lobster wrangling

The Birthday Girl does what she does best.


the ferry bringeth

Douglas with his grandchildren and the latest arrival, birthday girl Debby.

..and the ferry taketh away. The season has officially begun, but the weather is not cooperating. Houseguests can't enjoy the beach without windbreakers—sunny days but winds up to 25 mph.


swimming mice

Learning to swim is serious business. But boy it sure happens fast. After four lessons both mice can swim underwater. And Mouse One can float and swim on her back and jump into the pool. Working on the sitting dive and breathing.


home turf

This is the garden of the President of the Garden Club (emeritus) as it prepares to burst into bloom. The husband of the President of the Garden Club (emeritus) has been digging dandelions out of the lawn nonstop with, as you can see, great results.


missing unicorn

Someone is missing a unicorn in Providence. Everywhere we go—along the way to school, at the diner, in the grocery store—there are posters pleading for info.
Apparently this is an art installation that began at the library and galloped off the premises. Phase 2 is the hunting of the unicorn.
The virgins await.


why i should not have a truck

Traveling with me is a nightmare. Everything you see in the photograph above has been transported by me in my truck—most recently the flowered couch that used to be Barb's that I moved to the NYC apartment, took the covers off, bought material in Providence, transported it and the covers to Missouri to be copied by an upholsterer, back to to NYC and then by ferry, couch and covers (left), to Block Island.


the best shower in the world 2.0

For a while if you googled the best shower in the world, you got this one at Claudia's Surf City. Then Hannah's Hideaway came in with competition here. And then indoors here.
  But now there is no competition. You saw what the indoor shower was looking like (open wall, leak) at Claudia's. This is the outdoor shower. Sigh. 


not summer yet

Rodman's Hollow shad bloom
It's barely spring. We're talking daffodils and forsythia. And shad, a subtle greenish white flower on drifts of rounded mounded bushes. So beautiful.
Unlike the inside and porches of my houses, which are a freaking disaster area.

CSC tool bloom


vintage shampoo

 Does shampoo, like fine wine, age well?
   When we went to take out some wall to find the source of a leak in one of the four showers I have to make sure work (not to mention six toilets and eight sinks and three bathtubs), I found an unopened bottle of St. Ives Extra Shine shampoo.
   I had to think to figure out how it happened. Someone must have put it on the top of the shower stall before I put up the beadboard, and it fell down between the studs. That was around 12 years ago.
  Has this shampoo (with jojoba!) become valuable?



Now with internet! Sort of! Molasseslike!

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Location:Off line


Morning light

Houses for sale or rent
Rooms to let ten percent
No phone, no gas, no pets
I ain't got no internet.

Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone


why he photographs

Mom praying to dad, on my first first visit to his niche, after graduating from university, in 1992. Because of the long distance and amount of time it would have taken for me to return for his funeral, the family decided that I should not rush back.
Tay Kay Chin, a photographer acquaintance from Singapore, writes about why he took pictures of his mothers decline and death over the past months. His mother was bemused. "Sometimes, she got a little embarrassed and puzzled with my ever-presence with my camera," he says. "But she would laugh and tell others, 'Look at him, good also take, bad also take. Don't know take so many pictures for what.'"
This is his answer to the "for what."

My father passed away Feb 17, 1992, when I was in my final semester at the University of Missouri-Columbia. 
   Because I had just returned home the Christmas before to visit him, and the new semester was already in full swing, the family decided that I need not come back to Singapore for the funeral. This was a decision that would haunt Mom for many years, despite my saying many many times that it was okay.
   I first found out Dad was dying around Oct/Nov 1991. My second sister had called from Singapore to ask me to return home during the fall holiday. Just one semester away from graduating, I told her I would rather wait till summer 1992 as I wanted to save the family some money.
   "You need to come back because Dad is very sick," I was told.
   By early December, I was home, with many many rolls of black and white film.
   Deeply influenced by Eugene Richards's documentation of his late wife who lost a battle against cancer, and Michael Lutzky's essay about his dad, I was determined that I needed and could photograph my ill father.
   By late December, when I returned to Columbia, Missouri, I had not shot a single frame.
   I just could not.
   It was just too painful.
   Sadly, by the time I had returned to Singapore, Dad's condition has deteriorated to a really horrible state. Already very skinny, my old man was left with just skin and bones. 
  But that was not the only sad scene.
   Every day, I would watch as my Grandma, Dad's ageing mother, used a sharp pen to poke at the base of his legs. The pain in his stomach had gotten so bad that in order for him to feel less painful, Grandma had to inflict pain elsewhere so that he could forget about his real suffering.
   Grandma was by then in her late 70s, but she was, in comparison, in much better shape than her beloved son.
   Outside his room, Mom was constantly busy. She was always busy talking on the phone to friends or relatives, chasing every possible lead to a cure for Dad's cancer, or she would be busy cooking for him. Or she would be talking to holy men who claimed to be able to fix Dad's problems.
   It was not a pretty sight at all, and I couldn't even bring myself to make a photograph. Not once.
   I got to spend a bit of time with Dad during the short visit, in which he would tell me the one thing that I never forgot in my life, "Whatever you do, just try to be the best in the world."
   I had brought home some clippings of my works and articles about me from the USA to cheer him up. My proud Dad would show them to friends and relatives who visited.
   I remember taking him once to his doctor's appointment. Carrying him on my back down two flights of stairs, I realized how light he had become. I also remember wanting to beat up the doctor who asked me, without examining Dad, if I already knew he was suffering from a terminal disease.
   Of course I did, but shouldn't a doctor look again in case of a miracle, instead of just writing him off?
   I don't remember now if I left Singapore that December, I was still harboring hope that Dad would live till mid-1992 for me to graduate and come home for good, but I certainly remember how I learned about his death.
   On Feb 17, 1992, my phone in the bedroom rang in the wee hours and that triggered the answering machine in the living room. I was about to mute the machine when I heard my then brother-in-law asking my then wife, "Does he know his Dad has passed away?"
   I think it was about 5am, and that message never left my mind for days. In fact, it did not leave me for decades.
   That day happened to be first day of the Pictures of the Year contest judging and I had signed up to be a volunteer.
   Sleepless after the call, I left the apartment early to be at the judging venue, keeping myself busy by moving tables and chairs.
   I also remember telling every one that I met that day, "My Dad just passed away."
   It was only days later that I finally broke down and cried like a baby.
   By August that year, I had graduated, divorced and returned to Singapore to start work. I remember vividly Mom's cries, even before I reached our door.
   "Your papa is gone, your papa is gone."
   That afternoon, I went to pay respect to Dad for the first time and made the picture above.
   For years, Mom would still tell me how she had regretted her decision not to bring me home. I told her many many times I never blamed her, but she blamed herself.
   Making pictures of Mom during her three months struggle was not the most 'natural' thing for me. I didn't start photographing her till a few days after her first diagnosis.
   During her last long stay in SGH, and in and out of ICU, I also stopped making pictures for two weeks.
   n many ways, I had to force myself to do it.
   Many times, I just felt like I should stop photographing totally.
   So I don't always know why I did what I did.
   I am pretty sure I wanted some images to remember her. I am also very certain I wanted to show the world how brave she was. I am fairly certain that I have convinced myself that I have a duty to do that. But duty to whom? To what? What could I possibly achieve with my photographs of Mom and my family?
   I am very sure a big part of me says, "you are a photojournalist, a documentary photographer, you teach photojournalism, you encourage your students to make intimate pictures of their family, so you should not be a hypocrite and exempt your own loved ones from the focus of your lens."
   What I am more certain about is that my family loves me, and wanted to give me a chance to 'experience' what I missed back in 1991-1992.
   During the past few days, I have wondered why I had not requested my family to make pictures of my Dad's final days.
   I wondered if I would feel better if had seen pictures of his funeral, and if that would make his death more real, more immediate.
   Perhaps, perhaps not.
   What I feel most comforted these few months is that fact that I had the chance to care for one of my parents, something that plagued me for many years after Dad's passing. That Mom need no longer feel sorry for not letting me see Dad in his last moments because through her, I managed to get glimpses of that, regardless how different it might have been.
   Whether I made pictures or not should not have really mattered.


cinco de mayo

Cinco de Mayo 2010

Cinco de Mayo, 2015
 Truly, we made the arrangement to meet at the Mexican sidewalk cafe in midtown Manhattan before realizing that it was the Cinco de Mayo. Which it appears is a spring holiday (with pagan origins, of course) pretty much all over the world. But there we were again, five years later, at the old stand. There was Ed, and Pinks, and Ivy—an old pal joining for the first time—and me. And a beautiful day and one of the old waiters. The only difference was the addition of a few pounds and everybody playing with their phones.


and now for something completely different

 We went from classic/restrained and more appropriate for Hannah's decor to funky and functional for Claudia's (and for dogs). Thanks to Pinks for the couch!
And thanks to Carla in Missouri for the stitchery!
And, on Thursday, thanks to Hector for helping me carry it out again. . .

And Happy Cinco de Mayo!




My second spring this year. I bet the bums are really glad that spring is finally here.


to the rescue

She saw the overturned car and screeched to the side of the highway.
   She helped the two out of the car and checked their vitals. I talked to 911.
   The man was in pajamas.
   The woman whispered to Lynn, "He did it on purpose."
   When the EMTs, the fire department and the cops got there, Lynn told them what the girl had said.
   She wanted to make sure that several people, male and female,  superiors and underlings, heard it, in case someone wanted to suppress the truth.
   Which was that people will do anything for love.
    Even try to kill themselves and their beloveds.

And in other news, I am now home safe in NYC.