Photograph by Todd
Gross
Nothing
to do; nowhere to go; Lowell Johnson sat on the bench and stared out across
the Sound. Another day. Same as the day before. And the day before that. Lowell
lived for these days of openness — the great void in which he was as
free as free can be. He knew every note the water sung to him. He recognized
every shade of light and color that glistened off its surface. When it rained,
he attained the understanding, like a Buddhist monk attains Nirvana, of the
intricate richness of black. He painted pictures in his mind and wrote symphonies
to accompany them. He was a part of the landscape, and it was very satisfying.
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