From all this we may learn that there are two races of men in this world, but only these two — the “race” of the decent man and the “race” of the indecent man. Both are found everywhere; they penetrate into all groups of society. No group consists entirely of decent or indecent people. In this sense, no group is of “pure race” — and therefore one occasionally found a decent fellow among the camp guards.
Viktor Frankl, from Man’s Search for Meaning.
A book I intend buying as soon as possible.
I spent a few hours teaching Miss 9 about photography yesterday. Just a slow introduction to the most basic ways of using an SLR. We talked of composition, light and exposure. We did a lot on focus.
And eventually, as per the story that follows, we went to photograph the giraffes. Once there I shared my passion for reflections.
She took it on board but I love what she did. So different to mine but that is the beauty of photography. No one ever sees and captures the same thing. It's always about your own individual way of seeing.
We ran this image through PicMonkey this morning, added a frame and cropped it a little. The light and colour, the composition except for a small crop, it's all hers. It's how she saw ...
And I love it.
In my photography, there are themes that recur, images that I don't realise I'm chasing ...
Reflections would fall into that category.
Today was a sunny autumn day here in Antwerp. Miss 9 and I wandered off to the zoo. School holidays. And I had to smile as we worked on a miniature photography workshop while exploring the zoo together.
Her joy, as she worked out shutter speed and focus, was lovely. She really got it.
Anyway, she was given a zoo map when she paid for her ticket. Oh my, there were some conversations where I suggested her map-reading skills were dodgy. She laughed and, of course, we ended up at that funky slide over in the playground ...
Not so dodgy it seems, perhaps we were simply on different missions.
Eventually I was able to arrive at the giraffe enclosure. It's one of my favourite places there in the zoo but what I had forgotten was that there is a water course that runs round the edge of their space. I don't know what it is about the water but it reflects exquisitely.
The image that follows ... Antwerp's blue sky reflected with the stripes and paint on the giraffe house. Miss 9 and I could have stayed there all afternoon but for the fact we were cold and getting hungry.
Dank u wel for a lovely day, little Miss 9.
60 Andrássy Avenue in Budapest, now knows as The House of Terror Museum, opened on 24th February, 2002 and is unique in its genre. It is a monument to the memory of those of who were held captive, tortured and killed there. The intention is to make people understand that the huge sacrifices made for freedom were not in vain. They hope point out that although they fought two of the cruellest systems of the 20th century, freedom and independence managed to emerge victorious.
A stark contrast to the colours and stories I usually post here but I thought it an important story. I couldn't visit the museum. It's not something I would explore willingly. These photographs, hanging on the wall outside ... they haunted me.
Then there were the colours of Genova. Perhaps each person experiences them differently but my over-riding impression was of a city painted in colours that ranged from pale yellow through into a deep orange. Deep green shutters, sometimes blue.
I was invited to write for a website in Genova and above is a small extract. But I had smile, my passion for that city is huge and my first draft of the article was more like a 'let me count the ways' list.
I used some of my photographs in storyboard form, attempting to write of concrete things. This was one series. It gives you a sense of the colour there in that beautiful Italian city.
Of course you must perservere. Your first 10,000 photographs are your worst.
Some days, working my way into the state of mind I need to work, I am fortunate and begin by reading a post by Terri Windling, a writer, artist, and book editor, and so much more.
She offers up inspiration more often than not. I smiled when I read her Cartier-Bresson quote this morning. Just the first 10,000 photographs ... perserverance is all.
On a day like today, when that UK storm is passing over us here in Belgium. When the sun comes and goes. When I am waiting on all kinds of things, unable to concentrate, I wander on over to 'Amy's Place' and find treasure like this.
I found Anna Sun over there once.
Amy's poems are like this ...
Reading her website feels like going on a roadtrip, with good music and truly excellent stories.
Belly laughter and red wine, without hangovers.
I found the quote on the photograph below ... over on Amy's website, of course.
This man's poetry ... it needs sharing.
Neil Hilborn has OCD and he performed this poem about how his love life impacted it—and how it impacted his love life.
You can read more about him in an interview over on Brandon Sneed.com
I had forgotten the glorious agony of writing an article for a particular audience ... such is the luxury of writing whatever I want on my blog.
I have been carrying this idea that I could only write this particular article when I was ready ... when I was sure that all I would write would be perfection itself.
Weeks later, I was still wringing my hands about it because the deadline had been far into the future. Then the future arrived and what would I write? How would I incorporate my best images into this text?
I had raised the bar fairly high in my mind ...
Last night, as I was going to sleep, I thought of the series of fountain images I had added to my previous post and I knew that I had it. A beginning point, an inspiration, a concrete image of the feeling I wanted to capture.
And so it was, after our Sunday Belgian breakfast of pastries and coffee, that I sat down to write. And how I wrote ... and wrote, and wrote some more. Finally, slightly lost, I handed it over and asked the more level-headed Belgian bloke if he might read it through and see where I was.
Whimper.
He handed it back and told me ... It seemed, to him, that I might have attempted to squeeze the outline of my entire book into 5 pages of text. It was a little incoherent and he couldn't find a clear line through it. Of course, I had wanted my best stuff in the article ... all of it!
Perhaps a prayer was needed. Something like, Oh enthuisiam, oh passion ... be still so I can write more coherently.
Anyway, that explained my lost feeling and allowed me to pull back out of the work.
And so I reread and found the story I wanted to tell. I had to remove some favourite photographs from the article. I had to disappear some favourite tales too. Paragraphs were slashed as I read.
I need to leave it a few hours now. Weeks would be better. I have always preferred to spend time away from a first draft, sneaking up on it at some later date and hoping to read it as a stranger. It's more effective than you can imagine.
When I write here on the blog I write fast and, for some reason that must be entirely frustrating to those with blog readers, I edit best after I've published. It's a luxury that I don't have when I write for others. Even when I edit for others, the final draft is with them. The post-publish quirk is one that has probably lost me more than a few subscribers. I must work on that.
The thing about writing so intensely, and I had forgotten this peculiar pain, is that when I write it all out like that there is this horrible emptiness when I stop. As if all of my intensity and energy has been poured directly into the writing, like an IV that pumps my blood to a new location ... outside of me.
I came here in an attempt to step back from the intensity of the last few hours. Actually, I did have rather a lot of fun creating storyboards to focus me down on the writing. Here's one I can't use ...
My borrowed 'desk' in Genova. The one by the open window that looks out over the carruggio, and a selection of the flowers that I always buy as that first thing I must do in the city.
If you eliminate that private realm, you breed conformity. When all your behavior is public, then you’re going to do the things that the society insists you do and nothing else and you lose so much of who you are as a human being.
Glenn Greenwald, an interview with an interesting man.
I put this quote up on my facebook page today and it sparked some interesting conversation.
Women called by to comment, women I respect, and in the end we decided that the journey is the destination ...
It came up because we're all out there, either self-employed artists or living in countries not our own and the temptation, on the bad days, is to simply put down our passions, our impulses, our work, our funny little dreams perhaps ... to put them all down and turn back into that world where a weekly pay cheque is guaranteed and our souls aren't so tied up in our work.
But I suspect we gave one another courage and voila, I'm back at work here again ... in Belgium on a Saturday night but remembering that beautiful fountain in Italy.
I just had a rather special experience, one that couldn't have happened without Facebook ... that social forum I'm not always convinced about.
It was my birthday on Tuesday 22 October and while we were still back in the evening of 21 October, 11 hours behind New Zealand, friends there woke up there and began wishing me a happy birthday via Facebook.
It was lovely.
Midnight my time, rolling over into the European 22nd October and up popped birthday wishes from this side of the world. And in the morning I woke to some more beautiful wishes and emails came rolling in too. I was feeling pretty special by now. Bemused by the role Facebook was playing but special anyway.
And it occured to me as American friends woke that these greetings rolling in from various time zones seemed like one of those great big Mexican Waves you sometimes see in stadiums at sporting events. The Americans arrived in the afternoon of the 22nd, some 6 hours behind Europe.
And on it went. There were photographs sometimes ... and so many smiles were inspired by these people I love and adore, all over the world.
The photograph below ... there's a story. I met Jason in Istanbul. He was my colleague in both private schools we worked at there. He became honorary family and I adored his beautiful soon-to-be wife, Beste.
They took me home to her parents and sister ... a family to surely adore. I loved the times I was invited home to the Asian-side of Istanbul city. And Beste's parents insisted on meeting Gert before he was allowed to take me away to Belgium, standing in for my absent parents, making sure that Belgian bloke was okay.
But the story didn't end there. I met Jim, Jason's old history teacher, when he came to Istanbul. We struck up a friendship that continues to this day. He's a much-loved facebook friend of mine too.
Then came Cloe. Cloe was moving to Belgium. She was an ex-girlfriend of Jason's and had worked with Jim on a political campaign. Both Jason and Jim wrote to her and I, telling us of one another and yes, we became friends ... as you do.
There are so many stories about how I met those friends I have over on Facebook. It's not about numbers, it's about staying in touch when you're 16,000+ kms from home, when you're a woman who moves countries, when you simply enjoy talking with people.
But imagine, there were over 100 messages that rolled in over 36 hours and the photograph below is just one of those that made my soul feel like it was full to overflowing with the pleasure that comes from knowing some really excellent people.
And yes, I did ask permission to post. You can see why I love them.
Chance encounters change lives. Close friends, passing acquaintances and even characters who emerge from old books often leave footprints across my heart. By opening mysterious doors, the influence of others has inadvertently altered the direction of my life.
Colin Monteath, extracted from Under A Sheltering Sky.
And now ... I am beginning work on a long-talked about book. Years of ideas have reached a point where I must begin working with them.
When I walk on beaches, I pick up shells ... I'm a sometimes collector. Stones too, when I wander along the edges of rivers and lakes. Since I was small.
My photography, I think, emerges out of that same desire to collect, to handle, to pore over later. But to collect, without ever stopping to enjoy, that seems somehow sad.
So here I am, commiting to this book, for months ... at least a year I think. That is something I haven't excelled in. I have so many ideas, so many passions, project ideas. And I try to follow them all.
These last two months have been months of insanely beautiful chaos and whimsical impulses ... of action. People. Places.
But I must have been maturing somehow ... like a wine (I hope, avoiding the old and smelly maturation process we call rotting). I feel ready to attempt to breathe life into a multi-layered story, using the words and images I have been collecting, to create a portrait of a place I love.
In my people portraits the intention is always about capturing a soul ... something of the true essence of a person. Now to lift that impulse, that desire, and fit it over a city, over a region, and tell how place can capture a heart.
There will be a photography exhibition in December, here at home I am hoping. A party. And there are plans for limited edition print runs, postcards ... but woven so very closely into this book project that I think it will all work. There will be a series of photography workshop beginning in Spring 2014, and I will leave my door open for one-on-one workshops too but mostly, I'll be here at the desk and working on images and ideas collected since 2008.
And so, here I am, announcing it ... the intention. Now to work.
I must share ... my favourite New Zealand radio personality, Kim Hill from NZ National Radio, interviewed the Man Booker Prize winner, Eleanor Catton.
I knew Kim would have done this thing ... a 41 minute interview, that really explores Eleanor's life and work. Thank goodness for Radio New Zealand's archives. So many treasures found there - Sam Hunt is another special NZ love of mine.
Radio New Zealand wrote: Catton, 28, is only the second New Zealander, and the youngest author ever, to
win the presitigious literary award. She is also the youngest short-listed writer in the competition's 45-year history.
The prize, announced at a ceremony in London, carries a cheque for £50,000. The Luminaries is a murder mystery set on the West Coast during the 1860s gold rush that relies on an astrological narrative. It follows in the footsteps of Mr Pip by Lloyd Jones, which was shortlisted in 2007, and The Bone People by Keri Hulme, which won in 1985.
Here's a collection of Radio New Zealand's interviews with Eleanor Catton from recent years.
Rule Number 4: Obey your whims because you never know what you might find at the end of an impulse.
Some time ago, Karen Karbo invited bloggers to take up the challenge to Live Like Julia.
She had written a book, Julia Child Rules. Lessons on Savoring Life. The challenge was to pick a rule and live it.
Rule Number 4 stood out for me - obey your whims. Mostly because it's a thing that I do. And just after she had put her idea out there in the world, a whim was offered up ... a whimsical invitation, or two really.
I'm a New Zealander who lives in Belgium and I left home 10 years ago. I had two superb years living in Istanbul before meeting and marrying a Belgian bloke and moving to Antwerp.
In August, 2013, I was over in Italy running a photography workshop for women. My cousin joined me and returned to Belgium with me. After just a few days, that cousin called Julie invited me to go with her on one of those road trips ... the kind that are born out of a few red wines perhaps.
So, how about, she proposed ... flying to Milan, stopping in Verona, heading into Croatia, driving on into Hungary for 2 nights in Budapest? Then Vienna 'because of The Sound of Music', she said. Back into Trieste in Italy, then into Venice (an impulsive whimsical stop as it turned out) before continuing on to Lake Como.
I said, Okay, as you do.
And we did. 8 days of whirlwind roadtripping. I loved Budapest best of all probably but was impressed by Croatia as well. I have loved Italy for such a long time that it doesn't need stated really.
Budapest won the best food award. There was this dish called Sztrapacska (which may not actually be Hungarian but who cares. I tasted it there for the first time and it was divine). Or perhaps it was first equal with a stunning mushroom pasta I devoured in Trieste. It still haunts me. Al Barattolo is the restaurant if you find yourself there.
But wait ... there's more, as so many of those old tv advertisements used to promise.
My Belgian friend, Ruth, had emailed me weeks before the roadtrip was dreamt up ... describing a man called Jim Haynes. Based in Paris, he held weekly dinners in Paris. Did I want to go with her?
Who could resist these words taken direct from his website: Every week for the past 30 years, I've hosted a Sunday dinner in my home in Paris. People, including total strangers, call or e-mail to book a spot. I hold the salon in my atelier, which used to be a sculpture studio. The first 50 or 60 people who call may come, and twice that many when the weather is nice and we can overflow into the garden.
Every Sunday a different friend prepares a feast. Last week it was a philosophy student from Lisbon, and next week a dear friend from London will cook.
People from all corners of the world come to break bread together, to meet, to talk, connect and often become friends. All ages, nationalities, races, professions gather here, and since there is no organized seating, the opportunity for mingling couldn't be better. I love the randomness.
I believe in introducing people to people.
I have a good memory, so each week I make a point to remember everyone's name on the guest list and where they're from and what they do, so I can introduce them to each other, effortlessly. If I had my way, I would introduce everyone in the whole world to each other.
Did I feel like a short jaunt to Paris, she wrote. 3 hours by car, we would just stay the night?
It was a whim, an adventure. How could I say no?
Of course I didn't. Ruth and I set off at 8am on Sunday, 13 October, 2013. We crossed the border into France and out came the sun ... on a day when torrential rain ruled back in Antwerp.
We arrived, we wandered Parisian streets. We were lost, we were found. We stopped to drink wine. And we called in at one of my holy of holies ... Shakespeare and Company, a bookshop ... another Parisian legend, one you must also visit if you pass through.
And then to the dinner that evening. Jim's Dinner. We were welcomed, as were so many others, and we began with a bowl of Borscht, and followed on with some kind of divine meatloaf and vegetables. Pure comfort food on that cool Autumn night there in Paris.
Best of all, I met Jim ... and so many beautiful souls from all over the world. They came from San Francisco and Scotland, NYC and London, from Australia and Ireland ... from Germany, Italy, and France too. And we ate, and we opened our souls some, there in that space that Jim Haynes has created.
Dessert was some kind of fruit-filled chocolate cake. There was wine and water and all kinds of other drinks too. But mostly, in spite of ... or perhaps due to the food there on offer, people talked. And talked. And laughed. And circulated.
I met the truly lovely Rachel, from 60 Postcards.com. and her friend, Caroline. I met women running a workshop that brought joy back into the lives of women burned out by life. I met a lawyer who had recently moved from Manhatten to London, and an Irish man who claimed he fled Ireland in fear of his life. But I could tell, he had kissed that Blarney Stone on his way out. He was delightful. There was an Australian who said he would never go back, a German woman who had moved to the States many years earlier, and a lovely couple from San Francisco.
There was the Italian actress/yoga teacher, the one who was following her dreams and had just moved to Paris, and the beautiful group of Scottish women. The mother, her two daughters, spending time in the city before separating again, one bound for Canada, the rest going home.
The spirit, the soul of the gathering was an outpouring, it seemed, of being yourself in a place where it was permitted ... demanded even. It was magical 3 hours that both invigorated and drained me. It was an energy surge like nothing I had ever experienced.
I didn't take as many photographs as I had hoped to take but I had a most marvelous time talking with those people there at Jim's Place.
A glimpse, just a glimpse below ... Lake Bled, in Slovenia.
It's been on odd going away on adventures not of my own making ... to places I hadn't dreamed of but it's been grand. Absolutely excellent, in fact.
I've spent most of these last two months traveling, oftentimes feeling like Alison in Wonderland. So ... if I haven't been exploring beautiful new locations and meeting most excellent people, I've been unpacking and preparing for the next big adventure.
Nicaragua was mentioned today but I have heard stories of wildlife I don't care to meet there and so now it is that I must prepare to face a Belgian winter ... it's here. Oh how Belgium embraces that rotten season, wringing every last drop of greyness and misery out and dumping it over us here in the flatlands. Our previous winter lasted into July, more or less, if I'm telling the story.
I feel gloomy today, as darkness began descending much earlier than I recall it descending way back in August when my travels began.
Belgians have already told me of yesterday, that sunny day I spent in Paris ... was pure misery over here in Antwerp. I feel like I should stockpile some vitamin D, and buy up all new material that slightly superb Australian, Tim Minchin, produces during this new season that I do not, in any way, enjoy.
Yesterday, Ruth and I left the Belgian rain and grey skies behind as we crossed the border and entered France. Paris is about 3 hours, by car, from Antwerp.
We arrived around lunchtime and spent our afternoon wandering ... visiting my beloved Shakespeare and Company Bookshop, wandering on to the Panthéon, over in the Latin Quarter.
We meandered really, taking photographs of this thing and that but mostly, we simply enjoyed our 24 hours in Paris.
We zipped back across the border today and voila, in under the grey clouds and rain. So here's a glimpse of how Paris was ... 13 October, 2013.
Every week for the past 30 years, I've hosted a Sunday dinner in my home in Paris. People, including total strangers, call or e-mail to book a spot. I hold the salon in my atelier, which used to be a sculpture studio. The first 50 or 60 people who call may come, and twice that many when the weather is nice and we can overflow into the garden.
Every Sunday a different friend prepares a feast. Last week it was a philosophy student from Lisbon, and next week a dear friend from London will cook.
Jim Haynes, Paris Sunday Dinners.
I'm not sure I can even begin to give you a sense of how incredible tonight was ...
I met a magical man who invites complete strangers into his home, disarms them somehow, like a wizard who works his magic for good ... who invites total strangers to leave their egos, their barriers, their 'stuff' at the door, and simply get on with meeting whoever is there at that Sunday dinner.
If I had to sum it up, tonight, before the photographs have even been viewed ... I would write of a talk-fest that simply made my heart sing. So ... once my camera card reader and I are reunited, there are stories to tell and photographs to post.
The photograph below ... unrelated and yet, it is all about a little bit of magic that happened in Berlin one day and therefore, it seems like an appropriate placeholder.
More to follow on the morrow.
An absolutely fascinating round-up of international newspaper editors opinions on the medias responsibility to report the truth.
Thanks, as always, to The Erkan Saka Daily newspaper.
As journalists, we are responsible towards society, not towards state institutions. This differentiation is essential for the work of an independent press. A diverse media landscape and freedom of speech are constitutive elements of democracy.
Edward Snowden's revelations serve to educate society about transgressions by the government and potential abuse of power. To withhold such information would be a betrayal of a free press and would destroy its credibility.
Stephan-Andreas Casdorff and Lorenz Maroldt, editors- in-chief, Tagesspiegel, Germany
In a democracy, the press plays a vital role in informing the public and holding those in power accountable. The NSA has vast intelligence-gathering powers and capabilities and its role in society is an important subject for responsible newsgathering organisations such as the New York Times and the Guardian. A public debate about the proper perimeters for eavesdropping by intelligence agencies is healthy for the public and necessary.
The accurate and in-depth news articles published by the New York Times and the Guardian help inform the public in framing its thinking about these issues and deciding how to balance the need to protect against terrorism and to protect individual privacy. Vigorous news coverage and spirited public debate are both in the public interest. The journalists at the New York Times and the Guardian care deeply about the wellbeing and safety of their fellow citizens in carrying out their role in keeping the public informed.
Jill Abramson, executive editor, the New York Times
In an era of big data and big surveillance, we need a public and global debate on the borderlines between national security concern and democratic transparency. By publishing stories about the Snowden revelations, the Guardian has made a significant contribution to this important debate. Citizens all over the world must ask themselves if democracies risk being harmed more than defended by a surveillance that is not only secret to the broader public but also seems to be out of democratic control. It is essential that the press engage in this debate and provides documentation to inform it.
Bo Lidegaard, executive editor-in-chief, Politiken, Denmark