Photography Thinks
Very nice Sunday afternoon at the Tarant Gallery. Premium show before the concert. Listened to Charles Lloyd with a commentary from VPR Jazz broadcaster George Thomas. Unfortunately, I had to leave to return home to turn off the split pea soup I had put on the stove before I left. Tres stupid. People brought vinyl Lps which they passed around. Not that I needed an excuse to stay out of the cold, but this was as good a place to be as any, assuming you had to go out.
Had not seen Patrick in a while. He says he hasn’t left Rutland or Middlebury for a while. He looked pretty stable, better than the last time we interacted.
As I age, I watch the death notices and read obits. I like the pictures, especially the ones that show a person not looking like they did when they died. I like to keep track of my enemies. Obits being what they are and my list of friends being what it is, I won’t have to mourn many of the featured. I also like to read what these people did whom I have heard of and learn about people who have escaped me while doing something that changed the world in some significant way. Today, it was Mr. Tyson.
To celebrate his 50th birthday, his wife Zeesey gave Rabbi Raskin a party. There were speeches, a dvar, videos of the Rebbe and good will. In his Dvar, he noted that while individual birthdays don’t get recognition in orthodox judaism, it is an occasion the Rebbe thought should be observed. It is but another opportunity to reaffirm why G-d put us on earth and to share that blessing with others. No gifts. No dancing. Just a blessing from the birthday Reb to go into the community and do good deeds.
Jay Maisel told a story about Snowflake Bentley at the Maine Media workshop I attended. Allegedly, Snowflake Bentley was being honored by a photographic society at a fancy hotel in NYC. During the awards ceremony, as he was about to speak, he learned that snow had begun to fall. He announced to the crowd that he had to be going, picked up his camera, and left.
So Jay lives in the heart of museum country. I don’t. He loves to see the work of others, framed or just published. And he loves to teach, sharing with others his passion for making images and his love of art. So when I read the January 3, 2011 New Yorker article on snowflakes that referred to Snowflake Bentley, a photographer of note whom I had only learned of from him, who, as Adam Gopnik pointed out lived in Vermont, I went to the museum in the next town which houses his equipment and work.
A quilt made by his wife.
Thanks Jay. Who knew it was just up the road a piece.
Start 2011 off right. Don’t start any of those drastic changes required by your resolutions until Monday, January 3.
Buses don’t run on Christmas in Burlington. If you be here, you be here. If you not be here, you be somewhere else. Odd. You can hear the traffic signals. No outsiders. College kids home. Street people all snuggled up in shelters and motels and camps. No stores open, except for Rite Aid. No restaurants. Gray. Cold. Deserted.
One goes. One comes. My friend Barry said he looks depressed. Not for me to judge, though he don’t look happy during his holiday season. I’d say he looks cold and alone.
Never been rich. But I did lose all my friends, my reputation, and my ability to earn a living. Lost my home, my neighborhood, my connections. Lost money and a pension you could live on. People just didn’t look at me the same way. I became the subject of ridicule and scorn, not to mention a person in need of police protection. No way to ever be respected or relied on. My Mother even had a heart attack and died listening to Governor Pataki rail against me on the television. No way to recover. You don’t come back from total disgrace.
