The Long Studio in Joe Batt’s Arm was the first one we spotted as we drove through to reach Tilting on our first day in Fogo. A dark shadow amid the snow on the opposite shore. So we went after it. We stood in the middle of the crashing waves, where the salt stuck to our eyelashes, where the skyline brought me back.

To a point, past the frozen fair grounds, to where the waves crashed. We scrambled over rocks to a place where the wind made waves in us. We pushed into the wind, salty spray glittering in the air around us as the sun slunk behind the Fogo Island Inn across the bay.

The studio was cradled in the hilly barrens around the point, and the porch of the empty studio was a welcome refuge from the wind.

The sun stained everything pink and the sea stayed so bright blue.


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