Haystack Revisited
When my children were teenagers, I went to Haystack Mountain School of Crafts every summer for ten consecutive years. It didn’t matter what I studied there — silversmithing, woodworking, felting, etc. What mattered was that I got away from my usual responsibilities to pay attention to my creative imagination. Between Covid and other developments, it’s been close to ten years since I last attended. This spring, without much thought, I applied to take a collage workshop in early August. I was delighted and a bit surprised to be accepted.
“Haystack” is located snugly against the rocky shore of Sunshine, Maine, eight miles from Deer Isle village. One arrives there after passing through the landmarks of Bagaduce Lunch, Caterpillar Hill, and the suspension bridge that crosses Eggmoggen Reach to connect the mainland with Little Deer Isle and the outer islands. At every turn in the narrow road, the vistas of sky and water surround you with unparalleled light. Despite attending many times, it’s a surprise to find this hub of creativity emerge at the end of the dusty, sparsely inhabited road.
Haystack’s prize-winning architecture sits serenely in the lichen and moss-festooned woodland. The gray shingled library and meeting room are the gateway to a campus of small but handsomely constructed buildings that step down over the rocky ledge to the sea. Almost everywhere on campus, one has an unobstructed view of the ocean and the flat tree-covered islands extending beyond the shore.
Accommodations consist of shared “shacks,” which are delightful in their simplicity. They have views out to the ocean, single beds, a few wooden shelves, and are light-filled with soaring ceilings. They are minimalist but cozy. This year, however, I opted to stay in a rented cottage of my own in the nearby town of Stonington. I would be a day student, but still welcome to the three meals provided daily and the 24-hour open studio.
Like most students, I turn up to the first evening meeting of the two-week session with anxiety and excitement. I look around at my classmates and ponder my right to be there. I worry. Will I be creative “enough”?
I feel fraudulent and uncertain about how to begin. We start slowly talking about how collage elements connect and tell a story — a poem, in fact. We take time in the morning to write in our journals for ten minutes and breathe intentionally. I begin to relax, recognizing that this workshop will be about more than churning out finished work. It’s then that I realize why I might have been chosen. The instructor, Lanecia Rouse, a writer, artist, and spiritual thinker like myself, has recognized something in me that goes beyond making collages. I feel deeply seen.
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By day three, I am firmly into the routine: up early for coffee, a Qigong workout, a quick Facetime hello to my husband, and then the 20-minute car ride from the harbor to the woods. It is chilly in the morning, and most days are bathed in luminous late summer light. There are already hints of autumn in the trees.
Driving out in the morning, the tide is low, and small wooden boats rest disconsolately against the sea bed. By the time I travel home after dinner, they will be back on their sandy bottoms, having made the vertical tidal journey throughout the day.
There is time at Haystack if you can relax about making a quota. Some people stay up late at night and, on the final exhibit day, fill the walls with work. That used to be true for me, but I have opened up to a different experience. I sit and chat with new friends, stare at the ever-changing sky, and, if the weather is fine, even snooze on the decks outside the studios. I rest. I contemplate. I appreciate.
Eventually, after doing warm-up studies and learning some new techniques, I begin to make some pieces that I am happy with.
Thinking I would make work about my dad and his Wonders of the World book (which I lugged in its entirety up to Maine), I am surprised to be moved by other ideas.
As I peruse the stacks of Life magazine from the ’60s and ’70s available for clipping, I find myself drawn to images that reveal our perceptions of women, men, sexuality, and body image from that time period. It is shocking yet familiar coming as it does from the era of my youth. It becomes my inspiration.
Mercifully, there have been many changes since Haystack’s inception in 1950. I was glad to see greater diversity among faculty and students. The kitchen staff no longer drags Saturday night lobster dinner down to the rocky shore (always a chore and usually resulting in unfortunate accidents involving melted butter). Oysters are now a delicious feature of the final night dinner. There are gluten-free and vegan choices. Broccoli is no longer endlessly recycled until it has turned the color of the dining hall shingles. I did miss the excitement of the live auction on our final night on campus — it has been replaced with a silent one. But the icy, teal Atlantic still lures the intrepid swimmer down for a mid-afternoon swim. A gentle walk through the trees brings you to Conary Cove and the surrounding wildflower fields.
It’s all very familiar, but in the years since I was last a student, I have changed. It’s no longer my escape. It’s now a place for returning, for going inward and remembering. It’s a place for reflecting on the challenges of the past year — the poignancy of loss and appreciation for intimate friendships. I am grateful for life itself, which continues at times mundanely but also in grandeur and mystery.
Fiona Lovell Horning is a multi-passionate artist, coach, and writer, fascinated by the experience of becoming a fully expressed human — imperfect yet complete. A guiding question in all her work is — What does it mean to flourish? She explores these questions through her writing, using the theme of “Eudaimonia,” which translates from Ancient Greek as “Human Flourishing.” She writes about topics including motherhood and family, art, and travel. You can read more about her work and see examples of her artwork at fionalovellhorning.com. Sign up for her newsletter here.
