These photographs were taken in Maine over the past four years. With each passing winter my sense of the precarious nature of our world grows deeper and darker. I see dinghies and skiffs looking like they've been unearthed and revealed by retreating glaciers. There's a tiny ice shack serving as a punctuation mark; an exclamation point, written in sweeping calligraphic strokes of grey and black on white.
Sometimes these small shacks form villages and people fish all night. The sun sets and the camps begin to glow, becoming shadow-puppet stages. They are sitting on a slab of ice with a torrent of black water rushing below them, unseen.
Saturday nights become surreal - inside the camp there is a wood stove burning, voices and music surround you with the woodsmoke. The Clash is drowning everything else out. There is a lot of drinking going on. Smelt are frying.
I might guess that there are some here who might disagree with the notion of a warming planet - they might say, 'Look! We're standing on two feet of ice!'
I see a small village on thin ice run on extension cords lying in pools of melting river water. What could possibly go wrong ?