A New Painting - Finally

One of the first things I did yesterday when trying to function again was to sit down and paint. Indeed, as I was lying in bed with the flu, I could see my unfinished painting across the room and wished I had the energy to finish. Yet as horrible as I felt, the time was productive - visually - because I was able to study the painting and make some decisions about how to conclude.

Under normal circumstances, I'll paint a bit and at the end of the day set my work board up and study it from different angles and distances, rather like someone studying it in a gallery. From those observations I decide where to go next. So by the time I picked up the brushes on Tuesday after a several-day hiatus, I knew exactly what I needed to do to finish the work.

I realize it may seem an odd subject at first glance - a computer keyboard. But I certainly think everyday objects are fair game for artists in any medium. And there's obviously plenty of precedent. I chose this particular subject, sharply focusing on the keyboard's directional arrows, because for most of us now it's such a ubiquitous image. We conduct so much of our lives through these keys, from shopping to contacting one's friends and family. Here in New York City, for example, one could sit at the computer and literally order everything one would need to live: groceries, office supplies, entertainment, gourmet food, fast food (including McDonald's, which delivers in Manhattan), sex, toiletries, pharmaceuticals. You name it, there's someone ready to deliver it in Manhattan. Just fire up the computer. So the arrow keys symbolize choices and the directions we might take.

Realizing this is the first painting I've tackled since November, I'm not dissatisfied with the final product. I was a bit tentative at first, but the steadiness of hand finally returned . . . and it's a good thing because the pen and ink leave no margin for error. (Watercolor with Japanese pen and ink, 9"x12", Fabriano paper)

Happy Birthday, Part 2

Remember my birthday post on January 31st? I had mentioned a photo of my mother standing in our den, about to leave for the hospital. My father has graciously tracked down the photo and sent along a scanned copy. As I noted before, my parents had only moved into the house two weeks before my birth, so the den - and I'm guessing most of that large house - had a rather spartan appearance. Although the bookshelves are full now and the room is a comfortable haven with numerous family antiques, memorabilia, and newer furniture, some things haven't changed. Indeed, I believe the magazine rack next to the chair in this photo is the same one that now sits next to my father's favorite recliner. So here's the photo. My mother may be smiling, but her eyes say, "Hurry up and take the picture."

Greetings from the Sick Bed

I am just now climbing out from under the rock that has held me in bed since early Saturday - the flu. With 103 fevers and the feeling that I had left some part of me on the subway tracks, I felt sicker than I have experienced in many years. Thankfully it didn't involve throwing up or other nasties of that nature, but the fever, sweats, aches, shakes, and consumptive cough were enough to have me moaning in typical guy fashion for days. My wife, accustomed to my sick bed histrionics, greeted it all with a mix of compassion and rolling eyes. My kids just regarded me rather suspiciously, with my older son asking me to make sure I didn't throw up on the Playstation. (Oh, if only I could have willed up some carefully aimed projectile vomiting at that very moment.) This is the first day I've been out of bed for more than trips to the bathroom. And it's amazing how quickly the ague can sap one's energy and will. At least my boss possesses a cavalier attitude about using sick days, insisting I take as long as I needed to recover. I would have gladly taken the two days at work over feeling this miserable. But for once I took sick days through which I didn't feel paranoid about missing the work! That would not have been the case in previous jobs. Back to work tomorrow - and back to regular posts - I hope.

Water Towers: Conclusion

I promise that these are the last of the water towers for a while. But I've actually had emails from readers saying they like them. Go figure. There are people out there with tastes as quirky as mine.

Overheard at Home

My Wife, addressing my 7-year-old son, who is sitting on the couch, watching TV, with his hands down his pants, in the manner of all little boys - of any age . . .

Wife: "What are you looking for, Sam?"

Sam: "Treasure."

A female friend observed that this pretty much sums up the male psyche.

Stomp!

This week is the annual "Kids' Night on Broadway" with children receiving free tickets when accompanied by an adult. We decided to take the kids to "Stomp!" - not really on Broadway, but more conveniently located at a historic Yiddish theatre in the East Village. We had seen this show about ten years ago and thought the kids would enjoy the raucous combination of dance and percussion. It did not disappoint. Both boys loved the show, particularly Benjamin, who just finished a series of classes with the National Dance Institute (NDI). Before the show we went to "Veselka," something of an East Village institution, serving Polish/Ukrainian specialties 24 hours a day. Just think "food as ballast," with kielbasa, pierogies, stuffed cabbage, and borscht headlining the menu. (I loathe beets, with a capital L, but just smiled as my wife ate her cold borscht.) Alas, no pictures were allowed in the theatre, so you only get to see the marquee.

More Photos: Madison Square Park Area

There's a sharpness and tonal quality to these sepia images that I just find superior for shots of stone with high contrast. The color images I shot at the same time just don't "pop" in the same way. Even the straight black and white don't seem to have the depth and tonal variation as the sepia. (Now if only I could take these same images on a large format, 8x10 view camera, yielding old-fashioned albumen or platinum prints. Even a high-quality digital camera wouldn't be able to match the crispness and depth of those images.)

Random Architectural Photos from the Weekend

A Death in the City

To outsiders New York seems like a monolithic "Big City" in which one is swallowed up in this nebulous mass of people. Unfortunately, this stereotypical image of shoulder-to-shoulder crowds is only enhanced by the experiences of tourists who often see little more than the few blocks around Times Square - which happens to be the most non-"New York" section of Manhattan. (I avoid it all costs.) Indeed, Manhattan really feels like a bunch of little villages strung together by the subway and bus systems. Each neighborhood has its own "feel," with distinctive restaurants, shops, bodegas, parks, and personalities. Rather than feeling like some anonymous cog in the Manhattan machine, I walk around the West Village and actually know people, from friends and neighbors I pass every day, to the employees of the shops and restaurants we frequent. I'm convinced that one feels a much more personal connection to one's neighborhood in the City, its residents, and its businesses, than one might in suburbia, where so much of one's activity is defined by the automobile and the detachment of mall shopping.

Nevertheless, there are times when New York City lives up to that reputation of fostering urban anonymity. Look closely enough - particularly on the subways and in the parks - and one can see the isolation and loneliness of the solitary and silent masses. I was reminded of this stark reality the other day when two policemen showed up at my office. Apparently an elderly man had died that morning while sitting on a bench at nearby Madison Square Park. No one knew him and he apparently had no permanent address. (The fact that he didn't appear to be homeless, however, led them to believe that he was a resident of one of the neighborhood's remaining SRO's, which are typically filled with the elderly.) However, he did have a meal card from the Sunday Meals for Seniors program that we offer on the first and third Sundays of each month. The police were hoping that he had some permanent affiliation here to assist in their identification efforts. Alas, he was not a member, only a regular at the Sunday meals. So he remained just a name, with no apparent family or identification beyond the cards and slips of paper in his worn leather wallet (which the cops were carrying).

I'm left wondering what the city does with these cases. Given the substantial homeless population, I'm guessing this sort of anonymous death must be a common event. In the 18th and 19th centuries the bodies might have been taken to a "potters' field" like the one that lies under Union Square Park. But today? A city morgue? And then? Are they cremated? Taken to a public cemetery to rest anonymously for eternity, like some unknown soldier?


(Shrine, Our Lady of Padua, painted 2005, 5"x7", Fabriano paper)

Back to Painting

I haven't completed a painting since late November. In fact, until yesterday an unfinished work had sat on my work board since Thanksgiving, waiting for me to finish it. But for some reason I couldn't. I'd walk by it every day and make a mental note to myself to pick up the brushes and get to work. But it just didn't call to me; I just wasn't inspired. What I had completed - perhaps half - looked fine. Yet it just didn't "call to me" in the way so many of my paintings have "urged" me to pull the finished image from the paper. So yesterday I pulled the painting from the board and filed it away - to be completed someday, maybe, if I feel compelled to rescue it from its unfinished state.

Was it the painter's equivalent of writer's block that kept me from the brushes for two months? It certainly felt that way. I had put so much energy, physical and emotional, into preparing for the November show, that I guess the respite was needed. But in the last couple of weeks I've again felt the pull, and even had some ideas for subjects. A visit to the Museum of Modern Art for a Lucian Freud show certainly helped spark some creative energy. And this past weekend I made some sketches for a new work, which I started yesterday with over two hours of painting. It was funny how tentative it felt at first, as I worried about recapturing that steadiness of hand that had developed. However, after a few minutes I relaxed and felt that familiar ease as the paint flowed across the paper. When the painting is done, I'll scan it and post it here.

Oh . . . I was going through some of my earliest works from 2 1/2 to 3 years ago. Most of them I regard with mock horror, realizing that I've come a long way since then. But I did pull out this one image simply because I've posted photos of it in recent weeks. It's not great, but not as bad as some. (5"x5" - Arches paper)

Reflections on My Birthday

Today is my 44th birthday, and my first thought this morning (after my kids had jumped on me in the bed) was a realization that I'm double my age when I graduated from college. For some reason that's a depressing thought. Twenty-two was certainly a good year, particularly the months spent at Oxford studying Tudor/Stuart history and literature. (I can't imagine a more idyllic setting to spend a lifetime.)

And I guess the natural thing to do on one's birthday - especially after 30 or 40, depending on one's thoughts about age and self-imposed milestones - is to grouse about "getting older" and "time passing so quickly," etc. I know my mother, who recently turned 73, and my grandmother, who celebrated her 94th, were lamenting the passage of time and its seemingly accelerating pace. But as my grandfather often said, "It beats the alternative."

There's a great photo in our family archives from this day in 1964 (and I'm sorry that I don't have a scanned copy of it to post). My mother is standing in a near furniture-less den, moments before going to the hospital to give birth. She has this slightly worried look on her face, and I'm sure she's thinking, "Take the damn picture, Ed." (To this day my father takes photos at a glacial pace, even with the various automatic settings on digital cameras. Having spent most of his life taking pictures with film cameras, he naturally wants to make sure that everything is going to work correctly, even if the work is largely done for him by the microchip that drives the camera.) In the 1960s husbands generally didn't accompany their wives into the delivery room as I did, sporting a surgical gown, rubber gloves, and scissors to cut the umbilical cords of my two sons. Like an old sitcom dad, my father sat in the waiting room. According to my mother, however, he didn't pace the floor or fidget or page through magazines in a nervous state. When the hospital staff came to deliver the good news, he was asleep. Too funny. I realize now, in the telling of this story, that this is just another example of my father remaining cool under pressure. (Perhaps a bit too cool under these circumstances. I could not have slept during the delivery of my kids.)

The great thing about the setting of the photograph is that my parents still live in that house, 44 years later. It gives one a solid sense of place and family within the context of a life that is beset by constant change. (My grandmother has lived in the same house since 1951, just minutes from my parents. The close proximity of my grandparents certainly made my childhood more fun.)

Reading an article in The Wilson Quarterly last week, I learned that this kind of rootedness is atypical of American society in the 20th century, particularly since 1946. Europe, not having experienced the housing boom witnessed by the U.S. after World War II, is still a society in which people tend to stay put, maintaining connections to extended family and community on a more frequent basis. Conversely, according to the article the average American moves approximately 11 times during one's adult life. It seems we're driven - literally, given our obsession with cars - to move to bigger and better homes, thinking that fulfillment of the American dream is always just one house away. (This near universal belief that all are somehow entitled to own a McMansion fueled the recent housing boom and the underlying sub-prime mortgage crisis. That crisis may yet signal the death knell of the American dream for many citizens.)

Ok, so this doesn't really have anything to do with my birthday. But it gives you an idea of how my brain is always running down these side streets to check out something new or different. And I guess that habit does say something about where I am at 44: still curious, ready to learn new things, analyze the world around me, and offer my two cents, whether it's wanted or not.

Subway Abstracts

The subway is a riot of sound and color - with the occasional rat and unwanted smells added to the mix just to remind one that this still is New York City, despite the claims of a "kinder, gentler" Big Apple. I always marvel at the aesthetics of the stations, many of which have undergone extensive restoration in the last 20 years. Many older stations - for example, those constructed before World War I - still retain their original design motifs with elaborately rendered medallions and tile work. The long-closed City Hall station, rarely opened for tours, is a beautiful example of the Art Nouveau style in its details. Even some of the recently renovated subway stops possess elaborate art installations, stained glass, or tile mosaics. My friends who eschew subway travel for whatever reason are missing one of the cheapest art shows in the city! (Still, surveying the puzzled and nervous faces of visitors trying to navigate these cacophonous spaces, I can't help wondering if some of them feel rather like the suspicious souls who populate George Tooker's famous egg tempera painting of a subway station - shown above left. Tooker had a great knack for depicting the worry and existential dread of mid-20th century urbanites. In the post 9/11 world many of his paintings seem newly relevant.)

These shots, colorful little abstracts of some of the tile work at 23rd Street on the 1 line, are the result of my experiments with the macro feature on the new camera. (I think the focus on #2 is a little off.)

State of the Union

Tonight President Bush delivers his valedictory State of the Union address to the nation. He should use the airtime as a final opportunity to apologize to the American people for: defiling this country's reputation around the world; trampling on the Constitution, particularly the Bill of Rights and the explicit separation of powers; the waste of thousands of American lives in an illegal war; the loss of a budget surplus thanks to inflated defense spending and tax cuts that benefit only the wealthiest citizens; and pro-business measures that have crippled the ability of the EPA, OSHA, and other regulatory agencies. Of course, he won't admit any wrongdoing or criminal behavior, despite the bitter reality of his behavior. He should spend eight years in a federal prison to atone for his sins of the last eight years. Yet a mere eight years will not be nearly enough time to erase the damaging legacy of the Bush years.

Water Tanks and Signs?

Over the weekend someone asked why I bother posting photos of water tanks or signs from derelict hotels. And upon reflection it really might seem an odd subject for a photograph. I might as well collect photographs of fire hydrants or traffic signs. But as I was reminded a couple of weeks ago in a visit to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, there's certainly precedent for that kind of documentary style in which ordinary objects - rather than human subjects - become the photographer's focus. In one of the museum's photography galleries they had images by Bernd and Hilla Becher, the German couple who made a career out of straightforward documentary images of industrial landscapes.

Beginning in the early 1960s the Becher's carried their large format view camera around Europe and the United States to capture images of water towers (see the first image below), cooling towers, grain elevators, blast furnaces, and more. Publishing numerous books and winning myriad awards, they showed that even industrial subjects - like these water towers - can be beautiful as architectural monuments. They also chronicled an age in which industrial design actually reflected a measure of aesthetic concern for an object's placement in the environment. Realize too that the Becher's were also conscious of the impermanence of that landscape. In the post-industrial world of Europe and the U.S. over the last 30 years, many of their subjects were razed in the name of progress and beautification.

Now I don't make any claims to possess the vision of Bernd and Hilla Becher. (Although I certainly would jump at the chance to experiment with a large format camera!) Still, I do enjoy that kind of documentary effort, capturing bits of the New York City landscape that seem threatened by either "renewal" or neglect. Indeed, the area along the Hudson River from about 18th Street down to Houston includes many older buildings - some historic - that face demolition in the wake of new condo and co-op construction. Unfortunately, most of that new development is in the form architectural nightmares of glass and metal. I will not be taking picture of those. (Obviously the last three images are mine.)

Note: While at the MOMA I learned that Bernd Becher died in 2007 at the age of 75. One wonders if his wife will continue to take pictures.

Village Photos

Here are more photos from the neighborhood. Shots 1 and 3 are representative of the numerous early to mid-19th century townhouses which line the labyrinth of streets in the West Village. There are even a few late-18th century buildings, including the house in which Thomas Paine died, just around the corner from our apartment. Photo 2 is of a ca. 1836 pair of houses that are usually referred to as the "twin sisters." The final image captures one of the ubiquitous water tanks that adorn so many buildings in Manhattan. Ostensibly required for all buildings over six stories, most of these wooden tanks are still made on-site by a handful of family-owned companies that have been in business for generations.

American Idol?

So my wife and I have been watching bits and pieces of the first episodes of the new American Idol season. Let me point out that we don't care who wins, don't follow the careers of past contestants, or watch the show after they move to the "Hollywood" phase. We only watch to see how god-awful horrible some of the first contestants can be. Now of course there are always a few clowns who try out with some horrible routine in an effort to have their moment on television. They know up front that the judges will never pick . . . but if they're sufficiently outrageous, maybe, just maybe, they'll end up on the broadcast. Nevertheless, there are those performers who earnestly believe they have talent. They can be tone deaf, or have no sense of rhythm and stage presence, let alone a talent for the difficult exercise of a capella vocals. Yet they step before the judges and the cameras convinced that they deserve a chance to move on to the next round. And when they are rejected they cry and stomp their feet and appear genuinely hurt that they've been sent packing. (Let me add that there are plenty of contestants who have moderately pleasant voices and will do just fine singing in their church choir, performing in community theater performances, or serenading their family in the car. Their voices, however, aren't up to belting out a ballad or sustaining the latest pop hit.)

What always amazes us is how serious the worst of the contestants can be. They often truly believe they possess some rare talent that will be obvious to the judges if they're just given a chance to sing! How did they get this far in life believing they could become professional singers or the next music sensation? Several forces could be at work here. Some of those auditioning have likely never received truthful, constructive criticism of their singing talents - or lack thereof. They've been reassured - falsely - by parents and teachers and friends that their singing is "lovely" or "beautiful" in an effort to avoid hurt feelings and bruised egos.

The more likely cause of such unrealistic aspirations, however, is the cult of celebrity that has mushroomed into a global phenomenon. Thanks to reality television, YouTube, MySpace, and similar media outlets, anyone can put himself or herself out there and, with odds equivalent to the chance of being struck by lightening, become a star and thus enjoy the trappings of life as a celebrity. Indeed, there are just enough examples of success (Lily Allen, for example) to fuel the dreams of a herd of celebrity wannabes who would trade their mortal souls to grace the cover of People or the scores of celeb-obsessed magazines that now crowd grocery store shelves. But in a society in which no-talent "celebutantes" like Paris Hilton can be famous for no logical reason, it's easy to see how ordinary people might want to escape their seemingly mundane lives. There are even those who would trade places with the trainwreck lives of Britney Spears and Lindsay Lohan just for the chance to be famous. It really is a sad commentary on the direction our society has taken in the last 20 years.

As we move into the third month of a writers strike in Hollywood, "reality" programming, already epidemic on many networks, only strengthens its presence. Sadly, however, there's very little that's "real" in these shows. Indeed, at best they offer only a parody of reality, whether one is watching The Bachelor or American Idol. At times like this, one is reminded of Newton Minow, chair of the FCC during the Kennedy administration, whom I've mentioned before on this blog. In a famous 1961 address, Mr. Minow observed:

"When television is good, nothing -- not the theater, not the magazines or
newspapers -- nothing is better. But when television is bad, nothing is worse. I
invite you to sit down in front of your television set when your station goes on
the air and stay there without a book, magazine, newspaper, profit and loss
sheet or rating book to distract you -- and keep your eyes glued to that set
until the station signs off. I can assure you that you will observe a vast
wasteland."

To our discredit as a society, those words ring true nearly half a century later. Of course, the average person cares nothing about such arguments. And I'm happy to admit that I tend to be a cultural elitist, if not an outright snob. So bring on the off-key singers and celebrity wannabes. If we're lucky, a few gold nuggets will emerge from the dross; the rest will retire to their mundane lives and join the ranks of consumers, rather than the consumed.

Inauguration Day, January 20, 2009

One year from the past Sunday, a new President-elect will take the oath of office before the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court and millions of Americans watching on their televisions. If we are lucky, it will usher in a new era for this country, an era punctuated by a return to justice, respect for the Constitution, respect for basic human rights, and an understanding of the limits of presidential power. I believe George W. Bush will ultimately be judged as one of the worst presidents in U.S. history. Even accounting for the ineffectual presidencies of the Gilded Age and the stain of corruption attached to the two terms served by Ulysses S. Grant, the Bush administration must be regarded as an even worse failure, both in terms of domestic and foreign policies. Even the Nixon administration, which we remember primarily for its demise in the Watergate scandal, can be remembered for some positive accomplishments, most notably the warming of relations between the U.S. and China. Reagan, whom I've always regarded as one of the most intellectually limited of our Chief Executives, looks comparatively benign next to the idiocy of Bush. Indeed, when Reagan was in office I always thought, "Well, we can't do any worse." I was so wrong.

What can we expect for 2009 and beyond? Regardless of the new president's party affiliation, we should demand an end to this illegal war and expect a strenuous effort to restore the nation's reputation within the worldwide community. Americans should also expect the next president to uphold the oath of office, unlike President Bush, who regularly trampled on the system of "checks and balances" established by the Constitution.

Among the current Republican candidates, several are particularly troubling. Huckabee should have been disqualified after the first debate for declaring that he did not believe in evolution, preferring the Genesis creation mythology as the source for his belief. He also too closely reflects the dangerous vision of the Republican party's religious fascists who labor constantly to bring down the constitutional wall that separates church and state. (The "Religious Right's" misreading of our early history and the Constitution is one of the gravest threats to this nation.) Giuliani too closely resembles Bush in temperament. (Thankfully, Rudy's numbers are declining in the polls.) McCain has a record of occasional moderation, but one wonders if he'll compromise his often maverick stance on critical issues just to secure votes. Romney, his controversial Mormonism aside, just seems so lacking in charisma and intellectual "oomph." He's fast becoming the John Kerry of the 2008 campaign.

Unfortunately, even the current Democratic front-runners haven't attracted my support at this point. Although I like Hillary Clinton (and still like Bill), I don't think she's electable in a national contest. Fudge-brained conservatives in the South and Midwest will do everything in their power to combat her candidacy and bring out the Republican minions to vote. I like Obama's optimism and think he represents a welcome challenge to the status quo, but believe he would make a more viable candidate in 2012. I just don't think he has sufficient experience in government yet to navigate the murky political waters of Washington.

From the beginning, I had hoped Al Gore would run. He's clearly the most qualified to do the job, and he possesses a gravitas and intellectual curiosity that smug George Bush doesn't carry even on his best days. (And as I've said before, we'll all be better off when Bush sits isolated and out of touch on his Texas ranch, condemned to obscurity, the harsh judgment of scholars, and the dustbin of American history. One hopes that in the future he'll come to recognize the tragedy of his two terms in office. One suspects, however, that he doesn't possess the requisite humility, since he's been trumpeting his own infallibility since taking office.) Alas, Gore will not run, and I will have a hard time making up my mind in November. (Of course, I will NOT be voting Republican in November and could not, with a clear conscience, cast a vote for any Republican candidate.) Nevertheless, I'm sustained by the thought that in 363 days, Bush will no longer be President of the United States.

Dreamscapes

Chatting with a friend yesterday, I ended up on the subject of dreams and we were soon comparing the colorful products of our subconscious minds. Dream analysis has become something of a fad in recent years, with a proliferation of books and internet sites devoted to interpretation, some of it so programmatic and superficial that one can imagine the Old Testament figure of Joseph spinning in his grave. (My sons recently watched a Veggie Tales version of the Joseph story, retold as a western in "The Ballad of Little Joe." Very entertaining and thought-provoking for little boys who are just now starting to remember their dreams.) But back to my conversation . . . Naturally, we tried to find the veiled meanings in this eclectic dreamscape.

Upon comparison, we quickly learned that both of us had experienced some pretty standard types, dreams that affect most people: dreams about falling or being chased, for example. During times of stress I also have dreams in which I'm back at the Virginia Military Institute, getting ready for a parade or inspection. Invariably, I'm running late and can't find all of the pieces of my uniform. So I'm running about looking for shoes, or belts, or pieces of brass, in a panic that I won't make the upcoming formation. Over the years I've talked to a number of VMI graduates, including alumni from the 50s and 60s, and we all have the same kind of dreams under stress. Whether we graduated five years ago or 40 years ago, we all find ourselves back at the Institute in the same situations. Funny how the experience affected us - down to our subconscious selves - in such a similar fashion. (Oddly, I don't recall having had nightmares in which I've revisited the traumatic experiences of that first year, a subject which would seem fair game for a subconscious reaction to fear and stress.)

Several months ago in this blog I talked about the recurring dream that I've had intermittently - and unpredictably - over at least two decades, in which I'm stuck in a multi-story house. These houses - smaller and simpler in the early years, and incredibly large and complex in the last decade - always have a dark, locked upper level, in which there's something menacing and malevolent. I never actually make it onto this level, but sometimes approach the door, with the feeling of malevolence growing as I get closer. I've been told that the house represents me and my life, which like the dream-house, has grown and become more complex over the years. The dark attic represents the darker aspects of my personality - anger, for example - which I don't want to let out into the open. A friend well versed in Jungian dream analysis almost salivated over this scenario because it so closely reflected the Jungian interest in the "shadow" aspects of our subconscious selves.

More recently, my dreams have returned to the house imagery, but without the darker aspects of my old nightmare. For example, in one recent dream I was trying to go on vacation with my family but we couldn't find all of the things we needed to leave. Much of the dream was spent searching through my "house" - a fantasy residence with a rabbit warren of rooms and no relation to my current housing situation.

Two weeks ago I dreamed that I had found a house for sale on Virginia's Eastern Shore - a ramshackle, white clapboard Victorian home - that was being offered for the unbelievably cheap price of $22,000. The exterior and interior of the house needed considerable work, and I recall the elderly woman who owned the place showed me through rooms that were stuffed full of curio cabinets containing "depression glass" and countless examples of cheap pottery and ceramic items. Ironically, many of the items tucked away in the curio cabinets were pieces that I've collected over the years, but are now in storage! (I'm still not sure what to make of this one!)

Finally, over the weekend I dreamed that while visiting family I attended some amorphously-defined fair or fundraiser and won a contest in which the prize was a house. I can still remember from the dream how my name was announced loudly on a speaker system . . . with my wife and I running to see what we had won. Weird . . . but interesting how houses have become a dominant symbol in many of my recent dreams. I'm not sure what the underlying meaning is in all this, but I welcome any thoughts, whether Freudian, Jungian, or your own personal take. I'd also love to hear about any recurring dreams you've experienced.

"Messenger" Passes Mercury

Funny - I still have the same child-like enthusiasm for the space program that I had when the Apollo missions delivered 12 astronauts to the moon during the 1970s. I can still name the crews of the Mercury, Gemini and Apollo missions and tell you what each of those missions accomplished. Chalk it up to obsessive reading of books on astronomy and the NASA programs of the 60s and 70s.

So this week that enthusiasm was reawakened by the news that NASA's "Messenger" spacecraft had flown by Mercury on Monday, the first of several fly-bys before it slows down and settles into orbit around the planet in 2011. Launched in 2004, its camera and instruments doubtless surpass those of Mariner 10, which photographed Mercury in 1974/75, and was the last NASA craft to reach the planet.

The first photos, which started showing up on the internet in the last two days, are amazing in their clarity, and illustrate what NASA can accomplish given competent leadership and adequate funding. Unfortunately, popular interest in space exploration has waned considerably over the last 30 years. Moreover, Washington's lack of commitment to visionary programs, measured in their failure to fund properly the development of new technologies, has limited NASA's effectiveness and left us with an outdated launch vehicle that, from the standpoint of budgets and bureaucracies, flies along as if negotiating an asteroid field. China is on the verge of significant breakthroughs in its efforts to develop a viable space program and has set long-term goals that, if realized, promise to overshadow the United States' role as a leader in space science.

For now, enjoy this latest good news from NASA, and check out the official "Messenger" website!

More Weekend Photos

As I continue to learn how to use this new camera, I'll continue to post regular examples of the results. This batch includes: the sign from a derelict hotel near the waterfront, near Christopher Street (shot in sepia); a doorway on a historic West Village home; a 19th century stable, in the Village, converted to apartments; and an impromptu meeting of pigeons at the corner of Bleecker and 10th Streets. These aren't anything special, just the results of playing with exposures and settings. Funny, when I'm carrying around a digital camera, I don't really think like an "art photographer" in the way that I do when carrying around a TLR loaded with black and white film. Perhaps that will change with time.