In the first session, Ms. Burnstine showed examples of the work of noted photographers in various genres of landscape photography. Our first assignment was to choose two of the genres and shoot two to four photos within that genre. Here are the photos I shot.
In the style of Michael Levin in the Second Wave Of Pioneers landscape genre:
In the style of Edward Burtynsky in the Documentary: Roots in Civil War, American Landscape, Farm Security Administration (FSA) * genre:
* The Farm Security Administration (FSA) was a New Deal agency created in 1937 to combat rural poverty during the Great Depression in the United States. It succeeded the Resettlement Administration (1935–1937). . . The FSA is famous for its small [including, for example, Dorothea Lange] but highly influential photography program, 1935–44, that portrayed the challenges of rural poverty
This week I worked on the Digital Photography School’s weekly challenge: Trees. I went to the Benson Brook Route trail in the Governor Knowles State Forest in Western Wisconsin. Plenty of trees. I also found subjects on the county roads in the area.
As I write these words I have all my numerous and wide-spread cousins in mind, all of whom are of Danish extraction. For myself and my sister, all our grandparents were born in Denmark. I quote Bernard Cornwall from Lords Of the North, the third book in his Saxon Stories:
Never trust a Dane
In spite of this slur, I’m enjoying the Saxon Stories which cover the latter half of the Ninth Century in British history when the West Saxons under Alfred The Great were consolidating a number of small kingdoms into something like the England we know today. I’ve recently started reading these stories because it seemed like a good way to follow up The Viking Wars: War and Peace In King Alfred’s Britain 789-955 by Max Adams. I enjoy reading histories and then reading historical novels about the same period. I’ve read histories of the Napoleonic Wars intermixed with historical novels, many of them by Bernard Cornwell, especially the Richard Sharpe series of novels. Cornwell has written series of historical novels covering broad swathes of British history starting with Stonehenge then making a long leap forward to the post-Roman era and continuing on through The Battle Of Waterloo in 1815.
Stonehenge: A Novel Of 2000 BC
The Warlord Chronicles – post-Roman in the Dark Ages, 6th century
The Saxon Stories – 9th and 10th centuries
Azincourt – 1415
The Grail Quest Series – mid-14th century
The Sharpe Stories – 1794 – 1815. These stories conclude with Waterloo. Cornwell also wrote a history of Waterloo. Try reading these books consecutively.
All of Cornwell’s books are good reads, historically-accurate and engrossing. I appreciate that he follows each novel with a discussion of what in the novel is historical fact and what is not.
I read, listened to, or watched these things in 2018. They were not necessarily released or published in 2018. Some are years old but new to me – I discovered them this year.
Best Album Title: I’m Not Here To Hunt Rabbits
This is guitar music from Botswana “played in an eccentric style and with a depth of expression rivaling any genre of music, this is folk from the dusty outskirts of the Kalahari Desert.
A community of African country blues masters with a totally original technique. For one thing; the left hand reaches up and over the neck of the guitar, instead of from behind and underneath. Furthermore, although played on six-string guitars, the guitars are only stringed with 3 or 4 treble strings, usually in G, E and D, and one bass. If a bass string is hard to find, it might be substituted by a brake cable. Tuning is achieved by ear …
Where did these peculiarities originate? Why did they come about? Nobody knows. That’s how the older musicians did it – that’s how it always used to be done …” *
Ohio by Leon Bridges, Gary Clark, Jr., and Jon Batiste. This is a cover of the song written by Neil Young in response to the Kent State protests and killings of protesters in 1970. The Guardian in 2010 described the song as the “greatest protest record.” It is in The Grammy Hall Of Fame.
This passage from Zora Neale Hurston’s Their Eyes Were Watching God
All night now the jooks clanged and clamored. Pianos living three lifetimes in one. Blues made and used right on the spot.
Best lyric from a song:
Well it’s all right, even if you’re old and grey Well it’s all right, you still got something to say Well it’s all right, remember to live and let live Well it’s all right, the best you can do is forgive
I’m just happy to be here, happy to be alive
From End Of the Line sung by The Travelling Wilburys, written by Bob Dylan, George Harrison, Jeff Lynne, Roy Orbison, and Tom Petty.
Best music genre:
Lo-fi is a genre hard to define and characterize even after some research. Lo-fi (or low-fi) is a term that’s been in use for decades as a label for “recorded music in which the sound quality is lower than the usual contemporary standards (the opposite of high fidelity) and imperfections of the recording and production are audible. . . . Lo-fi only began to be recognized as a style of popular music in the 1990s . . .” **
I think I’ve been listening to a sub-genre of lo-fi described by Wikipedia as a form of “downtempo music tagged as “lo-fi hip-hop” or “chillhop”. **
Here is my favorite example of what I think is lo-fi hip hop or chillhop. (Brontosaurus from above is also in this genre.)
The Shape of Water directed by Guillermo del Toro.
I loved the cinematography – low-key, saturated colors with a palette leaning towards greens, browns, and oranges. It reminded me of one of my favorites photographs – Flâneur Granville – taken by one of my favorite photographers, Fred Herzog. A key visual in the movie is an old-style movie theater and marquee reminiscent of a mid-twentieth-century main street. The main character lives above the theater. Later in 2018, I read Virgil Wander, a recently-published novel. One of the novel’s locations is a small-town main street where there is an old-style movie theater complete with a marquee. Again, The main character lives above the theater.
This is my first review for the Fifty Classic Books challenge. I had started a different book but abandoned it and decided I would not subject myself to prolonged boredom while working on this challenge. So I switched to Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston. Hurston writes the story of Janie Crawford in the deep South of the early Twentieth Century. It’s not a boring story.
The book describes Janie’s striving for self-actualization and the constraints that society and culture threw up to hinder her search. Janie didn’t know anything about self-actualization or even that it was something to pursue. Her pursuit was more of a yearning that she sought to fulfill. The obvious constraint she faced was racism. She lived smack in the middle of Jim Crow country in the heart of the Jim Crow era. She faced other obstacles including sexism and an insidious sort of class consciousness.
Janie is in her mid-teens at the start of the story. She was
full of that oldest human longing – self-revelation.
She searched as much of the world as she could from the top of the front steps and then went on down to the front gate and leaned over to gaze up and down the road. Looking, waiting, breathing short with impatience. Waiting for the world to be made.
She didn’t know anything about the world or what it would bring. She was looking for . . . sun-up and pollen and blooming trees . . . flower dust and springtime sprinkled over everything.
Janie’s life from that point on was not springtime and blooming trees. Her era was not just Jim Crow, it was also a man’s world. Janie’s grandmother, before marrying her off, offers Janie her insights about the world they lived in:
Honey, de white man is de ruler of everything as fur as Ah been able tuh to find out. . . . So de white man throw down de load and tell de nigger man tuh pick it up. He pick it up because he have to, but he don’t tote it. He hand it to his womenfolks. De nigger woman is de mule uh de world so fur as Ah can see.
Here are some comments from the men in Janie’s life who needed to be in control:
“Somebody got to think for women and chillun and chickens and cows. I god, they sho don’t think none theirselves. . . . ” He wanted her submission and he’d keep on fighting until he felt he had it.
[Joe] wanted to be friendly with her again. His big, big laugh was as much for her as for the baiting. He was longing for peace but on his own terms [her submission].
Before the week was over he [Tea Cake] had whipped Janie. Not because her behavior justified his jealousy, but it relieved that awful fear inside him. Being able to whip her reassured him in possession. No brutal beating at all. He just slapped her around a bit to show he was boss.
Janie withdrew into herself; a prolonged stifling of her desires until she met and went off with Tea Cake, who rarely tried to control Janie. Their relationship was closer to one of equals although Tea Cake sometimes acted out because of his fears and insecurities.
The racism of that era is encapsulated in a court scene when Janie is charged with killing Tea Cake to save herself when he was in the end-stages of rabies madness. She is tried by a white judge, twelve white, male jurists, and a white prosecutor. All the African-American friends of Janie and Tea Cake have to sit or stand in the back of the courtroom. After the State rests its case, a spokesman for the blacks asks to be heard:
Mr. Prescott replies, “If you know what’s good for you, you better shut your mouth up until somebody calls you.”
“Yassuh, Mr. Prescott.”
“We are handling this case. Another word out of you, out of any of you niggers back there, and I’ll bind you over to the big court.”
[After which] the white women made a little applause.
There is also class consciousness. Even those on the lowest rungs of the socioeconomic ladder need to have a group of people lower than them that they can disdain. In this case, those within the African-American community with darker skin and more pronounced features.
Ah [Mrs. Turner] ain’t useter ‘ssociatin’ wid black folks. Mah son claims dey draws lighting. . . . Ah jus’ couldn’t see mahself married to no black man. It’s too many black folks already. We oughta lighten up de race. . . . You’se different from me. Ah can’t stand black niggers. Ah doon’t blame de white folks from hatin’ ‘em ‘cause Ah can’t stand ‘em maself. ‘Nother thing, Ah hates tuh see folds lak me and you miced up wid ‘em. Us oughta class off.’ [check spelling]
[Janie replies] Us can’t do it. We’se uh mingled people and all of us got black kinfolks as well as yaller kinfolks.
[Mrs. Turner again] Look at me! Ah ain’t got no flat nose and liver lips. Ah’m uh featured woman. Ah got white folks’ features in my face. Still and all Ah got tuh be lumped in wid all de rest. It ain’t fair. Even if dey don’t take us in wid de whites, dey oughta make us uh class tuh ourselves.
Hurston does not forget other universal human foibles.
Gossip: “An envious heart makes a treacherous ear.”
Envy: One of the regulars on the porch of Joe’s store: “Us colored folks is too envious of one ‘nother. Dat’s how come us don’t git no further than us do. Us talks about de white man keepin’ us down. Shucks! He don’t have tuh. Us keeps our own selves down.”
And as Thurston writes, “. . .there was no doubt that the town respected him and even admired him in a way. But any man who walks in the way of power and property is bound to meet hate.”
Not to mention meanness, dislike of those who do things differently, greed, social climbing.
The racism and sexism in the book were too ingrained in American society to expect any sort of resolution in Their Eyes Were Watching God. On the other hand, Thurston has many of the characters in Janie’s social world overcoming what I describe above as human foibles. Often, the characters exhibit them, but given some time and better information they come to more humane thoughts and behaviors. The friends of Janie and Tea Cake first condemned Janie for killing Tea Cake but eventually realized that she killed Tea Cake in self-defence and in doing so protected the community from an infectious and deadly disease.
And what of Janie? What about her search for something better? I don’t want to reveal too much of the plot. Suffice it to say that Janie survives.
She went over to the dresser and looked hard at her skin and features. The young girl was gone, but a handsome women had taken her place. She tore off the kerchief from her head and let down her plentiful hair. The weight, the length, the glory was there.
” . . . you got tuh go there tuh know there. Yo’ papa and yo’ mama and nobody else can’t tell yuh and show yuh. Two things everybody’s got tuh do fuh theyselves. They go tuh go tuh God, and they got tuh find out about livin’ fuh theyselves.”
Hurston writes with unexpected descriptive phrases that are clear, concise, unique. I often wondered how a person could come up with these ways to describe things? Very out of the ordinary. Here are a few examples:
Janie stood where he left her for unmeasured time and thought. She stood there until something fell off the shelf inside her.
She was a rut in the road. Plenty of life beneath the surface but it was kept beaten down by the wheels.
Sorrow dogged by sorrow is in mah heart.
Last summer that multiplied cockroach wuz round heah tryin’ tuh sell gophers.
Ah’m stone dead from standin’ still and tryin’ tuh smile.
Something stood like an oxen’s foot on her tongue, and then too, Jody, no Joe, gave her a ferocious look. A look with all the unthinkable coldness of outer space.
All night now the jooks clanged and clamored. Pianos living three lifetimes in one. Blues made and used right on the spot.
It was the meanest moment of eternity.
She was too busy feeling grief to dress like grief.
Hurston’s humor usually shows up in the dialogue:
Yeah, Sam say most of ‘em goes to church so they’ll be sure to rise in Judgment. Dat’s de day dat every secret is s’posed to be made known. They wants to be there and hear it all.
Sam is too crazy. You can’t stop laughing when youse round him.
Uuh huun. He says he aims to be there hisself so he can find out who stole his corn-cob pipe.
There is also a wonderful story about a yaller mule that becomes a dead yaller mule that ends with a description of the neighborhood’s buzzards gathering to dispose of the mule. One reads about the buzzards and thinks, “yeah, that’s exactly how buzzards go about doing their thing.” And it’s a funny description.
Hurston’s dialogue is in an African-American vernacular which I first found irritating. I actually made this note in the margin on page 10: “End of patois. Good”. I found that it made the text harder to read and understand. I eventually was able to overlook the dialect to the extent that it didn’t interfere with my appreciation of the book. Henry Louis Gates, Jr writes in an afterword that people read Their Eyes Were Watching God in part “. . . because she used black vernacular speech and rituals, in ways subtle and various, to chart the coming to consciousness of black women, so glaringly absent in other black fiction.” She used the dialogue of peripheral characters speaking the vernacular to give voice to commentaries on life.
Their Eyes Were Watching God was published in 1937. Gates’s afterword mentions this about Zora Neale Hurston’s subsequent life.
Hurston’s fame reached its zenith in 1943 with a Saturday Review cover story honoring the success of Dust Tracks. Seven years later she would be serving as a maid in Rivo Alto, Florida; ten years after that she would die in the County Welfare Home in Fort Pierce, Florida.
She deserved better, much better.
Since I finished Their Eyes Were Watching God, I’ve wondered how much has changed since those days. I thought about some of the books I’ve read that helped me understand that not enough progress has been made. The problems described in Their Eyes Were Watching God are still with us.
I thought about the Easy Rawlins series of detective novels by Walter Mosely that describe the African-American experience in southern California in the decades after World War Two. Stanley Crouch’s Nighthawk Rising, a biography of Charlie Parker, and Gordon Parks’ autobiography Choice Of Weapons confirm the accuracy of Mosely’s fictional works. I found more confirmation in Isabel Wilkerson’s The Warmth Of Other Suns and Michelle Alexander’s The New Jim Crow. There are recent novels like those of Jesmyn Ward, Sing, Unburied, Sing and Salvage the Bones. Most recently for me, the mystery Bluebird, Bluebird by Attica Locke which takes places in contemporary, rural Texas and has an African-American Texas Ranger as its protagonist show that progress has been made – a black Texas Ranger! – but not nearly enough given that the novel also involves the White Aryan Brotherhood.
We need to keep pushing forward, especially now when we seem to be regressing.
I am starting two new challenges: to cover the segment of the North Country National Scenic Trail in Wisconsin and to read fifty classic books over the next five years.
North Country National Scenic Trail
I’m not sure I’ll be able to complete this challenge given my age and the state of my health. I intend to have fun trying. I used the verb “cover” in the first paragraph above because some of the trail follows roads so I’ll be able to drive. The rest I’ll have to hike – definitely a challenge since I can manage only a mile or two at a time.
The North Country Trail Association describes the trail as “the longest in the National Trails System, stretching 4,600 miles over 7 states from the middle of North Dakota to the Vermont border of New York. The stretch in Wisconsin is 207 miles and runs from the Minnesota – Wisconsin border near Superior, Wisconsin to where the Wisconsin – Michigan border meets Lake Superior.
I don’t know the names of any of these mushrooms. My friend and bartender Nick assures me that the best book for learning how to identify mushrooms is Mushrooms Demystified by David Arora. I’ve ordered the book, so maybe in the future I’ll be able to add captions to such photos.
The day before yesterday I finished “In a Dark, Dark Wood”, the scary thriller by Ruth Ware*. Yesterday I unexpectedly found myself in a dark wood.
My hike took longer than expected, and I forgot that daylight savings time ended recently. It gets dark very early these days.
So I’m trudging through a dark wood. There is absolutely no wind, and no creatures are stirring, not even a mouse. They have all gone south or into hibernation for the winter or have bedded down for the evening. I can hear a jet far up in the sky but nothing else. It’s actually a beautiful evening. More than once I stop to enjoy the quiet and the beauty of the color left behind by the setting sun, color that shows brightly in the crisp, clear evening air.
I was in the Dunnville Bottoms in the floodplain of the Chippewa River in Western Wisconsin. Here are some scenes from the dark, dark woods in the bottoms, mostly oak forests with many old, gnarly, spooky oaks.
I thought the book was neither scary nor thrilling, just an average, somewhat entertaining who-done-it.
Who wants to age gracefully? Not me. Old folks just wanna’ have fun.
I sure do, but my doctor suggests that I have morning depression.* That means I feel wretched in the morning, but if I’m lucky I’ll perk up later in the day. By the time bedtime rolls around, just like a toddler I don’t want to go to bed; I want to stay up late.
When I woke up this morning, I “was stiff and sore and grumpy. It felt as though rigor mortis was getting an early start on me. Sleeping for eight hours is enough to make anything go numb. Anything that still had feeling to begin with. Worse yet, there was not a drop of Diet Coke to be found anywhere. I needed to pee again. I’m old and have a bladder the size of a lima bean. Don’t get old. If Peter Pan shows up, just go.”**
So what do I do in the morning? I’m not sure I remember. I know I eat breakfast and check the latest news on the internet. (Tip for morning depressives: Never read the latest news in the morning. You will end up with absolutely no hope. I of course always read the news in the morning.)
My doctor prescribed light therapy. I got a light box a few days ago, but it still sits unopened in the box it came in. I’m too depressed in the morning to open the box much less set up the light. I’ll do it some night when I am more energetic and haven’t drunk too much beer.
I’ll finish this wretched post by quoting two of my heroes who I’ve quoted before and will likely quote again.
What? Me worry. – Alfred E. Newman
Keep on truckin’ – R. Crumb
* In case you were wondering, morning depression (not to be confused with morning sickness or associated with pregnancy, something I’m not likely to experience, being sixty-nine years old and the wrong gender ) is also known as diurnal depression, diurnal variation of depressive symptoms or diurnal mood variation. I’ll stick with morning depression.
** All quotes are by Sheldon Horowitz, the eighty-two year old protagonist of the novel Norwegian By Night. I’ve slightly altered the quote to be in first-person and the appropriate tense.
Thomas Friedman’s recent book, Thank You For Being Late, is in the Globalization/Political Economy genre according the the ISBN code sticker on the back of the book. One usually doesn’t look in such books for suggestions about creativity, but that is what I found in the first chapter, also titled Thank You For Being Late.
Creativity involves having ideas and then doing something with them whether you turn those ideas into – in Friedman’s case, a column in the New York Times, or in my case a photograph. Friedman says
. . . a column idea [or an idea for a photograph] can spring from anywhere: a newspaper headline that strikes you as odd, a simple gesture by a stranger, the moving speech of a leader, the naive question of a child, the cruelty of a school shooter, the wrenching tale of a refugee. Everything and anything is raw fodder for creating heat or light.
How can one nurture the ability to recognize ideas when they appear?
. . . you have to be constantly reporting and learning – more so today that ever. Anyone who falls back on tried-and-true formulae or dogmatisms in a world changing this fast is asking for trouble. Indeed, as the world becomes more interdependent and complex, it becomes more vital than ever to widen your aperture and to synthesize more perspectives.
Friedman paraphrases and then quotes Lin Wells of the National Defense University.
. . . it is fanciful to suppose that you can opine about or explain this world by clinging to the inside or outside of any one rigid explanatory box or any single disciplinary silo. Wells describes three ways of thinking about a problem: “inside the box”, “outside the box,”, and “where there is no box.” The only sustainable approach to thinking today about problems, he argues, “is thinking without a box”.
. . . it means having no limits on your curiosity or the different disciplines you might draw on to appreciate how [the world] works. [A person needs to be] radically inclusive.
As a photographer, thinking without a box means not being constrained by accepted norms of beauty or of what makes a compelling photograph. It means not being constrained by the rules that are trotted out by the experts who then tell us to freely ignore them. It means not being overly influenced by the latest hot stuff on Instagram or what is winning contests on ViewBug. It means shooting from the heart. As Friedman says, “What doesn’t come from the heart will never enter someone else’s heart.
For me it means walking down an alley behind the stores that present their trendy, polished facades to the main street. In the alley is where you find the unexpected and serendipitous examples of unexpected beauty. Below are recent examples of beauty I found in alleys.
Sometimes, good words are found in unexpected places. Yesterday, I twice and unexpectedly heard (saw) life lessons. The first time was while watching Series 1, Episode 2 of Endeavour, the BBC program about a young Inspector Morse. At the end of the episode, Detective Inspector Thursday offers Detective Constable Morse advice about music.
Go home. Put your best record on loud as it will play, and with every note you remember that’s something that the darkness couldn’t take from you.
Later that day I walked past Valley Bookseller here in Stillwater. A bright yellow poster in the window advised me to
I enjoy photographing botanical subjects that are past their prime. Flowers, leaves, other things that are starting to show their age; wrinkles, discolorations, blemishes; such things can add character to beauty. Perhaps I have this penchant because I am (this is hard to admit) beyond my prime and have wrinkles and age spots aplenty. At this time of the year in my neck of the woods, everything outside is past its prime. Everything is dead.* This morning I bought primroses at the grocery store. Some of the flowers are starting to wilt. I thought the wilt spots add interesting new color and texture to the already beautiful flowers.
* A paraphrase of Charles Dickens from David Copperfield:
I looked at her earnestly.
‘When you came away from home at the end of the vacation,’ said Mrs. Creakle, after a pause, ‘were they all well?’ After another pause, ‘Was your mama well?’
I trembled without distinctly knowing why, and still looked at her earnestly, making no attempt to answer.
‘Because,’ said she, ‘I grieve to tell you that I hear this morning your mama is very ill.’
A mist rose between Mrs. Creakle and me, and her figure seemed to move in it for an instant. Then I felt the burning tears run down my face, and it was steady again.
Even after a winter of discontent, everything is still possible., My winter of discontent has been trivial in comparison to the first winter of the siege of Leningrad (now St. Petersburg) as described in The Siege. People in the book starve to death, thousands of them. People freeze to death. I’m over-weight and never have to worry about heating my apartment. What do I have to be depressed about? What, me worry? The following, from one of the last pages of the book, takes place during the spring after the first, terrible winter of the siege.
The sun shines. Everything’s possible now that the sun is here, warming flesh and drawing dandelions and nettles out of wasteground. As long as you can still walk, no matter how slowly, and pause from time to time to hold up your face to the sun and let a haze of glowing red soak through your eyelids, everything is still possible.
I’ve recently read or watched two items that involve the punk scene (or should I say punk-rock scene? I’m not sure.) in New York City in the mid-1970s: The book City On Fire by Garth Risk Hallberg and Spike Lee’s movie Summer Of Sam.
City On Fire is a long book, almost 1000 dense pages. The nexus of the plot is the murder of a young woman in a New York park on New Year’s Eve 1977. The book describes in great detail the lives and relationships of the people who were involved in one way or another with the murdered woman. It jumps back and forth in time from the early sixties to the start of the 21st Century while also jumping back and forth between characters. Many of the characters are punks participating in the New York City scene that apparently started in the mid-1970s. I cannot speak from experience about any aspect of punk. During that time period I was moving in the opposite direction; exploring bluegrass, country, and mountain music. So while the punks in this novel were moving away from the musical (pop) mainstream and finding punk, I was moving away from the mainstream and finding bluegrass. Given what I learned from the book and movie, I’m glad I moved in that direction.
City On Fire also covers the massive and complete blackout in New York City in the summer of 1977. Some of the book’s climactic events happen during the night of the blackout.
The movie Summer of Sam uses the background of the Son Of Sam serial killings to depict life in New York when David Berkowitz was on his killing spree. It focuses on the punk scene and on life in the city’s Italian neighborhoods. City On Fire presents more of a political and artistic picture of punk as a search for a sort of anarchistic freedom. Summer Of Sam, in contrast, focuses a lot on the sexual goings-on within the punk and club scenes.
I’m not sure I would recommend watching the movie or reading the book. I was often irritated at the book’s author for jumping around so much. I kept wanting him to stick to the plot line in which I was engrossed. Eventually, I just wanted him to wrap things up and tell me what happened to all the characters whom except, I think, for one, were strung out on drugs or alcohol. They were all drinking excessively, strung out, shooting heroin, dropping pills, sometimes doing it all in one day. I did not think it was possible for a person to use as many drugs and as much alcohol as some of the characters.
Watching the movie left me feeling like I had besmirched my soul.
Teju Cole in the essay Double Negative from his book of essays Known and Strange Things, says that
Photography is a fast art now, except for those who are too old-fashioned to shoot digital. But for most of the art’s history – until about fifteen years ago – most photographers had no choice but to be slow. . . . A certain meticulousness was necessary for photographs, a certain irreducible calmness of temperament.
Creating a good photograph is not fast, especially if the photograph is in the genre called “fine art”. (Who decides whether or not a photograph is fine art?) The only time shortened by digital photography is development time, what I consider feedback time, the time between clicking the shutter and seeing the photograph. Whereas in the film era, I dropped my film off at the camera store and came back a couple days later, I can now see the digital photo within seconds of activating the shutter. A good digital photographer takes no more or no less time before clicking the shutter than a good film photographer. A good digital photographer then often takes considerably more time with some sort of processing software to complete a photograph. A good photographer is just as meticulous – if not more – in the digital world of today – then when shooting film.
Photography has always been a fast art; that is one of the reasons I’m attracted to it. I used to draw. I found drawing too much of a slow art.
I finished another Elizabeth George novel today, one in her series of mystery novels. I’m stuck in the series. I ‘ve often been stuck in such series and have churned my way through many of them. I like best the ones wherein the novels in the series are sequential and characters change and develop from book to book. One of the best such series going today is the Easy Rawlins series of mysteries by Walter Moseley. I’ve also liked some series that are not sequential and in which the protagonist(s) are the same in every book – they just do their thing and don’t change from book to book. One such is the Lew Archer mysteries by Ross McDonald. Coincidently, both the Archer and the Rawlins mysteries take place in southern California in the mid-twentieth century.
Other than mysteries, I’ve been engrossed in series with military themes, the most notable of which take place during the Napoleonic Wars and have British heroes:
The Aubrey–Maturin series, by Patrick O’Brian, about the British navy in the age of sail
The Hornblower series, also about the British navy in the age of sail, by C. S. Forester
The Richard Sharpe series by Bernard Cornwell. Sharpe is a rifleman in Wellington’s armies in India, Spain, and eventually at Waterloo.
I could list lots of others, series by A. Conan Doyle, Martha Grimes, Ngaio Marsh, Dorothy Sayers, Margery Allingham, E.E. “Doc” Smith (science fiction that my brother and I were plowing through at the same time), John D. MacDonald with his Travis McGee series, Rex Stout with Nero Wolfe, and on, and on, and on. I know I’ve read others, but you can’t expect me to remember them all although I did just remember some from my high-school days; the adventure yarns of Alistair MacLean and Ian Fleming’s James Bond books. If I go back a bit further I would have to throw in series for young readers like the Tom Swift books and Edgar Rice Burroughs’ Tarzan books.
I have to stop writing. I keep remembering other series. I’ll never finish this post unless I just come to a full, abrupt stop.
I’d like the share more from Daniel Levitin’s This Is Your Brain On Music. Yesterday I shared some of Levitin’s thoughts on the chasm between performers and listeners. What I quote today shares that theme.
. . . in every society of which we’re aware, music and dance are inseparable.
But it is only in the last five hundred years that music has become a spectator activity – the thought of a musical concert in which a class of “experts” performed for an appreciative audience was virtually unknown throughout our history as a species. And it has only been in the last hundred years or so that the ties between musical sound and human movement have been minimized. . . . The polite listening response, in which music has become an entirely cerebral experience . . . is counter to our evolutionary history. Children often show the reaction that is true to our nature: Even at classical music concerts they sway and shout and generally participate when they feel like it. We have to train them to behave “civilized.”
In jazz, “Bebop developed as the younger generation of jazz musicians aimed to counter the popular, dance-oriented swing style with a new, non-danceable music that was more of a “musician’s music” that demanded close listening.” ∗
And as Levitin describes,
Classical music as most of us think of it . . . has diverged into two streams. Some of the best music in that tradition is being written for films . . . and is only infrequently the object of directed listening, as in a concert hall. The second stream is twentieth-century art music, much of it challenging and difficult for the average listener . . . . Contemporary “classical” music is practiced mostly in universities; it is regrettable listened to by almost no one compared to popular music; much of it deconstructs harmony, melody, and rhythm, rendering them all but unrecognizable; in its least accessible form it is a purely intellectual exercise, and save the rare avant-garde ballet company, no one dances to it either.
Daniel Levitin, in This Is Your Brain On Music, asks “why is it that of the millions of people who take music lessons as children, relatively few continue to play music as adults?” He answers the question by describing the many people who say to him that
their music lessons “didn’t take.” I think they’re being too hard on themselves. The chasm between musical experts and everyday musicians that has grown so wide in our culture makes people feel discouraged, and for some reason this is uniquely so with music. Even though most of us can’t play basketball like Shaquille O’Neal, or cook like Julia Child, we can still enjoy a friendly backyard game of hoops, or cooking a holiday meal for our friends and family. This performance chasm does seem to be cultural, specific to contemporary Western society. And although many people say that music lessons didn’t take, cognitive neuroscientists have found otherwise in their laboratories. Even just a small exposure to music lessons as a child creates neural circuits for music processing that are enhanced and more efficient than for those who lack training. Music lessons teach us to listen better, and they accelerate our ability to discern structure and form in music, making it easier to us to tell what music we like and what we don’t like.
I’m glad to know that the many years of piano and cello lessons I had, and the excruciating (for me) experiences of annual piano recitals were not wasted. And I have come to realize that I can sing, just not very well, but good enough to benefit from the emotional value of music. Levitin writes that “music increases the production of dopamine . . . [and] is clearly a means for improving people’s moods.”
Yesterday while at Brueggers, I read 4 Ways To Make Space In Your Brain To Create by Liz Fosslien and Mollie West. The first of the four is daily Morning Pages. The Morning Pages technique was described by Julia Cameron in her book The Artist’s Way: “[Morning Pages] are three pages of longhand writing, strictly stream-of-consciousness.” I have found that for me, using an online journaling website (Penzu) is better for stream-of-consciousness writing. My longhand writing is so bad and tedious that it gets in the way of my stream-of-consciousness.
Another of the four is from Ray Bradbury’s Zen In the Art Of Writing. It is to
Buy a book of poetry and a selection of essays (perhaps some from a previous decade). Read a few every day to help your mind foster a state of creativity.
I will never turn down an excuse to visit my local, indie bookstore and buy a book or two. So I bought Garrison Keillor’s Good Poems and a small book of essays by Michael Kinsley, Old Age: A Beginner’s Guide. This morning I added reading an essay and some poetry to my morning routine.
Old Age: A Beginner’s Guide is targeted at Baby Boomers of which I am one. I read the foreword by Michael Lewis and the introduction by Kinsley; no essay yet. The introduction ends with
If you want to be remembered as a good person, then be a good person. Who knows? It just might work. But start now, because if you’re a boomer, time is running out.
The other day I told a friend that I was going to start singing. Unfortunately, I’ve never been able to sing on pitch unless I was sitting right next to a good singer.
A few days later, I decided I was going to try the guitar again. Unfortunately, all the many years I tried to play the guitar, I was always practicing. I never reached the point where I was just playing. Also unfortunately, tendonitis in my hands and thumbs forced me to quit guitar.
I’ve decided I’m going to ignore all the “unfortunately”s and proceed with singing and guitar picking. I’ve gone so far as to buy a new guitar. I’ve also found a protocol for dealing with guitarist’s’ tendonitis (it involves lots of ice baths). Wish me luck.
I should perhaps get over the notion that I have to always be on pitch or play like Doc Watson. I can sing for my own enjoyment. So what if I hit a few bad notes. I’ve already learned Zip a Dee Doo Dah. (I find a lot of Disney songs from my misspent youth popping into memory) Granted, it’s a very simple song but a fun one that can make for a better day. When your down and out, sing Zip a Dee Doo Dah – better than a pill.
I think I’ve been sent some kind of mystical message. I found a book at the Guitar Center. It seemed out of place – misfiled – among the instructional books. The clerk who checked me out had never seen it before and didn’t know that they sold books of that nature (trade paperback format; all text). It was as if the book was waiting for me. The book has reminded me that I need to learn to play. I use “play” to mean both making music and having fun. Over all the years I played guitar, I never played. All I ever did was practice. Maybe the book will help me learn to play and have fun.
I went to the Chisago Loop of the Riverview Trail yesterday, a trail that goes through the Osceola Bedrock Glades State Natural Area. The trail loops around a knob that is an outcrop of Canadian Shield basalt bedrock. The top of the knob is relatively flat. The bedrock crops out in many places and there are loose slabs and boulders some that look like stones from a small Stonehenge. Between the rocks is shallow soil with sparse grass and a lot of mosses and lichens. There are scattered, straggly trees mostly jack pines.
I went to the knob planning to take a photo to satisfy The Daily Post‘s challenge Dinnertime. I finished the photo but wasn’t as careful as I should have been because the gnats were ferocious and drove me out. Look closely at my self-portrait and you can see the gnats hovering around my head. (Hovering? They were attacking.) I even poured out a half-bottle of beer because I was so desperate to get away from them (OK, maybe just anxious.) Once I got the first acceptable photo, I left as fast as possible. That wasn’t very fast because I had to be careful making my way down off the knob and through the treacherous footing in the loose chunks of basalt.
On my walk to the knob, I photographed a rare, prairie-fame flower (Talinum rugospermum). The flower and the dinnertime photo are the only shots I got. By the time I reached my car I felt like I was in a mild version of anaphylactic shock. Well, that may be a bit of an exaggeration, but the gnats had certainly spoiled my outing. This was the second time I’ve been driven out of the area by insects. The first time it was mosquitoes. Other than the bugs, this is one of my favorite spots. The one time there weren’t bugs, I spent my time reclining on a large rock soaking up the sun like a lizard.
I took a break after drafting the above and read a bit from Beryl Markham’s memoir West With the Wind. What I read gave me some perspective on being bothered by a few gnats. Beryl Markham writes about her life in east Africa when roads were mostly non-existent. She was one of the first pilots in the region. She writes about elephant hunting:
Scouting [for elephant] by plane eliminates a good deal of the preliminary work, but when as upon occasion I did spot a herd not more than thirty or forty miles from camp, it still meant that those forty miles had to be walked, crawled, or wriggled by the hunters – and that by the time this body and nerve-raking manoeuvre had been achieved, the elephant had pushed on another twenty miles or so into the bush. A man, it ought to be remembered, has to take several steps to each stride of an elephant, and, moreover, the man is somewhat less than resistant to thicket, thorn trees, and heat. Also he is vulnerable as a peeled egg to all things that sting – anopheles mosquitoes, scorpions, snakes, and tsetse files. The essence of elephant-hunting is discomfort in such lavish proportions that only the wealthy can afford it.
All I was doing was eating a sandwich and drinking a beer on a hill in civilized, western Wisconsin, and I complain. Markham quotes Baron Von Blixen saying “Life is life and fun is fun, but it’s all so quiet when the goldfish die.”
By the way, I highly recommend the book. A good friend and my favorite bartender recommended it.
I recently wrote about Jay Maisel’s book Light,Gesture, & Color in which he writes
All year long I walk around shooting as minimally as I can. One camera, a zoom lens, and that’s it.
I’m now reading On Being a Photographer. David Hurn advises photographers to
. . . take on a project that is containable, and can be completed in a reasonable period of time. . . . just wandering around looking for pictures, hoping that something will pop up and announce itself, does not work.
I think both approaches can work and have worked for me. It’s true that having some sort of focus, whether it’s a project or a weekly challenge published on the internet, will improve one’s photography. I have fun just rambling about with camera ready. Sometimes things do pop up. I went on a road trip yesterday to work on my project to photograph the St. Croix River from source to mouth. I also kept my eyes open for pop-up opportunities. Of the three best photos from yesterday, one was of the St. Croix, the other two were things I spotted while driving on back roads in Wisconsin. Here are the three:
I like this book. I like the way Jay Maisel thinks, probably because I think many of the same things. I do the same thing as he writes about:
All year long I walk around shooting as minimally as I can. One camera, a zoom lens, and that’s it.
One night a year [Halloween] I add an on-line flash.
I do this with great trepidation, as I really don’t know how to use the damn thing.
I try to sneak out of the house before my wife can see me and howl, “Oh my God, you have no idea what you’re doing.”
It’s a top-of-the-line Nikon flash. It has too many numbers and letters. It doesn’t just intimidate me, it eludes me completely.
I have never used the flash that came with my Olympus OMD.
The book contains a short introduction of seven pages. The rest of the book contains two-page spreads with a photo on one page and a short, pithy description on the other page. As you can see by the quote above, a number of the spreads have Maisel’s self-deprecating humor, as in the following:
I love to photography my daughter asleep. There is none of the clenched look that some people have when asleep. She looks angelic and peaceful. That’s what I’m trying to get.
Never mind that when she awakens and sees me, she starts bellowing out, “Do you have any idea how creepy it is to wake up and find you’re being photographed?”
“Yes, dear. Now relax and go back to sleep.”
Other spreads have Maisel’s advice.
You have to be ready to shoot at all times.
Don’t over think things in front of you. If it moves you, shoot it. If it’s fun, shoot it. If you’ve never seen it before, shoot it.
. . . There was no sun. There was just a pissed off, disappointed photographer who had been thwarted in his attempt.
Petulant, unhappy, and frustrated, I started throwing all my tripods, cameras, and miscellaneous crap into the car.
I was there with my ex-wife, who looked at the spectacle I was making of myself and simply said, “Turn around, stupid.” I looked and was amazed to see that the sky had turned blood red and the building were reflecting the red afterglow.
Had I not been told to look, I would have quit, ignorant of what was really there, because I had “made plans” and was wearing visual and emotional blinders that limited my perceptions and my vision.
It’s important to realize that the images are everywhere, not just where you want or expect them to be.
You can’t just turn on when something happens, you have to be turned on all the time. Then things happen.
There are no rules.
The thing I’m aiming at is to remind you that the more generic your image is, the less surprising, challenging, or specific it will be.
Try not for the symbol, the familiar, the iconic. Try, instead, to make your pictures a new look, a very personal, insightful type of gesture you’ve not seen in pictures again and again over the years.
So we all miss most of the best shots. Don’t despair, keep working on it. You are not alone.
Light can be instantaneous. You must be ready, and you must have the damn camera with you.
I ordered Light, Gesture, and Color on-line. When I first looked at it I was disappointed because there was so little text. I tend to like dense books with a lot of content. This book was exactly the opposite. There is not much content, but the content is concise, witty, and useful. There is very little about the technical aspects of photography. The book will not tell you how to operate your camera. It will tell you how to see better. Isn’t that what we are all ultimately striving for?
I spent some time at Rose Floral in Stillwater today. Rose Floral has a huge greenhouse filled with plants and flowers. A greenhouse is an excellent place for photography. Good, even, natural light and lots of wonderful subjects. Here are some of my photos from today.
There is not much color left in the woods; lots of grays, browns, and tans. The leaves are off the trees. There are no wild flowers left. There is, however, some surprising color in some of the smaller bits of the forest: fungi, lichens, mosses, and some remaining small, green plants. Among the green plants, the most vivid are those growing in or close to water.
The slide show below is of some of the color I saw over the last two days on the Osceola Loop of Ridgeview Trail north of Osceola, Wisconsin.
Under the slide show are some words about toadstools and mushrooms from Colin Tudge’s book The Tree.
Fungi in general consist of a great mass of threads (known as “hyphae” which collectively form a “mycelium”) and a fruiting body that typically appears only transiently, and often manifests as mushroom or toadstool. Many of the toadstools that are such a delight in autumn, and are avidly collected by gourmet peasants in France and Italy and elsewhere, are the fruiting bodies of fungi, which, below ground, are locked into mycorrhizal associations with the roots of trees and help them grow. Thus the fungi are even more valuable that they seem. The wild mushrooms and toadstools are often only a tiny part of the whole fungus. The whole subterranean mycelium, including the mycorrhizae, sometimes covers many acres and weighs many tons. Forest fungi, mostly hidden from view, include some of the largest organisms on earth [emphasis is mine].
My sister and niece are horse people. I’ve recently been teasing them about horses, horse people, campgrounds for horse people, and horse trails. I even went so far as to post a horse joke on Facebook. Maybe I went too far. To make amends, I’ll write about two interesting relationships between human and horse that I’ve read about recently, in the novel Doc by Mary Doria Russell and in Malcolm Brooks’ novel Painted Horses.
Both books are westerns. Doc‘s story – especially the mythical version – is familiar; the Earp brothers, especially Wyatt, team up with the gambler and dentist John Henry (Doc) Holliday. They would later become infamous through their part in The Gunfight At the O.K. Corral in Tombstone, Arizona. Doc takes place in Dodge City, Kansas. Russell’s sequel novel, Epitaph, covers events after the Earps and Holliday leave Dodge City for Tombstone. Painted Horses is about a young archaeologist, Catherine Lemay, hired to explore for prehistoric artifacts in a Montana canyon scheduled to be flooded by a hydroelectric dam. This was in the 1950s when rivers in the West were being damned willy-nilly with not a lot of concern about what was being flooded. Not surprisingly, those with financial interests in the dam don’t want Catherine to find anything significant enough to slow down or stop work on the dam.
The two humans in the horse – human relationships are Wyatt Earp and another of the main characters in Painted Horses who coincidently has the same initials as Doc Holliday. He is referred to in the book only as John H.. Both men had difficult childhoods. Both left home early to escape. Both headed west. Both rescued their horses and formed strong bonds with them. Wyatt rescued an unprepossessing, black horse from an abusive owner. The black horse, strangely named Dick Naylor, blossoms under Wyatt’s care and becomes one of the region’s top quarter horses. John H. steals his horse from a group of mustangers who drove their captured horses
along with shouts and pops from the stock whips. The mustangs were a motley bunch, mean eyed and hammerheaded, every roaned and ticked and parti-colored combination imaginable, begrimed with dried mud and dried blood and tangled mats of mane and tail.
One young grulla [a horse with tan-gray or mouse-colored hairs on the body, often with shoulder and dorsal stripes and black barring on the lower legs] horse stood out. A better head and straighter back than the rest. John H. watched this horse drift in and around the others, watched it shy away from the drovers when they rode too close. He watched until the steady speed of the train [that he is on] left the horses behind.
The grulla mare under John H’s care becomes a smart and reliable mount and plays an heroic part in the book.
There is a lot more than horses in both books. They are solid, readable historical novels. I have placed Doc on my list of Best Westerns (books, not the motels) that now contains three books:
Lonesome Dove (undoubtedly my number-one western)
Monte Walsh (there is a great horse – human relationship in this book also)
I feel a bit uneasy about including Painted Horses in this list. Can a book actually be considered a western if it takes place in the 1950s and has a big chunk of plot that happens in Europe? It has guns, horses, cowboys, Indians, good guys, and bad guys, but also trucks, cars, machine guns, and tanks. It’s a good book, but not quite good enough for this list since I can’t even decide if it is a western.
One reason why I rate Doc so highly is that I like the well-wrought characters, not as literary creations but as good people who I’d like to know. Here is an excerpt about what happens when Doc Holliday and Morgan, Wyatt’s younger brother, surprise Wyatt with a wonderful gift.
It sounded like he was making fun, but Doc had that look on his face again: pleasure and satisfaction, all mixed. And Morgan himself felt just about as fine as he had ever felt in a lifetime of feeling pretty good about things. He was proud of his older brother’s [Wyatt’s] earnest, boneheaded, mulish honesty; tickled that he and Doc had surprised Wyatt so completely; grateful to Doc for seeing to it that Wyatt got his dream back, even after his money had gone to build a library full of books Wyatt couldn’t read if he gave each one a whole damn year.
Suddenly jubilant, Morgan couldn’t keep still any longer. Giggling like a six-year-old, he did a little dance, and threw an arm around John Holliday’s shoulders, and pulled him close. “Hot damn! We got him good, Doc! Look at that, will you? He’s . . . Yes! Here it comes! A smile! Wyatt Earp is smiling!
Read the book if you want to find out what the wonderful gift was.
One more great quote before I stop writing. Another Earp brother, James, and his wife Bessie own and operate a brothel in Dodge City. Bessie’s mother used to say
politicians and judges and coppers are money-grubbing thieves. They’ll screw you, and rob you, and win elections for doing it, but there’s no way around them. Smile and pay the sonsabitches off.