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




 

Una Carta De Un Amigo
Saturday, January 18, 2014


Felipe




Viernes, 17 de enero, 2014 5:51 PM

Querido Alex, hace tiempo que no recibo noticias acerca de ti,tal vez el clima gèlido no predisponga para correos, como a mi me paraliza el insoportable calor de Bs. As.No obstante sigo un poco tus pasos a travès de tus interesantes blogs,me agradaron sobremanera, las fotografias de la familia reunida para las navidades pasadas.Yo estoy atravesando una etapa complicada con la salud de mi madre,dado que me encuentra en una etapa en que mi propia salud  padece, con motivo de las intensas y persistentes altas temperaturas.Gracias a a la divina providencia soy un privilegiado que no sufre cortes de energia.

Por ahora sobrevivo a los avatares de una Argentina incorregible que tropieza una y otra vez con los mismos insufribles obstàculos.
  
Contame en que te estas ocupando,descontando que vos y todos tus afectos se hallen disfrutando de buena salud.

Recibe un cariñoso abrazo 
                                                Felipe






sábado, 18 de enero, 2014 4:49 PM

Querido Felipe,

Realmente no tengo ninguna razón para poder explicar mi tardía respuesta a tus comunicaciones.

Tan pronto llegué a Toronto en camino a Vancouver tuve un problemita del corazón que apacigüé con un café en mi habitación. ¡No temía morir, temía no poder ver a mi mujer y mis gatos!

He tenido todo tipo de pruebas y en febrero me darán un pronóstico.

El viaje a Buenos Aires fue un shock, una palabra muy usada por Vargas Llosa en su temporada como candidato a la presidencia del Perú.

La diferencia entre los que vivían en las villas/miserias/de-las-vías del ferrocarril, la vida más o menos placentera de Nora y Roberto en Bella Vista y la del hijo de mi sobrino en su barrio/chacra/cerrado de polo me asombró.

Los viajes en tren todos los días fueron una experiencia tipo Londres de Dickens siglo 19 con los niños pordioseros.

La falta de noticias mundiales en detalle en los noticieros que veían Nora y Roberto y los extraños noticieros venezolanos en los cuales parecía que Chávez aún estaba vivo me hacía extrañar los buenos noticieros del Canadá y mi New York Times.

En inglés realmente no existe el "tú". Cuando entrevistan a Obama hay un cierto respeto que es parte del idioma. Esto se complica en el castellano de la Argentina donde hay el usted, el tú y el vos. Esas entrevistas con la presidente donde dijo, "Me llamaron yegua y puta." me trastornaron.

El famoso escritor indio/inglés V.S. Naipaul escribió un famoso libro (The Return of Eva Perón) con ensayos de su experiencias en la Argentina hasta el 1977. Su descripción del país es idéntica al país que acabo de visitar. Parece que nada ha cambiado. Hoy me llegó el aviso a través de correo electrónico que mi biblioteca pública del barrio tenía mi libro pedido, Santa Evita del Tomás Eloy Martínez (en castellano). He leído esta muy interesante novela sobre Eva Perón. Ni el libro de Naipaul o éste de Gregory Widen será traducido al castellano.

En la biblioteca encontré un DVD (en castellano) The Mystery of Eva Perón de un Tulio Demicheli en donde entrevistan al padre confesor de Evita y varios amigos y enemigos. Baschetti en la Biblioteca Nacional me ha dicho que no conoce el DVD.

Al menos los libros de Saramago y de Camilleri han sido traducidos al castellano. Leo los libros del mexicano Taibo II y Homero Aridjis en castellano pero varios han sido traducidos. Pero existe una enorme cantidad de literatura universal que nunca saldrá a la luz en la Argentina por no traducirse o no existir una buena librería donde se pueda obtener en su idioma original.

Nora me pudo conseguir después de una larga búsqueda la película Martín Fierro de Torre Nilsson. Es una terrible copia a DVD. Es una vergüenza.

En fin he llegado a la conclusión que me siento enajenado en Vancouver, en Buenos Aires y ahora que murío mi amigo Raúl y no tengo familiares en la ciudad de México, también allí.

Como me decía Juan Manuel Sánchez cuando vivía aquí, "Somos pingüinos en el polo norte."

Pero a lo bueno. Me encantó nuestro viaje en el subte y el almuerzo en tu casa. Un buen y verdadero amigo (y lo sos) es un tesoro de mucho valor. Te agradezco por él.

Aquí muy entusiasmado con lo mío (la fotografía). Últimamente he usado también una Leica IIIF (1952) que me dió mi amigo Abraham Rogatnick ántes de fallecer hace tres años. Aquí podés ver unos resultados. Las fotos son de una serie sobre las mujeres de las novelas de Raymond Chandler.

Colaboro con un amigo escritor John Lekich que aprecia las viejas películas. Llegó a entrevistar a Lillian Gish y a Claire Bloom. Ahora vamos a terminar la serie que comenzó con esta con un ensayo fotográfico (con la rubia de la Leica) sobre una actriz que falleció hace un mes llamada

Una ex modelo mía (vietnamita) con la cual trabajamos Nora y Juan me vino a visitar el otro día. Aquí te incluyo una foto tomada con película instantánea Fuji (la acaban de retirar del mercado pero tengo 10 cajas, cien fotos).

Somos viejos y tenemos que sufrir las consecuencias. Espero tu madre se mejore.

Un caluroso abrazo de tu amigo,

Alex




Post # 2973
Friday, January 17, 2014



In 28 days I will have written 3000 blogs. Many are of considerable length, all but a few with my photographs.  Some are guest written. John Lekich and Les Wiseman are two that have. Tonight I want to reflect on this milestone of mine.

A friend today after seeing a few old posting links to older blogs in facebook (notice that it has to be in lowercase) asked me, “Are you now regurgitating your old blogs?”

The question is a valid one as few who are on facebook ever go to a particular person’s page but only follow the postings they might notice. Had my friend gone to my actual blog (skipping the link through Twitter (@alexwh or the facebook one) he would have noticed that I have a blog for every day. But people now do not really use RSS feeds they use facebook or Twitter as easy portals. My regurgitated blogs are really random picks of mine as few are really able to navigate my almost 3000 blogs. You can use Google. As an example, alex waterhouse-hayward, malibu will connect you to quite a few varied blogs related to my car. Raymond Chandler after a comma and my name or the same for Emily Dickinson will lead to to perhaps interesting encounters with pictures that go with the writing of those two Americans.

I have further noticed that many even today see my facebook link postings to my blog and get to click that like button about liking your photograph. Some of them still do not understand that there is a link to the blog and the written part.

People who should know better will see a photograph of P.D. James (identified as such in the body of my blog) and ask, “Is that P.D. James?” Obviously they are too busy to read.

In this new social media/writing platform called Medium.com to which I write a few new but mostly retread or re-modified blogs, they have an innovation which is that every essay has the estimated reading time in minutes. Medium.com’s statistics divide you essays into views and reads and then follow that with a read ratio in %. 

The statistics of my Blogger tell me that I have an average of 350,000 page views per month. But if Blogger statistics incorporated Medium’s those so-called page views could be perhaps 50% smaller.

Many who write essays for Medium stress that the purpose of a blog is to instruct others.

I would challenge that. I see that many of my blogs may be seen (and perhaps not read at all) by few so I would be deluding myself in thinking that I am writing these and this to instruct.

I think that a blog is much like a Shakespearean soliloquy in which I put down on a monitor screen my thoughts and I am too old and too modern to begin every day with Dear Diary.

My basement photo files which are all in alphabetical order and some drawers are by themes like writers, travel, family, have ordered in my head my photographic output through the years. My blog has helped me in this as the pictures here, well over 3000, do manifest not only part of that photographic production but also an interweaving of my thoughts on books I have read, people I have met and interacted with plus lots of stuff of my own life which my family, and particular my two daughters enjoy reading. 


My blog is useful to me and to a few that are close to me. If others find utility that is up to them. If they do not I cannot be damned for the failure as it is not my intent to educate or instruct.



In Defence Of Arrogance?
Thursday, January 16, 2014




 
Gustave Dore
 Two men went up into the temple to pray; one was a Pharisee, the other a publican.  The Pharisee stood upright, and made this prayer in his heart, I thank thee, God, that I am not like the rest of men, who steal and cheat and commit adultery, or like this publican here; for myself, I fast twice in the week, I give tithes of all that I possess.  And the publican stood far off; he would not even lift up his eyes towards heaven; he only beat his breast, and said, God, be merciful to me; I am a sinner.  I tell you, this man went back home higher in God’s favour than the other; everyone who exalts himself shall be humbled, and the man who humbles himself shall be exalted.
Luke 18:9-14 (Knox Catholic Bible)

The above St. Luke recounting of one of Jesus’s parables is one that I have never ever forgotten. Of late it has been much in my thoughts. Let me explain.

Some ten years ago I was invited to a roof party at the house of a female designer I worked with for many years. She had retired and was launching herself as an artist (a very good one). I ran into a woman whom I did not remember but who remembered me. She told me we (she had been the editor) had worked for a publication of the Vancouver Central 1 Credit Union some years ago and that her impression of me was that I was arrogant.

I was shocked to hear this. Of late I asked my wife if she thought I was arrogant and she concurred with the Credit Union Editor. That shocked me even further.

With my head on her lap (sometime around 1964) on a bus on the way to Veracruz, Mexico I asked Judy Brown to explain to me her concept on the lack of altruism in the world opposed to its common opposite selfishness. Brown explained that even giving your life for someone else brought the pleasure of satisfaction to the person giving up their life and thus even Christ had been selfish when he was on the cross. I could not find any way of countering with some sort of example that she could not twist so I gave up. Neither of us had ever heard or read any Ayn Rand or knew anything about her “the virtue of selfishness.” With Alan Greenspan as one of Rand’s followers I can now explain why it is that so many American of the Republican Party are keen on stopping food stamps and unemployment security benefits. Poor people were born to be poor and will remain so because they have no ambition and they are lazy. Rand would not have put it in exactly those words but she would have agreed with direction of the content. For Rand some of us were born as acorns and would one day grow to be large and prosperous oak trees while other would be tiny and fragile plants in which no kind of help would counter the tendency for weakness and smallness.

In past blogs I have written about my feeling of isolation and even of my alienation in Vancouver. I have harped on how the phone never rings and how my messages on answering machines are rarely returned.

I know have an inkling of what this isolation/alienation might be. It is not that at all. It is a marginalization. I am not a friend of the present mayor as I was of the former one. The contacts that people say I have are either dead or living elsewhere. They have move on.

Three recent requests for my pictures from New York Magazine, the British Harper’s Bazaar and a director working on a documentary about Roger Ebert, only cement the realization that had moved early in my career to Toronto, my marginalization would not be as severe.

But there is more and it came to me some four years ago when I went to Grant  Simmons at DISC for some drum scans of some of my transparencies. For one of the transparencies I showed him an exquisite light jet print (20 by 24 inches) of my granddaughter Rebecca. Rebecca was with me at the time. Simmons looked at the exquisite print and said, “Leave that here. I can print a better one.” As we left and as we approached the car my Rebecca said, “He is full of himself, isn’t he?” I attempted to explain the difference between having an accurate self-confidence in one’s abilities and that of being a charlatan. But it was to no avail. Rebecca thought Simmons was full of it. And of course when Simmons presented me with his version, the erstwhile exquisite light jet print was clearly no match to Simmons’s giclée.

For quite a few years I was the virtual staff photographer for Vancouver Magazine and many more magazines including the Georgia Straight. In a small market and owned a big pie. I could feel the resentment in some of my peers.

Now as I languish in retirement and with paid photography just about non-existent I understand my isolation and why photographers will not call me back.

So I live a present life of exciting personal photography with nobody to show it to or to discuss.

It was my mentor (who died in early 2013) Brother Edwin Reggio, C.S.C. Who told us when we were around 16 that our mission in life was to find out what we had been born to do (he further explained that it was to find out what we could do well or had an interest in) and to do it to the best of our ability.

It seems to me that even if you do not believe that a personal talent is a God-given talent, the pursuit of the goal of achieving it means that once you achieve it you have the confidence to say that what you do is done well and that is just the way it is. Anything else would be false modesty. My friend Judy Brown would have concurred on that, too!

Which brings me to the parable of the Pharisee and the publican. In most versions of the New Testament, the Publican is explained as being a tax-collector. I like the ordinary sounding publican. I believe that the Pharisee has been maligned a bit. And that the publican should learn to have more confidence in his abilities (God-given or not).

Was that Pharisee that over-confident, arrogant even?  I am beginning to have my doubts.



Tatiana - In Bed With A Friend
Wednesday, January 15, 2014



 
Nightwing, 1977, back cover - Photograph Emily A. Smith



This was going to be about all the authors I have met through the years and how I photographed many of them. But it’s not. That will have to be for another day.

This will be about an author I have never met but one whose literary output (almost all of it) has at one time been at my bedside table.

I first “met” Martin Cruz Smith in 1979 in his 1977 book Nightwing. I was a fan by 1981 when I read his first Arkady Renko Gorky Park. In 1986 I was fascinated by his novelized account of the making of the atom bomb, Stallion Gate and the fact that it dovetailed perfectly with another favourite book of mine, the non fiction version, Richard Rhodes’s The Making of the Atom Bomb which appeared that same year.

I have had Cruz Smith in bed since. One novel of his that has special significance (one of wonder) is his 1996 Rose in which the protagonists and action all share a Victorian coal mining town called Wigan.



Tatiana, 2013, author photograph Doug Menuez
Here is the beginning of Chapter 4

The Cannel Room was the strangest dining room Blair had ever seen.

Bishop Hannay sat at the head of the table. Around it where his sister-in-law, Lady Rowland; Reverend Chubb; a union man named Fellowes; Lady Rowland’s daughter Lydia; Earnshaw, the member of Parliament from the train; Leveret Blair; and at the foot of the table and empty chair.

The Cannel Room’s ceiling, walls and wainscoting were paneled in polished black stone. Table and Queen Anne chairs were hand-turned work of the same material. Chandelier and candelabras seemed carved of ebony. Yet the walls showed no marble veins. The weight of the chairs was wrong. The temperature was wrong; marble always felt cooler than the air around it, but when Blair laid his hand on the table it was almost warm. Properly so, since cannel was jet, a form of exceedingly fine coal. He had seen sculptures in black cannel. The Cannel Room was the only room made entirely of coal, and it was famous. Its effect was heightened by contrasts: the luminous shimmer of silver and crystal on the black table, the deep purple of Lady Rowland’s gown, the camellia-white of Miss Rowland’s dress.

The men – except for Blair, of course – were all dressed for dinner in black, Hannay and Chubb in cassocks. The butler was assisted by four footmen in black satin livery. The floor was carpeted in black felt to silence the sound of their feet. The effect was as if they were dining in an elegant hall far below the surface of the earth. Blair ran his hand over the table and looked at his palm. Clean: not a speck of carbon dust, not an atom, not a mote.
Rose, Martin Cruz Smith 1996

In these pages I have often harped of the advantages (even after you calculate the expense) of a hard copy, daily delivered NY Times that crashes on my front door in the middle of the night 365 days of the year.

Consider this. On Tuesdays the NY Times has a section called Science Times. It was on November 12, 2013 that I read the incredible revelation that Martin Cruz Smith’s latest, Tatiana and the previous (and also Arkady Renko novel) Three Stations had both been dictated by Martin Cruz Smith to his wife because he is unable to type or write. He has Parkinson’s. Not even his publisher or his agent knew of this.

I wonder how many reading of this might have known or found the story imbedded somewhere in the digital version of the newspaper?

No, I have never even had a glimpse of the real man and yet as I look at all his author photographs he has aged like many of my favourite subjects that I come back year after year to take their portrait. I see Cruz Smith's portraits almost as my own.

Tatiana was a two nights-in-bed read and the first three paragraphs are killer takes on a young man who cycles on a very expensive bike. I called up two of my friends who are cyclists (big time). One is Andrew Taylor from Yorkshire who lives in Guadalajara the other is Vancouver photographer Hans Sipma. The latter once visited me riding on the most expensive bicycle I have ever seen. Sipma said,  "I cannot afford the car I would want to have, a Ferrari, so this is the next best thing.”

I will not tell you more except for two things, one mentioned in the Science Times article. In the book one of the significant pieces of evidence is the cyclist/translator’s notebook that nobody can read. It is covered in symbols nobody can decipher. It seems that the NY Times reporter found this in parallel to Cruz Smith’s brain degeneration in which even taking notes is an impossible task. For me the other dovetailing fact, much more relevant vis à vis Parkinson’s is that we find out that in the previous novel, Three Stations, Arkady Renko has been shot by a very young chess master and the bullet has lodged in his brain. Renko survives but the bullet is irreparably in place and at any time (readers will never know until it happens) it will move just a smidgen to end Arkady’s long career.

The book read I felt a momentary depression. When is the next one? Will I be around for it? And then by the next morning all was forgotten when two new books by an old friend, J. Robert Janes, Bellringer and Tapestry arrived from Amazon.

You see, it does not make any difference with whom I warm my bed, as long as it is a friend. 

And before I forget, there is no coal room in Tatiana but there is a strange and very big building in Kaliningrad painted blue so that it will blend with the sky and not be seen by a visiting Putin.  

And just as sure that I know that the bullet will not ever budge in Arkady Renko's brain, I know that Martin Cruz Smith will be in my bed for years to come.



I Felt My Life With Both My Hands
Monday, January 13, 2014






felt my life with both my hands

 I felt my life with both my hands
To see if it was there—
I held my spirit to the Glass,
To prove it possibler—

 I turned my Being round and round
And paused at every pound
To ask the Owner's name—
For doubt, that I should know the Sound—

 I judged my features—jarred my hair—
I pushed my dimples by, and waited—
If they—twinkled back—
Conviction might, of me—

 I told myself, "Take Courage, Friend—
That—was a former time—
But we might learn to like the Heaven,
As well as our Old Home!"

Emily Dickinson

I must point out here that Carla Bruni (married to former French President Nicolas Sarkozy) recorded a song last year with this poem as lyrics here.


More Emily Dickinson





Truly, Madly & Wonderfully
Sunday, January 12, 2014



 
Georgito O'Reilly



I sometimes think about those strange and unlikely events. Consider that Roman Emperor Constantine the Great became emperor when his father died. Constantine was in York. In the few times that I have been in London I can imagine passing through the ghost of Julius Caesar who did cross to Britannia in a galley.

Another unlikely occurrence is that of Lorenzo Da Ponte, Mozart’s librettist who in 1805 ran a grocery store in Sunbury, Pennsylvania. My favourite is that of Napoleon’s brother Joseph (formerly the King of Spain) who in the 1820s lived in Bordentown, New Jersey.

I have my own example of a strange and unlikely event. It may be of a minor scale in comparison to the above but, for me most interesting as I was personally involved.



John Lekich
The first picture you see here is of Georgito O’Reilly, an Argentine nephew of mine who now plays golf but formerly was one of Argentina’s rugby stars. Second you have my friend John Lekich who is a novelist and writer. He lives in Vancouver.

Third is actress Juliet Stevenson from Kelvedon, Essex, England.

All three happened to converge one weekend in Vancouver. Lekich had to interview Stevenson for the Globe & Mail. I was the photographer the Globe usually assigned for these hotel room portraits. The place for the interview and photographic session was the beautiful Sun Room at the Vancouver Hotel.

It just so happened that in that weekend in 1993 my nephew O’Reilly in a business trip to Chicago from Buenos Aires, stopped in Vancouver on his way home. I told him he could come along.


There is something to be said about Juliet Stevenson not being fazed I the least in having three men with her during her interview






Juliet Stevenson
.

Only today did I finally get to see her fabulous  1990 film Truly, Madly, Deeply, directed by Anthony Minghella and with the sonorously voiced Alan Rickman. Without letting to much out of the hat this is not a ghost story but a story with ghosts who are into Bach and film noir. There is a little magic, too.




All I can ad here is that I instructed Stevenson to do three different things, one after the other while I clicked my shutter and did not move the camera from its tripod.

The film I obtained (naturally) from the Vancouver Public Library.




     

Previous Posts
Sandrine Cassini On My Red Psychiatric Couch

The Paris Opera Ballet & Alonso King Lines Ballet

Sandrine Cassini - A Soon-to-be Visit by an Appari...

The Clubhouse On Second

Sound Holes

Faded - Recovered - Scanned - Delight

El Absurdo Infinito

Miss D, My Chickering Baby Grand & Fuji FP-100C

Lee Lytton III & Friendly & Warm Ghosts

San Valentín



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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

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2/20/11 - 2/27/11

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3/20/11 - 3/27/11

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1/1/12 - 1/8/12

1/8/12 - 1/15/12

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1/22/12 - 1/29/12

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1/20/13 - 1/27/13

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1/19/14 - 1/26/14

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4/20/14 - 4/27/14

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1/25/15 - 2/1/15

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1/1/17 - 1/8/17

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1/22/17 - 1/29/17

1/29/17 - 2/5/17

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2/19/17 - 2/26/17

2/26/17 - 3/5/17

3/5/17 - 3/12/17