SICILIA

I’d just finished the first draft of a new/old novel and was thinking about a change of pace when Hago and Danny called with news of an upcoming trip to Sicily. Just the break I needed. I’d never been there. All I knew of Sicily came from Andrea Camilleri and Francis Coppola. That was enough to get me on a plane.

The province of Catania
Castiglione di Sicilia

The village of Castiglione spills over a rocky slope not far from Mt. Etna. The first thing you notice is how old everything is–homes, churches, streets, the land itself. There’s not much left of the namesake castle top of the hill.

Castiglione
Castiglione Wine Bar

The highest wine bar in town appears to have been carved out of the castle walls. Compounding the sense of age are the death notices plastered on every available space throughout town.

They are pasted over advertisements and partially covered by other notices creating a palimpsest (love that word) of village culture and the knowledge that death is always present in life.

Cabinet? Supreme Court? Boys at the Bar

The odd thing here is that none of them are drinking. And it’s that way every night. I have no idea how Giuseppe who owns the bar and makes a mean Negroni makes a living.

Back to Mt. Etna. It’s somewhere around 10,000 feet tall, but that’s enough to make its own weather, which, combined with the volcanic soil, contributes to some interesting wine. You’d expect wines from this far south to be huge and highly alcoholic–see Roussillon, France–but the Etna micro-climate and soil allow the vintners to create a lean, elegant wine from the Nerello Mascalese grape. Delicious.

Siracusa is a city on the Ionian seacoast. The old section, Ortigia, is actually an island. The protein, as you might expect, comes from the sea.

Fish Market
Negroni from a barrel

The old section of an old city in a very old land, so old they even age the Negronis.

Caves. First thought to mind was, of course, Odysseus. I’m sure it was yours too. But the lad is thought to have washed ashore off the coast of Croatia. I don’t think so. These caves are perfect and if our captain had only gone in a little deeper, who knows what wonders we could have found.

SEBASTIÃO SALGADO

The World’s Most Important Photographer

Salgado Exhibit at Paris: La Défense

A bamboo hut designed by Colombian architect Simòn Vélez sits in the middle of the most commercial quarter of Paris. Inside is a collection of photographs by Salgado joined by the theme of water, the most precious fluid on earth. They are art of the highest order, shockingly beautiful. They are an appeal to the world’s conscience and they are a wake-up call.

At the age of seventy-eight, Salgado continues to travel the world, bringing light to earth’s most remote locations, calling attention to the fragility of our ecosystem and the responsibility of humanity to preserve the natural world and the indigenous communities threatened by encroaching industrialization. His photographs are gray scale (black and white), because color would make them pretty. They’re not, but they are beautiful. And frightening. And informative. And most of all, powerful.

This is photography at its best: beautiful images that strongly convey an unambiguous message. Living on this planet is a privilege, and if we are to continue we have the responsibility of stewardship. We cannot continue to exploit resources without replacing them. We cannot continue heating our homes and powering our vehicles with the fossil fuels that are destroying the atmosphere. And we cannot continue to support and accommodate corrupt politicians who profit by wielding power over beneficial legislation. I’m looking at you, Joe Manchin.

Salgado and his wife Lelia, a Brazilian writer, have devoted their lives to this call for action, and taken their commitment beyond photography with the creation of an NGO to revive the forested land owned by their family.

Our non-profit organization, Instituto Terra, has planted more than 2.7 million trees belonging to more than 300 endemic species. […] The return of this tropical microclimate has attracted birds and animals that have not been observed there for several decades.” – Sebastião Salgado

If you’re in Paris before September 22, see this exhibit. If not, buy one of his extraordinary books. Then pour yourself a glass of water and think about how lucky you are.

Salgado Exhibit Venue La Defense

©2022 Ron Scherl

Fresh Air

Those clouds you see are the visible manifestation of the world’s collective sigh of relief. France has refused to stumble down the path of intolerant populism. The election is over, the good guys (comparatively speaking) won, the relief is palpable. We can now kick back, have another glass of wine and contemplate the rising cost of baguettes. France has, for the moment, come to the rescue of democracy.

Before the First Round

Macron’s margin of victory (17 points) would be considered a landslide in the US, here it was thought to be close because five years ago, he won by almost twice that. That’s because five years ago no one knew who he was. They do now, and never stop complaining, but still returned him to office because the threat of Le Pen’s anti-immigrant racism was more than they could swallow. Thank you.

It’s been said that the French vote with their hearts in the first round and with their heads in the runoff. It’s also true that as soon as he (they’ve all been men so far) takes office, the president becomes Public Enemy Number One. So re-election is a triumph for Macron, hasn’t happened since Jacques Chirac in 2002.

Enough politics. Paris was a treat today. Warm, sunny, puffy white clouds, the tourists are back, the masks are off, the cafés are full, and people are smiling.

Happy to be here.

Square St. Lambert

©2022 Ron Scherl

Orwell’s Roses

I’ve been reading Rebecca Solnit’s Orwell’s Roses, a book about the importance of beauty in our lives. In 1936—before leaving England to join the battle against fascism in Spain—George Orwell planted roses in his garden. It seems at first to be an unremarkable occurrence; after all roses were and continue to be extremely popular plantings in ornamental gardens and the English have always been fond of gardens. But Orwell was a man who dedicated his life to the struggle for human rights and was willing to put his beliefs on the line as a soldier for the POUM, one of many factions who took up arms against Franco’s forces of repression. Solnit uses Orwell’s garden as a metaphor for the human need of beauty, especially in perilous times when the battle against totalitarianism is pitched.

Do I hear an echo of today’s headlines?
Putin, Xi, Bolsonaro, Orban, Duterte, Trump. The world is once again faced with the rise of dictators and wanna-bes.

Hotel Des Bains, rue Delambre

In 1936, Spanish Fascists backed by Nazi Germany and Italy, staged a dress rehearsal for World War II with a violent overthrow of the elected Republican government of Spain. Republicans expected the west—France, Great Britain, United States—to come to their aid, reasoning that surely these democracies would recognize the need to oppose Hitler. It didn’t happen. Roosevelt’s isolationist policies, Chamberlain’s belief that Hitler could be appeased, Leon Blum’s brief tenure as French president, contributed to keep the west sidelined. Franco’s professional military and Hitler’s arms destroyed the fractious defenders whose anarchists, Stalinists, and Trotskyites wound up fighting among themselves in the pursuit of ideological purity. Wounded and disillusioned, Orwell returned to his English garden.

Magnolia

The Retirada began. At least 500,000 Republican survivors trekked across the Pyrenees, expecting to be hailed as heroes in France. Instead, the French imprisoned them in relocation camps, another WWII dress rehearsal, this time for the Vichy government’s treatment of Jews.
In 1936,George Orwell planted roses.
In 1939, Pablo Casals went to the internment camp at Argelès, France and played Bach’s Suites for Unaccompanied Cello for the hungry, displaced inmates.
Last night, I went to the Théâtre des Bouffes du Nord to hear Sonia Wieder-Atherton play the same music while Charlotte Rampling recited a number of Shakespeare’s sonnets.
Ms. Wieder-Atherton is an extraordinary musician. Ms. Rampling is, of course, a marvelous actress. Bach. Shakespeare. Magic. Seventy minutes of beauty that banished the fears and nightmares of the world outside.

Théâtre des Bouffes du Nord

©2022 Ron Scherl

Larry Walker

1936-2022

Directions for Dying

Read Carefully:
It is important
That you get it right the first time.
There are no second takes.
You understand that, surely?

First, be sure all the bills are paid
Or there is money in the bank
To pay them.
Your terminal credit report
Means nothing to you
But could be important to your heirs, if any.

Second, you must (and this is essential)
Resist the impulse to write long and maudlin letters
To friends and relatives about your life
And death and what it all means.
No one, repeat after me, no one gives a shit.

In the same spirit, do not
Under any circumstance
Leave directions for music to be played
Or poems to be read at your funeral.
That is simply embarrassing for everyone.
(If you really must
You can request particular flowers.
Daisies are a cheerful choice.)

Finally, keep in mind
That your death is not about you.
I think that covers the main points:

Now:
Get Ready.
Get Set.
Go.

LEW

Winter Light II

California Dreaming

January at Stinson Beach in Marin County a few miles north of San Francisco. This is winter in Northern California: mild temperatures, mostly clear skies, dry. After heavy December rains prompted a little hope that the drought might end, January came up warm and sunny. Hardly a hardship for a visitor from Paris, but here the drought continues.

Molten silver waves

I’m here to visit friends, people I’ve known and loved for many years, the people who caused me to think hard about leaving San Francisco. I live in Paris now, but I could never leave my friends. And so, this visit.

We’re aging now, moving into that twilight realm which popular culture doesn’t target, and we, conveniently, don’t care. But the sidebar to our confidence in who we are and what we like is the discomfort caused by change. We tell ourselves it’s inevitable, we believe it, but the feeling of being left behind is disorienting, even if we see the world plunging into a dystopian future. Only yesterday it was our world, our music, our culture, and if our place in it wasn’t always secure, these anchors kept us rooted.

More

This beach at the foot of Mount Tamalpais has been a special place since close friends came to live here years ago. They brought lively gatherings, great food and wine to the many pleasures of the shore. To breathe the fresh sea air is to be renewed, it clears the dross from the brain, creates space for fresh ideas. The power of the water is a source of wonder and a warning of our weakness. Sinking bare feet into the sand anchors us to the planet until the next wave erases our presence. Only memories remain.

Winter Light

Yesterday the sun came out, and Parisians were quick to follow. Saturday, the 18th of December, the last weekend before Christmas, but when the sun appears in December, shopping can wait. The last few weeks have been gray. Not cloudy, not much rain, just a dull gray roof sitting there like an absence of inspiration.

I finished (until the next revision) my novel. I actually typed “The End” for the first time. The next day, the sun appeared. Now that’s what I call a good omen. I picked up my phone, left the apartment, and became a photographer again. And what better place to go than Le Jardin du Luxembourg.

Paris: Luxembourg Gardens Winter Light

The iPhone camera is a marvel. When I started out in photography, (Attention! the following text contains geezer reminiscences. Young people are advised to avoid) every workshop speaker offered the same advice. It was phrased as either: “F8 and be there” or “The best camera is the one you have with you.” Technology made F8 irrelevant, Steve Jobs took care of the rest.

Paris: Luxembourg Gardens Winter Light

A few more words about the novel. The working title is A Small Betrayal, and I realized while writing that many of the scenes grow out of images that stick in memory. That’s a good thing and reason enough to revive this blog. It may take a while because WordPress has evolved in the time I’ve been away from it. I have some learning to do.

Paris: Luxembourg Gardens Winter Light
Paris: Rue Vaugirard Winter Light

SEARCHING FOR NORMAL

Oracle Park
Now Oracle Park

Normal is hard to imagine, but baseball has always been constant in my life. And for the last fifty years, that’s meant the San Francisco Giants. And living in France that means MLB.com. Not perfect, but once I learned how to get to yesterdays’ game without revealing the final score, I was fine. It’s not easy and not recommended for the inexperienced.
So MLB.com brings me games, but as I’m sure you’re aware, there are no fans in the seats. This is surprisingly disorienting. The canned fan noise isn’t much help. The celebrity cutouts in the seats are amusing the first time you see them, but then it’s time for baseball and it doesn’t feel right. It’s more like some futuristic nihilistic experience designed to keep the people content. It’s Orwell-ball, and I suppose the participants are rewarded with extra rations.
Now, if you’ve been paying attention, you know the Giants are in what we might politely call a transition period; i.e., they suck. This is a changing of the guard, but I can’t help but feel that the good teams understand that change is inevitable and prepared for it. I will not, I cannot cite the Dodgers. The Giants chose to ride the wave until there was nothing left and now begin a total rebuild—from scratch. Hard to blame them, the wave was high, the money was good, Let the Good Times Roll.
BUT, we still have Kruk and Kuip: Mike Krukow and Duane Kuiper They can’t pitch, they can’t hit, but somehow they make every inning enjoyable. They know the game and never talk down. What a pleasure. They never pretend to be dumber than they are—an epidemic in sports broadcasting—presumably because they think listeners aren’t very smart. Add in Jon Miller and Dave Flemming on radio, which is not available to me at the moment, and you have a reason to pay attention.

Yogi on TV

Yogi

My friend, Larry Walker, who grew up in the Midwest with the Cardinals on radio, prefers to listen. I’m a few years younger, was raised in New York with Mel Allen, Red Barber, Russ Hodges and the early days of television and have always leaned on the visual.
Sidebar: I‘m thinking about beer: Yankees- Ballantine; Dodgers-Schaeffer; Giants-Rheingold. Not sure that’s right. Anyone with better memory, please set me straight.
Normal—not quite. This virus that I think of as the earth’s response to all the damage we’ve done, has rearranged any idea we may have had about normal. Everything has changed and, like the Giants, we can ride the wave as long as we can, or we can rethink our relationship to this planet, and try to rebuild what we have so severely damaged.
©2020 Ron Scherl

Still Life with Baseball
Why is there a pine cone in the glove?

Blame it on the Stones

Mick and Keith
  1. Brown Sugar
  2. Bitch
  3. Rocks Off
  4. Gimme Shelter
  5. Happy
  6. Tumbling Dice
  7. Love in Vain (Robert Johnson cover)
  8. Sweet Virginia
  9. You Can’t Always Get What You Want
  10. All Down the Line
  11. Midnight Rambler
  12. Bye Bye Johnny (Chuck Berry cover)
  13. Rip This Joint
  14. Jumpin’ Jack Flash
  15. Street Fighting Man
  16. Encore:
  17. Let It Rock

I’ve always thought that my hearing loss was due to three nights of Rolling Stones Concerts at Winterland in 1972. Here’s the set list according to setlist.fm. Who knew there was such a thing. If it weren’t for Facebook, the internet would be a wonderful thing.

A great night of music.

Jagger


I was working for a small ambitious publication called The Night Times. My friend, Joel Selvin was the editor. We met when we were copyboys at the Chronicle: Joel went on to a music column for the Chron and several well-received books on the music business. I went on to San Francisco Opera and a freelance photography business centered on the performing arts that lasted to Y2K (another blast from the past).
I now live in Paris (France) and am looking for a good deal on hearing aids. Blame it on the Stones. No really. Three nights in front of mountainous speakers, my ears were ringing for a week and my hearing has never been the same.
I shrugged it off for a long time, Sir Mick, but now it’s getting serious. I’m having a very difficult time understanding the French. This puzzles me, Keith. I should be better than this. I’ve worked hard, studied for a long time, spent lots of time here and have lived here for the last three years.
So I began to investigate hearing aids, actually, I started that a long time ago but lost the one I had, so the search began anew. Today, I had a hearing test that asked me to repeat recorded words and it quickly became apparent that I was mishearing many sounds. When an “S” sounds like “F”, it becomes very difficult to learn a language. I’ve lost all the edges. Everything in the upper register sounds like it’s wrapped in an Arctic parka. Sounds on the lower end simply don’t penetrate.
I’m not really blaming you, Charlie. I didn’t have to stand there, although if my paper had a little more clout, I might have been onstage next to Jim Marshall, but Jimmy’s dead and I’m still here so it’s hard to say that would have been better. Of course, I was never as aggressive as Jim so I probably wouldn’t have been there anyway, but let’s not sweat the details, Bill.
It’s late, Ronnie. I’m going to bed. I’ll finish this tomorrow.

There’s really not much more to say. I’m sure you guys were worried about me, but really it’s not a problem. It’s only rock ‘n roll.

A Jew in France

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

W.B. Yeats, 1920

A lot has been written lately about the rise in anti-Semitism in France. The New York Times and The Guardian have reported in the last week on increased incidences of the desecration of Jewish cemeteries and synagogues with the painting of that most recognizable symbol of hate: the Nazi Swastika, and the denunciation of these acts by the Macron government. An article in Le Monde quoted Macron as saying in a speech to CRIF, a coalition of French Jewish organizations: the resurgence of anti-Semitism in France is unequaled since the second world war. In contrast to Mr. Trump, President Macron and Prime Minister Edouard Philippe unequivocally denounced hatred and the haters, saying “this is not the country we are.” It may not be the country they want, but it is undeniable that there is a long history of anti-Semitism in France, a country with the largest Jewish population outside of Israel and the United States, and a country that deported 78,000 Jews to Nazi death camps.

Entrance to Camp de Rivesaltes
Camp de Rivesaltes

There is certainly an alarming increase in the number of anti-Semitic incidents but it is unclear if this reflects a burgeoning hatred in the population or the increased freedom to broadcast opinions that used to be kept quiet. There is no doubt that as this and other western countries become increasingly polarized, the rhetoric becomes more heated and people gravitate to the extremes of left and right as moderates disappear. In France, Macron’s election destroyed the centrist Socialist and Republican parties; in Britain, Brexit has fractured both the Conservatives and Labor; and in the US, Democrats have moved to the left as Republicans lined up behind Trump. The void in the middle opens a path for populist demagogues as has happened in Brazil, Austria, Hungary, Italy, and the United States.
Macron seemed to be aware of this dynamic when in his speech to CRIF he supported the adoption of a definition of anti-Semitism that is enlarged to include anti-Zionism.

What to make of this?

It can be perceived as a political act, both in attempting to woo a frightened French Jewish community and as a lightly veiled reference to the left-wing leader, Jean-Luc Mélenchon who has been accused of cloaking his anti-Semitism in criticism of Netanyahu’s policies. Tarring the left with the same brush of bigotry that sticks to Marine Le Pen on the right, leaves Macron as the only acceptable choice for a majority of the country. Opposition to the Zionist policies of the Israeli government is not anti-Semitic.
I support the right of Jews to a homeland. I oppose the destruction of the Palestinian people to annex more land for Israel. I am not an anti-Semite, but including opposition to Zionism in a definition of anti-Semitism seems to put all Jews in the same boat which is not very different from saying all Muslims are terrorists.
Macron also spoke of additional laws to ban online hate speech by anonymous postings and an investigation into the increasing number of Jewish students who have left school under the fear of violence.
Macron had to respond with more than words of sympathy. It remains to be seen whether his initiatives will become effective actions but it may not matter. Prejudice is as old as humanity and cannot be legislated away.
©2019 Ron Scherl

Camp de Rivesaltes
Camp de Rivesaltes