Maury – Page 4 of 5

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.

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.

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.

Bob, Richard, Jean-Roger, Jerome ©2011 Ron Scherl

Fun Things to do on Christmas

Living room photo with tree — The Magic of Christmas ©2011 Ron Scherl

1} The Christmas Bagel: this is an old tradition but already there’s a problem. There are no bagels here. So, we’re going to make them. You’ve already made the dough, cut off a piece, roll it out to make a rope then join the ends to make a circle and smooth it out as best you can. If this doesn’t look anything like a bagel, start over. Place gently in gently boiling water. If it doesn’t fall apart, you’re going to have a great Christmas, if it does see item 2. After it boils for a bit (don’t press your luck), gently remove from the water, sprinkle some chopped onion or poppy seeds and maybe a bit of coarse salt and bake it for a while at a really high temperature because Celsius is not as hot as Fahrenheit. When it browns, take it out and let it rest for a bit (I don’t know why, but they tell you that with everything). Slice, shmear with that stuff that looked like cream cheese on the package but turned out to be something else, top with smoked salmon (it’s not lox, it’s nothing like lox, but it’s as close as we can get and that wasn’t real cream cheese anyway). If all this actually worked, enjoy, if not, spend the rest of the day studying French.

2} Bake Bread (if the bagels didn’t work out)

3} Play recordings by Jewish artists: Jewish Buddhists are acceptable.

Note: This may involve listening to old comedy records.

Note 2: Bing Crosby was not Jewish

4} Refill prescription for anti-depressants: Canadian pharmacies are always online.

Note: The need for the meds may have nothing to do with listening to Jewish Buddhists.

5} Watch the entire Godfather saga: I suggest starting the download on Christmas Eve and it’s OK if you don’t get through Part 3.

Note: It doesn’t have to be The Godfather but you want to avoid Bing Crosby and movies about the holocaust.

6} Eat Chinese or Italian Food: It is Sunday, but if you’re in Maury where there is no takeout, you need to make a pizza. Take the rest of that dough, roll it out nice and thin, tomato sauce, mozzarella, pork. Bake it on the bottom of the oven as hot as it will go unless you have one of those fancy stones which you don’t.

Or…

7} Make Latkes (it’s Hanukkah after all)

2 potatoes,1/2 onion,1egg,1/4 c. Flour, Very hot oil (Wonder if duck fat would work?)

Squeeze the water out of the shredded potatoes a few times before adding other ingredients. This is important and don’t worry about it turning brown, you’re going to fry them. Mix it all together, form latkes in a large spoon. Fry hot, salt, serve with apple sauce. (I don’t like sour cream)

8} Clean out the drawer where you’ve been putting everything that had nowhere else to live.

Note: This may take a while and with all the cooking you have to do, there may not be enough time.

Note 2: When you’ve finished removing everything from the drawer, put it all back. There’s still nowhere else for it to go.

That should get you through the day and then it’s just a week until New Year’s, after which life becomes somewhat normal again and it’s only six weeks until pitchers and catchers report.

The Social Scene

Dear Diary,

The holiday social scene in Maury is heating up and getting to be more hectic than fashion week in Paris. The bisous are flying and it’s all I can do to keep up.

Tuesday I dropped in on the Club du Troisième Age to get a few pix of a hot bingo session. It was crowded and intense, maybe 75 people in the club HQ competing for bags of groceries. And they come prepared. They have sets of markers, usually with metal rings and a magnetic bar to collect them and keep them at hand. The moderator keeps a crisp pace going while adding a little cultural reference to each number; e.g., 51 is pastis, 89 is Mammie, 90 is Pappi. And they just keep going. I was there two hours and there wasn’t even a break for coffee.

Thursday was outdoor activity day, mushroom hunting which is a competitive sport around here. Ben was my guide and as we were heading to his car a neighbor stopped us to ask where we going. Ben coyly answered that we were just out for a walk but no one was fooled. “Everyone goes to the same places, you just try to get there before they’re all picked,” he told me when we got in the car. There wasn’t exactly a traffic jam in the forest but several cars and a fair number of people with plastic bags, walking sticks and sturdy shoes. But Ben got us into the woods and started my education, pointing out the desired variety barely visible under mounds of pine needles and condition, not too soft or with worm holes and showing me how to ease it out of the ground and trim the stem. When I pointed out the bright orange color staining my hands, he told me that tomorrow I’d also be peeing orange and not to worry. I made one attempt to point out a prize specimen that he had seemed to miss but when it turned out to be a rock I decided to just follow Ben’s lead.

Back in town, we saw Bardot was painting the café kitchen and stopped in for the latest update on the expected reopening. I’ve never seen Bardot without a cigarette in his mouth which was now adding a cool gray ash to the white paint, and his southern accent is nearly impossible to understand but I managed to get “next weekend” accompanied by an expressive shrug which no doubt indicated that one should add “more or less” to that estimate. Since the first rumored grand reopening was November 1, I’ll wait and see.

Friday night Michel and Angelique had a small gathering of neighbors for aperitifs, which around here means sweet muscat and enough food to make dinner impossible. After a delightful couple of hours I went out to photograph the Christmas lights and was almost run down by Richard and Sarah and family on their way to the Grand Rifle, another even bigger bingo fest. This town is getting to be the Las Vegas of the Roussillon. Walking down to the Centre Loisirs, I ran into Vartak who was heading to a concert in Planèzes and invited me along. Sounded good, but I was on assignment in Maury and couldn’t miss the Rifle.

Maury-5397 — Le Grand Rifle ©2011 Ron Scherl

This was a very big bingo event, drawing at least 300 of the town’s 900 citizens and the prizes went up a notch including some very good local wines and fois gras. This was serious business. After numerous bisous, I bought a card making sure it had number 23 on it and found a seat at the expat table. Lady Luck never dropped by.

Maury-5415 — Gabriel and Michel ©2011Ron Scherl

This morning wrapped up the week with the annual Marché de Noel, a gathering of producers of wine, honey, chocolates and more, along with artisans and sellers of jewelry, DVD’s, clothing, knick knacks and gifts. The Mayor dropped by to shake hands, give a few bisous and spread the seasonal cheer. He manages to be open, friendly and dignified and people are happy to see him. For the kids there was an inflatable castle, face painting and an appearance by Père Noel, everything needed to inspire the magic of Christmas.

A bientôt,

Your faithful, exhausted correspondent

Maury-5429 — Sasha and Amy ©2011 Ron Scherl

Being Organic

Spent the day cleaning the house and studying French until about 3:30 when I had to get out for a walk. Took one of my favorite routes through the village, passing five wineries, then out the road to Cucugnan, which takes me past several vineyards and a farm housing a few donkeys. Take a left at the municipal swimming pool to a small road through more vineyards.

Photo of road — Near the Swimming Pool ©2011 Ron Scherl

I walked up to a vineyard owned by Marcel Buhler that I have been photographing periodically since I got here. It’s a beautiful place, alive, organic.

Vineyard Photo — Maury Vineyard ©2011 Ron Scherl

After shooting for a while, I walked on. The next plot was clearly not being farmed organically and the difference was striking: everything looked dead. The vines, of course are alive, just entering the dormant winter months, but there’s nothing else. The insecticides and herbicides used to prevent vine diseases have destroyed everything else.

Look at the vineyard on the left, all the vegetation is thriving; there are multiple kinds of grasses, weeds and moss. The place is teeming with insects, flying around and biting my neck. The vineyard is farmed organically adhering to many biodynamic principles and is certified organic by Ecocert. Biodynamism holds that the vineyard is a complete environment and the insects, animals, weeds, grasses, soil, rocks and vines are all part of the environment and necessary for its health. It is a philosophy based on the writings of Rudolf Steiner and is much more in use in Europe than the United States.

There is a clear connection here to “terroir” a concept that goes beyond the soil to encompass the entire environment of the vineyard and includes the effects of the intervention of human animals as well. Today’s Holy Grail of winemaking is a wine that expresses the terroir or has a sense of place. Here in the Roussillon it is often expressed in minerality that should come from the extreme rockiness of the soil. David Darlington in his book: An Ideal Wine: One Generation’s Pursuit of Perfection quotes winemaker Randall Grahm “To put it simply, if your soils are alive, you get minerals from them.”

It‘s difficult to come to any conclusion other than those farmers not using organic methods are poisoning the soil they depend on for their livelihood. This is where the influx of new winemakers like Marcel can make a difference; a healthy interchange of ideas, learning from each other is exactly what Charles Chivilo, the mayor of Maury spoke about as one of the benefits of foreign investments in the vineyards. So the old residents can learn organic farming methods and perhaps teach the newcomers to hunt wild boar. Because for everyone, it always comes back to the land.

Photo of Woman Mending Fences — Mending Fences ©2011 Ron Scherl

A Conversation with the Mayor

Charles Chivilo has been mayor of Maury for ten years. I’ve been coming here for six of those years and I’ve been trying to photograph him since the beginning but somehow it’s never worked. He was out of town or I was on my way back to San Francisco. He tried to call me back but my phone had no voice mail. One of us was sick. But those were two-week visits and this time I’m here for a while. So as part of the celebration of the Festival of Saint Brice, I went to Mass and waited for him at the only exit. He was happy to agree to a portrait and interview, gave me his cell phone number and even called to confirm. My guess is that he knew I’ve already photographed nearly the whole town and wondered what took me so long.

Photo of Charles Chivilo — Charles Chivilo, Mayor of Maury ©2011 Ron Scherl

At 5:30 last Thursday we sat down in his office for a chat. He readily agreed to let me record the conversation so I could translate his answers later and consult my French teacher if necessary. It was. Chivilo is casual and friendly; he is a potter as well as a politician and in speaking about Maury he sounds more like an artist shaping a new work in the context of an ancient tradition than a politician trying to win votes.

Looking at one of my photos of the village, he pointed to an area near the coop and said that’s where the new houses would be built. New houses, news to me. The village plans to build seventy new houses to accommodate expected population growth as the commute distance to Perpignan expands to encompass Maury. Now this is far from environmentally sound planning and the idea of Maury becoming a bedroom community is horrifying, but there is a need to renew the aging population of the village to ensure the continuation of commercial and social services. And Chivilo is very clear on priorities: “I want above all to ensure that Maury remains a village. It is passionate, the relationship I have with Maury.”

At the Mass last Sunday, Chivilo warned the parishioners of the threat from the extreme right. His voice was soft but carried an unmistakable urgency; again, he didn’t sound like a politician, more like a cleric. In previous times of economic distress Europe has allowed the rise of fascism, which pushed people toward hatred and violence. He pleaded with people to remember the lessons of the past and not to succumb to the trap of blaming others for economic problems.

Chivilo was born in Chambéry in the French Alps. He came to Maury in 1983 because: “I fell in love with a Catalan woman and she could not live in the cold mountains. She had to have the rosemary, thyme and the garrigue of the Fenouilledes.”

He smiles as he speaks of her in that same soft voice and he is equally convincing talking of his love for his wife and his passion for Maury.

The Festival of Saint Brice

This weekend marked the festival of Saint Brice, the patron saint of Maury. Brice was born in 370 and raised by St. Martin in Marmoutiers, near Strasbourg in Alsace.

According to the Catholic.org web site, he was a “vain, overly ambitious cleric”, who “neglected his duties, was several times accused of lackness and immorality.” He was exiled from his See and after seven years in Rome, “he returned and ruled with such humility, holiness and ability, he was venerated as a saint by the time of his death.”

He died in 444. It is unclear how he became the patron saint of Maury, but I like a town that will give a guy a second chance.

The form of the festival changes each year with the makeup of the organizing committee. A couple of years ago there was a Mexican theme, complete with a parade and mariachis marching up to the town square. This year we had a schedule of events that would not be out of place in any small town in America.

There was a mini carnival with bumper cars, a merry-go-round, a booth where you try to snag a prize from a bin, and cotton candy.

Carnival photo — Carnival ©2011 Ron Scherl

There was a dance last night with a band named Système sans Interdit, which roughly translates to a system without prohibitions, or total freedom, which is why, I suppose they chose to play in their underwear. Looking at their web site, it seems they do this quite often and it works with their self description: “French and Kitsch Music.” The crowd was mixed: older women who left early, young families with little girls dancing and little boys running in circles, and teenaged girls ignoring teenaged boys. It never quite reached the critical mass necessary for ignition but that didn’t seem to bother the band who played without a break for longer than I could take.

Photo of Rock Concert — Systeme sans Interdit ©2011 Ron Scherl

There was music at the mass too, a special event for St. Brice’s feast day. Cobla Nova Germanor is a Catalan band from Perpignan whose motto is “Long live the Sardana”. I was thinking of the guitar playing folk singers now an integral part of contemporary Jewish services, but this was different, here they provided some quiet background music to the procession, communion and collection. The mass began with an almost orderly procession of children to the altar and included readings by four of the more prominent women in town. It concluded with a short and warmly received speech by the mayor.

Photo of Mass — Before the Mass ©2011 Ron Scherl

After the mass everyone went over to the Mairie for an aperitif and potato chips. The mayor poured wine, the band had a little more freedom and several women found just enough room to dance a Sardana while the men talked business.

Photo of the mayor — Mayor Charles Chivilo Serving an Aperitif ©2011 Ron Scherl

The weekend concluded with a tea dance but worn out from all the unusual activity, I slept right through it. (No Photo)