Categories
Just Shelley Photography

Walker Evans: Real need is a personal thing

Recovered from the Wayback Machine.

I’ve spent the last week reading about the photographer Walker Evans. The more I read, the more I understand why I like his photos so much, and will have more to say on this later.

There are some excellent biographies and compilations based on Evans, but my favorite of the books I picked up from the library was a slim volume of Evans photos matched with the contemporary poems of the poet Cynthia Rylant — Something Permanent. Though a writer for children’s books, there is nothing childlike in Rylant’s poems; however, their wonderous simplicity and humor might not appeal to more jaded tastes. I liked them. Perhaps I like simplicity and humor; or perhaps I like poems meant for the Young Reader (which rather pleases me than not).

Rylant’s words complement the effect of Evans’ photos rather than overlay or alter or detract, and the book was a pure delight. You can read it in less than an hour, though I think it deserves to be consumed more slowly. My favorite approach was to turn each page and look at the Evan’s photo and form my own personal interpretation. Once finished, I would then read the poem, and it was like rediscovering the photo all over again. What an absolutely fun way to spend an afternoon, and I made a special event of it by taking the book to the park with me to sit beside the water in the sun and finish it slowly.

I’ve reproduced a few of photo/poem pairs here, and then one of my favorite poems alone (because I could not find the matching photo).

evans_roadside_stand.jpg

Boys

They both loved the same girl
but she wouldn’t have either of them
because she was married–
and to the store owner by god,
so it wasn’t worth thinking about.

But at night,
they each stretched upon a bed
and had her,
had her whole
and leisurely.
And when they were done,
they settled her back in their minds
like a soft peach
will disappear

into a young boy’s pocket,
warm August nights.

walkerevans1.jpg

House

She loved it with all her heart
and on warm days would take a blanket
out into the yard so she
could just sit and look at it.

She never once complained about the
work it took to
keep it clean
nor about being so far from things,
living outside of town.
She loved it.
And when her husband said
he was taking a job in Chicago
and they’d have to be moving,

she was sick on and off for weeks
until it finally occurred to her
that staying sick would keep them there.
She developed the most awful cough,
and now and then a patch of her hair would fall out,
but she never felt so bad
she couldn’t do a little dusting.

There wasn’t a poem I didn’t like in the book, or one that didn’t make me chuckle or nod my head. Rylant’s writing, like Evan’s photos, provide a sensuously real look at the world, keeping sentiment to a minimum. By doing so, they bring a true honesty to an experience in both words and pictures.

walker-evans_reedsville-wv-1936_levels.jpg

Filling Station

Everybody wanted that job
and when Ferrell Brown’s son

got it,
when Mr. Brown’s son got to pump gas
and flirt with the pretty girls all day long,
they all said it was a crock,
that that boy never worked a day
in his life, never had to,
with his rich daddy,
so how come he got a job that

plenty of decent boys with real
need wanted.
Then word got around about
the boy’s mother
and how she walked through that
house stark naked and
trying to hang dinner plates on the
clotheline,

and people shut up about the
Brown boy.
Real need is a personal thing,
they said.
And his mother’s a loon.

Categories
Photography Writing

A touch of spring

Yesterday and today were perfect days to herald in a gentle Spring, and I was able to photograph several early flowers, including magnolia, snow drops, and, of course, daffodils. The magnolia and snow drops will wait till tomorrow; for today, in what is becoming a Burningbird Spring tradition, the first of the daffodils and the perfect poem to go with them, Henry Wordsworth’s “Daffodils”.

shaw14.jpg

I wandered lonely as a cloud
   That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
   A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

shaw12.jpg

Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the Milky Way, 
They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: 
Ten thousand saw I at a glance, 
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

shaw20.jpg

The waves beside them danced, 
but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: 
A Poet could not but be gay, 
In such a jocund company: 
I gazed–and gazed–but little thought 
What wealth the show to me had brought:

shaw9.jpg

For oft, 
when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, 
They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; 
And then my heart with pleasure fills, 
And dances with the daffodils.

shaw13.jpg

 

Dedicated to promise of future Springs.

 

grove5.jpg

Categories
Books Plants

Of found gold and ghost orchids

After the orchid photos last week, a friend recommended that I check out the The Orchid Thief, by Susan Orlean. As serendipity would have it, Mike Golby just wrote a fascinating essay on the movie version of the book, Adaption, and the topic of passion, Gibson and otherwise:

We all have our desired Ghost Orchids and, damn it, we need them. I’m all for orchids. But the stronger our passions, the more we project them and the larger our shopping baskets become. Sometimes, we’re given opportunity to fill them. But I sometimes find myself hoping that, if confronted by one of my Ghost Orchids, I’d duck and run. Well, maybe not run; I’ll just play things cool… thinking things through, you understand.

There is beauty in the Ghost Orchid; beauty that can act as both impetus and anchor, and there’s only a thin fragment of self separating the two. As for me, I’m not sure that I am that passionate, about anything. I think, though, if I did come face to face with my Ghost Orchid, knowing who I am now, I would be content to look and not own. Regretfully.

Returning, though, to more mundane matters in passionate absentia, I was able to find The Orchid Thief at my city library, and the movie Adaption at my county library, along with a much desired documentary film on James Agee. I feel like a woman who has discovered gold coins when putting her hand into a seemingly empty satchel, and I will now indulge in an unseemly fit of gloating.

orchidthree1.jpg

Categories
Writing

The wall dog

Dale Keiger talks about a recent visit with his 83 year old father:

He keeps a gun, a Walther PPK automatic, by his bedside, with a round in the chamber. On my last visit, I asked about this, suggesting it was a dangerous practice, even though he keeps the gun’s safety on. A loaded clip was one thing, I said, but a live round in the chamber? He impatiently replied that there was no point in having a gun around if it wasn’t ready to fire. What he fears coming through the door in the middle of the night—drug-crazed neighbors, a burglar, the Taliban—remains murky, like the light in his house.

Wonderful story from first word to last.

Categories
Healthcare Photography Writing

Listen to our bodies

Recovered from the Wayback Machine.

After my cleaning frenzy last week, I woke up the next morning with hands that hurt so much I couldn’t use them. I then realized that by increasing measure, I’ve had aches and pains in my hands, my wrists, my feet, and recently my back and even my shoulders. Downing Tylenol and Advil and increasing my nightly drinking did not seem to be an effective way to deal with this problem.

The new doctor I have was very good about getting me in right away. When I met with her, I pointed out the possibility that the increasing pain in various parts of my body could be due to the tick bites I’ve suffered the last couple of years. Though Lyme Disease is rare here, there are Missouri-based variants that exhibit similar symptoms.

My doctor, a lovely young woman originally from India, gave me a gentle smile and nodded as I talked, no doubt thinking all the while about how the Internet is more trouble than it’s worth at times. She asked me several questions about other aspects of my health, took a close look in particular at my hands and wrists and then asked me if there was a history of arthritis in the family.

Well, my Dad has arthritis but that came with age as he got older. She asked if there was any rheumatoid arthritis in the family, and I told her not that I know of. I am familiar with rheumatoid arthritis because the uncle of my first husband suffered from an advanced case of it; his hands were very distorted and he could only wear slippers.

She had me undergo tests, yes even for tick diseases, but told me that from my po’me tale (not her words, my own editorial addition), and the appearance of my hands that I am most likely suffering from rheumatoid arthritis.

Well, in a way it’s nice to know that I’m not a hypochondriac assuming much with each slight pain, but I’m not sure how happy I was to give up my exotic illness. After all, it’s much more interesting to write about a disease picked up from treks through the wild woods of Missouri, then to write about a disease that happens because life dealt me the short straw in this instance.

She gave me some anti-inflammatory medicine to use, which does help, but only to a point. In addition to medicine and applying cold and warmth and wrapping the wrists and even fingers at times, she also told me that I will have to cut back on the amount of time on the keyboard.

Now, for a writer, this is a problem. I spend on an average 10-12 hours a day at the keyboard, either on my books or articles, or writing to this weblog. If I cut back, I’m going to have to restrict most of my keyboard time to work that brings in income, which means less time to the weblog. This was something I had to think about, give myself time to wrap my mind around the idea.

Ultimately, though, I think this is going to be a healthy thing for me. I do need to spend less time on the computer and more time ‘out there’. And my body has just decided to enforce this decision. However, this will mean changes.

For one thing, I won’t be able to sit at my computer and program for hours, like I used to a few years back. This might restrict some of the things I’ve been wanting to try, but I haven’t been in the mood to tech tweak for the longest time anyway, as demonstrated by the still non-existent Poetry Finder. (As noted in comments attached to Loren’s lovely post referencing Emily Dickinson’s use of the robin in her poetry. No worries about being reminded of the Poetry Finder, Loren. BTW, when did that ‘Vote for Bush” sticker start showing up on your weblog pages?)

I will be writing less online, but there are numerous advantages to writing less. One that springs instantly to mind is that I’ll have more time to think about what I’m writing, which means I probably won’t get into as much trouble. Perhaps “Burningbird” will become “Simmering Bird”. Maybe even “Thoughtful Bird”.

Additionally, there are alternatives to writing through a keyboard that I have been wanting to try for some time, such as using a recording device to record my thoughts while I’m out an about. With the new speeech recording software, the recordings can be converted into text and I can use this to help me create my weblog posts, or even to do my books. No reason I can’t use it to help write my books.

Even more interesting, I don’t have to convert the recording to text. Though sound files aren’t effective for all the devices people seem to use to read weblogs, and can be unfriendly to modems, still they are an alternative technique to typing into the computer. In fact, I recorded my first audio blog using the built-in mic on my computer, and shareware software I downloaded from the Internet. The post was a lark, just a ramble, and ended up being truncated at 3 minutes, but I had fun doing it. I just need to figure out how one can talk like one writes. There is no textual varation for pausals such as ‘uhm’. I’ve also found, with myself at least, that writing imposes form, which leads to coherency. I am concerned that all my audio posts will end up being blather.

On the bright side, though, I can actually record the sounds to go with the pictures I take.

Speaking of pictures, I’m also going to have to restrict my film camera photography because the cameras are heavy enough to cause a great deal of strain. Still, that removes the guilt from spending time with my digital camera–my lovely lightweight digital camera–even though the photos I take can’t be sold. Who cares if I can’t sell them, they’re fun.

Eventually, along with my audio recording device I’ll pick up a a digital SLR camera that’s lighter than my film cameras, and can take publication quality photos. But for now, I can write metaphorically through sound and sight. My only concern is for those who have audio impairments, but hopefully they have sound-to-text conversion software they can use. And I’ll still write. Have to shoot me to get to stop completely.

In the meantime, more flower photos from the Orchid Show currently happening at the Missouri Botanical Gardens, in St. Louis. You can see one posting with all the photos here.

orchid11.jpg

orchid13.jpg

orchid14.jpg

orchid15.jpg

orchid12.jpg

orchid16.jpg