As civil unrest sweeps through our cities, we think of friends and loved-ones who continue to shelter in place. Immobilized for the time being, we can revisit destinations, near and far. join me in celebrating the joys of Quaranteam travel, the hope that these diversions might inspire us to value things we had taken for granted, to draw strength, wisdom and compassion from deeper engagements with nature.
Lake George, Looking South from Sagamore Inn. Thursday May 29, 2014.
There are many things one can say to pick a fight. Derisive imputations concerning one’s honor, or the virtue of a mother or sister will often trigger a dust-up. Classic openers like “your momma” or “who’s your daddy?” would not agitate in the least my dear wife. But questioning the existence of Luminism—as I once did at breakfast—unleashes the full fury of Hellfire.
Sitting at the table, enjoying a second cup of coffee, the conversation drifted onto the subject of the Hudson River School, which I wondered might be a misleading term for several reasons.
Few of the founder-artists ever painted the river, while younger painters like Sanford Gifford, John Kensett and Samuel Colman did.
“You damn fool,” Kathie shot at me. “Those are Luminists.”
So. What’s the distinction? Was it geographic or stylistic? Had any of those artists ever heard a living soul utter the L-word. None of them had of course. The term was invented by art-historian John I.H. Baur in the nineteen-fifties, to identify stylistic differences between two generations of painters classified within the Hudson River canon. This Kathie confirmed.
“In other words,” I said, “there really is no such thing as Luminism.”
These words proved transformative. Suddenly my kind and loving wife became an incensed art-historical Boudicca.
“What about Fitz-Henry Lane? You damned fool. What about Martin Heade?”
I thought for a moment and replied,
“Isn’t Lane just a maritime painter? Why does he have to be a luminist?”
I thought her head was about to explode, or mine might be swept from my shoulders with a single savage blow. Ever since that conversation, Luminism has become a well-gnawed bone of contention. My position is that Luminism doesn’t exist. Hers is that squalid ignorance and stunted intellect render me incapable of understanding it. It’s our Tracy-Hepburn diversion, unpacked periodically to both annoy and amuse.
John Frederick Kensett (1816-1872). Lake George. 1870. Broolyn Musuem. (Reproduced under Fair Use, etc.)
On Thursday May 29 2014, we drove south from Bolton Landing to Lake George Village, to embark on a cruise of the lake from head to spillway. Several day-lines run cruises from docks along the esplanade from the reconstructed Fort William Henry to the downtown cluster of honkytonk commerce. Presenting our tickets to board the Mohican, we were paused at dockside by a perky young woman who took our photo. The same drill is repeated at many attractions ranging from Niagara Falls to the Alamo. Pictures are taken upon entry, and then sold to visitors upon leaving. I have a shoebox full of these treasures. An ear-piercing whistle announces our departure. Backing away from the dock, the ship maneuvered around a homeward-bound tour-boat. A minute or two later a mellifluous voice welcomes us aboard, then launches into a concatenation of anecdotes about the Marquis de Montcalm, the French and Indian War, indigenous lore and robber-baron mansions lining the lakeshore. Basting our tender flesh with sunscreen, we purchase a few bottles of water and head for the upper deck.
Taking a seat above the fantail we settle in for a three-hour cruise. Having packed all my painting-gear in a travel-vest, I set out to document the voyage as much as possible, given the time allowed. Kathie used the time to break in a new digital SLR. I turned to her.
“Look over there. Is that a luminist moment?”
Prospect Mountain from the Mohican. Thursday May 29, 2014
She gave me a dirty look. The dark clouds hovered off the south, washing the summit of Prospect Mountain in sunlight. Behind Tea Island was a cove at the foot of a property once owned by the Stieglitz family, where Alfred and Georgia had summered. As I painted, a bank of clouds threw Prospect Mountain into shadow. Reflected on the surface of the waters, a huge thunderhead framed the rolling topography.
Prospect Mountain from the Mohican. Thursday May 29, 2014
“What do you think now? I asked Kathie, “Is that a luminist moment”
“You know it’s not you damned fool.” She replied.
I went over to the port side, facing north as the Sagamore came into view. I called Kathie over, which patiently she did.
“Now what?”
I pointed to Sagamore. “What about that?”
Shaking her head, she went back to her seat.
Sagamore from the Mohican. Thursday May 29, 2014
North of Sagamore the Mohican approached The Narrows. The narrator explained that Tongue Mountain to the west is a notorious denning-area for Timber Rattlesnakes—Crotalus Terribilis Terribilis. The reptiles are relatively docile if left unmolested. While fatalities from a single snakebite are rare, they can be painful and result in serious infection. Famed botanist Joh Bartram described his encounter with one of these animals while collecting specimens in Schuylkill County, Pennsylvania.
“After dinner we passed the openings of two ridges, the last of which was by the bank of the principal branch of Swataro, the soil poor and stoney; then we ascended a great ridge about a mile steep, and terribly stoney, most of the way: near the top is a fine tho’ small spring of good water. At this place we were warned by a well known alarm to keep our distance from an enraged rattle snake that had put himself into a coiled posture of defence, within a dozen yards of our path, but we punished his rage by striking him dead on the spot: he had been highly irritated by an Indian dog that barked eagerly at him, but was cunning enough to keep out of his reach, or nimble enough to avoid the snake when he sprung at him. We took notice that while provoked, he contracted the muscles of his scales so as to appear very bright and shining, but after the mortal stroke, his splendor became much diminished, this is likewise the case of many of our snakes.”
–John Bartram (1699-1777)
The unique danger to hikers venturing into nesting zones are high concentrations of these venomous creatures, as noted by Jacques Milbert in his Picturesque Itinerary of 1826.
Storm clouds broke up around The Narrows as the rain veered north toward Lake Champlain.
I called to Kathie. Looking over, she shook her head is dismay. I sensed she was amused.
Storm Clouds over the Narrows. Lake George. Thursday May 29, 2014
As we passed beneath the rocky eastern slopes of Tongue Mountain, I spared Kathie another round of questions. She called out to me.
“There you go. Do you see that? Know what that is? It’s NOT luminist!”
Tongue Mountain. Lake George. May 29, 2014.
Painting next day from the Sagamore Inn alfresco lakeside bar I had gotten drenched in a downpour. Kathie had gone to the pool for a swim. When she had finished she came over to see what I had been doing. I showed her my rain-spattered painting.
To the southeast toward Pilot Knob, rain-clouds darkened the skies, as the cool forms of distant hills were crowned with a rosy glow. Sunlight burned through the mist to the west. The wooded mountain glowed an eerie citron hue. The dark from of Dome Island rode like a massive barge upon violet waters. At once calming and terrifying, nature had paused, time stood still, hushed like an orchestra on the brink of a shattering crescendo. She looked at me, then pointed across the waters.
“There! THAT’S Luminism!!!”
Storm over Lake George from Sagamore Inn. Friday May 30, 2014.
At dinner I proudly showed her what I had done.
“Hopeless,” she said, “You’ll never be a Luminist.”
Check out April 2020 Quaranteam Traveler Dispatches
(A preview of SKETCHBOOK TRAVELER by James L. McElhinney (c) 2020. Schiffer Publishing).
Copyright James Lancel McElhinney (c) 2020 Texts and images may be reproduced (with proper citation) by permission of the author. To enquire, send a request to editions@needlewatcher.com