Reminders

 
 

After a week of rainy, windy weather (and the threat of a serious hurricane that thankfully turned east instead of west), I took a walk through the garden to see what was left. Not much! I can no longer put off the autumn cleanup. I did discover a few hardy stragglers, though, and was glad to collect a small bouquet of pink roses, white anemone, and purple beautyberry—just enough to bring some cheer into the house. It really doesn’t take much to create a spot of beauty, and it serves well to divert my attention from the inevitable hassles of the day-to-day (a coughing virus, a dispute with the insurance company, a pair of misplaced glasses). I am constantly putting lovely distractions in my path—delicate shells in the bathroom, garden flowers above the kitchen sink, pictures of my laughing grandsons on the refrigerator. These remind me that there is more in the world than my worries and help me cultivate those all-important feelings of gratitude and ease.

 

Unexpected

 
 

I live in an area of the country where Magnolia grandiflora thrives. These glossy-leaved evergreen trees are native to the southeastern states, though they are such striking ornamentals that they are now found everywhere (including Southern California). Though I don’t happen to have one in my own yard, there are a dozen handsome specimens within the near neighborhood. Their bowl-sized white flowers, with a delectable scent of citrus and vanilla, have inspired me for a long time, and for more than a year I’ve been working on a studio series of large magnolia blossom “portraits.” Since I’ve observed the trees through the seasons for years (decades, actually), I thought I knew all there was to know, so how is it that I never noticed the stunning autumn seedpods? As I ducked around a trash can on my walk back from my yoga studio, this one practically struck me in the forehead. It’s not quite a flash of insight, but it does remind me how often I walk inside my head instead of on the sidewalk. The pods are usually found high up in the branches, so I might easily miss them, but I’m grateful for the reminder to keep my eyes open and look up. Now I will do some research to see if I can get the seeds to germinate next spring. I wouldn’t mind having a magnolia outside my window so I don’t miss a thing.

 

Concentration

 
 

Sometimes when I’m photographing, I get lost. Not lost in space—I usually know where I am—but lost in time. I’m perfectly present, and perfectly in the present, without any sense of anything but what I’m seeing. You could say it’s a form of concentration similar to meditation (though I find it so much easier!).  I focus deeply on the light and form of my subject and tune out everything else. This usually occurs when I’m in a peaceful, natural setting looking through the viewfinder of my Nikon, but it happened last week when I was downtown capturing cityscapes with my iPhone. I saw a bush of white Rose of Sharon blossoms backlit by the late afternoon sun. The effect was dramatic and lent itself nicely to some experimentation with black and white. I started shooting a few feet away, being careful to avoid the sidewalk traffic near the National Gallery. As I moved closer, I caught one particular flower tilted at an angle, and like the bumble bee frenziedly coating itself with pollen, I was drawn closer and closer to the center. I captured twenty different views before raising my head and remembering where I was. When I downloaded the images, I discovered a little drama was taking place behind the flower. The photos reveal a praying mantis moving around in the background, casting an ominous shadow through the flower until its head suddenly pops up to peek over the edge of a petal. I had to laugh. While I concentrated on the light coming through the petals and the activity of the bee, the mantis was concentrating on me!

Reframing

 
 

I was recently invited to review and comment on student photographs for an NYU journalism class, “Reporting Multimedia,” taught by Phil Rosenbaum. For the first hands-on assignment, students were given a disposable black and white Ilford camera and instructed to report on some aspect of life in New York City. The intention was to get them to explore photography as it used to be when there was no instant feedback on an image (and you had to rely on your eye and the camera viewfinder to find and frame your composition). I was sent one image from each student and asked to give feedback, guidance, and inspiration. I wondered how constructive I could be not having met any of the students, but once their photos started trickling in, I got very excited about the project. It was interesting to see how differently each student interpreted the assignment, but I was particularly struck by the unique way of seeing that was conveyed by each photo. In my comments to the class, I spoke about the formal qualities of the image—frame, point of focus, highlight/shadow (tonal range), and depth of field—and the feeling qualities—space, time, memory, atmosphere, movement, and light. Black and white images are especially powerful in our color-drenched digital world because they signal a step back from reality, but how does a photo communicate effectively? I mentioned light and dark, foreground and background, horizontal and diagonal lines, and placement of the figures as ways of directing the viewer’s gaze, but the one element I kept returning to was the framing. The edge or frame of the image—what stays in and what gets cropped out—sets the stage for everything that is contained within, “making sense of random and often unrelated details,” as photographer Paul Caponigro put it. The only way to learn what works is to keep photographing and analyzing your images (it also helps to look at the work of master photographers!). I was so inspired by the students’ work that I spent a sunny afternoon walking on the Mall with my iPhone on its black and white setting, doing a little reframing of my own. 

 

Bean Dreams

 
 

It seemed like a good idea at the time. The climbing roses on the only sunny side of the house take up a lot of real estate. They stop blooming in June so why not make use of the space? I decided to plant climbing beans underneath and let them use the rose canes for support. Kentucky Wonder and Scarlet Runner are both disease resistant and productive, and I thought the white and bright red blossoms would add some interest to the experiment. I forgot how vigorous climbing beans can get. Though I only planted a dozen seeds, they took off and started covering the  side of the house. Now the beans are popping up everywhere, but it's hard to find them under all those big heart-shaped leaves. It's no fun digging around for beans among the thorny canes, either! The poor roses have suffered by having their leaves hidden away under the bean canopy, and though its time for their September bloom, only a few anemic blossoms are evident. The beans are delicious, but I'm going to have to make it up to my roses somehow.

Wonder

 
 

My two grandsons keep me alert and alive (there is no better incentive for staying in shape). Every minute with them is a chance to reconnect with the excitement of discovery and the enjoyment of everyday life. Whether it's the three year old molding animals out of modeling beeswax or the ten month old pulling all the dishtowels out of the bottom kitchen drawer, each moment is an experiment. On their recent trip to our house, we visited the Smithsonian Natural History Museum, and I got to share their amazement. What an interesting world we live in, full of insects and fish and mammals and minerals. We visited the dinosaur bones (of course!), and spent a delightful half hour in the butterfly pavilion being swooped upon by large Blue Morphos. In the ocean hall, both boys stood transfixed in front of the coral reef. The baby stayed quite still, watching the colorful fish swoop and curl in front of him. They seemed as interested to observe him as he did them. Watching him watch them, I could share his sense of wonder. As adults we tend to forget how beautiful life is, whether its a blue butterfly, or a blue fish, or a curious blond baby in a blue shirt.

Turning

 
 

Despite the dog days of August, those hot, muggy days associated since ancient times with the rising of the dog star Sirius, signs of summer’s exit surround me. Exhausted cardinals are at the end of their breeding season—the harried male shows up at the bird bath with tattered feathers and bald patches on his head. My seven-foot tomato tower is yellowing. The Japanese anemones are opening, last in the perennial blooming sequence. Cicadas and crickets are singing desperately on a deadline. Starlings and grackles are starting to gather in the bamboo. And the light is turning. I take the long summer daylight for granted, so it comes as a shock to open the blinds in the morning and notice the shifting angle of the sun’s rays. I haven’t accomplished nearly as much as I planned—all those projects for home improvement and self-improvement that we traditionally assign ourselves for the quieter summer months (though I did finish the 800+ pages of Eleanor Catton's brilliant The Luminaries). Now I'd better hurry up before the rentrée, the "re-entering"  as the French call it, when we are supposed to resume our busy lives with work and school. This is always a significant time for me, as my birthday at the end of the month marks the turning of another year. I didn't expect it to get here so fast.

Figgy

 
 

It’s that figgy time of year, when the bushes are supposed to be drooping with fruit, and I’m supposed to be fighting the birds for as many figs as I can eat. Only for the second year in a row, it’s not. Two consecutive bad winters have wiped out my fig bushes and those of my friends. The local bushes are mostly brown figs (also called turkey figs), a cold-hearty variety that has done very well in my garden until recently. Consistent below freezing temperatures kill the plants, forcing them to come back each year from the roots. Though they leaf out enthusiastically in spring, the growing season just isn’t long enough to form and ripen an abundance of fruit. So what’s a fig lover to do? I need figs to prepare my annual August Fig Feast: fig, walnut, arugula salad with fig balsamic vinaigrette; pizza with figs, bacon, rosemary, and goat cheese; and fig and almond cake with fig honey port sauce. There are times when exceptions have to be made to buying only local produce. Thank goodness I can still get California figs!

 

August Meadows

 
 

I don't usually do much hiking in August, as I don't like to mix intense exercise with the heat and high humidity that are endemic to our region. But a cool day last week allowed me to get into the woods again. With my husband and a stalwart friend, I headed out to Sky Meadows State Park on a misty morning. Only an hour away from DC, this is a Virginia park that preserves a portion of the piedmont, an area of rolling hills east of the Blue Ridge Mountains. On a five-mile meander, we started in fields and climbed along a ridge through diverse woods to overlooks with breathtaking views. The trails, steep at times, were beautifully maintained. The last part of the circuit brought us to a high meadow filled to brimming with Queen Anne’s lace punctuated with tall stalks of magenta ironweed and thistles. The butterflies were so plentiful we had to duck as they darted across our path. The last part of the hike was downhill, so we could enjoy the big sky as well as the big meadow. In all my years here I've always driven through this countryside, bypassing it for the better-known trails of the Shenandoah National Park. I’m glad I finally stopped!

Weather

 
 

July in Virginia has been wetter and cooler than usual. This is not a problem if you’re a city gardener, glad to save on the water bill, but it’s worrisome if you are growing grapes for wine. The vines become too vigorous, needing constant, careful pruning to encourage the grapes to develop. Once the bunches are well established, they need heat and sun to concentrates their sugars. A lot depends on August sunshine. I’m thinking of this as we spend a gentle afternoon at Linden Vineyards, our favorite Virginia winery. Snuggled under the Shenandoah mountains, the well-tended vines create sinuous rows along the hillsides. From the deck overlooking the vineyards, it’s obvious that this is agriculture, not entertainment, and a lot of attention and plain hard work goes into growing grapes for wine. Owner and vintner Jim Law has been making fine wines in the European style for many years, but he can’t predict from year to year how his vintages will turn out. He likes to say that climate is what you plan for, but weather is what you get. He has learned to trust his instincts when it comes to caring for the vines and planning his wines. Mellowed by sipping a refreshing rosé, it seems this is a good guideline for dealing with the capricious weather of life.

 

Simplicity

 
 

On my way back from a meeting downtown, I stopped on the Mall and ducked into the Smithsonian’s Freer Gallery to refresh body and spirit. My favorite among the amazing variety of DC museums, the Freer is rarely crowded and there is always something to inspire, whether it's ancient Buddhist and Hindu sculptures or the potent paintings of James McNeil Whistler. I wandered into a new exhibit based on the work of a group of artists working in 17th-century Japan—Bold and Beautiful: Rinpa in Japanese Art. Among the stunning screens and scrolls was a small gallery of tea ware in which a wall-sized case held only one object, a black Raku tea bowl named Minogame (Mossy-tailed tortoise). It was made by Hon’ami Kōetsu (1558–1637), a renowned Kyoto craftsman, calligrapher, and book designer. In addition to works on paper that include screens and fans, he worked in lacquerware, bamboo, metal, and clay. His tea bowls—only a handful of authenticated examples have survived—are considered treasures, and only two are known to be outside of Japan. Charles Lang Freer, whose collections form the foundation of the Smithsonian’s Asian art, acquired one of these in 1899. I’ve been familiar with Kōetsu's work since seeing a retrospective at the Philadelphia Museum in 2000. His graphic works and calligraphy have the same bold and breathtaking simplicity. Staring at this plain bronze-glazed bowl—large, useful, spare, obviously carved by hand—I wonder at its straightforward beauty. This bowl is so authentically itself, and I long to reach through the glass and hold it, letting my hands warm the cool ceramic. I’m reminded of a quote I read in Orhun Pamuk’s The Innocence of Objects (which he attributed to 16th-century Istanbul painter Veli Can): “Beauty is the eye discovering what the mind already knows.”

 

Foraging

 
 

Walking to the Metro the other morning, I stopped to examine a tree I pass on the way. Sure enough, the flower bracts were ready for picking. I quickly stuffed a few handfuls in my bag, determined to come back for more later. I didn’t want to miss the chance to stock up on my favorite herbal tea, tilleul (or linden). Little leaf linden trees (Tilia cordata), the European species of linden, are commonly planted along city streets. Their uniform heart-shaped leaves form dense canopies that are both attractive and shady.  The flowers appear in June and July, and their honey fragrance is always a delight (bees love them). When dried, they make a pleasing, mild tea that has a calming effect. Perhaps it looks a little strange to be picking my own tea on a residential street (or in front of the library), but I’m not the only forager in an urban environment. There are a number of websites devoted to rediscovering forgotten edibles—plants, mushrooms, and even bugs (my favorite so far is Eat the Planet).  I have no intention of hunting grasshoppers, but I’ve been known to collect the sweet, purplish fruit off the neighborhood service berry trees (Amelanchier) when they ripen at the end of June. Why should the birds get all those tasty berries? 

 

Profusion Confusion

 
 

There is a hydrangea in my garden that refuses to make up its mind. The color of hydrangea blossoms is determined by the pH of the soil—bushes planted in acid soil produce blue flowers, and those planted in alkaline soil produce pink ones. Gardeners have been known to play around with soil acidity to change hydrangea colors, going so far as pouring pickle juice around a bush to develop the blue (not recommended!). I have a dozen varieties—at the front of the house they are blue; at the back of the house they are pink; and the white ones stay white no matter where I plant them. The exception is this new variety (“Endless Summer”), which produces an abundance of flowers from June through September. It’s supposed to adhere to the basic hydrangea color rule, but mine doesn’t. Pure pink blossoms grow next to sky blue blossoms, with varying hues of purple in between (and some with a hint of blue-green). There are individual blossoms that display the entire gamut of colors. Maybe it has something to do with my compost, which reflects the range of fruits and vegetables we eat (mixed with carbon matter contributed by a constant supply of bamboo leaves on my front stairs). Whatever the cause, the outcome is delightful. I don't mind the confusion; I like to be surprised!

 

Fireworks

 
 

It goes without saying that the 4th of July is a huge celebration in the Nation’s Capital. Crowd preparations begin early—by June all the temporary fences are up along many roadways and around monuments to prevent the crush of viewers from stalling traffic during the fireworks. The Mall is packed; the Metro is mobbed; and our favorite viewing spot at the Iwo Jima Memorial fills up hours before the event. We have often hiked there from our house, but this year the weather was not cooperating. Torrential downpours during the day made us wonder if the fireworks would happen at all, so we planned to stay home. Rain stopped after dinner, and since we’d stayed indoors all day, a long walk around the neighborhood seemed like a good idea. I was disappointed we weren't going to witness the spectacular fireworks until I turned into an unfamiliar street and discovered a tree full of colorful bursts of bloom. It didn’t take too much imagination to see their resemblance to the starburst explosions that thrill the crowds, and these were much easier to photograph. A bit of research revealed that the flowers belong to the Persian silk tree (Albizia julibrissin), although there is some confusion surrounding its name. Anyone growing up in the U.S. South would probably claim it is a mimosa.  Its a small ornamental tree grown for its foliage as well as its flowers. Whatever its true name, from now on I will refer to it as the “fireworks tree.” 

 

ISTE

 
 

After my time in the quiet north woods, it was quite a shock to find myself in the packed Philadelphia Convention Center this week. I attended the 2015 ISTE Conference (International Society for Technology in Education) as a member of a presenting team from Long Branch Elementary School, where I’ve been helping ELL students (English Language Learners) tell their stories. The school’s proposal, “Immigrant Students Build Literacy Skills Through Technology,” had been selected for a poster exhibit, and we had three hours to explain our methods to the crowd of teachers stopping at our table. Though video and science projects are part of the Long Branch Literacy initiatives, my contribution has been to help third, fourth, and fifth graders create story books about their families. What have books got to do with technology? I’ve been working with the form as an artist, writer, binder, and teacher for a long time, and I’m pleased to report that books continue to be useful and attractive (as well as being portable and easy to read without a costly device)! I still guide the students through a process that includes interviewing a parent or grandparent, organizing their responses into sentences, arranging their sentences into the most effective narrative, and storyboarding their ideas for illustrations, but now everything is put together on an iPad. Using an app for creating photo books (we’ve been using Shutterfly for the classroom), the students are able to create easy layouts, type in their stories, draw their illustrations, photograph artifacts, import photos, and include an author page (I take their photos). When they are finished, the stories are sent off digitally to be turned into handsome paperback books. The resulting stories are heartfelt and often funny, and when the students hold their “published” books, their thrill and pride are obvious. Judging by the number of ELL teachers eager to learn about the family story books, I’d say books go hand-in-hand with technology in the classroom. 

 

 

 

Meadow Flowers

 
 

It has been very wet in Northern Vermont this June. The week before we arrived it rained eight inches! As a result the meadows that surround the lake are saturated, and the pastures can't be mowed without tearing up the muddy ground (and bogging down the tractors on the hillsides). From the standpoint of the farmers this is a dilemma, because the uncut hay loses its nutritional punch once the grass buds begin to open and form seedheads. From the standpoint of an observer with a camera, the meadows are more beautiful than I have ever seen them. The wild flowers that dot the meadows are blooming abundantly, and the afternoon breezes create waves of floating color—yellow, pink, purple, orange—against the green of grasses. I am getting to photograph varieties that I've never seen before. As I search for the flowers in my little reference book (Kate Carter’s Wildflowers of Vermont), I’m struck by the evocative common names they go by—bladder campion, buttercup, orange and yellow hawkweed, mayweed, cinquefoil, golden Alexanders, forget-me-nots, mouse-ear, purple vetch, common fleabane, red and white clover, and my favorite, ragged robin. What I need is a book that will tell me the story of each flower's name! Like the farmers, I could also use a lot more sunshine, but in my case I want it for photographing the meadows before they are cut.

Flitting

 
 

After last week’s heat and humidity in the DC area (code orange!), we are glad to escape to Northern Vermont for our annual retreat to cool lake and lush mountains. Summer is barely creeping over the countryside, and we joke that the ice has just melted on the lake (the water is so frigid that I wear a wetsuit to swim in it). As the sun climbs out from behind the clouds and the afternoon warms up, my favorite pastime is to grab my camera and go in pursuit of butterflies. The Eastern swallowtails have emerged here recently, and it doesn’t take long to locate them. Butterflies seem so carefree as they follow their erratic path in pursuit of wildflowers, though of course it’s their survival they are pursuing. Still, the combination of their startling beauty and their zigzagging track through the meadow never fails to raise my spirits. They flit, and I flit with them, following my curiosity and trying to capture their rare static moments. If I am lucky I take home an image like this one of a slightly battered butterfly sipping on orange hawkweed. And I get to leave my city cares behind for a while.

 

What about White?

 
 

Having made such a point last week about my love for intense color, it is ironic that “Limelight,” the principal edition I’ve worked on since last summer, features white flowers. In the visible spectrum of light, white is the mixture of all the wavelengths (white light passing through a prism divides into the rainbow). In the garden, white flowers are the antidote to color, providing my eyes with a place to pause and my spirit a chance to refresh. There’s still a surprising amount of color in a white flower, though. In the “Limelight” series, I photographed each flower in my studio, searching for hints of hue hidden in the white—yellow on a lily petal, lavender stamens on a gladiola, a blush of pink on the edges of a lace cap hydrangea. The green of stems and leaves—ranging from light yellow-green to dark blue-green—accentuated the garden freshness of the white. I used a vertical format to accentuate the length and shape of each stem. Photographed against a chocolate-black background, each flower stands out like an ingenue in the spotlight. 

When our excellent dentist, Dr. Jansen Woo, built his new office last year, he chose to decorate it with prints from the “Limelight” series. While providing strong focal points to his walls, the white flowers convey health, integrity, and a sense of calm. 

Craving Color

 
 

When people talk about their cravings, they’re usually referring to something they want to eat or drink. I readily admit dark chocolate fits that role in my life. But “crave,” which combines desire with demand (in fact its origin, from the Old English “cravian” means to claim as a right) is the word I use to describe my pursuit of color in my work—I crave color! It can be subtle (the soft hint of green on the petal of a white gladiola) or dramatic (the contrast of an orange tulip on a purple background), but color is what motivates me to pick up my camera and it guides my eye as I produce my prints. In my Local Color edition, I played with the colors of flowers and fruit to show how our perceptions change when colors are presented in different combinations. And when I photograph in my studio, I shift the background colors until I find just the right combination that expresses the essence of my subject. In my haphazard garden, the colors are generally subdued, so a little color drama stands out. This mix of purple Persian shield and cherry red petunias in a turquoise planter is just the thing to satisfy my craving—this week!

Ada's Vase

 
 

When the irises come into bloom, Ada's vase comes out of the closet. One of my most precious family heirlooms, this tall vase of opaque glass was hand painted and enameled by my great great grandmother. Born in England in 1831, Ada was the daughter of a sea captain whose voyages took him to India, Australia, and China. She was an adventurer herself, traveling back and forth to the Continent, first with her husband, and occasionally alone with her maid. When cleaning out my mother's house, I found her 1858 passport, a huge sheet of paper signed by the Earl of Malmsbury, Queen Victoria's Principal Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. On the back, a jumble of stamps and signatures attest to her travels into France, Belgium, and Switzerland. Her sketchbook always traveled with her, and the ink drawings and pastels that survive attest to her considerable talent. Her life was not an easy one. From the bits of correspondence that remain, it seems her husband was disowned by his wealthy merchant father, and they settled in Switzerland. Their first daughter died, and when their second was still young, her husband's death left Ada a widow. When her daughter married and moved to Paris, Ada followed, living nearby to become "Granny" to the little girl who would eventually become my mother's mother, Carmencita. Ada's life story has many twists and tragedies, but she remained feisty and independent throughout her long life, dying in 1917. Like many artists (including this descendant) she was always developing strategies to earn money. Apparently, the iris vase was a prototype. I'm grateful it never sold, so I can continue to honor her by displaying my irises in her beautiful vase.