The Final Frontier

The final project for dear friend Peter Cox, may God rest his soul on the day he shall die, is finito. Thank that same gracious Creator. I've never been more disappointed in a course, and if the man gives me a perfunctory pass ... ! It's unimportant. This image was the product of final-stretch stress, and the thought that if the photographs just didn't have to look like anything in the known world, I might feel more relaxed. I did not feel relaxed when the computer prematurely compressed all the work I'd done on this picture, making it impossible to show the individual "layers" of editing. No good for the grade, but fine for web uploads. Yes, because of this class, it is probably true that, on some distant day, I'll be able to make an image I'm really proud of. But Prof. Cox will show up only in the anti-acceptance speech ("Mr. Mullally, who told me shut up, you're not funny - I do not share this award with you!").

We're into Dead Week, which is the (false advertising) 5 day break between the end of Winter Study and the commencement of spring courses. Lots of kids go home, off on acapella retreats, down to the city (or sideways to the other city). I'm pretty firmly planted here. I've spent the morning seeing off a friend who's bound for Kenya on the 6:30 flight, reading Flannery O'Connor ("The Nature and Aim of Fiction" is a great essay), having lunch with friends -- one has a stomach bug and is downing foul Moroccan powders to counteract the effects. Also, I began a kids' story, about Cecily, who is not much larger than a garden pea. She goes on an adventure, but her legs are so short she doesn't get but just down the round. Then a grouchy little crab apple falls on her head. It won't be any good at all unless Caroline illustrates it.



A few days back, there was a thaw. The morning after 50 degree heat melted all the snow, I walked out my front door to a bone-dry salt plain on the quad. On the branch of a newly planted tree was blowing a Christmas ornament hung by a purple ribbon; Charlie Brown might have done it out of kindness to the poor thing, and if I’d a suitable rag, I could have taken the shot with a makeshift Linus blanket wrapped around the trunk. The picture I actually took looks more like a school spirit shot for the Williams prospectus (Purple Valley!), but oh well.

In other news, I've become vegan. Originally, it was a one-week stint to cheer on a friend, but it's been really good, and I'm planning on keeping it up. I'm also spending far too much time each day poring over food blogs online. While it's a moral question as far as committed vegetarianism goes, the veganism is more for the sake of health. I just feel better sans the dairy and eggs (and the processed sugars, which I'm cutting as well). That being the case, I don't freak out about the last ingredient in Thomas' english muffins (really? skim milk, but less than either acetic acid or sucralose? did they make it non-vegan just for kicks?). I mean, paranthetical aside. I freak out, but then I squelch my conscience and I eat that darn english muffin. At least for now.

My roomie should be home soon, and I've spiffed up the place (even vacuuming, dusting, the whole shebang, like a real person in a real house) for her arrival. And while this is theoretically my last blog entry, since Winter Study is done, I think I may keep it up, on occasion. I'm getting ready to dive into Memory & Identity, Intro Fiction (?), Literatures des Guerres (in daunting French), and the Book of Job and Joban Literature. So I'll be thinking. Keep thinking, I say. Except during Dead Week. I may stop thinking for a minute or two, just cause. Til I resume...

Little Things

This is another oldie, taken at the school in Maputo that Wes and Molly Jordan's son Philip attended during their time in Mozambique. The editing, as you can see, makes it look like a Hallmark card. I'm too invested in this "partial black and white" idea, maybe because it makes me look way more Photoshop-competent than I've actually become. Truth be told, the course is pretty awful. The prof is dull, intermittently unpleasant, and hasn't made the most of either our class time or our intelligence. There are also No Handouts, and let me tell you, if you miss something as simple as where to click to begin the process, you're sunk. Photoshop is not an intuitive tool. It is an acquired taste, like oysters.

Incidentally, that's what Stephen Sondheim said about reading when he visited campus this week. His talk was both hilarious and deeply moving. He tells stories with a Pete Seeger voice and looks like my Uncle Hank, and for an 80-year old guy, he's got the sprightliness of 65. I went to a Q&A session with him, and while we didn't meet in the sense of shaking hands, I did ask him a question about lyric-writing and characterization, and he did look at me while he answered. Progress has been made towards a deeper intimacy! Seriously, folks, there are those figures who are inspiring but distant -- or whose words strike your intellect and set off sparks without touching anything deeper -- and there are those who are simply too intimidating or you know they're "great" but for you? Pah. You can read their speeches. But I could imagine a series of very meaningful conversations with Stephen Sondheim...and hey, he said he's in the market for a young collaborator!

Winter Study has surprised me with crayoned murals of St. Sebastian, a read-aloud night, sleepovers, dance parties, new friends, inspiration, a few ego-bruisings and the deeper renewal that accompanies them, progress in my work (who knew? I might be able to really sing one of these days!) and some unseasonably warm weather -- also regenerative!

Today, though, is going to be a hard day. So today in particular it's important to remember: grace, forgiveness, open-heartedness, a zeal for truth and community, and the words of Moominmamma to her Moomintroll: "No matter what happens, I will always know you."

The 50s in Zimpeto

It's over 50 degrees in Williamstown; this picture, however, is from the summer before college, and was edited for an old travel photo feel.

Charles, After Adobe

Down Cole Ave.

I woke up late this morning after staying up late to read a children's book with Emma (Finn Family Moomintroll, anyone? "All the small beasts should wear bows in their tails!"). A singer-songwriter played for us at Williams' weekly Log Lunch - delicious vegetarian meal prepared by students, & guest environmental speaker, or in this case, warbler. The afternoon went to Junot Diaz and his book (thank God that Oscar's life, however wondrous, is brief), and was to be finished by dinner at the home of a retired Williams professor, who helps out with a Sunday gathering called "the Feast" - a progressive Christian dinner and time of discussion, reflection, and fellowship. There was a two hour gap, however, between tossing in my laundry and heading to the Cramptons' house. Just enough time for a photo expedition.

Charles and I drove out Cole Ave. and up to Pine Cobble to park, then walked back towarsd the river and the old coal silos beside it.







It got into the high 30s in Williamstown today, so we expected a warm trek. Fiddlesticks. Once more I relied on gallantry to supplement my flimsy WalMart mittens - when my hands became immobile with cold, Charles lent me his gloves. You forget what a good deal the sun has to do with temperature.



I didn't get too many satisfactory shots (and the ones you see here are entirely unedited), but I certainly worked for what I had. By the time I got to the Crampton's house, my boots were muddied, my feet wet, and the bottom 8 inches of my jeans sand-encrusted and sodden. I borrowed rubber bands and balled up the pant-hems so I wouldn't ruin their floors, then cozied my feet to the fire. Over dinner, we got the upcoming semester sorted out: cooking schedule, leaflets, all that stuff. Then Mrs. Crampton brought out a beautiful copy of the Books of Job, Ecclesiastes, Psalms, and Song of Solomon. From the early 1700s. A paraphrasing with, I believe, the King James text, and interpretations of each line interpolated (like Blake or translations of Chaucer). We had rather irreverent fun lisping an F sound for all the printed seraphs.

You know what I love about real houses? Fireplaces, bookshelves, kitchen tables, water pressure, doorbells, dark wood floors, and mailboxes.

19 and On

You'll notice that, contrary to custom, the above photograph is of, rather than by, me. Frankly, I've gotten lax. This was my 19th birthday: friend Emma constructed a crown bearing the inscription "HAPPY BIRTHDAY LITTLE BLUEBERRY," friend Mattie gave me a brown fur hat that matches my grandfather's old tweed fisherman's cap - so I've a matched set for spring and winter. Obviously, these girls know I'm into headwear. Chuck Shafer brough Schaefer beer and DJed my woefully inadequate party tunes (at one point, I think "Mame" came up on shuffle), and there were sugar cookies dipped in chocolate, fifty slices of North Carolina courtesy of Sammy K. We played hearts, the card game. I got beat, but in the spirit of it being my birthday (in spite of it also being past midnight and no longer really my birthday), I was declared to have had nineteen points the whole time - and thus, I was the clear winner.

I think I would have had photographs for today, had I not met with a familiar obstacle, the old click vs. dip: This evening, my friend Jordanne (with whom I've had all my out-of-town adventures) drove me to Albany for a succession of 3 tango lessons, one beginner-intermediate, a weekly fixture, and a double-length session with a guest artist.

It was a small gathering in the basement of I-don't-know-what community building, a local chapter of the Shrine Club maybe. There were 10 or 12 other people in the room, the youngest in her later 20s, the oldest probably in her 70s - and was she beautiful to watch! Angela. I foresee a friendship. She asked if I was Spanish, as she is - "You've got a little extra movement." I told her I was Italian. "Oh, then that's it."

I was also the only student without significant tango experience - Jordanne, a great dancer, taught me what little I know. I explained my constant tripping away with an "Oh, it's so different in swing! So different in salsa!" Both of those dances are broad - they offer a lot of room for creativity in even the elemental steps. Tango is relentlessly detail-oriented, and the deuce of it is that this minute precision can only be accomplished by complete relaxation.

Guest artist Diego was smooth as could be, and if there were any doubt that tango was the dance of passion, it's been dispelled by his reaction to my shoulder tension. Relax, give weight, lean in, soften. We worked for a long time on the first moment of the dance, the follower's response to the leader as they establish their stance, the torsion of their engagement and the relaxation necessary to make it happen. He paused the class to generalize the lesson for everybody. It came out like this, with a Spanish accent: "Now we're gonna work on, for the men, how to take the woman, and the woman, how to receive the man." That's pretty forward.

But as Jordanne said in the car on our hour-long drive back to Williamstown, tango is not really about sexuality. It's sensual, deeply (If you could see Angela and Diego dance!). But salsa is the sexy one. Tango is intimate.

She's dead on. Tango is a dependent relationship. It asks for vulnerability, communication, intuition, shared breath, shared control, playfulness, the trust to give yourself over. It's great therapy, I guess, and it's a helluva way to have an argument. Everything is pushback, and nobody gets an out. If the woman doesn't offer resistance, the man can't direct her - if she doesn't listen, communication stalls - if he doesn't lead with intention, the conversation fails. (And if he doesn't let her take over once in a while, things really get ugly). The parties have equal stake, and even embellishment is cooperative. Unlike swing, the couple won't release for a jive step or an individual showcase: synergy is everything.

What all this amounts to, is tango is very difficult, and tango is very rich. It made me miss the freedoms of swing and salsa - I would never choose to play only with Argentine fire - but Jordanne and I are going back each week.

It's a 5 til midnight commitment. It's a plan.

Sans Cam

The D90 has gone back to the Equipment Loan Center, leaving undocumented a full day of homemade soup, thrift-store excursion, coffee-sipping, fur tubbing, and dinner discussion (plus the purchase of a truly awesome article of clothing -- sort of a longish early 90s floral jumper-short). This weekend's assignment is to take and post-process two photographs utilizing the basic techniques we've learned in PhotoShop. That'll happen soon.

The Brief Wondrous Life

The title of this year's Williams Reads selection is The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, by Junot Diaz. It won the Pulitzer. This is a big improvement over last year's pick, which was a kid's book. Tonight was the kickoff party - great live music, Ritmo Latino spurring a small audience to dance. I grabbed my friend Holly Dwyer, who picked up salsa in seconds. We rocked out.

Unfortunately, there aren't any pictures of that, cause you can't be a shutterbug and a jitterbug at the same time.

But today's resolution (in addition to finishing a monster of a spreadsheet for my internship) was taking people photos. I got the chance when we adjourned to Josephine's room for Italian espresso from Italy (and a Sudanese fez?). Think I'm going to have interesting conversations with my professor about these. His preference for spare, clean cut, balanced landscapes is fairly rigid. I like "full" images, subjects pushing out the side of the frame, and, as evidenced above, I like blurring.



Ben sat still(ish) to oblige my fondness for minutia. I photographed his shoes, the edge of his jeans, and I took about 7 shots of his hands cupping this glass.



Eventually, Madeline bribed me to stop with the promise of a bran muffin. I'm a sucker for a bran muffin.



Now I'm meditating on the message of that title: the brief, wondrous life. It helps to maintain joy while databasing, and though they say pictures are for people who can't remember, I disagree. I get irritated at kids who spend the whole party taking pictures of it, but there is something in the act. 3 summers ago, my teaching assistant at Governor's School had 25 students stand in a circle before a show, doing something very New Agey - in turn, we rotated left and, looking into each others' eyes, said, "It is yours. I give it to you," and embraced. The point was claiming ownership of the work we'd done, honoring our trust in one another. Those moments of seeing and being seen are gifts we hand, unwrapped, to one another. I've been feeling the photo expeditions as a kind of embrace, a documentation of what is on offer. It's true that the pictures I'm taking aren't as messy as what is really on offer. For now, they're highlights. And for now, that's contenting.

Early Morn and Adamventures

I woke up at 7 and headed out to take advantage of the early morning light. Referring to light conditions makes me feel like a real photographer, and not a girl whose point-and-shoot is her only prior experience, a girl who, after today's slowly intimidating class, would like to forget that her classmate's photos appear to be conned from National Geographic.

This afternoon, Adam Stoner and I spent a few hours tramping through Hopkins Forest. We discovered that deer pick the best pathways to snowy creekbeds, that the canopy walk requires the use of mobile ladders and should not be attempted with slick shoes, that two pairs of pants offer perfect insulation, and that the life monastic makes great conversation. Along the way, I took some pictures, here offered as my fledglingest of fledgling efforts. Perhaps still in the nest, as none of them have yet been post-processed; this is just raw material from the camera. Tomorrow is a crash course in SLR photography, after which I hope to be more technically conversant. For now, I'm keeping up with my Winter Study mantra: start each day by deciding what to do. Then do it. And leave room for surprises, gratitude and grace.