There is a kind of metallic green stain, bitten deep into Depression-era shingles that exists nowhere else. Once you cross the state line, whether at Pawtucket or Westerly, a subtle change occurs, a cheerful dishevelment, a contempt for appearances, a chimerical uncaring.
Eastwick was at every moment kissed by the sea, a town shaped like an L, embracing a ragged bit of Narragansett Bay. Where Brown Street held the downtown businesses, Main Street, at right angles, was home to the grand old houses, their beauty weathered but enduring.
- John Updike Witches of Eastwick
All photographs were made in 2023 in Rhode Island, New Jersey, Maryland, Virginia, and South Carolina. Always near the coast.