Photography Thinks
So, I shoot images of people who work. Electrician Stevee D came to our home almost 5 years ago to change lightbulbs ( we have 12 foot ceilings and I cannot climb ladders). He returned today to change the fans.
Portrait artists feel joyful when they can track their subjects over years. He looks pretty much the same. My lighting does also.
https://www.washingtonpost.com/politics/interactive/2023/trump-pardon-power-2024-benefit/?itid=sr_1
If you pay, you can play. And you also need a Rabbi on the inside, or do philanthropic work with Jewish groups, possibly even know the son-in-laws father or make donations to the campaign. You an get people out of jail.
Similar connections or a close friendship to a Mayor or person near the Governor can also get a person removed from office. SURPRISE. And then they drop you on your head and let the door hit you on the way out. Get your shit and move. Someone wants your office. No job or job prospects; no health care. No nothing.
I couldn’t get a pardon or be forgiven for my transgressions, minor or mischievous as they were. No way to approach Teshuvah and make amends. No plea or justice or mercy was shown for me. So I live with my judicial sins, rekindling them against my will every night and even at inopportune times during the day.
Flower arrangers glow like their flowers. How can I make a still life, living out my Van Gogh fantasy if I don’t go to flower stores. And once there, I am always challenged by whether I should take a shot of the flowers or one of the women who lovingly construct the arrangements.
As I walked up to deliver his photo, Kevin walked out of the store and welcomed me, “Mr. Duck, the photographer.” I’m honored he remembered me.
I bought this flower and forgot to ask its name – Damn. The flower lady told me to clip it everyday and it will open. We will SEE.
I can never resist having sunflowers around. Always makes me think of Van Gogh. Sharon got me the vase, featured here for an I Love You Gift. Don’t forget that everyday is Valentines Day.
Ohavi Zedek Synagogue in Burlington VT was the site of an anti-semetic attack in 2009. First they went to Temple Sinai. Then they went to the Chabad. Everyone knew about it and few came, not Peter Welch, not Bernie Sanders, and not Pat Leahey. Miro Weinberger, the Mayor, a Jew, also passed. I went and cried, too upset to even make a lot of photos. And I can still hear the kid yelling hateful slogans he didn’t know the meaning of and had been taught to say.
My friend Stan Greenberg, who is blind, said he came to “Bear Witness” and to protect the shul against evil thoughts. He brought his dog, Ernie. “They’ll come through me,” he said. “I’m not moving.”
Clowns who follow the haters made fun, showing the absurdity. But as good intentions as they had, the stench of the haters and the sound of their chants could be smelled and heard. Nothing could make it go away.
Rabbi Joshua closed the Thrift Shop. He went back to his study. No mitzvahs today.
We try to live in peace, but we have little to do with what others do. We try to do our best to be kind and giving, to be thoughtful and loving. But sometimes it don’t work. Killing those who would kill you first may be morally correct, but killing those who haven’t had a chance to live and don’t know why they are dying and cannot do anything about it, never is.
Staying in front of the creativity curve can be challenging. Who knows where the will to do something different will arise, and when it does, do I have the EYE.
I keep my creative self hidden, sharing it carefully and sparingly. People exposed to my work give it short shrift. They are coming or going and don’t have the time or the interest in me or my art. Amongst the comments, when I get them are: Oh; I like that; or some variation on [my granddaughter][son] took a photography class in high school and wanted to be a photographer.
Additionally, my stuff isn’t for sale (no one would buy it, anyway) and I make no money and get little credit from giving my work away.Van Gogh, Cezanne, Rembrandt and others had this problem which is why they babbled in self-portraiture. They were also difficult to deal with in an artist’s setting. I follow in their footsteps.
Something always has Something to show-off when the creative juices flow.
*I borrowed the cartoon from the New Yorker. The artist must have been suffering from comic drawer block.
So, an almost disaster morning turned out to be a winner, better than I hoped or anticipated.
Here I was, MINDING my own business, sitting on the lanai, trying to do something creative with colored felt tip markers, sipping a cup of freshly brewed coffee. Finished meditating. Looking around for a photo. No birds around singing or fishing. No trees blowing in the wind. No flowers in bloom. Just carts spreading poisons and lawn care workers shaving trees. The noise was deafening and the spraying made my eyes tear.
As I got packed up to go inside, a man wearing a Yankee baseball hat, holding a chainsaw (an instrument of destruction unfamiliar to and not allowed in the arsenal of Jewish men) knocked on the screen. In some undecipherable language, he motioned with his hands like he had a camera and said “Photo.” Let’s leave aside how he knew I was a photog, something I will never know and couldn’t ask, but I assumed he meant he wanted me to take his photo.
I grabbed my nearby camera, made sure I had a chip and a battery, and went outside. There were two of them. I separated them, posed them and shot, using my hands and feet and some facial expressions. They bantered, but I didn’t understand a word. After a few shots, I held up 5 fingers and said 5 minutes; they pointed where they were going.
I ran inside to the printer, imported the chip, did some minor processing and printed two 8.5×11 prints. Now, I had to find them.
Without saying something which will have me accused of some racist language, the workers all looked alike, except for their tools. I stopped a few, showed them the pics and asked, using hand signals, where the guys were. Some didn’t answer, probably fearing I was ICE. One pointed down the block and followed me as I continued my search.
I could hear the sound of the trimmer and knew I was on the right track. When they saw me, they turned off their instruments of destruction. One came over to me, looked at the image, smiled and gave me a sweaty half-hug. The other glowed.
Not bad for a street photo inside the Gates of Valencia Reserve, eh?
Not that Thanksgiving was ever one of my favorite holidays, but today’s Thanksgiving hurts more than any and means less. The deaths in Israel and Gaza of innocent people, old and young alike, leaves me bereft. I grieve mightily for the losses on both sides and the absence of dignity and purpose in the entire affair.
My heart breaks for the living, as well as the dead, parents, siblings, friends, associates. I cannot imagine what it feels like to have lost someone or not to know if someone was lost. The sorrow and sadness keeps me awake at night, despite feeling personally safe and despite not personally knowing anyone who died. I see the destruction in my dreams and hear the cries. I can smell the fetid air and taste the pollution on my tongue. No one feels safe and everyone knows it.
I know the pain of isolation and aloneness, the despair of not having family or friends, of being hated. I never learned to hate, though I did learn to be hated. I learned love through my wife. No god ever shined countenance on me or gave me peace and no hater ever said they were sorry or tried to renew a friendship or family relationship. My life was destroyed, but I got to leave with my head up, some trinkets and a spouse. Where do they go and with whom.
Stripped of my career, legacy and heritage, I was left only with my self-esteem and a loving, caring wife. At least I had that. What will they have: more fear of annihalition, complete destruction, obliteration. Who will care for them in sickness and in health? Who will they trust to protect them?
No one will come to our table to share a harvest feast. We don’t eat turkey or tell the story of the Native American Wampanoag people. There will be no arguments about who made the best stuffing or gravy and no collapses on the couch to watch football games. Just some Osso Bucco and a glass or two of red “whine”.
I can only hope that tomorrow some hostages on both sides are released.
No way to know how this will end, but our fervent desire is for peace between Israel and the rest of the Arab world and that antisemetic sentiments and conduct disappear.
So, as we drove down the entry lane of our community, a turtle crossed the road. We drove past, turned around, and headed back to enable me to pick it up and move it to safety, near to the water.
A black Cadillac, big one, super Esplanade, driving in the center of the road back towards us at a speed exceeding the limit, drove over the turtle, causing a gunshot like noise which resounded through the neighborhood (women walkers on the next block told us they heard it).
We chased the driver down and informed him. He drove off.
Our neighbor Chuck, a regular walker, was on his way to play tennis. He picked up the turtle, carried it to the water’s edge and turned it over. The turtle sped in.
We called a local turtle sanctuary. They say turtles with broken backs don’t usually survive.
SO, Nick Cage, he of the Coppola’s family, and the husband in 5 marriages, plus and academy award has a new movie out which I will go to see. https://www.nytimes.com/2023/11/05/movies/nicolas-cage-dream-scenario.html?searchResultPosition=1
I will go see the movie, but, I would rather talk with him about life. What an interesting person. Being a Coen Bros fan, I latched on to him in “Raising Arizona.”It has one of my favorite movie lines, one spoken after a prison break: “we are releasing ourselves on our own recognizance.”
So many good movies and so many bad ones. He even has an academy award for “Leaving Las Vegas.”