In the past few hours, I’ve received news feeds about how the Coronavirus/COVID-19 has produced some benefits. The beneficiary of these plusses primarily go to our planet. And because it benefits the environment, we benefit as well. I’m sure you’ve come across some of these reports on your smartphones or your computer.
Mother Earth has put into motion her own stewardship campaign to save us from ourselves [the hope] and to help save the planet [the ultimate goal]. How it works is pretty straightforward: by reducing human mobility, you reduce the amount of energy used in manufacturing, production, travel and other areas of civilization. Is this outbreak a means by which Nature looks to heal its own ailments, ailments which we created?
The BBC filed this report early this morning [Thursday–May 19th].
More specifically, there has been a measurable reduction in VOC [volatile organic compounds] as well as many gases—-such as CO, CO2, methane just to name a fews.
And in northern Italy, the space satellite cannot lie. They are also privy to the science that shows a drop in air pollution.
Unfortunately, the majority of folks will return to their old and familiar ways. Still, it was nice to learn that for a short time, parts of our planet had a chance to be healthier. Can’t help but think just how much further we would be if each of us attacked pollution, waste and climate change the way we’re attacking the Coronavirus/COVID-19.
With respect to Huey Lewis and the News for their song of the same title—and to rebels, romantics and nonconformists of my generation—photographers have long known of the practical beauty of a square image. It’s symmetrical and requires no effort to turn a camera to a vertical position, then back again to horizontal.
The square is neither in landscape nor portrait mode. It just is.
At 3,491 feet [1,064 meters], Mt. Greylock is the tallest peak in Massachusetts. On a clear day, you can see upwards of 90 miles or so. That wasn’t the case on this late-autumn afternoon. Still, the quietness and solitude of the place proved cathartic.
The Bascom Lodge on the peak allows hikers and those bitten by wanderlust to stay overnight though that recently ended when 5-inches of new snow fell the weekend of October 22, 2016. The Lodge reopens next spring.
I love “time machines.” Old print ads, mechanical cameras and fountain pens, and of course, museums.
Coming across black & negatives and prints—especially those you haven’t seen in decades—is a journey all its own. I’m not waxing forlornly for the past, but I am revisiting these slices of time: what are the “whys” and “wheres” of these images?
In the 1978 movie, Heaven Can Wait, there’s a whimsical scene showing souls boarding a plane destined for heaven. They’re all adults, quietly and in orderly fashion waiting their turn to be checked on a list before taking the stairs. If I was to peer through a special window, one that would allow a real-time glimpse of say, a staging area, these 2 images represent what I’d see.
Why so barren? Nirvana has no time: no early or late or anything resembling the way we measure time passing. How can you measure a concept or notion that has neither a start nor an end? What I’m really saying here is that while heaven or Nirvana has no clock, we do, and the barren quality of these images can mean several things, each a statement to our genuine condition as human beings. To wit:
Few reach Nirvana
Nirvana waits for the few
Souls are crowding another place, one quite incorrigibly different and likely perilous to reach
Frankly, if I chose another moment to peer through that existential, real-time window, I’d probably see children. They’re the ones who have the least amount of pretense. They are the real innocents of our civilization.
Of late I’ve been using an “obsolete” system and getting some incredible results. To wit:
Hasselblad 553 ELX
Zeiss Sonnar 150mm f/4.0 CF
Imacon Ixpress V16 digital back
Imacon Image Bank [tethered hard drive to back]
This photo is an enlargement of the top left-hand corner. I was checking for focus and didn’t realize the scale of magnification I was using in post production. I was astounded to say the least. [click on photos to enlarge] Can you read what’s written on the Jersey barrier? Can you see the name of the front loader on the left? Notice the pile of stones to the right of the frame…
Nostalgia has a way of displacing your sense of place—physically, emotionally, even spiritually. We recently returned from Colorado visiting our daughter and her boyfriend. It was our first time in Colorado. I now have a better understanding of why those 2 love it out there. You encounter beautiful scenery, a lot of open spaces, a more relaxed pace of living and so forth. For the most part, 95% of why we wanted to go was to see our kid [no longer a “kid” I might add]. If she was flung further, we’d still find the means to visit her.
The Gold Hill Inn had a strong pull for me. Specifically the place harkened to a time when you knew most of the townsfolk by name, offered a greeting [mornin’ ma’am] and rarely took for granted what was in front of you. Here was an old mining town and an inn that held no pretense. What you see is what you get, as they say. Conversation you might have overheard was direct and nothing of the dialect we hear or read about in media, whether broadcast, print or electronic.
Aside from the obvious modern conveniences of electricity, telephone, running hot and cold water and bathrooms, you can see, smell and hear the straightforward attributes of the time. The wine cabinet looked sturdily built and beautiful to look at. The National Cash Register, while obsolete, still proudly showed off its utility and independence; it required no electrical power but the firm hand of the bartender. No LCDs or CRTs here, thank you. And you better have strong hands and fingers to manipulate the keys and drawer of this handsome machine. And directly above that cash register, what better contrast than the nude portrait positioned just so, as if recumbent on the edge of that register. The fecund suggestions in both portrait and cash register shouldn’t be lost on anyone. Strength, abundance, beauty, even mindfulness, all expressed in just those 2 objects.
The floorboards were just that: a floor made out of wood, perhaps oak or another type of hardwood. When you walked on it, you felt its idiosyncracies. Not all the planks lay perfectly flat, some joints stood higher or lower than the one adjacent. If you happen to wear boots—especially cowboy boots—the firm, “thud” of a heel made known to all that you weren’t innocuous or at least couldn’t be. Try as you might, you can’t ignore that heavy sound on the floor; your natural reaction was to look over to see who was there. Old, young, man or woman, the “thud” sounded and felt the same. In its simplest form, the declarative sentiment nostalgia often gives to us is, “How much more do you need?” Today, “want” versus “need” often precedes more. All the fundamentals of life are laid bare in this town. Aesthete is in the eye [and pocketbook] of the beholder, but standing in that town, in that room, on main street with an open mind and unhurried cadence only enhanced the value of what was genuine. What you see is what you get, indeed, but sometimes I need perspective on what I already have.
As is often said, the only constant in life is “change.” From the simple, to the complex, there’s an undeniable commonality about anything that changes: something is altered, modified, created or destroyed.
Such is the case when the Homestead recently sold. No longer a home, it is now a house, an empty canvas ready for what every new homeowner does to a key living space: change it to make it their own. In effect our ancestral abode has shed the attributes that made it our home. Think of a brand losing or morphing its attributes into qualities altogether different. Such qualities are not entirely alien, but changed enough to see and feel a difference from what was once a space all too familiar.
It’s been decades since I lived at the Homestead full-time. At present, I choose to recall good memories as the not-so-good memories dissolve into the negative space created by vacated furniture and other items. As noted in a lyric from a Carol King song, “…yesterday’s gone, but today remembers…”
Carlo Centeno 