duckshots – Page 49 – Lorin Duckman Today

Paris Jews on the Mend – #2

Pere Lachaise Cemetery in Paris has several areas honoring Jewish dead. The French didn’t do enough to save Jews when the Nazis invaded. Selfish and self-absorbed, some helped load the trains headed to the death chambers. Somber as it may seem, this sculpture of a death procession reminds us, “never again.”

So, what does this have to do with today, DuckToday? I am sad and depressed about the killings in Charleston. A friend brushed it off saying that had there been a Temple near-by, Jews would have been killed. To me, that avoided the point. Racism and anti-semitism, while rooted in hatred, irrational hatred, aren’t the same things. Hey, we were all slaves! But to hate because of the color of one’s skin, thinking one person is better than another, that their bloods shouldn’t be mixed, that they don’t deserve a place on the planet, in the valley of human kind, that is unfathonable.

I mourn the 6,000,000 as much as I mourn the 9 who died needlessly. Acts of terrorism, both, man’s hatred of his fellow man never abates. Very sad.

Paris Jews on the Mend-#1

So, we went to Paris for a month. Planned a while ago, we just wanted to hang out, not jump from a Viking River Boat or a bus. Rented a pied a terre in the Marais, the traditional inner city home for France’s Jewish population. We found it alive and vibrant, not hidden and Jews not afraid.

Now, that’s not to say they publicize their home. Doors and windows don’t have any Jewish images – no stars, no tablets, no lions or lambs.

You can still wrap with a Lubovich, rebbe in training.

And, you can buy falafel, if you can figure out who has the best and are willing to stand in line and eat standing up.

Golden Age of Travel Photography

So, we just came back from a trip to Paris and settled in. We have not had a chance to breathe comfortably or eat in. Boxes piled everywhere. Have not been to London or seen anyone’s underpants, but we drove from VT to FL, packed and unpacked (enough), flew to Paris and hung out on a beach. Now back to real life, if you can call it that living in South East Florida, West Boynton Beach, Valencia Reserve.

Some have asked where we lived. For someone like myself who didn’t like to go anywhere, we have moved a lot since 1999. Thought I’d be Brooklyn dead, but as one of my friends from Maple Street said, “you cannot predict the future.” Moved too many time recently, running away, more than I was running towards. Hopefully, I am here, now.

I took some pictures, along the way. Not enough. None up to the standard of Frank Zachary, who died at 101. He worked with Slim Adams, Henri Cartier-Bresson, Robert Capa and Arnold Newman, selecting images for style magazines of the day, magazines that informed, in addition to selling lifestyles of the rich and famous. He defined how looking at well structured images, by great photographers, could make the reader feel as if he was at the place pictured, not just sitting in a chair looking at them. Without his eye, none of the shots would have been seen by so many.

All of the shooters he worked with are my heroes, photographers whose work make you want to give up your camera. Not sure any editor would ever look at my stuff, another reason not to share and to give up. Well, I won’t.

Family in Florida

So, we moved to South Florida, Boynton Beach. It’s near Del Ray. Haven’t seen Norman and Deena Burg for years, and, I mean years. We went out to eat. Deli food always comforts the Jewish soul. Went through the family tree. Many we remembered are dead. Some still alive, doing better than others.

Whose left and where are they? What do they look like? What are they doing?

Told them how we got here and why. Not a big deal, except that it took so long. But then again, it is. They are family.

Don’t have a lot of family. Nepotism didn’t help me a bit. But knowing people love Sharon, because of her desire to make family makes me happy. And it obviously makes others feel good, too.

Ornette Coleman and Christopher Lee, Dead

So, twofer, today. Two people whose art shaped my life in different ways died. One a musician. The other an actor. I borrowed these images from the NYT today, loving them as they show the people as old men. As I look at their pictures, I can hear them performing. Their works will live forever, even if they couldn’t.

Chabad Paris 2015

With the attacks on Jews in France on the rise and evidence of traditional anti-semitism rearing its ugly head, how pleasant to be stopped on the street by a Lubovicher from Crown Heights. We wrapped and rapped. He took us to the shul where we met a young rabbi in training who lives nearby in South Florida. Good Shabbos to all.

No fear on the street. Many Jews. Falafel.

And an old woman who knows everything.

Onion River Cobbler

Steve and Fred Hopkins fix shoes, leather shoes. They fix bags, leather clothes, and items made from the skins of dead animals. Working in a little shop in Winooski, VT, they provide a service soon to become extinct. They will be missed as much as polar bears and telephone booths, whose disappearance will come for different reasons, and there is nothing we can do to preserve either.

Time was when a community couldn’t function without a cobbler. People wore leather shoes, carried leather bags, controlled horses with leather reins. Now, who wears leather shoes? Old people. Who rides horses to work? Synthetic totes are more weather resistant and lighter weight. How about women wearing heals? Not so prevalent anymore. And worn is the norm.

Six cobbler shops remain in VT. Hard to find apprentices. Pay is low. Takes a while to learn. Have to stand up all day. Air isn’t all that healthy. Cannot find help. Cannot find customers.

But, to a person who loves their shoes, people who have a pair of work shoes or cap toes or penny loafers, to have heels that protect the step and soles that protect the soul, not to forget the bottom of the foot, price doesn’t matter. The fit the foot and look good. A brain doesn’t work as well if the feet don’t feel comfortable. Good shoes can make the outfit. These leather doctors can make a person feel and look as good as a dentist or hair cutter.

GRATING

Everyday I walk into my building, I pass this grate. Yellow tungsten light plays with the grate from the outside; bluer fluorescents on inside walls divide the inside. Empty space partitioned by shadows with no particular message.

I shot this without thinking about the shot, except to shoot it. Then when I converted it to black and white, I saw what I didn’t see. Just the magic of photography.

Brennan – Just a Kid

I don’t shoot a lot of kids. Don’t have any and don’t have friends who do. That’s how you get the business, I suppose, unless you happen to be good at it. But I can shoot kids. I talk with them, even if they don’t know what I am saying. I don’t make noises, raise or lower my voice or contort my face. They look at me. I shoot.

This kid I found at a wedding rehearsal dinner. His mother, the groom’s mother’s sister, Julie, held the reflector. People hooted at him in the background, yelling smile and cheese and other stupid shit. I didn’t need any help. He’s a beauty.

In their faces are the beginnings of what they will look like. Even at early stages, they look like older versions of themselves. Their skin, so smooth and blemish free. Their consciences clear of scars left by battles for self-esteem. Their mother’s love them, too, hopefully forever.

Lacey – Shear Envy

Everyday, I come in contact with a number of people. None of them pay me. I pay them.

I go to the dentist, the food store, the gas station, all sorts of places where I buy goods or get services. Some of the people know me and call me by name. Others call me, “sir,” a surname I despise, because it makes me feel old. I don’t deserve the respect of being called sir and I don’t have a title. I know the names of those I see regularly for personal services and always call them by name. They are professionals, maybe not the lords of their domains, but independent, trained craftspeople.

I usually don’t talk with the people I meet in food stores, restaurants or gas stations unless they have a drill in their hand, a pair of scissors or are selling lottery tickets. How can I not? The relationship is so personal. They talk and you talk. They ask if they are hurting you, which they could. They make you more attractive or more appealing. They touch you personally, your hair, your car, your teeth, things which if not maintained can make me look shitty, not be able to eat or be an unsafe driver. And, a winning lottery ticket could change my life.

It’s different than a food store where they ask paper or plastic, credit or debit, do you want the receipt.

They look at me; I look at them. My camera always at my side, I feel compelled to shoot them. Not as they work, because I cannot have my gums cleaned or my beard trimmed and hold the camera, but posed in their place of doing business. Some let me. But, it’s a challenge. They are working. They have to clean their stations. Prepare for the next person. Relax. Smoke a cigarette. Text. I get a moment. I have to find the light, a comfortable setting the shows the environment and let the do the camera its thing.