Tuesday, June 22, 2010


Tuesday was the kind of day that made me have my ups and downs. I had my last editorial class at Focal Point. Even when I have a hard time remembering the name of all my students I find that I fret about them and I worry how they will adapt to our changing world of photography. I left Focal Point a bit after 5 with a touch of melancholy. The melancholy turned into worry quickly as I hoped that I would have no technical problems in my little photo session with Jennifer Lines (she plays both Beatrice in Much Ado About Nothing and Cleopatra in Antony and Cleopatra. She was going to pose for me as the Queen of the Nile. To make sure everything would work I had a Plan B (my real camera with film) to my Plan A my iPhone.

I should have not worried as Bard publicist Cyannamon Schreinert had smoothed the way for me, and Jennifer Lines was most gracious. In fact Allan Morgan (Antonio in Much Ado About Nothing and Lepidus in Antony and Cleopatra) offered me some of his plum cake (the legendary New York Times recipe) but I was not able to take up his offer as I was busy trying to make sure my pictures of Lines were exactly what I wanted.

From Bard I went quickly to L'École Bilingue (I was a tad late) to watch my granddaughter Rebecca graduate from the 7th grade. I snapped my iPhone picture and my melancholy (I had been ecstatic until then since my shot of Cleopatra had turned out exactly as I had hoped) returned as I realized that my Rebbeca is growing up. After all her father has allowed her to open a Facebook account and Rebecca gave me her new (and first) email address. What will I write to her? Will she write to me? Time will tell.

My melancholy shifted to nostalgia. Rebecca’s other grandmother (we call her Nana) had invited us to Starbucks for for coffee and hot chocolate to celebrate the occasion. It was then that I told them all that I had graduated from the 8th grade. We had been a class of 6 boys (and only boys) in a small town in northern Mexico, Nueva Rosita Coahuila. I told them that we had each been given a beautiful razor in a very nice white case with our name on a brass plaque. Rebecca’s other grandfather said, “let me guess it was a Schick with an injector.” He was right and my melancholy returned.