Portland’s First Gallery Was a Graveyard

Step into Eastern Cemetery and it’s not some peaceful green space. It’s a gallery of warnings. In the early 1700s slate markers, thin as knives, carved with skulls sprouting wings. Death’s heads. No sentiment. No comfort. Just the blunt message: you’re next.

By the late 1700s the vibe shifts. The skulls turn into cherubs, cheeks plump and almost cartoonish, floating above the same names and dates. Suddenly death feels like it hired a PR team. Instead of final, the stones are hinting at escape. Maybe the soul lifts off, maybe there’s something better waiting. Same ground, same city, but a whole new theology carved into stone.

And here’s the thing: these weren’t just markers, they were art. Each one a calling card for the carver, proof of skill in an age before galleries. Bartlett Adams, who opened Portland’s first stonecutting shop in 1800, left his hand on hundreds of stones here. Crisp lettering. Winged faces. Garlands etched so deep they still catch the light two centuries later. Walk the rows and you start to notice signatures—small quirks in line and face, as distinct as an artist’s tag.

Some stones tell stories down to the day: “27 years, 4 months, 11 days.” Like life could be measured precisely enough to outrun oblivion. Others barely hold on. Slate cracks, moss spreads, names vanish.

Eastern’s stones are blunt about death, but they’re also proof of survival. They turned grief into public art, memory into craft. They made Portland’s first gallery, right here on the hillside, open to anyone who cares to wander in and look.

And don’t forget: every one of these stones belonged to someone who lived here, who called Portland home. The people under your feet once filled these streets.

See A Deep Dive Into The Carvings

On the Road: What Arizona Taught Me About Portland

I’ve been in Arizona this week, where the sun doesn’t just rise. It takes over. They call it the Valley of the Sun for a reason. The air is bone-dry, the kind of heat that doesn’t bead sweat but wipes it away. Red mountains cut the horizon, saguaros stand like guards, the sky stretches so far it feels endless.

Then the storm came. Rolling in over the desert, black clouds dragging rain you could smell before you felt it. The ground drank it fast, plants soaking up gallons in minutes. Tarantulas and rattlesnakes crept out to steal a sip. And then a rainbow stretched over a desert I swore would never see a lick of water. I saw how thin the line is between nothing and everything.

Back in Portland the stage flips. Fog rolls off Casco Bay and swallows ferries whole. Old Port bricks darken in the rain. Seagulls scream, sailboats groan against their ropes. Phoenix sprawls wide and sun-baked. Portland pulls in tight, a peninsula pinned between lighthouses. One city built to endure fire from above, the other built to endure water from all sides.

That’s the thing about leaving. Sometimes you need the opposite to fall back in love with what you already have. The desert shows you how fragile it all is, how every drop matters. Back in Portland, the damp isn’t a nuisance anymore. It’s the city breathing, fog rolling in, rain soaking the brick, the Atlantic pushing against the edge of town.

When you’re away, what makes you miss Portland the most?

🐾 Adoptable Buddies of the Week! 🐾

🐶 Toby – 8 months, 37 lbs
A shy but goofy sweetheart. Toby warms up with patience and becomes a loyal, wiggly companion. Loves other dogs, no cats or small animals, best with kids 6+.

🐱 Almond Joy – 2 months
Playful, fast, and fun-loving. This little black-and-white kitten will bring energy and joy to almost any home.

🐱 Rolo – 2 months
Happy-go-lucky and always on the move. Rolo’s a curious tortie coat who’ll fit right in with a family ready for kitten antics.

🐕 Interested? Check them out here