Think, Look, Make

Sunday, December 19th was a rainy day spent in the hills behind Novato, where I traveled and got lost with Herbert Gold, stumbling upon some sheep and finally landing at Barinaga ranch. There, I enjoyed a lively crowd of fascinating people, a beautifully designed home and  adelicious meal of ram. The meal started with soup, led into other accompaniments and salad, ended with Marcia's cheese (in true Basque order and style). Here are some photos from this day: Herbert Gold (author), Marcia Barinaga (hostess and cheesemaker) and Don A. Glaser (Nobel prize winning physicist).

The First Rain     by Yehuda Amichai The first rain reminds me Of the rising summer dust. The rain doesn't remember the rain of yesteryear. A year is a trained beast with no memories. Soon you will again wear your harnesses, Beautiful and embroidered, to hold Sheer stockings: you Mare and harnesser in one body. The white panic of soft flesh In the panic of a sudden vision Of ancient saints. Morning Rain   by Tu Fu A slight rain comes, bathed in dawn light. I hear it among treetop leaves before mist Arrives. Soon it sprinkles the soil and, Windblown, follows clouds away. Deepened Colors grace thatch homes for a moment. Flocks and herds of things wild glisten Faintly. Then the scent of musk opens across Half a mountain -- and lingers on past noon.   Like Rain it Sounded Till it Curved by Emily Dickinson Like Rain it sounded till it curved And then I knew 'twas Wind -- It walked as wet as any Wave But swept as dry as sand -- When it

After reading Lolita, I  remember feeling that this novel was really about time and our relationship with time.  In Vladimir Nabokov's autobiography, Speak/Memory, he writes about the spiral: "The prison of time is spherical and without exits." He continues: "The spiral is a spiritualized circle. In the spiral form, the circle, uncoiled, unwound, has ceased to be vicious; it has been set free." the Milky Way Louise Bourgeois Delaunay

At Judith Gold's home, Alameda

Rummaging through boxes of photos today, I came upon these photos I made years ago. The one on the left is from Joshua Tree National Park. The one on the right is a "cliche-verre" or photographic drawing of sorts that I made with ink on plastic of a dying flower in a vase. Years later I instantly saw a connection. Could it be we are affected by the same forms, spirit, lines, over and over again, responding to some more than to others? Maybe these are about rising and falling, staying alive though being crippled in some way, existing in a space and environment that is stronger than we are.

Years ago I photographed Léa Campistron in Les Aldudes, the Basque Country...with her grandfather Léon Arambel, who emigrated to California in the 50's to work as a sheepherder for 13 years, then returned home. They've lived next door to each other for all of her life. Here they are in 2010: We should all be so lucky.

Two women from Deschapelles, Artibonite Valley