Prep

 
 

It's exciting to plan and prepare for a show, and it's terrifying! But there's so much to do, it keeps my mind off the unanswerable questions that are common to any creative person: Will they like it? WiIl it sell? I've been developing new work and printing and framing older work for a show that will open next week. For now I must "live the list" and finish framing, coating, mounting, updating the database, updating the website, composing my mailing, and writing promotional material—yikes! Stay tuned. As soon as the show is up next week, I'll share the specifics.

Random

 
 

Cleaning up outside after this week's mess of snow, ice, and rain, I was struck by the odd patterns and textures left behind on streets, sidewalks, and lawns. In one corner of our yard, I discovered tracks made by a small rodent in the rain-soaked snow, and the designs were worthy of a painter's canvas. Naturally I got out my camera to preserve the random marks of this post-modern mouse. 

Funny Valentine

 
 

I've always felt ambivalent about Valentine's Day. It's so obviously commercial—Buy candy! Buy flowers! I don't want my loved ones to feel they have to comply with a Hallmark holiday. At the same time I enjoy getting chocolate and flowers. And I enjoy giving them, too. So I simply view the date as one more opportunity to express my affection and gratitude to those I love. Brought up on the Catholic legend of St. Valentine, I was curious to know if the martyred saint is still given credit for the origin of the day. I enjoyed reading this alternate version on the NPR website:  Dark Origins of Valentine's Day

 

 

 

Flipped

 
 

Every February we travel north to escape the monotonous Virginia weather and experience a week of real winter in Vermont. We particularly love to cross-country ski, and groomed trails through snowy woods abound here. Only this year, our expectations have been flipped. We left behind two feet of white powder in our Arlington driveway and arrived to fields of patchy snow in Stowe. Last week we were creating our own ski trails on the nearby schoolyard, but this week we've had only one ski outing on treacherous, icy paths. The weather has been mild enough to spend time playing outside with our young grandsons, but we've had to hunt for a sledding hill and we haven't found enough snow to build a snowman. Last year the temperature hovered around -20 degrees for several days. This year the temperature is up around 50. That's a 70-degree difference! In all our years coming here, we've never experienced such a dramatic fluctuation of temperature from one visit to the next. I don't know what this says about climate change, but it sure makes it hard to pack. It's still beautiful here, and we've been able to take hikes on mountain trails we would normally not have access to in winter. The shape and texture of the bare trees are visible like never before, and rocks jut up through the thin snow creating interesting patterns on the hillsides. At least I can use my camera—last year it was so cold the lens froze!

Blue Shadows

 
 

How can I not comment on the weekend's snowstorm—Snowzilla, the third biggest snowfall ever recorded in the Washington, DC area. We were certainly well prepared for it.  Do I exaggerate when I say that it generated more observation and opinion before it even happened than any storm to date? All the latest technology was used to track it. The grocery stores were emptied days before. There was so much attention put on the exact moment the first flakes were going to fall, that a slight snowfall two nights earlier was completely ignored (and it was responsible for hundreds of car accidents as rush hour commuters hit the icy streets). I've lived in this Virginia suburb for a long time, but I've never gotten used to the panic that snow causes in its residents. Maybe its because I lived through winters in Massachusetts, Vermont, and Upstate New York before I moved here. I agree its no fun to dig out of it (and living on a dead end hill that rarely sees a snowplow, I know what I'm talking about). But the benefit of a big snowfall no matter where you live is it gives you permission to stop and rest for a while. As long as the power stays on and there are no other life-threatening circumstances to consider, snowfall is one of the wonders of nature. Airports and highways are closed and suddenly there is silence—a rare occurrence almost impossible to find anywhere in the world. The landscape alters dramatically, and all that is manmade is suddenly softer and cleaner—cars and compressors, trash cans and telephone poles vanish or change shape under drifts of white. As this snow ended, the full moon broke through the clouds, lighting the white hills of rooftops. And once the sun came out, blue shadows scooted across the smooth surface of snow. It's worth the inconvenience for a few days of quiet and alien beauty.

& More

 
 

When our son and his family stayed with us over the holidays, I would take our two grandsons down to breakfast (early!) to give their parents much-needed extra sleep. The one year old loves to eat, and he especially enjoys fresh berries. Watching him relish the tasty Christmas strawberries reminded me of this poem I wrote when his older brother was the same age. I was just getting ready to launch my blog then, and this poem (and my grandson) served as the inspiration for its title. Time to post it on the blog, too.

 

Like a child

with berry-stained chin,

I raise my empty bowl

and shout to have it filled.

More!

 

Appetite

stirs my hungry heart.

I rush to cram it full

of rich variety.

More!

 

Let me taste,

listen, sense and see:

sweet-sour, warm-cool, light-dark,

ripe berries, everything,

& More.

—ACF

Commuters

 
 

The bamboo surrounding our property is at the tail end of a narrow swath of forest that separates the neighborhood from a highway. It's a rich habitat for all kinds of wildlife—foxes, raccoons, possums, an occasional coyote, any number of small rodents, and a variety of birds. Every year starting in September, however, we get more birds than we like. Bamboo makes wonderful shelter for flocks looking for protection from wind and cold. It has evergreen leaves and thousands of comfortable little branches where starlings, grackles, and various hangers-on like robins can easily find a cozy bunk for the night. It gets a little crazy at twilight, with squadrons of birds forming in the sky above the house, diving into the bamboo, and fighting for the best perch. There's quite a bit of squeaking and fluttering (and in the case of starlings, whistling), and if there's a hawk present (this year we have a very focused Cooper's hawk), the panic is widespread. There have been many occasions when a friend or delivery person has been afraid to leave their car because they can't figure out what's moving around in the bushes. "Do you have bats?" is a frequently asked question by any new UPS driver. This year's bizarre weather seems to have changed the over-wintering patterns, though. The starlings and grackles have moved away, leaving only a small flock of robins that roosts just near our front door. We call them our commuter robins as they come in at dusk, and leave as soon as the sun comes up. With their clucking and rustling, they alert us to any person or any critter that moves around at night. And they're so much more polite than the starlings, leaving their droppings in the yard and not on our cars. Very neighborly!

Bright

 
 

After our strange tropical Christmas (wearing shorts to open presents?), I am rejoicing at the arrival of normal winter weather. It wouldn’t be January without freezing winds and bright sunshine. I also associate the beginning of the year with the blooming of paperwhites (narcisissus papyraceus). These delicate white flowers belong to the daffodil family, and the easy-to-grow bulbs are sold everywhere during the month of December. I usually pick up a few to get started in my studio so they’ll be ready to shine in the winter sun. January is my pull-in month, when I work on my ideas for new work and begin new projects. Breakfast in my studio with cheerful paperwhites helps set me up for the day. They won’t last more than a few weeks, but then the begonias will start blooming, followed by the showy orange clivias. I depend on my indoor garden to get me through the winter! 

 

Inward

 
 

This is the time of year when I feel like I’m suffering from multiple personality disorder. There is the lively, outgoing me who wants to be part of the holiday cheer—visiting friends, going to concerts, buying gifts, baking for neighbors, and preparing for the family visit. But there is also the deeper, more essential me, who needs to pull in and be quiet in response to the growing darkness. After all, we are coming up on the winter solstice (though the record-breaking warmth of the last week may confuse us into thinking otherwise). The word “solstice” means “sun stands still,” and these shorter days are calling us to do the same. So what is a member of the human race supposed to do when drawn in two directions? A little of both. I find a twilight walk in the woods is the perfect antidote to packed days and holiday demands. I also remind myself that, as soon as the holidays are over, I’ll be able to follow my inward path and rest. I’ll need it!

 

The Presence of Absence

 
 

After living in Washington for decades, I’ve discovered that the very best time to visit the museums is the day before Thanksgiving. Residents are traveling, or else they’re at home cooking, and few visitors flock to DC for this holiday. So I waited until last Wednesday to view the work of Tawaraya Sōtatsu at the Freer/Sackler Museum of Asian Art and was almost alone wandering the dark galleries. The exhibition, Sōtatsu: Making Waves, features some of the most important pieces by this relatively unknown but hugely influential Japanese painter of the late 16th and early 17th century. Though there were many pieces on paper (scrolls, poem cards, fans), the most remarkable were his large screens. I was struck by how spare the imagery is, yet it has so much impact. The paintings are restrained and disciplined, the iconography precise, but the emotional power is intense. This is something I’ve been thinking about in my own work—how to elicit feeling and memory without being obvious. I’ve discovered that the power of an image, whether a painting or a photograph, has a lot to do with what is left out. I call this the “presence of absence.” It’s a tricky component, but it’s as important as framing, composition, and lighting. As a photographer, leaving things out is particularly challenging, since the assumption of using a camera is that you are capturing “reality.” But I work with my prints to shape the reality, isolating elements and emphasizing color, shadow, or line. I also look for subjects that inspire me, like the imprint of these leaves on a sidewalk that evokes the passing of time. 

 

Grace

 
 

What is grace? I first started pondering this question when I went to the celebration of Twyla Tharp’s 50th anniversary in dance at the Kennedy Center a couple of weeks ago. Her dancers were so lithe, so free, so joyful, so graceful that I was lifted right out of myself. I found myself puzzling about the many meanings of the word “grace” and trying to figure out what they all had in common. Soon afterwards the main page of my library’s website was featuring dance critic Sarah Kaufman’s The Art of Grace: On Moving Well through Life, and I thought, “Aha, somebody’s done this work.” I put my name on the hold list, but at number 36 it may be a while. So I continued my investigation. Grace can mean many things—elegance, poise, agility, social courtesy, charm, favor, a reprieve, a prayer before meals, a blessing, divine assistance, a moment of transcendence—all of which encompass a sense of relief and ease. Still, how do you recognize it in your life? I’m always looking for ways to divert my mind from its stubborn need to perceive only the negatives (there are so many). Then last night my husband came running in from the twilit backyard to announce that the full moon was rising through the clouds. I bundled up and followed him to the precise spot he had picked to observe the event. There was the bright, round moon floating effortlessly above the bamboo to begin its ascent over our roof. “Isn’t it great?” he started to say, but it came out, “Isn’t it grace?” Yes. I might not be able to define it, but I had just received it. A gift. 

 

Paris Tristesse

 
 

November is my favorite month to visit Paris. An odd choice, perhaps, but I find the city more essentially French in November than in any other month. It’s cold, but not quite as cold as it will be when winter sets in. The northern sky changes constantly, so photographing this too-memorable city becomes more interesting. Most of the tourists have gone home, and Parisians reclaim their neighborhood bars and restaurants with relief, as if everyone is exhaling one of those expressive Gallic sighs. My husband and I have spent several lovely Thanksgivings there (once with our son and soon-to-be daughter-in-law), escaping into our favorite (uncrowded) museums and relaxing afterwards over delicious meals in unassuming bistros. So it is all the more chilling to try to assimilate the horrific terrorist attacks in Paris last weekend. I’m still contacting friends, hoping that none of them was affected. But everyone in Paris was affected, and no one who loves Paris can remain untouched by this tragedy. As a close French friend said, "The atmosphere in Paris is full of sadness…"

 

Jam Love

 
 

Returning from a visit to our son and his family in their new Connecticut home, I carry a prize in my suitcase—a jar of my daughter-in-law’s incomparable homemade jam. After years in Southern California, where the climate provided an endless supply of fresh fruit and produce, it’s a big adjustment for her to move to New England. So with her two toddler sons in tow, she’s been exploring the autumn harvests of the region, looking for local fruits to jam and can. The family has already gone apple picking, an activity that tired the boys and provided lots of apples for homemade applesauce and pies. She transformed local pears into a jam flavored with cardamon—an unusual combination that enhanced the essential “pearness” of the fruit. As the stores stock up for Thanksgiving, her attention has turned to cranberries, and she’s been experimenting with variations on cranberry jam. Coming from a French family, I never developed a taste for traditional canned cranberry sauce—it tasted of too much sugar and acid with no subtlety at all. As an adult, I learned to make a decent cranberry-orange sauce to satisfy the turkey dinner requirement, but I wouldn’t list cranberries among my favorite foods or connect them with buttered toast in the morning. Sampling her first batch of cranberry jam was a revelation. It was so unlike any cranberry I’ve ever tasted that, if I had been blindfolded, I would not have known what fruit I was tasting. It was subtly sweet with a slight acid bite and a rich, dark berry flavor enhanced by the compliment of star anise. The color was not red but deep, dark purple. I was smitten. Now, as I get back into my morning routine, I just can’t resist opening my precious jar. I’m so grateful my daughter-in-law is willing to share her jam!

I should add that under her pseudonym, Libby Waterford, she creates witty and sexy romance novels. She continues to write and publish, despite the energy it takes to raise two lively boys and make luscious jam. I really don’t know how she does it!

 

Beautiful Day

 
 

It’s never been clear to me when Indian summer is supposed to occur, but I’m sure it’s not November. Yet here we are in a stretch of balmy, crystal days with blue skies the perfect compliment to the yellow leaves. Walking to our polling place this morning, I could only marvel at the brightness of the sun, the freshness of the air, and the intense colors of the autumn foliage. A perfect day to simply be present and breathe deeply.

Nature Morte

 
 

More than half of my print editions are devoted to still life images of flowers and fruit, fitting into and drawing inspiration from a long artistic tradition. The term still life comes from the Dutch word stilleven, and the Flemish and Dutch painters of the 16th and 17th centuries were largely responsible for establishing the genre. At that time, there was such a craze for still life paintings that specific sub genres earned their own names—pronkstilleven (ostentatious still life), ontbijt (breakfast still life), and vanitas (still life containing skulls, extinguished candles, and other symbols of mortality). I’ve always been troubled by the French term for these paintings, nature morte, which translates as dead nature. The combinations of flowers of fruits (and even butterflies and bees) traditionally depicted in these works has always seemed to sing of life. But I’ve been wondering lately what dead nature might look like as a beautiful still life, so I’ve started working on a new series entitled Nature Morte. There have always been still life images that include dead rabbits, birds, and fish as part of a bountiful meal, but I wanted to concentrate on my own garden flowers and plants. What better time of year to introduce the first of these than the week of Halloween, Day of the Dead, and All Souls, when the transitory nature of life is on our minds? 

 

Cloudy with a Chance of Discovery

 
 

The unsettled weather of October comes with interesting skies, from the dark, roiling cloud masses of tropical storms to the striking high altitude cirrus clouds of a crisp, sunny day. Cloud watching is addictive, and you don’t have to be a photographer to appreciate the variety and beauty of cloudy skies. A few months ago, I discovered a wonderful TED talk by British author Gavin Pretor-Pinney, founder of the Cloud Appreciation Society. He’s witty and informative and convinced that paying attention to clouds is a great way to relax and be present in the world. The manifesto of the society pledges to fight “blue-sky thinking” since life would be quite dull “if we had to look up at cloudless monotony day after day.” I love clouds for their ever-changing forms that filter light in interesting ways. Clouds represent a very full category in my photo filing system, so I can attest to many hours spent with my chin in the air and my eye on the sky. I was rewarded today when I looked up and discovered these Mare’s Tails, high cirrus clouds we don’t often see in our vicinity. Made up of ice crystals scattered by the jet stream, the clouds looked like brush strokes being painted by a mysterious hand across the blue canvas of the sky. Certainly not dull!

 

Humbling Bread

 
 

The problem with baking bread is that, once you get into the habit, it’s very hard to eat any loaf but home-baked. There’s just nothing to compare with the smell of bread pulled out of your own oven, and warm bread sliced and immediately slathered with a slab of sweet butter has to count among the great sensual pleasures of existence. I’ve been baking bread for a couple of decades, starting with a bread machine (which saved time) and evolving into the era of 18-hour boules and their 6-hour variations (which saved even more time). I’m aware that there are grumblings about the effects of carbohydrates on long-term health, and to that end, I’ve been experimenting with more whole grains and natural yeast starters. In an informative class I took with my daughter-in-law at the LA Institute of Domestic Technology, I learned to make a very straightforward whole rye bread that has been our go-to breakfast loaf ever since. To my French-trained inner bread critic, however, the taste and texture are a bit too healthy. So I decided I was ready to tackle Peter Rheinhart’s Whole Grain Breads. This is a man who has devoted his life to revealing the secrets of baking amazing breads from the miraculous combination of flour, moisture, and wild yeast. Yet despite his knowledgeable text and earnest attempts to simplify, there are just so many steps—for making starters, mashes, bigas, and mother starters (an ominous combination of words)— with such intricate timing, that I found myself throwing up my hands in despair. I’ve managed to produce a couple of passable loafs, and I have to admit, they were chewy and tasty, but I had to come to terms with the limits of my patience. I did learn enough to combine some of his methods with some of mine, and I came up with a simpler recipe that I call “breakthrough bread.” It satisfies my taste buds while recognizing my limitations. A good compromise.