Story Behind the Picture: Sunflower

Today, we're going old school for the story behind the picture. There is still something magic about film and vintage cameras and tinkering in the darkroom until you get the perfect exposure.

Now, I'm not really a "big fan of the sunflowers," as my son likes to say - they're all stalk and leaves and look far better en mass in fields than they do on a singular basis. I was born in Kansas, so I feel I've earned the right to this opinion. My husband must have heard me mention my feelings about these flowers once and only heard a few select words. He reassembled them in his head and remembered them as "I was born in Kansas and I'm a big fan of sunflowers." So imagine my complete lack of delight when he planted sunflower seeds. As a surprise. For me.

Me: "What on earth is that big gangly thing that's sprouting in that pot on the deck?"
Marty: "It's a sunflower! Don't you love it?!"

I tried to kill it by sheer neglect, but those things are hardy. I grumbled about the unfortunate color combination of yellow and brown, which reminded me far too much of my Catholic high school uniform colors. Then, one day, I decided to have a closer look at the center, bearing the perfect mathematical spiral of Fibonacci's Sequence, which is actually quite lovely.

I decided to make the photograph a little more magical than average. No color, a bit of hazy mist, and the focus on the miracle of nature's perfect spiral.

Then, one day, I "forgot" to transplant it when it outgrew the planter on the deck. I pretended to be sad when it died, but now you all know the truth. At least we have this photograph to remember it by...

Story Behind the Picture: You and Me

I woke up one morning with this little phrase in my head:

"You, and me, and the moon make three."

I thought surely someone else had written this, and my mind was only just remembering a long-lost nursery rhyme. I asked around. I Googled.

Nothing.

It would seem this little phrase was my very own.


I walked around with it. I sat down to lunch with it. I let weeks go by with it lightly floating beneath the more pressing matters of the day. Two days ago, the picture to accompany it finally came to me as well. Each piece is a photograph I've been keeping for no apparent reason, until now. After I finished, I thought the moon, which I've also used in another collage, needed a little personality...I made my first foray into painting and soon his cheerful, peaceful face emerged.

Sometimes it's nice to just stand quietly, in the peaceful moonlight, with someone special.

"You, and me, and the moon make three..."

Story Behind the Picture: Hydrangea

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.

Story Behind the Pictures: "Vintage Daisy" and "Vintage Bloom"

By February, the winter months begin to take their toll: the unbearably short days, the frigid temperatures, the endless ordeal of coats/hats/mittens/boots that turns even the simplest errand into a Herculean effort. I was tired of photographing icicles and bare limbs, so I visited our local florist and spend a half hour browsing their selection of flowers until I found the perfect pink gerbera daisy. The florist actually joined me in my search when I told her I planned on photographing a floral still-life, and she suggested this particular daisy because “it had great character.” I laughed – this was a woman who truly loved her flowers.

My next challenge lay in the lighting: the pale winter sun coming through our windows wasn’t bright enough to properly light the flower. I placed the daisy in a white vase of water and decided to set it aside until the afternoon. As I escorted the boys to the bathroom to wash hands before lunch, I noticed that the bright white tiles reflected and amplified the light from the window to a wonderful level, perfect for what I had in mind. “Everyone head downstairs!” I called, “Daddy’s making lunch today!” I gathered my equipment – and my daisy with all that character – and climbed into the tub.

Danny: “Mommy, what on earth are you doing?”
Me: “Taking pictures, honey.”
Danny: “In the bathtub?”
Me: “Yes, sweetie – in the bathtub. The lighting in here is great!”
Danny: “Oh. Okay then. Anyway, Dad said lunch is ready.”

I started to laugh as Danny walked back downstairs and wondered if he’d tell his friends and teachers the next day that his mother was in the tub, fully clothed, taking pictures of a flower. If anyone thinks I’m crazy, I’ll inform them I’ve simply got character…just like my daisy.

Story Behind the Picture - "Memories of Spring"

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."