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So, I found this strip of warning icons on a piece of equipment the other day. Of course, I peeled it off to put it in a scrapbook. But the point I want to get to is, are these two symbols meant to warn us of people who read over our shoulders? Or is it an encouragement to let others read along with us? You can tell they are practicing social distancing: the book holder must be so far away we can see most of the body, but the other reader is so close to us all we see is a head.
We're Here! with photos of reading.
As I was meandering through the Markets of Trajan (Forum Traiani) in Rome, looking for good angles and light, I came across this fellow. I liked the gesture and focus created by the light, shadows, and arch of bricks behind him. He was sketching, perhaps, or maybe reading.
Part of my experiments:)
Cropped image with cross film processed effect using Corel Paintshop Photo.
Cross processing (sometimes abbreviated to Xpro) is the procedure of deliberately processing photographic film in a chemical solution intended for a different type of film.
The effect of cross processing has been well known since at least the early 60s.(Wiki)
a rickshaw driver in agra, taking a break.
not the greatest framing - shot from a moving vehicle in stop and go traffic.
seen at the beginning (or end?) of the Oxford Canal - Hythe Bridge St crossing the Thames in the background.
"Child-Story Readers Second Reader" by Frank N. Freeman, Grace E. Storm, Eleanor M. Johnson and W.C. French. Illustrated by Vera Stone Norman. Copyright 1927-30 by Lyons and Carnahan of USA.
This is a photo that has been a long time in the making...twenty years in fact. Where does the time go? ;-)
A portrait of the truly fabulous Eddi Reader (former lead singer with Fairground Attraction), performing earlier tonight at Edinburgh's Festival Theatre.
I first saw Eddi perform in 1988 at a gig in Southampton Mayfair (I was a postgrad student at the time), when Fairground Attraction were the support act for Deacon Blue. I had seen Deacon Blue once before, but this was just before both groups enjoyed chart success.
There aren't too many times when you come away from a concert having been "wowed" by the support group, but this was one of those occasions. Certainly, as an exiled Scot at the time, it was a joy for me just to hear a Scottish accent. :-)
Eddi had (and continues to have) a commanding stage presence. She exploded onto the stage that night like a force of nature...a mass of red hair...windmilling arms...and a great voice.
A major regret for me is that I never took any shots of her that night. Yes...I should have...drat! I had smuggled my camera into the gig...and was trying to remain "low profile" before Deacon Blue came on (lest I be stopped from taking photos)...and my high speed film was finite (no more than two rolls). So, I didn't take any shots of Fairground Attraction...but should have...D'Oh!
Tonight, I was finally able to make amends, and this is one of the shots I took. I was also able to correct my earlier failure in some style...since I was armed with an official photo pass, for which my considerable thanks are due to my FNPE (that's Friendly Neighbourhood Picture Editor...as you may recall!), Alex Hewitt from The Scotsman.
All this...and I was able to have a brief chat with Eddi after the gig and show her some of my shots. If she thought they sucked, she was gracious enough to hide it...and I'll be passing on my best shots from the gig to her. :-)
If you are unfamiliar with her music, please find out more for yourself by visiting her websites:
Representación del Via Crucis (basado en textos de Llorenç Moyà).
Realizada el Viernes Santo en las escaleras de la SEU (Catedral).
Semana Santa del 2013 en Palma de Mallorca.
www.flickr.com/photos/maytevidri/tags/viacrucis/
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Viacrucis (Stations of the Cross), theatrical adaptation of the text of Llorenc Moya.
Represented Good Friday in the steps of the SEU (Mallorca Cathedral)
during 2013 Holy Week.
www.flickr.com/photos/maytevidri/tags/viacrucis/
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Llorenç Moyà i Gilabert de la Portella (Binissalem, 1916-Palma de Mallorca, 1981). Poeta, dramaturg i narrador. Llicenciat en Dret (1943), assidu participant de la vida intel·lectual de Mallorca i col·laborador de la premsa insular, especialment a Última Hora (1977-1981).
Inicia la seva obra poètica seguint els cànons de l’Escola Mallorquina, amb poemaris com La joglaressa i la selecció poètica La bona terra (1949). Als anys cinquanta s’acosta al postsimbolisme i la seva estètica s’uneix amb els nous corrents poètics. Evoluciona cap a un marcat barroquisme amb Ocells i peixos (1953), Via Crucis (Premi Mn. Alcover 1960) o La posada de la núvia (Premi Ciutat de Palma 1955). Durant els anys seixanta escriu obres on introdueix els mites clàssics amb una intenció de denúncia, com Polifem i Hispania Citerior (editades el 1981), peces en plena relació amb el moment històric que es viu. Als anys setanta escriu I, tanmateix, pallasso… (1978) i d’altres peces de caràcter més intimista.
El teatre culte de Moyà també conté una finalitat crítica i és aplegat en el volum Teatre de la llibertat (1993), on destaca Fàlaris (Premi Ignasi Iglésies 1961) i el drama històric El fogó dels jueus (Premi Ciutat de Palma de teatre 1963). Posteriorment es decanta per la recreació del teatre tradicional mallorquí i a partir de 1977 escriu un conjunt d’entremesos, reunits en quatre trilogies, entre elles, El ball de les baldufes (1981). Influenciat per Llorenç Villalonga i Camilo José Cela, també escriu narrativa. Publica l’aplec A Robines també plou (1958), la novel·la curta Viatge al país de les cantàrides (1993) i Memòries literàries (1971, en volum el 2004).
Image mandatory credit: Photo by Michael Williams/MyLifeInPlastic.com
Doll: from the collection of Darian Darling
Full quote from THE GOLDFINCH by Donna Tartt:
I suppose it’s ignoble to spend your life caring so much for “objects.” Caring too much for objects can destroy you.
Only – if you care for a thing enough, it takes on a life of its own, doesn’t it? And isn’t the whole point of things – beautiful things – that they connect you to some larger beauty? Those first images that crack your heart wide open and you spend the rest of your life chasing, or trying to re-capture, in one way or another? Because, I mean – mending old things, preserving them, looking after them – on some level there’s no rational grounds for it.
Great paintings – people flock to see them, they draw crowds, they’re reproduced endlessly on coffee mugs and mouse pads and anything-you-like. And, I count myself in the following, you can have a lifetime of perfectly sincere museum-going, where you traipse around enjoying everything and then go out and have some lunch. But if a painting really works down in your heart and changes the way you see, and think, and feel, you don’t think ‘oh, I love this picture because it’s universal,’ ‘I love this painting because it speaks to all mankind.’ That’s not the reason anyone loves a piece of art.
It’s a secret whisper from an alleyway. Psst, you. Hey kid. Yes you. An individual heart shock. Your dream. You see one painting, I see another, the art book puts it at another remove still, the lady buying the greeting card at the museum gift shop sees something else entire, and that’s not even to mention the people separated from us by time – four hundred years before us, four hundred years after we’re gone – it’ll never strike anybody the same way at all but – a really great painting is fluid enough to work its way into the mind and heart through all kinds of different angles, in ways that are unique and very particular. Yours, yours, I was painted for you. (My partner) used to talk about fateful objects. Every dealer and antiquaire recognizes them. The pieces that occur and recur. Maybe for someone else, not a dealer, it wouldn’t be an object. It’d be a city, a color, a time of day. The nail where your fate is liable to catch and snag.
…But the painting has also taught me that we can speak to each other across time. And I feel I have something very serious and urgent to say to you, my non-existent reader, and I feel I should say it as urgently as if I were standing in the room with you:
That life – whatever else it is – is short. That fate is cruel but maybe not random. That Nature (meaning Death) always wins, but that doesn’t mean we have to bow and grovel to it. That maybe even if we’re not always so glad to be here, it’s our task to immerse ourselves anyway: wade straight through it, right through the cess-pool, while keeping eyes and hearts open.
And in the midst of our dying, as we rise from the organic and sink back ignominiously into the organic, it is a glory and a privilege to love what Death doesn’t touch. For if disaster and oblivion have followed this painting down through time – so too has love. Insofar as it is immortal (and it is) I have a small, bright, immutable part in that immortality. It exists; and it keeps on existing. And I add my own love to the history of people who have loved beautiful things, and looked out for them, and pulled them from the fire, and sought them when they were lost, and tried to preserve them and save them while passing them along literally from hand to hand, singing out brilliantly from the wreck of time to the next generation of lovers, and the next.