A THOUSAND WORDS - Alex Waterhouse-Hayward's blog on pictures, plants, politics and whatever else is on his mind.




 

José María & María José
Saturday, December 21, 2013


Bronwen Marsden & Michael Unger



Having no photography business left to worry about I can safely say that as Christmas Eve nears (Nochebuena) I can already feel that Christmas feeling of not having to take off sleep wear during the day to replace it with go-outside kind of stuff. Those wonderful lazy days between Christmas and the day after New Year’s have begun early for me. I have no urgent slides to scan for a client or worry about finding contacts in the New Year to justify the keeping of my studio (long gone). In short I am doing nothing and feeling quite smug about it. I am a photographic version of that fading general, Douglas MacArthur.

But I would like to be clear that I do not hold Richard Nixon’s attitude that you will not have me to kick around anymore. I will be around in this world of instant communication that is not. The phone will not ring and no Argentine Spam, only the other will clog my email program. In short I can stare at my wife and be happy that she is there instead of my reflection on the mirror.

With these long night days where nothing much happens I have time to listen, full blast, in this very living room where I am writing this, four of Bach’s Toccata & Fugues for organ including D-minor MWV 565 or to think about such useless fact as the one  I am sending your way.

This is that one of the most manly names a man can have who comes from a country where Spanish is the official language, is José María. The same applies to women. One of the most feminine of all names is María José. Those names come from a world that is disappearing.

I would like to divide the world in two. There is the world of those who were mature enough to understand the April 8, 1966 Time Magazine cover, Is God Dead? And there is that world of people born long after who would not understand the shock wave that one cover caused around the world. Perhaps the only other shock wave of similar comparison was the introduction of the birth control pill. Men no longer had to worry so much whose offspring his wife’s child was. A great chunk of the world’s religious morality rules were no longer applicable.

I will not reveal to anybody reading here what my views on God are. This is personal.

But I decry that with the loss of the magic of religious “magic”, all its pomp and circumstance, a film like The Hobbit and stupendous special effects cannot help a child mature into a human being of some worth. I believe you have to believe in order to then not believe. If you do not believe how can you believe in anything?

In 2010 my wife Rosemary, our two granddaughters Lauren, now 11, Rebecca, now 16, and I drove in our Malibu all the way to south Texas. On the way we stopped to visit Brother Edwin Reggio, C.S.C. in Austin. We saw him at St. Joseph Hall across from the large Neo-Gothic Old Main in which I boarded and went to school in the 50s. As we were entering St Joseph Hall I spotted the campus priest, Father Rick Wilkinson, C.S.C. I have no idea why at that moment I heard myself say to Father Rick, “Will you bless my granddaughters?” I was able to corral Lauren but Rebecca insisted on going inside to get on facebook in the St. Joseph Hall computer room. Father Rick placed his right hand on Lauren and uttered beautiful words while with his index finger he gently touched both her eye lids.

Since that day I have regretted not being more forceful with Rebecca. I even wonder if her terrible 16s might not have been ameliorated by Father Rick’s gentle hand.

I don’t believe in Santa Claus. I don’t believe in special effects and I eschew Tolkien, magic swords and rings.

What I believe in I won’t tell you. You will have to guess. And that might have something to do with Father Rick's hand.





A Christmas Card Today From Many Christmases Past
Friday, December 20, 2013









Except for the fact that Rosemary now has a very good and new laptop (purchased last year) and that my 16 year-old granddaughter, 16, is giving us tremendous problems, our life in 2013 was pretty good.

I wrote about it here and I don’t think I can top it. Lauren is now 11 but she still acts like a little girl even though she understands that Santa Claus does not exist and that her father is really the Tooth Fairy.

It is snowing outside so I can almost celebrate a white Christmas looking out of the window into the back garden as I write this.

There is a smile on my face because while Christmases change from year to year (and we think not for the better) there is one most pleasant constant. This is a Christmas card from my friend the illustrator Dick Allen and his wife Susan.

I know Allen because many years ago he did paste-up work at Vancouver Magazine. With the then art director Rick Staehling and animator Marv Newland they had attended the prestigious Art Center in LA. 




Allen, I sometimes think, lives daily in the past but when he emerges from his house he does so in a time machine that  brings him to this present.  I like Allen's past. Perhaps there is less evil (even if evil was always with us), it is a world of many colours but pastels, too. It is pleasant to admire a Christmas card, one that has come in an envelope with a stamp and addressed in very nice handwriting. I like to think that the envelope, in spite of its contemporary digital coded date really came in Allen's time machine and that he hand delivered it one evening when I was not looking.

Thank you Dick Allen for this real Christmas cheer. And a very Merry Christmas to you and Susan.



That Tactile Experience
Thursday, December 19, 2013




 Since I can remember I can remember the tactile nature of my being. My mother would smell me behind the ears and say “You smell like an Englishman.” She would then blow gently into my ear and say “Un secretito para el nenito.” (A little secret for the little boy).

My father would pick me up and when he hugged and kissed me I felt the roughness of his shaved face. The roughness that rasped on my cheek came with a bonus, a pungent mixture of cologne, Player’s Navy Cuts and Old Smuggler Whisky.

Since then the tactile always accompanies scent. Or the scent brings me memory of touch.

I do not like the smell of plastic or whatever material that is used on modern cameras. Few ever notice that metals smell. When I hold my Nikons, my Pentaxes, the Mamiyas and most recently that Leica IIIF the smell of metal nicely dovetails with the heft and smoothness of these wonderful instruments of the pictorial.

My old Pentax MX has a shutter dial with one stop. You go in one direction and you cannot go further. Its purpose is that without having to look you could count the clicks while lining up your shot and know at what shutter speed you were. The sound of a shutter, a sound that no photographer can forget or ignore will rapidly tell you if you are at 1/15 or at 1/1000 second. Unlike the modern back screens of DSLRs this method is not battery dependent.

It doesn’t take too much daydreaming to conjure the feel and smell of fisting a well-used baseball mitt, or the almost (that dust from the home plate to absorb the hands’ sweat) smoothness of the bat, the smell and giving nature of a blown up red balloon when squeezed,  a recent purchase of a theatrical cap gun came with memories of drawing my Gene Autrey peacemaker and dropping Mario and Miguelito on their tracks with the nifty smell of gunpowder, that odd warmth on the tips of my fingers that comes from picking up a South American ostrich egg on the Pampa, and of course that first time, before the idea of sex ever came into my head, of holding her hand and finding that my gentle pressing is reciprocated, a proof that Newton was not only right but also that he was a romantic.

Many years later I thrilled dancing the Argentine Tango with Indiana and knowing that the variations of my right hand’s fingers pressing on her middle back would result in instant abeyance followed by a rapid following of my body’s movements.

A week ago in my darkroom I placed an exposed sheet of photographic paper into the developer tray. I wanted to take it out with my fingers once the image magically appeared, but I learned long ago that prints dried with stains. Once the photograph was washed I placed it on my drying glass and squeegeed it with a windshield wiper and from there on a blotting paper. I cannot imagine comparing this  with the digital work  "flow" (most dry) on a computer monitor.

That blotting paper brought me memories of my desk top inkwell of my second grade class and having to use a papel secante (blotting paper), and its unique texture, on my juvenile squiggles. I can still smell the ink and the chalk on the bottom of the real black blackboard.

In my darkoom, after years of practice and use, when the lights are out, I can find anything with the tips of my fingers after I stretch my arm in the desired direction. I have a string hanging from the middle of the ceiling’s electric light. I wave my hand in the dark until I feel the string and then pull it to see what those prints in the fixer look like. Feeding exposed film, in the dark, into the Nikor stainless steel tank reels is as tactile as anything can get. But I am ready for that little noise that tells me that there is something not right and I have to fiddle to unkink the film. To make things easier I keep a pair of scissors (to cut off the film leader) in my back pocket, a bottle opener (to open the film cassette) in the other and in my front pocket I have the extra rolls of exposed film. A darkroom, in spite of the safelight (but never on when loading film into the reels), is a fully tactile experience.

I remember with heavy fondness the days I would take Rebecca to UBC Botanical Garden or VanDusen and take the rhododendron walk. We would stop at every rhodo to check on our favourite foliage rhododendrons. These are those with leaves that are densely covered in a felt-like coating of silvery white, cream, fawn or rusty orange hairs on the surface of the leaf (the tomentum) and its underside (the indumentums). Some of the indumentums felt like the soft inside of a cat’s ear. Rebecca would smile and then giggle with joy.

Both my granddaughters know all about the two species hydrangeas in our garden, Hydrangea aspera subs. sargentiana or the straight aspera. Both these plants have a tomentum that is exactly like the skin of dogfish and other sharks. I know this because I have touched the skins of dogfish in Mexican seafood markets. You can feel an escalofrío (a lovely Spanish word for shiver) when you pass your fingers. It’s much like premium sandpaper.

From that shark skin I will move my fingers (right hand) to touch las nalgas of my wife. This word has a much nicer ring to it than its English equivalent, buttocks. My grandmother would call this section of the human body “ese lugar donde la espalda pierde su nombre.” It is virtually untranslatable as espalda in Spanish means exactly a human back.  Where that human back is no longer a human back you will find the…


 Why my right hand? I must confess that this bit of revelatory intimacy is important if I must proceed on things tactile. I sleep on the left hand side of the bed. Casi-Casi, Rosemary’s cat sleeps at my feet so I must place my legs in a diagonal towards the centre of our queen size bed. Plata, my female cat sleeps on Rosemary’s right side and close to the edge of the bed. My wife sleeps with her back to me.

 This means that with my right hand I can gently place it on her… and feel a warmth and a smoothness that is sufficient, at my advanced age, to calm all the stress of the day and plunge me into a deep sleep in which only faulty plumbing will lure me away from the comfort of our bed.



Objective Subjectivity - Mathew Brady - U.S. Grant
Wednesday, December 18, 2013



 
Ulysses S. Grant at Cold Harbor Virginia, 1864,  Mathew Brady


 For anybody who has complained that the internet has spoiled everything (and I am often one of those) there are some good things going for it. Consider how it can expose us to history in a most objective way.

There are many who say that history can never be objective. One man in particular that I remember very well was Santiago Genovés, a Spanish anthropologist who was part of  Thor Heyederdahl’s crew in three trips on a raft across the Atlantic. The third one was with a crew of men and women and the purpose was to find out if such a crew could get along in a trip of length and of isolation from the rest of the world.

Genovés in his Mexico City lecture I attended sometime in the late 60s said, “Even Herodotus was aware that no historian could be purely objective in the recounting of history. After all objectivity is a subjective invention of man.”

Of late I have taken that to heart and I have come to accept the idea that novelists can tell truths that would be hidden or distorted in non fiction which would have to be subjective no matter how closely its author would follow the dictates of good journalism.

One of the events of my childhood that has been left firmly in my memory and may have channeled me into becoming a portrait photographer so many years later was the glimpse of a book or magazine of American Heritage in the USIS Lincoln Library on Calle Florida in Buenos Aires in the beginning of the 50s. I was struck by pictures of the American Civil War in startling sharpness and in black+white. These men, officers and soldiers, stared at me from the pages of the book and I instantly realized that while they had been alive for the picture they were long dead. That comprehension of one of the elements of death (incomprehensible as death is) made look at the faces of those who walked on Calle Florida when I left. They all looked alive but I knew that some day every one of them would be like the soldiers and officers of the pictures taken by Mathew Brady, Timothy O’Sullivan, Alexander Gardner and others.


As I read this wonderful book, Mathew Brady - Portraits of a Nation, which I found at the main branch of the Vancouver Public Library (I had previously read the glowing review in the NY Times) I have been pleasantly shocked by information about Brady that suddenly has become revealed to me. The author Robert Wilson is a thorough researcher and he seems to have all the facts about a man that few ever really knew. Brady left few  letters and we don’t even know the exact date of his birth or the exact location.

Two interesting facts immediately caught my eye. One is that inventor/painter/artist/photographer Samuel Morse went to Paris to try to sell the idea of his telegraph. He failed but he met up with Daguerre and brought knowledge of Daguerre’s photographic process so that the Daguerreotype was just about instantly adopted in the U.S.

The second fact is that Brady (who might have been an artist apprentice to Morse) understood the problem of taking portraits in his portrait gallery when exposures were long due to the low sensitivity to light of the process and of the primitive optics of the time. He installed, like many other portrait of his contemporaries in the early 40s, a large skylight. But Brady did one better. Without knowing of the existence of UV light he was aware that light sensitive chemicals were more sensitive to UV (i.e. blue light). Brady tinted his skylight glass blue. Furthermore, Brady who had bad eyesight wore blue-tinted glasses. Might he have been an inventor of sun glasses?

I cannot remember now if one of the images I saw at that library may have been the Brady portrait of Ulysses S. Grant taken at his Cold Harbor, Virginia tent in 1864. I have always had a fondness for this photograph.

Thanks to the internet many (as in many) of those US Civil War photographs are available on line in very large resolving files. For the first time it is startling to see that the cropped picture of Grant so familiar to me is not the whole of the picture.

As I look at this picture of a man who by the time I was 15 I was reading anything I could get my hands on to the extent that I remember writing a book review on his performance at the battle of Shiloh, it seems fresher than ever and paradoxically less familiar.

I have read Grant’s memoirs a few months ago so perhaps that is the reason for thinking that the photograph shows me a man (with no distraction in either muted or lurid colour of contemporary times) whose timeless look, the clothes aren’t all that different, or that the b+w journalistic look of a newspaper photograph (NY Times Cold Harbour Journal, perhaps?) makes it indeed seem like the man is alive today.

There are those who would dream of having lunch with Dickens or share high tea with Jane Austen. I know that if I had my chance I would choose to drink heavily with Ulysses S. Grant.  His stories, as objective as a man who sent so many to their deaths would be as interesting as all the stories that Brother Hubert Koeppen, C.S.C. and Brother Francis Barrett, C.S.C. told me as history.



Making Blogs Sexy
Tuesday, December 17, 2013

When I read Chris Green’s Making Blogs Sexy — The Post-Print Fetishisasion of the Written Word in Writers on Writing fascinated but, obfuscated (to use Green’s choice of word) me. Anybody who can find the excuse to use either obfuscate or flummox in an essay gets my word of approval.

For many of those geeks that like to write those essays that Green gently lambastes thusly: “Writers such as myself now can move into this gated community and the anxious concern is ‘how long will it be long until puerile “top 10…’ posts creep in and the editorial standard drops inevitably?” you might just take a little lesson from this man. If you should Google fetishisation you will get many hits defining the word. If you then Google Green’s choice of spelling fetishisasion you will get his Medium essay up front!

I sort of get Green’s drift in only slightly obfuscated by this concept of making a fetish of the word. But I am not obfuscated on how to make a blog sexy. I believe that the purpose of a blog must in some way be based on the idea that a web blog is simply a person’s diary on a screen as opposed to that erstwhile diary on an opened but always closed book.

To me I am not out there to write a blog to teach someone something or to make an orderly list on how to cook a chicken. As the photographer that I am my blog has given me the opportunity to put order in my mind of my extensive collection of photographs that I have taken both commercially and personally since I started taking pictures in 1958. My family, principally my daughters find that they get answers to many family questions in my personal blog.

I am not out here to teach people how to write. I am a photographer who writes and writing every day is perhaps the only way I know how to learn to write. I will not presume to tell others that my method is the correct one.

But I think that Green might have wanted to say that in the de-fetishisasion of the word we must remember the importance of telling a story.
A blog, I believe must tell a story.It cannot just be “how to” lists. Only in a novel like Walter J. Miller’s A Canticle for Leibowitz can a delicatessen shopping list be the centre of the story.
Sometimes my blog consists of a single photograph with no words. This happens when I believe that the photograph, a strong one, a dramatic one, a sensitive one, will suffice. A photograph can tell a story. But often that marvelous symbiotic relationship between words and pictures can give us more than the sum of their parts.

I am not in the least concerned how many people might read my blog nor am I bothered by what they might comment if they were allowed to comment (I don’t allow comments). I find the exercise of writing the blog, the pleasure that I expect and nothing more do I expect.

My Blogger stats tell me that there are many who glimpse into my life, mostly by random accident. There are many who say with that sort of readership I should consider the placement of ads. Somehow, after a career as a magazine photographer and writer I think this would cheapen my intent.
But finally to how can one make a blog sexy? Green might have missed that intimate relationship that the written word (be it on print media or on the net) has always had with the photograph or the illustration. Medium allows contributors to easily place these photographs and illustrations to head the essays and to illustrate within the copy. And yet how many who write in Medium take advantage of this? How many illustrate fascinating essays with a boring image?



 In a world of up-front pornography something can be said for an understated photograph that can help round out an essay and make it sexy. But then words can be sexy, too.



That Empty Glass Is Full
Monday, December 16, 2013






I can remember vividly that day sometime in 1956 when our religion teacher, Brother Edwin Reggio, C.S.C. brought a pitcher with water and two glasses into our class. One glass was small and the other big. He filled both glasses and asked us which of the glasses was fuller. We all immediately pointed to the large glass. With a small smile on his face he asked us again which glass contained more water. We correctly answered that it was the big glass and some of us at that point caught on that both glasses were perfectly full.

Brother Edwin told us that the glasses represented our capacity for happiness and that two very happy people could have different capacities for it but once full, neither would be happier than the other.

Since that time I have come to somewhat modify Brother Edwin’s lesson by thinking that if two people of equal capacity have different approaches to happiness there can be a crucial difference.

It was about a year when I invited my wayward granddaughter, Rebecca, then 15, to a chat at Starbucks. I told her that two people could have two different approaches to life. One could seek happiness while the other contentment. I further told her that those who seek contentment can be satisfied with less and suffer less stress. And because their goals are smaller they may achieve contentment. Those of us (I include myself in this category) who seek happiness must compete, fight, study, perfect to excel. We suffer stress and disappointment. Our goal is almost always not reached. I asked Rebecca if she wanted to be happy or content. She answered that she wanted to be happy. I told her that I was not sure which of the two the “better” goal was.

Of late Brother Edwin’s glass has suffered a further modification. I see the glass as the glass of memory and experience. We are born as an empty slate or, why not, an empty glass. We fill it with experience, skills, memory, failures, remembrances, passions, love and, yes moments of contentment and despair.

Then when we die, when the glass cannot be filled any more, death picks up the glass and shatters it against the wall. Christmas can be happy. And it is. But it is also a time to reflect and in particular to think of friends gone and of moments that can only be shared with one's memory.


Those who are left remember the moments had, figuratively, picking up the shards from the floor. But the glass cannot ever be put together again nor filled with its original contents. Finally all memory is no more.

Of late I have posited to myself the justification, as an example, to spend $50 to go to a wonderful concert of festive Bach cantatas when one is so close to filling the glass. Would it be better to stay at home?  Why am I reading books every night, watching films, and wondering how my roses will survive more years of shade?

Perhaps the answer is a question that the newborn babe (the empty glass) cannot ask, "Should I live and learn or speed, as of now, to that inevitable end and make it all that much easier?"

Unfortunately Brother Edwin Reggio, C.S.C. is dead and I cannot consult him to weigh in. But I think he would say, “Alex, read that book.”



Pitched At 415 & Set In Werkmeister III Temperament
Sunday, December 15, 2013



 
Byron Schenkman taking delivery of his Craig Tomlinson harpsichord

It is not often that one can go to a beautiful home to listen to beautiful baroque music being played on a brand new  Italian Style harpsichord by an accomplished and erudite harpsichord player. His name is Byron Schenkman.

And it is not often that one gets to listen to an Italian baroque composer whose name does not end in an i. If you take a peek at tonight’s programme note that's composer Ana Bon di Venezia. Of her my Seville grandmother would have said, “En su casa la conocen.” (They know who she is in her home.)



Craig Tomlinson
While her music was most pleasant and according to Schenkman it had a definitive air of Vivaldi as she took lessons (she paid we were told) in his Venetian school, Ospedale della Pietà I was particularly enamoured by another Italian of whose existence was unknown to me until tonight. That would be Domenico Zipoli who by the time of his death was only 38. In 1726 the man who had studied for a short time under Alessandro Scarlatti went to Seville and from there to Córdoba in what was then the Virreynato del Río de la Plata. He was made a Jesuit but never became a priest as there was no bishop to ordain him. He worked with the Guraní Indians in Paraguay and died of an unknown disease back in Córdoba.

Since the Jesuits of his time promoted the idea that the Guaranís should grow and harvest Ilex paraguariensis from which mate is made and brewed I am certain that both Zipoli and I  indulged at length in the refreshing hot drink! 


Going back to the purpose of this blog which is to rave about a wonderful concert of new music. New because while I may have heard or know a tad about  Frescobaldi, Purcell and Bach, all the pieces were new to me with the exception of one of the Bourées in the Back Suite in A Minor BWV 807. Of the Bourée I know since I have a 1964 recording of the Swingle Singers where they sing that very piece.

Much is said and written about new music. But music that you have never heard, heard for the first time on an instrument that is brand new is music that almost redefines what new music is.

And when you add to that the intimate surroundings of a salon that happens to be a living room of the Schenkman's harpsichord maker, there is something even more special. And I must mention all the goodies to be found in Tomlinson's wife Carol's kitchen after the performance.

Byron Schenkman has in the few concerts I have had the luck to hear him play convinced me (he changed my mind in fact as I used to hate the harpsichord and considered it an inconsequential instrument about as useful as the triangle) that indeed it is a wonderful instrument with many possibilities in spite of not having a piano’s pedals. I like Schenkman’s Glen Gould style of playing, with face close to keyboard and sitting on the edge of his chair. When you combine his erudition with his enthusiasm (and he played without sheet music) you may understand why I have converted. 



Byron Schenkman’s new harpsichord, made by our Canadian treasure, Craig Tomlinson, is of the Italian Style. This means that all the metallic works including the strings are all made of brass. While I am no expert on these matters Tomlinson has told me that the sound of an Italian Style harpsichord is special because of its brass works. Since Tomlinson somehow manages to convince those who pick up their new instruments to play in his salon, I can attest to the lively sound of  this harpsichord.


There is something that Schenkman might not have noticed. This is that his harpsichord while it was being built in Tomlinson’s workshop, shared a space with a very large motorcycle.

That reminds me of an article (yes article) I read in a Penthouse Magazine back in the early 80s. In the story a Hollywood agent hires a man who has a time machine to bring Domenico Scarlatti to the present in Los Angeles. The agent thinks he will make tons of money promoting Scarlatti as a composer and player of the virtuoso harpsichord. Unfortunately, Scarlatti abandons his harpsichord, drops out, and takes up with a rock band and is mesmerized by a Moog synthesizer.

If instruments should have souls and Tomlison’s instruments most certainly must have them, then this particular Italian Style harpsichord just might …





















     

Previous Posts
Lauren & Casi-Casi Met Up

Edwin Varney - Unstampable

Edward Clendon River - Michael Turner & Modigliani...

Boeing 747 The Queen of the Skies

In Search of My Relevance With The Goblin Market

Marv Newland's Scratchy - Itching Us On

Rain

Cool Ember

In the Spirit of Guilhermina Suggia

Vida



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11/30/08 - 12/7/08

12/7/08 - 12/14/08

12/14/08 - 12/21/08

12/21/08 - 12/28/08

12/28/08 - 1/4/09

1/4/09 - 1/11/09

1/11/09 - 1/18/09

1/18/09 - 1/25/09

1/25/09 - 2/1/09

2/1/09 - 2/8/09

2/8/09 - 2/15/09

2/15/09 - 2/22/09

2/22/09 - 3/1/09

3/1/09 - 3/8/09

3/8/09 - 3/15/09

3/15/09 - 3/22/09

3/22/09 - 3/29/09

3/29/09 - 4/5/09

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4/12/09 - 4/19/09

4/19/09 - 4/26/09

4/26/09 - 5/3/09

5/3/09 - 5/10/09

5/10/09 - 5/17/09

5/17/09 - 5/24/09

5/24/09 - 5/31/09

5/31/09 - 6/7/09

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6/21/09 - 6/28/09

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9/20/09 - 9/27/09

9/27/09 - 10/4/09

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10/11/09 - 10/18/09

10/18/09 - 10/25/09

10/25/09 - 11/1/09

11/1/09 - 11/8/09

11/8/09 - 11/15/09

11/15/09 - 11/22/09

11/22/09 - 11/29/09

11/29/09 - 12/6/09

12/6/09 - 12/13/09

12/13/09 - 12/20/09

12/20/09 - 12/27/09

12/27/09 - 1/3/10

1/3/10 - 1/10/10

1/10/10 - 1/17/10

1/17/10 - 1/24/10

1/24/10 - 1/31/10

1/31/10 - 2/7/10

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2/21/10 - 2/28/10

2/28/10 - 3/7/10

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3/21/10 - 3/28/10

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5/23/10 - 5/30/10

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10/24/10 - 10/31/10

10/31/10 - 11/7/10

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11/14/10 - 11/21/10

11/21/10 - 11/28/10

11/28/10 - 12/5/10

12/5/10 - 12/12/10

12/12/10 - 12/19/10

12/19/10 - 12/26/10

12/26/10 - 1/2/11

1/2/11 - 1/9/11

1/9/11 - 1/16/11

1/16/11 - 1/23/11

1/23/11 - 1/30/11

1/30/11 - 2/6/11

2/6/11 - 2/13/11

2/13/11 - 2/20/11

2/20/11 - 2/27/11

2/27/11 - 3/6/11

3/6/11 - 3/13/11

3/13/11 - 3/20/11

3/20/11 - 3/27/11

3/27/11 - 4/3/11

4/3/11 - 4/10/11

4/10/11 - 4/17/11

4/17/11 - 4/24/11

4/24/11 - 5/1/11

5/1/11 - 5/8/11

5/8/11 - 5/15/11

5/15/11 - 5/22/11

5/22/11 - 5/29/11

5/29/11 - 6/5/11

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6/19/11 - 6/26/11

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8/21/11 - 8/28/11

8/28/11 - 9/4/11

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9/25/11 - 10/2/11

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10/23/11 - 10/30/11

10/30/11 - 11/6/11

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11/13/11 - 11/20/11

11/20/11 - 11/27/11

11/27/11 - 12/4/11

12/4/11 - 12/11/11

12/11/11 - 12/18/11

12/18/11 - 12/25/11

12/25/11 - 1/1/12

1/1/12 - 1/8/12

1/8/12 - 1/15/12

1/15/12 - 1/22/12

1/22/12 - 1/29/12

1/29/12 - 2/5/12

2/5/12 - 2/12/12

2/12/12 - 2/19/12

2/19/12 - 2/26/12

2/26/12 - 3/4/12

3/4/12 - 3/11/12

3/11/12 - 3/18/12

3/18/12 - 3/25/12

3/25/12 - 4/1/12

4/1/12 - 4/8/12

4/8/12 - 4/15/12

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5/13/12 - 5/20/12

5/20/12 - 5/27/12

5/27/12 - 6/3/12

6/3/12 - 6/10/12

6/10/12 - 6/17/12

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6/24/12 - 7/1/12

7/1/12 - 7/8/12

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9/23/12 - 9/30/12

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10/21/12 - 10/28/12

10/28/12 - 11/4/12

11/4/12 - 11/11/12

11/11/12 - 11/18/12

11/18/12 - 11/25/12

11/25/12 - 12/2/12

12/2/12 - 12/9/12

12/9/12 - 12/16/12

12/16/12 - 12/23/12

12/23/12 - 12/30/12

12/30/12 - 1/6/13

1/6/13 - 1/13/13

1/13/13 - 1/20/13

1/20/13 - 1/27/13

1/27/13 - 2/3/13

2/3/13 - 2/10/13

2/10/13 - 2/17/13

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2/24/13 - 3/3/13

3/3/13 - 3/10/13

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5/19/13 - 5/26/13

5/26/13 - 6/2/13

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8/25/13 - 9/1/13

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9/8/13 - 9/15/13

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9/22/13 - 9/29/13

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10/20/13 - 10/27/13

10/27/13 - 11/3/13

11/3/13 - 11/10/13

11/10/13 - 11/17/13

11/17/13 - 11/24/13

11/24/13 - 12/1/13

12/1/13 - 12/8/13

12/8/13 - 12/15/13

12/15/13 - 12/22/13

12/22/13 - 12/29/13

12/29/13 - 1/5/14

1/5/14 - 1/12/14

1/12/14 - 1/19/14

1/19/14 - 1/26/14

1/26/14 - 2/2/14

2/2/14 - 2/9/14

2/9/14 - 2/16/14

2/16/14 - 2/23/14

2/23/14 - 3/2/14

3/2/14 - 3/9/14

3/9/14 - 3/16/14

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4/20/14 - 4/27/14

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7/20/14 - 7/27/14

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11/23/14 - 11/30/14

11/30/14 - 12/7/14

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12/21/14 - 12/28/14

12/28/14 - 1/4/15

1/4/15 - 1/11/15

1/11/15 - 1/18/15

1/18/15 - 1/25/15

1/25/15 - 2/1/15

2/1/15 - 2/8/15

2/8/15 - 2/15/15

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2/22/15 - 3/1/15

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3/8/15 - 3/15/15

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3/22/15 - 3/29/15

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11/8/15 - 11/15/15

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11/22/15 - 11/29/15

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12/13/15 - 12/20/15

12/20/15 - 12/27/15

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1/10/16 - 1/17/16

1/31/16 - 2/7/16

2/7/16 - 2/14/16

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2/21/16 - 2/28/16

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3/27/16 - 4/3/16

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4/24/16 - 5/1/16

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5/8/16 - 5/15/16

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5/22/16 - 5/29/16

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12/11/16 - 12/18/16

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12/25/16 - 1/1/17

1/1/17 - 1/8/17

1/8/17 - 1/15/17

1/15/17 - 1/22/17

1/22/17 - 1/29/17

1/29/17 - 2/5/17

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9/24/17 - 10/1/17

10/1/17 - 10/8/17

10/8/17 - 10/15/17

10/15/17 - 10/22/17