Trouble Commenting

I have encountered a problem posting comments at a number of sites. So far, I am mystified as to the why. Just living with the frustration for now. Sooner or later, I will stumble upon the solution.

Family Values

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Just a few words to put into context what happens here in the near future (or more accurately what doesn't happen). My back has gone kaflooie again, The Husband has a surgery coming up all too soon, and the deadlines for the art show loom in the background. Things are apt to get a bit wonky. But everything in life is temporary. All will be straightened out soon.

Meanwhile, life goes on. Our spring finally turned to summer, but a blessedly mild one, so far. Most days, we are filled with optimism and on the ones when we aren't, we mostly just stay quiet. Galen continues to fill our lives with joy. He supplies generous doses of love, education, and entertainment.

When he isn't streaking around the backyard at breakneck speed, he loves to jump up on things and negotiate obstacles. It is possible he was born to be an agility dog. While we have no intention of taking that seriously, we do plan to purchase some bargain-priced, "practice", agility obstacles for his play sessions. In the photo above, he is perched atop a garden bench. One of his favorite sports is racing across the yard to respond to "come", then reacting to a wave of the hand and "hup" with a leap atop the nearest of what have become Galen's benches. He also thinks racing, full-out, between a person's legs is almost as much fun as eating.

There is only one small downside to his joy in these family sessions. He is quite resourceful in making it known that he has spent considerable energy assessing the circumstances and insists on sharing the information—at full volume, of course. The message: "It is getting late and there is little time left for play. And, no, one of you won't do. This is family time." Naturally, the message is cleverly designed and delivered in a way to be mistaken for "I have to go outside, now, and if you wait there will be a dreadful accident in the house. Just don't say I didn't warn you."

Would we trade the head-splitting racket for peace and quiet? Would we rather settle down to TV? Do we ever regret following the furry little tyrant outside once we drag our sorry behinds after him? We may not be brain surgeons, but we aren't hopelessly stupid.

The Golden Foothills

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I have been seeing Highway 58 more regularly as a result of my physical therapy. Because I am so fond of the scenes along the way, this is not tedious for me. The seasons change and the look and feel of the landscape evolves. The rolling hills that, a few months ago, turned that rich—almost other-worldly green are now draped in golden brown with bits of deep rusty brown and and sprouts of a new, more subdued green here and there. To me, the foothills are equally beautiful now despite the change in finery. Simpler garb, in the eyes of some—less showy, but I find the hills equally beautiful with their starkness, clarity, and plain-spoken manner. The golden foothills rising against the blue sky have a regal quality and a dignity that is just as seductive as the exuberant and luxurious green of spring.

Along with the pleasure I take in the colors and shapes of the hills, I am fascinated by the fences that wander—in what almost seems an aimless manner—up, down, and across the hills—zigging and zagging for reasons that aren't obvious. I can lose myself in the patterns of those lines.

When I was a child, my family took road trips on weekends for entertainment. When conversation tapered off and my siblings were tired of playing, I fantasized about riding my dream horse through the fields that slid by. Of course, when my mount and I came to a fence—mostly plain and simple affairs like the one here—we sailed over it effortlessly, scoffing at boundary markers, and continuing our race with the car.

Maybe that is when I was first drawn to fences. After all, to a carefree child, they weren't serious impediments. They were minor obstacles—obstacles that were meant to be sailed over. Hurdles meant to be greeted with relish and vanquished with glee. Ah, all is possible in the mind of an innocent.

Abandoned

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Once again, I saw this scene played out on Saturday. Poor Lancer was the one left behind. When The Husband and Night leave on foot, the chestnut is agitated and thunders around the pasture, bugling and expressing what feels like a mixture of panic and rage. Neither of the horses handles being left behind with grace. But, eventually, the panic subsides, the futility of the rage dawns, and whoever is left behind returns to grazing.

But, trust me, they know what a trailer means. When one's buddy is drawn away in that white metal box, it is serious business. There is genuine doubt as to whether the departing animal will return. Not only do the panic and rage run their course sooner, but, for Lancer, in particular, the deep anxiety and despair set in. Saturday was typical. At first he ran full out around the pasture, a frantic hell-for-leather version of nervous pacing. When he returned to the gate he began the weaving (shifting weight from one front leg to the other) until he was exhausted, then with his gaze fastened on the road, he whinnied, not those soft whinnies you get as a greeting, or those short, impatient whinnies that say "where is my hay?", but great body-shaking whinnies, that come from somewhere deep in the gut.

Then he stationed himself at the pasture gate—the gate that Night had exited earlier—and watched. Watched, and listened for signs that his abandonment was not permanent.  Attempts to distract him were met with impatience. Carrots earned only mild interest.  He briefly interrupted his vigil a few times only to get a drink of water and grab a quick bite of his virtually untouched breakfast.  From 7:00 AM until 5:00 PM he maintained his vigil. Standing. Waiting.

My heart hurts for them when they go through this. While animals are blessed with so many skills superior to our own, they are not equipped to deal with these human-engineered separations. Having other horses a pasture away is not enough. They want their buddy nearby. It is partially a matter of instinct. Like most prey animals, horses feel safer with their herd. They also form attachments. Some recent studies have indicated that horses may recognize other horses with whom they were associated many years before. That isn't surprising when you consider how many dogs cover hundreds of miles to find their owners. Whatever science may be able to demonstrate, you could never convince horse owner that these animals don't form deep attachments.

Our horses pick at one another like a couple little boys. They fuss, kick, and nip, lay ears back, and threaten mayhem. At times, you would swear they are mortal enemies. But, when abandoned, each is distraught. I always wish I could explain and assure the animal left behind that the separation is temporary. But, there is no reasoning with an animal separated from what has become family. It is painful to watch.

When Night finally came through the gate, he and Lancer touched noses and had a little horse hug (heads thrown over necks) before they set about their usual horse business of rolling in the dirt, eating—and fussing at one another.

Nothing is Safe

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In case you were wondering, yes, I am using this new style of processing on some equine images. After all, I can't lavish all of that love exclusively on landscapes and stills of flowers. At one point I thought about joking that I might be in danger of attempting to apply this processing to anything not moving. Oops! Well, at least I can assure you that this horse wasn't moving when I applied the texture layers.

Celebrations and Nostalgia

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This post has nothing to do with photography—it is strictly personal and reaches into my recent past. But, since this is on my mind and I am in blabbermouth mode, I am not going to sit on it any longer.

On occasion, I have mentioned, here, that I taught film acting and ran an actors' studio in Los Angeles for three decades. Having been retired less than four years, I haven't yet fully completed my long period of mourning for what I gave up. I may have left the life behind, but it will always be a major part of who am I am and it will always occupy a large and special part of my heart.

So here is the story. You have probably heard of the new DreamWorks film, The Help, based, of course, on the runaway hit novel by the same name. Well, it happens that the screenplay writer and director of that film is one of my students and the actress, Octavia Spencer, who plays Minny, also studied with me. No doubt, you will hear a great deal more about these two in the months and years to come and every time they make the news, you can bet that I will be bursting with happiness for two exceptionally talented, hard-working people—two people I adore.

I loved teaching with a passion that was difficult to put aside. Life changes—even the good ones—can be painful. Every time that phone rings and it is an actor asking about coaching, I feel a little ache in my heart. I begin wondering, again, if leaving was a mistake and I have a day or two of wistful thinking about the joys of watching talent blossom.

But, that was another life in another place. Now, I am that retired teacher who basks in the pleasure of memories and celebrates the triumphs of my precious students from a distance. It was a gift to have witnessed the journey of so many talented individuals. They taught me so very much and I will always be grateful. People often ask me if I have any children. I frequently quip, "No, but I sure borrowed a bunch."

Art Conspiracies

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I have had something on the back burner for a few weeks and, just to be certain I have pounded all the life from this old metaphor, it has started to boil. It is time to drop a few hints. Why bother with a few hints, you ask? Why even bring it up if I can't tell the whole story? Obviously, you haven't been reading my blog very long. Otherwise, you surely know me better than to expect hardcore reasoning on matters of the heart. And this is a matter of the heart.

As for why only hints, this venture is a partnership. This isn't just my story to tell and many details are unsettled, so I need to wait until I can "spill the beans". I am only good at keeping other people's secrets. Any secret you shared with me might as well be stored at Fort Knox. I carry around secrets that are decades old. I have held onto some secrets until I forgot I ever knew the information in the first place. On the other hand, if it involves me, I am a veritable blabbermouth. If I don't drop some hints, the pressure will build in my poor little brain and I can't handle the extra stress.

Now you know why, here is the what. For the last few weeks, I have been conspiring with my friend C to take some control over showing our work. C is a painter whose work I like very much and C is a delight. It is a great combo. On Saturday, we took the plunge. We pitched our idea to the owner and manager of a local winery. When I returned and walked in our back door, The Husband asked, "How did it go?"  My response was, "It couldn't have gone any better unless Chuck (the owner) had written us a check purchasing all the art in advance."

I don't know much—which is helpful to a blabbermouth, but I know we are investigating the viability of scheduling this for October 1. (Yikes, that's close.) The manager will investigate possible conflicts with local events as well as events that might complement ours. This I know for certain: I suddenly have to switch gears. Big chunks of my time must be devoted to printing, matting and framing. There will be publicity to organize and a million (well, almost) decisions to make. Work not yet finished will have to be shelved for the moment. That won't be easy.

The best part of this, in my mind, is that we have taken action. Whatever happens from this point forward is a bonus.  We fretted over so few opportunities to show that didn't involve membership fees and restrictive contracts, or waiting for the once-a-year Bear Valley Springs show. And, we took matters into our own hands. It feels good to have taken the step. It is going to be an interesting few weeks.

Making the Most of It

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I wonder if that is what is happening. Are many making the most of this waning summer? I know I become more conscious each day that this late arriving and much savored summer is coming to an end. The days are already shorter. The nights are cooler. Like the child out of school and dreading September, I want to hang onto each shred of my precious summer. The balmy evenings, the easy-going mornings enjoying the kinder summery breezes, even the cloudless skies have warmed my bones and brought a welcome relief from the long, cold, seemingly endless winter.

Yes, winter has its allure with bracing cold, crisp air; blankets of snow turning the simplest landscape into a wonderland; and cloud shows that provide inspiration for weeks to come. But, I never think to call winter charming or comforting. Spring invigorates me. Autumn makes me especially thoughtful. Summer calms me, bringing a kind of deep peace. Childhood memories? Probably.

These last few days are to be noted. Taken into account and stored in memory. I will need those images in my mind that first Autumn morning when there is ice where the daisies grew. Ah, well, each season has moments of being my favorite. For now, I am a summer girl through and through.

Wild Daisies

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The wild daisies are one of the reasons I love summers in Bear Valley Springs. I never tire of them. Yes, they are absent the refinements of so many other lovely flowers. And, the daisies certainly are neither fragile nor difficult to propagate. Far from possessing the mystery and delicacy of so many other blossoms, these common, wild things—weeds, really—dominate the landscape here by July. For weeks, they stand, merrily waving in the summer breeze, savoring the sunshine, and generously spreading their simple joy.

Let The Husband wage his relentless war against the mustard, if he must. But, woe be unto any who dare mow down all my daisies. Fortunately, we long ago negotiated peaceful co-existence: a portion of our landscape has been assigned to the daisies; the remainder is subject to the mower. As a result, all all is well with us, just as it is with the ever-cheerful daisies.

Telling Stories With Images

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I enjoyed the responses to my last post and probably will post similar questions in the future. A great big thank-you to all who participated in the conversation. I appreciate the time taken to share your stories and each comment left me with something interesting to contemplate.

The story elements that evolved in my mind as that recent image emerged were rather dark. There was a sense of being lost in a forlorn and harsh environment—a cold, brutal wind stung my eyes. Even though there seemed to be vast open spaces around me, I was hemmed in by something I couldn't see. Everytime I felt I was about to gain control over events, I was faced with a dark and unexpected turn. The mountains were a challenge that I somehow had to reach, for the only hope lay on the other side.

I am intrigued by the connection between the elements in a picture and the properties of the story that emerges. For me, it isn't a clean and linear line. It is as if the image whispers stories to life and the stories then play on me as I process the image. I have come to think of that interplay as a kind of a dance. The intellect is in charge, then yields to the heart. I know precisely where I am going and how to get there.... Then, I lose my way and stumble about taking cues from what?  A dream, a memory?

When I stop molding an image—when I am ready to share it and say "This is it—for now", the result sometimes feels like something that is not really my own. There is no one or thing to blame, of course, but neither can I claim full credit—if, indeed, any is due. I led during parts of the process, but there were moments when it felt more like following. It was a process that took me to a discovery.

There is another aspect of images and communication that intrigues me. I have noticed that some people seem to think that if the image is made well enough it will say the same thing to all viewers. Wouldn't that turn the entire communication experience into a guessing game? "Guess what story I meant to convey with this image." That sounds like a really lame parlor game.

We all bring our unique life experience to every contemporary experience. We, each, arrive at any given moment with our particular baggage and that baggage will affect what we read into the story before us. Just as you and I would visit the same spot, but return home with different photographs, shown the same image we will read different stories featuring our particular characters and playing off our personal history.

The responses to my invitation for your stories gave me a good taste of what I was craving—some conversation about personal emotional responses to an image. What more could I have asked? The photo here was taken on that same stretch of highway as the last picture. This one calls to my mind very different stories, even though the setting is similar and the characters in the image certainly look similar. I hope this one suggests stories that speak to you.