Rabbi Yitzchok Raskin turns 50

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.

Snowflake Bentley.

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.


His microscope.

A quilt made by his wife.

Thanks Jay. Who knew it was just up the road a piece.

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Church Street Christmas


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.

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Mark Madoff and Me

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.

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Stephen Shore at Bard

Who knows what be next? Visited Bard to hear an explanation of the limited residenct MFA program. Took a tour of the campus. Walked past Steven Shore’s office in the photography building. Left my card on his door. I wouldn’t say it was the functional equivalent of what Philip Roth described in The Ghost Writer where the fledgling writer spends the night at the home of his idol, but I felt the vibes. Shore doesn’t teach in the MFA program. Too bad.

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Paul Leaves Burlington with his Sister Mary

Paul’s sister Mary heard the cry for help. She has heard it before. Family’s get tired rescuing. She didn’t, appearing on Church Street on Sunday. He had slept on a grate, somewhere, before settling in the doorway in front of the sex shop. Cold. Bitterly cold.

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