Crab season on the Eastern Shore of Maryland is more than a time of work—it’s a way of life. As the days grow long and humid, the creeks and rivers that lace the Chesapeake Bay come alive with the low thrum of diesel engines and the clatter of crab pots hitting the decks of deadrise boats. This is the season when the watermen rise before dawn, long before the heat climbs, and push off from quiet docks into the still, glassy waters in search of blue gold.

Blue crabs are the lifeblood of this region. Their sweet meat and iconic form are as much a part of Maryland's identity as the Old Bay that seasons them. But the beauty of the catch belies the toughness of the job. The watermen who harvest them know the rhythms of the bay better than any map could show. They read the currents, watch the tides, and scan the skies for sudden changes in weather. Each pot is baited, dropped, and later hauled in by hand—muddy, heavy, and sometimes full of nothing but disappointment.

These workers are often part of families who have fished the bay for generations. Their hands are calloused from rope, their skin bronzed by years of sun. They work in sync with the land and the water, moving with a quiet, stubborn determination. There’s pride in this tradition, in keeping a craft alive that balances between past and present, nature and economy.

As the crabs start to fill the baskets, the whole shore comes to life. Restaurants fill with the sound of wooden mallets on picnic tables. Locals and tourists alike dig into piles of steamed crabs, fingers coated in spice, laughing and sweating in the summer heat. It’s not just a meal—it’s a celebration of a region, of the people who work the water, and of the crab itself, caught fresh daily.

On the Eastern Shore, crab season is a reminder of how much life still depends on patience, skill, and respect for the water. It’s hard work, but it’s honest, and it feeds not just the body, but a whole culture rooted in the rhythms of the bay.

I have had the privilege of going out on the crab boats to photograph the hard work of harvesting crabs. The crabbers begin before the sun rises and don’t stop until they meet their quota. Some days stretch long into the late afternoons, the hours piling up as the crew hauls in pot after pot.

Above painting by Aurence

The golden hues of the setting sun bathe the quiet harbor, casting a warm glow over the docked boats and their rippling reflections on the calm water. Each vessel seems suspended in a moment of tranquility, their weathered frames silhouetted against the soft gradient of the evening sky. The stillness is palpable, broken only by the occasional ripple across the surface, hinting at life beneath. It's a scene that feels timeless—a place where work meets rest, where the day quietly surrenders to the night.

Winter has a way of making you yearn for the snowy landscapes of your memories. Germany at Christmas was always a favorite—strolling through twinkling Christmas markets that felt plucked from a storybook, wandering cobblestone streets lightly dusted with snow. The scent of roasting chestnuts and spiced glühwein lingered in the frosty air, wrapping you in warmth even as the cold nipped at your nose.

In Vermont, mornings began on snow-covered slopes, skis carving effortless paths through powder as the crisp mountain air filled your lungs. Evenings meant something quieter: the soft crackle of a fire, a blanket draped over your legs, and mugs of cocoa topped with marshmallows that melted into swirls of sweetness. And on many occasions, something stronger.

Southampton in winter, when the tourists were gone, had its own kind of magic. The beaches, so often bustling in the summer, became windswept and serene. It was a time for quiet reflection, the waves lapping at empty shores under a pewter sky.

Vinalhaven, Maine, was quieter still. When the water froze solid and even the ferries stopped running, the island seemed suspended in time.

The crab shanty in the photograph was hidden off the beaten path—a path few people knew existed. In winter, it stood as a lonely outpost, its weathered walls holding fast against the icy winds. The crabber, bundled in layers against the cold, worked steadily, securing his belongings before the storm rolled in. The shanty is gone now, taken by the sea, but its memory endures, just like so many other snowy days.

To all our friends, both far and near,
We send our wishes for the year.
May 2025 bring days of cheer,
Success, good health, and moments clear.

To collectors, may your passions grow,
With treasures found and stories to show.
May each new piece bring joy your way,
And brighten every fleeting day.

Here’s to a year that’s bright and kind,
With endless wonders yet to find.
Together, let’s make it the best alive--
Our heartfelt wishes for 2025.

Steady on!

Dear Collectors and friends,

As the gentle glow of Christmas lights fills our homes and hearts, our wish this year reaches far beyond our own doorstep. For children, we wish for wonder and laughter—may their days be filled with play, discovery, and the boundless joy that reminds us all of the beauty in innocence. May they always know they are loved, cherished, and safe, and may the magic of the season light their way toward a future full of hope.

For families, we wish for togetherness, understanding, and warmth. Whether bound by blood or by choice, may their bonds grow stronger, and may they find solace in each other during times of hardship. May laughter echo in their homes, forgiveness heal old wounds, and love remind them that the greatest gifts are not wrapped under the tree but shared at the dinner table and in whispered goodnights.

For animals, we wish for care and kindness. May the strays find shelter, the wounded find healing, and the neglected find love. May this season ignite a deeper respect for the creatures who share our world, so that they may know compassion not just on Christmas but every day.

For the lonely, we wish for the warmth of human connection. May they find a kind word, a gentle smile, or a thoughtful hand extended in friendship. Let them know they are not forgotten and that even in solitude, they are part of a greater whole. May they find peace in the quiet and hope in the promise of brighter days ahead.

For the homeless, we wish for refuge. May they find open doors and open hearts, where warmth replaces the chill of the winter air. May they feel the dignity and respect they deserve, and may the spirit of giving extend beyond the season, transforming lives and lifting them toward stability and peace.

And for the earth, our shared home, we wish for renewal and care. May we tread more lightly on her soil, protect her rivers and forests, and nurture her beauty. May this season remind us of the abundance she provides and inspire us to give back, ensuring her gifts endure for generations yet to come.

This Christmas, our wish is simple: may love, compassion, and hope find their way into every heart and corner of the world. For the young and the old, the furred and feathered, the lonely and the lost, may this season kindle the flame of humanity’s better nature. And may we carry its light into the year ahead, spreading warmth far and wide.

Aurence and Biegun

Hotel Chelsea

I recently read that the iconic Hotel Chelsea sign is being auctioned off, letter by letter. It feels like a sad end for a building that dates back to the 1880s, one that has undergone many transformations, been sold multiple times, and eventually turned into a luxury hotel.

I visited a friend at the Chelsea back in the early seventies, when it still retained much of its magic. The hotel embodied both fantasy and death, weaving a haunting tapestry of creativity and despair. It was a place where dreams and demons coexisted, making it both enchanting and melancholic, forever suspended between creation and destruction.

Many people died within its walls—Nancy Spungen, stabbed by Sid Vicious; Eugene O'Neill's daughter, who took her own life; Charles R. Jackson, author of The Lost Weekend, who also died by suicide; and Robert Mapplethorpe’s partner, who succumbed to AIDS.


But perhaps the saddest loss was Dylan Thomas. A lifelong alcoholic, he binged at two nearby bars before falling into a stupor and dying at just 39. Many have tried to romanticize his death, but it’s widely acknowledged that, brilliant as he was, he struggled with alcohol and infidelity throughout his life.


In 1953, Thomas came to New York on a lecture and reading tour. His wife Caitlin didn’t accompany him, as was typical of their increasingly strained relationship due to his affairs and excessive drinking. Often broke, Thomas seized every opportunity to make some money. He loved the Chelsea and had his favorite bars nearby.


By the time of his death, Thomas was already suffering from respiratory issues and pneumonia, but his alcoholism undoubtedly weakened him further. When his wife was called to his bedside, as he lay in a coma, it’s said that when she arrived, she angrily demanded, “Is the bloody man dead yet?”


During his last visit to the Chelsea, Thomas had an affair with Liz Reitell, his primary companion and assistant to his American literary agent. He was also rumored to have had affairs with Pamela Glendower, Margaret Taylor (the wife of historian A.J.P. Taylor), and Pearl Kazin, a literary editor.


Dylan Thomas has always been one of my favorite writers, so when I saw that the hotel’s letters were being auctioned off, he immediately came to mind. I also thought of other Chelsea luminaries, like Jack Kerouac, who wrote On the Road there, Patti Smith, Allen Ginsberg, Mark Twain, Charles Bukowski, Bob Dylan (who wrote “Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands” there), William S. Burroughs, and Jackson Pollock. Arthur Miller once wrote of the Chelsea: “No vacuum cleaners, no rules, no shame.” And let’s not forget that Arthur C. Clarke wrote 2001: A Space Odyssey there, and Leonard Cohen’s iconic song “Chelsea Hotel” immortalized his brief affair with Janis Joplin in room 424.


When I visited, the hotel was already showing “cracks,” not so much from age but from poor management. By 1977, longtime manager Stanley Bard was forced to sell his controlling interest. By the 1980s, the hotel had fallen into neglect, and in the 1990s, gentrification began pushing history aside.


For decades, progress has slowly chipped away at the Chelsea. Now, even its famous sign, once a beacon to artists, is gone, sold letter by letter like a side of beef. Yet, even progress can’t snuff out its magic. It still lingers there, if you know where to look—and listen.

If you ever find yourself wandering through its halls, you might hear the echoes of laughter bouncing off the walls or the faint cries of a tortured poet. Many say the hotel is haunted, and some even claim to have seen the ghost of Dylan Thomas near his old room, 205. Perhaps it’s just a story, but it’s fitting that a place so full of life and loss would never fully let its dead rest.

With all the hot weather we have been having, even here in the mountains, I thought I would paste one of my fall skies, taken from our deck. Can't wait for cool days and chilly nights.