My Stolen Moment

I've been running on a treadmill of ceaseless errands and carpool runs and playdates and appointments and writing and blogging and trying to fit in six hours of sewing a day since January. On Monday, I reached a point where my brain craved a breather.

I wanted silence and pretty pictures. Luckily, I found both.

My stolen moment is brought to you by Hipstamatic, the iPhone app I had absolutely no business uploading yesterday. It was the best $1.99 vacation I've ever had.

You can choose between different lenses, film types and flashes to create ambient, otherworldly images of the most commonplace of objects.

A fake styrofoam bird plopped into a vase of flowering branches becomes imbued with the moodiness of a modern Old Master painting.

A wallet and pair of sunglasses carelessly tossed onto a counter are given a beautiful sepia wash that make it look a bit like a postcard for a sale at Paul Smith.

Hipstamatic gives the most conventional of events a profundity that far outweighs the situation. Here, Twiglet exudes a trenchant intelligence which belies the fact that he's merely waiting for me to feed him.

A trio of containers over the stove reminds me that we're almost out of sea salt, and so I snap a reminder.

A cheese dome from Fortnum and Mason reminds me Luca needs more Jarlsberg for his lunch tomorrow.

Changing the lens to one called "Kaimal", my dining room takes on the aspect of a salvaged photo from a distant time. Very Retronaut-ish, actually.

Going outside, the magnolia tree appears to have blanketed the entire back garden with its glorious pink hues.

Changing the lens again (to the "John S.") gives the same scene a more stark, Wuthering Heights feel.

My pale silvery-gray tree looks as though it's cocooned in moss, a dream I've long harbored but know is unsuitable for a Hollywood climate. Through Hipstamatic, my fantasy comes to life.

I pick up my current book, V. S. Pritchett's "Complete Collected Essays." I've only recently discovered him and can't stop dipping into his short, incisive book reviews. He appears to have written about practically every English author under the sun (Evelyn Waugh, E. F. Benson, George Gissing, Charles Dickens, Anthony Trollope and about a thousand others) and his essays provide a wonderful launch pad for further reading.

I have an hour before carpool duty beckons, so I sink into a wooden rocking chair and flip to a page at random (it's that kind of book). I land on an essay about "The Remembrance of Things Past"...

...which is entirely appropriate given the fact that tomorrow my brief idyll into indolence will be but a distant memory and I will be hard at work again.

But I'll have the pictures.

How Connected Are You?

Everything is related to everything else, although it may not be apparent upon first glance. The same patterns repeat themselves over and over -- in nature, in textiles, in arrangements and in random moments. When I travel, I take photographs of everything that catches my eye, whether it's a flowering vine arched around a window or an arrangement of trash on the side of the road. I don't try to understand why something compels me to photograph it, I merely compile and absorb. When I arrive home, I look over my photos for styles or patterns which repeat themselves. Sooner or later, these motifs bubble to the surface and reveal themselves through my home, my wardrobe, and the way I choose to live.

For instance, I firmly believe that my many photos of beautiful women in brightly colored saris...

(Taj Mahal, 2007)

...led me to gradually over the last two years adopt a much more colorful wardrobe...

...and perhaps instigated my predilection for arranging books as though they were rows of ladies in brightly colored saris...

...and vigorously reaffirmed my love for the stripe.

Likewise, this assemblage of prayer flags fluttering in the wind...

(Potala Palace, Tibet, 2007)

...looks like a religious version of my inspiration board, which flutters in the wind (when the French doors are open) with the pinned-up talismans of my life.

From the vantage point of time, I can see that the exhilarating clash of patterns on these hand-woven Tibetan clothes... 

(Lhasa, 2007)

...probably made me fearless enough to attempt my own version at home.

And in this beautifully organized and highly colorful arrangement of grocery items in Lhasa...

(Tibet, 2007)

...I am reminded of my own living room with its own tightly-packed arrangement of books and personal objects.

Finally, this gnarled tree in Angkor Wat, entwined in a pas de deux with the ancient temple beneath it...

(Cambodia, 2007)

...reminds me of the old tree trunk I bought on sale and had topped with glass. Its branches now support some of my own ancient artifacts: a trilobyte, an ammonite and a woolly mammoth tusk.

For a moment, close your eyes and reflect upon your own unique assortment of life experiences. Now look around you. Can you make any connections to what you've seen and how you live? 

Just curious.

Study in Brown and Green

A perfect lawn is a pampered lawn; and pampered lawns, like pampered people, are apt to develop a number of tiresome diseases.

Beverley Nichols, "Garden Open Tomorrow", 1968

For months now, I have gazed at a brown landscape in my back garden. Our gardener Bernardo laid down a gorgeous new carpet of grass back in September and then day by day, Piero and I watched it slowly wither away. Who knows what the cause was; I'm a newcomer to horticulture and Bernardo never got beyond scratching his head and mumbling something in Spanish. Perhaps my aforementioned case of thumb noir infected him, too.

In photographs, I've resorted to trickery, avoiding the lawn entirely or waiting until sunlight blows it out of focus...

...or making sure something big and bulky obstructs the view. 

Two weeks ago, however, Bernardo reseeded the back lawn. With mounting palpitations, I have been waiting for a first exuberant glimpse of green.

Well, it's hatching. And I feel quite maternal about it.

I am going to spoil that baby grass, I am going to pamper it, I am going to cosset it, I am going to spoonfeed it. This time, I am making no mistakes. The trees have been trimmed, the sprinklers have been re-adjusted...

..and the toads have been put on high alert.

After all, isn't there so much more potential pleasure to be gained through perseverance, obstinacy and not giving up than to be handed a garden in perfect and constant bloom? 

That's what I tell myself, anyway.

The Sun Also Rises

Due to the onset of Daylight Savings Time this past weekend, I got an hour's less sleep this morning and fell into the grip of grumpdom.

(Darkest dawn, Taj Mahal)

However, after allaying it with copious cups of coffee, my soul suddenly became filled with hope and optimism.

(Heavenly morning, Yorkshire, England)

This lasted until The Divine Italian informed me, as he headed off to work, that the cats had peed in Luca's bed last night.

(Approaching rainstorm, Lake District, England)

Then I felt alone, abandoned, lost. 

(Impenetrable smog, Delhi)

But then I realized today is Wednesday, which means the cleaning lady is coming.

(Optimism in flight, Jaipur, India)

Irma would help me.

(Two pairs of tracks, Telfs, Austria)

But then guilt and a nagging sense of responsibility set in.

(Proustian sunset, Paris)

I was no coward.  I was a man's woman and I would do the job myself, goddammit. 

(Hemingwayesque mountains, Kilimanjaro)

Plus, maybe the cats only peed a little bit.

(Hope floating, Michigan)

Everything would be all right.  

(Double sunset, Kauai)

(All photos taken with my trusty Nikon D40)

A Matter of Perspective

Whenever I'm travelling, I find myself inexplicably drawn to taking photos of doorways and windows, be they man-made or God-given.  I don't quite know what the pull is.  They feel powerful and mysterious and Narnia-like. 

(Gargunnock, Scotland)

(Macchu Picchu, Peru)

I almost believe that if I were to cross over the threshold, something magical would happen.

  

(Stirling, Scotland)

Perhaps what I see through my camera lens is a world full of possibilities.  The other side symbolizes limitless potential and hope, a Future Yet to Come.

(Udaipur, India)

Where I am, on the shadowy interior, is rooted in the past.  My body is motionless, trying to keep the camera still.  My breath is shallow.  My entire being is focussed not on where I am standing, but on where my gaze is looking. 

(Angkor Wat, Cambodia)

In these moments, I feel elated by the possibilities in front of me.  It's all out there, waiting.

(Gargunnock, Scotland)

Sometimes my gaze is fixed on something truly breathtaking.

(Agra, India)

Other times, it's the frame itself that equally inspires.

(Bruges, Belgium)

( Cuzco, Peru)

(Delhi, India)

I am a shadow seeker...

(Portrait of the blogger, Delhi, India)

...ever grateful to the two boys in my life who are always ready to take my hand and nudge me into the sunshine.

(Stirling, Scotland)