On Photography

I liked these quotes from Isabel Allende when I read her book, “A Portrait in Sepia.” Of course, What is Art? is a broad question, and new forms of art are constantly being explored, and expressed by artists. If you are a photographer, do you feel the search with your camera is a spiritual endeavor, a creation of truth and beauty? In what ways do other fleeting forms of reality consist, outside traditional norms? On portraits, I believe Allende has a dynamic point of view. Do you like to shoot portraits of friends, family, and strangers? What makes a portrait more than just a snapshot, legit in its way.?

Two quotes by Isabel capture her interpretation of photography as an art form.

The camera is a simple apparatus. Even the most inept can use it. The challenge lies in creating with her that combination of truth and beauty which one calls art. That search is above all spiritual. I look for truth and beauty in the transparency of a leaf in autumn, in the perfect form of the snail on the beach, in the curve of a feminine shoulder, in the texture of an old tree trunk, but also, in other fleeting forms of reality.

Upon making a portrait, one establishes a relation with the model, if only very brief, there is always a connection. The plate reveals not only the image, but also the feelings which flow between them.

Portrait in Sepia (2000) by Isabel Allende

Here is a portrait I made in 2015, called A Security Guard in Senegal.

The Trees

I refer to some old notes on a book I read a long time ago. The plot is vague in my mind but basically the novel, “The Trees,” by Conrad Richter was about the Luckett family that migrated to Ohio from Pennsylvania, in the late 1700’s. This was before anyone else dared to take the trip. In the first chapter, “The Vision,” the journey through an ‘illimitable expanse of darkness’ is viewed through the eyes of the female character, Sayward. A sea of solid tree tops “this lonely forest rolled on and on til its faint blue billows broke against an incredibly distant horizon.” Richter’s language and style aptly described the harsh conditions and solitude. As the family ‘bobbed in single file… the forest had swallowed them up.’ Once they found a place to build their cabin the boundary of the forest still encroached upon them on all sides. At the end of the story the protagonist reflected upon how her mother and father became so independent at such a young age, and how they left home and never saw their siblings again. This is a story that repeats itself often in modern times as people move frequently. At least today we have FaceTime, whereas in “The Trees’ they didn’t even have a clock. Time was counted by the movement of the setting sun when it was visible, and by the daily chores that constantly consumed the energy of these pioneers. I recommend you read this book if you like stories about pioneers and Early American history. Richter wrote with a poetic and descriptive prose, and with acute sensitivity to his characters and setting.

“Sweet Content of Mind”

Ah, yes, sweet content of mind. How do you get to this place? To some it may come naturally as a part of their DNA. Some of us need to work harder at it. When we practice equanimity we may come closer to having ‘sweet content of mind.’ They are one in the same, or as we also say, ‘peace of mind.’

Reading gives me a feeling of equanimity. In reading a photo essay today entitled “Orwell’s Greenwich,” by Peter Robert’s, I learned details about George Orwell and was reminded of two of his books which I read in high school, “1984” and “Animal Farm.” The photo essay, through images followed the time that George Orwell lived in Greenwich, London. Orwell was a self-proclaimed socialist, but he didn’t necessarily appreciate left-wingers. He was happiest going to the pub and spinning yarns with the commoners. He fought in the Spanish Civil War, because he believed in the cause. He struggled with tuberculosis. Another person mentioned in this essay was Benjamin Waugh, because he lived in the same neighborhood as Orwell. The essay showed a photo of a plaque on Crooms Hill in London commemorating this man as the founder of the National Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Children. This plaque can remind people passing by of how to make the world a better place, and to regard children well. ‘All children want is to be included.’

The essay reminds us that Orwell began “1984” with the following line, “It was a bright cold day in April and the clocks were striking thirteen,” and that this sentence echoes Charles Dickens’ opening words to “The Tale of Two Cities,” “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” Because life is essentially about imbalance, and disequilibrium, don’t we all search for ways to make everything OK, especially at the beginning of a New Year? In this new year, I hope everyone finds sweet content of mind, a sense of equanimity and peace of mind. If not for a second.

Dream the impossible dream.

A friend of mine, interested in reading Don Quijote de la Mancha, wondered if anyone wanted to join her in the quest. Being a good friend, I said “Yes!”  In the vein of a true masochist I delved into the pages of this very old book, and reintroduced myself to the genius of Miguel de Cervantes – to his complex use of the Spanish language and natural wit to recreate the dreamy character, Don Quijote de la Mancha.

I remember the story fairly well.  DQ, off on a mission to reconstruct his life as a knight in shining armor, is in reality the opposite from what he conjures in his mind – a middle aged decrepit old man who has gone mad reading too much literature: stories like “El Mio Cid” and “Amadís de Gaula,” depicting heroes of the Spanish Medieval Age.  Don Quijote emulates everything about these characters, and aims to be like them.

In chapter two, Don Quijote, departs from his humble abode to travel under the heat and dryness of the day.  Cervantes satirically wrote: (my own translation)  “The sun ardently beat down forcefully, enough to melt the brains of anyone, if they had them at all.”   In his travels, DQ comes upon a castle, and of course he arrives wondering why he is not received with regal pomp, and circumstance.  In search of a place to rest his head he’s greeted by the keeper using words reminiscent of the piqued sarcasm of Cervantes, and paints a picture of life that is far from luxurious:  “the beds of your honor will always be hard rocks and your hours of sleep, forever wakeful.”  It’s a warning of the worst to come, for the knight-errant who just began his journey, carries only visions of grandeur in his head.

DQ continues his journey in Chapter 3, riding his skinny horse named Rocinante, on the look out for his fairly unkempt princess, Dulcinea. Soon he meets his fat and faithful side kick, his ‘escudero’ Sancho Panza.  Sancho is a faithful companion. Traveling with Quijote throughout the story, Sancho tries to convince his lord of Reality, but the hopeless Don Quijote insists on dreaming the impossible dream.

My friend and I soon concurred that perhaps we wouldn’t read the WHOLE book, in one fell swoop, for we have much else to do, but we’ll honor Cervantes in creating this great masterpiece, and plan to return to the story, in some shape and form, for to abandon Don Quijote is to abandon the truth he sought.  So like Sancho Panza, we will in spirit accompany Don Quijote through his journey, to pursue the impossible dream, for it’s the journey of all of us, and aren’t we all together, in this quest?

 

March

Before it goes out like a lamb, it’s time to talk about the month of March.  Looking back in history we’ll remember this month, in 2020, as the time when the Coronavirus grew exponentially in the U.S.A.  Not that we weren’t forewarned, by the explosion taking place in Europe, preceded by China, and Iran, etc., etc.. in previous weeks. Covid-19’s here to stay for a long time; forty five days until we see a peak, eighteen months before life goes back to normal, if it ever does.  In the long haul a positive outcome to this situation can be found within ourselves; find ways to beat it psychologically, remain optimistic, and use it to be more creative and productive in our personal lives.  Take up painting, the piano, reading novels, writing as much as we can.  How can we reach out, and help others, and bring them into our lives?  What special talents do we have that we can share?  There are certainly people living in a more precarious habitat, in which I’m living.  Selfishly I hope I don’t catch the virus, or be a carrier and less selfishly, pass it on to someone else.  So, where do we go from here? The answer seems to be nowhere, nothing versus something, and now being never.  What is true is we are all vulnerable.  No-one is exempt.

Back to March.  What do we know about this third month of the calendar year, which during Roman Times was the first, and not the third of the year?  A month named after the god of war, called Mars. Special days in particular yearn to be celebrated.  Such as St. Patrick’s day, on the 17th, especially by the Irish, but even if you haven’t an ounce of Irish in your blood, you’re always welcome to partake in Irish generosity.

On the 15th of March, back in Roman Times, an old woman warned Julius Caesar, “Beware the Ides of March.”  Against his wife’s best wishes Caesar ignored the oracle and ventured out into the Roman forum only to be assassinated, and find moments before he fell to his death that his best friend had betrayed him; thus the famous quote “Et tu Brutus?”  The circumstance is a reminder to follow the wisdom of Shakespeare spoken in one of his plays “Love all, trust a few, and do wrong to no-one.”  And, in the wake of the Corona19, to listen to the oracle; Stay home, protect yourselves, and others.

Since I am a curious person, who seeks novelty in all things possible to brush away the the sins of idleness, and boredom, I have a trivia fact for March.  Does anyone know what September, October, November and December stand for?  I found this out the other day through a post by the Farmer’s Almanac.  The meaning of the prefixes of these months in latin follow suit with March being the first month of the year, for Sept means seven, Octo, eight, Nove, nine, and Dece, ten.  So whatever happened to January and February?  There is an answer, but at this moment, I can only say; “I do not know it.”  Just like there are answers surrounding the mysteries of the Coronavirus, but for now uncertainty reigns, and only time will tell.

William Butler Yeats ~ An Irish Poet

In Dublin, I happened upon one of the many public institutions, free of charge to enter.  In this case, the National Library of Ireland.  What a treasure!  It was serious inside.  Quiet, like a library, ought to be.  I didn’t go far, when I noticed a special exhibition for the poetry of William Butler Yeats.  I followed the arrow, and descended a couple short flights of stairs, to enter the display.  It was very dark down there.  The exhibits lit up inside display cases in a large spacious area, to view the works and life of Yeats.  The collection of Yeats was donated to Ireland by his former wife, and his two children.  Yeats married when he was 52, and to a young woman who was 25.  Apparently it was not the most normal marriage in the world, but his wife respected him enough to preserve his work for future generations to come.  I don’t claim to know much about his poetry, nor much about him, but was quite amazed by the eccentric life he lived.  I was also amazed by the exhibit, which I tripped inside of by accident, and had to run through quickly, because my traveling companions decided a coffee at a nearby coffee shop was more important than WBY.  Here is the website of the exhibition, and a couple of his quotes I transcribed from a brochure I picked up on the way out.  If you have flash drive and can enter the site, it’s the closest you can come to being there.  The tags below this article give an idea of the range of esoteric topics Yeats entertained in his life as an artist.  It’s worth a visit.

http://www.nli.ie/yeats/

I have spent all my life in

clearing out of poetry every

phrase written for the eye, and

bringing all back to syntax that

is for the ear alone…”Write for

the ear”, I thought, so that you

may be instantly understood as

when an actor or folk singer

stands before an audience.

 

I am persuaded that our intellects at twenty contain all the truths we shall ever find.

 

Next

“Babbitt” is an important book in American Literature.  It mirrors a pivotal time in the history of a country that is less than 150 years old. I agree with an article I recently read that said ‘Goodreads had it all wrong when they gave “Babbitt” an undeserving low score.’ This author, whom I will have to go back and find, said that “Babbitt” is an hilarious book. True enough, but the humor is derived from a dark, satirical critique of society, which is mimicked throughout the 20th century, and now, into the 21st.

Through “Babbitt,” we see in its main character, the result of the reversal of two American political parties; Republicans and Democrats. The story takes place, in 1920, only 55 years after the party of Abe Lincoln, (kind of) freed the slaves, built the Railroad to the Wild West, and started the Homestead Act that allowed new immigrants to find a future for themselves, and their families. Business, at the end of the 19th century, in history, needed the government to get on their feet, and help them build an infrastructure. The Republican party liberally supported these small business people, but once businesses became bigger and stronger, they no longer wanted government snooping around. As a result, the Republican party, needing the support of conservative business to maintain their base, became a conservative party, and gradually began to embrace members that advocated for business enterprise. The Republicans began to undervalue the need to have social programs for the more fragile, and struggling citizens, e.g. immigrants, marginalized citizens, like African (ex-slaves, sharecroppers), and Native Americans, many of Spanish and mixed descent. By 1930, with the election of FDR, the Democrats, the party of the South completely reversed from conservative, into the liberal court, advocating for reforms, and the Republicans, in turn, became the party of ‘pull yourself up by your bootstraps’. Today, we still see members of both parties flip-flopping amongst themselves. Bob Dole, for example, a few years ago reminded the American people ‘to not forget that the Republican party was the party of Abe Lincoln’. There are many Democrat’s who espouse liberalism, yet, when it comes to real voting, go the conservative way, which promotes the White Anglo-Saxon status quo. One could argue that the diversity of thought, within, and across party lines, is crucial to the need for a two party system. A citizen of left leaning thought would object to the white ego-centrism of both parties.

Back to “Babbitt”; its main character ‘Babbitt’ is an incarnation of the completed evolution of the extreme conservative Republican businessman, who by 1920 advocated for big business enterprise, and the acquisition of personal wealth, at the expense of the more feeble citizens, of society. Babbitt, uses false advertising, shrewdly teasing poor people into buying his real estate over its true value, and in the process, materialistically enriches himself. His purpose – to increase, and perpetuate, indefinitely his wealthy status, and image. Babbitt lacks individuality, sees only glitz, loathes Bolsheviks, for bringing down the wealthy Czars, and undervalues human beings that express themselves artistically. Sinclair Lewis with brilliant literary wit, satirically, and allegorically, created ‘Babbitt’, who hauntingly lives today, in the reality of the 21st century.

Note: Sinclair Lewis, a perceptive author, with a keen ability to write in the American English style was born, February 7, 1885. Interestingly, he was a Midwesterner, born in Sauk Centre, Minnesota, but attended Yale University. He died near Rome, Italy, was buried in his hometown, and became the first American author to get the Nobel Prize, in 1930.

 

 

A New Book

I’ve begun a new book. It’s called “Babbitt”, written by Sinclair Lewis in 1922. Takes place in 1920, in a fictitious town in Indiana called, Zenith.  The main character, Babbitt, a realtor, lives in a new dutch colonial, in a prim and proper neighborhood, with his unhappy wife and strange egotistical children.   1920 seems so long ago, but in reality it is only 3 years before my mom was born, so at least it brings the story into my realm of being.

The story line is familiar. Change the props, and it could be told in the 1950’s or ’60’s. It kills me when in the story, the son of Babbitt insists he must have the car for the evening.  This is a young man who, as father reminds him, can’t even pass his Latin exam, but wants everything dished out on a silver platter.  Who would expect such a request in the 1920’s?

“Babbitt” is a novel about the American Dream, and how one man believes primarily in himself, to the exclusion of others.  A quintessential narcissist, he is in charge of making the American Dream come true in his own image and likeness, and based on how it serves him and his happiness, best. He knows not that every one has dreams, of their own, and in fact he doesn’t care that all people have dreams. He knows nothing about culture, but is concerned only with that which lines his own pockets with gold.

Look at Everything

When life presented challenges to Frances Nolan, the main character in a “Tree Grows in Brooklyn”, she would often recall what her granma Mary Rommely would say:

To look at everything as if you were seeing it for the first, and last time.  Thus is your time on earth filled with glory.

“A Tree Grows in Brooklyn” takes place over a 100 years ago beginning with 1912, to about 1917.  The beauty of this book is that it is written in heightened realism. The attention to detail, of how character is defined by a sense of place, and their living conditions, brings to light the struggles a poor family had to overcome. This is especially true for Francie, who lost her beloved drunken singing Irish father, when he was only 34 years of age. After her father’s death, Francie forfeited her high school education to work and help her mother, while her younger brother Neely, got to go to high school.  They could only afford for one to go.  Katie, the mother, who wanted her son to be a doctor, reasoned with her daughter Francie that if she went to high school, and Neely didn’t, he would never go, but she knew her daughter would pursue her education somehow, and that Francie did.  Francie never stopped fighting, to get an education.  She worked right out of junior high school to help her mother sustain the family, and got herself into night and summer school, until eventually, she ended up going to college at the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor.  The book, highly autobiographical, was written by Betty Smith, in 1943.

Summer Event

Stockbridge, Massachusetts

July 2018 – 5 months ago this photo was taken in the town of Stockbridge, Massachusetts. It prompted me to conjure some memories of my visit to this village. Stockbridge is an upscale community, and former residence of Norman Rockwell. Nearby, one can go and see this famous artist/illustrator’s home, studio and the museum featuring his art work. Stockbridge is also a convenient place to stay if you are coming from out of town and want to go to a concert at Tanglewood, an expansive park where artists of many genres go to perform. Concertgoers bring their blankets, chairs, and picnics to enjoy the musical sounds, under the evening sky. At Tanglewood, there is a small museum into which I ventured inside, and learned some interesting historical trivia. For one, there was a small red house on this property owned by a wealthy New England family, whose name slips my mind, however, inside this house lived the writer Nathaniel Hawthorne. Hawthorne was a native of Salem, Massachusetts, and author of “The Scarlet Letter”, “House of Seven Gables”, and numerous short stories. He is an author that interests me for his stories and his links to Puritan thought and heritage. It is no wonder one of his books is entitled “Tanglewood Tales”, a collection of stories based on Greek mythology, composed for children. And so goes the memory – a single photograph that produced a few bits of essential information stored in the confines of my brain. Call it an exercise, a jungle gym of mind play, or what you will. Had I not pushed myself to write, all of this would have been left to dissipate into thin air, like used up space crafts orbiting in the hemisphere.