Found, Discovered, Loved ...

 

I believe in stories, in story-telling, because a story can answer a question without reducing that question to banality. ‘Who am I? is a huge question, and the answer develops, unfolds, reveals itself throughout the whole of our life. At birth, we are only the visible corner of a folded map. The geography of the self is best explored with a guide, and for me art is such a guide. I write fiction because I want to get nearer to the truth.

Jeanette Winterson, extract from an article titled Oranges.

I have been dipping in and out of Jeanette Winterson's writing, trying to be patient as infection then  antibiotics run their course.  The antibiotics are exhausting even though I know they're doing good work and so, I am living quietly, in-between hanging out 5 loads of laundry (unbelievable!) and working out how to cook duck ...

I have never cooked duck.  Not ever.  But I do rather enjoy it and find myself wondering why I wasn't raised on duck and rabbit, back in that country that had plenty of both.  And I have been making small inroads into my office space here, trying to make it more beautiful somehow ... but perhaps that simply involves sunshine coming in through the window.  Belgium isn't really doing sunshine this year.  It's grim.

I am reading and sleeping, and trying not to sleep more, and writing and reading ... and then there's the housework.  It's like that.

Interesting people and art found in recent days.

I loved this.  An article about my favourite bookshop in the world, so far. 

Then this seemed like an invitation to consider Bradley Manning's actions, asking what you might do if you saw what he saw and understood all it meant. 

And this, begun as a search for the writer who described how his book was born.  He talked of the stories here... They chose me. You know, they touched my shoulder or my back, saying, "Tell me. I am a wonderful story and deserve to be diffused by you, written by you. So, please, write me." And I said, "Well, I’m so busy. No." "No, that’s an alibi. You must write me," the story said. And so I began—I ended writing the stories, and later have a very hard process of selection, trying to say more with less. And after this process, the only surviving texts or stories are the ones I feel that are better than silence. It’s a difficult competition against silence, because silence is a perfect language, the only language which says with no words.

I hope to buy the book, Children of the Days: A Calendar of Human History, as soon as is possible


And this.  Wait for the last question (there are only 3) David Gregory asks Glenn Greenwald.  An example of the best way to  reply to an increasingly biased or 'owned' media.

Lastly, I found Sophie Blackall and simply adore her work.  Another book for my books I would like to own list.  It's long.

So this is a little of what I have been doing in these days.

 

 

Mosquitoes and Paul Kelly, Virginia Woolf, Vita and a Little Bit of Marlena As Well

The bite of a mosquito or some other insect turned feral on Friday.  I woke with a small disaster on my ankle and by Friday afternoon, I was at my local pharmacy, asking if she had anything for it.

She told me she had seen a few like it recently, the mozzies are mean this late late Spring and suggested anti-histamine which I didn't quite feel was right.  She sold me some cortisone cream and suggested I draw around the edge of the redness.  If it continued to spread, I would need a doctor.  I knew that but had never thought of drawing around the edges of it. 

So I drew around it, applied the cream but by bedtime, it was a bit hotter and I wasn't enjoying the feeling of air on the skin there.  Saturday, preferring to ignore these things, I applied the cortisone cream and pottered about but in the back of my mind my experience with cellulitis.

Years ago I barely escaped an antibiotic IV and hospital which, in retrospect, may have been simpler that complete bedrest and 6 courses of antibiotics, 2 at a time. 

Retrospect ... everything is so much clearer then.

I decided not to be a baby (because this New Zealander is tougher than tough, in a chickenhearted kind of way sometimes) and went shopping with Gert in the afternoon, we had errands to run but my throbbing ankle made me take a look mid-shopping expedition.  The area was a bit too red.  Gert sent me out to the car and finished up, then we wandered over to the emergency doctor ... with me still humming and haawing about it all.  You really had to prove you were injured or sick when I was growing up.  That kind of thing sticks.  'Was I just being neurotic?'

The doctor took a look and reassured me that it wasn't cellulitis but that it did need some attention.  That I could ice it if I wanted to, should cover it, and must take antibiotics. 

Antibiotics and I have a history.  They often affect me worse than the thing they are fixing.  So I woke up this morning, the heat had gone out of the area round the wound and it has turned a big corner but, by crikey, I feel miserable.  18 doses of antibiotic to go ...

So I'm bed-resting and reading today and have some excellent books next to the bed.  Paul Kelly's How To Make Gravy is superb.  And I'm playing his A-Z soundtrack as I devour it... it's the music he writes his 100 chapters of book about.  I couldn't travel with this book, it's a monster but tightly written.  Nothing boring yet.  He's an old hero of mine.  His Midnight Rain is the song I have loved best for years.

I found a TED talk Paul gave about the book ... with a song too.  It might give you a sense of what I love about him and his music so I added it at the end of this post.

I'm also dipping in and out of The Letters of Vita Sackwille-West and Virginia Woolf, another huge book that is best read lying down.  And then, in those other moments, different mood, I'm reading the third in a favourite series of mine ... Marlena De Blasi's The Lady in the Palazzo.

It almost makes the stopping and resting thing okay.

Eduardo Galeano, Writer

Scientists say that human beings are made of atoms, but a little bird told me that we are also made of stories. And so, each one has something to tell that deserves to be heard.
Eduardo Galeano, extract from an interview about his new book Children of the Days.

I so very much believe this ... that everyone is a story, everyone is full of stories.  His interview is fascinating and made me think I should look for this book of his.

 

Processing Home ...

When I returned from New Zealand there was a bleak Belgian winter going down and so I simply holed-up, in my office here, processing photographs taken during our 5 weeks back home.

At some point I realised how sad I was becoming, missing the freedoms of home, missing the light, missing people I loved and so I quietly put the rest of my photographs away.  Unprocessed.

Spring arrived ... then left after one day, making repeated attempts over months until finally one day it was ours and I realised I had moved on too.  I had stopped comparing there to here and was focusing on European people and projects again.

I wandered over to Genova, worked like a crazy woman for 5 days and returned to Belgium, swearing I would never attempt Italy in 5 days again.  It's too short a time.  Then Gert took his summer holiday and we explored a small part of France ... discovering some of Bourgogne then falling for Doussard, near Annecy.

Back in Belgium, we have overcast skies and heavy rain today.  We were at 31 celsius two days ago ... it's like that.  Will summer come ... maybe, sometimes.

And I have some exquisite projects in front of me.  A photography exhibition in autumn, the wedding of some favourite folk in France in summer, two workshops in Italy, and the promise of meeting some excellent people along the way.

But today ... today I turned back towards New Zealand and worked through images taken of a favourite family in Fiordland.  Hunter, pictured below, is a treasured friend. 

After I left Fiordland, way back in 1998, he sometimes had work in Dunedin and would come stay with me and my dog, bringing fresh venison from the hills.  Bringing himself and his stories.

He introduced me to the music of Buena Vista Social Club by turning up the volume on his car stereo while we sat out on the deck of my little wooden cottage on the peninsula.

It was good to see him again, to be back in Manapouri for a while and to spend time with his wife Claire, and with their daughter Phoebe too.  Photographs to follow if permissions are given.

Laura Young

Laura's words have been haunting me ...

Sometimes I find myself wondering what it would be like if our only labels were our names and all we had to do with our life was figure out how to flesh that out, just that one name.  Stop worrying about being a good mother, daughter, son, neighbor, grandfather, and all the rest of it and just figure out what it means to be "X".

Seems it could take a person their entire life to figure out how to do that well.

She's a photographer, a writer, a river girl, so she writes ... and so much more.

 

Sometimes I find myself wondering what it would be like if our only labels were our names and all we had to do with our life was figure out how to flesh that out, just that one name.  Stop worrying about being a good mother, daughter, son, neighbor, grandfather, and all the rest of it and just figure out what it means to be "X".

Seems it could it could take a person their entire life to figure out how to do that well.

- See more at: http://laurayoung.typepad.com/photography/2013/06/day-38-scraps-all-over-the-cutting-room-floor.html#sthash.xc43GKV7.dpuf

Sometimes I find myself wondering what it would be like if our only labels were our names and all we had to do with our life was figure out how to flesh that out, just that one name.  Stop worrying about being a good mother, daughter, son, neighbor, grandfather, and all the rest of it and just figure out what it means to be "X".

Seems it could it could take a person their entire life to figure out how to do that well.

- See more at: http://laurayoung.typepad.com/photography/2013/06/day-38-scraps-all-over-the-cutting-room-floor.html#sthash.xc43GKV7.dpuf

Sometimes I find myself wondering what it would be like if our only labels were our names and all we had to do with our life was figure out how to flesh that out, just that one name.  Stop worrying about being a good mother, daughter, son, neighbor, grandfather, and all the rest of it and just figure out what it means to be "X".

Seems it could it could take a person their entire life to figure out how to do that well.

- See more at: http://laurayoung.typepad.com/photography/2013/06/day-38-scraps-all-over-the-cutting-room-floor.html#sthash.xc43GKV7.dpuf

Sometimes I find myself wondering what it would be like if our only labels were our names and all we had to do with our life was figure out how to flesh that out, just that one name.  Stop worrying about being a good mother, daughter, son, neighbor, grandfather, and all the rest of it and just figure out what it means to be "X".

Seems it could it could take a person their entire life to figure out how to do that well.

- See more at: http://laurayoung.typepad.com/photography/2013/06/day-38-scraps-all-over-the-cutting-room-floor.html#sthash.xc43GKV7.dpuf

Sometimes I find myself wondering what it would be like if our only labels were our names and all we had to do with our life was figure out how to flesh that out, just that one name.  Stop worrying about being a good mother, daughter, son, neighbor, grandfather, and all the rest of it and just figure out what it means to be "X".

Seems it could it could take a person their entire life to figure out how to do that well.

- See more at: http://laurayoung.typepad.com/photography/2013/06/day-38-scraps-all-over-the-cutting-room-floor.html#sthash.xc43GKV7.dpuf

Sometimes I find myself wondering what it would be like if our only labels were our names and all we had to do with our life was figure out how to flesh that out, just that one name.  Stop worrying about being a good mother, daughter, son, neighbor, grandfather, and all the rest of it and just figure out what it means to be "X".

Seems it could it could take a person their entire life to figure out how to do that well.

- See more at: http://laurayoung.typepad.com/photography/2013/06/day-38-scraps-all-over-the-cutting-room-floor.html#sthash.xc43GKV7.dpuf

Sometimes I find myself wondering what it would be like if our only labels were our names and all we had to do with our life was figure out how to flesh that out, just that one name.  Stop worrying about being a good mother, daughter, son, neighbor, grandfather, and all the rest of it and just figure out what it means to be "X".

Seems it could it could take a person their entire life to figure out how to do that well.

- See more at: http://laurayoung.typepad.com/photography/2013/06/day-38-scraps-all-over-the-cutting-room-floor.html#sthash.xc43GKV7.dpuf

My Way ...

Chi trova un amico trova un tesoro.

Usually, when I head out to a photo-shoot, it's a new location, new people, new light.

Most times, nothing is known or certain ... it's a new beginning. 

I don't use lights, I demand nothing from people.  I don't have a routine. 

Each person, each family, each event is like an individual fingerprint and so I can't ask for the same thing.

I want them to be as they are, wear what they love, and I like it if they can take me to their favourite place.

Sometimes I check in to see if this way of working scares me.  But it doesn't.  It seems to be the thing I love doing best, that attempt to capture people as they are. 

And anyway, I get to meet people like Steven and Isabel and that ... that is treasure, to be sure.

Translation: He who finds a friend, finds a treasure.

Steven

I photographed a first communion celebration yesterday, out on Flanders Fields and I'm delighted with what I captured.  I blame the family.  They're entirely inspirational.

When I photograph any kind of family event, my objective is to tell the story of the people involved, to capture them as they are, interacting, loving, simply being themselves.

This is Steven, one of the nicest Belgian's I know.  And he has a most beautiful family.

Last night, as I downloaded and viewed the images captured from a day where his son's milestone was celebrated, my soul sang.  It was a good day.

Francesca - Le Gramole, Genova

Each product, be it pasta, olive oil, pesto, cheese, sauces or wine, has been tasted by us. This is the only way we be sure of truly advising you. We travel around Italy searching for the local products that bring excellence to your table. This is our passion !!!!

Francesca, writing about the shop, Le Gramole.

I interviewed Francesca and Norma about their shop, located deep in the historical heart of old Genova, back in 2011. 

It's a special shop, in a special area of the city.  As for Francesca and Norma, they're really special too but I imagine you knew that was coming.

They welcome everyone into their shop.  They're happy to take the time to talk, to advise, to suggest.  I have heard them speak Italian, French, and English, and there are always smiles.

I really recommend you take the time to visit them when in Genova.  You won't regret it. 

Francesca was preparing for a one-on-one food tasting while I was there at the weekend ...

Life as a Cascade ...

Last Thursday Peter and Julie arrived. 

Actually, I should write ... the fantastically talented Tenor, Mr Peter Furlong, and the exquisitely talented  Julie Wyma, Soprano, arrived last Thursday.

They were here for a private performance.  Hosted by lovely friends, Ruth and Marc, all reports tell me that it was very very well-received.

But back to the beginning of this cascade, this avalanche of people and events ... on Saturday, the incorrigible Baritone and Pianist, Chas Elliot arrived to stay too.  Meanwhile, Gert's parents were celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary and there I was, on Saturday night, abandoning our guests to eat my first-ever Thai meal, at the Sombat Restaurant here in Antwerp.

Without exaggerating (I may say that often in this post), I can tell you that it was the most exquisite meal ...

Sunday.  I wandered off to Brussels to capture a First Communion celebration for Irish/English friends. It was just lovely.  The people were some the of nicest people you could hope to spend time with and the weather was perfect.

Sunday evening, a small nap on the train home before meeting up with Gert and heading over to Marc and Ruth's house for dinner ... where we caught up with the 3 opera stars, who had managed to impress their Antwerp audience.  We were all exhausted but very happy.

And suddenly, NYC was in the building.  Stefano and Shannon would surely have loved it.  'Dawg' and 'cawfee', and other 'w' words, flew round the table.  And then came the stories.  No one can tell stories like those three.  It was hilarious.

All of this AND Marc was sharing his quietly spectacular supply of red wine from Puerta Del Sol.  Las Ocho 2009, from Bodegas Chozas Carrascal would have to be the most divine red wine I have tasted ...  Ever.  It was that good.   I'm not exaggerating.  Not at all. 

Actually, when a wine is really good there is no hangover and it's true, on Monday we were all fine.  Exhausted because we had pushed ourselves as artists but no hangover. 

Monday.  We talked but lacked the will to attempt much.  Chas managed to leave after expressing a desire to stay but I'm sure he'll be back.  Peter and Julie had a round of meetings with various people in the afternoon and then we had the good fortune to end our day at Puerta del Sol

Well yes, that is the wine shop I love best in the world.  They import Spanish wine to Belgium but only after rigorously checking the quality.  Guy, Frank, and Jules really love Spanish wine, and Spain too.  It shows in the quality of what they sell.  (No, they really don't pay me to  write things like this.)

Today it's sunshine and laundry for me, and quite some work to catch up on...still.  I've sent Julie and Peter out to the park to relax before they return to their Berlin world tomorrow.  I think we're just all really pleased with how this week has unfolded.  The ongoing nature of good people, fine wine, and experiences that were kind of divine.

They will be back.  And maybe I can organise my next party around them and their remarkable voices. 

Meet Peter ...

 

 

Take down a musical instrument ...

Today, like every other day, we wake up empty
and frightened. Don’t open the door to the study
and begin reading. Take down a musical instrument.
Let the beauty we love be what we do.
There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.

- Rumi

A beautiful soul I met and was fortunate enough to photograph in those days when I lived in Berlin for a while.  Thank you, Noga.

Etel Adnan, a Remarkable Woman

Etel Adnan was born in 1925 and raised in Beirut, Lebanon. Her mother was a Greek from Smyrna, her father, a high ranking Ottoman officer born in Damascus. In Lebanon, she was educated in French schools.

She studied philosophy at the Sorbonne, Paris. In January 1955 she went to the United States to pursue post-graduate studies in philosophy at U.C. Berkeley, and Harvard. From 1958 to 1972, she taught philosophy at Dominican College of San Rafael, California.

Based on her feelings of connection to, and solidarity with the Algerian war of independence, she began to resist the political implications of writing in French and shifted the focus of her creative expression to visual art. She became a painter. But it was with her participation in the poets’ movement against the war in Vietnam that she began to write poems and became, in her words, “an American poet”.

In 1972, she moved back to Beirut and worked as cultural editor for two daily newspapers—first for Al Safa, then for L’Orient le Jour. She stayed in Lebanon until 1976.

In 1977, her novel Sitt Marie-Rose was published in Paris, and won the “France-Pays Arabes” award. This novel has been translated into more than 10 languages, and was to have an immense influence, becoming a classic of War Literature. In 1977, Adnan re-established herself in California, making Sausalito her home, with frequent stays in Paris.

In the late seventies, she wrote texts for two documentaries made by Jocelyne Saab, on the civil war in Lebanon, which were shown on French television as well as in Europe and Japan.

Extract, the website of Etel Adnan 

Searching for information about Etel Adnan also led me into an interesting world that left me wanting to stay and read a while.  And there was another book too, Sea and Fog.

I took this photograph of her at the TASWIR Exhibition.  I was off to one side, taking photographs while she was interviewed.

My camera was filled with interesting people during those months on the project.

A little more on documentary photography

I wanted to come back to documentary photography once more and just say, never stop watching.  For me, it's a little like hunting ... perhaps. 

I don't go in with a plan beyond the attempt to capture the story.  To tell it true.  I picked up a 3-day documentary shoot, over on Flanders Fields, working with the New Zealanders a few years ago.

The image that follows is one of my favourites and I have to confess, it really was about swinging round and capturing this exquisite moment without thinking too much about settings.  A hongi ... a Maori greeting, was being exchanged. 

I had been traveling in France with the New Zealand veterans the day before and so they knew me a little. The New Zealand London Rugby Club were playing a commemoration match in Zonnebeke. 

Moments like these make documentary photography a big love of mine ...

 

 

Diana Strinati Baur, True Vines (and writing a book review)

I finally reached university when I was 34 years old.

I hadn't known to dream it when I was young.  My people didn't have a history of university attendance but I was a natural  researcher, a terribly curious child who became an intensely curious woman. 

My first husband suggested the marriage owed me a degree as I had followed the development of his career, moving around New Zealand's South Island over the years.

And so I began.  I dived into literature, wanting the papers necessary to apply for Bill Manhire's creative writing course.  I explored film studies, psychology, and archaeology along the way.  Then I discovered social and political anthropology and detoured off into that seductive discipline.

Degree complete and realising that there wasn't much work in New Zealand (population 4 million), divorced, and having lost my mother along the way, I set out for Istanbul.  To teach English, of course, like so many good kiwi students looking for work and experience.

Ten years later and here I am, a photographer, a writer, a woman of dual-nationality living in Belgium.

All that to introduce today's story.  Last year, one of my favourite people published her first novel. I packed it, back in November, and read it as I traveled the 16,000kms+ home ...

Home for the first time in 8 years.  But the book pulled me in anyway, despite all that was going on in my head.  I recognised situations and characters, I knew that feeling of expat dislocation ... of not being sure of where home was anymore.

And then I arrived in NZ, put the book down, and spent 5 weeks wandering my old worlds, spending time with family and friends while sinking into that landscape I love more than any other.  There were roadtrips and beaches, mountains and forests, there were bush walks, jet boat rides, rivers ... everything you can imagine and more.  And friends, so many really kind friends.

I arrived back in Belgium ... that other home, to a life that demanded quite a lot of me.  4 hours on public transport twice a week, 2 hours on the other week-days.  And more.  And housework.  Life ... just the usual messy demanding life we all lead but I found it incredibly difficult to settle.

And the book review I wanted to write kept being put to one side.  I knew, part of it was that I had no space in my head for writing ... most definitely not even for serious review-style reading.  Time passed, it sat there on my shoulder, poking me occasionally, waiting.

Back at university we knew that to write an essay worthy of an A+, we needed to adopt a written language we called wankspeak.  Delightful I know but it was a way of recognising the elevation of language required to be truly worthy of an A+.

It terrified me.  I love poetic prose and always understood that that wouldn't get me an A+.  I developed a kind of nervous tic when it came to formal writing ... I required time, usually an extension on date due, and much misery.  You could say I developed a certain technique that got me through with maximum suffering.

Back to the present and somehow I had decided this book review needed to be worthy of an A+.  I should have pulled that idea out of my head at some point, discussed it with someone, had them say, Di, it's not about earning an A+.

Today, more than 4 months after opening the book, I decided it was time.  And I wrote.

I was stunned to find that I didn't need to reread the book, making notes and laboriously researching secondary sources.  I was stunned to realise that Diana's book had remained inside of me ... like the story of an old friend that I hadn't forgotten.  And that I understood, somewhere deep inside me, that it wasn't about wankspeak ... it was simply about tellling my truth.

Imagine that!

Anyway, let me introduce you to Diana, or a glimpse of her, via the photograph below.  Taken in Genova in October last year ...

 

 

That Beautiful Hat ...

My journey is the destination companion recently knitted her first hat.  She is the creature who gave me much-needed permission to squander my money on that beautiful scarf pictured in the previous post.

I loved the colours she used and so I am currently negotiating my very own woollen hat.  One with a  Miss 8 designer label.

As for the origin of the concept, 'the journey is the destination' ... I stumbled across Dan Eldon's work back when I lived in New Zealand.  His book has been traveling with me since.  I had this idea it would inspire my English students in Istanbul however the syllabus was always quite tight in the private schools where I worked.

So he simply inspires me. As does Miss 8.