A golf club on the edge of New Hampshire's largest city — open mown turf with mixed New England woodland at its edges.
A restored 1920s theatre where one frame — two people on the stage, the empty house behind them — is worth the whole evening.
An early nineteenth-century stagecoach inn in a preserved village — small windows, low ceilings, and an entire street that has barely changed.
A converted New England farmstead where a timber barn, a federal-period house and modern additions sit on the same ground.
A country inn on a hillside with one direction that matters. Which way the camera points decides whether the picture is a landscape or a portrait.
A ski resort out of season: cleared slopes, no shade, and infrastructure built for function rather than for pictures.
A house on the shore of a deep glacial lake in the New Hampshire Lakes Region, where the water does more to the light than the sky does.
A grand hotel on an open hilltop north of the White Mountains, with nothing between it and the horizon in any direction.
A venue on a tidal estuary where a large volume of water leaves and comes back twice a day. Which state it is in when you photograph decides everything.
A ski mountain whose whole value is what it faces: Mount Washington and Tuckerman Ravine, straight across the notch.