Minds Eye

Last Saturday was spectacular, weather wise. Cable and I were in the country luckily, our last free weekend for weeks to come.  Cable announced Friday evening that he was getting up early the next morning and going fishing, and would I like to go with him. Not one to venture out into the misty cold morning unless forced I thought about his offer for a moment before I said yes. Don’t get me wrong, I love mornings, sort of. As long as I get enough sleep the night before, which is hit or miss these days.
I told him that if I woke up when he did I would go, but not to wake me intentionally. Funny but just as he was making his way out our back door with his fishing gear in tow my eyes popped open. I hurried downstairs, groggily, and caught him just in time. He wasn’t in the mood to wait for me, it was already 7:45, but being the wonderful husband he has always been, he complied.
I usually don’t attend these fishing outings. I don’t fish, but I do appreciate the serenity fishing evokes. I figured I would go along and take some much needed fall foliage shots that would no longer be available after this weekend since the leaves were already at their peak.
Our destination this morning was the Bullpasture River Gorge, just about 15 miles from our house. The gorge, as locals refer, is a beautiful bucolic wildlife management area located officially in Williamsville, Virginia. The park is open to the public and at one time the summer camp stationed just miles away would swim there. Swimming and camping has been prohibited for reasons unexplained in recent years. But the evidence of rope swing and plastic yard chairs tells otherwise.
The entrance to the lower river bed starts with a 100 foot long wooden suspension bridge that, when crossed, gives you the feeling of one too many cocktails.  Flanked with quintessential wire hand rails you can almost imagine you’re in the depths of a exotic rain forest. Once over and down the steep stairs the well worn paths in the lush dirt guides you through your options of sites. I always choose the popular route to the rope swing. There used to be a platform that some of the locals installed but present day legalities have negated that attraction, hence it has been removed. Across from the swing is where the water is the icy coldest. There’s a spring creek that feeds into the Bullpasture, bubbling and gurgling out from the depths of a cave not visible, but can be accessed, if one is brave enough to endure the swim it takes to find the opening.
I left Cable about a hundred yards up river, casting away. That beautiful, graceful action of silent pursuit, just the swoosh, swoosh of his line, man against nature. A lovely sight indeed. Making my way around the hidden bend, a rough and craggy exposed river bed with time worn river rocks made for an interesting scavenger hunt. Even though I’ve visited this place many times before, I never tire of the fascinating rocks and plants that live there.
This morning was a gem. Snapping crisp dry air, a much welcome exchange from the previous week, had made it’s presence known by the low temperature and, eventually, a clear blue sky. When we first arrived there was thick fog. I was excited to capture a few moody, atmospheric shots, but as always with fog, it was fleeting, so few were adequate for keeping.
Where the path meets the river again there is a huge outcrop of limestone cliffs looming above. A very dramatic scene that humbles me and fills me with gratitude and wonder.
I stood for a long time, watching the sun sneak around the outcrop, igniting the yellow leaves of the maple trees in the distance, backlit and glowing. The fog was just wisps of steam skittering above the water now, hard to see really, and I was disappointed it was not visible in the camera. I shot a couple of dozen shots, making adjustments on exposure, trying my hardest to get just the right combination of light and depth of field.
It was so quiet that morning. As with most times visiting there, not another soul around. The silence of the place was interrupted only but the sound of a barking dog, somewhere, probably miles away. I decided this day I would venture farther than I’ve gone before through the overgrown forest still green and lush even in mid October. A wet late summer to thank.
The sun was rising now, bright streaks of light filtered through the already bare saplings of Birch, Oak and a few Beech trees. I again, stopped and pondered the scene, thought about God, and shot some more. I thanked the force for all my blessings in my life. I am thankful for this opportunity. I was enthralled in the moment, a rarity of our modern lives it seems, being in the moment. Continuing on the path took me to where the grass was over grown and the path disappeared. Turning to make my way back to the bridge I chose another route, a path above my present position, but one I knew would lead to the same place. This path was darker, deeper in the forest. It was lined with huge pine trees with bows that dangled daintily on the edge of the walkway. I felt like I was on a cat walk or some other special walkway, leading to my fifteen minutes of fame. There were of course the obligatory downed trees that required an aerobic hop to clear them.
Surprisingly not many creatures were stirring, not one squirrel or dear for that matter, unusual for sure. No matter though, the silence in and of its self was a welcome accoutrement.
Arriving back to the suspension bridge I could see Cable had made his way to the piece of river just under me. I hurried back to the car to get the 200mm lens for I knew if was now or never to get the shot I planned all morning. As I crossed over the car, Cable and I exchanged hellos, but quietly, so as not to disturb the fish. I changed out my lens and slowly crept back to the middle just above him. It was a perfect position with just a hint of fall color behind him. He looked very official, decked out in all his fly fishing regalia and the perfect element for scale.
After more shooting, but not much fish catching, we loaded up the car and drove back home. When we cleared the valley and the road opened up to the flat pasture land of the farms nearby the sun was blearing brightly. The fog was but a memory, morning chill all but gone. I asked Cable about his lack of fish, he just grunted and said, “must be fished out by now, I’ll go to my other spot next time”. And so it goes for the intrepid fisherman, always looking for the next big catch.

Belowis an excerpt from Wikipedia.com

The platform has been removed, but the chairs and rope swing remain

describing the area with more specifics. Feel free to read on here or visit the wiki site under Bullpasture River.
All the images were taken that day by me.

Highland County is located in the Allegheny Mountains midway between the eastern border of West Virginia and western border of the famed Shenandoah Valley. The headwaters of the James and Potomac Rivers are located here. The contrast of the high, narrow ridges forested in hardwoods and the broad, open valleys is breathtaking.

The Cowpasture rises in northeastern Highland County and flows generally southwestwardly, initially between Bullpasture Mountain and Shaws Ridge through a narrow valley floor near the George Washington National Forest. It is joined in eastern Highland County by Shaws Fork and gains breadth but has little depth. At Summers Mountain (a high point along Bullpasture Mountain) the river passes through a narrow gorge before entering a broad valley in Bath County, where at the community of Williamsville it collects the Bullpasture River, which greatly adds to its volume. For 20 miles (32 km) from this confluence the Cowpasture is joined by many small streams, and flows in increasingly wide bends in eastern Bath County. Downstream of the community of Millboro Springs the river becomes deep enough for year round boating; there are several boat launch sites along the river in Bath County. In eastern Alleghany County the Cowpasture is joined by Simpson Creek and shortly enters Botetourt County, where it joins the Jackson River to form the James River near the town of Iron Gate.

The Indians had named the river Walatoola, which means “winding waters”, describing the great bends in the river. However, when British settlers arrived in the 1720s they named it the Cowpasture.
There is an interesting story about how the Cowpasture and neighboring rivers the Bullpasture River and Calfpasture River came to be so named. It is said that the Indians once had stolen a herd of settlers’ cattle and were driving them westward into the mountains. The calves naturally tired first; they were left behind at the river which is now the Calfpasture. The cows were driven on farther, but they, too, had to be abandoned, the valley in which they were left became the valley of the Cowpasture. The bulls, being somewhat hardier, were still able to continue westward; they finally were left at the river which is known as the Bullpasture.

The Bullpasture River is a 26.2-mile-long tributary of the Cowpasture River of Virginia in the United States.
The Bullpasture River flows through Highland County, Virginia from its headwaters on the boundary between Virginia and West Virginia. It flows southwest between Bullpasture Mountain and Jack Mountain until joining the Cowpasture River in Bath County, Virginia, below the hamlet of Williamsville.
The Cowpasture River joins the Jackson River to form the James River

Cable practicing his casting

The remnants of morning fog slowly fading

The Bullpasture River

Today I discovered what every mother fears, my son has grown up and officially moved away from his former life of parental ties. I have been dreading this officious moment from day one, and anxiously awaiting it’s arrival too.

My son is now sharing a house, near his college campus. His education has been of the al a carte variety, so what exact year he’s in no one knows for sure. I believe he will graduate, someday in the near future.  We have a great relationship, in spite of the tonnage of water under the bridge.  He’s attending a university about an hour and a half away from me. Same distance from his dad. I went yesterday, for the first time, to visit him in his “new” home away from his dad’s home, the only constant home he has known for his short life. His new home is the quintessential animal house occupied by frat brothers, all of which took pledges to band together as one unit, to form an allegiance in the name of good will, and lots of keg parties.
Upon entering this fine abode, an ancient cape cod style single family home I was immediately greeted by a giant Styrofoam fish, a hammer head shark I believe, hanging over the t.v. on the very paneled wall.  My weary eyes immediately turned  to the deep red carpet, stained beyond recognition with years of historic and I’m sure epic proportions of party material. There were the myriad of cast off couches, hand made coffee tables, dumpster office chairs and much beer memorabilia.  As I stood, afraid to sit on who knows what, I wondered how we, me and him ever got to this point. It just seemed seconds ago I took that picture of him that sits on my dressing table. The one that’s a three quarter shot, him standing back toward me, a glimmer of an eerie smile in view, he all of three years old.  It was a blistering hot day that day and I decided a good day to visit a botanical garden for pictures. Evidence of temperature showed in his white blond hair, wet from sweat. I remember that moment so clearly. I remember my aggravation with it all. The heat, my determination to “keep him clean” for pictures, as if proof I was a good mother. Confucius must have said it, or if not he should have, hind site is as clear as mountain water. Given the opportunity to do it all again I would say to hell with cleanliness, to hell with posed shots of frozen smiles. Let’s wallow in our decadence, lets get dirty and really enjoy the moment.
I believe in the adage, one can never go home again.  As I ponder this idea I feel a twinge of grief for my son and in a way hope that it is not true for him. The paradigm of the rights of passage from boy to man is as exciting to me as it is bitter sweet. I see him on his daily beat, going to class, albeit summer class, he just can’t get enough of school now and finds it difficult to leave. I see him being exposed to the all too real adult grind of grocery shopping, paying bills and learning to deal with other people in a living environment, like roommates. I hold vigil for him and have talks at length with my higher power to take care of him for me and keep him strong and resilient from the temptations of the indiscretions of youth. I feel committed to the thought that we as parental units only want our children to be other than us, to be the people we wished we’d become, to be better. I believe my kid, my son now a man, has accomplished that feat. He is better, especially at this age, than I ever could have been. Yes, I hear you, it’s all nature v. nurture. I hope his upbringing, as screwy at times as it was, helped produce his ability to diffuse a situation, his ability to be the voice of reason, his ability to withstand peer pressure and be the designated driver, or so I’m told.  I hope I had something to do with, or maybe nothing to do with his strong convictions, big heart, and empathetic demeanor.
My heart cannot hold the pride I feel for my handsome, well groomed, friendly, caring son. He is better than me, better than his dad, and for that I am grateful.  I know in my deepest recesses his future children have a chance to have “it” better too.
As my husband, my son’s step dad, and I drove away yesterday I was conflicted between feelings of pride and sorrow. My thoughts were filled with concerns like; will he eat dinner tonight or just skip it and eat buffalo wings at the poker tournament. Will he ever change his sheets? Will he catch a disease from that disgusting bathroom? Then my thoughts became more esoteric revolving around emotions of loneliness, fear and an overwhelming sense of disconnect one may feel when cutting the ties from parental safe keeping. I must not linger in the stagnant pool of my melancholy.  My self inflected vortex of fears and regrets.  I must remember this child, who is better, stronger, and more attuned then I, will be all right in spite of me, his dad, and all the ugliness he has endured over the years. I will just bask in the spotlight of this milestone, this right of passage to manhood, and be happy that I’ll never have to use that shower.

The images were shot with my iphone.

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Every year, in the second and third weekends of March, Highland County Virginia holds it’s extremely popular Maple Festival. When the “opening” of the trees is celebrated and maple products of all forms are offered to the 50,000 plus visitors that make their way across the mountains. Highland County, affectionately known as Virginia’s “Little Switzerland” is a rural, unspoiled region located high in western Virginia. The town of Monterey, established in 1848, is the county seat of Highland County and also the home of the festival. With the highest mean elevation east of the Mississippi River, neighboring Bath County rises from 1,140 feet to 4,546 feet in Highland County, making for a chilly climate and ideal conditions for maple syrup production. Cold nights and warmer days of late February begins the process.
The little town of Monterey is usually a sleepy hamlet consisting of 158 people. Suffice it to say it is bursting at the seams with humanity during the maple festival but is generally well planned with no major traffic hassles to be noted. The major attraction of the two weekends are the vendors wares of course but the town offers plenty to see and explore. The Highland Center hosts musical performances from local Bluegrass bands and the very earthy Little Switzerland Cloggers, if you’ve ever seen or heard of the “River Dance” troop, you’ll understand what cloggers are.
The Highland Inn is a gigantic wooden structure, a crumbling beauty that’s been the center piece of the town since 1904. Built and operated by SW Crummett the Inn was known as “the pride of the mountains” in it’s day and remains a destination in it’s own right.
Maple syrup production in Highland has been a part of it’s heritage since pre colonial times when American Indians would gather sap from broken Maple branches and cook over open fires. Today syrup production with modern reverse osmosis equipment  concentrates water sap to maple syrup. A labor intensive process it takes approximately forty gallons of sap to make one gallon of syrup.
Cable and I make our way to the festival just about every year. We are not surprised by what we find there, but still look forward to seeing the familiar vendors, folks that sell hand made furniture, hand made knitted hats and scarfs, hand made quilts, walking sticks, bird houses, antiques, wooden pop guns, stained glass, pottery, baskets, paintings, candles,  and lots of jewelry stands. Then there’s the food vendors. Deep fried pork rinds, deep fried Orio’s, funnel cakes, country ham biscuits, buckwheat pancakes, trout dinners, chicken dinners and everything maple. If you like carnival food, it’s all here. A regular cornucopia of crafts as in any festival, there is lots of junk to be had. We usually don’t buy much, but still enjoy walking around and looking. Once in a while Cable will buy a funnel cake and usually souvenir bottles of Maple syrup for friends. It is heartening to see the little town bustling, collecting all that city money, much needed revenue.
Besides the festivities in Monterey and The Sugar Tree Country Store in McDowell is a really cute authentic country store. Owned and operated by Mennonites, Sugar Tree is a well oiled machine that churns out maple syrup by the ton and hosts many other items of interest for the passing tourist. If you’ve come this far, you have to visit the sugar camps. One in particular, actually neighbors of ours as far as the crow flies is Eagle’s Camp. A family run operation that’s been in business for over 200 years offers jugs of syrup, local honey, home made soap and lots of various gifts. There’s an open shop that shows how the syrup is made for edification purposes. Several other camps operate in the area, check out the chamber of commerce’s web site for more info.
All in all the Maple Festival is the inauguration for the start of spring. Each year we usually have one weekend of good weather and one weekend of bad, either left over snow or lot’s of mud from rain. This year the weather gods smiled on Highland and allowed for two good weather weekends. I’m sure the folks who sit at their booths awaiting visitors and their money were very grateful.

Thanks to Cable, The Sugar Tree and The HCCC for the use of their pictures.

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http://www.sugartreecountrystore.com/

http://www.highlandcounty.org/index.htm

While recently looking through a book I bought at a thrift store I noticed a portrait of Spencer Tracy. The photo was shot by Irving Penn a well known studio photographer. His career spanned over fifty years. That image piqued my  interest in his work. Penn has always been an important photographer for up and coming artist the least bit interested in mastering studio lighting and techniques.

Irving Penn died October 7, 2009, at the age of 92. He once said “a beautiful print is a thing in itself, not just a halfway house on the way to the page”

Penn was a photographer’s photographer. He spent many hours creating prints with the platinum salts process. A technique also known as platinotype which renders the widest tonal range of any printing method using chemical development. The process is manually applied by the printer, noted here _ “Over the years I must have spent thousands of hours silently brushing on the liquid coatings, preparing each sheet in anticipation of reaching the perfect print,” Penn wrote in his 1991 book “Passage: A Work Record.”
I am the proud owner of a platinum print from one of my favorite teachers at the Corcoran, the now deceased Steve Szabo. The print is truly beautiful and has a very tactile quality that only a natural fiber print can exude.

Penns multifaceted style ranges from high profile fashion photography, to still life, to National Geographic quality location portraiture as high art of Aboriginal tribesmen.
Born in Plainfield, N.J. in 1917, Penn studied at the Philadelphia Museum School of Industrial Art from 34-38’, and then worked as an assistant at Harper’s Bazaar magazine in 39’. In 1944 the war called and Penn left the magazine to join forces serving with the American Field Service in Italy and then as a photographer in India. He returned home in 1946 and began work at Vogue magazine that year.

The 1950’s brought Penn to fashion photography. Mr. Penn’s photographs appeared on over 150 covers for Vogue magazine.  Photographing the famous and infamous, faces that became Faces because of Penns exposure. Miles Davis, Spencer Tracy, Georgia O’Keeffe, Picasso and even the Hells Angels. But he also made claim to the ordinary. He published a series of images from around 1951 featuring plumbers, salesmen and other blue collar folk in New York and Europe. His technique for bringing out the true essence of his sitters was one of sadistic method. He simply held his subjects captive over a number of hours until they were forced to succumb to his prying lens and let down their inhibitions.

“Sensitive people faced with the prospect of a camera portrait put on a face they think is one they would like to show the world. …Very often what lies behind the facade is rare and more wonderful than the subject knows or dares to believe.” —Irving Penn, 1975.

Another milestone occurred for Penn in 1950 and that was his marriage to fashion model Lisa Fonssagrives. The two met on a photo shoot and two years later had a son, Tom Penn who is a artist in his own right specializing in metal design.

Fonssagrives apparently was his favorite subject and appears in dozens of his photographs through out their long enduring relationship. She died in 1992.

My favorite images of Irving Penn has to be of various famous icons confined in a very small triangle of a space, corner shots. Obviously made on set but lit very naturally. Speculation on his specific choice of lighting apparatus is either from a bank of sky lights, letting in natural daylight, or from “hot lights” similar to what was used on movie sets.
The Spencer Tracy image is one of these images.

Penns avant-garde subject matter of cigarette butts where displayed in an exhibit at MOMA in 1975. The images received mixed reviews as elevating the most mundane subject matter to high art. Some considered the body of work to be totally self indulgent.

I remember the first time I saw one of those cigarette butt images . I thought how daring that had to have been at the time when they were shot in 1947. The photographer used a large format negative, similar to what Ansel Adams used for his landscape shots. Large format cameras render a depth of field and detail that far surpasses what the human eye can discern which lends to the feeling of iconography of such banal items.

Thirteen of Penn’s photographs were auctioned October 2009 at Christie’s, including “Guedras in the Wind,”  (A 1971 image of two Moroccan women, a platinum-palladium print, flush-mounted on aluminum)’ it sold for the  price of $43,750 . A Penn photo, “Cuzco Children,” sold for $529,000 last year, including an auction house premium of 20 percent.

Guedras in the Wind

Lisa Fonssagrives

Irving Penn with tribesmen

Penn’s cigarette butts

President John F. Kennedy