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




 

The Dark Lady From Belorusse
Saturday, July 05, 2014







We would walk the streets, a prodigy in short pants and his mother, so defiantly beautiful that all transactions stopped, and we’d enter a slow-motion world where women, men, children, dogs, cats, and firemen in their trucks would look at her with such longing in their eyes, that I felt like some usurper who was carrying her off to another hill...


It was a darkly romantic time. The Bronx sat near the Atlantic Ocean without a proper seawall, and there was talk of attack squads arriving in little rubber boats off some tricky submarine, getting into the sewer system, and gobbling my native ground. But I never saw a Nazi on our walks. And what power would any of them have had against the shimmering outline of my mother in her silver fox coat? She was born in 1911, like Ginger Rogers and Jean Harlow, but she didn’t have their platinum  look: she was the dark lady of Belorusse.
The Dark Lady From Belorusse – Jerome Charyn - 1997



Taking Out The Garbage Before Wallander
Friday, July 04, 2014


Kenneth Branagh broods - Alex Waterhouse-Hayward


Today I took out the garbage. Few husbands can ever boast thus. My Rosemary does it most of the time but today she said, “Alex, tomorrow they come to pick up the blue box. Can you take it out before the light goes?  My knee is buckling today. I don’t think I can handle it.” And so I took out the garbage.

After 47 years of being together even this idiot would understand that there has to be a lot of give and take.

These days I feel isolated in Vancouver. I go to baroque concerts on my own. Rosemary is not keen nor is she keen on sopranos or modern dance.

And yet wives, my wife in particular, can surprise. She read as many Andrea Camilleri novels that I could find and we have seen 20 of the series (based on those Camilleri novels) Montalbano, the Sicilian police inspector who likes to dine alone and has a fondness for sea food.

I would have never thought that my Rosemary would get hooked on Camilleri. Is Michael Dibdin the next possibility?

Rosemary and I are crazy about Rachel Maddow and we watch her show almost every day. We sit with our late lunch/early dinner at 6 to watch our favourite lesbian.

Consider that when I met Rosemary in 1968 I did not know I was going to eventually marry a proto-feminist. Only Mark’s Work Warehouse has saved me from hemming my jeans. They sell exactly my length. There is no way Rosemary will sow a button or hem jeans or cook. After fighting with her for years I finally realized that the only way I could eat well was to cook. So I do the cooking. She hates using the vacuum. I vacuum. She scrubs the impossibly white kitchen floor I sometimes wash the car.

Gardening was a bone of contention in 1986. “That’s your flower bed, Rosemary. You water it.” Or she might have asked, “When are you going to mow? Some of the plants were hers and some were mine. We have long ago given up on owning parts of the garden and we do the work together. But I suspect our neighbour must think we (especially me) are an abusive couple as we still do a lot of arguing. “Rosemary, your hardy geraniums and your Anthriscus are weeds. They are taking over my hostas.” “Alex, don’t shake your spent roses on the lawn. I have to pick up the petals.”  I am especially infuriated (still) when she asks, “Have you watered the window boxes?” I am tired of telling her, “That’s not my domain.” And so on and sometimes (rarely) we sit together on the metal bench with her cat Casi-Casi who is the great soother.

Where it is important it seems we have it made. We agree on the few TV series that we watch (we rent or take out the DVDs from the library). She does not, to my chagrin want to watch the World Cup. We both agree on not having a remote interest on any American series. We did rent a few of the original British House of Cards but we have avoided the American. We know nothing about the Game of Thrones (too much violence for Rosemary). In short we agree on the few series we do watch and she trusts me completely on my film choices (again Limelight Video or the Vancouver Public Library).

Today I was thinking why it is we love the Italian series Montalbano and the British one, Foyle’s War.


Since we see them on DVD it means that we have a complete episode that runs around an hour and thirty Luca Zingaretti (Montalbano) and Michael Kitchen (Inspector Foyle) talk little, brood a lot and just an “Ah!” will reveal more of what they are thinking than many words. We like these series because the car chases and the violence are understated. Both men are elegant, full of humanity and ethics that are impervious to just about anything.

Alas, there is no more Foyle’s War for a while and if we want to see more Montalbano (Limelight gave me credit for the three Montalbanos I purchased on line) I will have to order them. So what’s next?

We have seen six Wallander episodes with Kenneth Branagh. This British series set in Sweden (lots of Volvos and Ikea furniture) is based on the novels of Henning Mankell. My friend who works at Limelight (I will have to ask for his name) told me, “There is a Swedish series but would you believe that the British version is bleaker?” My friend Robert Friedman (very British) and his wife Patricia Hutter, who live down the street refuse to watch Wallander. Hutter told me, “We get depressed especially with the bleak Swedish landscape.”

But Rosemary and I both love Wallander. I especially like the fact that Wallander’s father (who has Alzheimer’s) is played by my fave David Warner. We are trying to figure out how they make Branagh’s skin look so white (almost cyan) while his eyes are invariably bloodshot. Do they keep him awake for days before they shoot?

Branagh’s Wallander, cries, broods, shouts and rarely smiles. We love him. We have three more to watch. I will make sure the menu on our TV trays is a good one.  

What’s next? We will have to tackle the Henning Mankel novels.







Catalina Legault By Gaspard-Félix Tournachon
Thursday, July 03, 2014




Last September I was in Buenos Aires for two weeks. On one of my days there I went to the old Buenos Aires quarter called San Telmo where they have a fine market. If you are looking for SS paraphernalia there is a good chance you might find some there. I was intrigued by this old albumen print from around the late1850s that according to the seller was a genuine print by French photographer Nadar (Gaspard-Félix Tournachon 1820-1910). There was in the image a resemblance to the famous Paris Opera Ballet dancer Catalina Legault who some say had a long and scandalous affair with writer Alexandre Dumas. I paid $50 for it and even if it is not a genuine Nadar print I feel it is still a bargain



The Age Of The Mouse & The Pressure Washer
Wednesday, July 02, 2014


Ale, Arboledas, Mexico 1971



As a young boy in Buenos Aires and then in Mexico City I took shop in school. They taught me to turn wood to make salad bowls and even how to French polish. I became a not so bad carpenter. I improved on this in the early 70s when from a departing American I purchased a very nice bench saw, an electric orbital sander and a craftsman electric drill. Since I had no jig saw I had no way of making curvy furniture so I settled in modern stuff which I then lacquered with automobile paint using an electric sprayer.

Once in Vancouver my carpentry declined and I resorted to re-finishing some of our tables with varathane.

Our brief cycle of buying stuff from either Ikea or New Look Interiors stopped when one night a bookcase holding my collection of National Geographics collapsed.  From then on we scoured Maple Ridge, Fort Langley and New Westminster for good antique lawyer’s book cases and other furniture.

This concept of the well-made crept into my purchase of good but expensive photographic equipment and studio lights. Rosemary insisted in having Audis. Our home stereo is quality and the linear tracking turntable a gem.

I hold on to old technology for the same reason. I want to have stuff that lasts, that has value and if it can be repaired I will spend the money to do so.

Our Sony Trinitron TV had to be repaired three years ago. We still have it and only recently with the World Cup did my visiting Lillooet daughter Ale say, “Papi you need a new TV. Your image is blurred and I cannot tell what the score is.”

This computer on which I am writing this faces a very good (in its time) Dell (Sony) CRT (cathode ray tube) monitor. It serves me well in dealing with my plant scans and my film scans. I do not spend a fortune calibrating it as many photographers of my generation do. I know my web page and blog is backed by a gray colour which I, every two months, check for any shifts into other colours. That’s how I calibrate my monitor! I have noticed that my scans of my portraits in which I use a phenomenal Epson Perfection V700 Photo scanner and with an 8 or 9 year old Photoshop look exactly the same on my monitor as in Grant Simmons’s (DISC) Mac monitor. Simmons prints my digital files into beautiful giclées. But when I place those scans in my Blogger blog they go yellow/red. The colour of these pictures in facebook and in Twitter is also different. There is obviously no standard for colour in the internet.

The proof of accurate colour will always be (and can only be) in a print. And even then, those of us who are perfectionists (I sort of exclude myself from that category) will argue that the print will have to be seen in a particular type of chosen light. Colour prints will vary under incandescents, fluorescents, daylight on sunny days, daylight on cloudy days and with the latitude of the city where you view them.

But we now live in an era of easy opening packaging (not so if you suffer from arthritis as I do) and almost anything is a mouse click away. We no longer get lost as our car (not my 2007 Malibu) tells us exactly where we are and where we are going. Digital cameras become ever more perfect and up-to-date with firmware you are supposed to download.

I would call this the era of the pressure washer. Most museum conservationists know that a powerful vacuum cleaner can damage or destroy antique carpets, etc. So we would also suspect that an industrial pressure washer can do the same to old framing and trimming in an old house.

For reasons that escape me, my wife has decided to have our house painted in sections. The young College Pros in the era of the mouse thought they could use their pressure washer to strip old paint and clean it all up. Having no knowledge of gardens they place their ladders with no thought of botanical damage.

So in this age of the mouse and the quickie (in every meaning that word has) I am inside my house and I will not look outside. If I don’t the problem does not exist. Like the overdue library book kept inside my desk, if I cannot see it, it is not overdue. But I should know better. Long ago I learned that noises in cars did not miraculously go away. They got worse.



A Shropshire Lad - Revisited
Tuesday, July 01, 2014



Rosa 'A Shropshire Lad' July 1, 2014


In the late 80s I went to Shropshire on a literary tour courtesy of British Airways. For reading material I had with me A.E. Houseman’s A Shropshire Lad, a tome of Mary Webb’s poetry and D.H. Lawrence’s travel stories. I loved Houseman not knowing at the time that nearby David Austin had hybridized a lovely English Rose called A Shropshire Lad. I have had this rose now for some years. It is in deep shade so it has a reluctant and brief period when it blooms. But the flowers are lovely if sparse. It grieves me a bit to snip one as I did today, Canada Day so I could scan. There was another stalk with a bud and a flower not quite open. I did not have the heart to snip them, too. One bloom will suffice.The leaves are big and course but they will do.


A. E. Housman (1859–1936).  A Shropshire Lad.  1896.

XLVI. Bring, in this timeless grave to throw


Bring, in this timeless grave to throw  
No cypress, sombre on the snow;   
Snap not from the bitter yew   
His leaves that live December through; 
Break no rosemary, bright with rime              
And sparkling to the cruel crime;   
Nor plod the winter land to look    
For willows in the icy brook    
To cast them leafless round him: bring 
To spray that ever buds in spring.          

But if the Christmas field has kept 
Awns the last gleaner overstept,    
Or shrivelled flax, whose flower is blue 
A single season, never two;     
Or if one haulm whose year is o’er         
Shivers on the upland frore,    
—Oh, bring from hill and stream and plain 
Whatever will not flower again,
To give him comfort: he and those 
Shall bide eternal bedfellows           
Where low upon the couch he lies  
Whence he never shall arise.

A Shropshire Lad



Dee
Monday, June 30, 2014







She had purple eyes. Her nose was perfect. Her mouth was slightly crooked. Her neck was shaped like a bishop’s stick. It still excited him to stand near Dee, sniff her perfume in the midst of all her concentration on the pudding. But she could feel Caroll behind her, and she dismissed the sous chefs. “Darling,” she said. “We have guests. I have to be down in a minute. I can’t leave Cardinal Jim alone. He’ll take out his poker deck and make paupers of everybody. So give me one little squeeze.” 
Maria's Girls - Jerome Charyn - 1993



Are Melted Into Air, Into Thin Air
Sunday, June 29, 2014



 
Sarah Rogers & Allan Morgan



    Prospero:
    Our revels now are ended. These our actors,

    As I foretold you, were all spirits, and

    Are melted into air, into thin air:

    And like the baseless fabric of this vision,

    The cloud-capp'd tow'rs, the gorgeous palaces,

    The solemn temples, the great globe itself,

    Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,

    And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,

    Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff

    As dreams are made on; and our little life

    Is rounded with a sleep.

   
In the above Act 4, scene 1, 148-158 of  The Tempest, Prospero in preparation for Miranda’s wedding to the Prince of Naples stages an entertainment with spirits taking the parts of Roman gods. He abruptly stops the fun. He tries to calm Miranda and Ferdinand explaining that what he has stopped was simply an illusion that will disappear into the thin air.

We are such stuff as dreams are made on is one of Shakespeare’s most often misquoted quotes. Made on is usually changed to made from.

In a bout of insomnia I thought about it most of Saturday night.I kept re-living Morgan's Prospero in Friday night's The Tempest at Bard On the Beach. A few weeks before in Midsummer's Night Dream I was sitting a few seats away from actor/director Sarah Rogers. She smiled and made faces at me.

I remember that when I was 8 and 9 my friend Mario from across the street would come to visit me to play. On sunny days we played in the garden with swords or Gene Autry cap pistols. When it rained or it was cold and cloudy we would move into the house where in a long hall we would play with toy soldiers that, more often than not we converted to simple civilians. These people worked and had love lives. We put couples to bed and they did whatever we at age 8 thought couples did in bed.

There was an issue of the National Geographic that my mother had brought from the American School where she taught Physics and Chemistry. On of the articles featured the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island. Another had these American football players in player’s uniforms. I was amazed by their almost super-human shoulders. For reasons that escape me Mario and I played a game called Columbia. This was a small but powerful island nation peopled by broad shouldered giants who worshiped a goddess (the Statue of Liberty). It was only a few years later that I caught on that the shoulders were padding and that there was no island nation called Columbia.

When 8 or perhaps 7, I went into our back garden galpón (shed) where there was a large wooden box. In it I propped four bricks so as to have a gas pedal and a brake pedal. With a broom and a wheel on its end I had the steering wheel. I placed a board across the box and presto I was sitting in a racing car and I was Fangio. Somehow the car was real and I was driving a racer. But one day I could not conjure any of it and I gave up. The racing car had disappeared. Soon Mario and I stopped playing our games and we began to collect round estampitas (cards) of the football players in Buenos Aires. Our make-believe games ceased and we through our cards to as close as we could to the edge of the sidewalk where it met the walls. This was our first taste of gambling as we might sacrifice a valuable card from Boca Juniors to get an even more valuable player card from River Plate. 

Last night I thought about the difference between made on and made from. I concluded that our wakeful life depends on, leans on, and emerges from, derivates from our make-believe-imagination-dreams.

Since the world of make-believe is most active in childhood I suspect that it prepares children to cope with the reality of adulthood.

This brings me into two ideas of which one is not a very pleasant one. I am 71 and my dreams now seem to be more intense. Because I get up several times during the night I remember more of them. Their logic escapes me and I wonder if this may not simply be a manifestation of my returning to that childhood. Could it be a forewarning of dementia?

The other idea is far more pleasant. In my years of taking pictures of actors and actresses (I cling to that world because I am an old-fashioned remnant of the last century) I have never tired at their ability to fall into parts and in many cases to cry on demand. At the same time become saddened at witnessing modern dance or a 17th century baroque sonata that I know I may never see or hear again. The same happens to every evening’s performance of a play. It fades into “thin air”.Do we remember that Allan Morgan appeared as Prospero in Bard production (also directed my Meg Roe) in 2008?

I still remember the remarkable performance of Angels In America in 2006 at the Waterfront Theatre on Granville Island. The actors were Sarah Rogers, Allan Morgan, Dennis Simpson and Marco Soriano. The performance has been with me since because Sarah Rogers and Allan Morgan came to my studio to pose for a picture that appeared in the Georgia Straight.

It seems that actors make-believe professionally while dancers and musicians perform ephemera.   

A painter will paint and will have a painting. The same applies to a sculptor. A traditional film photographer will have prints, negatives and slides. The digital photographer’s images approach that fading into thin air with a corrupted file, or the infinitesimal thickness of a computer monitor.

For the average non-actor (that’s me) I have a fascination with the idea that many of the actors in Bard on the Beach play multiple parts on different days. These multiple parts are not only within one play but also in different plays. Would this not be confusing? Consider Jennifer Lines who in 2010 played Cleopatra in Anthony and Cleopatra and Beatrice in Much Ado About Nothing. This is how she explained her non confusion:       


Every morning I wake up and take time to focus on which show I will be performing that evening so that throughout the day I'm "tuned up" with the character and the dialogue.

The real preparation begins when I arrive at the tent, about 2 hours before the show which gives me plenty of time to run lines, go over fight and dance choreography, get make-up and hair sorted. By the time I'm being laced into Beatrice's corset, or putting on all Cleopatra's gold jewelry I am more than ready to step onto the stage as one or the other.

It is either the corset or the gold jewelry that settles Lines to her part with no confusion.

My conclusion after hours of twisting and turning in bed is that actors in good plays allow us to play make-believe games. Some of us may laugh and enjoy the special staging effects. Some of us might like the music and the songs. But some of us (me in particular) can never forget how these actors in their talent and style force us (ever so gently) to imagine, to dream and to reflect with the words of the playwright and the intended bearing of the director into keeping us young, almost children so that we can become more human (as Harold Bloom so insists).

I have often wondered why playwrights who write plays are not playwrites. My personal conclusion is that the playwright, the good ones of which Shakespeare is one of the paragons of the craft, simply knows how to play the game. Playwrights know how to play the game of the imagination and of the dream. They play right, as do our Vancouver actors we are so lucky to have and enjoy.

And only today as I  looked for the image of Allan Morgan and Sarah Rogers did it occur to me that it also makes a perfect portrait of Prospero with Ariel. 

The Tempest

Midsummer's Night Dream



     

Previous Posts
Beauty in Monochrome

Two (almost) Crazy Women

Crazy Over Love

La Tormenta de Santa Rosa

Two With Poise & Elegance

Guillermina Santa Bárbara Cheers Me Up

Mona Lisa - Overdrive

Two Evangelists & That Important Severed Right Ear...

A suo piacere

An Odalisque in 3200



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5/23/10 - 5/30/10

5/30/10 - 6/6/10

6/6/10 - 6/13/10

6/13/10 - 6/20/10

6/20/10 - 6/27/10

6/27/10 - 7/4/10

7/4/10 - 7/11/10

7/11/10 - 7/18/10

7/18/10 - 7/25/10

7/25/10 - 8/1/10

8/1/10 - 8/8/10

8/8/10 - 8/15/10

8/15/10 - 8/22/10

8/22/10 - 8/29/10

8/29/10 - 9/5/10

9/5/10 - 9/12/10

9/12/10 - 9/19/10

9/19/10 - 9/26/10

9/26/10 - 10/3/10

10/3/10 - 10/10/10

10/10/10 - 10/17/10

10/17/10 - 10/24/10

10/24/10 - 10/31/10

10/31/10 - 11/7/10

11/7/10 - 11/14/10

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

6/5/11 - 6/12/11

6/12/11 - 6/19/11

6/19/11 - 6/26/11

6/26/11 - 7/3/11

7/3/11 - 7/10/11

7/10/11 - 7/17/11

7/17/11 - 7/24/11

7/24/11 - 7/31/11

7/31/11 - 8/7/11

8/7/11 - 8/14/11

8/14/11 - 8/21/11

8/21/11 - 8/28/11

8/28/11 - 9/4/11

9/4/11 - 9/11/11

9/11/11 - 9/18/11

9/18/11 - 9/25/11

9/25/11 - 10/2/11

10/2/11 - 10/9/11

10/9/11 - 10/16/11

10/16/11 - 10/23/11

10/23/11 - 10/30/11

10/30/11 - 11/6/11

11/6/11 - 11/13/11

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

4/15/12 - 4/22/12

4/22/12 - 4/29/12

4/29/12 - 5/6/12

5/6/12 - 5/13/12

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

6/17/12 - 6/24/12

6/24/12 - 7/1/12

7/1/12 - 7/8/12

7/8/12 - 7/15/12

7/15/12 - 7/22/12

7/22/12 - 7/29/12

7/29/12 - 8/5/12

8/5/12 - 8/12/12

8/12/12 - 8/19/12

8/19/12 - 8/26/12

8/26/12 - 9/2/12

9/2/12 - 9/9/12

9/9/12 - 9/16/12

9/16/12 - 9/23/12

9/23/12 - 9/30/12

9/30/12 - 10/7/12

10/7/12 - 10/14/12

10/14/12 - 10/21/12

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

2/17/13 - 2/24/13

2/24/13 - 3/3/13

3/3/13 - 3/10/13

3/10/13 - 3/17/13

3/17/13 - 3/24/13

3/24/13 - 3/31/13

3/31/13 - 4/7/13

4/7/13 - 4/14/13

4/14/13 - 4/21/13

4/21/13 - 4/28/13

4/28/13 - 5/5/13

5/5/13 - 5/12/13

5/12/13 - 5/19/13

5/19/13 - 5/26/13

5/26/13 - 6/2/13

6/2/13 - 6/9/13

6/9/13 - 6/16/13

6/16/13 - 6/23/13

6/23/13 - 6/30/13

6/30/13 - 7/7/13

7/7/13 - 7/14/13

7/14/13 - 7/21/13

7/21/13 - 7/28/13

7/28/13 - 8/4/13

8/4/13 - 8/11/13

8/11/13 - 8/18/13

8/18/13 - 8/25/13

8/25/13 - 9/1/13

9/1/13 - 9/8/13

9/8/13 - 9/15/13

9/15/13 - 9/22/13

9/22/13 - 9/29/13

9/29/13 - 10/6/13

10/6/13 - 10/13/13

10/13/13 - 10/20/13

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

3/16/14 - 3/23/14

3/23/14 - 3/30/14

3/30/14 - 4/6/14

4/6/14 - 4/13/14

4/13/14 - 4/20/14

4/20/14 - 4/27/14

4/27/14 - 5/4/14

5/4/14 - 5/11/14

5/11/14 - 5/18/14

5/18/14 - 5/25/14

5/25/14 - 6/1/14

6/1/14 - 6/8/14

6/8/14 - 6/15/14

6/15/14 - 6/22/14

6/22/14 - 6/29/14

6/29/14 - 7/6/14

7/6/14 - 7/13/14

7/13/14 - 7/20/14

7/20/14 - 7/27/14

7/27/14 - 8/3/14

8/3/14 - 8/10/14

8/10/14 - 8/17/14

8/17/14 - 8/24/14

8/24/14 - 8/31/14

8/31/14 - 9/7/14

9/7/14 - 9/14/14

9/14/14 - 9/21/14

9/21/14 - 9/28/14

9/28/14 - 10/5/14

10/5/14 - 10/12/14

10/12/14 - 10/19/14

10/19/14 - 10/26/14

10/26/14 - 11/2/14

11/2/14 - 11/9/14

11/9/14 - 11/16/14

11/16/14 - 11/23/14

11/23/14 - 11/30/14

11/30/14 - 12/7/14

12/7/14 - 12/14/14

12/14/14 - 12/21/14

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

2/15/15 - 2/22/15

2/22/15 - 3/1/15

3/1/15 - 3/8/15

3/8/15 - 3/15/15

3/15/15 - 3/22/15

3/22/15 - 3/29/15

3/29/15 - 4/5/15

4/5/15 - 4/12/15

4/12/15 - 4/19/15

4/19/15 - 4/26/15

4/26/15 - 5/3/15

5/3/15 - 5/10/15

5/10/15 - 5/17/15

5/17/15 - 5/24/15

5/24/15 - 5/31/15

5/31/15 - 6/7/15

6/7/15 - 6/14/15

6/14/15 - 6/21/15

6/21/15 - 6/28/15

6/28/15 - 7/5/15

7/5/15 - 7/12/15

7/12/15 - 7/19/15

7/19/15 - 7/26/15

7/26/15 - 8/2/15

8/2/15 - 8/9/15

8/9/15 - 8/16/15

8/16/15 - 8/23/15

8/23/15 - 8/30/15

8/30/15 - 9/6/15

9/6/15 - 9/13/15

9/13/15 - 9/20/15

9/20/15 - 9/27/15

9/27/15 - 10/4/15

10/4/15 - 10/11/15

10/18/15 - 10/25/15

10/25/15 - 11/1/15

11/1/15 - 11/8/15

11/8/15 - 11/15/15

11/15/15 - 11/22/15

11/22/15 - 11/29/15

11/29/15 - 12/6/15

12/6/15 - 12/13/15

12/13/15 - 12/20/15

12/20/15 - 12/27/15

12/27/15 - 1/3/16

1/3/16 - 1/10/16

1/10/16 - 1/17/16

1/31/16 - 2/7/16

2/7/16 - 2/14/16

2/14/16 - 2/21/16

2/21/16 - 2/28/16

2/28/16 - 3/6/16

3/6/16 - 3/13/16

3/13/16 - 3/20/16

3/20/16 - 3/27/16

3/27/16 - 4/3/16

4/3/16 - 4/10/16

4/10/16 - 4/17/16

4/17/16 - 4/24/16

4/24/16 - 5/1/16

5/1/16 - 5/8/16

5/8/16 - 5/15/16

5/15/16 - 5/22/16

5/22/16 - 5/29/16

5/29/16 - 6/5/16

6/5/16 - 6/12/16

6/12/16 - 6/19/16

6/19/16 - 6/26/16

6/26/16 - 7/3/16

7/3/16 - 7/10/16

7/10/16 - 7/17/16

7/17/16 - 7/24/16

7/24/16 - 7/31/16

7/31/16 - 8/7/16

8/7/16 - 8/14/16

8/14/16 - 8/21/16

8/21/16 - 8/28/16

8/28/16 - 9/4/16

9/4/16 - 9/11/16

9/11/16 - 9/18/16

9/18/16 - 9/25/16

9/25/16 - 10/2/16

10/2/16 - 10/9/16

10/9/16 - 10/16/16

10/16/16 - 10/23/16

10/23/16 - 10/30/16

10/30/16 - 11/6/16

11/6/16 - 11/13/16

11/13/16 - 11/20/16

11/20/16 - 11/27/16

11/27/16 - 12/4/16

12/4/16 - 12/11/16

12/11/16 - 12/18/16

12/18/16 - 12/25/16

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

2/5/17 - 2/12/17

2/12/17 - 2/19/17

2/19/17 - 2/26/17

2/26/17 - 3/5/17

3/5/17 - 3/12/17

3/12/17 - 3/19/17

3/19/17 - 3/26/17

3/26/17 - 4/2/17

4/2/17 - 4/9/17

4/9/17 - 4/16/17

4/16/17 - 4/23/17

4/23/17 - 4/30/17

4/30/17 - 5/7/17

5/7/17 - 5/14/17

5/14/17 - 5/21/17

5/21/17 - 5/28/17

5/28/17 - 6/4/17

6/4/17 - 6/11/17

6/11/17 - 6/18/17

6/18/17 - 6/25/17

6/25/17 - 7/2/17

7/2/17 - 7/9/17

7/9/17 - 7/16/17

7/16/17 - 7/23/17

7/23/17 - 7/30/17

7/30/17 - 8/6/17

8/6/17 - 8/13/17

8/13/17 - 8/20/17

8/20/17 - 8/27/17