Bear's house, across the street from me, was destroyed. It was taken down .
The street in front of my house, once the flood waters subsided.
Three years ago today, a seven-foot wall of water swept through Thomasville, Mo., and my house. The town was wiped out, but no one was killed. One did have to be rescued from his second floor. Many lost their houses, trucks, campers, TVs, livestock and life savings, not only monetary. On the same day, a car t-boned Hannah and Chris and their car was overturned and spun around on its roof on a bridge. Was that some day?
Well, we're all ok. And Thomasville was recovering until this latest setback. I mean, as much as a dying town of 50 people can recover.
The new and improved Goose
Mighty spiff, huh? But you should see the cafe across the street—if it ever reopens.
"Sleep, Sex, The Bed," my pal Ed proposes a story positing that everything changes in life on the inside. Almost everyone I know has altered sleep patterns. Dreaming is intense, for sure. I dreamt that Ed and I time traveled back to Woodstock (have I ever mentioned that I was actually there??). When we got there, I immediately regretted not buying one of those portable chargers for my phone so I could take more pictures.
"I don't think I can unironically throw the peace sign," I told Ed. Needless to say, we were the oldest people there—though I had tried to dress for the occasion in cutoff jeans. As I looked around, I wished I had refreshed my memory of the event by looking at Life magazine's special issue. And then it occurred to me that here was an opportunity to change the course of history. No, it didn't occur to me that by carrying the virus with us we could have eliminated the peace-and-love movement at one fell swoop. I wanted to jumpstart feminism. I woke up as I was trying to think of the words for a poster that would awaken women. If you can think of what they should have been, LMK. I still can't think of a headline that works.
Anyway, here's the bed. More about the bath and beyond another time. But not on Facebook.
On Saturday, I left Erin's at the ass crack and headed to Providence. Everybody was asleep, and I had to ring the doorbell. PS, that is their beautiful mother-in-law "garage and studio." Almost done! Hannah and Chris struggled the loveseat they had been babysitting all winter into the truck and tied it down.
We then had a brief in-person (but distanced) chat for the first time since Thanksgiving.
Johnny met me at the Block island ferry dock and (at a distance) offloaded the sofa onto the front lawn and unpacked it. The lawn mowing dudes brought it into the house before it started to blow and rain.
I didn't know how to put the legs on the sofa, but managed to with the help of a couple chairs and a post.
And there it is in situ, along with the puzzle from hell that Erin gave me. Home again!
Leaving the north woods at the crack of morn for the island, hoping to evade the police. Will stop in Providence en route to attempt to fit yet more shit in my truck and head to the ferry. Can't be grateful enough that the Porter household was willing to take in yet another viral risk factor and feed and house me in luxury.
Well, there is a wave of hope running through the family. My brother Ben is spreading love with his new song Universal Love and his grand nephew Isaac writes (in lieu of his homework) of a caterpillar saved—spoiler alert—from a terrible fate and decides to donate his allowance to WHO.
@JaneEvelynAtwood Jane made this video for herself, as a record of the process and placement of her photographs. It is raw footage that she never meant to share. The retrospective show at the prestigious gallery in La Filature, a cultural center in the east of France, was to be the capstone of her career. But the cultural center in Mulhouse also proved to be the epicenter of the coronavirus outbreak in France. The following is her story, a mirror of that of all the actors and artists and athletes and all the rest of us who have had our lives interrupted.
The Story Of An
Exhibition At The Filature, Mulhouse
I arrive
in Mulhouse February 25, where I stay in a large and comfortable hotel.
Every
morning I have breakfast with a small crowd, and three times that week I have
dinner in the same dining room, always with a lot of people. At the end of the
week, buses arrive, filled with Carnival attendees. Thursday they're in the
hotel lobby, already in disguise.
The next
day I go to the Filature to unwrap the many packages of framed photos that make
up my Retrospective, Jane Evelyn Atwood, Photographs:
1976 - 2010.
I lay
the photos out on the floor, in their respective places, in the different
sections that make up the enormous Gallery. Emmanuelle had sent me a floor plan
and I'd already established an order on the floor of my office in Paris.
Marc and
Andrej, the guys who will actually hang the pictures, arrive in the afternoon
and we begin to work together.
The
exhibition is the same one that showed at the Maison Européenne de la Photo in
2011, excluding the photos of Haiti and the landmine series. There isn't room
for everything, and I want to add 36 photos from Pigalle People. It's easy to do, because I can use the same tiny
work prints, each on a page of my little black notebooks, that were exhibited
in Arles for the Rencontres de la Photographie in 2018 and then at the Maison
de Robert Doisneau in the fall of 2019. A long wall, opposite the section I
call Miscellaneous, can perfectly hold
two rows of the framed pages, one right next to another.
The
hanging takes five days. There are 190 pictures. The section on AIDS, with the
photos of Jean-Louis, is hell to hang. Pigalle, too, takes an enormous amount
of time.But Marc and Andrej are great: meticulous,
efficient and very kind. As we progress, they study the images more and more
closely and they ask more and more questions.We talk a lot about prison, AIDS and of course, prostitution--even the
series on the blind evokes their curiosity. They are genuinely interested in
what they're seeing.
The new
Director, André Benoît, comes by and walks through the entire show. I
photograph him as he stands dumbfounded in front of the photo of an inmate
giving birth in handcuffs.
The
hotel empties out on the weekend. The Carnival is cancelled--a first!
I spend
Saturday and Sunday photographing the trans who Emmanuelle had introduced me to
the year before.
On
Monday, March 2, the wall texts arrive from the printer, Prevel Signalisation.
Laurent and Emmanuelle have finished the captions and we place them where they
belong, one under each photo. I arrange all the objects, drawings and gifts
that the prisoners have given me in two glass cases in the prison section of
the show. In the Jean-Louis case I put a selection of the most important
publications--magazines and newspapers that ran the story--and the letter from
Brigitte, a 17-year-old high school student who wrote and told me she finally
understood what AIDS was all about after she saw our story in Paris Match. I go through the whole show
with Dominique who, teetering at the top of his ladder, adjusts the lights for
every image.
On
Tuesday, March 3, a team from the television channel, ARTE, arrives. We spend
the morning together, in the exhibition, to film and interview. I had already
done many interviews for the press, but ARTE wants to film a sequence that
they'll show as part of their evening news hour. At noon we all eat together,
with others from the Filature, in the Museum café, where we'd often eaten
during the week. The rest of the time we went to small restaurants in town,
where there was always a crowd.
Sylvain
arrives by train in the afternoon.
Everything
is finally ready for the March 3rd opening that very evening. It touches me
deeply when Marc and Andrej tell me that no exhibition at the Filature has ever
moved them as much as the photos they've just hung for me.
Before
the opening, there's a projection of the film, Jane Evelyn Atwood: Fragments d'Un Parcours, by Thomas Goupille and
the production company, Cinq26. The auditorium is full: about 100 people. There
are 200 at the opening. All the trans I'd photographed on the weekend are
there. The Director makes a beautiful speech. Everybody kisses and hugs; it's a
lot of fun.
I go
back to the Filature the next morning, March 4, to make a quick video, as I
often do when I exhibit--not to show to the public, but for me, as a record of
the photo order on the walls of a beautiful space.
Later,
when we leave the hotel to take our train, the day's newspapers are on a table
in the reception area. "Look!" I call out to Sylvain, "I'm going
to take a picture!"It's the last
picture I take in Mulhouse.
The
Filature is closed on March 10.
Sylvain
and I are quarantined in Quimper several days before President Macron
quarantines the entire country. With the exception of those who attended the
opening, no one has seen the exhibition.
The
photos are still there, on the walls in the empty space, hanging in the
silence.
Jane
Evelyn Atwood
April
10, 2020
@JaneEvelynAtwood A prisoner gives birth in handcuffs. I met Jane on a story about women in prison for LIFE magazine. We spent the night in a cell together.
@JaneEvelynAtwood Sylvain and Jane quarantined at home in the countryside.
The fritillaria, which my sister calls "the Dr. Seuss plant," is blooming. The birds are going insane. And second homeowners like me are feeling restive. Despite the fact that, as has been made very clear in the NYT, islands don't want us. I cleaned out the truck, made a boat reservation for Saturday, and my brother-in-law says he'll meet me at the boat to protect me. I just have to wait and see whether the water company, the plumbers, the cleaners and the gas guy are able to get my place ready to receive by then.
Meanwhile in Manhattan, Donna Ferrato has been putting on her mask and taking pictures around her neighborhood of Tribecca. She has put together a fascinating photographic timeline of this time. Along with other photographers and galleries, she is also contributing work to support charities.
And Chien-Chi Chang continues to produce pictures for Magnum and National Geographic from Graz, Austria.
Tomorrow we will have a guest blogger, photographer Jane Evelyn Atwood, whose retrospective was shut down—along with all Paris—after the opening.
Madison hangs out on the roof between on-line classes.
Erin awaits her next editing job.
The house is big enough that we don't live in each others' pockets. Everyone is able to find some private space. We all get up at different times and eat at different times except for dinner which we shared in front of the TV watching, like everyone else, Tiger King, untilwe finished the nightmare 2000-piece puzzle that covered the dining room table.
The whole family convenes once the puzzle is picked up.
Can you imagine spending the next ten months with this hopper (above)? Providence has just decreed that there will be no school in the fall, either. Ack! Camilla, 9, seems to have adjusted to school on line ("I can learn at my own pace") and is a good sport about it. Isaac, 6, on the other hand, can't read or write or use a computer (except for Minecraft and movies) and goes into full-on refusal mode. Instead, he has debuted a meditation podcast to help kids go to sleep—something that seems to be a near-universal problem in these changed times.
Hannah, meanwhile, saw the handwriting on the wall and shut down her office/studio and moved her business home to the basement, as did Chris. To add insult to injury, the basement then flooded. Double ack!!
It has been an after-Easter tradition for a while to put Peeps in the microwave. I mean, what else do you do with leftover Peeps—nobody eats them! (Except Godzilla.) So once again, there were Peeps hanging idly around the kitchen. Not having much microwave experience, I wanted an idea of how long to nuke them. I went for advice to Crazy Russian Hacker (above), whose accent makes it more fun.
Before
After. OK, it's not the same batch. We discovered that they deflate almost instantly.
This goes out to my three main men in memory of John Prine.
For Robert, we blow up the TV with Spanish Pipedream.
For Ed, it's all those Souvenirs (mainly because I can't stand Big Old Goofy World).
For Todd, it's The Accident. A similar fender bender inspired Todd to create the work above while he was in art school, including a nod to fellow Chicago boy Prine. The collage on zinc appeared in a DeNiro film called Mad Dog and Glory (1993) with Uma Thurman. "My ex-wife worked
in set decorating for the film, shot in Chicago," says Todd. "It appears for a moment
in Glory’s bathroom scene." For me, it will always be Angel From Montgomery, preferably sung by Bonnie Raitt. The song includes what may be my favorite—saddest—lyric of all time: "How the hell can a person go to work in the morning, come home in the evening and have nothing to say."
So Ed (war correspondent in Brooklyn) texts to me (writer in Massachusetts) and Chien-Chi (photographer in Austria), "When this is all over, we make the grandest road trip of all times. We channel Steinbeck and Kerouac."
Chien-Chi says, "I write, you take pictures, and Claudia sits back and relaxes."
C: Who drives?
Ed: CC can't, and you drive too slow.
C You drive too fast! We aren't even on the road yet, and we're squabbling in the back seat!
Ed: Just stay on your side of the car. And, no, we are not stopping for ice cream!
C: Are we there yet?
Ed: Stop hitting CC. If I have to stop you are both in trouble.
C: He hit me first!
Ed. You are older. I don't want to hear it. Turn up the radio. Let's play license plates.
C: I'm hungry.
Ed: You just ate.
C: When are we gonna be there? I really am hungry. I'm really starving!
Ed: Finish the hamburger next to you.
C: It's yuik.
Ed: It is not yuk. CC finished his.
C: Is so!
Ed: Is not!
C: You like CC better than me.
Ed: Of course! He finished his burger!
C: You don't care if I'm starved to death.
Ed: I do care. If you starved to death back there I would have to clean the car.
C: When are we gonna be there?
Ed: And don't tell me you have to pee. We have only driven ten miles.
Flip grabs his laptop and prepares to go to his virtual dojo in the basement. He is going for his (black belt) fourth degree, or dan, which is master level in Tae Kwan Do (he has also studied karate and ju jitsu), and misses his real life dojo.
Erin is in her office in another country, vitrually. Usually it is someplace in Africa, but at the moment it's Iraq. On a nice day, you might find Madison outdoors in her French class on a laptop or Eva in her Italian class, with her professor who is actually in Italy.
You would likely find me on the phone in the sun. It has been a long time since I talked on the phone except to certain people (you know who you are!), but these times seem to call for it.
Photographers all over the world are stuck at home. It may be harder for them than the rest of us, since documentary work requires travel—or at least going out. So they are taking pictures at home—see Chien-Chi-Chang's and other Magnum work in National Geographic—or diving into the archives.
Donna Ferrato, like others, is selling prints with half the proceeds going to help in the current epidemic. As a long time champion of battered women, however, her focus is different. She is seeking donations for Sanctuary for Families in New York City. The last time her home (and mine) was so convulsed was during the terrorist attack of 9/11. But now intimate terrorism, always higher during holidays, has spiked all over the world as families ironically "shelter"—French police say calls have gone up 30 percent. "After 9/11 Tribeca came together and came back stronger than before. I am optimistic that this time we will come back even stronger but only by working together," says Donna. She is offering signed, limited editions of her Tribeca photographs for $100. Check out the collection on her website. Click print sale.
I think this is the river behind Bill's house. Bill?
Franklin and his dog, Mercy, await breakfast at the Goose. The picture was taken by his mom, Carly, a friend who visits me there every few years. We became friends through this blog, as a matter of fact, when I first started it in 2005. At the time she was in California and I was in New York. You can read more particulars here.
Anyway, she and her son needed a nature break from Kansas City, and she had the dubious privilege of opening up the Goose. One year it was the dead squirrel who had tried to chew its way out of the Goose and failed. One memorable year, Changping was with me when I opened, and it was the plague of fleas, It is pretty much the same problem I have in Block Island every year, though there it is more likely mice and leaks in the plumbing.
The river behind Bill's on Carly's first visit, when her now college kid was Franklin's age.
Franklin is not holding a wasps' nest
Anyway, this year it's hornets, or, as Bear calls them, waspers. Carly (who Bear was deeply enamoured of back in the day when he was still speaking to me) killed three or four in the bedroom the night she arrived, and several more the next day. She duct taped the windows and doors, and still they kept getting in.
I know their nest is about 12 feet up in the back of the Goose—or it was when I tried to kill them off last year.They seem to have the hollow of a cement block filled with their kind. There is an entry and an exit hole, but how they ae getting into the house—or why they would want to—I have no notion. Anyway, we caved. Carly is going to call Dianne's exterminator. Stay tuned!
Erin and Flip head out to deliver groceries from the food bank to senior citizens' housing. They have been told that there is a case of COVID-19 in the food bank building, and that the apartment dwellers in the senior housing can be a problem. Some make a rush for the bags; some want to stay and chat; many are confused; some are desperate; most don't understand the necessity of staying far away from others. I look forward to their report.
Meanwhile, here's an article about Block Island's mainland distancing.
Douglas said, "Sounds as bucolic and tidy as the picture, but the longer this thing lasts, the more likely the social structure on the Island will reveal its fragility. With no income, no business, no imported help, no tourists, how long before tempers flair? The Island is just one powderkeg, a microcosm of what may be coming. Hang on to your hats, it’s only the beginning." I pretty much agree with him. And the first case on BI was identified two days ago: Seventy-year-old guy in hospital on mainland. Douglas and his son Simon had fled the island for decent broadband in Providence the day before.
Who's been zooming who? Last night the Gasner clan gathered for a chat. Some in California, some on Block Island, some in Providence and me in Massachusetts. It's actually hard to figure out what to talk about en mass, and since we mostly talk to one another anyway, there wasn't a lot of info to exchange. Basically, we were like my grandson's classroom Zoom waving and saying "Hi" for an hour. But it was fun to see what this platform was about and to see all these sleepy people.
