with
images of Acadia in my mind, knowing I will wake up in the park
in the morning. 
