Hello Andre Kertesz

I was visited by the ghost of Andre Kertesz this morning.  The first time I felt his presence I was shooting with one of his students. Look into the familiar, he said, and find your picture there. 

I found this dynamic composition on my pool deck in the early morning sunshine. The light and shadow play games of exaggeration in the early morning hours. The umbrella at the table is still folded, the day has yet to begin in earnest. We peer into a frame of negative forms.

I was visited by the ghost of Andre Kertesz this morning. 

John's Library

In the old days when we visited a new friend we always checked the titles on his book shelf to see what really made him tick. We believed books were reliable indicators of the man; that is, what the man thinks about in the privacy of his own thoughts. 

We were a literate generation who studied vocabularies and grammars and penmanship until it came out our ears. After awhile we began to view the world from such a perspective. We noticed irregularities in speech and spelling and crummy penmanship. These things told us something about shared or non-shared experiences.

They also oriented us to the page, that is, to a thoughtful relationship with something held at arm's length. The page that influenced photojournalists and readers around the world also found a place in the common sizes of  8" x 10" and 11" x 14" photographs. 

Photographs were best viewed, we  believed, at arm's length. I still prefer to print my pictures at page size.

So, after his passing, when I viewed John's screen porch library, it felt like I was touching the man again in places where his thoughts and beliefs reside. The titles in his library tell us a lot about the man. Such is the power of books. 

Yard Waste and Pecker Wood

Perusing John Wassell's library, I was attracted to Susan Schaller's book by its title: A Man Without Words. It's a true story about a Mayan deaf man who could not communicate. He had no vocabulary, no words. 

Did he have ears that see and eyes that hear?       

My reward for sticking around the house the other day culminated in this pile of yard waste. The dead branch came from our Live Oak tree. Yes, they are messy. The branch fell off the tree months ago, landing on some lower branches. Stuck there in the tree, it was most attractive to woodpeckers. Such a nicely rounded hole ... all the way through the 4 inch branch to the bark on the far side!

That's as nice a hole ala mushroom as I've ever seen. 

This magenta crown was scalped off the top of a Florida Sweet Onion.

Popi is a Bengal and an outdoor-indoor cat. Bengals can't resist playing in water. When she was a kitty she would scamper up a small palm tree and jump into the swimming pool. 

I'm working backward through time and photo numbering now to show you the first light of day in this Florida house: Early morning light by table legs, tile floor and cat toy.

I realize that I bypass countless pictures during the course of a normal habitual day. I'm not concerned with what I may have missed. These pictorial records, like words, merely mark the places where my habits have brought me.

The Soloist in Sarasota

Let's talk about coincidence. 

1. We put new windows in our house on Friday to help both us and the economy move along. New windows give one a cheerful disposition about the outside world.

2. Saturday evening, Pam, Cheryl, Liz and I went to see the movie The Soloist, a true story about a homeless man, a musical genius, who pushes a shopping cart around and lives on the streets of Los Angeles. 

We stopped for a commemorative snapshot in front of the box office.

Our faces were not quite so smiley as we exited the movie, so we went to Il Panaficio, a local pizza shop, for a light dinner and conversation.  

3. The proprietor of Il Panaficio told me he had lived in Florence for 12 years and the olive and pickle vase (below) was an Italian tradition. The olives were encapsulated and they would never be eaten. My companions ate vegetarian. I had a big slice of pepperoni and jalapeno. Hot!

Before we left our outdoor table, I discovered that the proprietor regularly employed a homeless man to gather and secure the heavy metal chairs in his outdoor dining room. So I know at least one homeless man eats delicious food, thanks to one Sarasotan. 

4. I found Morris Siegel (below) on the streets of West Los Angeles in 1968. Morris told me he picked up street litter around Farmers Market daily because he was so happy to be living in the USA.  Note the political portraits of Eisenhower, Nixon, and Kennedy (not showing, left), on his shopping cart. Morris also fed the local pigeons who knew him so well that they ate seeds out of his mouth.  Morris lived in an abandoned car.

5.  Twenty-one years later, on Christmas eve of 1989, I'm sitting in my in-laws comfortable home in Rochester, NY and I find a newspaper article about Morris. Click to enlarge.

I'm don't think of myself as wealthy, but I live in a wealthy city that has more homeless people than we would care to acknowledge. In 1968 Morris Siegel was an anomaly, a rarity, in West Los Angeles. Meanwhile, a credit line at the end of The Soloist declared that presently there are 90,000 homeless people living on the streets of Los Angeles. 

6. We know that there is a strong correlation between poor mental health and homelessness. Thanks to Steve Lopez (LA Times reporter and author of The Soloist) it is no coincidence that we all have new windows of opportunity to change the future.

Dead Rattler in MidPines

The old photo archive choked up another curious picture. This one, taken with a pioneer era 2 mb digital camera, was snapped at my son Chris's place in the foothills of the Sierras, just west of Yosemite National Park.

I was working on a ladder when I heard the Rottweilers, Bo and Jake, barking at my feet. There was a rattling rattle snake heading under the house. At that point I forcefully dropped a brick on the fellow and bifurcated him. Of course, the dogs wanted a lunch of snake meat, but we wisely decided to throw the poisonous head over the cliff so the dogs wouldn't eat it.

Four rattles told us the snake was four years old. Hope he had a good life, but he wasn't a good playmate for our grandson.

Doodle Therapy

Doodle Therapy now rises from the depths of my digital archives. When one begins doodling with nothing on their mind, their pen and ink often times arrive at unexpected destinations. Here are a few more sessions from long ago. 

Easter Sunday

Subconsciously praying for a resurrection, perhaps, my doodling brought these results. Below, I find myself in a suitcase [ready to move?], the sleeping man [me?] lies waiting for the sunrise [Easter, spiritual resurrection?], under the partially folded umbrella [Florida?]. 

See how easy theraputic analysis comes? Who needs a shrink when pen and ink is so easy?

Buddha Saint-Turtleman

During one doodling therapy session a new character emerged from the ink well named Tanda. Tanda was a straight man, a mobile pen-headed fellow, who seemed to occupy ethereal realms. Here Tanda is sleeping. Note his eyes are closed. I'm sure everyone has heard of Buddha Saint-Turtleman. 

Poison Damsel

Tanda was quite adventuresome, showing up in the most exciting places. This particular drawing was colorized and printed onto tee shirts to advertise one of the Open Studio art shows we held at Florida Avenue Studios during the Nineteen Nineties.

Moleman's Map

This may well be the last pen and ink drawing I exhibit in this blog. It was also one of the early doodlings that progressed beyond unrecognizable squiggles. A Prince of a Fellow, Moleman the Familiar lives in the psyches of many men all over this fractured world of ours. This drawing came at the end of a long, long novel writing session in my old basement office.

I suspect this is the end, but I can't make any promises.

There is an off-chance more doodles will appear here.

Neil's Bottle

I met a young man the other day who reminded me of my pen and ink work. Neil's Bottle is one of the outcomes of a doodling obsession I adopted years ago as a means of finding some kind of balance in my life.

The idea behind the doodles was simple: put a pen to paper and don't think about it. After much doodling without thinking, patterns began to emerge. Patterns and pictures that gave me clues as to the health of my own mind. Revelations from black ink, one might say.

Anyway, it seems that the doodle wisdom caught me at a time when I needed to reappraise my marital relationship. Neil's Bottle came from my subconscious mind to tell me I was not doing things right. Yup, I am Neil and you might be Neil, too.

I am most happy to say that attitudes have changed and my mate is flourishing today with enthusiasm and creativity. 

Amen.