The Picture Within the Picture

 

 Colin Advocates for Wind, 2013

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I’ve said it here before many times that sometimes the pictures you set out to take when you go out to take pictures don’t turn out to be the ones you most value from that day.

I keep saying this because, well, it’s true. Unless you’re out on a specific assignment, and sometimes even if you’re out on a specific assignment, unexpected opportunities will present themselves to you and you’d be a fool to ignore them. (Unless, of course, a client is hanging over your shoulder and you have to play nice.)

I went down to the beach the other morning to take a walk. There were several events taking place along the boardwalk and on the beach. The first was a vintage car club show. A vintage car show wouldn’t normally draw me. But since they were there and some of the cars were very colorful I wandered up and down the boardwalk taking pictures of pieces of cars.

The second thing I hadn’t realized was going on this weekend was what I could only call an “Aging White People’s Beach Music Festival.” There was a show band that did covers of everything from Otis Redding to the Beach Boys. The audience was mostly pudgy, gray haired Baby Boomers. I didn’t stop to photograph them. I know what pudgy, gray haired Baby Boomer looks like.

It wasn’t until I got up to 31^st Street and looked out onto the beach and saw a group of people lined up holding hands in front of a line of big pinwheels than I remembered that the local Sierra Club chapter was sponsoring a local observance of the Hands Across the Sand. Hands is a demonstration in favor of wind power over offshore drilling for oil, something our current governor and his aspiring Republican successors aspire to do tout suite.

I walked out on the beach to get a closer view. There were 30-40 people and they were very enthusiastic about their cause. Every few minutes, if he sensed they were losing energy, one of the participants would run up and down the line and have everyone make a wave.   

To be honest, they didn’t make a very photogenic group. There were too many visual distractions and I didn’t have a long lens when me to do anything interesting with forced perspective.

When I got home and started going through the day’s shots, the Hands Across the Sand images were the last ones I reviewed. They just weren’t interesting.

Then I happened to look into one of the pictures and found that there was a single man at the end of the line whose posture and energy were interesting. I cropped him out of the shot to separate him from the rest of the line and then cropped the image even further to cut out the irrelevant parts of the image. Fortunately, shooting digital images in RAW format results in such large files that you can crop down to even a very small piece of the larger image and still have something that reproduces well.

Sometimes it’s not only not the picture you set out to take, and not the picture you ended up with that interests you. It’s the picture within the picture you didn’t intend to make that’s interesting.

Here’s the original.

 

Hands Across the Sand/Virginia Beach, 2013

High Art and Dancing on the Pole

 

 Strange Fruit @ Virginia Arts Festival 41, 2013

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I admit that from the title of this post it would be easy to misconstrue that what Mrs. Bonney and I went to see at the Virginia Arts Festival the other night was more along the coarser lines of pole dancing. But that’s not the case, though I will also admit that there was dancing and poles were involved.

What we saw was a performance of the Melbourne, Australia-based performing arts company known as Strange Fruit. (It’s anyone guess whether they’re at all aware of the connection between their name and the haunting song about racism made famous by Billie Holiday.) 

 

Strange Fruit @ Virginia Arts Festival 01, 2013

 

Any description I make of Strange Fruit’s performance—this particular one is called “Swoon,” a fusion of theater, dance and circus—will not only fail to adequately describe it, but probably cheapen it in the process. But here goes:

Two women and two men, dressed, respectively, as colorful tarts and chimney sweeps, skip out into the outdoor performance space, accompanied by a soundtrack of percussive world music. They shimmy up flexible 5-meter poles, atop which they fasten themselves into roughly thigh-level braces that leave their upper bodies and sometimes their feet completely flexible to move in any direction they wish.

 

Strange Fruit 71 @ Virginia Arts Festival, 2013

For the next half hour they sway back and forth and around in circles on the poles to a soundtrack that ranges from symphonic to big band, from Sinatra to Mozart, from swing to opera and from rhythmic music to spoken word and jarringly discordant sounds. Their movement tells stories of whimsy and love and loss and love found again. Their style is so varied, gymnastic and yet so classically elegant at times that one could easily believe they were choreographed by Twyla Tharp. One moment they’ll be relating intensely to each other. The next they’ll be bending down low to flirt with viewers.

(See? Didn’t I tell you I could make something elegant and artful sound cheap and, well, not all that different from pole dancing?)

Strange Fruit will be appearing in June at the Ordway Centre in St. Paul, Minnesota, and in July at the Outside the Box festival in Boston. Their performance in Norfolk happened to be free. But even if you have to pay to see them elsewhere, it’ll be worth it.

Click here to see Strange Fruit’s show reel.

Strange Fruit 47 @ Virginia Arts Festival, 2013

Butterfly Kisses and Dandelion Wishes

I had to go down to the courthouse the other day to probate my mother’s Last Will and Testimony. The last time I did this was for my father’s will in 1995.

I can only assume that Probate Court is one of those places where cities can cut back on staff and resources and nobody complains. Why? Because in in 1995 the Probate Clerk’s office was a busy hive of eight or ten people. Back then I breezed into the office without any notice, got my business taken care and was back out in just a few minutes. It was also free.

Since 1995 they’ve changed the process enough that 1) an appointment is required, 2) I had to pay a total of $48 to probate a will that had essentially no assets and 3) I saw just two people in the department, and one of them was even borrowed temporarily from another department.

But none of that really matters. What really matters is what I observed while waiting in the Probate Clerk’s office. I would show it to you; I’m not sure you’d believe me otherwise. But as you may know, no electronic equipment, camera, cell phone or any kind of mechanical recording device is allowed inside the courthouse.

You’d expect a court clerk’s office to be a pretty dull public place. But nothing could have been further from the truth at the Probate Clerk’s office. Let me clarify that. The office no doubt started out looking institutional. But under current management it’s anything but.

To make my point, here’s a partial inventory of what I saw while waiting. (Fortunately, pencil and paper are not prohibited recording devices.)

A sign proclaiming “PEACE, LOVE AND JOY!”

Framed pictures of birds.

Paper cut-outs of angels and fairies.

Another sign: “BUTTERFLY KISSES AND DANDELION WISHES.”

Cherubs. Lots of cherubs.

A paper chandelier with glass “diamonds”

Silhouettes of trees stenciled on every wall.

Birds. Ceramic, metallic, paper, paper maché, fabric, glass, stone, velvet and plastic. Hanging from the ceiling, perched on office equipment and peeking down from overhead light fixtures.

Butterflies. Also ceramic, metallic, paper, paper mache, fabric, glass, velvet and plastic. Also hanging from the ceiling, perched on office equipment and peeking down from overhead light fixtures.

Plastic bobble heads of flowers, baseball players, cherubic toddlers, extra terrestrials, dancing ducks and more birds.

Paperweights. Who knew decoupage was still big?

Birdhouses.

Plastic orchids.

A lavishly seascaped, but goldfish-less, goldfish bowl.

Paper, metallic and glass stick-on appliques in stars, starburst and bird shapes.

Pigs. Ceramic, paper, steel, stone and stuffed fabric.

Snow globes, not a one celebrating a winter scene.

A calendar from February 2010 with a photograph of sunflowers.

Another sign: “The day you were born the world had to make room for a little more fancy.”

Fake hyacinths.

Another sign: “Drama Queen.”

Birds’ nests.

Music boxes.

Sequin-covered computer keyboard and mouse.

Ornate Victorian Christmas scenes.

Another sign: “God made us sisters. Prozac made us friends.”

Another sign: “Some days are a total waste of makeup.”

A Better Block

 

  GNARFOLK, 2013

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If your city’s lucky you have people who are always testing the limits. Some of Norfolk’s limit testers have recently taken on the task of creating an arts district out of a run down stretch of one of downtown’s main streets. It’s a few nondescript blocks that’s home to the city’s bus station, a gay bar (recently closed), a multi-story gun shop and a handful of other businesses that typically gravitate to the commercial fringe where the rent’s cheap.

In other words, it’s drive-by territory. Once upon a time you might have shopped there. Now you just drive through it on the way to somewhere else. When there was a place across from the bus station where you could sell your blood the street life was pretty lively, if a little gamey. Now you don’t see many pedestrians. The gun shop customers park behind sturdy gates.

For just under twenty-four hours this past weekend, though, this little stretch of forgotten commerce became a hub of pop-up activity. A small cadre of out of town consultants worked with a hundred or so local volunteers to turn empty storefronts into, among other things: a beer hall, music venue, video arcade, bakery, jewelry and craft shop, art gallery, outdoor music venue, improv comedy theater, glass blowing studio, children’s play area and indoor skateboard park. Wooden pallets were painted bright colors and became platforms for outdoor dining. Impromptu art showed up on walls and the street. A food truck and the obligatory cupcake vendor fed hungry visitors.

 

Seen on the Street, 2013

Let me be clear. This wasn’t your typical block party or street festival. There was beer. But there were no funnel cakes, Belgian waffles, face painting or cartoonists drawing cheesy caricatures. Better Block had a decidedly young and alternative vibe. As the sign in one window said, “Art Show May Require Parental Discretion.”

A local TV station dismissed the event by saying that “dozens” had come out to see it. The newspaper claimed “hundreds.” I’m confident there were thousands. And even more impressive, it drew art school hipsters, skaters and musicians, as well as main street lawyers and corporate types, families with young children and empty nesters and singles well into their 70s and 80s.

What this crowd found was a lively array of music, art and fun. What they learned was how a little creativity and youthful enthusiasm can make even a dreary stretch of downtown into a destination. 

 

Wes & BC’s Tower, 2013

In the sixties, we might have called Better Block a "happening." I heard one person refer to the bamboo star shown above as “Norfolk’s version of Burning Man.” That might be putting a little too much of a spin on it. But there’s no doubt that Better Block drew a crowd more interested in having its artistic limits stretched than in tasting funnel cakes. It was a place where young and old, black and white, male and female (and a few in between), insider and outré, mixed comfortably and cordially, united by creative curiosity and the prospect of what could be.

Like Burning Man, Norfolk’s Better Block was a temporary affair. It closed Saturday afternoon, a successful demonstration, indeed, of what could be. By Sunday, the street and the storefronts were once again empty and quiet, Better Block but a memory.

 

The Family That Swings Together, 2013

After 57 Years, a New Start.

  Jody Dudley, 2013

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Believe me, I never thought I’d be writing a blog post about a service station. But here it is.

I refrain from saying this is about a “gas station” or a "filling station" because although both of those terms would have applied at one time, the fuel tanks were removed some years ago.

The Cavalier Garage was built in the late 1920s as a service to the customers of the Cavalier Hotel, a Virginia Beach grand dame of a hotel on whose campus the building sits. At one time, the garage building housed not only a gas station and mechanical shop on the first floor, but also rooms on a second floor for the maids and chauffeurs of hotel guests. Maids? Chauffeurs? Yes, in its day, visiting the Cavalier Hotel was more like visiting an English country house than today's concept of a beachfront motel. One doesn't get the impression it was the kind of place where guests moseyed  back up the hill to their rooms with sand between their toes.

In 1956, a young mechanic by the name of Johnny Dudley took over the operation of the Garage. By then, people were driving their own cars and the Garage was building a healthy trade catering to the well-to-do residential neighborhoods that were growing around the hotel. In time, Johnny’s son Jody took over the business.

The Cavalier Garage was built on customer service. If you dropped off your car for service or repair, they’d have someone drive you home and then go back and pick you up when your car was ready. Such attentive service made for many loyal customers.

The Cavalier Hotel and all of its property, including the Garage, is now for sale. After fifty-seven years of service, Jody and his staff received little more than a month’s notice to vacate the Garage. He’s been fortunate to find another location in a more distant part of town. The name will go on. The phone number's unchanged. The new place is big enough that Jody will be able to keep his entire staff.

The departure of the Cavalier Garage from its site on Holly Road won’t destroy the neighborhood. But for many it’s just another sign of the end of simpler times when grocery stores made deliveries and gas stations and other day-to-day businesses were indelible parts of neighborhoods. 

The big sign over the front door of the Cavalier Garage that says “Thank You. 1956 – 2013” says it all.

“I’d hoped we’d make it to sixty years here,” says Jody. “But I guess that’s not going to happen.”

In the Shadow of The Cavalier, 2013

The Thoughts of Night

 

Death is Free, 2012

The most interesting thoughts come to me sometimes during what I believe is the interval between sleep and wakefulness. I have no idea whether my concept of the timing of these ideas is any way accurate. This is just how it seems to me.

Something I’ll wake in in the middle of the night—that’s what sets these thoughts apart, that they wake me—or have a particularly vivid dream just before waking that leaves a word or a name or any idea or just a turn of words hanging so prominently in my mind that I repeat the word or name or idea several times because even in my semi-conscious state I sense that it’s something worth saving.

The challenge is that sometimes I’m not quite awake enough to actually write the thought down on the notepad beside the bed. But sometimes I do and still don’t know what I was thinking about.  One morning I found written on the notepad the name “Herkimer Muldoon.” It sounds like a name out of a William Kennedy novel. I still haven’t figured out why I thought that was worth saving.

All of this is to explain why seven days ago I awoke and quickly scribbled down the verse below. I don’t recall having had a bad dream or any other sad thoughts. The importance just seemed obvious at the time and although they were neither the answer to a question I’d been thinking about nor the solution to a problem or just grist for some other thought, I grabbed the notepad upon waking and jotted them down just as you see them.

It is only a week later that I realize that I’d written these thoughts down at the beginning of the day on which my mother would die. I don’t attach any spiritual meaning or metaphysical foresight to them. I had no reason to believe she’d die that day. They don’t comfort me or explain anything. But here they are. Maybe they’ll make sense later.

Death comes to everyone eventually.

Some humanely, some cruelly,

Some on time and some before their time.

It leaves families asking

Why, or why now?

It strikes without notice, without justice.

It comes calmly, sometimes violently.

You can think you're immune,

But you're not.

You can think you wouldn’t deserve it

But you would.

It is silent. It is noisy.

It is fair and unfair.

It happens whether you like it or not,

Whether you want it or not,

Whether you're ready for it or not.

You can think you've fooled it, but

Death comes to everyone, eventually.

In the meantime you'd better get on with life.

The End Comes Finally

 

 Marjorie Bonney, mid-1950s

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When she was still able to use a telephone, my mother would call me every April 1^st to remind me that April Fool’s Day was her mother’s birth date, and that her mother had been nobody’s fool.

In recent years, as dementia overtook her, my mother imagined that her mother and brother, both long dead, were living on the same hall as her at the nursing home.

She would insist that I go next door and check on my grandmother or go see the administrator to make sure a room was being prepared for my uncle. I learned early on not to argue with such requests, and instead merely wandered around in the hall out of her sight for a little while until she forgot why I’d left the room.

It is only fitting, then, that after having ducked any number of humane opportunities to die and avoid further suffering and confusion, my mother waited until last night, the same day as her mother’s birth date, to die. 

Marjorie Jones, c.1921

My mother was a formidable person. She patterned herself after her mother, who was left single with three children to raise after her husband took his life during the Great Depression. My mother didn’t face the same challenges that her mother faced. She was also the youngest of the three children and forever demanded the attention and adoration that a youngest child can sometimes expect. Still, she was, to put it lightly, very strong willed, and this didn’t always make her easy to be around.

The upside of my mother’s late-in-life journey with dementia, though, was that it erased her hardest edges. She forgot her grudges and couldn’t remember any new ones. My sister once jokingly asked, “Who took away our mother and left that sweet little old lady in her place?”

In the last year or so, there wasn’t much my mother could control. The one thing she could command people to do was to arrange the curtains in her room. (I always felt sorry for her roommate, who got no say in this matter.) No matter whether you found them open or closed or blowing gently in a spring breeze, she’d have you pull them back and forth endlessly until they were “just right.”  And then she’d have you move them again.

I used to think it was the curtains. Then I realized it was that the curtains were the one thing over which she could still have dominion.

I thought it was just family, too, that she’d order around like that. But as various members of the nursing home staff stopped by her room yesterday to pay their respects, almost all had a story to tell about how she gotten them all hot and bothered trying to get those damned curtains “just right.”

I must confess that they were far more patient with her than I was. I’m just happy that my grandmother and uncle didn’t actually make it to this nursing home. I’m sure my mother would have had me go to their rooms to adjust their curtains, too, and I just didn’t have that much patience in me.  

Marjorie Jones, c. late 1930s