I think I was around 11 years old when I first became aware the dire prognosis of climate change for humanity. Back then, and it was back then, (let's see if anyone can figure out when 'back then" is), the condition was known as "The Greenhouse Effect" but the treatment prescribed was the same - reduce carbon emissions.
Clearly we have failed. And every year, the signifiers and warnings grow less and less abstract, looming as large as an iceberg over a rowboat from the Titanic. Yet, nothing changes politically.
Back in the 80s, a grassroots campaign that evolved out of fear of global warming managed to produce a ban on Hydroflourocarbons in aerosols and greatly diminish the use of styrofoam. All the fast food chains stopped using styrofoam. It's clear that popular movements that lead to, wait for it, widespread government! action, can produce change (that goes for causes i don't so much like too, unfortunately).
We humans could still change things, but the lifestyle adjustments required have proven to be severe. And I think the only people not to blame are those who live off the grid. Not a lot of them around. I live in New York and could pat myself on the back for not driving a car to work every day. But Kevin and I fly so much we negate any of that. And I love flying. I love going places. I really want to do things like journey to China, which we did in April.
Speaking of China, the reports about their hideous air quality have been greatly under-exaggerated. I do believe the US was like that in the 1970s, but government took action - banned lead-burning gasoline, enforced emissions standards, and the economy survived such regulation hassles JUST FINE.
I speak of my own lifestyle adjustments, or lack thereof, but it's everybody. Humans want to fly, they want to get around, they want to produce and ship and travel and visit, and see and explore and consume. If we didn't, we wouldn't be in this mess. And no amount of brow-beating will change that. Nor, clearly, will any slow-moving apocalypses.
However, humans are also extremely innovative and have a wonderful track-record of problem solving at the last minute. That is what I am hoping for. However, this seems to happen only after a truly unnecessary amount of hardship has occurred.
Who do I hope this will come from? Some mythical cadre of scientists and engineers I suppose. Could we please learn how to make these professions sexier?
I am about to set out on my next life adventure - the first of a couple big ones I presume I will be embarking upon in the next couple years. If I were a less selfish person I would not have chosen art for a graduate degree, I would have chosen something to do with climate change research. But there is no reason I cannot involve research or science in my art practice.
I could envision the apocalypse. Or perhaps I can document it. Speaking of burning carbon, another road trip lies in my immediate future. And the purchase of an automobile (never happened before!). We will be journeying out to California so that I can attend graduate school. I will earn my MFA in Photo / Video and Interactive Media at California Institute of the Arts -- CalArts - just north of Los Angeles. And my fabulous husband, Kevin Cooley, is being gracious enough to come with me, at least part-time.
In preparation for imminent loans and income slashing, I have been doing nothing but working - as a front end web developer no less (who knew?). This has not been a summer for creativity but that is okay. New York suffers no drought, but the rest of the United States is combusting like an ant under a magnifying glass at a boy scout camp. As we burn through the Great Plains and the West, I plan on documenting the scorched earth policy that we've launched against ourselves. Maybe we humans really do have a death wish.
But I wish to bring more to this project than mere documentation. Photographs of withered wheat in Kansas will not be fascinating. It's kind of a problem with photography these days in general. I do not know what to do yet. I am open to suggestion. And it would probably be a good idea if I did some reading. Send over the recommendations, come on!
The blog has been... well, on hiatus for many months, but generally just a content-mess reflective of the content mess of my mind. I never really picked a theme and stuck to it. And maybe i never will, maybe it will continue to reflect that mushy mass of brain mess that floats around up here every day. I think about work, about art, about my baby a lot, about the world and politics, and i try to avoid the presidential campaign because it's all generally disgusting. Although all you people disappointed by Obama, he was never the messiah to begin with, i don't know what they were thinking. See, mess of tangents. I don't know if that's ok. I am kind of looking to the experience of grad school to tighten me up conceptually. And no one is going to appreciate that more than me.
Wish me luck, i am wishing it for all of us!
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Saturday, July 28, 2012
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Monday, March 28, 2011
$5 for Water, and Other Harrowing Tales
I've just arrived at the Amtrak Station in Solano Beach, CA, which is actually a cute little train station. I am early and on my own, both things are rarities. Currently Kevin is trying to hold onto his video camera as he rides shotgun with a pilot doing daredevil stunts in an open cockpit plane over the Pacific. I've come down to San Diego to visit my best friend from college, and her husband, two kids, two dogs and a cat.
Although I ate some sort of Raw food "quiche" concoction for lunch before boarding the train, I am starving. As I alighted on the platform, I spotted the Coke machine and started salivating. Regrettably I do drink Diet Coke all the time, although not quite as frequently as I used to. But after getting off the train, I splurged for the full-on High Fructose Corn Syrup real thing baby. What is it about traveling that opens up the junk food crave? On going through his receipts while doing his 2010 taxes, Kevin marveled over the amount spent on Red Bull and Candy. That's the driving along the interstate thing -- I get sleepy when driving, hence the Red Bull (stop judging you New York health nuts, how many of you have criss-crossed America lately and tried to subsist only on water and 'healthy' snacks like, oh, gas station-fresh fruit?). Candy, well, candy is part of the tradition. It was a part of every break on the road during our childhood, and, no, my sister and I are not obese. Maybe that's because our parents let us/made us play outside.
None of this, however, explains the exorbitant price of hotel mini-bar junk food. And that stuff is junk food -- I've yet to see a mini-bar stocked with peaches and pears. I take issue with the assertion by Randy Cohen, the former NY Times ethicist that it is unethical to avoid a mini-bar charge by re-stocking the bar yourself. Kevin, incredibly, is in league with Mr. Cohen. Personally, I feel it is unethical for the hotel to price things with such a crazy mark-up. The customer is nearly trapped. I abstained from the little $1.50 bottles of Poland Springs at the Westin in Copley Square, Boston, last month.
© 2011 bridget batch
Can you see that $5 price tag?
But Kevin had some Pringles because he was starving. They were $5 too. The bill listed them at $6.15, however, $1.15 in pernicious local taxes raping the visitors. Kevin didn't have much issue with his tiny 50 cent container of saturated fat being priced at a 500% markup but he howled over that tax. "WHHHHHHATTTT, that is SO ridiculous! It's almost 25%."
I told him he sounds like the tea partiers and greedy corporations. So businesses can handle ridiculous mark-ups on hotel charges as a business expense -- a tax-deductible business expense, but they can't deal with paying extra taxes in order to actually fund government programs that ultimately support them and and their success -- like education, research and infrastructure? Uh huh.
Regrettably, the Amtrak station is missing a snack machine. I am hungry and waiting for my friend. Damn, she actually doesn't eat junk food, keeping those daughters in line! No candy this time around. But she does drink...
Although I ate some sort of Raw food "quiche" concoction for lunch before boarding the train, I am starving. As I alighted on the platform, I spotted the Coke machine and started salivating. Regrettably I do drink Diet Coke all the time, although not quite as frequently as I used to. But after getting off the train, I splurged for the full-on High Fructose Corn Syrup real thing baby. What is it about traveling that opens up the junk food crave? On going through his receipts while doing his 2010 taxes, Kevin marveled over the amount spent on Red Bull and Candy. That's the driving along the interstate thing -- I get sleepy when driving, hence the Red Bull (stop judging you New York health nuts, how many of you have criss-crossed America lately and tried to subsist only on water and 'healthy' snacks like, oh, gas station-fresh fruit?). Candy, well, candy is part of the tradition. It was a part of every break on the road during our childhood, and, no, my sister and I are not obese. Maybe that's because our parents let us/made us play outside.
None of this, however, explains the exorbitant price of hotel mini-bar junk food. And that stuff is junk food -- I've yet to see a mini-bar stocked with peaches and pears. I take issue with the assertion by Randy Cohen, the former NY Times ethicist that it is unethical to avoid a mini-bar charge by re-stocking the bar yourself. Kevin, incredibly, is in league with Mr. Cohen. Personally, I feel it is unethical for the hotel to price things with such a crazy mark-up. The customer is nearly trapped. I abstained from the little $1.50 bottles of Poland Springs at the Westin in Copley Square, Boston, last month.
© 2011 bridget batch
Can you see that $5 price tag?
But Kevin had some Pringles because he was starving. They were $5 too. The bill listed them at $6.15, however, $1.15 in pernicious local taxes raping the visitors. Kevin didn't have much issue with his tiny 50 cent container of saturated fat being priced at a 500% markup but he howled over that tax. "WHHHHHHATTTT, that is SO ridiculous! It's almost 25%."
I told him he sounds like the tea partiers and greedy corporations. So businesses can handle ridiculous mark-ups on hotel charges as a business expense -- a tax-deductible business expense, but they can't deal with paying extra taxes in order to actually fund government programs that ultimately support them and and their success -- like education, research and infrastructure? Uh huh.
Regrettably, the Amtrak station is missing a snack machine. I am hungry and waiting for my friend. Damn, she actually doesn't eat junk food, keeping those daughters in line! No candy this time around. But she does drink...
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Inauspicious Beginnings?
Yikes, Kevin found this video last night, I think it is from last week and it was featured — sans audio — on weather.com.
We are probably beginning a long drive back to New York from Colorado. I hope we arrive unscathed.
We are probably beginning a long drive back to New York from Colorado. I hope we arrive unscathed.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Thinking about L.A.
© 2010 bridget batch
My baby wants to move to L.A.
This isn't exactly news, he's wanted this for a long time. He finds L.A. beautiful (he is right), and inspiring. But now that we've been here for two months, the desire has matured. I just happen to have a life in New York, with many, many friends, that I treasure. Of course he does too, but it is different for him. I guess that he likes driving more than I do.
I've been enjoying the experience in L.A., perhaps more than I thought I would. We have friends here and I had a great shoot in Las Vegas (although I would have had that were I in NYC as well). On the art front, I've been shooting nearly every day, at least a little bit. The range of plants foreign to me, and the incredibly lush rapaciousness of them has delighted me. The driving has bothered me a little less than I thought it would, and the immediate availability of hiking really is wonderful. But I miss my New York people. My feelings on this matter are incredibly complex.
I do not look forward to returning to an apartment in New York that, due to various construction issues, has never become home. The very real circumstances of the apartment, the endless construction fixes, the motley parade of engineers, technicians and insurance adjusters in and out of it is depressing. When we returned to New York after our summer travels, we found the front yard completely unkept -- a situation that Kevin and a neighbor took upon themselves to remedy. I guess our management company doesn't do lawn care.
At this point, I would say I have lived without a true sense of home for years. A friend of mine once suggested I do a project about this. This is partly because I am not very domestic. It's also because Kevin and I are so nomadic, we have traveled so much (wow, have we been fortunate, insert gratitude here). Sometimes I feel like I am floating, a tumbleweed, without roots and, perhaps, purpose. But I also feel a sense of freedom. I am not sure that I really want to be tied to a home. It's no secret that purchasing an apartment was not my first choice. However, I always knew that we could easily rent it and fortunately I was correct.
But not being tied to a place has its disadvantages. I observe a closeness, the bonding of shared experiences, amidst groups of friends that awakens deep pain within me, certainly a longing for that and a jealousy that I am outside of that. But it's my own fault, there is no possibility of me being part of it without my physical presence!
Interesting how, when you think of a place, it's the experiences with the people there that comes first to mind. The energy of New York is amazing, but that all comes from the people.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
When does a place become sacred?
© 2010 bridget batch
We found a magical place. Actually, it was more Kevin who found it. I sat in the passenger seat desperately working on my laptop, working on what I call the "real" work -- as if making art were actually always fun. We commonly look this way, me hunched over, squinting at an lcd screen I can barely see; him driving along, never finding a place that is actually good enough. Today I made up a version of Goldilocks to describe him -- "this forest is too dark," "this forest is just right." Two days ago, he drove his Subaru, "Adele" up and down several tortured forest service roads in the wilds of Idaho. He had made up his own song, "it's too thick for any use" to complain about the forest.
I found these thick, musty woods seductive, an enchanted fairy world. Our experience began in the Yaak -- in the far northwest of Montana where the elevation is low and the constant rain inspires too many things to grow. We were socked in for the entire 5 days that we stayed there for the job. But I was trying to be a good assistant, and to stay up and finish my other tasks, and I didn't take advantage of the enchanted misty woods as I should have. The terrain changes daily, you cannot ever let the opportunities slip away,
Kevin was looking for a vantage point, some vista that revealed something other than endless reams of light-sucking conifer velvet. We didn't see this fire tower at all until we were right under it. We had just enough water and food. But it was amazing and we spent two days there in complete solitude.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Vieques Misadventures II
It’s a ten-minute drive from Vieques to Isabel Segundo and the airport on the other side of the island. We have to be at the airport at 9:20, so we tried to start the car at 8:50. The engine refused to turn. I called Martineau’s Car Rental and they said we got the key wet, which is a $350 charge.
“But we didn’t get the key wet! The car was overheating yesterday! And now we are going to miss our flight, I should charge you for the inconvenience! If we got the key wet how could we have the car here at the hotel. You have to send someone here to take us to the airport.” Imagine tortured Spanish here.
I walked across the street and kicked the Malécon. I so rarely get that angry my friends would be surprised to read that. Because the passenger ferry to the main island was out of commission, the car ferries were all running an hour late, and this was why we were even flying to San Juan. Missing the baby flight to San Juan meant missing our flight to Atlanta, and then missing our the last flight out to New York. And that meant missing a meeting for me the next day and possibly our flight to Aspen for a job the next evening. The price of the car rental had just gone from $150 to something like $2000.
Martineau continued, “You got the key wet, it’s the only reason it won’t start. And we have to send the car to the mainland and this is very expensive, we can’t rent it for a month. You agreed to pay $350 if you got it wet.”
“But we didn’t get it wet!”
“Fine take it up with your credit card company. We will send them the evidence.” The could send a picture of any wet key they wanted to send. I told Kevin that if Citibank didn’t side with us he should drop their card but I don’t think he wanted to hear that. Martineau slapped $550 – unauthorized – onto the card immediately, as Kevin was on the phone in the airport lobby frantically making his case to Citibank’s representative.
I do not know if I would call Martineau overtly fraudulent so much as opportunistic. To pass along hearsay, a man who worked for a tour company in Vieques told me that Martineau’s were the worst and often tried to charge people for “getting their keys wet.” Their car repair undoubtedly is expensive but it’s not our fault that the engine couldn’t cool.
We made it to the airport. We made it to Aspen even, only to find a place far more degenerate than I would have imagined.
“But we didn’t get the key wet! The car was overheating yesterday! And now we are going to miss our flight, I should charge you for the inconvenience! If we got the key wet how could we have the car here at the hotel. You have to send someone here to take us to the airport.” Imagine tortured Spanish here.
I walked across the street and kicked the Malécon. I so rarely get that angry my friends would be surprised to read that. Because the passenger ferry to the main island was out of commission, the car ferries were all running an hour late, and this was why we were even flying to San Juan. Missing the baby flight to San Juan meant missing our flight to Atlanta, and then missing our the last flight out to New York. And that meant missing a meeting for me the next day and possibly our flight to Aspen for a job the next evening. The price of the car rental had just gone from $150 to something like $2000.
Martineau continued, “You got the key wet, it’s the only reason it won’t start. And we have to send the car to the mainland and this is very expensive, we can’t rent it for a month. You agreed to pay $350 if you got it wet.”
“But we didn’t get it wet!”
“Fine take it up with your credit card company. We will send them the evidence.” The could send a picture of any wet key they wanted to send. I told Kevin that if Citibank didn’t side with us he should drop their card but I don’t think he wanted to hear that. Martineau slapped $550 – unauthorized – onto the card immediately, as Kevin was on the phone in the airport lobby frantically making his case to Citibank’s representative.
I do not know if I would call Martineau overtly fraudulent so much as opportunistic. To pass along hearsay, a man who worked for a tour company in Vieques told me that Martineau’s were the worst and often tried to charge people for “getting their keys wet.” Their car repair undoubtedly is expensive but it’s not our fault that the engine couldn’t cool.
We made it to the airport. We made it to Aspen even, only to find a place far more degenerate than I would have imagined.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Vieques as Paradise
Malecón in Esperanza, Vieques
© 2010 bridget batch
Yes, isn't Vieques a little paradise? Could I sell these for the brochure?
he didn't make it onto the plane
© 2010 bridget batch
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Vieques Misadventures
Beaches in Vieques feel like you purchased them in a backroom deal, definitely screwing someone over in the process.
In other words, they are so uncrowded, private even, clean, clear, pristine, you feel as if you own them. Such a feeling is marvelous and, depending on your beach experience, unprecedented. Thanks US Navy for keeping people away for so long! Who knows how much longer this will be, Vieques is no secret, nor a difficult trip (from the East Coast). The W just built a spa, the real estate is not cheap, and yet, it still feels renegade and unbesmirched.
Bahía de la Chiva
© 2010 bridget batch
We bounced over the barely functional 4 wheel drive tracks and landed at Punto Arenas beach on the north side, Atlantic Oceanfront property. We then parked the car in a little pullout facing the water, but surrounded by the forest. That's how they do beach in Vieques, you get a private driveway that fits one car. The next one is way down, invisible around some bend. Walk 2 feet and the beach is yours. The water was gentle, sheltered by the island of Culebra just a couple miles away. I spread out my towel and removed my bikini top enjoying the freedom involved in having no one to offend.
The last point along Bahía de la Chiva (Blue Beach) won whatever contest we were conducting to name our favorite beach. It's on the Caribbean coast, at the end of the one road into the eastern side of the island, a National Wildlife Refuge that used to be littered with bombs. The clean-up effort continues and civilians can't access maybe half of the island. Some bunkers covered in greenery rot over on the western end, but the jungle is working to claim them and their roads. One does not think of the Navy while sitting on the beach.
Just one little vestige of the Naval occupation remains, well, two if you're count the dramatically high cancer rate. Near those bunkers, a radar installation is marked as a no-go zone on the map. Our discounted jeep from Martineau Car Rental overheated next to a bunker covered in flowering vines. Just don't do it, do not rent from Martineau, don't drive around abandoned roads in one of their cars, and don't drive up to US military stations hidden in the jungle.
But, after the Jeep cooled, Kevin, completely unfazed by the stench and pouring smoke, pressed on. Wandering the roads over barely inhabited hills as the sun set, he, of course, found the radar station. Before we even parked, the radar station also found us. An overlit pick-up was speeding over to the chain-link gate on the road. I didn't see any radar facility, both of us just put our hands up and jumped back into the Jeep. It started and Kevin peeled out, up another hill.
The sun had set now, but the sky was still blue, a few fireflies dotted the dusk and the jungle was loud. Nothing was out here but a paranoid security guard to the left, trees, vines and a lot of razor wire-covered fencing. At the top of the hill the car started pouring out smoke again so we got out and started photographing. I changed into a little black outfit to try and make a "Spirit" picture from my new project. The mosquitoes launched a full-scale assault and I muttered my gratitude to American sanitation and its successful banishment of malaria.
Someone had made a large stencil of some words in the road.
AQUI
NOS DA
LOS QUE
-OS
The last bit looked like "MOS" but the first letter or letters were worn off. I walked around and tried to figure out what it said, and why. Nothing human-made resided near us, except the razorwire. Dios seemed the obvious candidate. Six years of studying it and yet my Spanish is feeble. Despite the heat and mosquito bites I felt chilled. Mental institution leapt to mind.
Kevin walked over, "What does that say?"
"I don't know, I am trying to figure it out. I think it says "Here, what God gives us."
"Let's get the hell out of here. That car had better start."
I looked at him, "I am not going to argue with you!" And I threw the tripod into the car. I never do that. The poor car actually started.
more misadventures to come
In other words, they are so uncrowded, private even, clean, clear, pristine, you feel as if you own them. Such a feeling is marvelous and, depending on your beach experience, unprecedented. Thanks US Navy for keeping people away for so long! Who knows how much longer this will be, Vieques is no secret, nor a difficult trip (from the East Coast). The W just built a spa, the real estate is not cheap, and yet, it still feels renegade and unbesmirched.
Bahía de la Chiva
© 2010 bridget batch
We bounced over the barely functional 4 wheel drive tracks and landed at Punto Arenas beach on the north side, Atlantic Oceanfront property. We then parked the car in a little pullout facing the water, but surrounded by the forest. That's how they do beach in Vieques, you get a private driveway that fits one car. The next one is way down, invisible around some bend. Walk 2 feet and the beach is yours. The water was gentle, sheltered by the island of Culebra just a couple miles away. I spread out my towel and removed my bikini top enjoying the freedom involved in having no one to offend.
The last point along Bahía de la Chiva (Blue Beach) won whatever contest we were conducting to name our favorite beach. It's on the Caribbean coast, at the end of the one road into the eastern side of the island, a National Wildlife Refuge that used to be littered with bombs. The clean-up effort continues and civilians can't access maybe half of the island. Some bunkers covered in greenery rot over on the western end, but the jungle is working to claim them and their roads. One does not think of the Navy while sitting on the beach.
Just one little vestige of the Naval occupation remains, well, two if you're count the dramatically high cancer rate. Near those bunkers, a radar installation is marked as a no-go zone on the map. Our discounted jeep from Martineau Car Rental overheated next to a bunker covered in flowering vines. Just don't do it, do not rent from Martineau, don't drive around abandoned roads in one of their cars, and don't drive up to US military stations hidden in the jungle.
But, after the Jeep cooled, Kevin, completely unfazed by the stench and pouring smoke, pressed on. Wandering the roads over barely inhabited hills as the sun set, he, of course, found the radar station. Before we even parked, the radar station also found us. An overlit pick-up was speeding over to the chain-link gate on the road. I didn't see any radar facility, both of us just put our hands up and jumped back into the Jeep. It started and Kevin peeled out, up another hill.
The sun had set now, but the sky was still blue, a few fireflies dotted the dusk and the jungle was loud. Nothing was out here but a paranoid security guard to the left, trees, vines and a lot of razor wire-covered fencing. At the top of the hill the car started pouring out smoke again so we got out and started photographing. I changed into a little black outfit to try and make a "Spirit" picture from my new project. The mosquitoes launched a full-scale assault and I muttered my gratitude to American sanitation and its successful banishment of malaria.
Someone had made a large stencil of some words in the road.
AQUI
NOS DA
LOS QUE
-OS
The last bit looked like "MOS" but the first letter or letters were worn off. I walked around and tried to figure out what it said, and why. Nothing human-made resided near us, except the razorwire. Dios seemed the obvious candidate. Six years of studying it and yet my Spanish is feeble. Despite the heat and mosquito bites I felt chilled. Mental institution leapt to mind.
Kevin walked over, "What does that say?"
"I don't know, I am trying to figure it out. I think it says "Here, what God gives us."
"Let's get the hell out of here. That car had better start."
I looked at him, "I am not going to argue with you!" And I threw the tripod into the car. I never do that. The poor car actually started.
more misadventures to come
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Kevin and I are preparing to do a shoot in Vieques, Puerto Rico. He is at his friend Brian’s, testing out a lens with his video camera. I am working on another, unrelated project.
We are going to shoot at the “Bio Bay.” Bahia de Mosquito is the brightest bioluminescent bay in the world. w.golden-heron.com/biobay.html. Wait, what’s a bioluminescent bay?
In February, I was idling on the phone with the man. He was at the Caldera residency. I was stuck at home, missing him, missing wanderlust and trying to cram down as much “day job” work as I could before leaving for Arizona. I was also researching bioluminescence. I am working on a proposal (and missing many deadlines) for a grant to build a bioluminescent (or reminiscent thereof) installation in the city here. Besides being beautiful, I want to create, within an urban environment, the eerie and otherworldly I so often shoot in nature. Most humans live in cities, and yet so many of us seem to long for nature, to find the only refuge in this world that torments us. How many New Yorkers in their 30s decide that the only way to keep sane is to buy a house upstate?
How to create a sense of bioluminescence in non-natural materials is a problem I have no yet solved. The fascination, and conviction, that this phenomenon reaches to a place so strangely inside of us, yet so foreign as to remain frightening and transcendent, began during a trip to shelter island for the party of someone who had a house out there. Shelter Island has no streetlights and, on a moonless night, basks under the starriest skies in southern new york. In that blackness, at least ten of us held our breath and flung ourselves off of a dock and into the bay.
All around us, the water sparkled. Previously as tranquil, murky and foreboding as any leech-ridden lake, the water now shone as lovely and jewel-like as the sky. This was bioluminescence and I had never heard of it.
Back to this year, I followed every possible search for bioluminescence that google deigned to make available to me. I even went here and immediately sent a link to Jean-Luc Sinclair. Of all the strange ideas, yet one that somehow reaches deeply inside, to a place logic and mystery convene, music, logical music, made from notes matching DNA.
And, I found this: Meanwhile, Kevin was hitting on bioluminescence as a theme as well, as he kept lighting more flames and catching more trails while way out west. Now that we are back east, and also tripping on our FIRST WEDDING ANNIVERSARY, we have decided that Vieques is the place to go. So has the W, sigh.
We are going to shoot at the “Bio Bay.” Bahia de Mosquito is the brightest bioluminescent bay in the world. w.golden-heron.com/biobay.html. Wait, what’s a bioluminescent bay?
In February, I was idling on the phone with the man. He was at the Caldera residency. I was stuck at home, missing him, missing wanderlust and trying to cram down as much “day job” work as I could before leaving for Arizona. I was also researching bioluminescence. I am working on a proposal (and missing many deadlines) for a grant to build a bioluminescent (or reminiscent thereof) installation in the city here. Besides being beautiful, I want to create, within an urban environment, the eerie and otherworldly I so often shoot in nature. Most humans live in cities, and yet so many of us seem to long for nature, to find the only refuge in this world that torments us. How many New Yorkers in their 30s decide that the only way to keep sane is to buy a house upstate?
How to create a sense of bioluminescence in non-natural materials is a problem I have no yet solved. The fascination, and conviction, that this phenomenon reaches to a place so strangely inside of us, yet so foreign as to remain frightening and transcendent, began during a trip to shelter island for the party of someone who had a house out there. Shelter Island has no streetlights and, on a moonless night, basks under the starriest skies in southern new york. In that blackness, at least ten of us held our breath and flung ourselves off of a dock and into the bay.
All around us, the water sparkled. Previously as tranquil, murky and foreboding as any leech-ridden lake, the water now shone as lovely and jewel-like as the sky. This was bioluminescence and I had never heard of it.
Back to this year, I followed every possible search for bioluminescence that google deigned to make available to me. I even went here and immediately sent a link to Jean-Luc Sinclair. Of all the strange ideas, yet one that somehow reaches deeply inside, to a place logic and mystery convene, music, logical music, made from notes matching DNA.
And, I found this: Meanwhile, Kevin was hitting on bioluminescence as a theme as well, as he kept lighting more flames and catching more trails while way out west. Now that we are back east, and also tripping on our FIRST WEDDING ANNIVERSARY, we have decided that Vieques is the place to go. So has the W, sigh.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Coming Home
The problem with traveling is the coming home.
My fellow victims of wanderlust, we must return home sometime. It can't be a coincidence that some of the world's most inveterate travelers are based in New York, a wonderful city whose housing facilities are usually less than commendable. As one gets older and accumulates more stuff, one notices that other people getting older with them are schlepping that stuff out of the city. Is it that the crowds have worn upon them? Or that they are just sick of moving everything around merely to unpack their suitcases. Maybe Hong Kong is full of addicted frequent flyers as well.
Home is where the heart is, or the heartbreak. We've been afflicted by construction issues in a new apartment. That makes for some very concrete housing pain. Unfortunately, some people probably need to avoid their families for one reason or another. I find the realities of "home" to be infected with tensions explored in many a Feminist academic polemic. Housework now saddens me, rather than enraging me with righteous fury. One must cook and clean, does it really need to be a political, demographical, anthropological struggle (in my head, mostly)? God is it endless, the cleaning I mean. And I even own a dishwasher. It would be nice to somehow enjoy it more, but it sure as hell doesn't pay much.
Home is also the place of bills, endless credit card offers even when you're on "that" list, advertisements for burial plots for Mr. and Mrs. Kevin Cooley (not sure who the second person is and why their mail comes here), grocery store coupons and take-out menus jammed in the doorway, forgotten coffee grinds, cords that somehow escape their pens and get into death matches with dust bunnies, leaks and the same view every single morning. Like the Little Prince I love to watch the sunset. At home, the sunset stars the same exact vine-covered telephone pole every single day. It's almost as bad as eating in most of small town America.
Even an American landscape dotted by drearily endless franchise signs at least changes as you venture through it. But home does not. Some people find this comforting. Why do I find it frightening?
My fellow victims of wanderlust, we must return home sometime. It can't be a coincidence that some of the world's most inveterate travelers are based in New York, a wonderful city whose housing facilities are usually less than commendable. As one gets older and accumulates more stuff, one notices that other people getting older with them are schlepping that stuff out of the city. Is it that the crowds have worn upon them? Or that they are just sick of moving everything around merely to unpack their suitcases. Maybe Hong Kong is full of addicted frequent flyers as well.
Home is where the heart is, or the heartbreak. We've been afflicted by construction issues in a new apartment. That makes for some very concrete housing pain. Unfortunately, some people probably need to avoid their families for one reason or another. I find the realities of "home" to be infected with tensions explored in many a Feminist academic polemic. Housework now saddens me, rather than enraging me with righteous fury. One must cook and clean, does it really need to be a political, demographical, anthropological struggle (in my head, mostly)? God is it endless, the cleaning I mean. And I even own a dishwasher. It would be nice to somehow enjoy it more, but it sure as hell doesn't pay much.
Home is also the place of bills, endless credit card offers even when you're on "that" list, advertisements for burial plots for Mr. and Mrs. Kevin Cooley (not sure who the second person is and why their mail comes here), grocery store coupons and take-out menus jammed in the doorway, forgotten coffee grinds, cords that somehow escape their pens and get into death matches with dust bunnies, leaks and the same view every single morning. Like the Little Prince I love to watch the sunset. At home, the sunset stars the same exact vine-covered telephone pole every single day. It's almost as bad as eating in most of small town America.
Even an American landscape dotted by drearily endless franchise signs at least changes as you venture through it. But home does not. Some people find this comforting. Why do I find it frightening?
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
After writing such a paean to air travel, I was at the airport the next day, flying to Buffalo. The plane was a tiny one, and it was early on a Sunday morning, yet the flight was completely full.
The Delta line was terribly slow, blockaded by a woman who not only couldn't manage enough English to say "Hello" but also had apparently never seen a line before, and two "real American" firefighters who thought they shouldn't have to pay checked baggage fees. But even when those barriers were removed, the other customers took just as long to sort out the fact that their bags needed sticky tags to get to Omaha. I know, we are experienced travelers, but isn't everyone in a hurry at the airport?
Perhaps my anxiety comes from years of perilous near misses at the jetway. At age 19, I did actually miss a flight from London to Paris. Even though it was my final night of a semester spent studying in London, I was out too late the night before and had not finished packing my belongings. The next flight over the Channel did a fine job of delivering me and those belongings. Another time, I waltzed into JFK 15 minutes before my flight took off for Miami, where I was to meet my mother and sister. This was after 9-11. I have no idea why they let me on the plane. My mother would have been so angry at me.
Behavior like that now would probably lead to a divorce, an option unavailable to my mom. These days I pretend I am more responsible.
I often work as a photo assistant, for my husband. This is an interesting thing to do. When we first met, in a color darkroom, not on a job, I had freelanced as a photographer's assistant for a couple years. He begged me to work for him but I refused. I do not know how well most photo assistants get along with the photographers they slave for, but I do know that I resent authority and a photo shoot is a dictatorship.
But Kevin gets jobs in Miami, South Africa, Copenhagen... it's hard to say no to that. This job, in Niagara Falls, maybe wasn't quite so glamorous. But three days outside in the mist at the honeymoon capital of the world with my new husband couldn't be so bad. As it turns out, the working relationship is 60% brilliant, 20% quite good and 20% profoundly annoying. I keep taking the 4 out of 5. On the morning of our departure, our only skirmish involved bringing (or not bringing) a small trolley for the heavy equipment carry-ons. I wanted to save my back. He insisted it wouldn't work. Not such a bad skirmish. Oh well, lifting heavy things gave me a nice, muscular back for my wedding gown. And he's the boss. He's not always a dictator though. I get to play around a little on these jobs....
Niagara Falls, from our hotel room
The Delta line was terribly slow, blockaded by a woman who not only couldn't manage enough English to say "Hello" but also had apparently never seen a line before, and two "real American" firefighters who thought they shouldn't have to pay checked baggage fees. But even when those barriers were removed, the other customers took just as long to sort out the fact that their bags needed sticky tags to get to Omaha. I know, we are experienced travelers, but isn't everyone in a hurry at the airport?
Perhaps my anxiety comes from years of perilous near misses at the jetway. At age 19, I did actually miss a flight from London to Paris. Even though it was my final night of a semester spent studying in London, I was out too late the night before and had not finished packing my belongings. The next flight over the Channel did a fine job of delivering me and those belongings. Another time, I waltzed into JFK 15 minutes before my flight took off for Miami, where I was to meet my mother and sister. This was after 9-11. I have no idea why they let me on the plane. My mother would have been so angry at me.
Behavior like that now would probably lead to a divorce, an option unavailable to my mom. These days I pretend I am more responsible.
I often work as a photo assistant, for my husband. This is an interesting thing to do. When we first met, in a color darkroom, not on a job, I had freelanced as a photographer's assistant for a couple years. He begged me to work for him but I refused. I do not know how well most photo assistants get along with the photographers they slave for, but I do know that I resent authority and a photo shoot is a dictatorship.
But Kevin gets jobs in Miami, South Africa, Copenhagen... it's hard to say no to that. This job, in Niagara Falls, maybe wasn't quite so glamorous. But three days outside in the mist at the honeymoon capital of the world with my new husband couldn't be so bad. As it turns out, the working relationship is 60% brilliant, 20% quite good and 20% profoundly annoying. I keep taking the 4 out of 5. On the morning of our departure, our only skirmish involved bringing (or not bringing) a small trolley for the heavy equipment carry-ons. I wanted to save my back. He insisted it wouldn't work. Not such a bad skirmish. Oh well, lifting heavy things gave me a nice, muscular back for my wedding gown. And he's the boss. He's not always a dictator though. I get to play around a little on these jobs....
Niagara Falls, from our hotel room
Friday, April 16, 2010
Why travel?
Why this human need for travel? Does it relate to a need for novelty? Why the restless, haunting desire to be a vagabond, to wander? Is it hard-wired? A legacy from our hunter-gatherer days? Let's ask Jared Diamond.
Tourism is now one of the world's number one industries. It is yet another lopsided economic construct. Poor countries, rather than merely selling out their land, now mine their cultural heritages, or less-spoiled landscapes. Well, despite all that jet exhaust fueling climate change, I don't think we should all be staying home.
I love traveling. Even the concomitant hassles, fights err, relationship struggles, the lines, baggage dragging, relentless solicitations, and jet lag. I love jet lag. I love waking up too early, surreal, dreamy, potent and startling. I love airports. Being at an airport means I am going somewhere. I don't care about the pain of security, it's gone, forgotten within mere minutes. The adrenaline surge of worrying that I will miss my flight is addictive. I love take-off most of all. The moment the plane skips off of the ground, an overgrown child throwing itself into space, I feel freedom. I am afraid of heights, but not in airplanes.
And then you arrive. Even someplace I've been before will have changed since my last visit. If you are assiduous in your gaze, boredom will not plague you. I am many things, including overwhelmed, but I am not bored. Not allowing yourself to become overwhelmed is important. But why are we even here, or there, or en route to, in the first place?
Tourism is now one of the world's number one industries. It is yet another lopsided economic construct. Poor countries, rather than merely selling out their land, now mine their cultural heritages, or less-spoiled landscapes. Well, despite all that jet exhaust fueling climate change, I don't think we should all be staying home.
I love traveling. Even the concomitant hassles, fights err, relationship struggles, the lines, baggage dragging, relentless solicitations, and jet lag. I love jet lag. I love waking up too early, surreal, dreamy, potent and startling. I love airports. Being at an airport means I am going somewhere. I don't care about the pain of security, it's gone, forgotten within mere minutes. The adrenaline surge of worrying that I will miss my flight is addictive. I love take-off most of all. The moment the plane skips off of the ground, an overgrown child throwing itself into space, I feel freedom. I am afraid of heights, but not in airplanes.
And then you arrive. Even someplace I've been before will have changed since my last visit. If you are assiduous in your gaze, boredom will not plague you. I am many things, including overwhelmed, but I am not bored. Not allowing yourself to become overwhelmed is important. But why are we even here, or there, or en route to, in the first place?
Thursday, April 15, 2010
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