Orange

 
 

It's Halloween and the neighborhood is decorated to entertain—and terrify—the trick-or-treaters. Skeletal hands emerge from pristine front lawns and gruesome heads hang from ornamental cherry trees, and that certainly frightens me! What attracts me, though, are the Halloween lighting schemes, which on some houses are even more elaborate than at Christmas. Bright strings of orange lights shine out everywhere, and this year I've noticed a new trend—purple lights as contrast. Orange and purple glowing in the dark—a powerful color combination and one of my favorites. So what better time to introduce a new edition—"Orange." This edition features orange flowers and fruits, some of which are contrasted with purple, a color that brings out the "zing" of orange. I'm also introducing a larger panel size—2' x 2'—with two orange tulips designed to complement one another. I'm tempted to say, "Trick or treat!" but there are no tricks here, only the treat of warm, vibrant "Orange."

 

 

Delight

 
 

There's nothing like a toddler frolicking in a fountain to bring out the delight in everyone watching. On our recent trip to the West Coast, we took an urban hike through downtown LA, expertly guided by our daughter-in-law. We ended up at the beautiful, new Grand Park, where an astounding fountain invites wading and splashing. Our grandson couldn't resist, and his antics kept his family and the nearby cafe crowd in chuckles. As adults, we can be so guarded about expressing our curiosity and joy, as if responding spontaneously might reveal our vulnerability and compromise our dignity. But being around a child certainly provides plenty of opportunities for exuberance. Laughter is the best antidote to stress, and the laughter of a child is irresistible. I once boarded a plane that had been delayed by bad weather, and the passengers were tired and tense. A family with two small children had been seated first, and as the rest of us struggled to be civil as we stowed our bags, a sudden gurgle of giggles erupted from the back. One little boy was laughing uncontrollably, and the pure happiness in the sound relaxed everyone who heard it. I watched people visibly soften and smile, as if they were setting aside a burden. It struck me that the airlines should record the laughter and play it each time passengers are getting on the plane. It would be very effective at lightening the mood, and not as messy as a fountain. But a bout of splashing in a sunlit fountain (with or without a toddler) is guaranteed to awaken the playful spirit that dwells in each of us.

 

Perspective

 
 

Flying may not be natural, but we humans have made it a necessity. We take airplane flight for granted, though I've often felt that if we were meant to fly, we'd have been given steadier stomachs, shorter legs, and narrower hips. My first transatlantic flight was on a TWA Constellation when I was seven years old, crossing from New York to Ireland in 12 hours, then continuing on to France after refueling. I remember walking unsteadily around the dimly lit and noisily vibrating cabin, wondering where I was. Hundreds of flights later, I still wonder, dreading lift-off and the stomach-lurching sensation of being untethered from the Earth. My mind may tell me it's okay, but my body knows that it is dangerously suspended high in the air. I do enjoy going to distant places, however, and I especially enjoy traveling to Los Angeles to visit my delightful son, daughter-in-law, and grandson, so I get on a plane willingly and often. My survival strategy is to curl into a window seat and hope the weather will stay clear, then I can distract myself by observing the world from the vantage point of the gods. With each flight, I am reminded that this is a beautiful and bountiful country. DC to LA is a five-hour flight, and no matter which route the plane takes there will be something surprising to see (once we flew north to avoid a storm system, and I found myself looking down on Lake Erie…). Usually, the urban sprawl of Virginia gives way quickly to the Appalachian mountains, the rolling greenery of Tennessee and Kentucky, the quilt-like rectangles of midwestern farms, and depending on the route that day, some part of the majestic Rockies. When we start to cross over the desert states, I have my camera ready. The distinct patterns of erosion, and the subtle colors of desert sands and canyons are spellbinding. Time, wind, and weather have crafted exquisite "paintings," and they're only visible from high above. There's not much time, and my workspace is cramped, but with every sunlit flight, I capture a few more miraculous images. As the plane starts its descent between the mountains into LA, I feel a renewed connection to our planet. It's a perspective I can only get from above.

"Above and Below," a new edition of prints from the perspective of my airplane window, will appear soon. 

 

Food for Talk

 
 

Reading Michael Pollan's Cooked, his fascinating natural history of how raw ingredients are transformed into the food we eat, I find myself musing about my own culinary methods. My family and friends know that I enjoy cooking. One of the great pleasures of life is preparing food for the people I love, followed immediately by sitting at the table with these same people, partaking in lively conversation, and eating what I've cooked. I'm not a fussy cook, though. I much prefer simple recipes with plenty of natural ingredients, put together with a soupçon of technique gleaned from the traditions of my French upbringing. My Parisian mother was a wonderful cook—my mouth still waters at the memory of her pork roast braised with onions and thyme, and her creamy coquilles St. Jacques. But there was always a lot of drama surrounding her culinary masterpieces. During my teenage years, when we were back in the States, she was renowned for her sophisticated dinner parties. The cooking would start days ahead with much complaint and worry on her part. The ingredients from the military commissary or local markets were never up to her quality. My sister and I, who were "recruited" as kitchen help, always fell short of the high professional standards she expected. By the time the guests arrived, my mother was exhausted, and we were grumpy, but as we sat in the kitchen eating our own share of the luscious meal, the delighted exclamations from the dining room were unmistakable. The results of Maman's efforts were always magnificent. It makes sense, though, that her daughter would choose a quieter path. So I like nothing better than planning an easy dinner—a sauté of fresh vegetables with quinoa, a paella with mushrooms and local farm sausage, pasta with fresh basil pesto—what I call my "one-dish wonders." I don't want to give the impression that all my food prep is done quickly, though. Since I work at home, I can cheat and fit my "slow" cooking around my schedule, which is a distinct advantage. I keep homemade beans, pizza dough, and extras from the big efforts—ratatouille, sauces, soups, and stews—in the freezer, so I can use them quickly. But I count my dinner a success when I spend more time talking and eating than I spent cooking!

 

 

 

 

 

Beholder’s Share

 
 

An exhibition of my Local Color prints (with a few mountain landscapes) just opened at the Westover Library in Arlington and will run until the end of October 2013. The library was remodeled recently, and its reading room is light-filled and comfortable, making it an inviting space to hang artwork. Displaying the prints in a venue close to home also underscores their theme—everything is local. The colorful prints on the neutral walls are eye-catching, but I’ve been curious to know how viewers respond in a public place that isn’t devoted to art. To that end, I’ve spent some time in one of the comfortable chairs surreptitiously observing. I suppose it’s a question that every artist thinks about: "Who are the phantom viewers of this work, and what will they take away from the experience?” The process of making art, at least my kind of art, is very interior and solitary. I follow my curiosity through the world and draw inspiration from its beauty. I trust my instinct and my experience, and I know how essential it is for me to create the work. But I do wonder how it will be received and who will be drawn to it. A work of art is incomplete without the response of the viewer. This is known as the “beholder’s share,” the portion of the art equation that includes the perceptions and prejudices of the viewer. Just as a novel doesn’t take on a life of its own until it’s read, a work of art needs the viewer to give it life beyond its creator. This is a topic that has intrigued philosophers for millennia, but there has been renewed interest recently with advances in neuroscience and the study of visual perception (The Age of Insight by eminent neuroscientist Eric Kandel is incisive on the topic). As I sit watching my potential “beholders,” I am fascinated by the mix of responses. Some people walk by without noticing, but others look carefully, perhaps delighted by the unexpected distraction. I am most excited when someone seems uninterested but stops suddenly, caught by a color or subject that is intriguing or pleasing. That's when I know the print is speaking to its beholder. The artwork is complete. 

Anemones

 
 

Like best friends, anemones are generous and tolerant. In my garden, they don't demand much attention, then surprise me with a flush of blossoms—simple, elegant, and abundant. I have both white and pink varieties of fall-blooming anemones (Anemone hupehensis var. japonica). They hang on through the heat and drought of the summer months, their triangular, deep green, scalloped leaves filling in shady spaces between summer blooming phlox and hibiscus. Once the days get shorter and the nights cooler in September, they outdo themselves. The long stems topped with simple circles of white or pink petals float above the leaves. When the autumn breeze kicks up, the flowers dip and dance to their own tune. I look out the dining room window across the disheveled back garden, and they seem to be waving to me encouragingly. They often blossom into November, but I don't cut them back till spring so the spare geometry of their dry stalks can enliven the winter garden. That way, I also get to enjoy their unusual seedpods—bundles of fluffy fibers dotted with black seeds that look like artfully embroidered cushions. Cozy and utterly friendly.

 

Back to Books

 
 

School is in session, and I'm getting ready to return to my favorite volunteer project.  Since my childhood in France, where the dark hallway of our ancient house was lined with old leather-bound books just waiting to divulge their secrets, I've felt a special affinity to books. While studying photography, I apprenticed with a Florence-trained bookbinder, learning the craft in order to use the book form in my creative work. I still feel a deep commitment to the book, both as an artist and a writer, and I've been teaching book arts in schools for many years. Unfortunately, budgets and priorities aren't what they used to be. So I've teamed up with the energetic librarian and a generous teacher at one of the local elementary schools, and over the course of the school year, I help a group of fifth grade students write, illustrate, and design a story book geared to younger readers. The kids volunteer one lunch-recess period a week (they get to eat at their desks!), and over the course of the year, I guide them through all the steps: gathering ideas, developing their characters, writing a first draft, editing, revising, illustrating (with drawings, collage, or photography), picking a font, designing the pages on the computer, and, always important, meeting deadlines. Then I take their stories to have them printed, and I spend a weekend in May hand-binding them into hardback books. Last year, with the help of the school's enthusiastic IT person, we also created e-books that were posted on the school's website. It fascinates me that, even with their ease of handling electronic media, my students get really excited when they are holding their own hardback books—books that are destined to become family heirlooms (and go on display at the Arlington Central Library—photo above). Every year I ask the students if they think books will disappear, and they always respond with a resounding "No!" They give interesting reasons why carrying a book still trumps an e-book reader ("I don't need a password to read a book" and "You can't borrow an e-book from a friend" are my favorites). I personally believe there is a secret link between the human mind and the physical book, and it's my mission to keep books alive, one group of students at a time.

 

Effort

 
 


Watching bumblebees is exhausting. One midsummer morning, I let my attention wander from weed-wrestling to a nearby hydrangea, where the sunlight was striking the leaves and blossoms in a particularly interesting pattern. Bumblebees were already hard at work extracting pollen, and I grabbed my camera and leaned against the wall to watch. Bees are linked in human minds with purposeful, productive effort. Think of "busy as a bee" (which is always a compliment). Paying close attention to a bumblebee as it flies from one blossom to another, then crawls in and around to collect pollen, certainly bears out the truth of the simile. But how does a bee control the expenditure of its energy, using just the right amount to complete its task? Does it know when to rest, or does it just work in a frenzy until it drops, crawling into its little bee bed only to be awakened too soon (like we all do too often). As the minutes passed, and I tried to follow one individual bee, I noticed that there seemed to be a rhythm to its effort: fly to promising blossom, hover, land, fold wings together, walk around, move to center of flower, walk back out, rub wings together, leap into the air, and move on to the next flower. The movement wasn't rushed, but it was steady. There was ease and efficiency that made its busy-ness seem effortless. Its job was clear, and there was obviously no hesitation created by doubt and self-judgment. And of course it was humming a lot of the time!  I was reminded of "Bee breath," an especially relaxing and reviving breath technique I learned in yoga class. I press my lips together as I exhale and hum the "MMM" sound, creating a lovely vibration. Maybe I've just discovered the secret to all that bee energy!

 

Tactile

 
 

Talking with a teenager about to enter high school, I was excited to hear he was signed up for his first photography class. His face lit up as he described the digital possibilities, then it clouded over suddenly. "But we have to spend the first part of the year learning to use film." He viewed this as an impediment to his progress. "No,no!" I replied a bit too enthusiastically. "This is fabulous! You can't really understand photography without having the hands-on experience of using a camera with film and producing your own prints." He remained skeptical but listened politely, and I thought a lot about our conversation afterwards. So many people now—and not only younger people—rely on their heads and their screens to process everything from friendship to art. In a world that is so virtual, I worry about the loss of the actual, and especially the loss of knowledge gained through the hands. The brain is wired to respond to the hand, to make connections that originate in the fingertips (and not just the thumbs). And though we tend not to think of it as a manual skill anymore, photography is a discipline that needs a grasp of the physical to comprehend its physics. The basis of photography isn't frame and form, although those are essential, it's light—the perception and control of light as it passes onto film or sensor. I can easily teach the concept of shutter speed and aperture—the means of controlling light—by taking apart my big old Hasselblad and having a student peer through the open back into the lens. The closing "petals" of the aperture and the satisfying "clunk" of the shutter create an “aha” moment, as the capture of light becomes tangible. Developing film and prints in the darkroom shows the effect of chemistry in creating tone, and connects us to the history of photography—from the early 19th century experiments of Niépce, Fox-Talbot, and Daguerre, who tested chemical solutions to find a way to "paint" with light, to the miracle of polaroid, the first "instant" color images. In photography school, I loved hanging out in the absolute dark to wind film onto developing reels; it was a calming activity, like meditation (though I would never have called it that). Fellow students would ask me to load their film because I was good at getting just the right curve into the plastic so the film would sit smoothly in the grooves. It's amazing how digital technology has extended the ease of use, the control, and the visual possibilities of photography into areas I never dreamed of in my darkroom days. But I still miss handling materials in the dark, letting images reveal themselves in the developer, and emerging into the light with glossy, wet prints held gingerly between my fingertips.

 

Terroir

 
 

It doesn't take long to get from my house to wine country, and I live in Virginia, not California! An hour's drive from my urban home, I can leave the highway and start drifting along narrow, winding blacktop, where the hillsides are covered with rows and rows of vines. On a recent day trip into the foothills of the Blue Ridge mountains, my husband and I took a friend for tastings at two very different wineries, where we enjoyed the distinct flavors of unusual grape varieties while admiring the green countryside. I was struck by how different the Virginia terrain is from other wine regions I've visited—more wet and lush. I love to photograph vineyards (as much as I enjoy sipping wine with dinner in the tradition of my French family). On my travels I've visited vineyards in France and other parts of Europe, California, Oregon, Washington State, New York State, and even the far-flung wine country of New Zealand. In all these places, dedicated vintners try to make wines that are unique expressions of their terroir. This French word translates as "soil" or "land," but it describes that elusive combination of a particular grape planted in a particular soil, at a particular elevation and slope, and acted on by a particular but unpredictable climate. The variables are daunting, and the labor is exhausting. It strikes me that terroir is an apt metaphor for what we make of our own lives. We have families, schools, aspirations, and unpredictable events acting on us, yet we are each unique expressions of the human spirit. How do we become the best version of ourselves? Perhaps this is too serious a question to ponder with a glass of bright Virginia Riesling in hand, so I turn my gaze to the vineyards spreading out below the tasting room. The ordered rows are reassuring.

 

 

 

Summer Flower Show

 
 

Despite my love of flowers and plants, my garden is a neglected, haphazard place during the summer months. I'm very attentive in the spring and the fall, but since I wither in humid heat and attract every mosquito within a mile, my poor garden is forced to survive with little help from me. By August the bindweed and wild morning glories are well established, and the best I can do is an occasional early morning attack to uncover the few vegetables in my tiny rabbit-proof potager (the only place that gets any consistent sunlight). I joke that the rest of the garden has been planted with invasive species (daylilies and gooseneck loosestrife and liriope), and they just fight it out for territory and keep each other in check. Its not quite true, though, and I have my Summer Flower Show to prove it. I don't grow any showy annuals, but my perennials manage to put out just enough blossoms to fill the "posy" vases on my kitchen windowsill. I've been collecting these vases since I was a teenager. My parents traveled a lot, and my mother would often bring me a tiny one from whatever country she was visiting. After my father retired, they spent part of each year in Portugal, and so I have a number of beautiful hand-painted examples from the Algarve. I manage to collect enough buds during the growing season to keep my vases full, starting with violets, bleeding hearts, and azaleas in the spring and finishing with the last brave roses in the fall. As the blooms inside begin to fade, I grab my cutters (and the insect repellent) and head outside. My color eye wakes up as I hunt for flowers among the green—a bit of purple New York ironweed, some late white hydrangea, a violet budlea. This week I was delighted to discover delicate blue blossoms of balloon flower (Platycodon grandiflorus) in a part of the garden overrun by ivy, and pale pink climbing roses beginning their late August revival. My windowsill flower show is a wonderful reminder of the ebb and flow of the garden, of how even the hottest season produces something to keep the bees and butterflies busy. 

 

River Tree

 
 

For the past year, I’ve been working on a new series that captures one small “slice” of a landscape as it changes through the seasons. I’ll give more detail as I get close to releasing it, but for now I am standing by the Potomac River watching the light crawl up the opposite bank. I’ve jumped at the arrival of a cool, dry day to make this early morning foray through the woods. It’s difficult to photograph in Virginia in the summer—the temperature is unbearable and the humidity makes it worse. I can stand some heat when I’m photographing in Southern California (the so-called “dry” heat that requires good sunglasses and a lot of drinking water), but the humidity here does funny things to light. It makes it “muddy”—heavy and opaque—and it’s hard to get any clarity in the colors, even early in the day. So I’m glad to take advantage of this clear morning. I stand next to my tripod and listen to cardinals chirp, and watch geese dawdle, and chuckle at the antics of a flycatcher as it launches itself from a nearby branch to dive for mosquitos over the river. The insects haven’t found me yet, but there are so many of them that they’re creating a prickly texture on the surface of the water. A fisherman walks by, and asks me cheerfully what I’m looking for. I want to answer “peace and contentment” (because I’m surely finding it at this moment), but I explain my serious artistic purpose.  Then I realize the truth and laugh. “This is just a good excuse to hang out in the shade by the river and relax.” He holds up his rod and nods enthusiastically. He understands completely.

 

Bounty

 
 

My friend S is a generous gardener—generous with attention to her plants, and generous with sharing her harvest. Gifts from her garden have provided me with plenty of inspiration for both studio and kitchen. Her peppers come in interesting shapes and hues (and varying degrees of heat!), and the color of her tomatoes is always the perfect warm tomato red. She makes the best pickles ever, earning a devoted following that includes my husband. But her figs—her figs are simply wonderful. She has a huge tree in her back yard, and it produces enough plump figs to satisfy the birds while leaving plenty for the humans (though she's a scrappy North Carolina girl who doesn't hesitate to fight for her figs). When they start ripening, I'll get an email that says, "Figs! Figs!" I just show up with a big bag as directed. If I'm extra lucky, she'll already have made a batch of drunken fig jam (with bourbon!), and a jar will get tucked into my bag unobtrusively. I'll sift through the pile of figs in my kitchen, wash the most photogenic (while munching on the ripest and creamiest), and spend the next few hours in my studio, studying their quirky shapes and subtle hues. And feel so fortunate that I can enjoy this bounty of figs and friendship.

 

Detour

 
 

Sometimes dinner is delayed because the vegetables take a detour through my studio. One minute I'll be sharpening the knife to chop up a bell pepper, and the next minute I'm holding it up to the light, admiring its deep red color and sinuous curves. I usually have the camera and tripod set up for fast action, and since my studio is only a hallway away from the kitchen, it takes no time at all to be transported into the place where color, form, light, and shadow are my ingredients. Or pattern and negative space, as with these purple French beans I picked from the garden, intending them for a tasty paella. How can I bring structure to a supposedly random pattern? How can I use other colors to reinforce the arrangement of the purple and green in the beans? The problem is mesmerizing. But it's dinnertime, and it’s the vegetable flavors I need to discover, so I work quickly. Then I carry the beans back to the kitchen to cook as intended, grateful for the nourishment of both my eyes and my stomach.   

 

Big Beauty

 
 

A rare and fascinating event is taking place this week at the U.S. Botanic Garden in Washington, DC.  A titan arum (Amorphophallus titanum) is blooming.  Its Latin name is enough to get anyone's attention, and since this colossal plant blossoms so rarely (it needs just the right heat and humidity), it becomes a media event. In its native rain forest habitat of Sumatra, the plant is called the corpse flower (bunga bangkai) because it smells like rotten meat. This is how it attracts pollinators, which include carrion beetles and flies. It's no surprise that crowds are drawn to a gigantic, stinky plant. But it's also a beautiful structure, worthy of a place in any museum of contemporary art. Several years ago, while working on the book, A Botanic Garden for the Nation, I had the good fortune to get “up close and personal” with a titan arum as it flowered. Though I barely remember the smell, I do have vivid memories of its slow unfolding as I watched and photographed over a period of two weeks (the photo above shows it beginning to open). The fabulous spathe, the large petal that wraps around the flower, is pleated like the neck ruffle of an Elizabethan lady, and as it opens, it reveals a rich maroon red hidden under the spotted green exterior. The tiny flowers are clustered inside at the base of the spadix, the giant central column, which is hollow. The flowering lasts for only a day or two, and then the spathe closes as the plant slowly collapses. The titan arum is an amazing example of nature's art surpassing our imagination. 

Peach Season

 
 

It's a very hot Saturday in July, but I'm determined to get to the local farmer's market.  Peach season has started here in Virginia, and there's no more welcome time of year.  Peaches have been my favorite summer fruit since my childhood in France.  For several years, my family lived in a lovely old house in the Loire Valley with a huge walled-in garden and park.  It was a child's paradise, with every kind of fruit tree growing there—cherries, apples, pears, even apricots—and peach season was the highlight of the summer. My siblings and I would vie for the ripe fruit, and the maid-of-the-moment (they came and went rapidly with four rambunctious kids) would prepare jam or compote that we would slather on french bread. My favorite peaches were the white-fleshed ones, and I was disappointed to discover we couldn't get them when we returned to the States. In recent years that has changed, as new white varieties keep appearing, one more delicious than the next. With so many delightful memories of peaches, and so much enjoyment of their warm, round softness and sweet succulence, it's no surprise I've been inspired to focus my lens on them. The color and texture of peaches is as inspiring in my studio as it is in my kitchen.

 

Chasing the wild orchid

 
 

The meadows and mountains of Vermont nourish an abundance of wildflowers, but none so elusive and exquisite as the Lady Slipper Orchid (Sabot de la Vierge—The Virgin's clog–as the Québecois refer to them). These lovely North American orchids—in shades of pink (Cypripedium acaule) and sometimes white (Cypripedium acaule f. alba)—appear in June, though the exact time is always dependent on the weather. Starting around the middle of the month, I begin my explorations, returning to one particular mountain where the views are spectacular and the orchid population is sprinkled mysteriously through the shadowy woods. My challenge is to find orchids in natural light so I won't have to use the flash, which gives flowers a harsh, stunned look. I pick my way carefully through the dense pines, tiptoeing on the spongy undergrowth of accumulated needles. Shafts of light tease me as I move from spot to spot, following the brightness like a character on stage. The real stars always appear at some point in my pursuit—one, or if I'm lucky, a pair of orchids highlighted by the sun. Squatting to flower level, I begin communing with my camera. The results are always spectacular, and all the credit goes to the orchids.

 

 

Capturing clouds

 
 

Sitting placidly on the shore of a Vermont lake, watching the cloud show. Only a few miles from the Canadian border, it seems I have a front row seat on the jet stream. Camera poised, I capture the shifting shapes and shades—towering pillars of menacing gray give way to billowing, sun-drenched pillows surrounded by blue. Vertical lines of rain race across the distant mountains chased by horizontal streaks of shaggy gray. Bright against dark, contrast provides the drama. Raising and lowering the lens, I lose track of time. Then I put the camera down and just look. I'll never get it all, and I'm limiting my view. The sky moves ceaselessly. My head in the clouds, I become the still center. I thought I was capturing the clouds, but the clouds have captured me.

 

 

Emerging

 

Spring is the traditional season for beginnings.  It’s the perfect time to launch a website, especially one that heralds the re-emergence of creative energy that has been kept "underground" for a while.  Every life has its seasons, and I am happy to find myself in a period of intense creative activity.  Like these daylilies breaking ground despite the late snowfall, I feel like a perennial surging towards the light of the sun.   

My website features recent editions of prints, and in preparing it, I’ve looked back through the work of other productive seasons in my creative life—from my earliest black & white photographs, through artist books, watercolor paintings, and offset printing. A well-pruned chronology appears in the About Past Work section. Thanks to my loving family and supportive friends, and to a few devoted collectors, I’ve been able to maintain healthy roots. Now I look forward to cultivating my creative garden for years to come.