Three things that are good for me right now:
This podcast on Burnt Toast. Virginia Sole-Smith interviews Debra Benfield, RDN. "You Are Not Considered a Whole Person After a Certain Age."
This 8-minute yoga sequence, Legs Up the Wall, with Brea from Heart + Bones Yoga.
Mexican Chocolate Icebox Cookies and a great way to cook chicken. Three Things by Jenny Rosenstrach
One of the most effective ways that I learn to see differently is by studying the work of photographers whose work I admire. An accompanying benefit is that I continue to develop my own voice and style. The simple act of identifying art that I love, photographs that resonate with me, colors and styles that make me feel deeply…all these things contribute to my growth as an artist. I am always on the lookout for people and things that nourish me in this way.
This morning I spent some time with the photographs of Katherine Wolkoff, especially her body of work, Taken From a Cat. These types of pictures and this way of seeing are not part of my repertoire at this moment, but they are, for me, aspirational photographs. It’s easy enough to take a fine picture when the scene is set so that the subject is clearly defined, but what about when the subject is more subtle? What happens with the scene is not so carefully arranged? What about when focus stops being the focus? How do we convey themes and subjects in less concrete ways? These are the questions I am pondering.
I am eagerly awaiting spring. Tired of winter. Bemoaning the same old brown and gray colors. Wanting to take pictures outdoors but not quite enough to brave the cold. Plotting the grid for flowers in the raised bed. Planning small summer travels. Dreaming of the fresh produce from the community-supported-agriculture program we joined. Whining about the here and now. As so often happens, poetry is the force that sets me right. Delivered to my Inbox from the kind Janice Falls, this heart poem, Here by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer.
“Some gifts come only
when we stay in one place,
come only when we are alone,
come only when we stop praying
to be somewhere else and instead
pray to be here.”
—Here, Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer
These photographs were all taken with my Mamiya 645 medium format camera and Kodak Portra 400 film. They were developed and scanned by picturehouse + thesmalldarkroom in NYC. I’m still trying different labs, looking for the one that fits my budget and feels like a good place to work with regularly.
Thoughts on post-processing film. I try not to get into the whole comparison thing of film versus digital. Just different tools for different people. But I will say that my film scans are a pleasure to work with. Sometimes with digital RAW files I feel as though it’s a struggle to work the image to my vision, and there is always the danger of over-working an image. With film, I feel as though my edits are not work at all. My job is to do as little as possible—preserving the native beauty inherent in the scene, the film, the negative, the scan, the print.
Some thoughts on the pictures. Now I am wondering if there might be a project surrounding the expression, “slowly but surely.” Surely does not imply certainty or success or even goodness. But it does seem to open the door for appreciation. Things done slowly but surely, like the rocking stitches in a quilt, require patience. An ability to trust the process. Determination and dedication. A kind of showing up, over and over again. Slowly but surely nurtures good form and increases the likelihood of good results over time. This kind of practice, where things are done with care and repetition, is mindful and meditative. Healing and comforting in many respects.
And what about that garden statue? The one of the woman with the broken arm. Someone carefully placed the broken piece on top of her head. There is a space where her elbow should be. Even in brokenness, her wholeness is preserved. We can rearrange parts, surrender to the ravages of time or neglect, and still be beautiful and holy.
Oh, the photograph of the cardinal plaque. I have been intrigued by pictures of birds for years. Not so much real birds, though certainly they are worthy subjects. No, my fascination is for artificial birds of one kind or another. I’m talking about the little birds of Paula McCartney’s Bird Watching project. Or the Birds of New England, 2017, photograph by Cig Harvey from her project/book, You An Orchestra You A Bomb. I admired Cig’s photograph of those colorful birds on a dark black background for a long while before I noticed there is person standing behind the bird collage, perhaps holding the arrangement, looking through the center so that only one eye is visible. This picture makes me wonder what it would be like to be bold and confident and seen. My photograph of the cardinal plaque, State Bird of Virginia, is an homage to Cig’s picture. It’s about a generation of people who decorated their homes with things that they were proud of—framed pictures of children and grandchildren, American flags, plaques with sayings and scriptures, handmade quilts, and carved wooden decoys. I am not particularly sentimental about things, but I know great connection and belonging upon seeing a single thing that once lived in the home of my mother or grandmothers.
The views of neighborhood homes, in small Southern towns, on ordinary streets, are my way of recording the messiness of life. And trying to become comfortable with it. My own home is, as they say, as neat as a pin. The need for order rests at my center, some long held belief that I might be able to put things right, if I just work or try hard enough. I’ve been letting go a little at a time over the years so that I might finally breathe. These pictures, with trucks and cars parked outside on the road, hanging electrical lines, bicycles and porch swings, barbecue grills and sheds, are overrun with life. They are full of detail and rich with story.
I notice all these things. And it is wondrous.
