Early Morning Camera Club

The Ghost of William Faulkner

The gravel crunched under my tires as I pulled the car to the side of the road, and I wondered if the gravel was so deep that I wouldn't be able to get my car out. The sign in front of Rowan Oak, the former home of William Faulkner, said that it was closed for tours on Mondays, but the grounds were open during daylight hours. The gates were locked, but there were paths that led around them, so I walked on. The  path meandered under an alee of cypress trees toward the house. The trees were massive and the gravel deep, which made for slow going. On the left, the remains of circular flower beds were still outlined with stones.  A giant magnolia started in the sky and the waxy leaves tumbled down all the way to the ground.  The only patch of sun in the sky lit up its leaves with a green glow. The path turned sharply right, revealing the house. I walked down the brick path and gingerly stepped up on the porch. It felt strange to be so close to the house when no one was there, as if I was violating Faulkner's personal space. Would you go up on the porch of any stranger's house? The wind kicked up and the noise of the trees was deafening, and in all that noise all I could hear was the absence of any human sound. Not another person was there on the property, in the house, driving down the street, in any of the neighboring houses, or in the world, as far as I could tell. I continued around the house, spending some time with a tree whose roots were covered in moss. I snapped pictures of one of the buildings behind the home, framed by another tree who had lost its leaves, but was readily being swallowed by a vine with plenty of its own. Boldly, I looked in a back window. A square rotating bookshelf stood just inside, displaying books of ghost stories. Beyond was the central hall of the house, and the front door. I held up one hand to block my own image in the window and took a few photographs, but I kept thinking someone was behind me, only to remember it was my own reflection. The wind continued, the loud agitating of the trees, and the absence of people. I explored more of the grounds, finding a small formal rose garden, whose roses had been cut down for the winter. A low arch covered by a grey leafless twisting vine stood guard, opening toward the center of the garden, where a strange tangle of gray branches that stood erect in the center, surrounded by a tiny circular iron bench. That wind again. I don't remember if there was a specific moment that spooked me, or if it was a growing feeling of Faulkner's cold fingers on the back on my neck, but suddenly I needed to get out of there, and the car seemed so far away. I could almost hear my heart pounding over the screaming wind in the trees. It was time to go. I couldn't get there fast enough. I walked briskly back down the drive, and asked myself what I was actually afraid of. Zombies? Monsters? The ghost of William Faulkner? I don't believe in any of that, I thought as I walked faster and faster towards the road and the safety of my car, which I thankfully managed to drive out of the gravel. Back in town, I could breathe again. I drove aimlessly, thinking that I should take more pictures, but I couldn't make myself get out of the car. I ended up safely ensconced on the top floor of Square books with my laptop, coffee, and a snickerdoodle. Back to normal. Until I got a text from Kami.   "They're opening Faulkner's house for us in 10 min." more photos from Rowan Oak are on flickr

Istanbul, the first night

After a harrowing journey, including eleven hours with our knees in our noses in coach on Lufthansa (never again,) we arrived in Istanbul.  

The Old City of Istanbul, known as Sultanahmet, blankets a small hill overlooking the Bosphorus, the strait that bisects Istanbul, separating the European and the Asian sides of the city.  Our silent cab driver steered his sweaty taxi along the banks of the river, and then wound up the hill of the walled city.  Up and around we went, until we reached the peak of the hill, dominated by the Haya Sofia and the Blue Mosque.  Our hotel, the Ottoman Imperial Hotel, overlooks the side of the Haya Sofia, and we congratulated ourselves on an excellent location.  To be in the center of things was certainly convenient when we had so little time to explore Istanbul.  We would live like locals, we told ourselves, and really get to know this place from the inside, if only for two days.  (more on that later.)

Although so many friends had told us that Istanbul is the most cosmopolitan of the Muslim countries, we donned our sweaters and scarves and went out to explore.  Fortunately it was cool out.  Tentatively, we walked around, marveling at the strangeness of the landscape - the minarets and palm trees, the tourist shops bursting with scarves, rugs, and charms to ward off the Evil Eye.  Snack shops sold pomegranates cut to look like they had burst from ripeness.  We marveled at everything, but we were hesitant.  Would we inadvertently break some sort of social rule that was unknown to us?  What would the consequences be?  (It didn't help that my husband called incessantly to make machete jokes.)  We walked around the square at the center of town, but not with our usual abandon, afraid to really throw ourselves into the mix.

Hungry for dinner, we sat at a cafe to have a Turkish coffee and browse the internet for the perfect restaurant. With only two dinners here, we could not afford to take a chance.  Have you had turkish coffee?  Real Turkish coffee?  It is served like an espresso, in a tiny cup, and the first half of the drink is palatable, if taken with enough sugar.  Halfway down, it turns to sludge, the dregs of the Bosphorus.  Drink no further.  Trust me.

We decided on dinner at the Armada Hotel, halfway down the hill.  The lobby was quiet and empty like a Chinese restaurant, except a strange fountain teeming with small turtles.  With an American couple, we rode the world's smallest elevator to the rooftop restaurant.  There we found a very different Istanbul.

The rooftop deck was dark, lit by candles on each table.  To one side, the hill rose up, topped by the eerily lit Blue Mosque.  To the other, the city rolled down to the shores of the river, the Asian side of the city twinkling across the water.  From where I sat, I could see how this city on a hill armed itself against attack.  Although, let’s be honest, they didn’t do a very good job, did they?  Istanbul has changed hands more times than a dollar bill.

We marveled at the setting, enjoying a glass of Raki, which is essentially Turkish Ouzo, which is taken with a spash of water and an ice cube.  A little too much black licorice flavor for my taste, but after a few sips, my mouth was so numb, I didn’t really care.

The mezze plate came with chickpeas, aubergine, tzaziki, parsley, some sort of bean similar to a fava, tomatoes, cucumber, all familiar Greek recipes but with heady doses of cinnamon and cardamom - decidedly arab flavors.

For a moment my lightly grilled fresh fish and view of the water lulled me into thinking that I was in a Mediterranean country, until the Greek-Arab influenced techno dance beat that was playing was interrupted by a loud horn, and a voice that sounded like the Canter on Yom Kippur.   The voice droned on over a loudspeaker that reached every corner of the walled city of Istanbul and, I am certain, much farther.  It reverberated against the restaurant's strange techno music until the radio was respectfully turned down. 

The man on the mic, I assume coming from the Blue Mosque, continued his chant, in words and notes that escape Western understanding.  That was a moment I will never forget, sitting on a rooftop in Istanbul, eating fish caught that same day, with the black night sky stretching from the lights of the Blue Mosque out over the river.  The man chanting for all the city to hear, over the modern euro techno music, the greek food, cooked with arab flavors.   It was so foreign, and beautiful and magical.

Until he started in again at 5 in the morning.

 

San Diego (stay tuned)

I left my "real" camera at home, and decided to take my point and shoot to San Diego. It was a logical decision; you can't take the 1D to the splash zone at The Shamoo show.

I regret coming here without it.

We are sitting in a field adjacent to a golf course and all of a sudden, I had the urge to wander off from my family (no suprise there) and try to capture the feeling of San Dego.

Knowing that I didn't have my camera, I started composing the blog post about missed opportunities. Then, I thought, I will list the pictures I would have taken. The line of palms with the sun setting behind, the particular color of the sand here, (white, coarse and sparkly) and the quintissential plein air view of palm trees atop a cliff facing the sea. You can't see the ocean from where I'm standing, but you can see it's there, like you can stand in the shadows and see the light on somone's face.

Then I realized I did have a camera - my crappy point and shoot! If I am willing to shoot with a $15 Holga, I am not too good to try to capture my feelings with this thing. Because that's all travel photography is - capturing the feeling if a place.

So I ran around with the little camera, trying to capture the last remaining moments of the golden light.

Stay tuned for the results.

San Diego Sunset, taken with my iPhone

Hamburger Bed

The thing you didn't know you needed - from design genius Kayla Kromer.  Take a bite at the Hamburger Bed Website

Chicago

See more pictures from Chicago in my SmugMug Gallery.

If I were a travel writer, I would call this post, "Chicago, City of Contrasts."  But I'm not.  And that's a cheesy title.  So let's say this - Chicago is two cities. One is found down a dirty alleyway with creaking fire escapes climbing up the crumbling brick.  It is haunted by the ghosts of signs painted on buildings, and the rickety El train, clackety clacking its way between buildings and houses, screeching above the streets that it casts in permanent shadow.  It is the Chicago of Kander and Ebb and organized crime.

On the other hand, Chicago is a modern city with more respect for urban planning and public spaces than a girl from Los Angeles can fathom.  Since the planning of the 1893 World's Columbian Exhibition, Chicago has been gussied up and ready to receive guests.  Parks line the edge of Lake Michigan, hosting visitors and locals with concerts, gardens and magnificent sculpture.  In the suburbs, the doors and stairs and fences of beautifully preserved row houses gleam with black paint.  And my favorite - the nice man on the El train that announces the name of the exit.  (Take notes, New York.)

So here are a few of my favorite things about Chicago:

Hot Dogs:

I have always been of the New York school of dogs - mustard only.  Sauerkraut if you are feeling saucy.  That's it.  But Chicago has its own ideas.  Let's break it down: bun with poppy seeds, steamed dog, sweet relish, onions, mustard, WHOLE PICKLE SPEAR, celery salt.  Oh yeah, and "sport peppers" which I believe are jalapenos.  I have to admit, it's pretty good.  It's good enough that I ran (yes, literally ran) four city blocks to get my last dog before the cab took me to the airport.   I can't say that my minimalist ways have been permanently changed, but my eyes have been opened.  Did I mention the whole pickle spear?

 

Millennium Park:

I wrote it off just based on the name.  I was here in Chicago to protograph the old and crumbling - why should I go somewhere to celebrate a park that was created for the Millennium, and didn't make it in time?  It brings to mind great premonitions of the year 2000, and Y2K - the greatest disappointment in public hysteria.  But I went, only because it was on the way to Grant Park, Chicago's "front yard" since 1844.  (Enjoy this, you won't hear it often...) I was totally wrong.  Millennium Park is amazing.  The Pritzker Pavilion (despite being designed by Frank Ghery in his usual "scrap metal in a blender" style that was so revolutionary in Bilbao and now seems as tired as an Elton John rework of Candle In The Wind) houses an outdoor ampitheater to rival our beloved Hollywood Bowl.  A cellist was warming up for this evening's performance, entertaining an entire city lounged on the grass for a picnic or a snooze.  Then a few steps away, my obsession of the trip, which is worthy of its own section:

The Bean:

I am not a fan of public art.  There, I said it.  In general, a large sculpture at the base of an office building does little to inspire me, but Chicago's "Cloud Gate," also known as "The Bean" has changed all that.  On one side, the dramatic Chicago skyline, on the other, Lake Michigan and an endless supply of sky.  And in the middle of all that?  A giant chrome bean.  You heard me.  A bean.  It's freaking enormous and surrounded by tourists taking their own picture and it's amazing.  It reflects everything around it, multiplying the sky, the buildings, the people.  On our last day I woke before 6am and ran over to the Bean, just so I could be the only person it reflected.  (See my future post, "Mirrors and Narccissism; a Discourse on Reflective Public Art.")  It is amazing and only the pictures can describe it.  And even those don't do it justice.

 

The El:

I am terrified of the New York Subway.  The second I walk down those urine scented stairs, I have lost all sense of direction.  I guess at which subway I should be on, and when I should exit.  When the doors open, I have no idea if I am at my stop or not, but I get off, if only to avoid ending up in Queens.  So you can imagine my terror as I stepped up to the platform of Chicago's elevated train system, aka the El.  I was determined to explore the city while my husband was working, and this is the only way it was going to happen.  I walked nervously by the ticket machine a few times before I was able to pull the trigger.  I checked and rechecked my route (a whole two stops,) called my husband relentlessly, took a deep breath and walked right onto the El.  The Brown Line to Kimball wound its way, first through buildings, then through smaller shops and quaint row houses.  We jogged right and left, clacking over the tracks like Disneyland's Thunder Mountain.  Two exits later, I was hooked.

Taking Pictures in Chicago:

As with all big cities, Chicago is full of beautiful architecture and scenery, and hosts some really harsh shadows in the middle of the day.  The sun in directly overhead until evening, then disappears behind the city, leaving the details overexposed in harsh midday sun or in dark formless shadow.   On our last day, unable to resist the call of the Early Morning Camera Club, I was out on the street with my camera slightly before 6am to find the first beautiful warm light of the trip.  Looking up between buildings, the sky was bright blue and wisps of clouds were lit with warm morning light.  For the fourth time this trip, I sprinted for the park, eager to be enveloped in this light, and more importantly, to be the only person in the Bean, alone with the skyline, the sky and the rising sun.  Phew.  I made it.  

Conclusion - as always, if you are going to take pictures in Chicago, get up with the sun.  You will have about an hour of golden light.  Then leave your camera at the hotel until the sun sets and the lights go on.  But the middle of the day?  Forget about it.

Beautiful Creatures Bookplate

My latest creation (and current favorite) is a bookplate for Beautiful Creatures, by Kami Garcia & Margaret Stohl.  Gatlin County Library is a library in a fictional town outside of Charleston, South Carolina, I used some historic etchings of the Charleston Battery and the seal of the great state of South Carolina.  The book is fabulous, and if you haven't ordered it yet, you should.  Let me make it easy for you:  click on these words to order Beautiful Creatues, which is a really great book.

Wasn't that easy?

Clapton & Winwood at the Hollywood Bowl

Angel is the dark shadow on the right.

We saw Eric Clapton and Steve Winwood at the Hollywood Bowl last night and it was amazing!  Here are the important details of the night: Dinner: Katsuya Dessert: Clementine Celebrity Sighting: David Boreanz dancing with his son. Set List: 01. Had To Cry Today 02. Low Down 03. After Midnight 04. Presence of The Lord 05. Sleeping in the Ground 06. Glad 07. Well Alright 08. Tough Luck Blues 09. Pearly Queen 10. There's A River 11. Forever Man 12. Low Spark of High Heeled Boys - SW solo 13. Driftin' - acoustic 14. How Long Blues 15. Layla - acoustic version 16. Can't Find My Way Home  17. Split Decision 18. Voodoo Chile Encore: 19. Cocaine 20. Dear Mr. Fantasy Band Lineup: Eric Clapton - guitar, vocals Steve Winwood - vocals, Hammond B3, piano, guitar Chris Stainton - keyboards Willie Weeks - bass Abe Laboriel, Jr. - drums Michelle John - backing vocals Sharon White - backing vocals

Psycho killer, qu'est-ca que c'est?

Could it be? Is my beloved Anisette back for breakfast?

For years, (not years, really for weeks) I have gone to Anisette for my morning affair with the best pan au chocolate outside of France. Each morning I would slide into the booth and order right away; pan au chocolate (sometimes two,) and coffee. I came with my own Splenda, got parking tickets and blew off most of my responsibilities, and it was worth it every time. I am pretty sure there I'd an entire stick of butter in each one, and if you wipe your fingers on your pants it will leave a greasy stain. But each fruitless trip to the drycleaners was worth it.

So imagine my horror when I arrived at Anisette one morning to find the doors closed. Was it over? My morning affair With a pastry ended with no so much as a "Dear Early Morning Camera Club," letter?

I got on with my life, but never found the same satisfaction at the breakfast table. Then last Wednesday, while walking through the third street promenade, across a crowded farmer's market, my beloved - the Anisette booth. So we're back together now, my pan au chocolate and I, at least every Wednesday morning. I'll take what I can get.

Buffy vs. Edward

This is genius.  It makes me realize how bad Twilight is and how much I miss Buffy!

Holga at the Beach

That's right, the Canon 1D has been replaced with a tricked out $15 film camera made in China.  It's amazing, despite the fact that I had to actually buy and load film, take it in to be processed and wait for prints were are a fortune, all the time wondering if I managed to expose a single frame. 

The verdict?  I love it!  You have to really let go of things that seemed important, like focus, framing the subject, and give up any technical control of the picture.  Just point the camera in the general direction of your subject, and the Holga will take that picture it wants.  Let go of some control, because this 2 ounce hunk of China's finest plastic will do it all for you.  You couldn't Photoshop some of this if you tried.

*Disclaimer:  Any artistic double exposures are purely the result of forgetting to wind the film, not an artistic choice.  Nonetheless, some of these accidents are sort of cool...

Here are some early results.