some stuff to think about

Okay, so there are a couple of topics I’ve touched on lately that have resulted in lots of emails from readers. One is hearing aids, and the other is the photographing of my mother when she was sick and then dying. I’d like to spend a little more time on both subjects. First up – the photographs.

There is, of course, a very long history of photography of the deceased. In many cultures and traditions, it is commonplace for the departed loved one to be photographed – the picture then displayed at the both the funeral and then on the mantel of the surviving family.

As for the making of pictures during the illness and road to death – well, that’s something that is more delicate.

A photographer named Marshall Clarke made a series of pictures of his grandmother, Marjorie, as she suffered through the latter stages of Alzheimer’s. The Sun Magazine published the work a few months ago, and the editor received this letter from a reader shortly thereafter:

“How sad it is to witness the decline of Marjorie Clarke, as photographed by her grandson Marshall Clarke. But when did she cease to be a person and become an object? I feel that her privacy has been invaded. Nobody should have to end his or her life unknowingly on display.”

-Phylis Collier

Mr. Clarke himself responded:

“The issue of objectifying people is something I struggle with every day as a photographer. There’s a fine line between bring a witness and being an intruder. How close is too close? Privacy should not be treated lightly, and there are many photos I chose not to take, out of respect.

During my visits with my grandmother, I often asked if I could take her photo, but eventually the question had no meaning for her. For years after her death the photographs sat as I debated the importance of privacy versus the need to communicate. Finally I discussed the images with my family, and they gave me their blessing to make them public.

My grandmother’s decline is sad, but it was also part of her life. When we are invited to be a witness to someone else’s life, our fragile connections can be reinforced. For me the images do not diminish my grandmother’s humanity but acknowledge both her struggle and my relationship with her. To communicate honestly is sometimes to communicate the uncomfortable truth. My intent, as witness and grandson, was to reveal what we all share, rather than what separates us.”

-Marshall Clarke

I thank one of my readers, Kathy, for bringing the Clarke photographs to my attention. I thank her, too, for the candid thoughts she shared in an email regarding pictures of illness:

“I saw some photographs in a magazine of women who had undergone mastectomies. I was in shock at first that the photographs had been taken. But then I really studied them, and I saw the dignity on the women's faces, the dignity in their spirits. And I think what had freaked me out was the fear that ‘this could happen to me.’ But after a time of studying the photographs, I felt that I was growing more accustomed to what could happen to the body and that maybe I could endure it if I had to--and that I had these examples of dignity from which I could draw strength.”

-Kathy

Another reader reminded me of the photographs Annie Leibovitz made of her partner, Susan Sontag, and of Leibovitz’ explanation as to why she chose to publish them:

“Leibovitz was by Sontag's bedside when she was receiving treatment for cancer. The hardest photos in the book relate to these times, and before deciding to publish them, Leibovitz consulted a small circle of Sontag's friends. There was controversy within the group, but in the end they supported a decision to publish. Leibovitz wanted to show what illness looks like and what courage looks like, too. ‘Susan loved the good fight. And there's no doubt in my mind - and I do this as if she was standing behind me - that she would be championing this work.’

Leibovitz's great regret is that she wasn't there when Sontag died. By that stage, late 2004, she was shuttling between Sontag's bedside and that of her desperately ill father in Florida…. 'They called me to say she had died. And they kept her there for me. But she was gone.’ Leibovitz told the undertaker, ‘I don't want any make-up on her. I don't want any of that crap.’ She took a photograph of Sontag lying on the gurney, bruises from an IV still vivid on her arms.”

-From a Bookplanet review of
A Photographer's Life: 1990-2005, by Annie Leibovitz

After a lot of thought, I decided to share a few of the pictures I made of my mom on this blog and in my lectures. There were times during the last few days of her life when I chose not to make any photographs. There were moments when I felt certain she knew I was taking pictures, and there were many times I know my father was aware of the fact that I was using my camera. Unlike Leibovitz, I didn’t take any pictures once Mom had passed away.

I did not show the pictures to anyone outside our family until my father had seen them and somehow given me some sort of approval for having made them. The pictures were difficult to make. I wrestled with them after she died. Why had I made them? Who were they for, really? What would I do with them? How would she have felt about them? Today, I feel lucky to have them, and I visit them from time to time to remind myself of what she went through, how brave she was, how I felt about her at that time, how it felt to be around her then, how it might ultimately be when it is my turn to be in her shoes. The final picture was one made a few minutes before she died. It is not of her face, but of her hands – hers and mine. The picture reminds me of the relationship we had. Others have said it evokes a powerful and poignant return for them to the death of one of their loved ones.

I’d like to think the images portray my mother with dignity and grace, which is exactly how I saw her at that time.

Most of the response I have received surrounding the photographs has been really positive. When I showed the work to a select few at the Sante Fe Reviews, tears were shed and appreciation for having experienced them was expressed. I thank those of you who have taken the time to let me know that the pictures move you in some way. After all, as some have pointed out, death is simply a part of life. There can be beauty there.

laura bush goes to mali

My friend Laura Calfee sent me this link to NPR about the first lady's visit to Mali. She said it made her sick and that she wished Ms. Bush had seen the Africa I saw. Made me pretty sick, too. Give it a listen.

parade pics

independence day

My neighborhood takes July 4th pretty seriously.

This day will begin with a parade down 57th Street. In the parade will be kids on bikes that have been carefully adorned with red, white and blue streamers, crepe paper, and ribbons. (My favorite technique for jazzing up my bike when I was of parade participation age was to attach playing cards with clothespins to the spokes – made the coolest sound when I sped by.) Leading the parade will be a group of aging but enthusiastic brass musicians, decked out in patriotic colors, playing “You’re a Grand Ole Flag” and other July 4th favorites. There will be dogs in star-studded attire, some even wearing hats. Those in the neighborhood who own convertibles will also be in the parade, driving slowly, careful to dodge the tricycles, wheelchairs and lawn furniture.

At the end of the parade is a pile of popsicles. The kids instantly get orange and red stains around their mouths. The sticky stuff drips onto their toes, as the parents stand around and talk. The dogs try to shake off their hats.

Later there will be a homemade fireworks display on 58th Street. Those with high levels of testosterone in their systems will bring out paper bags full of artillery. Now, we have a lot of guys on the block, and regardless of their age, they love setting things on fire and blowing things up. So, we get quite a show. The girls dance around the edges of the display, twirling sparklers and occasionally lighting smoke bombs or snakes. The moms (along with the dads and sons with not so high levels of testosterone) gather on the lawn in the middle of the block. There are margaritas and green and white strapped lawn chairs.

Last night during dinner the block behind ours got a head start on the holiday. I wandered over there and made these pictures.

Even as I was trying to fall asleep around 11, I could still hear the blasts, followed by hoops and hollers and applause.

tall orders

Don’t you love it when you see pictures that make your heart skip a couple of beats or raise the tiny hairs on the back of your neck or make you feel weak in the knees?

Don’t you especially love it when you make one of these pictures yourself?

I remember working in the wet darkroom and on occasion seeing one of these pictures emerge in my tray of developer. By the time I got the thing down the line to the fixer, I could hardly look at it anymore. My heart would be beating so fast. I had to turn the print face down in the fix, and then flip it right side up every couple of minutes so I could peek at it and absorb it a little bit at a time.

(It is never that dramatic in the digital darkroom. At least, I haven’t figured out how to make it so just yet.)

Anyhow, I just sent a bunch of images off to a juried competition. I loved what the juror had to say about what she would be looking for once she’s inundated with entries. It found it inspiring:

“I want to see work that examines and informs today’s experience of this beautiful, turbulent planet to which we cling. Images that explore a sense of self and community interest me, because I believe that personal and pro-found change can occur through photography, and we exist in a time where change on many levels is needed.

In my early days at Aperture, we often invoked Minor White’s concept of transcendence in identifying works for publication and exhibition —‘images that after the seeing of which we are never the same.’ After ten years with the Foundation, I have been altered on a variety of levels through a wide range of work. Part of the power of photography is in the viewer’s ability to truly absorb an image and be transformed by an act of deliberate seeing.”

Michelle Dunn Marsh

Director, Aperture West


Taped to the wall in my office are the following tall orders. They come from two people I respect, enjoy and admire. Reading these quotes always gives me a good, swift kick in the backside, just in case I need a reminder as to why I love this medium so much and most important, just in case I need inspiration to try and make one of those pictures that makes my heart rate quicken.


“I like to see the work of photographers who have at least as many doubts as confidence. It is most important that pictures come out of real life questioning – and that they raise more questions than provide answers.

Grief might be better than beauty.”

Frish Brandt
Director, Fraenkel Gallery


“I demand opera in pictures. I want to be lifted up. I want to be elevated. I want to weep a little bit. I want to care. I want to clasp my hands. I want to be dropped down, and I want to walk away feeling like I had a human experience.

I demand that from art.”

Keith Carter
Photographer

speaking of sam and abbie

These two are quite a pair. They have been hanging around each other since sophomore year in New Haven seven years ago. They were married almost two years ago in our front yard under the shade of our big blue spruce tree. The wedding was self-officiated. Abbie was barefoot, the Whiffenpoofs (Sam included) serenaded all who were gathered, there was poetry by Neruda, we all pronounced them husband and wife, they both smashed a glass and then we second-lined to the reception in the backyard. It was great fun.


Both of these unassuming old souls are teachers, musicians, writers, cooks, movie buffs, killer scrabble players, gardeners, beer brewers, and they like, well, most anything 60’s-ish, organic and recycled. Both can usually be found carrying a Nalgene and a tattered book, wearing clothes they found in a thrift shop. They don’t have a T.V. They share one very fuel-efficient car. They composte. They prefer to keep their carbon footprints small.

Abbie teaches art; Sam teaches English. This coming school year, however, Sam is taking time off to pursue a music career and perhaps look into graduate school opportunities. As soon as they (he plays guitar, he writes most of the songs, they sing together) get their first album recorded, they will hit the road to do an extended road trip/tour. That will probably be next June. Much more on that to follow.

You won’t find many kinder, gentler or more sincere young people than these two.

We love it when they visit us from New Orleans.

One time when Abs was really little and my parents had just boarded a plane after a weekend visit from Kentucky, she said something like, “It’s always so hard when they come to visit, because we always have such a good time, but then they always have to leave.”

Ditto.

kansas city is on the map big time

There is no way my snapshots can do justice to the magnificent new Bloch Building, the addition to the Nelson-Atkins Museum that recently opened to all sorts of well deserved hoopla here in my hometown of Kansas City.

And rather than go on about my impressions of it, I would rather link you to the exuberant and extremely well expressed ones that have been published in
The New Yorker, The New York Times and Time Magazine. Or just do a google search. Pretty much all the reviews have been absolutely stellar.



The addition garnered its share of criticism from local skeptics during the course of its construction. Many Kansas Citians claimed the “lenses” looked like temporary warehouses, or worse yet, storage bins for the construction equipment. Of course, lots of those same people hated the shuttlecocks when they were first installed on the sloping lawns around the old building.







At any rate, while Abbie and Sam were visiting from New Orleans, we made our first real trek over there. I thought the building looked amazing, and it wasn’t even dark out yet (that’s when everyone loves the glowing effects of the lighted lenses - even the doubters.) The photo exhibit that Keith Davis has put together is mind blowing.

During our visit to the museum store, Abbie and Sam obligingly overreacted for the camera as they discovered my book, Convergence, for sale on the shelves!

assisted living center

I made these photographs for Village Shalom, an assisted living center in Kansas. They are just some of the images that were exhibited in the Epsten Gallery and then permanently installed in the facility. It was a pretty remarkable experience for me. Several of these residents were in the latter stages of Alzheimer’s. When they finally engaged with me and looked squarely into my camera, I was moved by their honesty and directness, fleeting as it might have been. All of the people I photographed were delightful. I wrote this artist statement to accompany the installation:

“I came away from these portrait sessions with more than rolls of exposed film. Inspirational stories filled my head, words of wisdom rang in my ears, gifts of kindness filled my heart. Warmth, strength, humor, grace and dignity defined each and every person I encountered during my photographic journey at Village Shalom.

When I was about ten years old and a girl scout, I went with my troop to a nursing home. Beforehand, we carefully and lovingly prepared potted flowers to take to the men and women who lived there. Upon our arrival, we were each paired up with one of the residents. My partner had thick white hair and didn’t have much to say. As soon as I handed her the pot of begonias, my face beaming with pride, she put her fingers in the dirt, and then, to my horror and dismay, began to eat it.

It was a long time before I felt comfortable returning to any sort of assisted living facility.

I have never been to one as life affirming and uplifting as Village Shalom. Thanks to each of you who agreed to sit for a portrait. I’m glad you were able to squeeze me in between work, water aerobics, lunch dates, lectures, shopping trips and Tai chi. Mostly, though, I am grateful that you gave me back those begonias – bright, beautiful and in full bloom.”

operation breakthrough

Another fun job I got to do recently was an installation of photographs in the lobby of Operation Breakthrough. And just to round out the overview of lobby photos, tomorrow I'll share my portraits of residents of an assisted living center.

preschool photos

A couple of years ago, I did a second installment of photographs for the Early Years building at my son’s school. The photos were added to a group I did several years ago, and they line the hallways of the preschool and pre-kindergarten classrooms. Yesterday a mom asked for a copy of one that features her little boy. Going through the negatives, I was reminded how lucky I was to have been given free reign with the project and what fun it was! Here are a few of my faves.

teachers

Included in the process of saying goodbye to our high school senior cum college freshman is the biding of farewells to his friends and teachers. Sounds dramatic, I know, but there’s a certain comforting energy that is created by these people that will be sorely missed by Eddie and me next year.

For the past twelve years, Max has studied drums with a wonderful teacher at the Conservatory of Music of our local university. I used to drive him to his lessons, of course, and watch him from my car as he made his way through the big front doors of the building, his canvas bag with drumsticks, sheet music, earplugs and assignment notebook in tow. Later, he drove himself there, same bag thrown over his shoulder. In the early days, the college musicians who would walk by with their huge cello cases or who would run through the doors after snuffing out a cigarette or kissing a girlfriend or boyfriend goodbye, looked so old and so big and so worldly. Now, of course, Max blends right in.

Max rarely missed a lesson. He enjoyed John’s company and John’s musical expertise. For all these years, John has served as our son’s mentor, teacher, technical advisor, big brother, therapist and friend. I know for sure there were times when the drumsticks were never taken out of that canvas bag on Tuesday afternoon. These two have always been able to talk, and when the going got tough, especially during Max’s adolescent years, John was always there to listen and to gently give advice.

Back when I was fifteen and sixteen, my parents made arrangements for me to make weekly visits with an English professor at the university. I was rebellious, hanging out with questionable characters, alone in my room a lot with the door closed and the stereo headphones glued to my head. I wrote a lot of poetry. Bad poetry.

Once a week, I would schlep my notebook full of poems to her office. These puppies were riddled with teen-age angst, typical existential questioning and a clear distaste of the establishment. I listened eagerly to her comments. For the life of me, I cannot recall her name. She had long, thin hair, which she didn’t wash very often. She chain smoked Salem cigarettes. I had never seen anyone smoke quite the way she did. She would inhale slowly, her lips pursed tightly around the filter, then she’d close her mouth and let the smoke snake up out of her nose as she exhaled with thoughtful consideration, looking over my work with a slightly furrowed brow. When the school year ended, we moved our writing lessons to the campus apartment she shared with her young professor husband. Whenever I arrived, it seemed I had gotten them both out of bed, as his hair was always tousled, his clothes wrinkled and she seemed slightly annoyed that I had actually remembered our appointment.

As much as I longed to please the English professor and have her anoint me Kentucky’s greatest young poet and unusually deep thinker, I think I mostly looked forward to each meeting as a kind of therapy session. I have a feeling that’s what my parents figured, too, now that I look back on it.

So, anyway, back to John. He and his wife are coming to dinner tonight. What a hero he is. How lucky we’ve been to have him in our son’s life. I know Max will be very sad to tell him goodbye.

So will we.

on writing

A very thoughtful reader of the blog sent me this passage:

From THE FIFTH BOOK OF PEACE, Maxine Hong Kingston

"Writing is like meditation: you sit breathing in silence, only you add one thing--the writing. Instead of letting thoughts and pictures and feelings go by, you hold on to them. You slow them down. You find the words for them ... Writing, you shine light--the light of your intelligence--into a scene of the past, into the dark of forgotten things, fearful things. ...Writing, you change. And you change the world, even the past. You make history ...Write things out, and you won't need to carry memories in your body as pain. The paper will carry your stories. We, your readers, will help you carry your stories. See how light paper is?"

anniversary of my mother's death

mom and me, 1999

Two years ago today my mom died.

Few events have etched their way into my brain the way that one has. The birth of my kids, certainly. The first time I laid eyes on Eddie.

Over the course of these past two years, not a day has passed that I haven’t thought back to the period of time when my mother was ill. And then the night she died. And the fact that I recorded much of that time with my camera.

I struggled with it then, and I guess I still do now. Why did I take pictures of my mother’s death? Was it ultimately an invasion of her privacy? Was it a way for me to see more clearly what was going on or was it a mechanism that allowed me to pull back from it? Perhaps it was my way of trying to hold on to her image as long as I could?

Fellow photographers and close friends have reminded me that photographing is simply the way I journal. That this is the way I remember. Here is something I finally wrote about the process a year or so ago:

“As my mother became more ill, I began to photograph her. I had always made pictures of her while I growing up. But these were different. These pictures were about her death. During the last three weeks of her life, I documented the process of dying. As I placed a frame around her tired and drawn face, I removed myself somewhat from the reality that was at hand, but I also brought myself closer to it – to linger on it, to study it, to consider it, to try to make sense of it. Order, commemoration, preservation – the same reasons I’d always made pictures.”

cancer sucks

encouragement from my dad

the night before she died


I wrote about it, too. I have always loved the combination of photography and words, so that part made perfect sense to me. I began by describing the fact that three of the four of us kids live quite a distance from my folks and that for the eleven months that she was sick, we all pitched in.

“My siblings and I traveled back and forth to our hometown to help out however we could. This meant picking her up after she had fallen, helping her get up from the toilet on particularly bad days, putting a heating pad on her shoulders, stocking the refrigerator with sweet potato and split pea soup, doing the laundry, driving her to the doctor, organizing the sheets in the linen closet, trimming the rose bushes, washing her hair, and painting her fingernails.”

I ended the essay with a description of the night she died. I was alone with her. I consider that an honor and a blessing. I also know that it has affected me in ways I have yet begun to figure out.

“No one had ever prepared me for the task of watching someone die. As much as Mom and I had talked about her illness, her funeral, who should have her sapphire pin and her collection of souvenir spoons, we had not quite gotten around to covering what the actual death scenario might look like. I was on my own.

My mother was serene now. Her breathing had moved from her belly up into her chest. It was growing more and more shallow. The sheets were draped around her frail frame; her head was propped on the pillow. Her face looked round and peaceful, like a full moon bobbing just above the clouds on a cold, clear winter night. I began to talk to her.

I thought of death scenes from movies, from books, from plays. Words came tumbling out of my mouth – words that had been uttered by so many others so many times before: “Let go now, Mom… it’s okay, just let go… you’ll see, it will be so much better without the pain… you were a wonderful mother… we all love you so much… we’ll miss you terribly… let go now, Mom… go on, it’s okay… I’m here with you… we love you… we’ll think about you everyday… I’ll see you again, I know it… just relax, let go… it’s okay… I’m right here with you.”

Her breathing started to move up out of her chest into her throat and became very short and thin. Every third inhalation or so, it seemed like minutes passed before she finally exhaled. To my surprise, her eyes opened. They were glazed, but as blue and pure as ever, and they darted about as if she was looking for a place to land. I leaned down and wrapped my arms around my mother, my chest on top of hers. I placed my head on her shoulder and nestled my face into the crook of her neck.

Then she fell silent. And suddenly I was hovering near the ceiling watching the whole scene. I floated high above and saw the two of us, wrapped up together on a small hospital bed in a small, darkened room. I saw myself kiss her neck. I watched with fascination as I told her, when I felt sure the breathing had stopped, goodbye.

I saw myself pick up the phone to call my father.

***

During those last twenty-six hours with my mother, I found myself waiting for some important secrets to be revealed. When she was speaking in random fragments, I felt sure I would hear something that would astonish me, enlighten me, surprise me, answer the unanswered, explain the unexplainable. I figured I would come away from the experience wiser about who she was, more informed about our relationship as mother and daughter, and absolutely clear as to what the point of her life, or any life, might be. When her eyes opened at the very end, I guess I had hoped she might call my name, speak suddenly, and tell me what she was seeing and where she was headed. When she drew in that last breath, I suppose I was holding out for a dramatic last word or two, something that would change my life in a profound way and provide me with strength and purpose.

***

The morphine machine kept purring every few minutes after my mother died, still releasing the drug into her arm. I looked out the window and noticed that dusk was settling over the city. The fireflies would be out in full force in my parents’ back yard by now, flickering like stars.

I saw myself embrace my father when he walked into the room. An hour or so later, I watched as I drove him home.”

mom and me, a few minutes before she died

ten thousand villages

If you have not been to a Ten Thousand Villages store or to their website, please do so. You're in for a treat.

This morning I met with the women who run the store in Overland Park, Kansas, and they enthusiastically agreed to host a fund raising party this coming November - the 13th to be exact - for Change the Truth. Fifteen percent of everything that is sold in the store during our three hour "party" will go directly to CTT. They loved the paper bead jewelry that the kids and teachers at St. Mary Kevin's are making and are going to pitch them to the head honchos for consideration to include in the store's inventory. It's a longshot, but certainly worth a try.

I lifted the following from the Ten Thousand Villages website, just to give you an idea of what they're about. For more info and to peruse the wonderful items they have for sale, go shopping on the site!

"The inspiration for the name—Ten Thousand Villages—came from a Mahatma Gandhi quote: “…India is not to be found in its few cities but in the 700,000 villages…we have hardly ever paused to inquire if these folks get sufficient funds to eat and clothe themselves with.” Each village in the world represents a unique, distinctive people…offering extraordinary products born of their rich cultures and traditions.

Since 1946 Ten Thousand Villages has supported the work of literally tens of thousands of artisans in over 30 countries in Asia, Africa, Latin America and the Middle East, making it one the largest fair trade organizations in North America. Working with more than 100 artisan groups, they purchase fine pieces from craftspeople with whom they have longstanding, nurturing relationships…helping to bring dignity to their lives.

Ten Thousand Villages is a founding member of the International Fair Trade Association, an organization that includes over 200 members in 55 countries, including many artisan groups in developing countries. They are part of a worldwide movement that is striving to improve the livelihood of disadvantaged people in developing countries through the expansion of fair trade."

ugandan grandmothers

Nearly two-thirds of orphans in southern and eastern Africa are in the care of the “grannies.” These women were, for the most part, long past the days of sexual activity when HIV took hold, so most have escaped it. They remain healthy as their own children waste away and die, often by the age of thirty. These women end up taking in not only the grandchildren, but also neighbor kids who have lost their parents and who have nowhere else to go.

Here are a few of the heroic grandmothers I met during my travels in Uganda. The women pictured here range in age from 40's to 80's. Not one of them thinks she is doing anything extraordinary, even though her life would be considered difficult for someone half her age. Each one definitely worries, however, about what will happen to these children when they, the grannies, die.