Yesterday at AIPAD, I said to a friend, “There’s a fucking gorgeous George Tice print just down the aisle,” and the gentleman next to us held out his hand and said “Hello. I just heard my name. I’m George Tice.”
Woods, Port Clyde, Maine : George Tice (the picture I was referring to)
The kind folks at this wonderful record store allowed me to come in and photograph the joint a few weeks ago. This place is everything a record store should be. Please go there. Give them your patronage. Buy records.
Records mean something. They’re tangible. They’re difficult to handle, and even more difficult to make. They don’t (necessarily) last forever. And they’re not for everyone.