photography

–on the Seine

I’ve been living in Paris six years now, and I’d never seen it from the river. Always thought it must be just a tourist thing.

I was wrong.

It’s a different perspective on the familiar, a reminder of just how beautiful this city is, and a great way to spend an hour at sunset. Next time I’m going to upgrade to a boat with cocktails.

All photos were made on the iPhone 13 Pro. I wasn’t paid to say that, but I’d be happy to boost the share price.

And you can never have too many pictures of the Eiffel Tower.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The Louvre

Family in town so we’re doing the right things. Today was the big museum with the pyramid and the lady from the DaVinci Code novel. She is there. I know because I’m tall and my camera is bigger than most.

This is some really athletic art appreciation, something like a rugby scrum. I know nothing about rugby but I imagine it takes strength, determination and some sharp elbows to work your way through the scrummy thing, which is exactly what’s needed to get to see the lady in question. But all I really need is to get close enough to get a picture, so I’ll always have the memory.

I used to think people took pictures of pictures to have the memory and avoid the gift shop, but here’s the thing: It’s not the art, it’s the experience. Been there, done that, got the t-shirt.

Paris ☑Louvre ☑What’s her name ☑

Don’t worry. I’m not going to get all snobby about this, wonder why people do it, and then blame Facebook. Not me. I live in the real world and I’d rather blame Facebook for much bigger crimes.

I see nothing wrong with people taking pictures of art. I’m glad they do it. Glad they support the museums with their tickets and glad the museums have wised up and allow it. I’m not sure what people take from the experience, but it certainly can’t hurt.

Shoot Pictures. Not People.

Searching for Vincent

Finally managed to get my butt out of Maury for a few days, motion triggered by an invitation from my friends Mike and Martha to join them for a few days among the swells of St. Tropez.

First stop, Arles, where I thought I’d catch a few photo exhibitions from the Rencontres and stalk the ghost of Van Gogh. Most of what I wanted to see at the Rencontres had already closed—especially disappointing to miss a show of early work from Joel Meyerowitz, a photographer I’ve long admired—but I did get to a survey of Latin American photography that was interesting but marred by a terrible installation with inadequate lighting.

On to the search for Vincent. The Fondation Vincent Van Gogh Arles had a small exhibit of eight paintings of portraits of ordinary people and field workers from the Bührle collection that nicely traced the development of his modern style of short brushstrokes and saturated colors. Segue to Alice Neel, a “painter of modern life”, left wing New York from about 1940-1970. Mostly portraits, they are more artifice than documentary and led me out into the streets to resume the search for Vincent – with cocktails.

Found both on the terrace of the Hotel Nord-Pinus: Cocteau, Picasso, bullfighters, and fashion designers in historical photos, a lovely Negroni in my glass, and Van Gogh’s Café Terrace at Night just across the Place du Forum. Tourists like me fill the streets, restaurant terraces cover the Place and overwhelm the statue of Frédéric Mistral, while the café at night offers an €18 Van Gogh salad, still this is a remarkably pleasant place to sit and sip and make notes for a new novel and plans to move to Paris.

The streets of Arles are quiet on my way back to my hotel, the tourists have retired for the night and the ghost of Van Gogh is silent.

A drive north and east to the village of Grimaud, which was the seat of the Grimaldi family before they went off to Monaco and lured a movie star out of Hollywood to become a princess and live in a castle. The villa was almost as nice and the aesthetic shifted from Van Gogh to Hockney.

A couple of days of luxury with a group of accomplished and interesting people wasn’t hard to take.

Paris, 31 March

I can’t walk two blocks in this city without stumbling into someone’s photo- op.

Paris hasn’t changed very much. Armed soldiers on guard at major monuments but no one seems to be paying much attention to them. Parisians go about their daily business and populate the cafes after work as they always have. The crowds seem younger but that’s probably just my aging perspective.

I’ve been looking at the ads in the windows of realty offices and while it’s hard to tell much about what’s really available, it appears that rents are just a little more than half as much as San Francisco apartments. I saw what looked like a lovely large studio on the Rue Jacob in the 6^th for €1250 per month. If such places truly exist, I’ll seriously look at moving here. Always loved it, always felt at home here. Carried that a little too far yesterday when I gave some tourists very iffy directions to the Pompidou Center in my best French accent. They may have found it by now.

A few noticeable changes: there seems to be an alarming proliferation of bagel shops, and it appears Prius taxis now outnumber Mercedes. I haven’t found a connection yet, my investigation hindered by a preference for baguettes and the Metro, but I will continue independent observation and check in with David Lebovitz on the matter.

I take this picture every time I come to Paris. From the same spot on the Pont des Arts, different hours of the day, different times of the year. It always pleases me but always seems to lack a special quality of light that define the best images of Paris. Henri Cartier-Bresson has a version that’s really special. I’ll keep trying.

Paris, 29 March

A busy day at the Palais Royal, one of my favorite places in this lovely and still livable city.
Originally the home of Cardinal Richelieu, it housed royalty until the revolution, and many notables since, including Colette and Cocteau (not in the same apartment).
There are two distinct sections enclosed by offices, the Comedie Francaise, and apartments. The beautiful gardens, bursting with spring, bring out office workers, students, and box lunches. An art installation called Les Confidents by Michel Goulet with Francois Massut consists of linked chairs with fragments of poetry carved into their backs, adding art to lunch.

In the Cour d’Honneur is a site-specific artwork by Daniel Buren called Les Deux Plateaux which is a favorite location for tourists, fashion photo students, and me.

And of course, a place for pétanque:

Le Jour des Photos du Mariage

A beautiful day for a walk turned out to be a beautiful day for wedding photos. That wasn’t part of the original plan but how could I know? We must take advantage of the gifts that come our way. I was walking to the Metro at Hotel de Ville when I encountered the first couple of the day in the little park behind Notre Dame.

They moved on, and soon disappeared into the crowd around the cathedral, but I had the theme for the day.

I took the Metro to Pyrénées, planning to explore the Belleville neighborhood, which is showing some obvious signs of gentrification: lots of stroller-pushing young couples and artisan chocolate shops. Are all cities evolving in the same way?

I walked on to the Parc des Buttes-Chaumont, a beautiful place I’d never been before, with mountains, lakes, bridges, and autumn color, all in the midst of Paris. There are even places where it seems to be acceptable to sit on the grass, a rarity in Paris parks.

Came upon my second couple on a bridge over the lake. The groom is present but he knows his place.

The third group was the best: this was the real deal, a wedding, not just a photo call and suddenly, I was the photographer. I stopped to watch, I had a camera that doesn’t make phone calls, I smiled, they asked, I used their camera, and shot one more for me.

Encountered couple number two again in a different location as the light was fading.

Shooting weddings is hard work. I earned a glass and a petit repose at a café along the Canal St. Martin.

Reading Aloud

The hardest part of the transition from photographer to writer is mastering the difference in the creative process.

In many types of photography the creative act is instantaneous. To reduce it to its most basic Cartier-Bresson decisive moment: see it, shoot it. Of course, there’s a lot that must happen before that moment in order to be in position to capture it, but the act of creativity really does take place in an instant. This is true of almost any journalistic type of photography but also holds for portraiture, fashion, even landscapes; any time the subject is alive, or changing light is an element.

Even when there’s a great deal of pre-production preparation and post-production processing and elements of creativity are spread throughout the process, even then, the critical creative act is the instant of releasing the shutter.

Only still life photography is exempt from this and only when the lighting is fully controlled. Maybe that’s why the French call it nature morte.

The act of writing a novel is a very different process.

Larry Walker sent me a quote from William Faulkner on the subject:

“It begins with a character, usually, and once he stands up on his feet and begins to move, all I can do is trot along behind him with paper and pencil trying to keep up long enough to put down what he says and does.”

That was certainly true of my first novel – but then the work began and hasn’t yet been completed. The creative process evolves from writing to editing and the number of revisions mounts at an alarming rate. It amazed me how often I could revise the same text and still find absolute clunkers that had to go. I would repeat the process until I hated every word then take a break and ask a friend to read it, after which I could admit that not every word was worthless and revise yet again.

Now, I’ve revised my revision process. I found that when I had trouble with a passage, reading it aloud would often point to the problem. When I stumbled over the reading, it was because either the thought or the language was unclear. In dialogue, it showed mostly in the placement of the “he said, she said” attributions. But in expository passages, reading aloud revealed awkward structures or fuzzy thinking. Enough time and consideration would eventually lead me to an improvement, often after several iterations, and I learned that when the words flowed easily from my mouth they were just better written.

I mentioned this to my friend Jess, who said she’d love to hear my reading, so I recorded the first chapter and sent it to her. In doing so, I discovered a new process: record, then listen while reading the text, stop to revise where needed and record again. Repeat until the words sound right.

Not exactly ready for “This American Life,” but Jess now has a podcast for one, and I’ve discovered an editing tool that works well for me.

I don’t know if other writers work this way. I’d love to hear from anyone who does.

Creativity is Risk

The decision to de-medicate really began last year with a simple question from a very good friend: I was thinking last night that I’ve never seen you be aggressive. Have you always been like that?

I was surprised by the question and it has haunted me ever since. To some extent I’ve always been more passive than was good for me, but I also think it’s become worse over the years. There are really two indivisible issues: passivity and timidity. They start with hesitation and develop into a rigid shell; together they create a kind of death of the soul.

Depression can be the precursor of both conditions; the usual medications can make them worse because the effects put a limit on your presence in the world. They allow you to accept what should be an unbearable way of life. The shell forms and within it there is never enough air or water to allow anything to grow. You begin to die inside: old relationships wither, new ones never have a chance.

The timid and passive don’t take risks and there is no creativity without risk.

It is an act of courage to walk out on a stage and play a sonata before an audience. Or sing an aria, or paint, write, or photograph. It’s not just the risk of failure and humiliation, although that can be a powerful stop sign, the bigger risk is in opening yourself and finding out what’s inside. And you do have to dig because anything of value emerges from the core of your being. Call it soul, or heart. It doesn’t matter. It’s the only thing you have to give and if you can’t open enough to tap into it, you can’t produce anything of value. I’m talking about works of art, but also about what you give in a relationship, the love you give to a friend, a lover, or a child. It’s all risky, but essential.

Here’s a bit from Angle of Reflection in which Ben acts against type and takes a risk because he just had to photograph that woman, in that place, at that time.

“They came out of the gallery into a small stone courtyard with indirect sunlight bouncing off the walls and up from the ground, creating a lovely portrait light. He asked Emma to pose for a moment and started shooting before she could say no. He was keenly aware of the crowd around them in a city full of photographers, but he had to do this. He shot and moved, asking her to turn to him sometimes, look away at others. He wanted to juxtapose her youthful skin against the ancient stone walls, but more than that he wanted to capture the light that made her glow with a beauty that made his heart ache. He had her bring one hand up to her face for a few frames but it didn’t work. Then he had her turn her back to him and made a few images of her hands and hair as she did that twirly chignon thing. After a few minutes, she became self-conscious, turned around and made a funny face at him, and he stopped. It was too late, he was in love and frightened by the intensity of the moment and his feelings for her. His hands were shaking and his heart was beating much too fast. She looked at him and seemed to understand. Very quietly she said “thank you,” and quickly squeezed his hand before they walked in silence to the next venue.”

Ben had to take the risk, the opportunity would never have come again. I missed too many moments. No more.

Tag: photography

A Sunset Cruise