By Any Other Name

 
 

Rose season is starting—my favorite time in the garden. Every year I watch the buds begin to form on the dozen rose varieties (mostly climbers) that perch on various surfaces around the house, and I wonder which will flower first. Each has a name, and I delight in thinking how the breeder decided on it (creating, or hybridizing, new roses is a complex, obsessive process cheaper but just as serious as breeding Kentucky Derby winners). For most of my roses, the name definitely corresponds to the appearance and personality (or habit) of the rose. Queen Elizabeth, for instance, a grandiflora (bush) rose introduced in 1954, is a pink rose with rounded petals. The blossoms are square and squat just before they open. It’s not a showy rose, but it’s very constant, blooming steadily though not extravagantly for more than twenty years in a place that gets a lot of shade. I swear it waves to me on breezy days with a particularly stiff but regal motion. On the wall not far away is New Dawn, a huge sprawling climber that is packed with pale pink, delicate yet disciplined, roses (they all seem to to face the same direction).  In full bloom they cover one side of the house. I think of these roses as the ladies-in-waiting. Around the corner is Don Juan, a smoky red-purple climber that gets around. Its blossoms are lush, velvety, and smell tantalizing. It’s prolific, so I prune it in to move away from Queen Elizabeth, since I don’t want her to be scandalized. Luckily QE can’t see Colette, my star climber on the opposite side of the house. This voluptuous, peach-colored rose is named for the notorious French author and actress, who was sensual, sentimental, and often outrageous as both a writer and a woman. Colette needed to be the center of attention. So I'm not surprised that this year, her namesake rose is the first to bloom (pictured above).

Humble Hero

 
 

It’s obvious that my attention and my lens are focused on the garden these days. I find myself spending a little time every afternoon weeding, digging, planting, and photographing whatever is in bloom. When I first start out, the tasks can seem overwhelming. If I put lofty goals aside, though, and just tackle something specific (a square foot of English ivy that needs to be pulled out from under the peonies), I’ll suddenly realize two hours have passed and it’s time to start dinner. Planting is my favorite of all my garden pastimes—not only does it allow me to dig holes for new flowers (with lots of hope for the future), but it lets me get reacquainted with my very favorite garden creature, the so-called lowly earthworm. I’ve been fascinated with worms since I was a child, and as a gardener I have great respect for these builders of the soil. Their burrowing habits help aerate the soil and disperse nutrients. They eat whatever live or dead organic matter comes into their path and convert it into rich hummus (which is the reason they are essential in my compost bin). If I dig and find a cache of earthworms, I can be sure I’m putting my plant in just the right fertile place. I remove them carefully, admiring their subtle colors and sensing their slippery movements in my palm, and then I place them in another spot that needs some worm work. As I hold them, I always make a wish. Why shouldn’t a creature as connected to the earth as the earthworm—an active creator of my garden soil—have the power to grant it? Like one of my favorite authors, Eva Ibbotson, I ascribe surprising qualities to the humble earthworm. In one of her children’s fantasies, Which Witch?, a pet earthworm named Rover proves to have astonishing abilities. Although what could be more astonishing than transforming hard clay into crumbly, productive soil?

 

Old-Fashioned Favorite

 
 

Since it’s been cold for so long, the plants are taking advantage of sunshine and warmth to emerge quickly. The usual sequence of spring blooming has been shortened dramatically, and everything from hellebore to daffodil to azalea is appearing all at once. The peonies are budding, and I suspect the roses won’t be far behind. Weeding on a windy Saturday, I’m trying to stay ahead of this sudden burst of vegetation. Plenty of grape ivy, witch grass, and poison ivy to keep me busy when the ground is soft after the rain. And plenty of bright violets to remind me that one woman’s weed is another woman’s wealth. I love violets, and they are welcome in my garden (though I do occasionally  move them so they don’t nudge out a more delicate perennial). They are reminders of my childhood in France, where every spring I would wander through the park surrounding our house hunting for the deep violet-blue blossoms. I loved to gather handfuls and arrange them into perfect bouquets held in place with the green heart-shaped leaves, which I would then present to my mother. I still collect bouquets every spring (only now I photograph them). Some gardeners may view violets as a nuisance to be eradicated, but the value of these old-fashioned favorites is in their unpretentious presence. I can’t imagine my garden without them.

Back to Bluebells

 
 

Spring is in full flower in Virginia. Though the cherry trees surrounding the Jefferson Memorial may be the best known example of the region’s spring beauty, I prefer the profusion of bluebells that explode along the Potomac River at this time of year. Hiking with a friend along the Heritage Trail at River Bend Park, we floated through acres of the sky blue flowers. On both sides of the path, the pale green foliage was covered with a cloud of blue. Virginia bluebells (Mertensia virginica) are wildflowers native to eastern North America. The tall flower stalks are crowned with clusters of tiny bell-shaped flowers that start out as magenta buds and open into pure light blue, then darken before they fade. Occasionally a white bluebell (a blancbell?) stands out like a ghost in a cluster of blue. With sun slanting through the budding trees and a soft breeze tossing the bells to and fro, it was easy to imagine I was sleeping and this was all a beautiful dream. The experience certainly left me inspired and restored.

 

Art Appreciation

 
 

The Getty Museum in LA is one of my favorites. Even before our son moved to the West Coast, my husband and I would stop there any time a project landed us in the vicinity.  We enjoy the Getty’s permanent collection of paintings (and their illuminated manuscripts and photographs are beyond compare), but what draws us is the aura of this magical city on the hill, its gleaming white marble buildings, designed by Richard Meier, and its fantastic gardens, created by artist Robert Irwin. The Getty grounds are full of surprises, with stairways leading to sudden, spectacular vistas, and paths that end in secret gardens. We thought we had discovered every delight over our years of visits, so we were quite surprised to uncover an entirely new perspective when we visited with our three-year-old grandson—the Getty as the world’s best playground! While his Mom and baby brother strolled, we took turns pursuing him up and down staircases, flying along sweeping lawns, hovering as he clambered up the railings, plucking him from forbidden flower beds, and catching him as he slid down the boulder benches. He inspected all the sculpture, especially liking the “rocket ship” in the main plaza when he got off the tram. He went with his grandfather, who is a painter, on a whirlwind tour of the main galleries, and they collapsed on a bench near the Canaletto and watched light beams playing on the ceiling. It was exhilarating and exhausting for all of us!  We did get to wander on our own through the amazing traveling exhibition of Turner's late work, and those famous turbulent skies looked peaceful after the tornado of our grandson.

 

Stitch Wish

 
 

Time to get ready for the next plane ride across the country to visit family and celebrate our older grandson’s third birthday. His baby brother is almost five months old, and I am putting the final touches on my special present to honor his arrival in the world, a cloth book. I thought I would finish it last fall when I lived in LA to help out with the birth, but there was very little “extra” time between supporting the family and wrangling the toddler. The book is made of polartec, which is soft and easy for small hands to grab, and practical for Mom (it can be tossed in the washing machine). The basic structure of the book (the pages and spine) are assembled with the sewing machine, but each of the cut outs—animals, flowers, geometric shapes, even a steaming locomotive—must be sewn on by hand. Winter evenings are perfect for this quiet work. The feel of the soft fabric on fingertips is quite soothing as I pull the thread in and out in a quick tempo. With each stitch I think of this little baby and what his life will be as he grows up in this complex world. And with each stitch I make a wish for his health, happiness, and well-being, like a fairy godmother casting a spell. I suspect grandmothers have powers, too, so every stitch wish counts.

 

Best Laid Plans

 
 

No matter how much planning goes into it, a garden has a life of its own, not only changing with the seasons but changing over time. Trees grow and create shady spots where the sun used to shine; trees die and create sunny spots where you’ve planted all your most expensive shade-loving perennials. Bushes get too big, or a cold winter (like the one we just had) kills off a beloved shrub (don’t get me started on my fig lament). Sometime plants just get tired and disappear. If I’m too busy with work and family, or if my back goes out, the vines and weeds happily fill in any empty spaces. For a haphazard gardener like myself, who has a laissez-faire attitude (must be my descent from French nobility), there comes a spring when I realize my benevolent neglect has gone on too long. Time to reconsider the garden. I am fortunate to have a friend who is a gifted landscape designer, and she has agreed to walk over our plot of urban land and give me advice about how to allocate space and determine which plants to consider adding or subtracting. The point isn’t to get everything in order right away. It takes a while for new plantings to flourish, and part of the fun of having a garden is planning for the future. Since the purpose of my garden is to provide a peaceful refuge and connection to the earth, I look forward to any time spent implementing those plans.

 

Long View

 
 

What is it about a scenic view that inspires wonder? Do beautiful vistas have the power to heal? As I hike with my camera, I’m always looking for those special places where space and light magnify natural beauty to create a sense of peace and reverence. To capture a panorama of heart-stopping beauty, I find myself stepping back to take it all in. I call it taking the long view. I sense the power of the Earth and respond with awe and gratitude. I now know that there is solid science to explain my ecstatic responses to natural beauty. In Healing Spaces: The science of place and wellbeing, neuroimmunologist Esther Sternberg looks deeply at the connections between healing and place. She explains that beautiful views are linked to stress reduction and strengthening of the immune system (endorphins play a big role). Now I know why I feel so good peering off into the mountain distance!

Since last summer, I've been working on a new series of landscapes called Long View. My hope is that these convey some of the awe and peace (and endorphins!) I felt as I photographed.

 

Waters of March

 
 


…it's the mud, it's the mud

There comes a time just before spring bursts on the landscape when I feel impatient and out of sorts, as if my energy is also waiting for some signal to emerge. Tired of the cold and longing for soothing green, it seems no matter what I initiate, it doesn’t go anywhere. I’m stuck in the mud. In northern parts of the country this time is actually called mud season (and I don’t recommend a stay in Vermont in late March or early April!). So it doesn't surprise me that the song playing over and over in my mind these days is Brazilian Antonio Carlos Jobim’s appropriately titled “The Waters of March.” In his English version, the lyrics playfully catalog the debris carried along by a river swollen with March rain and mud. He points to the random evidence of the discards of both nature and humanity—the reality of life—but weaves in the subtle signs of renewal and hope along the river bank. Spring is coming, don’t give up, the song says, as a way of reminding us not to stay stuck in the ugly. Hear the birds, feel the wind, notice the fox, smell the earth. You don’t even have to know the lyrics to understand the meaning of the song, since the lilting melody carries its message to take heart and lighten up. 

It's the wind blowing free, it's the end of the slope
It's a beam, it's a void, it's a hunch, it's a hope
And the river bank talks of the waters of March
It's the end of the strain, it's the joy in your heart

 

 

Blank Walls

 

My husband has been helping me install new track lighting in my studio. Actually, he's the electrician, so I've been helping him. The lights are new LED daylight spots, providing clear, consistent, and efficient illumination throughout the space. Suddenly I have all the light I need at any time of the day. I also have a lot of blank, white walls. In preparation for the installation, I took down my old work. I use the walls as a way to test my vision as well as check the quality of an image. If I have an idea, I'll create a print and tack it on the wall to see if it speaks to me. Some of the pieces I took down were for a series I finished last fall, but most of the walls held proofs from older series, or single images I loved and thought might lead to something else, but didn't. Now the walls are as bright and blank as the snow-covered garden, and I wonder what will grow in both spaces. I guess I'll just have to wait and see what emerges with the Spring thaw.

Glow

 
 

It's not quite spring, but in my studio it might as well be. The clivias have started to bloom just in time to save my winter-weary spirit. Orange inspires me, and I’ve written glowingly about it, but on a recent morning I saw the color actually glowing through the sunlit petals of the clivia blossoms. What could I do but start photographing? I was so motivated, I created two new prints to add to my Orange edition (Orange #11 and #12). Then I realized I had neglected to upload prints I created last spring for my exhibit at Georgetown (Orange #9 and #10). The orange of these flowers is so intense, they seem to generate heat. I can certainly feel it in my heart (if not my hands).

Cold comfort

 
 

Cold and snow have been the big topics of conversation among friends and colleagues this winter.  Everyone is a bit grumpy. The sidewalks remain icy, the driving has been treacherous, and too many events have been cancelled. This is not Virginia! "What happened to global warming?"  a friend asks, and I remind him that it's called "climate change" now. There is little doubt that weather patterns are changing. What hasn't changed is our need to complain about it. So when my husband and I cleared off last weekend's snowfall before it turned into crusty ice, I decided we needed a positive totem to counteract all the negativity. A jaunty snowman did the trick. I can see him from my studio window. His cap's a bit lopsided, but he's still smiling. And he should be. More snow is predicted for the day after tomorrow.

Eye Photos

 
 

Winter landscapes continue to be a source of inspiration for me. Growing up mostly in the Loire Valley of France and the suburbs of Washington, DC, I didn’t experience extreme snow and cold until I went to college in Western Massachusetts. There I discovered the solace of silent walks through snowy fields and woods. Some of my earliest black and white photographs were of snow on trees and boulders, and I’ve kept up my winter habit. Now when I dress for winter hikes, my camera is the last layer I strap on over all the others. My eye relishes the graphic shadows and peculiar shapes that appear when sun shines on snow. This past week in Vermont, however, my best creative intentions were thwarted by the cold. With wind chill temperatures dipping into the minus teens, I could barely keep myself warm, and I had to give up on my digital SLR. The batteries drained so rapidly that I was able to capture only a few frames (and I thought my eyeballs were going to freeze against the viewfinder). Kept warm in an inside pocket, my iPhone camera performed better, but I couldn’t remove my gloves for fear of getting frostbitten fingers. So what was a photographer to do? Take eye photos, of course! Photographing with your eyes can yield surprisingly vivid images. We rely on our photographs to form our memories, so it’s a good exercise to go without a camera occasionally. The last hike before coming home was indeed memorable—a family of wild turkeys sliding down a hill; snow trolls looming in a cluster of dark pines; snow fields beyond the forest glowing blue and orange as the setting sun emerged beneath the clouds. Though I can only share them with words, I don’t think a camera could have done justice to any of the pictures I hold in my mind.

Snow angel

 
 

Back to Vermont for our annual visit to "real" winter. My husband and I are longtime cross-country skiers, and nothing satisfies our longing for snowy woods like the mountains here. This year the snow is exceptionally deep and powdery, and our appreciation for it has been intensified by the arrival of our not-quite-three-year-old grandson. Having grown up in Los Angeles, he has never seen snow. His excitement and wonder are contagious. Despite dauntingly cold temperatures, he is willing to stand patiently to be dressed in many unfamiliar layers just so he can launch himself into the powdery fluff. His dad teaches him to make a snow angel, and he is entranced. But instead of falling on his back, he lies on his stomach, flapping his arms like a swimmer in the snow. He struggles to get to his feet, laughing at the snow on his face. He obviously doesn't care about the result of his efforts, just the joy of the experience. It's a lively reminder from our very own snow angel. 

Bloody Miracle

 
 

Tis the season for ice and snow, colds and flu, and the winter doldrums. There are days when a quiet snowfall, viewed through the window from the comfort of a warm room, encourages a contemplative mood for reading, writing, sorting photographs, or marathon baking. But if the stresses of travel, work, and exposure to germs has led to a January virus, another icy snowfall is just enough to put me over the edge. That’s when I’m grateful it’s also the season for blood oranges. As well as being vitamin C powerhouses, blood oranges are high in anthocyanins, a family of antioxidant pigments. This is what gives them their startling deep red, almost maroon color, and what gives me the energy to carry on. Blood oranges have just enough tartness to balance their sweetness, and a delightful hint of raspberry and pepper on the tongue. Their luscious color warms my blood and boosts my spirits. To a medieval peasant, an orange in winter would surely have seemed a miracle. So it's not too far-fetched to think of blood oranges as my January miracle.

Vision

 
 

January is the month for beginnings and resolutions, so I spent part of the weekend finishing my vision board for 2015. It is a tradition started by my daughter-in-law and carried on in her family for years. She introduced me to it, and it has become a ritual for the New Year. At some point during our Christmas visit to LA, we gather with members of her family for the creation of the vision boards. Everyone contributes old magazines, scissors, poster board, and art supplies, and after a delicious and sustaining lunch (homemade cassoulet was featured this year), we get to work. A vision board is a way to visually articulate desires, dreams, and new directions. The exercise of creating one is meant to be fast and playful, a way to engage the subconscious mind in clarifying and expressing aspirations. And in this experienced and creative crowd, everyone gets down to business! Images that catch the eye, colors that convey a mood, words and phrases that inspire positive emotions and changes—all are snipped and collected and glued in a flash. After a couple of hours, everyone is finished (I confess I wasn't because I was having too much fun with my grandson!). Afterwards, each person shares and discusses their collage, another way to decipher and retain the spontaneous connections made through the exercise. I don't know about laws of attraction or manifesting anything tangible into my life, but I do know that a vision board placed where I can see it daily encourages me. My vision board may not guarantee success, but it always brings a smile to my face.

 

 

Knot Beauty

 
 

Sitting at my studio table in winter sunshine, frustrated with my lack of direction. Though I have hundreds of photos from my time in SoCal, and tens of thousands more from my years of following the light wherever it will take me, I don't know what direction to move in now. Nothing is clamoring for my attention; nothing needs to be delivered. Every creative person feels this, I remind myself, it's just part of the process. But those deeply ingrained voices see this as an opportunity to chime in with their opinions. Maybe I shouldn't be thinking of images at all. Maybe this is the time I should be revising my novel. What about all the cleaning-up and organizing I've been putting off? I begin to feel overwhelmed. A binding project sits unfinished in front of me, and I pick it up out of desperation. It's a simple saddle-stiched book I started for a class—the holes are punched and the needle is threaded. All I have to do is fill in the blanks. It doesn't matter where I start. My hand pulls the needle through the paper, and suddenly I'm mesmerized by the shadows cast by the curling thread. Before I know it my camera is back in action. Here is unexpected beauty, right in front of my nose. The solution to my lack of direction is obvious—just fill in the blanks. It doesn't matter where I start.

 

 

Influences

 
 

Since speaking recently with a young friend who is embarking on the study of art and photography, I’ve been pondering questions of inspiration and influence. What drives someone to undertake the risky path of a creative life, and what sustains them on the journey? I call it creative “life” rather than “career,” though one hopes to pursue one’s work in a way that earns income. No matter what it takes to support the creative habit—or what form that habit takes—the real challenge is staying true to one’s own vision. We each have a unique way of seeing and expressing that sets us apart from everyone else. When we start out, the work is about discovering what is there but also finding what is “ours”—we have a sense of it, but it isn’t developed.  It’s important to be open to the work of past masters—photographers, painters, and other artists—and to latch on to the work that inspires us. 

When studying photography in Rochester, NY, I was fortunate to do research at the George Eastman House (now the International Museum of Photography) when it was still easy to make an appointment and handle the original prints of the “greats.” I also worked for a photo gallery and bookstore, which gave me many opportunities to see contemporary work and even meet the virtuosos of the era. In LA last month, I was able to revisit the work of one of my biggest influences, the photographer Paul Caponigro, whom I met briefly in that bookstore. His landscapes of Britain and Ireland were on display at the Huntington Library and Botanical Gardens in Pasadena. I spent a dreamy day photographing among the world-renowned desert plants in startling sunshine, while taking breaks to view Caponigro’s mystical black and white landscapes. His early influences were Ansel Adams and Edward Weston, but he went on to study with Minor White, who introduced ideas of consciousness and spirit into his photographs. Caponigro’s prints are exquisite, incorporating deep shadows and subtle gradations of tone that one rarely finds now. The views are quiet yet breathtaking, expressing a spiritual connection to nature. "At the root of creativity,” he has stated, “is an impulse to understand, to make sense of random and often unrelated details. For me, photography provides an intersection of time, space, light, and emotional stance. One needs to be still enough, observant enough, and aware enough to recognize the life of the materials, to be able to 'hear through the eyes’." This is such good advice for a young photographer, even in this time of technical miracles. I know my own work owes much to his vision, though I’ve moved beyond the brown-black shadows of my early prints into landscapes rich with color.