The Beatitude of Quietude

O, that Wednesday

when you knocked off early

when we were so tired, so weary

that we fell down on the bed like the dead

Side by side, garden-dirty, the both of us

The soil and air both soft and warm

Our tired feet in their wet sox hanging over the bed

Toes cracking like castanets in the breeze

Too tired to talk, we just laid there, awake

You could hear appliances humming in the kitchen

You could hear the dog and his sloppy drinking

from the blue bowl, and a fly, a screen door somewhere

But neither of us raised a finger, listening

Instead to our beating hearts, those drums of blood

We simply let love wash over us, cleanse us

heal us, peel the fatigue from our lives

Honeyed, loving thoughts were on our tongues

all the more sweet as time passed soundlessly

Those minutes, so mute and beautiful are

somehow younger than the rest of our bodies

Cellular happiness, dwelling, abiding and deep

© 2010 Viola Weinberg

Photo Genius

I interviewed Ansel Adams in 1982 for National Public Radio on the occasion of his 80th birthday.  The great punk photographer, fStop Fitzgerald came with me and we enjoyed our time together with Ansel and his assistants, Jim and Mary Allindar.  Even more rare, I had a chance to talk with Virginia Adams that day.  Notoriously camera shy, Virginia's father owned Curry Studios in Yosemite Park, where they met.  She told me that he was a pianist then, but soon caught "the fever" which changed their lives--and photography--forever.

When interviewing celebrities, especially artists, I always closed the interview with the question, "Is it possible for artists to be married to each other?"  Virginia laughed at that; she had been a promising opera singer and gave up her career, helping Ansel lug his equipment all over the back country.  At a certain point, she said, "I finally bought him a mule," which answered my question rather soundly.

I learned many things from this interview and was somewhat humbled to be in his presence.  At the time, his images accounted for 50 percent of all photos sold in the world.  They may account for more, now. His zone system was the very bible to photographers.  He loved fStop's name and called me "Zone V".  Looking back, I am reminded of his fragile hands and quick wit.  I truly felt that I was in the presence of a great man.  I had heard many rumors about him that may or may not be true.  I decided to take everything he had to say at face value, and I'm glad I did.

He frequently tested photo gear prototypes, and told us about a new film that would take the place of developing in the dark room--by developing the print in the camera.  So close and so far away from digital photography!  He also said he admired the photography of Edward Weston, but loathed unnamed  "pictorialists" who wanted to tell a story with every photo and titled their work with "a little too much of a flourish."

In answer to my questions on the environment, he had a lot to say.  I asked him how California could continue to support so many people and he suggested de-salinisation plants along the coast.  It struck me that a battle over natural resources might separate Northern and Southern California and asked him what he thought of that.  "Well," he said, quite seriously, "That would mean civil war."

Photo Genius

We followed the trail of your hand

as you spoke, waving to the horizon

where a tiny ship plowed the water 

a mere bubble on Earth's curve

"Imagine it," you said, "Imagine

a city of men, all working like dogs

maybe seeing the light bounce off

my window, at least one of them

Is thinking, "Landfall!" you went on

And we followed you, working like dogs

Cameras clicking like old teeth

Motor-driven film and steel bodies

Capturing images of the light, of us

But then it changed suddenly, resolutely

seemed to glower and burn, the sun 

finally surged and fell flatly to the sea

"It's like that," you said, and 

we all knew what you knew and what you meant

It was all about light crashing 

geometrically on the back of a cloud--

jagged shadow, illuminating 

the tiny hairs on the shivering cypress 

as the wind blew icicles and night 

tumbled in, rough and stark, papery 

and sour yellow with grays in every range

A ship was coming in, in the dusky half-night-- 

Inside, a fire threw our long shadows out to sea 

© 2010 Viola Weinberg