Elizabeth Adams's Blog, page 39

A Brooklyn Evening

I've just returned from five days in Brooklyn, celebrating the launch of the latest book by my friend Teju Cole, a collection of essays called Known and Strange Things. When you read it, which I certainly hope you will, along with essays from the New Yorker and New York Times you'll see some words that appeared first here at The Cassandra Pages -- a tribute both to Teju's generosity and our long friendship, which has at times allowed him to freely publish work here that didn't fit in more mainstream journals.

That generosity was also manifest on Monday night, when, during the course of a party in honor of his own book, Teju invited me and two other contributors to Documentum 2: Pictures and Words, Wah-Ming Chang and Emily Johnson, to hold a New York mini-launch of the issue, presenting our work along with his, as one of the guest-curators of the issue. Our photography was projected on a large screen in the garden as we each read from our pages, and the guests formed an attentive and appreciative audience. It was a special pleasure for me to read my own work, because as a publisher I'm usually the one organizing events, or encouraging and promoting other people's writing -- probably I should do it more often.

Jonathan and I had helped during the day to get the venue ready for the party, and one of our tasks - most happily accepted - was to do the flower arrangements. Fortunately the food was catered, and it was an extremely delicious Palestinian feast. As it turned out, there was a small group of Middle Easterners present, who sort of "found" each other during the course of the evening - people from Lebanon, Syria, Afghanistan, Iraq, Palestine, along with Africans and African-Americans, Indians, and a few boring white Americans like myself -- it was great, and so was the music, selected by D.J. Teju himself.

I'll have more to say about the trip and about Teju's book later, but for now, I wanted to share these photographs with you. It was wonderful to be in Brooklyn, and in New York City, and -- most of all -- to be with dear friends.

Documentum 2: Words and Pictures

As I've mentioned here, I've become fairly active on Instagram during the past year or so, posting both artwork and photos, often accompanied by a text. Some of these have been cross-posted here, but by no means all. I've gotten to know a new community of people who are working with words and images on that social media platform, and it's become an important part of my creative life.

Recently I was invited by my friend Teju Cole to contribute work to the second issue of Documentum, a publication started by the photographer Stephen Shore, publisher/photographer William Boling, and designer Dawn Kim to explore the world of Instagram, and to curate, present, and preserve some of its innovative and interesting work in a printed form. Teju was asked to be one of the guest curators for Documentum 2: Words+Pictures, which was launched a few weeks ago in Amsterdam.

Anyway, after a long delay in Canadian customs, my copy finally arrived today, while I was practicing the flute, with the sun streaming in from the terrace and the whir of bike commuters going to work. I leafed through the pages, very happy to see the work of friends and also of people I'd like to discover and know: it felt like a moment of connection, closeness, and affirmation, even though we're all living very far apart.

One of the stories the editors picked (in the picture, in the left column) also appeared on my blog here. The other two, both from Mexico City, are below. If anyone is interested in a paper copy of Documentum 2, they're tabloid size, printed on high-quality newsprint, seriously inspiring, and available here.

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A friend once wrote: "Africa is normal." And Mexico is normal too, it simply contains within it, and within each day, contradictions and overt expressions of the glaring inequalities of the world which many people would find intensely uncomfortable. Some have said they are frightened for us. I am frightened for them.

 

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Adios.

I just took my last walk around the neighborhood. The light, as usual for the late afternoon, was ravishing, the colors intense. I had intended to take photographs but instead I just walked, saying a silent goodbye, fixing it in my mind: the crowd of locals standing in line outside the Veracruz restaurant waiting for their pescados y mariscos; the young woman carrying a bag of pork rinds; the old woman sitting on her stoop in a blue apron tied at the sides; the fragrance of the juice stand; the indigenous woman who fries cactus leaves and the one who sits all day by her bucket of calla lilies; the candy and balloon shop; the ice cream store; the corner fruitseller with its piles of strawberries and guavas; the hairdresser and barber; the place where we bought yogurt; the place we bought tequila; the place we bought the orange roses and the man came running after us to give me a single yellow one, just because.

One Pear, Two Approaches

We were away this week, at Lake Winnepesauke in New Hampshire for the wedding of a young man we've known and loved since he was tiny, and the wonderful young woman he has chosen. That was a very happy event, and except for a torrential downpour and hailstorm that let loose half an hour after the outdoor ceremony (what a close call that was!) the weather and the lake were gorgeous, and reflected the happiness of the bride and groom.

Back here at the studio, I've been sewing a lot - more about that in another post - there's been a lot of fabric through the sewing machine since the beginning of summer. But I had time this week to do a couple of drawings/paintings and thought I'd share them here, since the same pear features in both but the approach is quite different.

In the one above, typical of a lot of my sketchbook pages, I've begun with a fast fountain pen line drawing, and then added some color. This was a delicious sugar-dusted orange and almond cake, made and brought by friends as a contribution to dinner one night; the next day it seemed to be crying out to be immortalized, so I sat down and drew it, adding the pear to the plate and leaving the silver cake cutter where it was, reflecting the golden crumbs of the cake interior. Once I would have slavishly tried to reproduce the exact colors of the scene; now I make up my own much more limited and intentional palette: here the golden browns are enhanced by the red in the napkin, and set off by the blue of the plate. Blue is also the basic tone used for all the shadows. I'm more interested now in creating a mood and an effect, rather than detailed realism.

 

In this one, I did a loose pencil under-drawing to place the shapes, and then painted directly with watercolor, without any pen line at all. Because this was also done in my sketchbook, I didn't have the benefit of "good" watercolor paper with a bit of tooth, and resiliency when soaked, but I like the result anyway. The effort here, in addition to the controlled, limited palette, was to define and relate the shapes and volumes in a more abstract way, drawing a bit with the brush, but keeping it all very loose. Because I hadn't done enough careful planning before beginning (the painting quickly got more ambitious than the initial sketch) I had to crop into the center to achieve a pleasing composition, but that's OK, it's good to crop or even cut up our work, turn the pages upside down and sideways. But I love spontaneous watercolor: its transparency, immediacy, and clarity are unequaled in any other medium, and in spite of always being less-valued than oil on canvas, I find it the most challenging, and want to get back to doing more of these.

Summertime Means Gardens

George's garden, East Bolton, Quebec.

My love of flowers and gardens is at its most passionate during these months when the pots on the terrace are overflowing, the community garden is a mixed-up riot of color, and we get to visit some friends and family in the countryside, where there are both gardens and roadsides full of wildflowers.

We're eating our fill of strawberries from Isle d'Orleans, the first blueberries are in season, and in another week or so there will be luscious Ontario peaches.

 

I hope you're enjoying summer where you are, if you're in the Northern Hemisphere, that is, and hello to my friends down under - today it's 87 degrees F here, and I'm almost (but not quite) feeling nostalgic for the opposite season! Yesterday I spent way too many hours working in my community garden plot, cleaning up the overgrown borders, digging out unwanted plants and weeds, moving things around. This morning I could barely get out of bed, but once I got moving and took a couple of Tylenol, I was functional and feeling glad I had done all that work.

Dual.

Champlain, NY

An essay of mine appears in today's Montreal Gazette. I read some of the comments last night, and then stopped; I won't engage in a discussion in the newspaper's comment thread, but please feel free to weigh in if you go over there - and I'd be happy to hear your thoughts here. Although no one likes being misunderstood, I'm still glad the piece was published. In the process I've learned several important things that I'd like to share with you, my faithful and sensitive readers who I am appreciating today more than ever.

First, subtle, lyrical essays do not translate well to newspapers or online websites where people expect a different sort of writing. I had originally written the essay for this blog, and perhaps it should have simply stayed here.

Second, editorial decisions can shift the tone and thrust of a piece. My original title was "Dual" and I had submitted the two photographs above and below. The paper showed me their edits, but not the changed title or photo (congested traffic at a border crossing) until after the piece was published. Part of what I was trying to convey was what it is like to be a dual citizen of an older age, traveling between two cultures, and specifically my own sadness about what has changed in America since 9/11.

Historical memory, of course, is constantly in the process of being created and erased. For me, born in 1952, the fifties are a sort of blur, underlain by the chill of the Cold War, and though I can explain intellectually and with hindsight some of what that time was "like," my own American reality began the year JFK was shot in Dallas. Likewise, someone who was young at the time of 9/11 and is now in their twenties cannot know personally what America was like before the Patriot Act, Homeland Security, Al-Qaeda, drone warfare, Guantanamo, Iraq, ISIS, international terrorism, and the rise of social media.

There is more to it than that, though. To some extent, our reality is imposed upon us, but in other ways, we - some of us in the privileged west, at least - choose how to see it, even choose how much to see. What is objective truth, and what is subjective and personal? That is an important question, and it underlies much of the political and social debate in many societies right now. I think it is also a question we have to keep asking ourselves throughout life, because rigidity on that score is an absolute peril.

Ever since I was young, I saw that American culture contained tremendous opportunity and genuine goodness, and at the same time - even in the small peaceful town where I grew up - I sensed the racism and violence that often lurked beneath the surface and sometime erupted. The popularity of Trump is not a surprise to me, and because I have seen the economic and social deterioration caused by globalization, poor government, the concentration of wealth in the hands of a few, and the societal effect of constant wars, among other reasons, I think I understand the anger and hopelessness many people feel, and why some gravitate to a person who cries, "Make America Great Again," and casts blame on The Other.

Canada is not the same. When you move here, you think it is a similar society, but - perhaps particularly in Quebec - the similarities are superficial, the differences immense. I have found that Canadians, unless they have traveled a lot or lived in the U.S. for an extended period of time, simply do not understand what it is like to live in a society where owning guns is normal and violence is much more prevalent. Here are just a few examples: in my small town in Vermont, the neighbor on one side had a shotgun with which he threatened us when, during a flood, we tried to clear the ditch and culvert dividing our two properties. The neighbor on the other side collected pornography, throwing knives, and assault rifles. Our street was once evacuated because wayward teenagers had shot holes in the gas tanks on the side of a house. There were violent crimes, including murder, and women did not feel safe walking beyond the borders of the village at night. And this was mostly before drugs came heavily into that area, spawning whole new categories of suffering. Yet, we all lived our daily lives as "normal" because that was our reality - this is what people do everywhere. I am sure that many of my neighbors didn't know about some of this, because they didn't want to, or because they didn't look. And to a person from a dictatorial, oppressive regime or country torn by civil war, that town would seem like the height of peacefulness and security.

Was I afraid then, and am I afraid when I go to the U.S now? No. I try to be intelligent and reasonable, and not naive. The implication that I was afraid making a routine day trip to little Champlain, New York is ridiculous. What I am afraid for is America itself, and I think that is an anxiety shared by many who look into the current fissures and see an abyss that has actually been there for a long time. What was done to indigenous peoples had an effect. Slavery, racism, unequal opportunity and a refusal to look at this as a society have a lasting effect. Failure to look at what happened in Vietnam had an effect. A decade of war in the Middle East has had an effect. The ballooning of police and border control departments, and increased power of a surveillance state creates an effect. Racial and ethnic profiling create an effect. Terrorism has an effect. The media have an effect. And the longer we turn the other way, the more we allow our governments to do nothing, and the more we accept incursions into personal freedom, because of anxiety about "the other", the more we give away.

Canada is actually different. Yes, there is racism and some police brutality, but it is still questioned and debated by society. It is vastly harder to own a gun here, and violent crime is much lower: in the U.S. the homicide rate per 100,000 people in 2012 was 3.9; in Canada it was 1.4 (0.86 in Quebec in 2014.) To illustrate how absurd the protection of guns can be in the U.S., here's this from a journalist friend in Cleveland, Ohio, where the city is trying to prepare for protests at the Republican National Convention: "On top of it all, the city has banned nearly everything you can think of that is longer than it is wide from the outer 'event zone' in the heart of downtown — lumber, wooden handles for signs, pipes, sticks — but under state law, it cannot ban openly carried firearms."

Canadians complain constantly about the healthcare system, but by law all citizens and permanent residents have access to this basic human need as well as many other social programs that are largely taken for granted. There may be less wealth but there is also less extreme poverty, and there is a "social safety net."

I wish Canadians could see what they have more clearly, because freedom can erode quite quickly. A truth we can all perhaps agree on is that you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone.

 

Lacolle (hamlet of Odelltown), Quebec. July 8, 2016.

Leaf by leaf.

 

It was a hard week, wasn't it? I've written something in response to Dallas, but have submitted it to a publication first. If they don't take it tomorrow, I'll put it up here.

In the meantime, sewing and drawing have helped, and I also got out my flute and did some practicing for the first time in a long while, mostly Bach sonatas. Today there was a work bee at my community garden, but being a drizzly day, few people showed up. One person spread mulch on the paths, another weeded the perennials along the chain-link fence that divides the garden from the community swimming pool, where a lone swimmer swam laps in the rain.

I spent an hour working mostly by myself at the compost bins, a different scale of salad, cutting up discarded weeds and stems into short lengths, and turning the pile with a pitchfork to aerate it and incorporate some soil and partially-decomposed organic material. It was exactly the right task for today: meditative but practical - the sort of work, it occurred to me, that a monk might do in a monastery garden, wordlessly praying all the while for the world outside the walls. And then I stowed my muddy gloves in my backpack, unlocked the gate, and rode my bike through the deserted Sunday morning streets of this peaceful city where very few people have guns, pondering my only weapon, a pen.

 

This Week's Drawings

I've been drawing almost every day lately. That feels good. I think it's my way of reacting to Brexit, violence, political posturing and failures of leadership, and all the other awfulness that's going down around us: in this one small corner of the universe, I can have some moments of sanity, of paying attention, of honoring what's in front of my eyes, creating something new out of that grace-given raw material. When we can no longer see the beauty or respond to it, we've lost and they've won. I guess this is where I'm making my stand: five minutes while the water boils, before the asparagus goes into the pot. And somehow the world rights itself, at least for a little while.

Here's a moodier watercolor from a different day. This is cropped from a larger page that didn't work as a whole, but when I cut it down I liked this section. The fallen petals make all the difference, to me: it's no longer just a pretty vase of flowers.

 

One day while drawing out on our terrace, I made this little speeded-up video of the drawing process and posted it on Instagram. People seemed to like it so I wanted to share it here - view it full-screen for better effect.

And here's the finished drawing, about 9" x 6". In the video I'm working with my favorite fountain pen, a vintage Schaeffer/Levenger "Seas" series that has a really responsive gold nib. I don't travel with this pen - then I use my more-replaceable Lamy - but when I'm around home and the studio it's what I use. Somehow that's grounding, too - using good and familiar tools, arranging the supplies, getting ready to paint.

Are you managing to find a practice that helps keep you centered and gives you some meditative, absorbing moments of peace and focus during these anxiety and anger-producing days, when the news seems to go from bad to worse? I hope so.

And, hopefully, we can then go out from our terraces and apartments and cabins with some positive energy. If you'd like to see one way some people in my country are making a difference, please take a look at this NYTimes article, "Refugees Hear an Unfamiliar Word: Welcome. - How Canadian hockey moms, poker buddies and neighbors are adopting Syrians, a family at a time. At our cathedral, the money has been raised, volunteers committed, and plans made, we're just awaiting a refugee family still in Beirut, waiting for their papers. We can all give a little money, write some Amnesty letters, join with others. It feels good to take a real step toward our better selves, especially on this weekend between Canada Day and July 4.

Peonies

Peonies, leaf dish, and book. watercolor, pen and ink, about 6" x 9".

Alone one night this week I felt an urge to read the conversation between Julius and Farouq again. I took down the book and read chapter nine out on the terrace, while drinking a glass of white wine and eating a bit of Manchego. Then I had dinner, while this scene stared at me like a silent companion across the table, and then I had no choice but to make this painting.

Recent Sketches

 

Last week while we were visiting my father, I had some time to do some sketching -- and wished for more. Maybe later this summer. I was inspired by the wildflowers  -- wild phlox and daisies and Indian paintbrush -- and some of the ceramics my mother enjoyed, and it was great to sit by the lake and draw.

And back at home, there were peonies and lupine in my garden - faded now, but committed to paper and scanned for posterity, in all their busy elegance!

These Humble Weeds

The peace of my recent time in the American countryside helps calm me as I return to Canada and the city, and try to process the tragedy in Orlando and the accompanying rhetoric of hate and fear. All around us, these small, silent worlds of nature exist, where diversity is the defining characteristic that gives harmony and richness to the whole. Nature has so much to teach us, but too often we fail to look, to slow down; we resist becoming humble and meek enough to see ourselves as part of these worlds too -- it's easier for us to comprehend the grandeur of mountains, a fantastic sunset, flowers and trees and creatures we can name. Shunryu Suzuki wrote: "every weed is a treasure." Last weekend, the quiet time I spent with these fragile, insignificant weeds reminded me how precious and unique each being is. They gave me the strength to continue resisting hatred and despair, to keep working for justice, and opened my eyes again to beauty and gratitude.

To my dear LGBT friends: please know that I not only continue to stand with you, but will try to do even more to ensure justice and equality for all. And to my friends of color and especially you of Middle Eastern/Near Eastern ethnic origins or Islamic faith, please know that I will continue to speak out against hatred, profiling, scapegoating, and oppression. Most of all, I pledge not to become numb, not to forget, and to take care of myself so that I can function in the difficult emotional and political environment in which we find ourselves.

On Saturday, I attended a Quaker memorial service for a close family friend. It was held in a roofed pavilion, open on three sides, in a sun-bathed field; about a hundred people sat in circles facing inward, and out of the collective silence, broken only by the occasional call of a crow and the sound of the wind, individuals rose to speak in memory of a woman, very dear to me, who had worked quietly and steadily all her life for the equality of women, for peace, and for justice, in spite of many personal difficulties. Through the recollections of others, I learned a lot about her that I hadn't even realized. The calm steadiness of that gathering also stayed with me the next day, when we learned of the attack in Florida. Her life -- and the possibility of each of our lives to make a difference -- stood as a counterpoint to the violence, and rhetoric of fear, hatred, and vengeance.

All of this took place in a conservative part of New York State, where the economy is depressed, jobs have vanished, family farms are disappearing, and many people are anxious, depressed, and hopeless. Not surprisingly, populist candidates appeal. In spite of the fact that Hillary had been their Senator, Bernie won the Democratic primary there, and in almost all the rural counties of New York - but there are more registered Republicans than Democrats in this area, and Trump won handily in the Republican primary. I saw a lot of Trump signs, both the official printed kinds erected on lawns, and also homemade ones fixed to posts or placed on buildings: "Vote President Trump," "Make America Great Again." In talking to a fairly wide variety of people -- family, friends, and strangers -- I sensed both anger and anxiety, regardless of their political persuasions.

It's easy to despair and feel helpless in times like these, when justice seems very far away and violence seems ever-present, both in sequential tragic events and as a persistent thread of response. But I think our first responsibility is to take care of ourselves so that we can, like the woman whose life we were celebrating, continue to work quietly and steadily out of a strong personal philosophy and shared collective sense of what is right - not just for now, but for the longterm. Even if justice for all can't arrive in our lifetime, we have to keep our eyes on that prize, just as so many people have done before us.

It's important to develop that inner philosophy and a community of ties to others for support and collective action, but we also have to learn how to care for ourselves when we feel drained, assaulted, and powerless. Each of us has multiple wells that we can go to for restoration, but ironically it's when we feel the worst that it's hardest to remember them, or go there intentionally. Maybe it's music, or nature, or a particular place; maybe it's prayer or meditation, or talking to friends or reading certain books: it doesn't matter. What matters is that we take our own emotional temperature and do the self-care we need to do so that we can be restored to positive energy, and find ways to continue.

I wonder what you do, what you need? And I also wonder how we can help each other better. Because one thing is certain: love is what matters most in this world, and we absolutely must find ways to love ourselves, the world, and each other even more.