Stand With Me

Little Fictions, Ragged Memoirs on Indiegogo

DSC00616As someone who spends a lot of time searching for words, I am always relieved to find engagement apart from the written or spoken word. Don’t get me wrong, I love words. I’m using them now to give voice to the transformative power of dance.

And theater. I love movement with supporting visual orientation and Paula Josa-Jones is a master of the theatrical move.

But, as important as that is, it’s not why I’m writing. I’m here to tell a story. It’s about passion and commitment and collaboration. I’ve been photographing Paula since early in 1985. When I saw her in front of my lens I knew I’d been waiting for this mixture of innovative movement, comfort with the camera and an eye for detail that allowed my wild eye to flourish.

Now, when I talk about passion and commitment, I am not talking about us, Paula and me. I’m talking about Paula reaching out, asking dancers, set designers, and all those connected to production to plunge into their most authentic selves and come together to make truth in the work.

It takes courage and steadfast wildness to come to this place. And that’s where my story begins.

A few years back Paula was searching. We had moved here to the NW corner of Connecticut. Dancers were in Boston. Horses on the Vineyard where we had spent twelve years and major production of RIDE, dance theater with horses.

Now that I’m writing this, it seems simple. If you’re alone, do solo work. Duh. But then it was a revelation. Like a sword finally untethered, sharp and ready to strike. So, use it, duh.

When she asked me, I said, do a solo, you’re really good at it. But something had been hiding, Paula was shy. Who knew? Her company of beautiful dancers acted as a shield and we had chosen to live in a new place without “protection.”

She started rehearsing. Building this new solo work, Little Fictions, Ragged Memoirs.  This is a lengthy process and now – I’m not sure how many years later – performances, dance showcases, artistic residencies, 1000 hours of listening to music, collecting brilliant collaborators. looking at costumes and photographs – not all mine, check out her Pinterest site.

This is serious work. Important work. Evocative and smart work. She does her best, is doing her best. You too, please. Thank you.

Open the gate – you won’t be sorry!

Little Fictions, Ragged Memoirs on Indiegogo

The Messenger

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My photo is just one of the many items named “The Messenger.” In my experience the concept of the messenger – as in don’t shoot – is the most consistently salient theme encountered. I was the messenger in my family – there were others before me – I don’t know if that’s why not many of them speak to me. I don’t know because they don’t say. There is no message.
Pema Chodron states that.. “feelings like disappointment, irritation, resentment, anger, jealousy, and fear, instead of being bad news, are actually very clear moments that teach us where it is that we’re holding back. They teach us to perk up and lean in when we feel we’d rather collapse and back away. They’re like messengers that show us, with terrifying clarity, exactly where we’re stuck. This very moment is the perfect teacher, and, lucky for us, it’s with us whenever we are.”

Who do you listen to. What are you looking for? Do you see anything? Do you hear the messenger? Are you listening?

And, to make my point, this photo is the most consistently bought and used – program covers, magazines, set designs, in all sizes – that I have ever produced.

The Give Away

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What we create with another Being is not ours to give away.
While looking at a photo of two people I know intimately, I was struck suddenly by what the photo did not show.
It did not, could not depict, their years together. How they met, what they feel like now – yes, what they really feel like – which may not be the smiles shown for the taker of the photo, who is also not in the photo but is very much there.
No children or other travels, houses, books, sex, honesty, lunches or breakfasts are depicted. No loving or nasty moments, no clutching or letting go.
We take them as they are this moment photographed by the person we don’t know, in their lives or not, past and future not here. Only the moment. This moment. This one important moment. And if this photo gets into an album and if the album is shared and seen by present company and future grandchildren and further on, they will think they got something. They will think they know something.
And they will. They will know this moment. And they will make of it what they will in their moment. And nothing will be given away, it will be taken.

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The What About Love

Lately I’ve been going through boxes. It seems strange to me that in many places I’ve lived, those before me have left mementos. Sometimes special rocks, flowerpots, and more than once, a box of letters. One woman even had me photograph her entire family album and then never wanted it back. Go figure.
This time a letter from a concerned aunt or friend, I don’t think the writer is the parent. Why do I think that? Because the tone is restrained and equanimity is attempted – but then generations past have had more reserve than ours.
It starts, “My Dear One,” and tells current events, the weather, how the river flows as it passes the house and the state (not good) of a tree they must both have loved. Words of love and caring, times shared, but you can tell they are in the past. The writer is not giving her full feelings.
“I know this day marks the anniversary of your marriage. Even as you may experience joy, I feel restraint and I want courage to take the lead from sentiment and self-pity. Even so, the timing and manner of your leave-taking leaves an unbridgeable chasm in my heart. While sorry not to have enjoyed your company these last two years, I wish I thought we could be honest with each other. I question what we had. What I thought, who I thought I knew.”
There is a paragraph about how her choices have affected all family and friends, teachers and ministers and all those whose trust in themselves was shaken by her actions.

Letters are carriers of affect that those around the author do not guess. In a letter I found that my father wrote – and why it was on his desk I do not know, perhaps it was a draft or he never sent it, I will not know. He writes to a friend I never heard of how grateful he was for the presence of my mother. Something he never showed when I was around. He was very dependent on her in his blindness and not all that kind.

Funny what we put out. What we choose to say. What we choose to leave unsaid. What we choose to leave behind and the crap shoot of who will find it. It’s what I love about life – what do you love? What frustrates? What do you want? Do you ask for it? Did you? Did you?
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What We Do When

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I found a short poem by Raymond Carver who is always good to read if you’re feeling a little down and don’t mind staying that way. I love him and read most of what he wrote while he was alive – he died young in 1988 while I was trying to be a writer and looking for reasons to let it go.

I did let it go then, I just couldn’t be where he was, he was so there. When he died a note to himself was found in his shirt pocket – I paraphrase what it said, “just one more day, give me another poem to write.”

It may have been an old note, he may have written that poem, but I know he wanted more, nothing so simple as one more anything would have been enough.
Here’s the poem I found:

I find myself, at last, in perfect silence.
Knowing the little there is left.
Knowing I have to love it.
Wanting to love it. For both our sake.

I looked for something from Carver because I knew I would find a reflection to mirror the particular loss I feel at finding a note my daughter wrote to herself before she left. It expressed hope for love and success and happiness. It was totally the girl I knew. She happens to be the only person who’s loved listening to hits from the fifties with me. A dog or an occasional cat has – but no human in my midst. I say this because while we were listening to those songs, it was enough.

Not having her in my midst goes way beyond the songs, but it isn’t beyond Carver. Whether loss in love, death or trust, he has the phrases and stories that express even beyond my experience of grief. Writing can express a strength that’s there or inchoate, it can be a harbinger or a swamp. I practice writing a lot and I encourage my clients to do the same. Sometimes we don’t know until we’ve written or said something out loud. Joan Didion was known to say she never understands how she feels about something until she’s written about it.

That is quite dramatic. Writers do that for us and to the extent that we feel moved, we can join in.

 

 

 

Liam Three Months Out

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You can tell me that grieving takes its own sweet time. I’ll tell you its not necessarily sweet, although its not always sad and wrenching. And that it pulses. Sometimes I feel like my food processor – lots of stuff put in and I’m supposed to turn on and find what to do with it. Find the correct blade and carry on.

As I write this my dogs have set up a howl. And I have joined them. Writing can only get you so far. Howling will do the rest. The greyhounds have a keening sound, high and deep in the throat. They sound when I’m not joining up properly. Now, as I’m writing, and even though my door is open, they know my mind is elsewhere. I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find their minds filled with Liam. Images of him are rampant. Not just because he was a favorite subject for me but he was in all our faces – literally. Jules could never even start to walk out the door without Liam attached to his face in some very noisy way. He is downstairs as I write moaning and whining. He will not come up the stairs. When I “bring” him up, he might stay a minute but, unless I close a door or gate, he runs down to his bed. He is a simple, complicated dog.

Liam was straightforward, upfront, in your face. He could be subtle, I loved his tame look when he was abashed and wanted to be with me but wasn’t sure he could go – mostly he could. And, unlike most JRTs he would do what I asked even if he didn’t want to. He had another look for that. In all he was a dog of many natures, many gifts. There wasn’t a person who didn’t want his/her hands on Liam. I have many photos like the one above with everyone reaching toward him as they interacted together. He was always within reach.

I wish he was still.
Jules just came in and lay down.

A New Year

 

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Sadie is an intense, loving, somewhat stubborn dog – the perfect companion. Quiet – much quieter than a mouse – she sits in the back seat of my car exactly where I put her and stays there until I ask her to get out, which she does with reluctance.
Minus looking at me, right now she is curled a few feet away, back to me, but looking like all the photos I’ve been taking of her recently as part of a photo challenge my friend Joan gave me. I’m not good at challenges, can’t remember how many days or what words – not a great sense of time. But I’m good with space. The challenge got me to another space – Space – that of looking at black and white again. I grew up with color all around me but photographs were black and white. As a BW photographer I tended to see shades of grey/gray. Digital photography came as my lungs were telling me to get out of the darkroom that had become my home for so long. But it wasn’t satisfying. The first digital – in my opinion – neither captured color nor nuance. I spent a bit more time in the darkroom beyond my time and I painted.
Even though I’m not completely won over, I do see more of what I care about in the digital images I create. I’m beginning to actually like it and plan some shots around what the camera and some basic manipulation (I’m not a friend of photoshop) can do.
Very grateful I am to the challenge I received – I’m looking to the new year to go further and see what happens. I love exploration, I love not knowing what anything will do. It’s the truth anyway – we know nothing beyond this moment.
So back to my future I go – in this moment and the next.
May you all have a Happy New Year, many great moments – in fact, may you see every moment for its greatness and may every moment give you a sense of its greatness and your own.

Homesteading For Armageddon

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Are you prepared? That’s what everyone wants to know. Am I prepared, have I got the right stuff, will I need more – that I can buy, that I can learn – will I have everything I need for the occasions I am entering?
Retailers want you to buy stuff. Institutions of learning want you to buy stuff. Insurance and financial companies want you to buy stuff. How can you possibly have it all? Or any of it?
Of course, I’m not talking about what we buy but I am writing about what we think we need. Where do these thoughts come from? Who puts them in our minds? It is from our minds that we get these ideas, these states of lack.
It’s simple enough to say we weren’t born with them. It feels as if we were, so early and often do we get inoculated with the cultural and family identity we are born into that by the time a bit of pragmatism slips into our forebrain, we are convinced it’s our stuff.
I hear people struggle with their self image. Why are they so unprepared, why so confused, why so sure in the past and not now. There must be something wrong with them, they need more stuff, more courage, more knowledge – they aren’t prepared for this.
I used the word “occasion” earlier because I want to underscore the brevity and possible fluidity of whatever it is we find ourselves facing. “This too shall pass” is a great line to take, also try out “so what” when nothing to do comes directly to mind. The only way to know what to do is to trust your mind. The only way to know your mind is to know it – get used to it, know when it’s making stuff up, trying to sell you an action not geared for what you really need.
A client of mine (40’s) was looking at cars and her friend – young man in his 20’s – thought she should have a truck. She was asking for help to decide and I asked her where did she live – suburbs – when did she use a car – to and from work – did she haul stuff – never. So why get a truck? She had no idea, but he was so enthusiastic and had a better plan for what he wanted than she had for what she wanted.
Sometimes the best plan is your own. You may not follow the crowd, but you can follow your plan, you just have to know your mind.

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Preparing to grow corn is different from preparing for a spiritual journey – but they might end up in the same place.OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

My Fairy Godmother

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Her name is June and she’s rocking the moon. Comes up with everything I want and then some.
Don’t worry – I haven’t been hacked or taken over, I know this isn’t usually what I write about – although if I could have thought of a good rhyme for moon I would have gone on…. I took this photo some time ago in a slightly off-beat shop in Brattleboro Vermont and have been wanting to use it. Every time I write about her though, I find myself getting corny and cynical. So I thought I’d write about corny and cynical.
A lot of people come to me because they are ashamed to face themselves, who they think they are, not as you or I might see them – we are not so hard on those who are not ourselves.
They (we) have spent so much time hiding their true selves that they’ve forgotten what’s real and what’s not and if the game of hideout is really what they’re playing or are they just screwed up.
Most of us are smart about everything except ourselves. We applaud others while we don’t appreciate what we’ve done. It’s hard to look at our self with a fresh eye and some appreciation. I get so used to what I do that I forget it can be special or insightful to someone else – I am not alone.
So when was the last time you took a photo of your fairy godmother? Or even noticed her existence? She can hold your hand while you take a good look at yourself – appreciation and all. She can hang around and show you some moonlight while you look yourself over – we all look better in moonlight. She can dab a little sparkle in your eye, make things look a bit glitzier. That’s a great attribute.
Check her out, make her work for you, I’ll give you her number.
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It Doesn’t Have To Be This Way

“Men at some time are masters of their fates.
The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars
But in ourselves, that we are underlings.”
The above quote is Cassius philosophizing to Brutus while they both struggle with the meaning of their lives in their complaints against their Boss – Caesar. (Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar, Act I, scene 2)
Soon and often in our lives we come upon “harsh” realities we feel obliged to maintain. No one ever asks for help who is in balance with the objects of their lives and their ability and willingness to sustain them. It might be a job or a relationship, the need of better resources – a new car or children’s schooling. The desire that gets us off kilter keeps us there. We institutionalize it, we become its slave.
In this scene, as in much of Julius Caesar, the plotting and the complaints against Caesar grow to the culmination of his death, and his former cohorts becoming murderers.
In the squeeze to perform and promote what have become our desires – no doubt changed from our first wispy fantasies – we put ourselves in the crucible of those desires and let them take us over. Often without a clue as to how we got here. We feel “fate” has led us or our “nature,” sometimes we blame a parent. This is suffering for sure.
There is always some exterior modifier to point out our lacks – we were born this way, at the wrong time, to the wrong culture. I used to tease my “well bred” mother when she would complain about my actions that I had been given the wrong genes.
But really – let’s get gritty – what can we do? Once we feel overwhelmed, panic riding us, solutions beyond our grasp, what are we to do? This is the most irritating part – it was for Cassius too – because it isn’t the lottery or the new car/husband/wife. It isn’t the dictator or even the next helpful book/workshop or prescription. It comes right back to, “not in our stars but in ourselves.”
How and what we align ourselves with dictates how our lives unfold. A choice here, a path or road there and we have momentum going for us. Is it a flood or a stream, a wind or a storm. What’ll it be? What will you have, what choice will you make to determine your course? And what will it take down the road to correct it if you need to? Murderers have a much harder row to hoe than the one of us who says, “oops, sorry.”
What’s your story? How do you feel?
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