Ron Scherl – Page 14 of 17

All’s Well

We’re charging into spring now with warm weather, longer days, blossoming fruit trees and life returning to the streets. The kids aren’t rushing home after school but staying in the streets a bit to play, neighbors stop to greet and say a few words about how beautiful the weather is. Thierry has flowers to plant and asparagus to eat and people stop to chat at the market. The café scene has moved to the terrace and that brings more people out for an aperitif. The 2011 rosés are appearing at the tasting rooms. The wine growers have been pruning and plowing and for some, attention now turns to bottling the 2010 vintage.

Espira-7391 — Bee at Work ©2012 Ron Scherl

I went to Thunevin-Calvet the other day to watch the bottling of the first vintage of Eugenia Keegan’s Grenache Project. Eugenia is a winemaker who used to live in the Napa Valley, now in Oregon and for years has tortured herself making pinot noir. Now she’s hung up on grenache, making wine here with Jean-Roger and Marie Calvet, and also in Chateauneuf du Pape, and soon in Spain. Winemakers are a strange and restless breed: Randall Grahm, who had great success with Rhone varietals in California (Bonny Doon) has channeled Don Quixote and gone in search of the perfect vineyard to make Burgundian pinot in California. Dave Phinney, whose Zinfandel-based Prisoner garnered huge fans, points and sales, is now in Maury making wine from grenache. Often when you talk to winemakers who have migrated here, the first thing they say is that they were looking for old vine grenache and discovered Maury.

Maury01-4020-Edit — Eugenia Keegan ©2012 Ron Scherl

Eugenia speaks of grenache, not like someone selling wine, but more like a seeker discovering the truth, it’s more religion than marketing.

So I went round to the bottling and as is often true around here found a family affair. Jean Roger and Marie were packing cases, Roger Calvet, JR’s father was labeling them and Marie’s grandfather arrived a bit later to offer the perspective of his 90 years.

Eugenia was nervous. I though this was just a formality, that the moments of truth were in the vineyard, at harvest and in the initial processing. But Eugenia was nervous because all that work was now on the line. She had never bottled in France before, she had never used screw caps. Mistakes made at this point could not be corrected. Professionals were in charge and everything was most likely to go well, but what if it didn’t? She was this bundle of nervous energy who only relaxed when she took a spot on the line, packing the bottles into cases. But Eugenia was in good hands. Her French family knew exactly what to do.

Maury01-4031 — Roger Calvet, Jean-Roger Calvet, Eugenia Keegan ©2012 Ron Scherl

All’s well that ends well.

Third Person

Spring?

Springtime, maybe. At least the last few days have been much warmer; the almond trees have started to blossom and Friday nights have returned to the café. We were a small group and several conversations in English and French were going on at once. I was talking to a local winemaker about his upcoming trip to New York when I heard someone else at the table use the phrase “you’ve got to Jew down the middleman.” He wasn’t talking to me and the person he was talking to didn’t react and neither did I.

Now I wonder why.

I thought for a while that I’ve lived too long in a politically correct society and this was no big deal but I haven’t been able to dismiss it.

I also thought this is a small town and the last thing I want is to make enemies. I was afraid that making an issue of this would cause a split and I would be the one left out.

This was what stopped me, in part anyway.

I began to think I was being overly sensitive, probably because I’ve been reading a lot about World War II lately. It’s very hard to find information about the situation of Jews here during the occupation. I’m not even sure there were any Jews in Maury at the time. But there was a concentration camp not 15 miles away in Rivesaltes and though it was first built in 1938 to house refugees from the war in Spain, it remained in use throughout the German occupation of France and beyond. Today there are monuments to the Spanish, Jewish, Tsigane (Gypsy) and Harki people who spent time there. (Harkis are Algerian Muslims who fought for France in the Algerian War and were interned in the camp because no provision had been made for them when the French withdrew). In 1942, about 6500 Jews were sent to this and other camps in unoccupied France, 1800 died there, the rest were sent to extermination camps. Very few survived. A museum of remembrance and education is planned but has not yet received final approval.

Now what.

Is this kind of remark indicative of anything more than thoughtlessness in a casual conversation and is that in itself a dangerous attitude? Is it possible that this person has no idea the remark is offensive? Of course, but that doesn’t mean it should go unchallenged; it is the casual acceptance of stereotypes that leads to bigotry. Prejudice thrives on ignorance and silent complicity; hate crimes, ethnic cleansing, terrorism and other nightmares can be traced to racial and religious bigotry and the dehumanizing effect of stereotypes.

It’s a long way from a casual remark to ethnic warfare and I don’t mean to suggest that we’ve started down that road in our little village, but I can’t seem to put this aside. I went to the camp today looking for what: confirmation, perspective, photos for the blog? The place is huge and appears to have been left untouched for 70 years except for evidence of campers, taggers and garbage disposal. It’s falling down but many walls remain standing. When you see this today – here, not in Poland or Germany – surrounded by modern civilization, the impact is much greater than old newsreel footage. It brings to life the injunction to never forget.

So why publish this? What do I hope to gain?

Apologies are fine but I’m not sure they’d make a whole lot of difference to either one of us. I’d like to believe that you can change the world one person at a time but I doubt it. But I do want this one person to learn that Jew is not a verb and that phrase is offensive and not to use it again.

This blog is a personal journey so I’ll tell you about the first time I can remember an experience like this.

About 50 years ago, the very first real date I had was with a young blond girl from the suburbs. I don’t remember how I met her. Sometime in the course of our lavish Italian dinner at Mamma Leone’s in Times Square – the height of dining for me at the time – she made a similar remark, it may even have been the same phrase. I didn’t say a word, probably not for the rest of the meal and went home feeling ashamed, not of being a Jew, but of not saying anything to her.

Now I’ve done it again but I’ve come to understand that if his casual thoughtlessness is dangerous, so too was my silence.

Click on the image to see a larger version.

Concentration Camp at Rivesaltes ©2012 Ron Scherl

ART

I’ve been thinking about art again. I know, I know, but take it as a warning like when Jon Carroll announces up front that it’s going to be another cat column. Cats, art, it’s all the same.

So here’s the deal, it’s been cold and gray outside and in, for the last month and I haven’t been shooting very much. I also haven’t been writing all that much and experiencing frequent days of funkiness: nothing major, just the usual free-floating anxiety mixed with a bit of regret, a touch of homesickness and a soupcon of anger (I always wanted to use that word).

Then a few days ago, Marcel called to say the horses had arrived and plowing would begin this week. Photo-op.

Photo of plowing — Plowing Vineyards: Marcel and Nina ©2012 Ron Scherl

Plowing is necessary to turn the weeds under, adding organic material to the soil, to fertilize and to loosen the soil allowing it to capture the rain. Plowing with a horse or mule is no longer an every day thing but in some of the older and steeper vineyards there may be no other way. Vines that were planted before the use of tractors became widespread are now too close together for a tractor to get through the rows. Of course this is also part of Marcel’s organic process, his desire to work close to nature and perhaps a part of his own need to test himself. The vineyards need plowing and if the terrain will not accommodate a tractor, he’ll get some horses and learn how to do it himself.

Photo of shoeing horse — New Shoes ©2012 Ron Scherl

I photographed the process from shoeing to grooming to plowing. I can’t be sure of the horses but I felt better and of course, when I got home and poured a glass of wine I had to wonder why.

I used to spend a lot of time thinking about what makes something art (www.stageimage.com), but I was cured of that by going to work at SFMOMA where I learned that art happens when an academic finds something to write about and a rich person finds something to buy. And now that I’m preparing an exhibit, I just figure that anything I choose to put on the walls is art. But I still had to deal with the persistent image of the obsessed, alcoholic or drug ridden unhappy artist and how to reconcile this with the realization that making my art made me happy.

Researching the connection between artists and depression turned up a number of theories including an excess of spirituality, social isolation and the lack of a life plan, plus long lists of famous depressed people and countless pharmaceutical ads. So we have diagnoses coming from all angles, the hypothetical psychoanalysis of the long dead and the current fashion among the famous to admit that you’re not just bummed out, you’re really sick.

A couple of interesting notes on artistic productivity:

Vermeer made only about 50-60 paintings and had 15 children with his only wife. He died at the age of 43, poor and depressed because he could not support his family. Imagine how she felt.

Picasso made an estimated 50,000 works of art, had numerous mistresses, four children by three women and died a wealthy man at the age of 91. His “blue period” is now thought to be the result of depression.

But the internet can also be a dangerous place. Here are a couple of favorites from sites that purport to be sources of information on mental illness:

“Who are some famous people with manic depression or bipolar disorder? Disclaimer – the list of people mentioned on this page have been compiled from other sources, and we are not able to verify its accuracy.”

“I think you’ll agree that you can be mentally ill and fabulously talented at the same time.”

There is some serious research work being done but no one has yet been able to establish the link between creativity and depression or to determine which is the cause and which the effect if there is a link. In the meantime I’ll make pictures and hang them on the wall.

Today is warm, sunny and windless. That makes me happy.

Photo of Horse's mane — Nina ©2012 Ron Scherl

Show Time

I’ve started printing images for an exhibition to open in April and I’m really pleased with the work. It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to say that. I can always find things that I think could have been done better but for the most part, I’m happy. And this output, a 17x 22 inch print is critical, since my analog photo background doesn’t see the image as complete until it’s printed. Of course it really isn’t since the RAW file is just a negative subject to interpretation in the next stage of the process. The only real difference is the lack of nasty chemicals to breathe.

So the shutters are closed, the space heater on full power sits next to my desk and I sit here layered with turtleneck, hooded sweatshirt, sweater, scarf and fleece trying to keep my brain working and my fingers moving. It’s very cold here. If you ask the locals if it’s unusually cold (and I’m now fluent in weather), you’ll get one of three answers: oui, non, or just a shrug, the all-purpose French gesture with multiple meanings. In this case I translate it as beh, it’s the weather, what can you do, a sentiment that applies to everything you can’t find a way to blame on Sarkozy.

While it’s probably not his fault – I think you can make a better case for blaming Ronald Reagan – last summer’s heat and this winter’s cold provide a lot of evidence that our climate is stretching at the edges and the comfort zone is shrinking.

The temperature hovers around 30^oFahrenheit, but the wind keeps blowing through the valley and right through this house, which the renovators never expected to be occupied in the winter. Even with the shutters closed the wind can rattle the windowpanes and you just know the heat is flying right out the windows. I haven’t been this cold since my last night game at Candlestick.

The cold also keeps people indoors and isolated. There’s no real tradition of visiting homes, people greet and chat on the streets, but not now. The town could really use a hospitable place to gather but the café doesn’t seem to work that way. I’m not sure why but it just doesn’t feel welcoming and I’m told that’s especially true for women.

Photo of vineyards in snow — Vineyards in Snow ©2012 Ron Scherl

The exhibit features vineyards in summer heat, autumn color and under snow, and portraits of winemakers. Most of the shooting is done. Last week I photographed the first woman president of the Cave Cooperative leaving two more portraits to do. I’d also like a spring landscape if it arrives in time.

It’s very satisfying to do work that’s enjoyable and personally significant, to do it well and have that recognized. It may be a small pond but it’s a nice place to swim.

Book Review

World War II is still present here. Every village has a memorial to those who died in combat, most built after WWI and updated with names from II, and in some cases, Indochina and Algeria. You still meet people who fought in the war. The village history published in the annual report focuses on the years of the war and talks about the occupation, collaborators and the resistance. It speaks of driving out the collaborationist town government to be replaced by one led by the resistance.

Maury-6219 — Maury: War Memorial © 2012 Ron Scherl

There’s a wonderful little novel by Vercors, the nom de guerre of the French writer Jean Bruller, called The Silence of the Sea that perfectly captures the horror of war without ever relating a battle. A German officer is assigned to live with a French family in a small village in the south. The family consists of an uncle and his niece. The officer speaks French and is enamored of French culture. The family will not speak to him or acknowledge his presence. Every evening he comes to see them and talks of his love for France especially the literature and his hope that the two cultures will be married and Europe will be at peace. He speaks of this with total sincerity and it makes me queasy to read it.

The family never responds but they listen. The book consists almost entirely of physical descriptions of the three characters; how their bodies reflect their thoughts and the subtle changes they each endure.

When the officer returns from leave in Paris, everything changes. The uncle, sensing his niece’s unspoken attraction to the German, invites him in, “Entrez, monsieur” are his first and only words of dialogue in the entire book. The officer is changed. He has seen his friends and fellow officers in Paris and learned the plan is not marriage but annihilation. The German command does not share his love for French culture and intends to destroy it. We know this, of course, in hindsight, but it’s shocking to realize the officer was sincere. He genuinely believed in the potential marriage of German music and French literature and was hoping for the human counterpart, marriage to the French niece. As for the girl, there are silent signs along the way that she believed he was sincere or maybe just desperately needed to believe it.

Was he an outlier, the exception that proves the rule? Vercors makes no attempt to apply his story on a larger scale. We have just the three characters. The book ends with the officer explaining they would not see him again as he had volunteered for the eastern front.

I’m thinking about why this book touched me so much. The prose is very simple and I was able to read it in French, but more importantly, I think, is that I read it here, where it is set and where the war is still remembered. Literature of the time is still read, memorials are still seriously observed, memories are still alive. It’s different here.

Outside/In

I was writing last week about the distancing effect of photography and while there’s some truth to that, it doesn’t have to be that way. In fact, it can be quite the opposite. Photography can be an effective means of entry into societies that would otherwise have been closed. The issue is what you do with the access.

Looking back, I’m disappointed that I never made more of almost complete access to the San Francisco Opera for twenty years. Several book projects were started, none completed, a portrait series never reached the critical mass necessary for publication or exhibit.

For a long time, I felt I just needed to do my assignments well and the rest would fall into place. But that is not enough, not in a creative profession and probably not in any other. What matters, what defines you, is how far you go beyond the requirements. This may be motivated by ambition, desire for recognition, passion or all three. I don’t think it matters. For career advancement or personal satisfaction, you have to find the drive to do more.

Looking ahead, I don’t intend to make that mistake again. I’ve come here to explore this place, get to know it and produce a work I value. The motivation may be any or all of those above or maybe something else that I’m not even conscious of; again, it doesn’t matter. It’s slow and frustrating, but since that’s how I’d also describe my progress learning French, I’d say there’s a strong possibility the two are related. But there is progress, I finally got Jean-Roger and Marie to sit still for an interview and I’ll keep reminding them of their promise to help with access to their families, my key to the town’s history. The book is taking shape, although a different one than I expected before I came here and the work is good. The writing is better than I anticipated and I think I’m a better photographer now than I’ve ever been. To prove it, I’ve arranged to have an exhibit in the Maison du Terroir in April.

So, to those of you who responded privately to the last post, stop worrying.

In other news, there’s snow on the hills and I still haven’t won at Bingo.

Outside

I’ve been thinking lately about the role of the outsider, since I’ve chosen to put myself in that position. It’s not the first time. Through the accident of birth and well meaning parents and educators, I found myself at the age of sixteen in a small liberal arts college in the heart of Maine. I did choose the college and I can’t give you a reason other than it looked perfect, exactly as my sixteen-year-old brain thought a college should look. What no one considered, or didn’t discuss with me, was that at sixteen I’d be two years younger than everyone else and while I might be academically capable, I’d be socially inept. Eighteen-year-old girls were very much older than me.

And New York Jews were a tiny minority indeed. I went looking for kinship in the “Jewish fraternity” only to discover the inanity of fraternity life, which sent me back on my own. I drove to San Francisco with two high school friends and decided to stay as they went on. I found a job and an apartment but made no friends. I loved the city, I walked, observed, kept a journal probably much like this one. I went back to college and lived alone, grew a beard, wore black turtlenecks, smoked unfiltered cigarettes. I had friends, but I also had a part to play.

I became a photographer. I was more comfortable with a camera between the world and me. I often photographed performance, documenting the creative efforts of others, but the best jobs came when I was not working alone, when I was part of a creative team, either in the theatre or on a documentary assignment. I loved those jobs but they were rare, there might have been ten in a forty-year career. A photographer is an observer, or to use Geoff Dyer’s word a “noticer.” You look at your subject, you look at the light, you try to make the two work together. If they don’t, you look at something else. It’s necessary to separate in order to observe, get too close and vision blurs.

And now, at a difficult time, I’ve chosen to come to a small village in France to write (a solitary pursuit) about myself and other outsiders (those who came here to make wine). I am of course an outsider here, separated by language, culture and tradition and I often feel lonely. People of the town are very friendly and polite, always saying hello, asking if things are going well (Ça va?), but they very rarely invite you to their homes. I have some friends among the expats, but they’re all much younger than me and their lives are centered on their families. I put myself in a somewhat uncomfortable place because I thought it was necessary to enable me to write this book, or because I wasn’t sure where else to go, but it turns out I’m really in the same place I’ve always been and perhaps I’ll soon learn whether what preceded was preparation or what continues is merely habit.

I’ll leave you with a link to an article entitled: “France, the World’s Most Depressed Nation?”

Two Encounters

New Years Day I reluctantly dragged myself from bed around noon and took a coffee up to the terrace to heal in the sun. Tout à coup, an Alfred Hitchcock movie broke out. The sun brought out more birds than I had ever seen. Run down for the camera, back up for the show. They’re starlings I believe. Peterson’s Field Guide to the Birds of Britain and Europe describes them as “jaunty, quarrelsome and garrulous.” (Serious understatement) The voice is a “harsh descending tcheer with a medley of clear whistles, clicks, rattles and chuckles, woven into a long, rambling song.” Now multiply that by about 100,000 and you have some idea of the sound and why some people went looking for their weapons. The noise was incredible, as they seemed to call (or tweet) all their friends to say the weather was nice here and there’s a good tree for resting. This became a flash mob, the numbers grew, the tree was overcrowded and the quarrels escalated. I couldn’t come close to an estimate, 100,000 is probably low, but for you Photoshop skeptics, this photo is real and only covers a small section of the flock.

After about 30 minutes, someone had had enough and fired off a gun, which the birds took to mean that the weather may be nice but they weren’t too sure of the people. They stopped talking and took off, and I went down to wash my hair.

Spent the next morning applying for Social Security and needed a walk after lunch. There’s something powerfully restorative about a walk in the vineyards, even in winter when the old vines look dead as can be. They’re not, of course and we know winter will end, the vines will bud, sprout leaves, grow fruit and there will be more wine. It’s just a good idea to get out there and remember. And if you need a longer perspective, there are young vines too, new plantings just taking root.

I met an 89-year-old man with few teeth and the heavy local accent, which left me understanding very little. Here’s what I learned: he was born here, lived here all his life, fought in the war of 1940, his father in the war of 1914, and he knows that war is never good. His back hurts some, but he can continue working the vines because he’s not tall like me. His arms are strong from working the vineyards all his life. It’s a lot of work but he likes being outside. He also likes Barack Obama and a pastis now and then.

He continues to work his vineyards and I don’t think there’s anyone to take over when he no longer can. If that’s the case, another winemaker will purchase the land, or the vines will be torn out by a successor not interested in making wine. The land isn’t really suited for crops other than wine or olives, neither of which is likely to make anyone rich any time soon. So what is best for the town: to let the land lie fallow, hope foreign investors want to purchase the vineyard, or seek subsidies to build housing for which there doesn’t appear to be a great demand? It’s a critical question for a town with an aging population and the answer isn’t easy. Mayor Chivilo sees the answer in a balance of new and old but getting there requires a sufficient number of local families continuing in the wine business. There are some, but at this time no one knows if there are enough. Change happens slowly here, but it does happen.

The Beat Goes On

Got through Xmas OK, put the ghosts back in the drawer, but now comes another challenge, a texted invite to a New Year’s party with costumes in a 70s theme. Now when I think of the 70s and I don’t very often, here’s what comes to mind: Vietnam, Nixon, Watergate, Patty Hearst, Jim Jones, George Moscone and Harvey Milk.

I know, not exactly a party but I was shooting news back then.

But when most people think of the 70s, the first thing that comes to mind is disco.

I’ve lived this long without wearing a white suit and think I can make it the rest of the way, but these opportunities don’t come along very often and shouldn’t be missed, besides, if I don’t do anything I won’t have anything to write about. I’m not making this stuff up, you know.

So I’m on my way to Perpignan with my brain running faster than my Twingo. I’m thinking Nixon mask, but I don’t want to scare the children; I could be Sonny and hope that Cher shows up; Ike looking for Tina; Garfunkel wondering where Simon went; Paul searching for John, George and Ringo.

At the party store, there’s not a Nixon mask to be found; there may have been other celebrity masks but I didn’t recognize them, instead there are themes. There are pirates who almost look like Johnny Depp but not close enough to get sued. There are a few old hippies looking worn and almost forgotten and a bit of punk with messy hair and torn jeans; I could do that but everyone would think I didn’t bother to dress up. There are some highly stylized long hair wigs that might be seventies, but looked more like Park Avenue scion trying on being bad. And there are afros, many afros in many lengths and colors: modest Jewish guy afros; pink, green and yellow I don’t know why afros; and black afros, some with beard and mustache to complete the look. I’m thinking Sly Stone without the rest of the family but it doesn’t really matter, the hair’s the costume.

Party time. I had to bag the beard and mustache since I already had my own but I added some polyester and bling to complete the look. And it was a very generous party indeed: Champagne, oysters, foie gras, truffles, red wine, duck, desserts, cognac. Eating, drinking, dancing, laughing, I think I had a good time. It went on until 5 AM or maybe later, I couldn’t really tell you. In fact there’s not much more I can relate, but through the magic of autofocus, I can show you.

Click on the thumbnail to see a larger image.