In conjunction with my exhibit at the Georgetown Lombardi Cancer Center, I was asked to spend a morning as artist-in-residence. Sitting at a table in the bright atrium, I got to meet volunteers, nurses, and staff, as well as some of the patients who were waiting for appointments. Since I couldn't actually demonstrate my art form (my process is definitely not portable), I decided to make spontaneous books with the curious and courageous who stopped at the table. Using a versatile, folded book structure in which I could tape my "pages," I cut proof strips left over from the printing process into cards. Many of the cards had flower petals and parts showing, but reducing them to this size gave them an abstract quality that conveyed the intensity of the colors. I called the project, "Flower Power," which did elicit jokes about bell bottoms, but that was part of the fun. In a process reminiscent of a game, each person picked three cards from the pile, and I attached them to the book. Then they responded to their choices by writing words in the blank spaces created by the structure. "Wide awake," "reaching," "still," "solitude," "velvet," "folding," "joy," "dance," "light," and "hope" were among the words that appeared, and as each page was added, the book began to morph into a synergistic poem. The real magic of the form came at the completion of each book, because by standing it up and stretching out the folds, the book changed into a delightful mosaic of colors, a cubist interpretation of the essence of flower energy. It was a powerful experience, and one I will relish for a long time.
Turning the Corner
"Spring forward!" my mind reminds me, but my body says go back to sleep. I hate the artificial time changes in fall and spring, though I understand they're supposed to be for the greater good. I don't need a nudge from the time authorities to recognize that spring is coming. I can tell by the light coming in my bedroom window. There is a day in late February—it has to be a sunny day—when I draw the blind and realize the sun has "turned the corner." The plant in the window is suddenly illuminated as the sun has climbed high enough to clear the corner of our house. From now until the summer solstice, it will continue to climb as it races towards its highest point. The fascinating pattern that the sun makes as it moves from its lowest to its highest points in the sky is called an analemma—a lopsided figure “8,” with the vernal and autumnal equinoxes at the point where the lines cross. There are wonderful photos of this on the APOD site (Astronomy Picture Of the Day). From now until June, sunlight will stream through the window, making it quite obvious that it's time to get up. A nice, natural time that my body recognizes, not one that needs an alarm.
Inspiration Location
An exhibit of my Transience and Radiant prints will be up at the Lombardi Comprehensive Cancer Center at Georgetown University until March 31, 2014. The Center has a separate entrance with a beautiful, light-filled atrium, and the walls are dedicated to showing art (the space also hosts wonderful daytime concerts). Exhibits are part of the Arts & Humanities Program, which was started in 1990, and since 2001 has been directed by Nancy Morgan. She is a determined advocate for the role of creativity and self-expression in healthcare—both as an effective tool for coping with illness and as a support for caregivers—and she works tirelessly to provide patients with opportunities to connect with writers and artists. The atrium is an attractive location for art, but it's especially satisfying to show there because the work is visible to the hundreds of patients and caregivers who walk through every day. The airiness of the space is a welcome respite from hospital corridors, so it is a natural spot to pause and take a deep breath. And if my art can provide a moment of inspiration, contemplation, surprise, or just distraction to patients, their families, and the dedicated professionals who help them, then it is serving its purpose. I'm honored to have my work hanging there.
Preparation
There's nothing like a deadline to sharpen organizing skills (and get the stress hormones working overtime). I have a show of Transience and Radiant prints going up at the Georgetown Lombardi Center in March, and all of them must be varnished and mounted on wooden panels. Drawing on my experience of bookbinding and framing (both were jobs that supported me when I studied photography), I do this work myself. It keeps me connected to the craft in my art, allowing me to be in my body, not just in my head, and no one is going to know the results I want better than me. But I have to manage my days like a general planning a military campaign. Varnishing prints, and then gluing and mounting them, requires steadfast commitment, a steady hand, and my strongest pair of glasses. It also requires a very clean studio—every surface immaculate. Though I love the process, it is stressful, and I wrestle with my tendencies toward perfectionism. It's so easy to make mistakes! As I hold the brush or the blade, I take a deep breath and consider the Japanese Zen aesthetic of wabi-sabi—nothing lasts, nothing is ever finished, and nothing is perfect. It reminds me to keep it simple, get on with the work, and let it go.
Silence
Another big snowstorm has pounded our region, dumping snow and sleet. It's disruptive and dangerous, but like the millions of children kept home from school, I can't help rejoicing. During the storm and for hours afterwards the city falls into silence—no cars, no planes, only the occasional snowplow passing (and seldom on our little hill). The Olympics are on, so most people probably don't notice, but I open my window and hang out just to catch the sound of—nothing. Well, there's the rushing of the wind, the soft patter of flakes against the window, and thumps of wet snow sliding off branches and roofs, but nothing manmade. The storm won't last long, and I certainly wouldn't want anyone to suffer because of it, but it's a relief to experience my neighborhood quietly for just a few hours.
Breakfast
empty bowl
no memory of tasting fruit
glutton mind
—ACF
Hawk Talk
Over the past few days my late afternoons have been disturbed by a hawk. A strange admission, given that I live in a congested urban environment. At about the same time each day, as I sit at my computer or stand in my studio, a sharp cry erupts from the cedars outside my window. It is shrill and urgent and unavoidable, but even when I move quickly to the window, the bird is gone before I catch a glimpse. There seem to be two hawks in residence this season, and both are quite active in the backyard. Based on my observations and research at the Cornell Ornithology website, I'm betting that they make up a Red-tailed pair. During the cold months, the forest of bamboo that borders one side of our property is home to a flock of migratory robins. We joke that they are our commuter robins, foraging in local parks during the day and traveling home to rest here at night. It is their misfortune to provide a convenient buffet for the hawks. And though we would love to protect them, we understand that this is the cycle of nature. The hawks are magnificent as they swoop past our porch, but the circle of feathers they leave behind after eating is less welcome. As the cries start up again, I decide to sneak outside. Dusk is falling and the robins are starting to roost in their helter skelter way. As I round the corner I startle a hawk that leaps into the air, but a second one drops onto the path a few feet in front of me and unfurls its wings in a threatening gesture. I am the interloper here. It seems that my activities are disturbing the hawks.
Ice
Recent arctic weather has renewed my fascination with ice crystals and their intricate patterns, from the tiniest snowflakes to the huge sheets that cover a frozen lake. Though usually tricky to photograph, I've had plenty of opportunities this winter to capture ice patterns right on my own storm windows. I first started looking closely at crystals when I lived in Western Massachusetts after college, and moving to Rochester, NY, to study photography gave me lots of experience scraping ice! But I didn't have the photo equipment to get close, nor the patience to spend all that time in the cold. I did discover a wonderful 1907 children's book in a used bookstore there, and it's been a prize of my collection ever since. Entitled Water Wonders Every Child Should Know (by Jean Thompson), it used the photographs of 19th-century photographer Wilson Bentley to show the ways snowflakes and ice crystals form.This Christmas, a serendipitous gift from a friend, the children's book Snowflake Bentley, provided me with an enchanting biography of this man who devised a way to photograph and carefully catalogue these ice treasures of nature in his Vermont barn starting in the 1880s. He made the study of snowflakes and ice crystals his life's work. Now the technology is available to photograph snowflakes in your backyard or on your apartment balcony. A number of generous photographers have put very detailed instructions on their websites for all kinds of equipment (including smart phones). Just look up "photograph snowflakes." Although you could opt to sit by the fire and just cut out snowflakes using Peggy Edward's Make your own Snowflakes.
Waiting
On a foggy morning last week, I drove to one of my favorite parks for a long walk with my camera (other people walk their dogs, I walk my camera). The fog was burning off quickly, but I was hoping for the miraculous light that sometimes occurs when the sun breaks through below the lifting mist. When I photograph in the woods, I spend a lot of my time waiting, and this morning was no exception. I wandered off the path, stopping in a rise of brambles where I had a clear perspective on straight, half-wet trunks of tulip poplars mixed among the dry, golden leaves of young beeches—a scene I wanted to add to my Heart of the Woods series. I looked through the viewfinder, played with exposure and focus, shot a few "before" images to see that I was framing what I wanted, and then waited for the light. And waited. And waited. Impatiently at first, because it was cold, and I had other plans. But I began to relax as the woods drew me in. My senses opened up, and I was suddenly aware of the soft breeze on my face and the rich odor of wet earth. I listened to a pair of woodpeckers calling excitedly, and followed a squirrel as it hunted for a place to deposit its latest food find. Water dripped rhythmically off branches into the deep pile of leaves underfoot. The sun teased me. I followed its rise behind the clouds and whispered my admonitions to it, but it refused to shine as I wanted. Then it was time to go. I felt a slight tug of disappointment, but I realized I had stopped waiting. Instead, I had started noticing.
Decisive Moment
Action isn't what I usually pursue with my camera, but when I'm in the presence of a toddler, there is no time for setting up the shot. I am capable of quick response, though, especially when the light and circumstance are just right. On this particular day, I was following my excited grandson as he ran along a terrace in downtown LA. Both my grandmotherly eye and my camera eye were steadily trained on him. I was able to take several shots of his encounter with the pigeon before my hands were needed to provide protection. And one of these photos perfectly expressed "the decisive moment," in the phrase used by the great French photographer Henri Cartier-Bresson to describe capturing the instant that tells the story visually. Being present in the moment is what I most enjoy about photography. When I look through the lens, I lose track of time. In fact I lose track of myself as a separate, self-important being. I am channeling an energy that is bigger than me. All I have to do is pay attention and remember to press the shutter. It's easier when I'm not chasing my grandson!
Expectations
The jade plant in my studio sits in a big pot by the east window near the radiator, where it gets plenty of sun and warmth. It was given to me as a cutting by my dear friend P when I was a graduate student eons ago, and now it is huge and gnarly, its shiny, round leaves and thick, woody stalks curving around one another in a delightful tangle. It isn't fussy, and in the grey days of winter, I count on its never-changing deep-green presence to cheer me. Jade plants (Crassula ovata) are succulents, natives of South Africa but grown throughout the world as house plants. I'd heard rumors that they flower occasionally, but I had no idea what this meant until my December visit to Los Angeles. Everywhere I looked—along sidewalks, on hillsides, in gardens—there were round bushes of flowering jade, their fat leaves hidden under thousands of delicate pink and white blossoms. Frenzied bees competed for the pollen, crawling in and out of the tiny flowers. Of course I spent a lot of time photographing, the light being exceptionally crisp (and the temperature balmy). Now that I'm back in my studio, I have to admit to looking at my jade with a suspicious eye. Is it too much to ask it to produce a few blossoms now and then? What do I need to add to its regimen to make it start flowering? A few weeks ago our relationship was harmonious; now I'm not satisfied. Ah, expectations!
Breath cocktails
All over the world tonight, champagne glasses will be raised to toast the beginning of the new year. Anyone who's ever tasted champagne knows the delightful effect of that first satisfying sip—cool effervescence tickles your nose as the sweet and nutty flavors roll over your tongue and the gentle alcohol stimulates your brain. "Ah!" The relaxation response kicks in, and you can't help smiling. If we only had a glass of champagne at hand when daily stresses overwhelm us! I've discovered that a breath cocktail works almost as well (though the flavors aren't so obvious). When the driver behind me honks; the woman ahead of me in the checkout has a meltdown; charges on the credit card bill are incorrect; my flight is delayed—whatever it is that spikes the cortisol and sets off anxiety—I take a deep, cooling breath. I let myself feel the air as it rises into my nostrils and flows down my throat, and I let my lungs expand as they fill up. Then I release the breath slowly, reminding myself to smile. Over the years it has helped me to imagine I am sipping air the same way I sip champagne, and so the breath cocktail was born. Try it, it works! I wish all my friends and readers a happy and healthy New Year. Breath cocktails all around!
Comfort & Joy
Darkness
Days are growing dramatically shorter, as the northern hemisphere races towards its rendezvous with the winter solstice. The word solstice, derived from Latin, means "sun stands still," and all around us nature is sending the message that it's time to do the same. The huge oak tree that overlooks my studio has finally dropped its leaves, and my garden is nothing but dry sticks on bare, frozen earth. This is the time of year to slow down, pull in, and rest. I want to hibernate, climb into bed the minute the sun sinks below the horizon in the late afternoon (and not climb out till its well up in the morning sky). Instead I'm "living the list," revving up to finish my holiday shopping and planning out my schedule for the next two weeks of family travel and celebration. All to the good, but somehow out of step with the real season (the beginning of winter, not the holiday season). As far back as memory reaches, humans have been reacting to the growing darkness with fire and noise to encourage the return of the sun. Our solstice traditions, religious and secular, are laminated onto ancient tribal and Roman customs. The centuries haven't changed us; we're still afraid of the dark. We respond with parties and presents and a deep need for connection. Perfectly understandable. But darkness is the only excuse I need to sit in a comfortable chair in front of a fire and read a good book. As soon as the holidays are over, I'll do just that…
If you don't have a fireplace, but you do have a smartphone or tablet, download one of the many free fireplace apps, and enjoy a cheery blaze to bring virtual warmth and a bit of comfortable introspection to the season.
Snow on bamboo
Woke up to a gentle snowfall, big, soft flakes drifting lazily down from the brightening sky. My bedroom window looks out onto a wall of bamboo, a graceful green barrier that blocks the view to the busy street below. It's easy to convince myself I'm living in the country (some other country!) and not this urban environment. With the snow falling, it is quieter than usual, and the slight breeze sways the bamboo branches in a lilting dance. I understand why the haiku poets in Japan would draw inspiration from bamboo groves—there is an immediacy, a presence, that encourages quiet reflection. Perhaps Issa, the 18th century master, looked out onto a similar scene when he wrote:
Here,
I'm here—
the snow falling.
I'm here, and this is a lofty way to move into my day. But my stomach is grumbling, reminding me of my mortal limitations. Further contemplation will have to wait until I've eaten breakfast.
March of Time
How does one measure the passage of time? If you're a parent, a child is your yardstick. You only have to observe a child as he grows into adulthood to see the effects of time in its full human embodiment. And when grandchildren appear, that original yardstick suddenly sprouts another. Perhaps it's my peculiar French philosophical bent, but I've always been curious about the passage of time. In my art and my writing, I've explored the nature of time (and time in nature). But my maternal response to the conundrum of measuring time has been to save my son's shoes. I admit I also saved the best toys (which are now being enjoyed by the new generation), but saving shoes had a purpose. The shoes were the perfect symbol of the ground covered in living life, and since my son went through them so quickly, there were a lot of them. Very early in his life, I envisioned a photograph that would hint at this process, so I surreptitiously collected the discarded footwear. The box of shoes, clearly marked, sat on a shelf in the basement until this Thanksgiving, when I was able to ask my patient son if I could borrow his legs and feet. He humored me, and in a short time, I had several shots to work with. This is perhaps a photograph only a mother can love, but making it brought me a moment of laughter and connection with my son. Beyond measure.
Merci Donnant
My Thanksgiving rose is blooming, and I'll pick it before the predicted rains come through today. This old but stalwart rosy-red tea (its official name long forgotten) manages to put out one last blossom at this time of year, so I place it on the Thanksgiving table, an appropriate symbol of the bounty of both harvest and love in my life. Growing up in a half-French family, Thanksgiving never had quite the significance it seemed to have for my American friends. When we were children in France, my siblings and I always had Thursdays off since, according to the French system, we had to go to school on Saturdays. The unusually fancy weekday meal at the end of November came as a surprise. Maman never understood why my father insisted on a tough turkey instead of a nice rôti de boeuf, but she was willing to give the meal her best effort (the chestnut stuffing and red wine gravy was what we all craved). Dad was a terrific raconteur in his Irish American tradition, and once we were seated at the table, he would tell us the Pilgrim story. But he replaced his version the year Art Buchwald wrote an article for the Herald Tribune in Paris explaining Thanksgiving to the French. Entitled, Le Jour de Merci Donnant (an awkward phrasing that translates as the Day of Giving Thanks), the article mentions Miles Standish (Kilometres Deboutish) and his courtship of the lovely Priscilla. It is full of silly double entendres. For a family steeped in the two cultures, this tongue-in-cheek rendition was appropriate and hilarious, and its reading became a tradition. Thanksgiving was one of the few times of the year when it was okay to be irreverent, not quite the message children are supposed to be taught, but one for which I am deeply grateful. This year, Thanksgiving will be a day for creating new memories—our son and his family will come from California to spend the holiday with us. I'll be sure to revive this tradition, especially since it links laughter with Merci Donnant.
Shadows and Shapes
Keeping track of images is a task that requires constant attention, yet this is one area of life in which I sing the praises of the digital age. I depend on chronology and memory to access hundreds of old contact sheets or thousands of slides, but with a few clicks of the mouse I'm able to review a decade of digital images. I use the Adobe Bridge software that serves as a gateway to Photoshop, and with years of research and writing to draw on, I enjoy creating categories and linking the images to descriptions and concepts. Places, patterns, textures, topics—all become keywords that instantly link me to collections of images. My categories include specifics, like "Lady slipper orchids," and broad descriptors, like "Trees." I even use colors to tag images, a technique that served me well when creating the "Orange" edition. One of my favorite categories is "Shadows and Shapes," an umbrella for experimentation. I am a sucker for the sinuous lines and negative space created by shadows, and I've been known to interrupt a conversation with, "Excuse me, but I just have to photograph this…," as I chase a shadow across a room. But I also respond to the intense, angled light this time of year by setting up a "shadow theater." Gourds make wonderful shadow subjects, and there are so many unusual shapes available at the market for Thanksgiving decorations. So I clear off the studio table, set up my shadow-catching shapes, and observe the light as it creates shadow surprises right in front of my lens.
Winter Lady Slippers
Snow flurries are predicted for today. It's a bit early for Virginia, but I can remember a spectacular Veteran's Day blizzard, though it's been years since we had any substantial snowfall. As it gets colder here, I begin to take refuge at my studio table, where the southern exposure guarantees bright light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows (when the sun does shine). This is also the front row seat to my indoor garden, as all my houseplants are now nestled at the base of those same big windows. Though I'm hunkering down for winter, some of my orchids are beginning their blooming season. The bright colors and unusual shapes of omcidium and cymbidium are welcome in my winter garden, but it's the paphiopedilum I get most excited about. I have one that was given to me by friends a few years ago (I believe it is Paphiopedilum hennisianum but the tag disappeared), and I feel tremendous relief every year when I see the buds start to form. It doesn't like direct sunlight, so I keep it on the corner of my table where it catches just the right angle of the morning sun (and I can observe its progress close up). It is beautiful in all its stages, from the innocent, curved buds to its brazen blossoms (there is something of the coquette in every orchid). Paphiopedilum orchids are mostly terrestrial, and they're related to the lady slippers I photograph in the mountains of northern Vermont every summer. So I think of them as my winter lady slippers. And just like their summer cousins, they inspire me to get out my camera and get to work.
Paris November
It's suddenly November, and my mind turns, not to the upcoming American holiday, but to pleasant memories of Paris. It's a city I've had the good fortune to visit many times (and where I lived briefly as a child). Paris can be enchanting any month of the year, but my favorite time to visit is November. Flights are cheap, interesting accommodations are affordable, and most of the tourists have gone home. It's cold (one forgets that Paris is a truly northern city, lying at a latitude above Montréal), and dampness seeps up from the Seine. But that lets me wrap myself in the scarves I never get to wear in Virginia, grab my camera, and start walking. My mother was a native Parisienne, and I always marveled at her ability to walk the cobblestoned sidewalks with determined speed, even in fashionable high heels. At home in the States, Maman lived a sedentary life, but bring her to Paris and she suddenly became a race walker. My siblings and I still laugh when we remember her transformation (and our attempts to keep up with her). I'm sure she would consider my style of walking (and dressing) more suited to the countryside, but I can spend entire days wandering and looking, my camera poised to capture just the right light on a gilded statue, or a spectacular cloud floating above the roof of the Louvre. During recent visits, I started noticing the Plane tree leaves crunching underfoot, their marvelous shapes and colors standing out against the textures of sidewalk and street, and my Paris Leaves series was launched. Now when I visit, I have to remind myself to look up every once in a while and keep moving. I don't want to miss any of the other wonders!
A selection of Paris Leaves is currently on display at Unwined, a gem of a wine store in the Belle View Center, Alexandria. Stop in during one of their regular wine tastings, and you can sip while viewing the prints. It's almost like being in Paris in November!