La Macchina Fotografica

Outside looking in. Fourth Street is dead on the Monday of a three-day weekend. There is a sterile scent of nothingness in the air. I escaped from the studio to see the world and the world stayed home. I’m just slightly out-of-sync on the tail end of a twilight-zone holiday.

President’s Day weekend is among the strangest long weekends. Not exactly the birthday of any one president, it is little more than an excuse for ski weekend. No one seems to even think of Washington or Lincoln or anyone other president. On the way to San Rafael I did see one of those tea-party guys hang a pathetic little “Impeach” sign on a chain-link fence along Highway 101. I give him credit. At least he was thinking about presidents on President’s Day. But his creepy little sign just added to the weirdness of the abandoned day.

Outside looking in. There’s nothing left to do but smoosh my face against empty shop windows. Every light in every window is off. Dark. I come upon a closed, glass door. Inside is a stairwell littered with old magazines and phone books. I ask myself why they’re there. Then I imagine one of those old black & white TV shows from my youth where some guy (me) is about to realize that there was a nuclear war and he’s the sole survivor. I wonder how old the magazines are.

Right around noon a couple shops open. The world transforms from monochrome to color. I awaken from my B-grade fantasy and realize that I haven’t given one thought to a single president, dead or alive. The day remains a mystery as do the old magazines behind the glass door. Outside looking in.

It was raining peacefully on Sunday morning. The streets were washed clean by a storm that had hit the day before. The road shimmered in the weak light, twinkling with each drop from the sky. On a tempestuous Friday before the storm, I’d been hit between the eyes by a hurtful comment from a friend. It left me reeling. Sunday’s gray drizzle seemed appropriate.

Despite the rain and the winter season I went early to the farmer’s market. I was thinking of a baguette. And maybe a wedge of cheese. I wanted to talk to the chili man. And ask the asparagus guy when spring would arrive. I needed the farmers just then. So, I bundled up and went to the market.

This time of year it’s easy to park at the farmer’s market. The fair-weather marketers are long gone, waiting now for their tomatoes and sweet corn and warm summer breezes. Rain doesn’t help bring in the crowd but it does enhance a quiet market day for a man with a bruised soul.

Alone with my baskets I pulled up my collar. I was still grumbling to myself about Friday. But, some Swiss chard caught my eye. Pulling out two dollars for a nice bunch of it, I overheard a conversation at the next stand.

“How is the most lovely jewel of the universe today?” a man with a European accent asked a smiling woman. The woman had been alone at her booth. Before the man with the accent arrived she hadn’t been smiling. I looked at the young woman who had just sold me the chard and we both laughed. One comment brought three smiles—the best market deal of the day. With a spark of renewal I went to see the chili man.

“I want you to know that I sent some of your chili sauce to my friend in Chicago. He said it was the best he’d ever tasted,” I said to him.

“Well, of course!” the chili man replied. He is nothing if not self-assured of his chili-sauce prowess. “I just made some new mash. Try this.”

Down the way, the asparagus man had nothing but potatoes. “The asparagus will be here in about four weeks,” he pronounced. The first day of spring had now been declared. “Are you getting any good pictures today?”

The egg couple saw me coming from their mountain of egg cartons. They had a dozen, extra-large, brown, organic eggs waiting for me. Just the kind I like.

“I had to get my eggs at Safeway last week,” I said. They both groaned. “They were watery. Stale,” I added.

“We have you spoiled,” the man of the couple said, looking up from his stack of a billion eggs. “See you next week.”

The young woman who usually sells me my baguette wasn’t there. I got one anyway from a girl I’d never met. Then I got a small salami from the French charcuterie guy and asked for his advice on sausages. At that point I realized that my basket was overflowing and I needed to stop.

On the way out there was another man with an overflowing basket. Like me, he’d bought his baguette. After making a photo of him I realized that we are all the same. Every one of us can be made just a little happier with a baguette in our basket and a trip to farmer’s market.

The fog lifted today. I could tell before I even opened my eyes. It was the garbage men that gave it away. The fog muffles the sound of the Tuesday-morning garbage truck and this morning I could hear it loud and clear. The men were shouting and the truck’s hydraulics were howling. Right then at 5:00 AM I knew the fog was gone.

A rain storm blew out the fog and stale wood smoke. It brought back some sparkle to the afternoon light. Right now, in the dark, I can hear the rain sing in the downspouts, which tells me a second storm is now in and that means the fog won’t back for awhile.

The stillness at the farmer’s market on Sunday was a sign that something was brewing. The air hung low. Hardly anyone was there. A lot of the vendors have been gone since Christmas and we won’t see them until the new crops come up. Right now just about all we have is some winter lettuce and bitter greens. The market seemed eery like everyone was waiting for the storm to come in.

I looked around and knew we were in for some wet days so I went to the guy who has my favorite bitter greens. There’s nothing like slow-cooked bitter greens on a cold day. Winter tempers the bitterness and the slow cooking brings out their inherent sweetness. I never feel like cooking anything slowly in summer but winter’s quiet makes me want to cook all day. In a world of gray, the bright green on the table reminds me that spring is close.

The winter market makes for good photography. The summer market vibrates with energy and contrast. It’s a tricky thing to negotiate with a camera. The winter market, on the other hand, is a giant still life. I can stare at the bitter greens and have them to myself. It’s not like fighting with the old ladies over the tomatoes—something I hate to do. No one stands in line for bitter greens. It’s just me and the greens. And a little fog and rain.

For over a week we’ve woken here to a low-lying shroud of fog. In the hazy, first moment of waking I am confused. I am fooled into thinking that I’m opening my eyes as a young boy—and discovering a silent blanket of fresh snow out my window. I think I am five again.

Those were cold New Jersey mornings of wonder, youth and magic. The first sign of snowfall from the night before was a pearly incandescence that bathed my tiny, yellow bedroom. It glowed from behind a simple shade. I could barely wait to pull it down to activate its spring-loaded mechanism. Fwap, Fwap Fwap! It would roll up and white winter would await me.

The coast of Northern California has no such mornings, yet the inversion of late reminds me of it, just a little. It’s a slightly depressing version of it, though the morning fog has its own beauty. It’s my trained response that gets to me. My eyes open, I spring up and…no snow. I get up and look in the mirror. No youth. It’s a double hit.

Like the snow of my childhood, the fog has no color. The day starts in monochrome—which has me thinking of flowers and asparagus. I long for asparagus because, like the crocuses of New Jersey, they are the first sign of spring (here in California). I go to the January farmer’s market and wait for the first asparagus. But right now, what I find, are flowers instead.

The radiance of the flowers warms me. Their colors are reduced to chalky pastel in the foggy light, but the subdued brilliance is all I need. They caress my post-holidays psyche. So, I’ve taken to photographing the market flowers. In black & white or color, they provide me with encouragement. And they’ll do just fine until the asparagus arrives.

It all started last Christmas but I’d long forgotten about it. I’d forgotten that is, until last week when I started walking along the old rail path again. Lost in thought, about a quarter mile from home I saw it again and it made me laugh just like it did upon my first discovery.

All along the path are agave plants. My photographer’s eye is naturally attracted to their form which I find both musical and organic. Therefore I pretty much know where all the agave plants are along the trail. On my walk of a year ago I suddenly noticed that one agave was in a full bloom of the strangest kind. The plant seemed to have sprouted red berries along its spiked leaves. What? I had no idea that the agave bloomed in such way. I immediately started to photograph this rare occurrence. Looking closely at the photos later in the day I realized that someone had decorated the leaves with the berries of a nearby pyracantha bush. They’d stuck the berries onto the barbs of the agave leaves. The holiday joke was on me. Someone had dressed up the agave for Christmas.

I’d forgotten about the agave because I stopped taking my walks along the old rail path. Last week I rediscovered both the walks and the agave. Looking sad with only a few of last years withered berries still clung to it, I decided to redecorate the plant. Rather than add berries in random fashion as had been done before, I added a berry to each and every barb on one leaf. Maybe someone else would come along, feel inspired and then decorate another leaf. It might start an agave, communal experience. Maybe the whole plant would become studded in stunning red.

While applying the berries I heard someone behind me. Damn! I wanting this to be an anonymous caper. So I scurried off, feeling like a old leprechaun. Snickering to myself I wondered if the person would notice what I’d done. Would she add berries to the work of art? What would her dog think?

I walked my walk again today, hurrying along so that I could return to the agave. To my disappointment no one had added anything to it. In fact, it seemed that some clever bird had considered my decorations to be nothing more than a fancy, berry kabob and had eaten most of the ornaments that I’d so carefully added. I replenished the plant and, since no one was behind me on the path, I made some photos of my pyracantha caper.

I’ll visit it tomorrow to see if either a hungry bird or a fellow earth artist has come along.

There is this Italian caffé and bakery near our home. I’m not much for pastry, Italian or otherwise, but come Christmas I always buy a panetone. It is my firm belief that the panetone at this bakery is the best outside of Italy. It’s not a traditional Milanese panatone as it is flecked with rich, dark chocolate. But the chocolate is used with good sense and I like it. Every year I look forward to eating it on Christmas morning. And I look forward to the ritual of going to the bakery and buying it.

This year I got sick the week before Christmas. It was a nasty head cold with remnants that I still feel as I write this. I’m fine now but last week I wanted to tear out my eyeballs, rip off my nose, and bury my head in a pail of sand. The worst of it was the sneezing fits that ended with cramps deep in those muscles that help you breathe. Stuck in self-pity, I lay on the couch for a week, buried in crumpled tissues. I was keenly aware that I was running out of time. It came down to two days before Christmas and I had no panetone.

At the last minute I finally felt well enough to leave the house and not infect the entire world with my head-filled misery. Still bleary-eyed and red-nosed, I went to get my panetone—hardly a Norman Rockwell, Christmas moment—though my nose did resemble St. Nick’s.

Getting out of my truck I looked at my miserable reflection. I seemed frozen in a perpetual pre-sneeze moment. The sneeze never came. I must have been feeling slightly better because I made a picture of myself. I figured I’d want to remember this moment when I felt better.

Usually I can smell the bakery before I actually see it. This time I smelled nothing as I walked in the door. My panetone seemed waiting for me, a singular monument atop the counter. The woman said it was still warm from the oven. I asked it was the kind with the chocolate shavings inside. She nodded.

By the time I got back to the truck my pre-sneeze face had relaxed. It would be a subdued Christmas, spent mostly on the couch with a cat or two and a box of tissues. But, on Christmas Eve I ate some chicken soup and on Christmas morning I had my panetone. I think I ate two giant slices. Maybe I had a third. The chicken soup didn’t do me much good but I do believe that the panetone finally cleared my head. Since then I’ve been fine.

Happy New Year to everyone!

The neighbor across the street has a plastic santa with a lightbulb inside it. I always know the holidays are here when it suddenly appears by her garage. I’ve never actually seen her put it out—I’ve come to believe that the incandescent santa arrives on its own. It’s a fickle santa. One year it decided not to show up at all and the neighborhood was much the poorer for it. So far, this year, I am still waiting. As I write this I look out the window and into the hazy day. The neighbor’s garage is sans santa.

Missing the jolly fellow, my mind wanders to Italy. The Italians have these big, plastic santas that promote 32 flavors of hot chocolate. Alas, they have no lightbulbs and therefore are not lit from within. But, they do come with Heineken umbrellas and a huge cup of frothing hot chocolate and that is worth something.

Several years ago we spent the holidays in Venice and I would pass the chocolate santa numerous times a day. I recognized him at first pass because he has a cousin santa in Parma that I’d seen earlier in the trip. The Parma chocolate santa was without umbrella but I wasn’t thrown by this variation. Once you meet a Italian chocolate santa you remember him.

32 gusti di Cioccolata. 32 flavors of chocolate! We live in a world of miracles and blessings. The chocolate santa reminded me of that every time I saw him. He was the very symbol of abundance and good flavor. Furthermore, he made me smile—as does the santa across the street who has not yet arrived this year.

I look out my window once more. He’s still not here. What is taking so long?

The entire weekend was a shroud of fog and rain, a lazy prelude to the looming holidays. It is hard to take a camera out in this weather, mostly because one would prefer a blanket and black cat to stay warm. But the mundane world is transformed into wonderland for those with the initiative to venture forth.

Eschewing the trappings of cozy house, I go out. The mist scrapes the hills, tingles my face, and hugs the ground of our little park. Formerly the tidal wetlands of our great bay, wetness is the park’s natural condition. This time of year it feels like a soggy kitchen sponge when walking on it. Soon there will be signs that tell us to keep off the grass until summer. I don’t find the grass to be pleasant at all. Once my feet are wet the day seems lost.

I often long for the faraway places of my imagination. Then a gentle storm comes in and makes my nearby world a place of mystery—my imagination is fulfilled. I have always been drawn towards weather’s magnet of energy, the wilder the better. But this particular gentle storm allows me to stand still in fog and rain and to simply look, as if I were seeing for the first time.

Soon, my feet get wet and the black cat and blanket prove irresistible. But, before I leave the soggy park, I find a sweet image of a row of saplings. I make an image.

“They’re here”

One hears it everywhere—the oddly ominous declaration that the holidays are upon us. So much rides on the opening of the season. It is important business for us to be cheerful and generous. It seems that the entire world puts its faith in Americans feeling good about the holidays. The American consumer has replaced Baby Jesus as the icon of Christmas. Like a global manger scene, the media and economists watch over consumer sentiment (spending) as if it were a precious child.

Everyone tries to catch the fever as we dress in green and red, velvet and glitter. The entire country gets wound up in a frenzy of adrenaline and ornament. If only we could stop ourselves long enough to enjoy any part of it. Soon comes January and the blank stares. The opening declaration has a closing bookend; “I can’t believe it’s all over.”

As an artist, it’s hard to capture images of the holidays that don’t succumb to cliché. The noise and tinsel and excess are glaringly assertive. With all the abundance, it is ironically difficult to find the sensitivity and peace that the season symbolizes.

It seems that expectations always get us in trouble. Today’s image is of empty wine glasses at a holiday party. They sit in anticipation of being filled with cheer. There they sit, like a lineup of maidens at a dance. We too, await to be filled (and fulfilled) as this season of lights ramps up and washes over us like a wave. Soon the party is over and the glasses are scattered and dirty—some half-full, others half-empty, a few broken. It’s rather how most of us feel come January 2nd.

There is a tree in the town park about which I often write. Tall and singular, it is an easy object of affection. Meanwhile, another tree, a tiny one in a clay pot, has been growing lemons outside our back door. This week it has given forth a basket of perfect Meyer lemons. Have I neglected this selfless little citrus?

I fear that I have. The other day its basket simply appeared on the kitchen table, the second significant winter still life in as many days. It turns out that my wife has been nurturing the tree all year, waiting for this moment. At this rate I’ll have a show’s worth of photographs in a month. Sometimes these things just happen.

Citrus trees buck the trend and bear fruit in winter, a minor miracle. My New Jersey upbringing conditioned me to thinking of fruit and color in summer and bare twigs in winter. I would read about citrus trees in grammar-school geography books during our long winters. In our land of apple, peach and cherry trees, citrus groves were as exotic as camels in the desert.

On our small radio in our small kitchen we’d hear the news reports after a run of Sinatra songs. Those reports, during winter cold snaps, included stories of worried, Florida citrus growers. We’d hear of smudge pots in the groves, burning all night to ward off frost. I think New Yorkers secretly liked knowing that it got cold in the Sunshine State, regardless of the price of orange juice.

“Children growing up in Florida have never seen snow!” my second-grade teacher proclaimed one day. This seemed impossible. So too was it impossible to think of trees growing fruit in winter, but that’s what geography books were for, dreaming of the faraway places where such things happened.

Staring into my bowl of lemons I come back from the winters of my youth—a rambling stream-of-consciousness evoked from an overflowing basket on the kitchen table. I look around and realize that I, myself, now live in an exotic land of winter fruit.

I stare at the bowl, give thanks to the little tree in the clay pot, set up my tripod and make a photograph.