Walter Mosley - A Gentle Man
Saturday, September 07, 2019
In the 80s on 4th Avenue Vancouver had an amazing bookstore,
Mystery Merchant, that catered to whodunit people.
I had the pleasure of taking portraits of many mystery and
detective novelists from abroad. One of the most intriguing one of them all was
a quiet spoken man whose gentle elegance somehow is reflected in all his
writing. All of us including my friend Les Wiseman, who were into murder
mysteries and police whodunits, read Walter Mosley. In those 80s (he has
written all kinds of stuff since) his star protagonist, was hard-boiled
detective Easy Rawlins, a black private investigator and World War II veteran
living in the Watts neighbourhood of Los Angeles.
With time my memory of the man has faded and all I have are 7
6x7cm b+w negatives. My camera’s rolls gave me 10 exposures
but it seems I stopped at number 7.
Today, Saturday, as in all Saturdays we get the
Sunday NY Times hard copy delivered to our door around 7:45 in the evening. In
the first section that I always read (most of the time inside a hot bath) was a
killer but sensitive essay by Mosley. I do not think that the copyright cops of
the NY Times will come after me for reproducing it here.
Why I Quit the Writers’ Room -The worst thing you can do to
citizens of a democracy is silence them.
Earlier this year, I had just finished with the
“Snowfall” writers’ room for the season when I took a similar job on a
different show at a different network. I’d been in the new room for a few weeks
when I got the call from Human Resources. A pleasant-sounding young man said,
“Mr. Mosley, it has been reported that you used the N-word in the writers’
room.”
I replied, “I am the N-word in the writers’ room.”
He said, very nicely, that I could not use that word except
in a script. I could write it but I could not say it. Me. A man whose people in
America have been, among other things, slandered by many words. But I could no
longer use that particular word to describe the environs of my experience.
I have to stop with the forward thrust of this story to
say that I had indeed said the word in the room. I hadn’t called anyone it. I
just told a story about a cop who explained to me, on the streets of Los
Angeles, that he stopped all niggers in paddy neighborhoods and all paddies in
nigger neighborhoods, because they were usually up to no good. I was telling a
true story as I remembered it.
Someone in the room, I have no idea who, called H.R. and
said that my use of the word made them uncomfortable, and the H.R. representative
called to inform me that such language was unacceptable to my employers. I
couldn’t use that word in common parlance, even to express an experience I
lived through.
There I was, a black man in America who shares with
millions of others the history of racism. And more often than not, treated as
subhuman. If addressed at all that history had to be rendered in words my
employers regarded as acceptable.
There I was being chastised for criticizing the word that
oppressed me and mine for centuries. As far as I know, the word is in the
dictionary. As far as I know, the Constitution and the Declaration of
Independence assure me of both the freedom of speech and the pursuit of
happiness.
How can I exercise these freedoms when my place of
employment tells me that my job is on the line if I say a word that makes
somebody, an unknown person, uncomfortable?
There’s all kinds of language that makes me
uncomfortable. Half the utterances of my president, for instance. Some people’s
sexual habits and desires. But I have no right whatsoever to tell anyone what
they should and should not cherish or express.
A few years ago when a group of my peers said that they
supported outlawing the Confederate flag, I demurred. Don’t get me wrong. I
have no warm and fuzzy feelings about that flag, but I do know that all
Americans have the right of self-expression. (Also, if someone has that flag in
their mind, I’d prefer to see it on their front porch too.)
I do not believe that it should be the object of our
political culture to silence those things said that make some people
uncomfortable. Of course I’m not talking about verbal attacks or harassment.
But if I have an opinion, a history, a word that explains better than anything
how I feel, then I also have the right to express that feeling or that word
without the threat of losing my job. And furthermore, I do not believe that it
is the province of H.R. to make the decision to keep my accusers’ identities
secret. If I’ve said or done something bad enough to cause people to fear me,
they should call the police.
My answer to H.R. was to resign and move on. I was in a
writers’ room trying to be creative while at the same time being surveilled by
unknown critics who would snitch on me to a disembodied voice over the phone.
My every word would be scrutinized. Sooner or later I’d be fired or worse —
silenced.
I’m a fortunate guy. Not everyone can quit their job. But
beyond that, we cannot be expected to thrive in a culture where our every word
is monitored. If my words physically threaten or bully someone, something must
be done about it. But if you tell me that you feel uncomfortable at some word I
utter, let me say this:
There was a time in America when so-called white people
were uncomfortable to have a black person sitting next to them. There was a
time when people felt uncomfortable when women demanded the right to vote.
There was a time when sexual orientation had only one meaning and everything
else was a crime.
The worst thing you can do to citizens of a democratic
nation is to silence them. And the easiest way to silence a woman or a man is
to threaten his or her livelihood. Let’s not accept the McCarthyism of secret
condemnation. Instead let’s delve a little deeper, limiting the power that can
be exerted over our citizens, their attempts to express their hearts and
horrors, and their desire to speak their truths. Only this can open the
dialogue of change.
Late on Time
Friday, September 06, 2019
 |
| Hosta tardiflora 6 September 2019 |
At last count there were at least 4000 hosta cultivars. A
species is a term used to denote plants that are found in the wild that have
not had human interference (tough!). Cultivars or sports are plants that change
for no apparent reason and may look different. They could have larger or
smaller flowers. They could have variegated leaves. Most plants grow in
particular zones. But some plants can adapt to cold weather or hotter weather
or survive and then even thrive in drought.
Hostas are considered by some of us enthusiasts as the white
mice of the plant kingdom. You may have a nursery with 100 hostas of a particular
variety. Suddenly in their midst you spot one that is different (a lot or only in
detail). It would be impossible to have all those “selections” in one garden.
Nursery people will select that different plant (it could even be a rose) and
then propagate it by division or by cloning.
One thing hostas are pretty good at is in having a pattern as
to when they bloom. Most do so in June, July. The sometimes called August
Lilly is a species hosta, Hosta
plantaginea which flowers in August. It is the only hosta (plus its sports) to
have white fragrant flowers.
An English plantsman, Eric Smith sometime in the early 70s
noticed that a species hosta Hosta
tardiflora, which blooms in early September was
in bloom at the same time as blue leaved
Hosta sieboldiana “Elegans”. He
quickly played like a bee and pollinated the two. The result was a slew of
hostas now called the Tardianas. They have the blue colour of the sieboldiana
but instead of having large rounded leaves they are long and narrow (lanceolate
is the correct term) leaves.The two most famous are
Hosta 'Halcyon' and
Hosta 'June'.
Just as it is supposed to be doing my Hosta tardiflora is in
bloom today.
CBC's Glorious Gloria
Thursday, September 05, 2019
From my car radio CBC Radio 1 I have found out that Gloria
Macarenko is in Ottawa today receiving her Order of Canada.
I have been hit by a stream of consciousness of fond memories as I have had
the good fortune of having photographed her since the late 80s. My first photos
were for CBC bus shelter ads. Since then I have had many studio sessions with
her.
There is only one other woman who can compare with her for
presence (be it TV or radio), intelligence and a supreme radio voice. That
other woman,
Carole Taylor I first photographed at the CBC.
For me, a person of
mixed ancestry, the CBC helped me in many
ways to become a Canadian and, most important, a profitable one. In 1975 when I arrived with my family from Mexico, I found
out the correct pronunciation for Newfoundland. Radio Canada gave me my first
good paying job and I photographed many variety shows as a stills man.
My mother used to say in Spanish (something that Macarenko
will understand as she speaks it well), “Hay poca gente fina y educada como
nosotros.” It has all to do with the fact that in Spanish educación is more than
education, it also means well mannered.
For years every time I photographed Arthur Erickson I used
to tell myself that he would have been first on any list as a guest for a
reception for the Queen of England. By now you would certainly know that second
on that list would be our gracious CBC luminary, Gloria Macarenko.
In my thick file of photographs of her I am hard-pressed to
find the ultimate one. There are far too many ultimate ones.
One of my pleasures is to go to the Bodega on Main and run
into her where we can converse in Spanish with manager Héctor Medina.
A special memory for me was an invitation by former
cameraman
Michael Varga to show up, with my then 13 years old granddaughter, at
a taping of a Macarenko news program. Watching her in what seemed to be an effortless
endeavour makes me believe that she is one of a kind.
Had this woman, who first emerged as talented in Prince
Rupert, not have been noticed, I can only surmise that she could have also been a psychiatrist. On her
couch I would have revealed all with no compunction. And of course that is why nobody can match her
at an interview.
Her Order of Canada is well-deserved.
¡Te felicito!
¡Oh, dioses de las ratas y de las cavernas,
Wednesday, September 04, 2019
El científico nuclear, Ernesto Sábato escribió, para mí la mejor novela argentina. Publicó
Sobre Héroes y Tumbas en 1961. La novela
Rayuela de Julio Cortázar aunque interesante está (para mí) en segundo lugar.
Al encontrar una rata disecada en mi jardín en ese momento supe lo que iba a hacer.
Informe
Sobre Ciegos
¡Oh,
dioses de la noche!
¡Oh,
dioses de las tinieblas, del incesto y del crimen,
de la
melancolía y del suicidio!
¡Oh,
dioses de las ratas y de las cavernas,
de los
murciélagos, de las cucarachas!
¡Oh,
violentos, inescrutables dioses
del
sueño y de la muerte!
¿Cuándo
empezó esto que ahora va a terminar con mi asesinato?
Informe
Sobre Ciegos, Sobre Héroes y Tumbas
Ernesto Sábato, 1961
Más Ernesto Sábato
Resumen de otoño - Julio Cortázar
Tuesday, September 03, 2019
 |
| Hydrangea quercifolia 'Snow Flake' 3 September 2019 |
Perhaps the coming of autumn will not be so sad this
year. Our garden is in decline and the colour of fall is everywhere. There is
some beauty, here in there as our
Hydrangea quercifolia (called that by the oak-shaped leaves) turns to browns. Some
of our roses are in their
last gasps as they prepare to bid us goodbye.
The coming of autumn will be escaped a bit by our trip to
Buenos Aires in a few weeks. It will be spring there.
Resumen
de otoño – Julio Cortázar
En la
bóveda de la tarde cada pájaro es un punto del
recuerdo.
Asombra a veces que el fervor del tiempo
vuelva,
sin cuerpo vuelva, ya sin motivo vuelva;
que la
belleza, tan breve en su violento amor
nos
guarde un eco en el descenso de la noche.
Y así,
qué más que estarse con los brazos caídos,
el
corazón amontonado y ese sabor de polvo
que fue rosa o camino.
El vuelo excede el ala.
Sin
humildad, saber que esto que resta
fue
ganado a la sombra por obra de silencio;
que la
rama en la mano, que la lágrima oscura
son heredad, el hombre con su historia,
la lámpara que
alumbra.
Artsy - Accuracy Not
Monday, September 02, 2019
 |
| Hosta 'Island Breeze' 7 September 2019 |
Sometime in the beginning of this century during an idle
summer day in our old house in Kerrisdale I wondered what would happen if I
place one of my old roses on my scanner. It was beginner’s luck that has
persisted all these years and which gives me lots of pleasure and relaxation.
In the beginning after that to me spectacular image of
Rosa ‘Reine Victoria’, for many years
now gone to its maker,
I considered the
scientific use of scanning the flowers from our garden at 100% size and giving
the scan the day’s date. I thought that gardeners in other parts of Canada or
abroad might want to compare notes. That never happened. When folks see my
large inkjet prints they congratulate me for the lovely photograph. When I
inform them that they are scanographs and that I am a scanographer they
immediately lose interest.
As this summer fades I am more inclined to scan the
interesting plants. This endeavour is a form of relaxation and of dabbling.
 |
| 10 August 2019 |
While accuracy is paramount for me I do believe that I am
diverging from that goal and going in the direction of “artistic images”.
