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Sometimes a photograph really doesn't have a dramatic story. Sometimes a photograph is just a little holiday greeting. Sometimes you have to put the myraid of candy canes that have over-run your house to good use.
My grandmothers spent years writing letters to my grandfathers as they fought battles on foreign soil. Their relationships survived on paper alone as they sent cryptic messages across the oceans to relay their locations and information: they developed codes to freely communicate without fear of letters being intercepted and censored. They sent photographs to one another, chronicling children's missed birthdays, holidays, and life lived by canteen and rifle. When my father's father was rescued by the French Resistance, his first duty was to write to my grandmother from his hiding place deep in the tunnels under the city. "I am safe..."
I know, it's December: I really shouldn't be posting about sunglasses and bathing suits, especially since my hands have yet to thaw out from my morning walk to the bus stop with the boys.
This is the view from the boathouses along the river: the Art Museum, City Hall, and all the other beautiful buildings that form the unmistakable Philadelphia skyline. This is where we met almost ten years ago. There were no rose petals, shooting stars, or serenades by strolling violin players. The Cliff's Notes version? I hit him with my boat. In the head.
Memories. Memories come in the strangest of forms. I never met my great-grandmother, but her four daughters were an integral part of my daily life. They shaped my world, spoiled me, taught me, loved me. Of all the things they collected and treasured, the drawers full of their mother's tarnished silverware is the most beautiful. Of all the things they sold in order to keep food on the table and clothes on their children, they always protected the silverware. I refuse to polish away the patina and fingerprints, the years of use that have darkened the monogrammed "R" that adorns the graceful handles. I never met my great-grandmother, but when I look at these pieces of silver, I have memories of her Christmas dinners and Sunday lunches. I never met my great-grandmother, but her four daughters taught me everything I needed to know: love deeply, laugh loudly, and life is too short not to use the good silverware.
Most little girls dream of walking down the aisle on their wedding day, and dancing in high-heeled white satin shoes as the sun sets and the band plays music and their new partner amazes everyone with his fantastic waltzing ability. Or at least that's what we're told to believe (I, for one, did not see any fabulous waltzing from my husband at our wedding reception). The beauty of getting older is realizing that one girl's pair of heels is simply another's roller skates. And who says it can't be two girls standing at the end of that aisle together?
There is something magical about trees. Maybe it's the way their branches and leaves rustle and speak when the wind rushes past, or maybe it's the way they filter the sun and create a shady carpet on which we can rest. The most magical trees are the ones that create an umbrella with their branches that touch the ground all around, yet leave a secret hiding place close to their trunks.
I would never have said that landscapes are my strength, but when I was hired for a commissioned piece (a landscape, no less), I decided to take on the project because it would be a happy challenge. It was a beautiful day at the arboretum, and I shot for about two hours as I walked the grounds. The trees were gorgeous, but nothing really gave me that "ah-ha!" moment when I looked through the viewfinder. Until, that is, I decided to look on the top of a hill. There was something lovely about the space between all those glorious green leaves, a welcoming path across the top of the hill, looking out to endless miles behind. This photograph makes me think of the way I like to live my days: enjoy and revel in the present, yet look forward to the journey beyond.
Well, given my post a few weeks ago about "Dandelion," I figured I'll continue with my love of photographing weeds. Or, more accurately, laying on the ground and low-crawling in order to get the shot. In public.
I took this photo during a glorious morning row, a day where I brought my camera (and the patience of my teammates) out at sunrise to capture the sights we tend to overlook on a daily basis. They promised to hold the boat steady and not to splash water on my equipment. They promised to help me find things - even ordinary things - that they thought to be lovely.
Roller Derby.
I'm always surprised by how my personal life gently colors even the most simple photograph. Two weeks ago, I brought home a huge bundle of pears. As I placed them on the kitchen counter, I was struck by the personality each little pear seemed to exude. I chose six of the pears, set them in a row, and started shooting.
I love the beach in the morning. The surfers paddle out, waiting for the perfect wave. Fishermen, clad in waders, patiently wait near the ends of the jetties. The sand, smooth and clear, bears only a few foot – or paw – prints from the early risers. The beach, in the morning, is full of possibilities. The black rocks of the jetty still feel cool underfoot, the seagulls still stroll at the water’s edges, the sun still climbs lazily out of the sea. Soon enough it is time to head home and begin the real work of the day, but the stolen moments at the beach in the morning are enough to carry me through.
I was three weeks old the first time I set sail in a boat. Even though I was born in land-locked Kansas, my parents still managed to find a lake on which to to enjoy the summer breeze and the gentle sound of waves lapping against the hull. Water has been the single constant in my widely-traveled life...be it as a passenger or a rower, I've never wandered far from the pull of the tide or the banks of a river.
I'm popping in early this week to let everyone know that my series of "Alphabet Soup" whimsical alphabet art is now available as a charming children's book!
My children will always live in a home filled with music. They were born to parents who play, dance, sing, and generally live music (we don’t do any of these things with immense talent, but we do them nonetheless). Our oldest son already plays tunes by ear on his little piano and instantly recognizes Bob Dylan’s work (mom, if you are reading this, you can keep your disparaging comments to yourself). Our youngest enjoys performing his own, personalized version of the “Nutcracker” as we applaud and try not to laugh too hard. Most dinners in our home are followed not by dessert but by the evening “dance party” in the living room, complete with cavorting dogs and very uncoordinated husband.
I walk past these trees nearly every day. They exist on the banks of a near-by creek, defying storms, floods, and gravity with the strength of their roots. They are two very distinct, separate trees. High above the frame of this image, they lean away from one another, each sheltering its own portion of the creek with massive limbs and glossy leaves. Most people comment on the leaves, on the shade, on the expanse of those ancient branches, but I'm not most people. I'm drawn to the roots, to their very base, where they knit down into the earth and support one another in snow and sun alike. It's easy to find someone who will stand beside you, but rarest of all is the person who will cling to the earth with you while still giving space to breathe at the top. We should all be so fortunate as the trees.
I have a confession to make: there is another woman in my husband's life. How can I sit here and calmly type such a thing, you ask? Because I've known about it for two years and I realize there is really nothing I can do. He's in love. With a car.
This hydrangea lives outside a firehouse in Old City, Philadelphia. I found it one sunny fall afternoon as my husband and boys watched the fire crew wash and detail one of their engines. Unlike the gentlemen, I was not quite as mesmerized by the shiny metal and vibrant red paint, so I strolled along the street, photographing the flowers that still bloomed in the early autumn warmth. As I worked, a woman approached. Her unwashed hair was streaked with gray, her clothes needed mending, and she held tight to her large, threadbare bag as though it was her habit to carefully guard this one possession. Her kind brown eyes completely disarmed me: I found myself smiling as she stopped next to the hydrangea.
“Would you like a portrait drawn?” she asked. “I’m an artist and I’d be happy to do one for you.” Danny had recently posed for a caricature at a local fair, but Lucas had refused to comply. “I would love a sketch of my youngest son,” I replied, “if we can convince him to sit still.” We found a little park nearby complete with fountain and pigeons for him to watch. We officially introduced ourselves, and Lucas sat quietly as Carol pulled out a thick tablet of paper and a blue magic marker. I have to admit that I was a little disappointed when I saw the marker…I assumed it would be a childish drawing, perhaps even as limited as my own abilities with pen and paper.
I looked away for a moment and watched the sun glint off the surface of the water, sending patterns of light over the brick walls of the courtyard. When I looked back at the tablet, tears welled in my eyes as I saw Lucas’ face coming to life on the paper. The shape of his chin, the waves of his hair, the length of his eyelashes: all masterfully captured by the talents of Carol’s weathered hands. She spoke to herself as she worked, muttering many things I could not understand. I did catch a few snippets of her life: her previous life as a teacher, a sister that lived in Michigan who begged Carol to come live with her. “Will you go stay with her?” I asked. “I’ll think about it,” she said quietly, never letting her eyes drift from the paper.
I saw Marty’s amused expression as I handed her more than the amount she requested for her services. “I’m surprised you trusted her,” he said after we said good-bye and we watched her shuffle away down the sidewalk. “My intuition told me she was a sweet lady,” I answered quietly, hoping Carol would let her family take care of her before the frigid winter weather took hold of the city and the lovely pink hydrangeas became wind-dried memories.
Motherhood is a strange dichotomy: it simultaneously hardens and softens us. Having two boys has made me mentally tougher than I ever was, even during the most grueling training and racing of my rowing career. I thought life was tough, what with the constant injuries, hunger, and mental fatigue of competition. And then I became a mother. If I estimate correctly, it has been five years and thirty-two days since I last had a day – or a night – to myself. Since I slept soundly without being roused from bed by cries or my own worries. Since I spoke on the phone, drove in a car, or bought paper towels without the constant din of baby-toddler-preschooler-mayhem. Since I walked out of the house without a bag resembling that of the migrant workers heading west during the “Grapes of Wrath.” I’m amused by the recent debate over methods of torture used to extract information from prisoners. Why? Because I have a solution. Put them in a house with my children and a broken coffee maker for three days with no reprieve and I promise you, they will gladly spill the beans.
Date: Mother's Day, 2009
Location: Kitchen
Objective: To Determine Whether or Not My Husband Remembers His Mother's Day Plan to Cook Dinner for Me
Me: *surreptitiously glancing at clock* "Have you decided what you are making me for dinner? It's already four p.m."
Marty: *looks up from newspaper with panicked expression on face* "Er, you were serious about that?"
Me: "Yes dear. You asked what you and the boys could do for me today. I asked you to cook dinner."
Marty: "Or we could go out to eat!"
Me: "No."
Marty: "It would be fun!"
Me: "No. Dining out with a 2 and 5 year-old is not fun. Urban warfare, yes. Fun, No."
Marty: *grabbing wallet and keys* "I'll be back with ingredients!"
Me: "Great! Could you pick up some fresh fruit while you're out?"
Lemons. My husband comes back with lemons. Not one lemon. Not two lemons. No, a full-on 25-pound economy-size bag of lemons. No normal fruit such as, say, apples or other things that children and other humans enjoy eating.
Me: *staring at 50 pounds of lemons sitting on kitchen counter* "Seriously? Lemons?"
Marty: "They were on sale."
We are still drinking lemonade at our house. Lemonade that Marty makes fresh daily and will probably continue to do so for the next ten years, given the amount of lemons in our house. I couldn't resist taking a few pieces of the beautiful yellow fruit and grabbing my camera: I'm thinking of putting this over our fireplace so that even when we are old and senile, he will never forget the day he went to the grocery store unchaperoned and bought 100 pounds of inedible, sour fruit. Lemonade, anyone?
"I'd love a picture of the boys' feet."
1996, phone call placed to my room in England:
Me: "Hello?"
Dad: "Did you take my camera?"
Me: "I'm sorry, I can't hear you: must be a bad connection."
Dad: "I SAID, did you pack MY camera in one of your eight hundred suitcases?"
Me: *crinkling wad of paper in background* "Dad, the static on the line is terrible. I'll call you later!"
That was the semester I studied abroad and, inadvertently, packed my father's 1968 Asahi Pentax in one of my eight hundred suitcases. I held it hostage even upon my return, continually evading the question of its whereabouts until he finally conceded and bought me a near-identical model (1972) for my college graduation. I loved the delicate light meter, the sound of the shutter ticking closed after a particularly long exposure, the weight of it in my hands. I loved that the film would slip unless I aligned it perfectly, a fact that prevented me from rushing though the process of readying my camera to shoot. I loved carrying it with me when I traveled, its weight a reassuring presence of an old friend.
The cameras in this photographs are those belonging to my family: a collection that reminds me of holidays, graduations, first communions, vacations, life. They all adorn a shelf in our living room, and my oldest son loves to sneak off with the plastic Diana camera that once belonged to my uncle.
Me: *calling up the stairs to his room* "Danny, where is the little black camera?"
Danny: "What camera?"
Me: "The one that is missing from the shelf."
Danny: "I can't hear you mom! What did you say?"
I can't help but smile. My father, of course, finds it hilarious.
*Disclaimer: the following story contains personal information about the author and shall not be used to make fun of her in future conversations*
Spring is such a glorious time of year, yet this is a particularly difficult week for me to write. For once, I am at a near loss for words. My grandmother did not recognize me this week when I sat at her bedside and held her weathered, weakened hands in my own. I have spent my birthday with her each year for the past thirty-three Aprils. She has helped me blow out my candles, sung to me, kissed me, and wished me her traditional "lots of luck and happiness." Each year, no matter where I lived, I spent my spring birthday with her. This week was no different, despite the fact I had brought her in to the emergency room a few days before, despite the fact that she now lay in the ICU, her piercing blue eyes unable to recognize my face.
When I think of spring, I remember running thought her vibrant green lawn in my new party dress, being scolded for climbing the rock wall that ran along side her house, swinging on the front gate when I thought she wasn't looking. When I think of my grandmother, I think of spring: the sky the color of her eyes, magnolia blossoms the color of the dress she made for my eighth-grade graduation, white clouds the color of her soft hair.
I noticed one of her nurses had written "Tuesday, April 14th" on the message board at the foot of her bed. Before I left, I pointed to the date. "Grandmom, do you know what today is?" I asked. The pain and exhaustion that clouded her eyes floated away long enough for her to turn and whisper, "it's your birthday."
On a frigid winter night, I pulled into our driveway, my two boys snug and warm in their car seats behind me. As I turned off the engine, Danny gasped when he saw the luminous full moon high above our neighbor's roof: "Mommy! Look at the moon! Can I hold it, please?"
