Pathos - πάθος, ους, τό
Saturday, October 15, 2016
When Peggy first came into my studio for a photo session for
the Georgia Straight she was a young and exciting ballerina. Best of all she
was smart. I was impressed by her ambition. A few weeks after the session, she
called me up to tell me that she had enjoyed the experience and wanted me to
take more photographs. This I did. It was fun for me too as she was an
excellent subject.
Then one day she called. Her tone of voice seemed to be
light (she was actively making it seem so). She told me something like this, “I
am still dancing but I am changing my profession.” I had my suspicions but I
did not want to reveal it. She then suggested that I take some photographs that
would reflect the change. It was then that she told me that she was abandoning
her ballet and becoming an exotic dancer. Knowing this I suggested that she
bring all the clothes related to both professions and that we would do a
sequence.
 |
| The first session with Peggy for Georgia Straight cover |
At the time I was most interested in photographic sequences.
I called them narratives and they consisted of five (sometimes three) smallish
photograph inserted in one long mat and then framed.
Some of my sequences featured my eldest granddaughter (as a
very young dancer) posing individually and alternating with her ballet teacher.
Another was of a Japanese woman coming into my studio dressed in a kimono and
then shedding it little by little. One sequence I have often shot is of a woman
in which only in the last and fifth picture do you find out she is 9 months
pregnant.
The session with Peggy had an unpredictable conclusion.
She shed her ballet outfit completely which included her ballet shoes. Then she
began to put on very red and very high heeled shoes. It was then that she began
to cry. In fact she began to cry (as I look at this photograph) when she posed
for me naked but with the protection of her slipper by her face.
But there was a happy ending to this. Peggy became (until she quit and is now a jewelry designer) the best pole dancer I have ever seen. And she has recently communicated that she is returning to BC from Alberta in the spring. It would seem that we are going to renew our photographic relationship.
You Want Me Pale - Alfonsina Storni
Friday, October 14, 2016
Tú me
quieres alba,
Me
quieres de espumas,
Me
quieres de nácar.
Que sea
azucena
Sobre
todas, casta.
De
perfume tenue.
Corola
cerrada
Ni un
rayo de luna
Filtrado
me haya.
Ni una
margarita
Se diga
mi hermana.
Tú me
quieres nívea,
Tú me
quieres blanca,
Tú me
quieres alba.
Tú que
hubiste todas
Las
copas a mano,
De
frutos y mieles
Los
labios morados.
Tú que
en el banquete
Cubierto
de pámpanos
Dejaste
las carnes
Festejando
a Baco.
Tú que
en los jardines
Negros
del Engaño
Vestido
de rojo
Corriste
al Estrago.
Tú que
el esqueleto
Conservas
intacto
No sé
todavía
Por
cuáles milagros,
Me
pretendes blanca
(Dios te
lo perdone),
Me
pretendes casta
(Dios te
lo perdone),
¡Me
pretendes alba!
Huye
hacia los bosques,
Vete a
la montaña;
Límpiate
la boca;
Vive en
las cabañas;
Toca con
las manos
La
tierra mojada;
Alimenta
el cuerpo
Con raíz
amarga;
Bebe de
las rocas;
Duerme
sobre escarcha;
Renueva
tejidos
Con
salitre y agua;
Habla
con los pájaros
Y lévate
al alba.
Y cuando
las carnes
Te sean
tornadas,
Y cuando
hayas puesto
En ellas
el alma
Que por
las alcobas
Se quedó
enredada,
Entonces,
buen hombre,
Preténdeme
blanca,
Preténdeme nívea,
Preténdeme casta.
You Want Me Pale
You want me pale,
Made of sea foam,
A mother of pearl.
Made of white lily,
Untouched among the others.
Made of thinning perfume.
Petals sealed.
Not touched by moonbeams,
Not called 'sister' by the daisies.
You want me like snow,
You want me white,
You want me pale.
You have had all
The cups in your hands,
Flowing fruit and honey,
Staining your lips dark.
You have been in the banquet
Laced with grapevines,
Relinquishing your meat,
Reveling in Bacchus.
You have been in the gardens,
Black with deception,
Wearing red and
Running into ruin.
You have kept your
Skeleton intact, and by
Miracles I do not know,
Still expect me to be white
(God forgive you for it),
Still expect me to be spotless
(God forgive you for it),
Still expect me to be pale.
So flee into the woods,
Run into the mountains;
Clean your mouth;
Live in a cottage;
Touch the damp earth
With your hands;
Nourish your body with
The bitter root;
Drink, like Moses,
From the rocks;
Sleep upon the frost;
Rejuvenate your flesh
With saltpetre and water;
Speak with the birds,
Rise with the sun.
And when your body
Has returned to you,
When it's become entangled
In the bedroom of your soul,
Only then, good man,
Can you expect me to be pale,
Expect me to be snow,
Expect me to be untouched.
Translated from the Spanish
by Sarah Fletcher
Mirada de Soslayo - Cortísimo Metraje - Julio Cortázar
Thursday, October 13, 2016
Of late I have laid to rest my Jorge Luís Borges and
Emily Dickinson books to read Argentine novelist Julio Cortázar who wrote
really short stories, some of them single paragraphs. I found this story
because I was thinking of the Spanish expression “mirar de reojo” (in Cortázar story) which sort of
translates to “look from the corner of your eye.” It does not sound as poetic
nor can it compare to that other lovely expression “mirar de soslayo.” Many of his stories are erotic and most contain a surprise (askew?) ending.
The reason is that my long-time friend Tarren has that
askew eye look on her face. Those eyes come with the finest body I have
ever photographed in my many years of doing that delightful task.
In the late 50s when I was around 16 I while boarding at
St. Edward’s High School in Austin I used to go to some bookstores on what then
was a very seedy 6th Street. The cheap barber college was there. But
you had to be careful as my classmates warned me, “If you are not careful some
spick is going to roll you.” In those pocket bookstores (before the era of easy
availability of pornography) I looked for books that had sexy passages. My
mother read Frank G. Slaughter’s medical novels. These had many steamy passages.
One constant in some of those books was the use of the word loins. It was not
used in the biblical term of “girding up your loins for battle.” I believe that
word has lost its coinage in this 21st century.
But I must again bring back my friend Tarren into the
picture. Of all the beautiful women I ever photographed she was the only one
who ever, I can honestly afirm, stirred my loins! There, I have said it. I have photographed her for
years and there is that “mirada de soslayo” or could it be a sleepy eye.
Whatever it is it is deadly.
I have told this story a few times on exactly how deadly
she almost became. Flying in a de Havilland Beaver on a weekend from shooting a
CBC serial show in Egmont the pilot was approaching the Vancouver dock when he
suddenly made an abrupt movement and I thought we were going to crash into the
water. He pulled up and landed. As I deplaned there was a beautiful woman with
the shortest red silk hotpants I had ever seen. She was wearing red pumps. She
said to me, “How are you doing Alex?” The pilot looked at me incredulously and
said, “You know her? She is why we almost crashed!”
And so for your delight here are a couple of shots of
Tarren and those wonderful eyes of her.
CORTÍSIMO METRAJE
(cuento)
Julio Cortázar (Bélgica-Argentina, 1914-1984)
Automovilista
en vacaciones recorre las montañas del centro de Francia, se aburre lejos de la
ciudad y de la vida nocturna. Muchacha le hace el gesto usual del auto-stop,
tímidamente pregunta si dirección Beaune o Tournus. En la carretera unas
palabras, hermoso perfil moreno que pocas veces pleno rostro, lacónicamente a
las preguntas del que ahora, mirando los muslos desnudos contra el asiento
rojo. Al término de un viraje el auto sale de la carretera y se pierde en lo
más espeso. De reojo sintiendo cómo cruza las manos sobre la minifalda mientras
el terror crece poco a poco. Bajo los árboles una profunda gruta vegetal donde
se podrá, salta del auto, la otra portezuela y brutalmente por los hombros. La
muchacha lo mira como si no, se deja bajar del auto sabiendo que en la soledad
del bosque. Cuando la mano por la cintura para arrastrarla entre los árboles,
pistola del bolso y a la sien. Después billetera, verifica bien llena, de paso
roba el auto que abandonará algunos kilómetros más lejos sin dejar la menor impresión
digital porque en ese oficio no hay que descuidarse’.
Último round (1969), Madrid, Debate, 1992
Tu más Profunda Piel - Julio Cortázar
Wednesday, October 12, 2016
Tu
más Profunda Piel – Julio Cortázar
Cada
memoria enamorada guarda sus magdalenas y la mía -sábelo, allí donde estés- es
el perfume del tabaco rubio que me devuelve a tu espigada noche, a la ráfaga de
tu más profunda piel. No el tabaco que se aspira, el humo que tapiza las
gargantas, sino esa vaga equívoca fragancia que deja la pipa, en los dedos y
que en algún momento, en algún gesto inadvertido, asciende con su látigo de
delicia para encabritar tu recuerdo, la sombra de tu espalda contra el blanco
velamen de las sábanas.
No me
mires desde la ausencia con esa gravedad un poco infantil que hacia de tu
rostro una máscara de joven faraón nubio. Creo que siempre estuvo entendido que
sólo nos daríamos el placer y las fiestas livianas del alcohol y las calles
vacías de la medianoche. De ti tengo más que eso, pero en el recuerdo me
vuelves desnuda y volcada, nuestro planeta más preciso fue esa cama donde
lentas, imperiosas geografías iban naciendo de nuestros viajes, de tanto
desembarco amable o resistido de embajadas con cestos de frutas o agazapados
flecheros, y cada pozo, cada río, cada colina y cada llano los hallamos en
noches extenuantes, entre oscuros parlamentos de aliados o enemigos. ¡Oh
viajera de ti misma, máquina de olvido! Y entonces me paso la mano por la cara
con un gesto distraído y el perfume del tabaco en mis dedos te trae otra vez
para arrancarme a este presente acostumbrado, te proyecta antílope en la
pantalla de ese lecho donde vivimos las interminables rutas de un efímero
encuentro.
Yo
aprendía contigo lenguajes paralelos: el de esa geometría de tu cuerpo que me
llenaba la boca y las manos de teoremas temblorosos, el de tu hablar diferente,
tu lengua insular que tantas veces me confundía. Con el perfume del tabaco
vuelve ahora un recuerdo preciso que lo abarca todo en un instante que es como
un vórtice, sé que dijiste " Me da pena, y yo no comprendí porque nada
creía que pudiera apenarte en esa maraña de caricias que nos volvía ovillo
blanco y negro, lenta danza en que el uno pesaba sobre el otro para luego dejarse
invadir por la presión liviana de unos muslos, de unos brazos, rotando
blandamente y desligándose hasta otra vez ovillarse y repetir las caída desde
lo alto o lo hondo, jinete o potro arquero o gacela, hipogrifos afrontados,
delfines en mitad del salto. Entonces aprendí que la pena en tu boca era otro
nombre del pudor y la vergüenza, y que no te decidías a mi nueva sed que ya
tanto habías saciado, que me rechazabas suplicando con esa manera de esconder
los ojos, de apoyar el mentón en la garganta para no dejarme en la boca más que
el negro nido de tu pelo.
Dijiste
"Me da pena, sabes", y volcada de espaldas me miraste con ojos y
senos, con labios que trazaban una flor de lentos pétalos. Tuve que doblarte
los brazos, murmurar un último deseo con el correr de las manos por las más
dulces colinas, sintiendo como poco a poco cedías y te echabas de lado hasta
rendir el sedoso muro de tu espalda donde un menudo omóplato tenía algo de ala
de ángel mancillado. Te daba pena, y de esa pena iba a nacer el perfume que ahora
me devuelve a tu vergüenza antes de que otro acorde, el último, nos alzara en
una misma estremecida réplica. Sé que cerré los ojos, que lamí la sal de tu
piel, que descendí volcándote hasta sentir tus riñones como el estrechamiento
de la jarra donde se apoyan las manos con el ritmo de la ofrenda; en algún
momento llegué a perderme en el pasaje hurtado y prieto que se llegaba al goce
de mis labios mientras desde tan allá, desde tu país de arriba y lejos,
murmuraba tu pena una última defensa abandonada.
Con el
perfume del tabaco rubio en los dedos asciende otra vez el balbuceo, el temblor
de ese oscuro encuentro, sé que una boca buscó la oculta boca estremecida, el
labio único ciñéndose a su miedo, el ardiente contorno rosa y bronce que te
libraba a mi más extremo viaje. Y como ocurre siempre, no sentí en ese delirio
lo que ahora me trae el recuerdo desde un vago aroma de tabaco, pero esa
musgosa fragancia, esa canela de sombra hizo su camino secreto a partir del
olvido necesario e instantáneo, indecible juego de la carne oculta a la
conciencia lo que mueve las más densas, implacables máquinas del fuego. No eras
sabor ni olor, tu más escondido país se daba como imagen y contacto, y sólo hoy
unos dedos casualmente manchados de tabaco me devuelven el instante en que me
enderecé sobre ti para lentamente reclamar las llaves de pasaje, forzar el
dulce trecho donde tu pena tejía las últimas defensas ahora que con la boca
hundida en la almohada sollozabas una súplica de oscura aquiescencia, de
derramado pelo. Más tarde comprendiste y no hubo pena, me cediste la ciudad de
tu más profunda piel desde tanto horizonte diferente, después de fabulosas
máquinas de sitio y parlamentos y batallas. En esta vaga vainilla de tabaco que
hoy me mancha los dedos se despierta la noche en que tuviste tu primera, tu
última pena. Cierro los ojos y aspiro en el pasado ese perfume de tu carne más
secreta, quisiera no abrirlos a este ahora donde leo y fumo y todavía creo
estar viviendo.
Christopher Dafoe - That Civil Man
Tuesday, October 11, 2016
 |
| Christopher Dafoe |
On Friday morning, that morning when Trump’s recording on
a bus first emerged onto the media I
noticed that words like bi--- (female dog), pu—sy ( not vagina as reported but
accurately vulva) and other words were bleeped. By the afternoon they were not.
At age 74 I am still shocked when someone on TV (even if
it is supposed to be funny) uses that four-letter word. My hero MSNBC’s Rachel
Maddow only goes as far as saying “frigging”.
Since I am from the generation that grew up with WalterCronkite I abhor what the 21 st century has done to transform and
demean journalism. Perhaps it has to do with journalism now really being
journalism/entertainment.
Could we say it began in the United States with Lenny
Bruce and then taken over by George Carlin? A Houston friend took me to a
performance by Carlin in the mid 80s. I was not impressed.
All this reminds me of a man with whom I worked for some
years when he was the arts correspondent for the Globe& Mail. He is my
friend Christopher Dafoe who knew in what direction journalism was
headed so he quit the business and became a highfalutin lawyer for a Vancouver
law firm.
In the years that I worked with him when I would set up
my photo equipment and lights while he interviewed celebrities of all kinds (he
kindly permitted me to be present so that I could get an idea on my subject’s
movements and gestures) I noticed that he hardly ever spoke and the persons he
faced seemed to be comfortable and told all. He was never nasty nor pushy. His demeanour
was a sort of “aw shucks I am just a lowly journalist in a one-horse town”.
Dafoe was the sort of man that would invite novelist
Elmore Leonard for a hamburger and interview him over fries.
Now as a lawyer I call him every once in a while to check
if something I might have written in a blog can pass the libel test. Or I call
him for his take on some arts scene situation in our city. He is invariably
kind in his remarks. In person when I run into him at the theatre he is the
very man I remember him to be.
What ever happened to civility?
Debbie Blair a Sweet Soul I Met Many Times
Monday, October 10, 2016
 |
| Debbie Blair - Photographer unknown |
Just 10 years ago at EDAM Dance performances at the Western
Front I would take my older granddaughter Rebecca then 9 or so. A few years
later we were accompanied by her younger sister Lauren.
Always there to greet
us with her pleasant smile and low key voice was Debbie Blair who worked, my
guess, as a volunteer for Peter Bingham’s troupe of contact improvisational
dancers.
Somehow Debbie Blair and I crossed paths many times and in
many places. The first time was in the late 80s when I was shooting a brochure
for the then Emily College of Art & Design. I was going to take some
photographs of a life drawing class and Blair came up to me concerned on exactly
how I was going to photograph her and the young man on the platform on the
centre of the studio. I told her not to worry as I was going to
photograph them from the rear. And this I did.
In the beginning of the 90s I was dispatched by the
Georgia Straight to shoot on the town of Sointula on Malcolom Island North of
Vancouver Island for a piece by Taras Grescoe. It was later published by the
Guardian with my photographs.
I do not remember the circumstances but when I got off the
ferry at Sointula there was a smiling Debbie Blair. What we talked about is now
hidden in my head by that faulty memory that comes with age.
I can only hope that this sweet soul be found soon and
unharmed.
La Muchacha Rubia - Julio Cortázar
Sunday, October 09, 2016
Patio de
tarde
Minicuento
- Texto completo.
Julio
Cortázar
A Toby
le gusta ver pasar a la muchacha rubia por el patio. Levanta la cabeza y
remueve un poco la cola, pero después se queda muy quieto, siguiendo con los
ojos la fina sombra que a su vez va siguiendo a la muchacha rubia por las
baldosas del patio. En la habitación hace fresco, y Toby detesta el sol de la
siesta; ni siquiera le gusta que la gente ande levantada a esa hora, y la única
excepción es la muchacha rubia. Para Toby la muchacha rubia puede hacer lo que
se le antoje. Remueve otra vez la cola, satisfecho de haberla visto, y suspira.
Es simplemente feliz, la muchacha rubia ha pasado por el patio, él la ha visto
un instante, ha seguido con sus grandes ojos avellana la sombra en las
baldosas. Tal vez la muchacha rubia vuelva a pasar. Toby suspira de nuevo,
sacude un momento la cabeza como para espantar una mosca, mete el pincel en el
tarro, y sigue aplicando la cola a la madera terciada.
FIN
|
