When I arrived in Portland’s east side after moving out from Portsmouth New Hampshire, I was immediately struck by the light. Wind-washed, rain-washed: the light was oceanic. As I come to know the area I understand some of the geological reasons: the constant flux of air from the Gorge to the East and the Pacific to the West gives the area its distinctive freshness and even, at times, the scent of the sea.
Compared to the light of New England, dominated by extreme weather, especially the snow fall, the light here is both easy and generous, even bountiful. Somedays as I wander around I feel like a voluptuary. I had studied New England light for many years; I especially took in Yves Bonnefoy’s reflections on New England snow. In my lexicon there’s a dualism to New England light. Portland’s light is, on the contrary, a kind of transcendent immanence.
Which makes it a seductive light, a sponsor of Romantic moments of fusion of self-and-other. In the myth of America, if New England is a kind of new beginning, Portland is a perpetual ending.
But this area is historically rich with tales of violence, greed, imperial fantasy, on the one hand, and decidedly thoughtful human planning on the other. It is a dialectical place, desire flooding the spaces with dream and hope. Politically, it is loathed by Republicans and loved by Democrats. At least from afar. It is for all that, a real place, packed with stories. The light makes a big difference but the transformations must be seen in light of an overarching human fate of life lived between the limits of the beginning and the end, the light never quite transforming the chiaroscuro of life in the between.