'Twas the night before Christmas
and all through the house
not a creature was stirring...
...well, except for L,
who was still wondering
if Santa was really on his way...
So while K was dreaming of mice and sugarplums
L was hoping that nice had outweighed naughty
and kept her eyes open for Santa.
It was Sunday morning and L was reading the papers. Something caught her attention. She wanted Frank to pay attention, too...
It was very important. She wanted to know if what she read was true...
Is there really a Santa Claus?
Is he really on his way?
L spent the day wondering if she had been naughty or nice.
We think that since she's a kitten, by definition, she has been a bit of both (Dial M for Mischief). But we are in love with her and her sister, anyway.
With a bit of luck, Santa just might be on his way...
"Cause it's a bitter sweet symphony, this life..."
The Verve
from Urban Hymns
Yesterday, millions of souls entered the world and millions left it. That is the way of life. Elizabeth Edwards was one of the souls who left. I didn't know her, but for good or for ill, the bitter-sweet symphony that was her life was played out in front of us all. In her response to the symphony, she seemed determined to retain her voice, and to continue her search for meaning, understanding and grace.
This image, from a wall in a quiet calle in Venice, reminds me about the tangled, bitter-sweetness of life. There is the juxtaposition of the new and the old, the hope of youth and the reality of decay, the darkness of damage and betrayal next to the brightness of color and hope, the reality of endings and beginnings. It is ugly. It is beautiful.
And perhaps this is what life is all about: Understanding that as our own symphonies play, there will be notes that are bitter and ones that are sweet, and that a strange beauty develops out of the inevitable interaction of such complexities. In the end, noble goals are to strive to find our voice, and to search for meaning, understanding and grace in it all.
It is amazing how many things the kittens have found in the house to play with, including large boxes, jar lids and pens, to name just a few of the objects that have become toys. Occasionally, they even seem to enjoy a "real" cat toy. K's all-time-favorite is a very colorful, fat, purple and green mouse with big ears and a striped tail. Of course we are not sure if it is the mouse or the catnip that is the attraction. Still, she now has a collection of 3 mice. She loves to play with them and she is very generous and often proudly presents them to us, as well.
I considered calling this "Mouse Love at High Noon." The harsh light and shadow provide quite a dramatic image, and K looks quite serious.
In the next images, she demonstrates her play technique. You have to make sure you get a good grip...
The ear is a crinkly material that makes a nice sound when you chew on it....
Mmmm, love that ear...
Ah, nothing like a mouse in the sun....
Well, don't YOU love to lie in the sun and play?
Yep - this is the good life. If the kittens at the shelter could see me now....
We are glad this makes K happy. Because she (and her sister) give us immense joy.
Growing up in a subtropical climate, I still find snow to be sweetly magical. And the playfulness of a snowman is a winter delight. The first serious snows have started, and so my favorite time of year has begun.
This snow gentleman lived briefly last winter in Garmisch Partenkirchen, Germany. I am glad he is still with us. He still makes me smile.
On Thanksgiving, a bouquet of gratitude for many things: Love, friendship, health, life. For the safe arrival of Larkin.
And always, a special gratitude to those who made our future possible by saving Frank's life: Dr. Jules Jaffe and the Angels of 3 West at Memorial Hospital. It has been some time since his last treatment but we don't ever forget. We acknowledge you today but we are grateful to you every day.
With the birth of Larkin, perhaps I am thinking about what it means to have a new generation born, and, because of that, what it means for me to have become solidly part of an older generation. No longer the generation of an "aunt" but rather part of the generation of the "great aunt." Amazing. And so I am thinking about the old and the new, about tradition and what happens to tradition over time as it is re-created and modified by those who come after us.
I was looking at these images from Venice which, in and of themselves, reflect innovation in photography not easily available even a generation ago. These photographs have been transformed by painting effects. So the process of creating the images reflects innovation and change, but so, too, does the content.
The Venetian tradition of glass blowing goes back generations, centuries. And the above image is a portrait of a traditional work: Delicate, ornate, beautiful in its gold and blue details, precious, fragile.
These are contemporary pieces:
By contrast, these vases are strong, solid, still with rich, ornate gold detailing, but not at all fragile. They stand tall, with a playful and rebelliously creative streak: Clothes pegs? On glass? You have to smile.
And perhaps that is what each new generation brings: Strength, rebelliousness, creativity. Each generation takes us to new places, building on the foundation we have provided and leading us on journeys we could never imagine. I wonder where Larkin will lead us?
Larkin arrived today. A little ray of sunshine and hope on a cold November day. She begins the journey that will be her life held securely in the arms of her family. And from those secure arms she eventually will embark on adventures that we cannot imagine today.
What can we say to her as we welcome her into the world? Sometimes wisdom comes from the strangest places. The images above came from the streets of Amsterdam and Venice. Perhaps she will visit these cities one day. But the sentiment scribbled on walls so far away is universal, crossing all boundaries of race, culture, age, nationality, time and space. In the end, life is all about love.
Welcome, Larkin, with Love.
Like these lovely gerbera faces, orienting towards the sky, we patiently await the arrival of "Sunshine." It is a good lesson: She will come in her own time.
In Flanders Fields
by Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae
In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
In the British Commonwealth, Remembrance or Armistice Day is symbolized with the wearing of red poppies. Colloquially, the 11th of November is called "Poppy Day." As a child I loved Poppy Day because I loved wearing the little red paper poppy pin that we all were given at school to put on our uniforms. So bright and pretty. But I didn't understand the meaning of the poppy until I was older.
We don't wear poppies in the United States. Perhaps we should. Perhaps it's not a bad idea to have, physically attached to us, such a poignant reminder of the sacrifices made by so many.
Lest we forget.
Recently it was estimated that 490,000 babies are born each day worldwide. That is a lot of new beginnings.
But we are waiting for the arrival of just one new soul - "Little S." She is due on November 11th - a momentous day, in and of itself. We don't know if she will be early, eager to enter a world of possibilities, or late, wanting a little more time enclosed safely in her mother's belly. But whenever she arrives, she will bring immense joy to many people, and she will make a new family in the loving arms of Cara and Dan, her excited parents.
We can't wait to meet her.
Once again, it is the Day of the Dead. It is a time to remember, to celebrate and to honor loved and lost souls. This is our sweet Miss Lily - a very dear kitty soul who shared our lives for nearly 19 years, and who still is with us in spirit.
Lily passed away while we were in Venice at Carnivale. We did not expect this - when we left her, she had been well. But events unfolded in ways we could not predict, and she became ill and passed very quickly. It will always be a source of additional grief that we could not hold her as she died. But perhaps it was as it should be: Perhaps she knew we could not bear to say good bye to her in person. Perhaps she could not bear to say good bye to us in person, either. Still, we feel her spirit was with us as she began to let go. And this is why:
It was late afternoon and we were in front of the Doge's Palace, along with the usual crowd of masked Carnivale performers, visitors and photographers. In the midst of the afternoon chaos I was drawn to something very unusual. There are many types of traditional masks worn at Carnivale and most of them have to do, in some form or another, with human or human-like faces. While there are Carnivale masks made in the images of animals, it is very rare, in my experience, to see a performer wearing such a mask. And I had never seen a child wearing one. But there, in the afternoon light, was a child wearing the mask of a cat with a beautiful light-colored face. The mask reminded me of our Lily. I was surprised enough to take a photograph. And because of the press of the crowds and the time, I was only able to take one photograph. We were tired and this was one of my last images for the day. It was as we were leaving St. Mark's Square that we received the call that Lily seemed very ill and needed to be taken to our vet. Later, in the early morning hours, she passed.
We have not been able to stop thinking about the young performer in the sweet cat mask. So unusual. So lovely. Such a surprise.
And so, in our hearts, we have come to see this as our sweet Lily's Spirit Guide. She came to us, we looked into each other's eyes, and we were together, in spirit, even if we could not be together in person.
France is in turmoil at the moment, with unrest over proposed social and economic changes. It is not the first time and will not be the last. This image is from Paris, looking towards the Louvre from the Jardin des Tuileries. With the striking combination of beautiful statuary and elegant architecture against a dramatic and ominous sky, this image seemed symbolic of tumultuous times.
To our friend, Chris Mende, whose images delight us, and in honor of her partner, the extraordinary photographer, Ruth Bernhard, we offer this humble gift of a pair of images from our series, "Delicate Immortality." Happy Birthday, Ruth.
"The Dancers' Embrace"
"Repose"
"If you are not willing to see more than is visible, you won't see anything"
Ruth Bernhard
"I think I had extraordinary luck.
I was with God and with the devil.
And I reached out for God."
Mario Sepulveda
Rescued Chilean Miner
As I type this, there continues the most extraordinary undertaking in Chile: The rescue of 33 miners after 69 days trapped underground. They are being pulled up from the depths in a small tube-like capsule, only 13 feet tall, called, "Phoenix." Who can imagine their feelings as they take the 15 minute or so ride back into the world?
We think about those men, their families and all those who made this rescue possible. And we think about those miners and their families, in so many other places, including the United States, who have not been so lucky.
We originally called this image, from the beautiful Chateau de Chambord in the Loire Valley, "On the Way to Infinity." And yet, today, it seems to mean so much more.
"So, what happened to the bags of bagels?"
"On advice of Counsel, I respectfully assert my right to remain silent and decline to answer your question on the grounds that it may incriminate me."
Occasionally I google "Visual Ovation Photography" just to see what comes up. That we are alive and well in cyberspace still seems somewhat mysterious to this luddite, and I am always pleased when some entries are listed. But my greatest pleasure has been to see what consistently has been the first entry, a link to one of our website galleries entitled, "Transformation and Healing: The Northeast Lodge Mural."
So why is this so special? It is special because this gallery contains a collection of images of a mural ("Transformation and Healing") which was painted in 1986 by the residents of Northeast Lodge in San Francisco. Northeast Lodge was a residential treatment program for clients with chronic and severe mental illness. The Lodge provided safety, mental health treatment, support, and programs to help residents develop skills that they needed to reintegrate in the community.
As is often the case with such programs, Northeast Lodge was located in a rough part of San Francisco. It wasn't pretty. And so it was that the residents and staff decided to do something about it, and the idea of painting a mural on the front of the building was born. Working with an artist, whose name I unfortunately don't remember, the residents came up with a series of images that were meaningful to them. Over a period of months the mural was carefully painted.
In August, 1986, the mural was officially presented to the San Francisco community in a formal ceremony attended by many, including the Chief of the Mental Health Department at the time. It was a day of immense pride for both residents and staff. But it was particularly moving for the residents, people who had felt so disenfranchised from much of the community, who felt so hidden from view and forgotten, to be able to create such a beautiful and visible offering to the community and to have it received so warmly.
Unfortunately, the ending to this story is not happy. Over time, a victim of the yearly economic tsunamis that have devastated the mental health system in San Francisco, Northeast Lodge was closed. But even more sadly, at some point, it isn't clear exactly when or why, the mural was painted over. I was reminded of this again last week when I visited an office located just a block away from the old Northeast Lodge. The front of the building is still grey. I look at it and I still feel sad and angry.
Very early in my training as a psychologist, I was a student for a brief time at Northeast Lodge, and I had the good fortune to bear witness to the birth of the mural and its presentation to the community. I took photographs of the mural at the time of the dedication, and I gave them as a gift to the Northeast Lodge Community. When my work at the Lodge ended, I was touched when I was presented with an enlargement of one of the images. It is in my office, and I look at it now, as I do every day when I am on the computer.
So in reality, the mural is gone. But to my mind it lives on in the "virtual world" by way of the images on our website, the photographs that I took at the Mural dedication. I have not been able to find any record that any images of the Mural have been published previously either in book form or on the web. To my knowledge, our website provides the only public record of this artistic gift to the community.
I actually have no idea why the "Transformation and Healing" gallery happens to be the first link that comes up when Visual Ovation Photography is googled. Other galleries have had many more visitors. But the mystery of it makes me happy. It is a lesson for me about the power of photography and technology. I am delighted that by virtue of technology that wasn't even dreamed of when the mural was painted, we can resurrect what has been so carelessly destroyed. Most of all, I am delighted that with my images, I can continue to honor the residents of Northeast Lodge and the mural they created with so much dedication and care. They, their gift, and their journeys towards transformation and healing, are not forgotten.
To see the rest of the Mural, please visit our website and the gallery, "Transformation and Healing: The Northeast Lodge Mural."
Stephanie
Tomorrow it will be 3 months since K and L joined our family. This is rather a formal portrait, and they look so grown-up. But they still are kittens, and as kittens do, they continue to leap into our hearts, our lives and anything else they can find in our home. They have jointly embarked on many unexpected adventures. (Perhaps one day we can speak about "the bagel incident.") They are, quite simply, a delight, sweet kitty souls who bring us an immense amount of joy.
Very early on, a friend looked at their photos and commented that the beautiful markings on their foreheads looked like "M's."
"Yep," I replied, "Dial M for Mischief."
For K and L....
Joy
Joy comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
into your eyes
on silent haunches
and then dives into your heart.
"That," said my companion as the lights went up, "That was weird." And she was right. The show we had just seen was weird - delightfully, deliciously, spectacularly and gorgeously weird. We had just seen "O" - the extraordinary Cirque du Soleil production. It was my second time. And I was just as captivated this time as I had been originally.
The joy of the show is at many levels. In the Program, O is described as an homage to the theater. But just as theater is always more than the story that is directly told, this is so much more, as well. Because the show might just as well have been described as delving into the theater of the mind, the circular, dark and colorful places that we explore only in dream life and in times of openness to the unconscious. The show is about the elemental - water, fire. It is about more: Color, light, perception. It is about creativity, athleticism and skill. It is all amazing.
We are introduced to this world of possibility with the throwing back of the scarlet curtains. No, they aren't thrown, seemingly alive, they fly apart, passionate scarlet silk, dancing, diving across the stage into the wings. But actually our introduction began earlier. With the clowns, yes - because this still is a circus. But then with the presence of the scarlet-coated, well, who are they? Courtiers? They look uniform, formal, of another time and place, and they move in elegant, rigid unison. They are bewigged, wearing tailored scarlet coats that, during dance and flight, may fall open to reveal black stockings and garters. The courtier meets the show girl? But it is not that simple: It is not erotic, but it is unexpected, like so much about "O," it is puzzling.
No matter the costumes, though they are compelling, the audience is summoned to attention by these figures. It is one of the courtiers who spreads incense, swung in an incense burner as would be used in a religious ceremony. With the audience thus cleansed, anointed, there appears a whip-cracking character and a laughing ballerina to escort us into the depths. It is confusing, disorienting, tantalizing. And the red courtiers? Still we wonder, "Who are they?" It is not clear if they are male or female. It doesn't matter. Throughout the experience they participate in the events: They fly, they ride horses, they move across the stage. At times they seem to provide visual and emotional continuity, grounding the audience, a formal, scarlet structure linking us with the characters, linking our conscious with our unconscious.
Nothing is as it seems. A man sits quietly engulfed in flames as he reads the newspaper. The expected never occurs. Sitting at the edge of the pool, one waits for water to be splashed on him, for him to jump in. For there has to be some safe rescue from the almost unbearable fear that he will be burned. But instead, he quietly, calmly, interminably picks up his chair and ambles off the stage. Sometimes we remain in the fire.
And then there is the water. The title, "O," is taken from the sound of the French word for water, and in homage to the visual similarity of the letter to infinity, the sense that there is no beginning and no end. The water is a character: It is deep, it is shallow, it is a net of safety, it is engulfing. It is the place from which life emerges, and it is the place into which life descends. Under the water there is a team of mostly unseen characters, black wet-suited divers, providing air for the performers, but who are seen for a few moments as they beach themselves, like black, primal frogs, waving their flippers playfully in the air.
Characters emerge from the waters, float and dance in them, play, swim and dive into them, and display the extraordinary capacity of the human body to move, bend, contort into beautifully elegant and breathtaking positions. And as we all eventually will, characters descend into the blue void, slowly, unexpectedly, quietly. The characters doff their street clothes, which are collected by an efficient, apron-wearing maid. When she is finished, she slowly pushes her clothing-filled cart and she, and it, quietly descend into the waters. The piano player - and the piano - similarly descend. It sounds laughable and yet in some strange way it is moving.
The show asks a lot of us. Put aside your linear thinking, it asks. No it demands. Give yourself over to the mysteries of the unconscious, the irrational, the beautiful, the grotesque, the elegant, the frightening. Let yourself be immersed, visually, emotionally, in the waters, in the light, in the color and in the choreographed randomness of it all. Horses fly and so do humans. Be awestruck. Laugh. Be moved. Be curious. Be repelled. Be frightened. Be engaged. Be open. Just don't be closed. Because to be closed is to miss so much of what the performers are generously giving.
It is an immensely generous production. Generous in its physical beauty. The costumes, colorful, gorgeous works of art, engineered to withstand twice nightly immersion in chlorinated water. The performers, generous in their feats of daring, exquisitely elegant, sensuous, strong, confident. Their feats of coordination in the air, in the water, on the stage, are breathtaking. The story - no, the lack of a linear story - is generous in its invitation to put aside assumptions about the everyday world, the day world, the world of light and reason, and to descend into the world of darkness, possibility, chance, the irrational, the passionate, the curious, that which cannot be understood, drives, fears. That which lives within all of us, but which we usually cannot or do not wish to acknowledge, let alone engage in conversation or dance. The show: A Rorschach test for the audience.
The Program articulates the invitation into the darkness: Of the characters it asks, first - Who will we play with? And more than that, more deeply, Who will we be? What masks will we wear? The Courtesan? The Jester? What, of ourselves, is revealed, is challenged, is stirred in this journey?
So, yes, my companion was right: O is weird. But it is so much more. And it is more than just an athletically compelling show (though that it certainly is). O provides a two hour period, in the sanctified space of the theater, to accept or decline the invitation to let ourselves go and submerge ourselves in fantasy, in this journey into the theater of the unconscious.
I still think about O. I look at the gorgeously produced Program. I realize that part of the power of O for me was that it came at a time when I was seeking validation for giving voice to my own creativity and imagination, for submerging myself in the creative process. Talk about serendipity and timing. The show came to me just at the time when I might be most open to its journey at all its levels. I was ready to accept the generous invitation from the characters to play, to be embraced by creativity and passion, and to be reminded that such an endeavor is worthy.
The image at the top of this entry is not from O. But he (or she) is from another place that invites us to be immersed in creativity and mystery: Venice at Carnivale. It turns out that Venice apparently did provide some inspiration for some artistic aspects of the show. So, the Jester smiles and extends an invitation to play. I will accept the generosity of the invitation. And, of course, I will continue to wonder about the mysteries of scarlet courtiers in garters.
We all wear them. Masks. To present our best, to hide, to cope, to cover our worst. It is not good or bad. It is part of the human condition. Perhaps, in time and with circumstance, we present our true selves to the world and ourselves: Indeed, it probably is a developmental achievement of integration to be able to do so. Still, perhaps because I am a psychologist, I am curious about how we present externally to the world, and what remains hidden inside. And so, in both metaphor and reality, I am fascinated by masks.
For the first time, during our most recent trip to Venice, I encountered collections of simple, unadorned, white Carnivale masks. As I saw them, some looked quite powerful in and of themselves, even without any adornment. Gradually, they began to take on a life of their own. And so these musings about secrets and masks were born.
If we all have our masks, it is true that some live with a collection of many of them. Thrown on and off, each one used differently, depending on the state of the internal or external world at the time. Then taken off, stored, kept safely until next required.
But what of the masks, themselves? Do they take on a life of their own? Are they powerful enough that we can become influenced deeply by them, affected by them? If our masks could speak, themselves, about what would they confide? What would they say?
Would they speak about anguish?
Would they speak about suspicion?
Would they speak about torment?
Or perhaps would they speak about peace?
Or artistic creativity?
These plain, white Venetian Carnivale masks speak of many things, quite simply. It is true that eventually they will become artfully adorned and beautifully finished. There will be different layers of color and meaning applied.
But before that, before they become works of art and are inhabited by some curious and playful soul, perhaps they simply reveal that which they are created to cover. That is, the feelings and experiences that we all encounter as humans, and the tools we use to manage them.
I am going to see her, my love. I have not seen her for a year and each time I leave, I fear that I have seen her for the last time. Of course, I have photographs of her. But it is not the same. Still, they carry me through my regular days and trigger memories of our last wonderful times together.
I wonder how she will look. Last time she was radiant and youthful in the clear, winter light. Sometimes she wraps herself in a cloud of gray cashmere, and she looks just as beautiful to me when she is covered in this way. She is a marvelous companion. Oh, the stories she tells. Of intrigue and love and history, of palaces, and of princes of peace and war. She is strong, like a lioness. But she is vulnerable. Others worry about her health, and I do, too. The winters have become increasingly difficult. It is hard for her to tolerate the damp and cold.
Yet she is resilient and refuses to retire. It is because at heart she is still a beautiful woman, a courtesan, craving the attention and flattery that she received in her youth. It is true that she is no longer youthful. In some light, she looks her age. She works hard to cover it, though she also is unashamed of the "work" she has had on her face. She knows skilled artisans who adore her and care for her, as we all do. In reality, she is vain. She always has been, and with good reason. Her beauty is legendary. I know in the calm, bright winter light, I catch her looking at herself in the waters when they are still. And even when the waters are murky and turgid, she still basks in her own reflection, unable to tear herself away.
I know I am not the only one. She has other lovers, and I know she is fickle in her affections. She is impatient with those who just visit for a day or an evening - one night stands that leave her worn and tired. Her relatives are few, and they have left for other places. She is left with those who love her but cannot stay. Perhaps she prefers it that way. I know she will be busy while I am there - the winter has become filled with parties in her drawing rooms. She has many to entertain. But I will be content to accept what she has to offer me. I love to be with her in the morning, as the sun rises, bringing a warm, golden light from the glorious colors of the dawn crimson and blue sky. It is a bit quieter then. My favorite time, though, is late in the evening. She has more time then, she is quieter, less preoccupied and more reflective. It is then that she whispers stories of her other lovers, of her romances, of fantasies and mystery.
And so I sit and wait and count the days until I will be with her again.
She is the beautiful, the serene one. She has captured my heart and soul. She is "La Serenissima" - the Serene City - my lovely Venice.
I actually wrote this piece several days before we traveled to Venice in February for Carnival. I will post more about this wonderful trip and Venice in the future. These images are some favorites - the beautiful lady gazes at herself in her canals' reflections.
But for now, this is dedicated to M and T with good wishes for a perfect and perfectly romantic trip to visit the lovely lady.
Stephanie
"The real voyage of discovery consists
not in seeing new landscapes,
but in having new eyes."
Marcel Proust
And those are the joys of both photography and travel: The voyage of discovery and having new eyes.
Time. Its passage seems to be accelerating with each passing year. Once again, it is Thanksgiving in the United States this week. It is this time of year, even more than New Year's, that I find myself reflecting about the state of my life. And so, it is these things for which I give thanks...
The blessing of good health.
The good fortune of a safe home and full cupboard.
The love and support of family and friends (who know me well and still seem to love me anyway).
The opportunity to learn from teachers, mentors, students, colleagues and patients.
The development of a meaningful career that provides the opportunity to be of service.
The chance to nurture and develop creative endeavors and to see in a new way.
The sweet lessons from companion animals who teach me about loyalty and trust.
The opportunity to experience other ways of life and other parts of the world.
But most of all,
I give thanks for Frank.
In the midst of a difficult world, I give thanks to Frank for reminding me that honor, compassion, respect, integrity and kindness are still very much alive. And all of that, mixed with humor, playfulness and curiosity, is the recipe for a most wonderful companion in life. I give thanks to Frank for showing me that sometimes, if you are immensely lucky in life, Love will take your hand on a December evening, and lead you to the most extraordinary adventures, to a life of unexpected joy and blessings, and to a place of safe harbor.
The following is one of my favorite floral images. It means so much, not only because of the beauty of the flowers, but because it was taken on my first trip to Paris with Frank and our dear friends, Greg and Cindy. And it was one of the first images that reminded me about the joys of capturing and sharing beautiful memories photographically.
Antoine de Saint Exupery wrote, "It is impossible to live without poetry and color and love." This is my "Bouquet of Thanks" - visual poetry, color and love - for Frank and for the souls who touch my life and make it better.
It all started when I was on a walk several weeks ago. Even though it does not compare to other parts of the country, northern California does have a fall. Since I grew up in a part of the world where there was no identifiable Autumn, I always have been delighted by the annual changes in foliage. Delighted, yes, but I realize that until recently, I didn't really "see" it.
On the walk, I began to look down, as well as up, and started being drawn to leaves because of their particular colors or shapes. Soon, I began to think that I needed to do two walks - one for exercise and one for collecting, because I ended up dawdling so much. Last week, as I walked with an ever-growing fist full of leaves, I felt
almost child-like in the delight in really looking, in really seeing this new world of color and form. And I have not stopped. Recently we were doing work on one of our fences - well, actually Frank was doing the work, I was the "assistant." That left me time to look down and discover leaves from our Raywood Ash that had the most amazing range of colors.
So I brought my armloads of leaves into the studio. I have been working on a collection of botanical portraits. I have been playing with light and its relation to the amazing colors and shapes. And because I am fascinated with reflection, I have been using a mirror and working with reflection and the additional layer of depth and interest that provides.
With some leaves, the delight has been the strength and variety of colors. With others, the delight has been the delicacy and softness of the shades. And I have become fascinated with the way the leaves curl as they dry, providing an additional layer of beauty and interest.
I cannot help but see this one as a dancer, getting ready to pirouette - the sense of movement is a delight to me.
So, out of simply looking at the ground, I have discovered a world of extraordinary beauty and delicacy that I had not noticed before. Both on my walks and in the studio, I have been "seeing" in a new way. And I am aware that these leaves had all fallen to the earth, part of Nature's Autumn right of passage, but soon to be lost and forgotten. I like to think that in these portraits, I have provided them with a delicate immortality.
Yesterday was Dr. Hermann Rorschach's birthday. That's right, the one who created the inkblot test. Born on November 8, 1884, he developed what probably has become one of the most controversial instruments in the history of Psychodiagnostic Assessment. I had always thought he must have been a crusty old man when he developed the test, but was surprised to learn that he died in his 30's. And when I finally obtained a copy of his original text, I was shocked to see a picture of him: A youthful, rakish and quite handsome man who could be convincingly played in a movie by Brad Pitt. Who would have thought? It turns out he was an interesting and creative person, an artist and a painter, and it is clear that these interests informed his work as a psychiatrist.
When I was first introduced to the Rorschach Inkblot Test as a second year graduate student in psychology in 1986, I was quite skeptical about it usefulness. But over the course of a year-long class, with the assistance of a marvelous teacher and mentor, I began to understand its potential, when used intelligently in the context of a person's history and a fully battery of other tests. I will always remember how excited I felt about learning, and how surprised I was that I was so captivated by the Rorschach and other assessment instruments. Over the years, with further education, training, supervision and clinical experience, I have developed an even deeper appreciation for Rorschach's test. And when it came to pass that I began to teach psychology graduate students about psychodiagnostic assessment myself, it was the instrument that I loved teaching the most.
I remember, though, how overwhelming it all was in the beginning. The system of administration, scoring and interpretation seemed so complex: A sea of detailed instructions, scores, codes, derivations and ratios. D scores, Color Shading Blends, Affective Ratios, form quality, S-CON, CDI, ALOG, FABCOM: It was a whole new language. I was so in awe of my instructors and supervisors, I didn't imagine that I could ever learn it all. And yet, over time, while I won't say that I have learned "it all" by any stretch of the imagination, I have learned and internalized a lot, and now can look at a summary of all those ratios and percentages and numbers and not only not be overwhelmed, but feel that the data may make sense.
I always remembered this when I was teaching. Students would be overwhelmed and often try to imbue me with some sort of special capacity because it seemed to them that I understood it all effortlessly. (And I had felt this way with my own teachers, as well). And I would remind them that I was once where they were. That all learning is a matter of doing, over and over and over again. That in time, with repetition, with study and experience, they would develop an understanding, a feel for it, as well.
So having developed a certain level of competence in my own field, I now find myself a student once again, in my career as a photographer. And it is humbling. I recently began reading Joe McNally's book, The Hot Shoe Diaries. Or I should say, trying to read it. It is a beautiful book about light, lighting, photography, and is an inspiring and educational look into the thinking of a first-rate photographer. On pages 6 and 7 he has a photo of all his equipment. I recognize the camera, lenses, battery packs, even his leatherman tool and sharpies. But the rest of it - the sea of lights, filters, diffusers, clamps, stands, light shapers...Well, it's just overwhelming. A Justin Clamp? An SB-800? An SC-29 cord? An 80-20 attachment? FV lock, I-TTL and rear versus front curtain? Yowza. And I am back again, feeling as I did as a student, looking at my first Rorschach responses, and worrying that I will never even learn to speak the language, let alone understand it all.
So what's with the flower picture? Well, I am sure that this orchid has a botanical name, but I don't know what it is. I only know that when I saw it, it reminded me of an inkblot (not to mention quite a sweet little face - I mean, look at that little nose, the mouth, the eyes...) And so I named it, "Rorschach's Orchid" to honor the creativity of an amazing young man so many years ago, and to acknowledge a part of my other professional life that means so much to me.
This botanical portrait reminds me about artistic and scientific creativity. It reminds me of humbling lessons about teaching and learning. It reminds me that, one day, I may really understand what a "hot shoe" is and perhaps even be able to use it to improve my images. In a strangely reassuring way, Rorschach's Orchid reminds me that it is developmentally appropriate that I now sometimes feel so overwhelmed. Because while I have been living and working with inkblots for the past 23 years, I only have been developing my formal relationship with pixels and light for a much shorter time. I am on a new journey to develop skills in this new field. I know I won't ever be a Joe McNally. But with each book or article I read, with each conference or seminar I attend, with each photographer and artist I learn from, and with each image I make, I know that I am growing and developing as a competent and creative photographer. And I am reminded of the excitement I felt when I first began to understand the complexities and power of Dr. Rorschach's test. Stephanie
Today is Day of the Dead, so thoughts about life and death are with me today. However, this isn't a new preoccupation. One of my favorite movies in childhood was a 1934 classic called, "Death Takes a Holiday." (OK, perhaps I was a strange kid). The story is that Death wonders why humans fear him so much, so takes human form on earth for several days. In that time he learns about life and relationships and experiences being loved by someone who truly sees him as he is, but loves him anyway. He begins to understand why humans feel loss so painfully, and the depth of love and connection. In the end, he finds, "Love is greater than illusion and as strong as death."
Brad Pitt starred in a remake of the movie several years ago. But that movie neglected a part of the original story that always touched me. That is, while death took his "holiday" there were no deaths in the world. Despite the fact that car crashes, accidents and wars continued, no one died. It seemed like such a relief to me to think about this. To have a break from the fear associated with death and loss. At that time I don't think I understood the part about love being as strong as death, and so I didn't focus on it. It took meeting Frank, the love of my life, and to spend 35 years with him, to understand the strength of love, the strength of love that remains ever-present, (even when all of one is revealed, warts and all), and the idea, romantic as it is, of a love that can transcend time and circumstance.
So what does that all have to do with the above image? It is in the Venice of the misty winter that I feel most surrounded by the mysterious forces of love, life and death. I love that Frank and I both have such a deep feeling for the place, and the sharing of that is a delight. But this sense of Venice embodying the romantic, the mysterious, the ghostly, is not just our experience, it has touched artists of all mediums for centuries.
This was not the photograph that I intended to take, that wintery morning during Carnival, but it was the one that was captured by my camera. This figure seems so quietly mysterious, alone and, somehow, tired. In my mind I see her patiently waiting as the morning light begins to reveal itself. Who does she wait for? Or has she taken a holiday, a break from her duties? In the movement unexpectedly caught on camera, she looks up at me, but it is not my time.
I know that Death doesn't take a holiday. I know that each moment is a gift. And I know that because I am human, sometimes I get so caught up in the daily unimportant "stresses" of life, I forget that. This image reminds me, in a tender and less frightening way, that time is limited, and life must be lived. Some might say that this all is naive, over-romanticized, and to them I reply that I do know some about painful realities of life and death. But somehow this gives me comfort, and in the face of the eternal unknown, that isn't a bad thing. Stephanie
I am unabashedly in love with Venice, particularly winter-time Venice. The light, the mist, the colors, the architecture: No matter how many times I visit, I am still stunned by the decrepit beauty of her weathered facades. Art is everywhere. During our last trip I became drawn to the sculptured portraits found on door frames, on bridges and sometimes on walls. I have visited Venice many times, but it was only on this last trip that I really began to notice them. These sculptured faces are of humans and animals. Some are elegant and lovely. But others are like this one: A sad and poignant reminder that in the world there are tortured souls who struggle and suffer.
I feel drawn to this image because of its painful beauty. And perhaps I am drawn to it because I have been drawn to working with those who are disenfranchised and have suffered. It has been important to me to feel that in my work I have used my capacities to be of service to those who do not have advocates. In a strange way, I feel protective towards this image, as well: When it was rejected for an art show on "Portraits" I felt disappointed, of course, but also guilty - that I had somehow let it/him down. Because I wanted people to see him - to not turn away from him, to not ignore him. It is easy to notice the beautiful, but it takes more effort to really look at that which is troubling, frightening. Yet that is part of the human condition.
The California artist, Mark Lindsay (www.marklindsayart.com) has a beautiful series he calls "Venetian Ghosts." We all have ghosts, but somehow they seem all the more evident in the damp beauty of Venice - La Serenissima. Perhaps that is why I love her so. Stephanie
There was a moment several days ago when I realized I had begun to see like a photographer.
We were walking out of a building into a parking lot, late on a fall afternoon. He said to me, "It's still light." I replied, "Yes, it's that beautiful, warm, close to dusk light. It's golden and lovely, isn't it." "Actually," he countered, looking across the parking lot to the freeway, "I was talking about the traffic."
Now I notice light everywhere - when I am out walking, I notice shadows, shapes, patterns. I notice if the light seems warm or cold. If it seems hard or soft. Now I wonder how I ever could have missed just how golden and lovely the light is around dusk. I look at pictures in magazines and look at the direction of the light...
I am learning to see anew, and it is a light-filled world.
I love the following image because to me it represents so much about seeing and light, both in reality and metaphorically. It is from the Musee d'Orsay in Paris, a light cover in the ceilings of one of the salons.
"No one can see their reflection in running water. It is only in still water that we can see." Taoist Proverb.
I am a psychologist by training and perhaps that is one of the reasons why I am so curious about perception, misperception, reflection, how we develop as people, and the nature of reality and illusion. The concept of the role of reflection in development is particularly interesting. In psychological terms, it is thought that in infancy and childhood we initially develop a sense of ourselves, a sense of who we are as individual people and who we are in relationship to another, in part by way of interpreting the reflection of ourselves that we see in our caretaker's eyes. The other is a "mirror" whose early role is to help us "see" who we are. Ideally, in time, we become able to look into the eyes of another and see them and who they are, as well as ourselves. Others do not just have to serve the function of "mirroring" us, but are experienced as whole and complex in and of themselves. This is a developmental achievement. These concepts of reflection, the relationship of the reflection to that which is reflected, and the changing nature of what is reflected (both in real and metaphorical terms) are fascinating to me.
So perhaps it is no surprise that I have developed a photographic interest in reflections. We can see reflections in many places, but one of the most compelling to me is in water. Because water has a life and movement of its own, there becomes an interesting relationship between that which is reflected and the water. What do we see when the water is still? And what do we see when the water is running?
The image in the banner and the one to follow are reflections of tulips. From an artistic view, I love the soft, impressionist quality that comes from the movement of the water. Yet, the movement is quiet enough that the tulips are still clearly recognizable in all their colorful beauty. From a more metaphorical stance, these images are compelling because they reflect (!) the beautiful strength of shape and color of the flowers, along with the delicate transience and movement towards change that is inherent in any living thing.
I prefer to show this image as I saw it: The reflected view, with the tulips, well, upside down. But it has been interesting to me that when I show this, most people instinctively turn the image around to see it as if it was the original view of the flowers - "right side" up.
What does this mean? I don't really know. I only know that these reflected images, seen as they are, are beautiful and meaningful to my eye. Perhaps we can see reflection in both still and running water. Perhaps in my image I can show you how I see. Perhaps I can show you another way to see. And perhaps those are some of the great joys of photography. Stephanie
It's a Blog! Beginning with the first labor pains over the weekend to today, our blog is born. Frank acknowledges that while he is ready to give out cigars, I have been the one laboring. And it has been quite a labor. Those who know me know that to call me "technologically challenged" would be a kindness. I am, in a word, a luddite. I have joked that candles were perfectly good sources of light. Still, I am slowly emerging from under the rocks to reach out into cyberspace.
My first steps into the unknown came with the development of our photography website, which we invite you to visit: www.VisualOvation.Zenfolio.com. I have to say that the folks at Zenfolio are fantastic: They have put together a beautiful product, reasonably priced, with lots of options and very, very user friendly. Their technical support is extremely patient and kind (Thanks, Laura). It was a wonderful way to get my little luddite feet wet. And so the next step was a blog - not quite as easy to set up, but here we are.
So what is Visual Ovation and why are we here? Over the years, and in part coming from Frank's struggle with leukemia, we have developed a heightened appreciation for life and for living it as fully as possible. It is no accident that "Carpe Diem" is on our banner (it was a sweet delight and surprise to find a boat with this name in Amsterdam). There is nothing like being in a reverse isolation room hooked up to an IV for chemotherapy (or to witness the person you love the most in the world in this situation) to make you feel that when you get out you'll "seize the day" every day. And when, because of the skill and grace of a wonderful oncologist and team of oncology nurses (truly angels on earth); the love and support of friends and family; and serendipitous timing of medical advances, you become blessed with good health, well, you are not going to let that blessing go to waste.
Part of seizing the day has involved trying to see more of the world. But to seize the day doesn't necessarily mean leaving home. It more reflects a process of noting and appreciating the beautiful, the artistic, the interesting, the curious, the surprising and the humorous as we find it. Sometimes we are able to capture these moments in a photograph, sometimes in words, and sometimes they just will reside within us for private sustenance.
So for us, the name"Visual Ovation" represents the experience of seeing something and being filled with surprise or delight or interest. The idea of "applauding the artistic in the everyday" reflects our view that there is beauty and artistry everywhere, if we just can let ourselves see it and acknowledge it and "applaud" it. Visual Ovation Photography allows us to explore such images and it is in our website and this blog that we intend to share our views. If you are interested in musings about photography - (a new love and passion), travel (an old love and passion) and life - well, we hope you will keep on coming back.
The following picture comes from a recent trip to Amsterdam. We are not sure if Amsterdam is filled with what we call "urban wisdom" of if we were just ready to see it. But we kept finding images in the streets that spoke about life and celebration and living. On our first day, Frank took this picture. Words to live by, though we didn't expect to see this wisdom in metal letters on a storefront. So here's to celebrating life, new adventures, and the Birth of the Blog. - Stephanie
"A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step." Lao Tzu
This entry is the first step into a new journey, one of many made over the last year. It takes courage to leap into something new, but that is the excitement of it, as well. Here is an image of Spring-time beauty and renewal to symbolize this new beginning. In their vibrant color and simple, elegant form, these tulips embody the idea of the artistic in the everyday.
