I had a job shoveling snow off the roof of a JJ Newberry’s store, keeping the drains clear in winter. “I feel like a captain/who knows no fear,” wrote the great New Hampshire songwriter Bill Morrissey in THE DRIVER'S SONG, and, standing near the edge of the roof with the misty darkness coming down and shovel in hand, it felt like you could see far beyond the borders of my little town.

This is one of a series of small, visceral pieces done with palette knife, squeegee, brayer and soupy pigment, the consistency of printing ink on the platens of the press in my Dad’s print shop on a hot day. Ghosts of people, ghosts of industry, ghosts of land.