I love portrait photography. It's that slipping into the lives of others, just for a short time, and wandering with them for a while ... wanting to capture something of who they are.
I met this beautiful soul recently and it was such a pleasure to photograph her and her sister.
Last visit to Genova, I had the good fortune to meet a very kind man who quietly explained the free concert Outi and I had arrived in time for ... in Palazzo Ducale.
Roberto and I stayed in touch. He has wandered the world and taken some beautiful photographs en route. And so it was, this time, that he offered to take me into the heart of this ancient city I love so well.
There is no point in ever imagining you know Genova. She will always surprise you. Even if you live here forever. It is a city for those who want depth. A city for those who don't want the easy entertainment experience.
Today I was introduced to the legend that is Captain Enrico Alberto d'Albertis (1846-1932), a remarkable man. His castello is one I will return to. I wandered in a cloister that I didn't know existed. I visited churches I had only photographed the exterior of ... grazie, Roberto.
Tonight ... I'm not even sure I can capture it for you. I am here, as usual, next to the open window ... writing and listening to music but more than that, listening to the noise of an evening in Genova. There's a bar below me, a pizzeria across the small alley ... there is life.
I love the noise of Italy. And there's a warm breeze, good music, and the pleasure that is simply being here ... in this moment, loving everything about where I am.
But a photograph, from my today spent wandering. The light ... this one was all about the light.
There is a creaking, grinding roll-up metal door that is activated about 6.30am ...near my bedroom here in Genova.
It's a feet-on-the-floor explosion of sound. To give you a sense of it, an army would be proud of this vehicle of noise when waking and/or scaring the living daylights out of their new recruits or prisoners of war.
Some mornings I hear it, some mornings I don't. This morning I woke, completely heart-thumpingly disorientated. I lay there a while and then, sure enough, some kind of pressure-building noise followed as the cafe primed its coffee-machine with the required level of explosiveness ...perhaps.
I stumbled out of bed to see if I had missed the possible thunderstorms predicted for while I slept but they didn't come. It's overcast but that won't hurt after yesterday's 32 celsius, with humidity of 76%.
The kitchen window is open, next to my laptop and the breeze is almost refreshing. The 'ciao's' have begun and people sound lively and engaged in this language I love. So upbeat, even at 7.37am.
Meanwhile friends here are rebelling. Maybe they're pretending but some have decided it's time I spoke Italian. Of course, I agree but language acquisition has never been the thing I am best in. Two years in Turkey and I remember the Turks were amused by my using a very English pronunciation in my simple greetings.
Learning Dutch hasn't gone well either. Maybe there is some forgotten colonial impulse buried deep in my New Zealand genes but I tend to begin in English in Belgium and mostly they reply in the same. Actually, they reply in English when they hear my Dutch too. I have come to believe that my attempts are so impossibly bad that they are found to be abominable.
But anyway, English is a useful language to travel with ... or not. Depending on what one believes about language.
So ... last night I began working through the 200+ Italian flashcard exercises I have stored on my computer. While the language itself is often straight-forward, in that it is pronounced as it appears, I realised that words like 'di' and 'a', with their multiple uses, could be troublesome.
'di' (that Italian word that isn't my name) = of, from, about, than, to, with, by. And then there is 'a' = to, at, in, for, with, by.
The road could be long. Here too, the 'i' sounds like my 'e'and so Di of me becomes Dee. Although it is the same in Dutch and so I have adjusted to that kind of thing.
I can see how this language-studying commitment is a necessary commitment because to post graffiti without being sure of what is saying is a risk I don't often take. However this one refers to, or was written by, Melina Riccio. Hers is an interesting story for sure ...
The espresso and cappuccino cups are rattling in the cafes below, a man is telling a story so amusing he can barely squeeze the words out through the laughter he is trying to control. It seems like old friends are at the cafe, meeting on their way to work perhaps, and talking about things I don't understand ...
Buongiorno ... it is morning here in Genova.
...how places love us back, of what they give us.
They give us continuity, something to return to, and offer familiarity that allows some portion of our lives to remain collected and coherent.
They give us an expansive scale in which our troubles are set into context, in which the largeness of the world is a balm to loss, trouble, and ugliness.
And distant places give us refuge in territories where our own histories aren't so deeply entrenched and we can imagine other stories, other selves, or just drink up quiet and respite.
The bigness of the world is redemption.
Rebecca Solnit, The Faraway Nearby
I found these words over on a favourite blog of mine called Myth & Moor. It's the site where Terri Windling notes down, oftentimes, beautiful words and wisdoms she finds along the way.
Tonight I am sitting at Paola's kitchen table in Genova, again. My laptop and I are located next to an open window, one floor above the street and, after a 32 celsius day, I'm enjoying the softness of a breeze that carries rumours of rain.
Today was quiet after yesterday's strangely epic journey here. All went well till I landed at Milan's Malpensa airport. I picked up my soft cloth luggage, unzipped it to throw my camera bag in, noticing a wet patch as I worked ... and then the stench of it hit me.
At first I thought it was urine. I was horrified. Then I thought, okay, cat pee ... okay. I wandered over to Lost and Found luggage and explained. They were lovely. I love this thing about Italy. They remain human in times of deep distress and need while other countries in Europe have failed consistently. But never mind.
The woman came round to my side of the counter ... sniffed, and diagnosed Fish!. Apparently some people from countries that don't need to be named, pack fish in their luggage, gifts from or for relatives. This fish had leaked all over my bag.
The Lost and Found woman filled out the necessary insurance forms for me, so sympathetic that I couldn't help but thank her. I explained I had two trains and 3 hours of travel ahead of me. Was there some place in the airport where I could replace my stinking bag. She sent me up to Departures and eventually I located the only place selling anything like my bag ... and there were no sales inside the airport. Everywhere I been lately, in Belgium and Italy, there are sales. Probably this airport was the only place without sales.
I travel on a wish and a prayer. Sometimes I wonder if I'm the only person left in the worlds that I know who doesn't have any kind of credit card. I usually get by, even if I sometimes arrive home with just 10 euro in cash, or less. Yesterday I was in despair. I could do it but it would seriously impact on my desire to fund this trip by myself.
I can't even write the price I had to pay for the bag that could fit my luggage into it. And I had to have wheels because I am slightly broken in body and my equipment is heavy enough without having to carry the rest of my stuff too. The luggage shop assistant was lovely. She sent me off to another store, just in case they had something more reasonable but no.
I paid, I unpacked my luggage with just a few losses ... thank goodness for waterproofing I guess. I dumped the stinking bag over by the rubbish bins she pointed to and we laughed as she said not to worry, that she had a spray that would clear the fishy stench my bag had created in her shop. It stunk, so bad. So unbelievably badly. (But you got that by now, didn't you.)
I found a train to take me into Milan and it might have been okay with the stinky bag. There was A/C and lots of space but the longer train journey, the 2 hours from Milan to Genova, that would have been a nightmare. On that train I was seated in one of those little 6 seat cabins with 5 other people and a closed door. The A/C was weak and the temperature outside was 30 celsius.
I imagined how horrific it would have been to have traveled with my fish-stinking bag. Instead it was tranquil, people napped, helped one another with luggage, smiled, and were kind.
It could have been another story entirely ... I was glad I had spent the money.
However today has been a far better day and full of good people. And here's a glimpse of the flowers I found this morning. Okay, so it was bread and cheese for dinner but really, it was all so very worth it I'm thinking, as I sit here by the window listening to the ebb and flow of life here in Genova this evening
I breakfasted at 4am Saturday morning because I couldn't sleep and by 4am, it seemed like the best thing to be doing.
I had spent the wakeful hours catching up on some of the emails I owe. I had read, tried to quiet my busy little mind but, in the end, it became about breakfast .
2 pieces of toast with peach jam, a Voluto Nespresso and voila, I slept ... until 10am.
2.30pm and I was out on my bike, navigating new city streets here, heading out on a photography shoot. And it was one of those photography sessions where the children were divine, the dog made me smile, and Jayne ... well she poured me a glass of white wine when I was done.
A lovely way to spend a day really.
I'm rapt with the results and hope all those involved are too. Here's one ... a simple shot that needs no permissions to post.
It's 11.21pm as I work away here. Smiling like a maniac. So happy about my today.
Perhaps it began yesterday ... that bubble of joy that floated up out of me as I laughed with my new hairdresser. He's about 65 and he's a delight.
I took my long hair to him a couple of months ago. I went in knowing it was serious, that I hadn't had a professional cut in a very long time, maybe 2 years ... and that the time of the supermarket, do-it-yourself, dyes had to come to an end.
He sighed, he worked for hours, he fixed everything, cutting away so much hair I wondered, over the days that followed, if I wasn't related to Samson ... that my strength hadn't disappeared with my hair.
But a strange thing happened. It wasn't as short as it initially felt but, even better, I had more hair than I'd ever had. He had worked some magic that made it all lively and almost wavy. A miracle really but one that I hadn't thanked him for.
Some colour 'adjustment' is required and so I biked over to book an appointment and voila, before I knew it, joy was simply bubbling out of me as we talked of my hair.
Last night, after a very warm 27 celsius day, I slipped outside with my laptop and sat in the garden a while. The swallows were still screaming around like the kamikazes they are but as the sun went down, out came the bats ... on an insect-eating mission. I didn't know we had bats but we do. It was beautiful out there in the garden that Gert made.
This morning began with the arrival of a most exquisite and much-longed for book. Eduardo Galeano's Children of the Days - a calendar of human history had arrived. Thank you very much, Gert! I opened it and fell in.
It's as beautiful as imagined, more beautiful than I knew a book could be perhaps.
29 January
HUMBLY I SPEAK
Today in 1860 Anton Chekhov was born.
He wrote as if he were saying nothing.
And he said everything.
But there was still more joy out there waiting for me. I had promised to phone Dave and Jude, another set of old friends from far-away. We had enjoyed catching up with them when back home at Christmas. visiting just as they were just setting off on their grand return to Africa, with children.
Talking with them is like drinking from an ocean of joy. Somehow they fill me up. We talked for 2 hours and more about everything important and good.
The bell rang again and more parcels arrived. Gifts for Miss 9, all the way from New Zealand, t-shirts for Gert, and voila, a gift of music all the way from Australia. I'm listening to that as I write this. Thank you to Paul.
Tonight I have a 3-hour photoshoot. I'm working with a friend who has pulled me into an exciting project of hers. I suspect it will be intense but foresee more joy is entirely possible.
Money ruins so much and while I need it, getting involved in projects that engage my heart and soul ... they're not to be sneezed at.
In these days I tell myself that, okay, perhaps I'll die poor but by crikey, I feel so rich in stories ...
I owe email and phone calls. Please forgive me. Replies to follow in the weeks ahead.
Captured during that very first-time session with the new bow and arrow set ...
I have no explanation for this image ... I simply wanted to see how it might look if I photographed it.
“I am young, I am twenty years old; yet I know nothing of life but despair, death, fear, and fatuous superficiality cast over an abyss of sorrow. I see how peoples are set against one another, and in silence, unknowingly, foolishly, obediently, innocently slay one another.”
- Erich Maria Remarque, All Quiet on the Western Front
I was feeling quietly devastated by the loss of life represented by the 1,000s of Commonwealth headstones we saw stretching out in all directions, on Friday, out there on Flanders Fields.
I'm always left imagining the ghosts of those brave and beautiful young men who believed they were saving the world when they agreed to fight in the 'Great War' ... I imagine them standing round as we visit their graves, and I wonder how many are bitter.
And then a butterfly arrived on the flowers in front of one those tombstones.
The Commonwealth War Graves Commission does a magnificent job in taking care of the memories of all those who died. The flowers, the closely-mown lawns, the pristine white headstones.
Dead but not forgotten. Never ... Meanwhile our governments go on creating new wars, borders and boundaries. I suspect nothing was learned.
We met at Taieri High when we were 13 but didn't start talking till we were 14. Then we talked a bit. Some evenings on the phone, the old dial-style phones, plugged into the wall. His father or mine occasionally threatening death as the phone lines were blocked.
We were discussing serious things and the world.
David was another much-loved old friend from those days. And, occasionally, I took photographs of them on their bikes with that very first camera of mine. I remember the time Dave deliberately spilled tomato sauce over that shot of him landing badly after some kind of jump at the Brick and Sand quarry. We were in the midst of a post-motorcross pile of fish 'n chips at the time.
I still have those photographs in storage back home in New Zealand.
Paul arrived here in this Belgian world last weekend, fresh from his advanced para-gliding course in Doussard. That place where Gert and I had so enjoyed staying. Paul showed us the video footage of the stalls they had to practice ... heart-stopping moments where the 'chute' lost air and needed correcting.
Like us, he raved about the scenery, the mountains.
This last week has been a week where two old friends from smalltown New Zealand wandered in Europe. We visited The Somme, finding the grave of his great-great-grandfather.
I introduced him to Antwerp where he hunted down the wrought iron and he, perhaps without realising it, gifted me a new view on the city. We checked out coffee and wine places, I introduced to more than a few beers that were 'a bit malty'. I laugh as I write that ... I'm not the best beer advisor when an Aussie bloke knows what kind of beer he prefers.
He forgave me, I think.
I insisted he visit Flanders Fields where we were fortunate enough to catch up with both of my favourite Belgians down there in the Westhoek. Modest experts in their areas of knowledge. Steven found some more information on a WWI relative Paul had been curious about, and a book about the Otago Mounted Rifles. It seems that Paul's Alfred William Johnson was in the same battalion as my grandad, George Gidion Murray.
Locating the book seems to be another story and I've had to write off to the Westhoek to check that I have the right title. I do believe it's a book I'd quite like to read.
But enough, here's a photograph I took for both David and Fiona ... we wished them both here. Liz too. Remember those days ...
The Palazzo Ducale, once the seat of the oligarchic government of the Republic, today it is used to host the most important art exhibitions and major events.
This picking through and posting images from my May in Genova began when I decided it was time to write of that trip.
This street ... Via San Vincenzo, the walking street that I often use when I wander to or from Brignole Station. I know I've arrived or I'm sad to be leaving. It varies.
For some reason, I like this image.
It's also useful, perhaps, for understanding the image that follows.
Inside Palazzo Ducale, in Genova, there is much to photograph ...
My journey to Genova in May, despite being far too short, was as special as every other visit I've made to that exquisite Italian city located in Liguria. But the kindness of strangers was quietly overwhelming and intensely appreciated. Perhaps it was all more condensed . I don't know. It was a special visit. Crazy busy but filled with people I want to write about in the days ahead.
I've put off writing about it in detail because I didn't want to miss out any stories. Now ... so much time has passed, I fear I have forgotten some things.
It's time to sit awhile and remember.
I arrived via Rome and landed in Genova late afternoon. It was raining and grey - the only grey day I had. In the days that followed, it was summer. The journey from Brussels had been long but this time I was staying with Francesca and her lovely family out at Arenzano. Paola's apartment was under renovation back in the city.
So I followed the train signs out to the airport exit doors but then the signs peetered out. I turned a few times, sure it was me who was somehow lost, before wandering back to a counter where there was man who seemed like he might be open to questions from this lost woman.
He was lovely. He started talking of the bus, then a taxi, then walking ...discounting each idea as he went. It's not much more than a kilometre to the train station, an easy walk normally and so he drew me a map but then looked at the rain and wasn't happy. The situation was resolved when a friend or collegue of his called out a ciao. He called him over to us. This lovely young man listened to the story and before I knew it my luggage and I were in his car.
He had un po inglese and well ... my lack of ability in other languages has created laughter all over the world. But we talked a little. He weaved through the streets near the airport then parked next to a footbridge that went over the railway tracks. He unloaded my luggage and then, much to my horror, carried my heavy bag all the way to the top of the stairs. I was so grateful and a little bit mortified.
We said our goodbyes and I made my way down to the train station. I bought my ticket.
Flustered, tired ... who knows really, I had forgotten how trains worked in Italy. Platforms, directions, stuff like that. Eventually I asked at the office and another lovely Ligurian said, come with me, and so I did. I followed her under the tracks and up onto the correct platform.
Honestly, I know how trains work there. I use them often but it seemed that there was a brain-freeze going down and I was in its grip. She sat with me, we talked a little. I wished I had studied Italian. I appreciated her unobtrusive kindess.
I arrived in Arenzano and Francesca picked me up and whisked me off to her place.
Now ... Francesca has lovely friend called Anna Lisa. I'm sure of the 'lovely' because Anna Lisa had offered to cook dinner for Francesca and her family that evening.
I took a photograph or two while she whipped up a focaccia al formaggio, as per the photograph at the end of this post. There was other food too but I was so tired by then, and I did nothing but race about madly during those 5 exquisite days in Genova, I've lost the rest of the memory of dinner. I suspect that the warm focaccia di formaggio was so good that I have fixated on it.
I also suspect that the kindness of Ligurian strangers had overwhelmed me, filled me up, knocked me off-balance a little.
And Francesca's family ... Beppe, Cesare, and Emma. There's so much love between them that it is truly lovely to spend time in their midst.
And so I arrived. Genova, May 2013.
Update: if you use a reader to read my posts, sincere apologies for the series of edits. Strong antibiotics, 3 espressos, and no sunshine or warmth ... it all messed with my mind.
And Stefano, grazie mille for the editing advice. It was a rather grave error, falling to the 'No exceptions' category.
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.
The possibilities I saw in this made me stop and play a while, my camera and I, out there in Bourgogne.
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.
Ferns were the object of my photographic desire when I reached home. No explanation, I just found myself falling in love with them ...
This photograph, there was so much wrong with it but I love it. I'm tempted to get it printed Huge.
There's been a wee bit of blogging done by my self tonight. I'm trying to turn my curious gaze away from all that is wrong in the world and find some kind of peace of mind.
But wait ... there was something I almost forgot. This article was out there this morning and I loved it. It opens with, and yes, I added (or girl) ...
Date a boy (or girl) who travels. Date a boy who treasures experience over toys, a hand-woven bracelet over a Rolex. Date the boy who scoffs when he hears the words, "vacation," "all-inclusive" or "resort." Date a boy who travels because he's not blinded by a single goal but enlivened by many.
Lena Desmond, extract from Date a Boy Who Travels
