Fluid the world flowed under us (Percy MacKay)

Concours Week concludes in Pebble Beach this weekend with the Concours d’Elegance (literally, ‘elegant contest,’ a term coined mid century (20^th) for a parade or contest of classic cars) on the famed 18^th Fairway of the Pebble Beach Golf Links. With tickets starting at $150, I’ll have to wait ‘til next summer. The $500 packages includes, according to the Carmel Pine Cone, special parking, full breakfast, buffet lunch and “other amenities.” I want to know what the “other amenities” are; if they have anything to do with Scarlett Johansson, hold me a ticket. (The paper didn’t say which celebrities would be there.) Also today, the Automotive Fine Arts Society is being held alongside the Concours.

 I’ve been thinking a lot about cars this week; about our addiction to cars, our fascination with cars, our identification with cars, our manipulation by the auto industry, our fetishization of cars, and on and on. I don’t have anything particularly profound to say about it, but I am finding it fascinating to be around such luxurious and fantastic (in all senses) automobiles. I waver from lusting after these Tin Lizzie Platonic ideals to waxing philosophic. What else can a poor boy do? For now, I’m content to simply gaze in stunned silence, and dream. 

The Force That Through The Green Fuse Drives the Lotus

Who would have thought I'd be rhapsodizing about automobiles? I hardly ever even think about cars. I have a love/hate relationship with those gas-guzzling, exhaust-belching, animal-executing death traps.

I love to drive, and I miss my beloved 1997 deep blue mint Mustang convertible. Driving has always been enjoyable to me, but driving the Mustang was ecstatic. My joy was tempered, however, by the knowledge that every time I stepped on the gas pedal I was bringing about the end of civilization as we know it - which, come to think about it, may not be such a bad thing.

I remember clearly the first time I drove through a boggy area in Western Massachusetts and heard the damp symphony of peepers engulfing me; the first time I drove through the dark canyons of Manhattan, the spectacular buildings towering over me; driving north on 91 when it started to rain, and rain harder, until it was pouring, and, top down, I didn't feel a drop. I could go on and on, but the point is, driving my convertible was one of the great pleasures of my life.

Since we moved to California nine months ago, we have been car-less. On one level, I don't miss having a car at all. Obviously, it is inconvenient, but I have done a lot of walking, and have discovered that I like to walk, especially since I am often walking along Monterey Bay. The bus is pretty good, and I don't have to worry about insurance, parking, parking tickets, and all the other hassles of life with Auto. The best part is that I don't feel guilty every time I step on the gas. I feel like proselytizing for walking, and taking the bus, and riding a bicycle. I see these monstrous vehicles everywhere, and watch in horror as people leave them idling while they talk on the cell phone, or, worst of all, watch the sun set over the Pacific (which, incidentally. looks more spectacular because of the smog). 

Going to the Concours on the Avenue (the annual car show in Carmel-by-the-Sea, part of an entire week of fab car events around the area) on Tuesday, was a revelation. Well, maybe not quite a revelation, but it was interesting to see the various ways in which slouching amidst all those remarkable cars affected me. I got in touch with my inner guy/car self, and traveled back on that gray highway to my childhood, when I cut out pictures of cool cars from Life Magazine and heaped them into a hand-made scrapbook. Standing on the blocked-off street in Carmel, I felt lust in my heart. A white Lotus simply caught me unawares. I walked around it, scrutinizing every curve, examining every door handle and gauge, caressing the brushed silver gas cap with my eyes. I do realize that it is just a fantasy, but what a fantasy! Every inch of the car was perfection. I'm not a gear-head - it's mostly an aesthetic thing with me. Parked on the narrow streets of Carmel were some of the most luscious sculptures I have ever seen. Every once in a while, when a Ferrari or a Lamborghini cried out like a magnificent African animal, a thrill went through me. The exhaust smelled good, like a fine cigar, or a pile of burning leaves on the curb of our home in Birmingham, Alabama, when the aroma evoked a season, a way of life, releasing a flood of memories. Once in a while, I would remember that these smoke-spewing beauties were actually causing global warming, and it would kind of harsh my mellow, but the environmental reality would soon give way once again to the erotic thrill of the shapely Jaguar, the ferocious Ferrari, or the paunchy Porsche.

Maybe some day, we'll figure out how to value the environment enough to produce emissions-free automobiles, and value beauty enough to create gorgeous cars for everyone to drive. In the meantime, I have to get back to the Platonic Lotus fantasy. On my walk home. 

Fallen Hero

Dear Friends;

This morning, a giant was felled. Outside, the chainsaws are revving up. They will begin the dismemberment with the trunk that landed on the house next door, chopping it into tiny pieces. Already, the branches are piling up in the driveway. The smell is glorious; an odiferous farewell from a majestic conifer. The surgeon estimates the tree was 80-100 years old. There are 4 major trunks; the largest is about a foot and a half across. Where the old cypress spilt, near the base, you can see the rot. Besides a potential wound to a covered car, there doesn’t seem to be any damage. Removing it will be a carefully orchestrated affair.

Losing a tree that size is always a cause for sadness. When I lived in Leverett, Massachusetts, there were two huge White Pines standing like a royal couple by the road near my house. A bolt of lightning spilt one in half. It was like losing an old friend.

Sarah remembers when our cypress was “nothing by crows, crows, crows.” “Remember when I rescued that baby crow?” She had snuck it into the Aquarium in a shoebox with holes punched in the lid.

For now, the Spanish moss still twists with the breeze; by the end of the day, it will be in the chipper.

Now the machine is making a horrendous racket, an inglorious end for a century of faithful service. Maybe its remains will be sprinkled around somebody’s shrubbery, maybe even here in Pacific Grove.

I imagine I will choke up a little every time I walk out my front door and see the space where that glorious cypress one stood. Now, instead of its beautiful, Spanish-moss-covered branches, I will see the ugly apartment building across the street. But maybe it will open up a space to see the other glorious neighborhood trees. Rest in pieces, my friend.

Paul

Some Things I Do To Save The Earth

We all need to be reminded/remind ourselves that our actions have an effect, not only on those around us, but on the Earth. In that spirit, I share with you some of the little things I do to reduce my consumption (which is far better than recycling in terms of its environmental impact). Colleagues in the environmental organization I worked at used to say, “I’m not telling you what to do; I’m just letting you know there are choices,” implying that the choices they/we make often have harmful effects on the environment. I don’t hold myself up as a paragon of environmental stewardship, but I try to change my habits on a daily basis. Here are some things I do:

• Air-dry my hands. I am horrified to see people using 3, 4, 5 paper towels after washing their hands. Yikes! I would love to know how much paper I have saved in the past year by not using paper towels. Paper towels = Trees.

• Re-use or bring my own cup to coffee shops. Sarah recently bought me a large, cheap plastic cup at Target that I put in my backpack and hand to the barista for my iced tea or coffee. There are all sorts of ways you can avoid using disposable cups. It may mean a slight change of habit, but, after all, don’t we continually take from the earth? Is it too much to give back a little?

• I don’t buy paper napkins, and I try not to use them at all when I’m out. Sometimes this means licking my fingers, but I’m not proud.

• I rarely use paper towels. If I have to clean up a spill, I use a cloth towel or a sponge.

• My brother is a gardener and has been trying to get me to compost, even though I don’t have a garden, and live in an apartment. So, I have begun putting my organic waste into a large plastic pitcher to rot. I’m not sure how I’m going to use it yet, but maybe I’ll get inspired to garden, or dump it somewhere where it will nourish the Earth. By not using the Insinkerator, I’m using less water (a precious commodity here in California), and less electricity.

• I don’t flush the toilet unless it’s really necessary, Enough said.

• When I’m at a public sink with an automatic switch, I keep my hands to one side so the water isn’t running constantly, then move my hands back (to the left) to rinse (then of course air-dry!).

• I use as little soap as possible to get the job done.

• I never use a straw.

• I recycle when it is possible.

• I turn off the water when I’m brushing my teeth.

• I smoke filter-less cigarettes. Did you know that filters contain plastic, and that 30% of beach trash is cigarette butts? If animals swallow them, they can die.

• I don’t watch TV. I don’t have a TV. This means less electrical usage, but most important, I’m not polluting my mind with the insidious messages continuously spewed forth by the Corporate Media. You can learn a lot more about the world by being in Nature. You can get your news online. You can watch DVDs instead of movies or shows on TV. You can recycle you TV!

• I ride the bus. I realize that it is not always practical, but, since I don’t have a car, I have no choice. We Americans believe that choice is good, and in many ways it is. But how much of this is just being spoiled or entitled? I like not having a car, because, besides the fact that I’m not spewing exhaust into the air every time I have a little errand to do, it forces me to plan carefully, it forces me to think about the world in a different way and has taught me that you don’t HAVE to have a car. Since I’ve been walking more, I have lost weight, am in better shape and see things along the way I would not normally see zooming by in an automobile, like flowers. You have a choice. You can plan your life around taking public transportation (when possible), and really save a lot of gas and protect the Earth.

• I don’t buy stuff I don’t need. I know this amounts to sacrilege in our disposable, Consumerist society, but I am trying to really think through whether I really need this magazine or whatever before I buy it. Helping the Earth means really being more conscious about how we live.

These are some of the thinks I do to save the Earth. I encourage you to be creative and find new ways to reduce consumption, and share them with me and others. We need to gently remind ourselves every day that the little things we do can have a real impact on our beloved Earth home. 

snapshot • Rico becoming art

Rico clutches at paper dropped like rain from the ceiling of the Hirshhorn Museum in DC. The paper is dropped automatically - but carefully regulated - from the ceiling by machines, and glides down, gently accumulating on the floor. It's an interesting piece by the American multi-media artist Ann Hamilton. On one of my visits to the Massachusetts Museum of Contemporary Art (Mass MoCA) in North Adams, the big room (the largest indoor art space in the country) was outfitted with a larger version of this piece (I'll post some photos of this piece later), which included sound, with speakers moving up and down within the space. It was a very powerful piece. It's also interesting to see how people interact with the paper on the floor, or as it descends, leaf-like from the high, beamed industrial ceiling. Kids love it. And as you can see in the above photo, so do some adults. 

snapshot • GOFONGA

photo: Sarah Edwards

Dave, Paul & Rico at Amherst Coffee, Amherst, Massachusetts, 2008. Back in the day, the three of us used to hang at Rao's Coffee in Amherst. One day, we all arrived wearing, I kid you not, green jackets and black berets. It was obvious: we were a gang, and we decided we had to have a name. I had just read a history of New York called "Gotham," and in it there is a section on gangs of New York, c. 1850. (Scorsese based his film, in part, on the book.) One commentator on the prevalence of these n'er-do-wells, described a "gang of fellows of no good aspect." There it was: if you take the first letter of each word of the phrase, you get GOFONGA. We are all fans of Scorsese, and often quote gangster movie lines, so it all fit. Dave's mother was going to make us jackets with GOFONGA written on them, but it never came to pass. We are still GOFONGA.

I have spent a great deal of time thinking about friendship, and cultivating friendships. I have been fortunate over the years to have had some really great friends. There is a kind of synergy between two friends that is unique and complex. Without going into a long, rambling musing on the subject, it occurred to me that there is a unique synergy between a group of three friends (and four, and more, I suppose). There is a special bond, a set of shared references, between three friends that has its own life. For example, it is wonderful to go to Nonquitt with Dave, but there is something special about going to Nonquitt with Dave and Rico. We have spent so much time there together, that we have a kind of pattern to our interactions. We have been through some great times, from hours of lying on the beach, to doing cannonballs off the pier, hanging out at the house, preparing dinner (Rico does the main course, Dave and I do the salad), attending Dave's sister's wedding at Nonquitt, and so on. Nobody else gets the references, the jokes, the movie lines, and I suppose that is where the power comes from. We have a joint friendship that is powerfully personal and not dyadic, which can be great, but can also become more easily static. It is the third point that creates the dynamism, the triangle (I won't say the Trinity). So, Dave and Rico: I love you, men! Long live GOFONGA! 

Walburga With Sheer Fabric, Amherst, Massachusetts, 2004.

I shot a series of photos of Walburga in motion, near where she was staying while studying Body-Mind Centering. Behind her is a small pond filled with lotus plants. Late in the summer, the flowers blossom spectacularly, and linger for a few weeks. I visited the pond once during a light rain; the tiny raindrops, upon hitting the broad, waxy leaves, would shatter into a thousand tiny droplets, dance frenetically around the broad, upturned leaves, and settle into the center, where they would form a little pool. When the pool got large and heavy enough, the leaves would gracefully bend over and pour their contents into the pool, making a delightful sound. As the leaf emptied, it would slowly straighten up, creating an upward glissando, until it was back to its upright position, and the process would begin again. Watching the tiny droplets ricocheting around the leaves, the water pouring into the pond at various points and the sight of the gorgeous pink blossoms was magical. The delicate sounds of the rain, the pourings and the drippings amounted to some of the most soul-stirring music imaginable. I never got around to filming the lotus leaf symphony, but the sound lingers in my mind. 

snapshot • live abalone

Abalone are pretty scarce around our coast these days. Native people apparently ate a lot of them, and they were quite abundant along the California coast until fairly recently. The sea otters love their abalone. During the latter 19th century, European hunters drove the California sea otter nearly to extinction (their fur is incredibly dense - up to 1 million hairs per square inch - and soft), and so the abalone flourished once again, since their main natural predator was nearly wiped out. Carmel-by-the-Sea, the town next door, was developed by a visionary man from the bay area, who wanted to build a community that was family-oriented and retained its natural splendor. Many who populated early Carmel were artists and writers who bought up inexpensive lots, including the poets George Sterling and Robinson Jeffers. (For an interesting taste of Carmel's history, check out the entry in Wikipedia on Carmel-by-the-Sea.) Artists and writers, including Sinclair Lewis, Jack London and many others, had big parties on the beach with bonfires, booze, and - you knew it was coming around, didn't you? - abalone. By the early 20th century, when Carmel as an artist colony flourished, the abalone was quite abundant; one could simply walk out in the intertidal and pluck them off the rocks, although they didn't give up their hold on the rocks without a fight. Abalone are essentially large sea snails, and reputed to be quite tasty; their meat sells for as much as $75 a pound. Today, thanks to over-harvesting, the abalone is scarce, and 50-year-old abalone are nearly non-existent. (If you would like more history of the amazing abalone, you have but to ask, and I will be happy to oblige!) As part of my presentation on abalone for a recent job interview, I visited (with Sarah and Ginny) an abalone farm in Monterey, under the commercial wharf. Abalone eat primarily kelp, and can grow to be quite large, although they are generally harvested when they are about 6-8 inches. OK, enough about abalone, already! I know you are dying to get to the abalone song, with lyrics by George Sterling and Sinclair Lewis, amongst others. Picture a bunch of drunken artists on a gorgeous white sandy beach, belting out this simple song around a fire. Here's one of Sterling's lyrics:

Oh some drink rain and some champagne,
And whiskey by the pony
But I will try a dash of rye
And a hunk of abalone.

Here's a verse by Lewis:

Some stick to biz, some flirt with Liz,
Down on the sands of Coney
But we, by hell, stay in Carmel,
And nail the abalone.

But my favorite is by some guy named Anonymous:

Some live on hope and some on dope
And some on alimony
But bring me in a pail of gin
And a tub of abalone.

More than you ever really wanted to know about abalone, but I've had a lot of fun studying them; I've even found a couple of abalone shells! 

GIft Shop, American Art Museum, DC, 2008.

I have photographed glass in many different forms over the years. Modernism loves glass, from the use of glass block in the twenties in architecture, to the defining look of Modernist buildings, with their "walls of glass." The use of steel in large scale construction has freed facades from their load-bearing duties, making it possible to construct whole walls out of glass. Glass' transparent nature has allowed numerous architects, perhaps first and foremost Frank Lloyd Wright, to bring the outside in, and create a dynamic interplay between inside and out. One of Wright's great innovations was to use this interaction to create a flow between nature and built structures, particularly in his Usonian houses. He created the corner window, made possible by the cantilevering of steel beams that met in the corner, so that the glass slabs could be mitered to create a vanishing corner. Advances in glass technology over the years have enabled architects and engineers to collaborate on some spectacular glass structures. 

My interest in glass is not only for what it allows us to see, but for the reflections that echo it's surroundings, especially in cities. Some architects take this to the extreme, creating buildings that nearly vanish as their mirrored facades reflect the sky and city around them. One of the great examples of this is I. M. Pei's Hancock tower in Boston, a sharply angled skyscraper which not only reflects the sky, but also one of the great architectural landmarks, H. H. Richardson's weighty Romanesque stone church, situated right next door, in Copley Plaza. 

I have often used reflections in transparent glass in my photography, enjoying the complexity of reflections, and the accidents that occur when I am photographing in urban areas. The photo above was taken at the National Portrait Gallery, Washington, DC, housed in a gorgeous Greek Revival building that was the site of Abraham Lincoln's inaugural ball in 1865. The courtyard (which I will post in a separate entry) has a new canopy, constructed of wavy steel and glass, creating an indoor space that feels like an outdoor space, complete with the obligatory cafe, and a fountain that appears at first glance to be two huge wet rectangular patches on the floor. It is a stunningly beautiful space. The book store, pictured above, provided me the opportunity to create a minimal compositional structure with glass and lighting doing most of the work.