The New Year ...

I always get sad during the holiday break here in the northern hemisphere. 

I always miss home and family, more than at any other time of the year. 

So January is a bit of a climb out of the dark of a Belgian winter and, clearly, my blogging voice falters too.

I miss the road home (as per the photograph), the big messy familar family Christmas, and summer.

I miss the quiet joy of walking long beaches with my dog, good air, and crazy-friendly people.

Eight years is simply too long to stay away but I rarely understand it like that.  Just as I collapse distance with my favourite telefoto lens, I also collapse or compress the passing of time. 

But the 'telefoto' collapse doesn't work over the big holiday break ... not at all. 

2012 has to be the year I go home.  But meanwhile, all the very best things to you and yours in this new year.

Cristina Zenato

What an extraordinary woman ... an extraordinary life.

Speaking five different languages, Italian, English, German, French and Spanish, Cristina became a tour de force – a PADI, NAUI, SSI, SDI, open water instructor, NSS-CDS full cave instructor, Extended Range Instructor, TDI advanced Nitrox with decompression procedure and more ...

Cristina has a natural ‘gift’, some would say, with Sharks. Practicing a little known technique of rubbing and manipulating her fingers across the ampullae of Lorenzini, the visible dots [electro-receptive sensory organs] all around a shark’s head and face, she induces a tonic immobility. To the observer, this looks like a shark falling asleep right in her lap. Last fall a Blue shark appeared to fall asleep in her hands, on the surface. As she caressed the beautiful ten foot ocean traveler, the fact that she had no chain-mail suit on this occasion never seemed to cross her mind.

A memory from my last time in Genova alone …

There is something truly delicious about lying in bed here in Genova, listening as the street comes alive … the first footsteps, the quiet voices, followed by louder voices as people roll up the doors of their work place, and the clank of the coffee cups on saucers begins soon after.

I doze a while longer then wake again, this time to the laughter of men on the street below. I imagine them stopping for an espresso at the cafe as they head off to work … friends who meet everyday, on their way, and I envy them their routine for a moment.

There’s music but I nap just a little more … until it becomes impossible to ignore my craving for focaccia. I pull on clothes and step out, almost into a neighbour. She laughs and apologises in Italiano. I reply in French for some early-morning-not-quite-awake reason.

I don’t speak French.
The bonjour feels strange in my mouth and I only recover when I find her holding the street door open for me and I say ‘Grazie’ and smile ... located in place and time.

I have some days without shape or form ahead of me, days where I can organise the creative chaos of my life. I have been waiting so long to reach this place of peace and isolation in the midst of the everyday noise of the ancient city.

For me, wandering is rarely about sights seen. When I was in Cairo I only saw pyramids as my plane climbed up through the pollution and left the city however I met some truly interesting people. And so it is that my idea of travel is more about people and the feeling of place. Barcelona was the first city in recent years that forced me to be the tourist, perched on the outer shell of the city, excluded from everyday life by virtue of being foreign and without people who knew me.

Here, back in Genova, I’m always a little off-balance and shyness hunts me down easily but it is good to be back in La Superba and writing again.

Remembering ...

Nana with her great-grandkidlet back in those heady days of summer.

December 24th finds us hunting down a new oven, as ours died last night.  Could be an interesting Christmas day, I'm thinking.

 

A Special Holiday Offer on my 'Come Travel with Me' Photography Workshop in Italy ...

Why not book a place on my 'Come Travel with Me' 5-day Photography Workshop in Beautiful, Historic Genoa, Italy, in the new year.
If you book before January 15th, 2012 and you will receive a €100 discount immediately.
I imagine I don't need to  point out that that's a lot of aperitivo moments.
Very limited space is available.

Wishing everyone the very best things in 2012.

These last few days ...

These last few days have been a psychedelic whirl ... somehow. 

No drugs were taken, I hasten to add.

If I attempt to put past few days together, I would tell you that we had a horrific random shooting here in Belgium, where more than 120 were injured and 5 were killed. I was told about it when it was still breaking news and no one knew what was happening.  It left me disorientated at the end of the day.

Then there was my 17 hour marathon Friday but as it ended with red wine and time spent with a lovely friend, I shouldn't complain.  

Actually, that day was a little surreal, in terms of all I experienced.  Even the train trip home took on an odd quality when a lovely older Moroccan woman next to me started talking and ended up getting me to try her Coco Chanel perfume.  The 'odd' could be applied when you realise she spoke French and Arabic and I spoke English and Nederlands.  No language in common but when has that ever stopped me ...  There was much laughter and family photographs were exchanged and smiled over

Saturday and Sunday were spent in the company of the truly delicious Miss 7, who came out to street Christmas party with us in the evening.  The street party where Gert and I, along with others, spent some time trying to help a guy who collapsed there.  It was a relief when the ambulance arrived. 

We stayed on for a while, catching up with good people, most especially the 'justice of the peace' who married us back in 2006.  Sunday I look at the 'chaos' on my desk (let's not call it mess) and realised I had an Eithopian cross (pictured above), a Turkish prayer bracelet and necklace from Lhasa, all lying next to each other here. 

I love the stories and relics that pop up in this crazybeautiful life I sometimes get to lead.

But mostly, if I had to explain this absence from blogging, I would tell you it's because I've been working on this new website.  The website where there is still work to be done but perhaps I just have to throw out here in front of me.  I always want things perfect and, of course, nothing is ever 'perfect enough'. 

So, here I am, launching this new website.  More work to be done in the days ahead. I hope you enjoy it.  The url should switch to www.dimackey.com but for now, it is here.

Emily Dubner and Baking for Good

Emily Dubner is the founder and CEO of Baking for Good, an online bakery shop inspired by the idea of a bake sale. 15% of the proceeds from every purchase of brownies, cookies, and other sweet treats goes to a charity the customer chooses. Baking for Good is a one-stop shop for cookie gifts that give back.  You can read more about her story over here.

I loved the idea of Emily’s business but was even more delighted when I learned that my lovely friend, Stefano, had contributed to this year’s Christmas gift boxes.

Wander on over and read all about it in Seeing Stars.

You can make your orders here.

Cattedrale di San Lorenzo, Genova

I have loved the facade of Cattedrale di San Lorenzo in Genova since my first visit to the city back in 2008.

It’s the facade that fascinates me.  It has a million details, and I just love the lions who stand guard.

The cathedral was founded in the 9th century, then rebuilt in the 12th century in a Romanesque style.  The first Gothic transformation was begun in the 13th century by Frankish/Norman worker, with construction continuing for centuries using Pisan, Lombardia and French artists.  In the end, it has become a mix of the Romaneque, the Gothic and Barque styles, and I love it.

I found these two pregnant women this time.  I couldn’t resist attempting to capture something of them, and found myself wondering about who had created them, when.

'It Rained So Hard', Karen Bowles

It rained so hard

I was carrying around

word droplets in my shoes,

shaking them from my hair

and jacket,

watching them

gather in

shallow pools

of speech

all around my feet.

I can dip my toe

and come back

with a sentence

sliding down my

skin

with moisturizing

conversation.

If I open my mouth

to the sky

and stretch my wings,

hands upraised,

I will gather the

letters into a

little pile

and knit them into

a distinctive hat

you can wear

in the falling

words

to remind you

 

 

I am a sound upon
your lips
and a full-length novel
in your heart

I found this exquisite poem, by Karen Bowles, and just had to share.  There is more coming but for the moment, I’m letting the poem stand mostly on its own. 

For those who wish to know more, the poem comes from the website Luciole Press ...La Luciole is French for “The Firefly.”

“This multi-purpose arts publication, with a blog which is updated daily, is an effort to bring light and dark together in the same field. It seeks to cover many subjects, focusing especially on anything related to the arts, poetry, travel, commentary, ideas, and celebration of all cultures.

A timely reminder ... Gwarlingo

During the audit, one of the IRS employees explained to my friend that she couldn’t keep declaring a loss for her business year after year.

“This looks more like a hobby than a profession,” the auditor said.

My friend attempted to explain the financial ups and downs of being a working artist. Yes. There had been a dry spell in the “income department” in recent years, but her expenses were legitimate. Art was her business, her life, her passion–not a mere hobby.

The auditor was completely puzzled. “But if you aren’t making any money creating art,” he asked, “why do you keep doing this year after year?”
Extract from, What Inspires Michelle Aldredge, creator of the website called Gwarlingo.  The website where some of the most inventive work being made today in music, writing, film, performance, and the visual arts is highlit. It is also a place where creative people can connect, explore, and share ideas and resources.

The 'Joy' of Being a Photographer

One of the crazy beautiful things about my life is that I get offered the opportunity to photograph some truly interesting people and events.

One of the crazy-making facts of this life as a photographer, I’m usually offered the opportunity to donate my services for free ...

I was recently contacted about the possibility of heading off to a world forum as photographer.  They made it immediately clear that they were a charity, they had no money but there was the possibility the media outlets might want photographs.  I could probably pick up some loose change there.  I was left wondering how the caterers got their money ... tips?

The gig interested me, intensely actually, and the guy I was talking to was lovely however at some point sanity kicked in and I realised that it was same old same old.

I would attend two or three days of events, take a few hundred photographs because I love that kind of photography.  it was possible that some of those photographs would be urgently required for press releases, as is so often the case.  I would travel too and from the venue each day.  This was to be at my own expense, until I mentioned it would cost me money to work for the charity.  Not to mention that fact that I would spend a number of days sorting, selecting, processing and packaging my images so that everyone involved had the option of their memory of those days, proof of their professional abilities.

I thought, No ... not again. 

The organisers will be paid.  The cleaners will be paid. The caterers too, I imagine.  The office staff, the media people, the owners of the venue. Even the speakers will probably be paid as they were coming from all over the world ... but hey, the photographer works for free.

Why?

Are my skills such that I don’t deserve to be paid?
Is my time without value because I am an artiste?
Am I having too much fun in my profession?

Could it be that my 200euro monthly payments to social security here in Belgium aren’t impressive enough to merit payment?
Is my 21% BTW (VAT) payment on every invoice something I can choose not to pay?

I said no.
They offered expenses.
I had to walk away because how can I explain that I might be a little more qualified than some of the cleaners.  That perhaps my photographs will give the event more coverage than some of the office staff involved in putting this event together.  That maybe the photographer contributes something material, acting as a kind of witness to an event, that enhances the careers of those organising it.

Obviously my business is on hold while I regroup and learn to say no more often to these gigs.  I don’t want to get bitter about my photographer’s life because I love photography and people with a passion.  I love documenting events where the world comes to speak but I just can’t keep taking the financial hits. 

So please, sometimes just think about the photographer you’re hiring. 
Think about how good they are, how long you’ll have those memories for, and what value you place on those images ... and then just pay because they have bills just like you.

Thank you for reading.
Normal service will be resumed as soon as I find some bounce again ...

'Back', a little more everyday.

And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.
Sylvia Plath

Friday was the longgggg day of travel.  I do it the most difficult way and almost destroyed my shoulder this time.

I caught a taxi to the train station because the possibility of me experiencing a Mr Bean-like incident is high.  Once, while rushing to Genova’s Brignole Station through the rain, I slipped and bent my knee in a way I hadn’t bent it in a long time.  Lying on the ground, pre-pain, I remember considering the possibility of hospital and not having to leave the city I loved however, a lovely man helped me up and I realised that the bone-crushing bend had actually freed my rather stiff knee up.  Bizarre but true. 

My train platform lacked both elevator and escalator access.  I looked at my bags ... one 23kg suitcase, one 7kg+ equipment bag, and considered weeping.  Needs must, and so I picked them up and began the climb.  There was a beautiful young man at the top of the stairs, watching me, resplendent in his Milan clothes.  I reached the top, looked at him, and said OHMYGOD! and laughed because what else can you do when you’re not sure you can survive that kind of ‘lift and climb’ scenario.  I wandered off to a spot in the sun to see what was going to happen.  It seemed I was to survive but for the odd achey muscley bits.

Then it was almost 2 hours on the train to Milan, first class ... because it was just 6 euro more, and so worth it.  And almost another hour on the train to the airport and yes, that was me, 2 hours early for the earliest check-in.  I still have a mild cough thing going and I was so tired, I just wanted to make sure I got home…

So they sent me away with my suitcase, my much-hated suitcase by that point in time, and I found a quiet spot where I could buy some pasta and tomato, and drink a glass of red wine.  My usb modem was still working and so I worked a while but, really, I just wanted to get rid of the suitcase, buy a book, and get through security.

Evening, on the plane and I bought one of those tiny bottles of airplane Merlot, twitching my nose a little over the fact it wasn’t the Chianti I had come to love. 
It was really bad.  I sipped but couldn’t drink it.  The air hostess noticed I hadn’t finished it when I returned it to her and offered to pop up the front and replace it with something nicer.  And she did!  I’m still smiling over that.

Home, suitcase battered but ahah! I had encased it in plastic wrap to avoid the usual suitcase breakage I experience on reaching Brussels.  Well ... I got it home only to discover that they had had their dastardly way with it and that the lock was broken and had jammed closed.  Dank u wel, Brussels airport.  Another suitcase story to add to the growing collection titled ‘Horrible Things That Have Happened to My Suitcase at Brussels Airport’.  This was its final journey.  God only knows what I’ll replace it with, probably titanium or some other unbreakable material.

On the bright side my suitcase on one of the first off the conveyor belt.  I looked at the time, I had about 6 minutes to reach the hourly bus to Antwerpen. I sprinted through the ‘anythingtodeclare’ section thinking that perhaps that wasn’t the best look when toting a plastic encased suitcase.  I ran, jogged, walked briskly and arrived, a dishevelled panting heap with about 2 minutes to spare.  The driver told me to calm down, that he’d wait, and he laughed. 

Gert met me in the city and, he too, experienced a small destruction to his body on taking my suitcase the rest of the way home and voila, I was home by 10.30pm ... to the most delicious guests.  Ashley, last seen when she was 10 and I was living in New Zealand, daughter of one my favourite friends in the world, was staying over with her lovely Australian friend Beck.  Our place had been their Belgian base for 2 weeks.  It was good to catch up on the years that had passed ...  although how lucid I was is debatable. 

I slept.

The next day, Paola, Simon and Matteo arrived, fleeing their home renvoations, and the quiet party kicked off.  It was more of a talking and eating and lounging around time together.  Persian chicken for dinner, with Paola’s delicious Limoncello Tiramisu for dessert ... and red wine.  We were trying to find a Chianti replacement for the Banfi I came to love in Genova.

Well, that’s what I was doing.  Maybe the others weren’t quite so interested in that particular search and, in fact, Gert had a Belgian beer.

Sunday came, Paola and Simon left after lunch.  Beck’s and Ashley started packing ... Beck was heading for Spain on the 5am airport bus, and Ashley’s flies out of Paris tonight, heading for New Zealand.  Jessie and little Miss 7 arrived and I did an impromptu photo shoot of the girls.  Dinner ... what was dinner?  Oh yes, it was the one where we introduced the girls to rabbit cooked the Belgian way ... in tons of beer, with sultanas and all kinds of yummy things.  They weren’t quite convinced despite me promising we were only eating the naughtiest rabbits.  Beck finally decided it would have been better not to know which creature we were consuming. (Note: that didn’t work with Jessie.  I may have led her to believe she was eating chicken once ... when it was rabbit.  I wouldn’t do that again.  She was veryvery cross with me.)

We heard the taxi leave this morning for the airport bus stop around 4.30am.  I went with Ashley to the train later.  I’m home now.  Sunshine on my back, an empty house.  Good music playing. 

So I’m back from Italy and now ... to work on that book.