I’d just finished the first draft of a new/old novel and was thinking about a change of pace when Hago and Danny called with news of an upcoming trip to Sicily. Just the break I needed. I’d never been there. All I knew of Sicily came from Andrea Camilleri and Francis Coppola. That was enough to get me on a plane.
The province of CataniaCastiglione di Sicilia
The village of Castiglione spills over a rocky slope not far from Mt. Etna. The first thing you notice is how old everything is–homes, churches, streets, the land itself. There’s not much left of the namesake castle top of the hill.
CastiglioneCastiglione Wine Bar
The highest wine bar in town appears to have been carved out of the castle walls. Compounding the sense of age are the death notices plastered on every available space throughout town.
They are pasted over advertisements and partially covered by other notices creating a palimpsest (love that word) of village culture and the knowledge that death is always present in life.
Cabinet? Supreme Court? Boys at the Bar
The odd thing here is that none of them are drinking. And it’s that way every night. I have no idea how Giuseppe who owns the bar and makes a mean Negroni makes a living.
Back to Mt. Etna. It’s somewhere around 10,000 feet tall, but that’s enough to make its own weather, which, combined with the volcanic soil, contributes to some interesting wine. You’d expect wines from this far south to be huge and highly alcoholic–see Roussillon, France–but the Etna micro-climate and soil allow the vintners to create a lean, elegant wine from the Nerello Mascalese grape. Delicious.
Danny, Hago, Etna
Siracusa is a city on the Ionian seacoast. The old section, Ortigia, is actually an island. The protein, as you might expect, comes from the sea.
Fish MarketNegroni from a barrel
The old section of an old city in a very old land, so old they even age the Negronis.
Caves. First thought to mind was, of course, Odysseus. I’m sure it was yours too. But the lad is thought to have washed ashore off the coast of Croatia. I don’t think so. These caves are perfect and if our captain had only gone in a little deeper, who knows what wonders we could have found.
-Bonjour Joan, bienvenu à Paris. -Merci beaucoup, Claude, I’m so happy we could meet here at the museum. Thank you for inviting me. -You’re very welcome but before we look at pictures, I need to make a little confession. When I received your letter, I thought you were the girl who wrote songs, and I wondered what we would have to say to each other. Don’t get me wrong, they are lovely songs but not really my thing and I’m relieved to find you are not only a painter, but one whom I admire. -Merci Claude and may I say, coming from you it is a great compliment. -Shall we sit for a cup of tea? We cannot smoke in the galleries. Even I am forbidden. Seems grossly unjust, nevertheless…
Monet
Monet lit his pipe, Mitchell fished a cigarette from her purse, and they began to talk. -I love your later work. I appreciate what came before but they do not move me in the same way. The haystacks, Rouen, London, they are beautiful to be sure, but to me, they are of the past. But the work from the last few years of your… She stopped, suddenly unsure of what to say. -A technicality, my dear, we will speak of it later, but I’m beginning to understand your reputation for speaking your mind. In any case, the later works are certainly more about impressions than observations. They are what I see but filtered by my senses and memories. Perhaps I should call them sensations? -I’d stick with impressions, Claude, it feels right. -Very well. I’m not surprised that the more abstract works most appeal to you. -Yes, we speak the same language. But the power is also in your palette. It’s more expansive, mauves and reds are there. They never were before. -That is true. -And your brush strokes are freer. They flow as if you had learned to fly. -I would like that. But, if I may, I see a similar progression in your art. I worried about your early paintings—all that black. I thought you were at war with yourself. -Maybe so, or maybe it was a reflection of the world I lived in or the struggle for acceptance. -Perhaps, but often I think that struggle is essential to art. If it’s too easy, one becomes a painter of toys, of poodles and balloons. But you grew. I thought you may have resolved some conflicts. Your work matured without softening, you drew us into your world and allowed us to feel the emotions within you. It’s a rare gift. -It’s not something I can explain. -There’s no need. It’s there for those who choose to see. -And you, Claude. The world waits in long lines to share just a touch of your vision. -Not really. Certainly, they attend my expositions, but only to take a photograph to prove they were there—here in Paris, or wherever—to people who really don’t give a shit. I’m not sure they ever see the paintings. But enough. I want to talk about color. After most of the black was gone, you began to add solid blocks of mauve and magenta at what seemed to me a most unexpected time and place.
-You don’t like them? -On the contrary. They attract and refresh the eye, while adding gravitas to the entire composition. -You did much the same. -Close, but not the same. I splashed some similar colors among the greens and blues, but I have never painted those solid blocks with the same confidence as you. -You’re very generous, but I’m not sure it was confidence I felt. -All the same, I want to talk about your yellow. I don’t know how you do it. The color is astonishing, as if you are painting the sun. You seared my eyes and brought me joy at the same time. There’s nothing like it. -I’d love to see your interpretation. -They weren’t right. I destroyed them. -I’m sorry. -It’s quite all right. The world has you. -I don’t know what to say. -Nothing. But you should get together with Vincent. Now there’s a man who knows yellow. -Those sunflowers. My God. -Yes. They can make you believe. -Almost. But tell me about what I see as your movement toward abstraction. No one else was there with you. -The truth is I could no longer see very well. I think to truly understand, you must come to Giverny. -I would like nothing more. They looked at each other with a shared understanding, a true meeting of compatible souls. -Claude, I have to ask. If it’s too painful you don’t have to answer, but—aren’t you dead? Monet relit his pipe as he considered how to answer. -Technically, I suppose that’s true, but the real truth is that my life is my work. And it remains, as will yours.
I’ve been living in Paris six years now, and I’d never seen it from the river. Always thought it must be just a tourist thing.
I was wrong.
It’s a different perspective on the familiar, a reminder of just how beautiful this city is, and a great way to spend an hour at sunset. Next time I’m going to upgrade to a boat with cocktails.
Ile St. Louis
All photos were made on the iPhone 13 Pro. I wasn’t paid to say that, but I’d be happy to boost the share price.
Towers of the Conciergerie Pont des ArtsNotre Dame ReconstructionEiffel Tower and the Pont Alexandre III
And you can never have too many pictures of the Eiffel Tower.
A bamboo hut designed by Colombian architect Simòn Vélez sits in the middle of the most commercial quarter of Paris. Inside is a collection of photographs by Salgado joined by the theme of water, the most precious fluid on earth. They are art of the highest order, shockingly beautiful. They are an appeal to the world’s conscience and they are a wake-up call.
At the age of seventy-eight, Salgado continues to travel the world, bringing light to earth’s most remote locations, calling attention to the fragility of our ecosystem and the responsibility of humanity to preserve the natural world and the indigenous communities threatened by encroaching industrialization. His photographs are gray scale (black and white), because color would make them pretty. They’re not, but they are beautiful. And frightening. And informative. And most of all, powerful.
This is photography at its best: beautiful images that strongly convey an unambiguous message. Living on this planet is a privilege, and if we are to continue we have the responsibility of stewardship. We cannot continue to exploit resources without replacing them. We cannot continue heating our homes and powering our vehicles with the fossil fuels that are destroying the atmosphere. And we cannot continue to support and accommodate corrupt politicians who profit by wielding power over beneficial legislation. I’m looking at you, Joe Manchin.
Salgado and his wife Lelia, a Brazilian writer, have devoted their lives to this call for action, and taken their commitment beyond photography with the creation of an NGO to revive the forested land owned by their family.
“ Our non-profit organization, Instituto Terra, has planted more than 2.7 million trees belonging to more than 300 endemic species. […] The return of this tropical microclimate has attracted birds and animals that have not been observed there for several decades.” – Sebastião Salgado
If you’re in Paris before September 22, see this exhibit. If not, buy one of his extraordinary books. Then pour yourself a glass of water and think about how lucky you are.
News comes that a friend far away is dying now I look up and see small flowers appearing in spring grass outside the window and can’t remember their name W.S. Merwin
Tom was an artist, a creator of awesome stage pictures that provoked and delighted audiences around the world, but his most important gift was the love he bestowed on family and friends. He was a great friend: caring, loyal and generous, honest, kind and constant. I will miss him very much. It’s raining in Paris today and the rooftop chorus of mourning doves voices the soundtrack of a somber day.
Those clouds you see are the visible manifestation of the world’s collective sigh of relief. France has refused to stumble down the path of intolerant populism. The election is over, the good guys (comparatively speaking) won, the relief is palpable. We can now kick back, have another glass of wine and contemplate the rising cost of baguettes. France has, for the moment, come to the rescue of democracy.
Before the First Round
Macron’s margin of victory (17 points) would be considered a landslide in the US, here it was thought to be close because five years ago, he won by almost twice that. That’s because five years ago no one knew who he was. They do now, and never stop complaining, but still returned him to office because the threat of Le Pen’s anti-immigrant racism was more than they could swallow. Thank you.
It’s been said that the French vote with their hearts in the first round and with their heads in the runoff. It’s also true that as soon as he (they’ve all been men so far) takes office, the president becomes Public Enemy Number One. So re-election is a triumph for Macron, hasn’t happened since Jacques Chirac in 2002.
Enough politics. Paris was a treat today. Warm, sunny, puffy white clouds, the tourists are back, the masks are off, the cafés are full, and people are smiling.
I’ve been reading Rebecca Solnit’s Orwell’s Roses, a book about the importance of beauty in our lives. In 1936—before leaving England to join the battle against fascism in Spain—George Orwell planted roses in his garden. It seems at first to be an unremarkable occurrence; after all roses were and continue to be extremely popular plantings in ornamental gardens and the English have always been fond of gardens. But Orwell was a man who dedicated his life to the struggle for human rights and was willing to put his beliefs on the line as a soldier for the POUM, one of many factions who took up arms against Franco’s forces of repression. Solnit uses Orwell’s garden as a metaphor for the human need of beauty, especially in perilous times when the battle against totalitarianism is pitched.
Do I hear an echo of today’s headlines? Putin, Xi, Bolsonaro, Orban, Duterte, Trump. The world is once again faced with the rise of dictators and wanna-bes.
Hotel Des Bains, rue Delambre
In 1936, Spanish Fascists backed by Nazi Germany and Italy, staged a dress rehearsal for World War II with a violent overthrow of the elected Republican government of Spain. Republicans expected the west—France, Great Britain, United States—to come to their aid, reasoning that surely these democracies would recognize the need to oppose Hitler. It didn’t happen. Roosevelt’s isolationist policies, Chamberlain’s belief that Hitler could be appeased, Leon Blum’s brief tenure as French president, contributed to keep the west sidelined. Franco’s professional military and Hitler’s arms destroyed the fractious defenders whose anarchists, Stalinists, and Trotskyites wound up fighting among themselves in the pursuit of ideological purity. Wounded and disillusioned, Orwell returned to his English garden.
Magnolia
The Retirada began. At least 500,000 Republican survivors trekked across the Pyrenees, expecting to be hailed as heroes in France. Instead, the French imprisoned them in relocation camps, another WWII dress rehearsal, this time for the Vichy government’s treatment of Jews. In 1936,George Orwell planted roses. In 1939, Pablo Casals went to the internment camp at Argelès, France and played Bach’s Suites for Unaccompanied Cello for the hungry, displaced inmates. Last night, I went to the Théâtre des Bouffes du Nord to hear Sonia Wieder-Atherton play the same music while Charlotte Rampling recited a number of Shakespeare’s sonnets. Ms. Wieder-Atherton is an extraordinary musician. Ms. Rampling is, of course, a marvelous actress. Bach. Shakespeare. Magic. Seventy minutes of beauty that banished the fears and nightmares of the world outside.
Read Carefully: It is important That you get it right the first time. There are no second takes. You understand that, surely?
First, be sure all the bills are paid Or there is money in the bank To pay them. Your terminal credit report Means nothing to you But could be important to your heirs, if any.
Second, you must (and this is essential) Resist the impulse to write long and maudlin letters To friends and relatives about your life And death and what it all means. No one, repeat after me, no one gives a shit.
In the same spirit, do not Under any circumstance Leave directions for music to be played Or poems to be read at your funeral. That is simply embarrassing for everyone. (If you really must You can request particular flowers. Daisies are a cheerful choice.)
Finally, keep in mind That your death is not about you. I think that covers the main points:
January at Stinson Beach in Marin County a few miles north of San Francisco. This is winter in Northern California: mild temperatures, mostly clear skies, dry. After heavy December rains prompted a little hope that the drought might end, January came up warm and sunny. Hardly a hardship for a visitor from Paris, but here the drought continues.
Molten silver waves
I’m here to visit friends, people I’ve known and loved for many years, the people who caused me to think hard about leaving San Francisco. I live in Paris now, but I could never leave my friends. And so, this visit.
We’re aging now, moving into that twilight realm which popular culture doesn’t target, and we, conveniently, don’t care. But the sidebar to our confidence in who we are and what we like is the discomfort caused by change. We tell ourselves it’s inevitable, we believe it, but the feeling of being left behind is disorienting, even if we see the world plunging into a dystopian future. Only yesterday it was our world, our music, our culture, and if our place in it wasn’t always secure, these anchors kept us rooted.
More
This beach at the foot of Mount Tamalpais has been a special place since close friends came to live here years ago. They brought lively gatherings, great food and wine to the many pleasures of the shore. To breathe the fresh sea air is to be renewed, it clears the dross from the brain, creates space for fresh ideas. The power of the water is a source of wonder and a warning of our weakness. Sinking bare feet into the sand anchors us to the planet until the next wave erases our presence. Only memories remain.
Yesterday the sun came out, and Parisians were quick to follow. Saturday, the 18th of December, the last weekend before Christmas, but when the sun appears in December, shopping can wait. The last few weeks have been gray. Not cloudy, not much rain, just a dull gray roof sitting there like an absence of inspiration.
I finished (until the next revision) my novel. I actually typed “The End” for the first time. The next day, the sun appeared. Now that’s what I call a good omen. I picked up my phone, left the apartment, and became a photographer again. And what better place to go than Le Jardin du Luxembourg.
Paris: Luxembourg Gardens Winter Light
The iPhone camera is a marvel. When I started out in photography, (Attention! the following text contains geezer reminiscences. Young people are advised to avoid) every workshop speaker offered the same advice. It was phrased as either: “F8 and be there” or “The best camera is the one you have with you.” Technology made F8 irrelevant, Steve Jobs took care of the rest.
Paris: Luxembourg Gardens Winter Light
A few more words about the novel. The working title is A Small Betrayal, and I realized while writing that many of the scenes grow out of images that stick in memory. That’s a good thing and reason enough to revive this blog. It may take a while because WordPress has evolved in the time I’ve been away from it. I have some learning to do.
Paris: Luxembourg Gardens Winter LightParis: Rue Vaugirard Winter Light
