culture in nyc

Anyone on Madison Avenue between 65th and 66th from now til October 24th, should pause and look at Jane Evelyn Atwood's photographs in the window of the L. Parker Stephenson Gallery. To go inside and see the rest, you need to make an appointment. She's a wonderful photographer and a friend of mine. Following is her CV.

Jane Evelyn Atwood's projects engage with closed communities, formed through trauma and adaptation.  Through years of immersive exploration, often spanning multiple continents, Atwood offers complex perspectives on the lives of prostitutes, incarcerated women, landmine victims, blind children and others similarly excluded by social or physical conditions. Her photographic engagement with those who have been affected directly by these situations is at an intimate, visceral level. 

Atwood was born in New York and has lived in France since 1971. She was the first recipient of a W. Eugene Smith Fund Grant in 1980 and a year later the International Center of Photography hosted her first solo exhibition. Since then, her work has been exhibited extensively throughout Europe, the US and North Africa including a major retrospective at the Maison Européenne de la Photographie in 2011. Thirteen monographs have been published on Atwood’s œuvres and her photographs are in numerous public collections in France, the United States and in Scotland.

 

starved for company

 

I guess most people with any sense are starved for company right now. But pre-election is no time to make new friends, when things could turn fractious. So it was very fun to gather, once again, with these like minded folk. "Country noir" author Dan Woodrell (Winter's Bone) and his bride, author Katie Estill (Dahlia's Gone). The chef/oenophile/judge/lawyer once again entertained us on his porch, plying us with oysters flown in from Cape Cod and crab claws from—The Gulf, maybe? But the best of it was socializing. Talking. We sat and talked for hours and at the end of the day, I felt refreshed as I headed home in deer time.

meanwhile in providence

Situation abnormal. The kidz are in school, but their parents are their teachers. Providence still has a high rate of virus compared to the rest of New England, and it seemed like the safer course. Also less screen time than the zooming schooldays of spring.

 Note Ruca's debut on Amazon as a model. You can see her in the last pic here, as shot by Dog Daddy.

Also keyboardist brother Ben debuts as a singer.  You can find links to The Times They are A Changing here.

And this is the mother-in-law house that Hannah and Chris built in their back yard for Sara. She moves in in a couple weeks. Oh, and another homeschool project.

 

winter ready

It took a ridiculous amount of time and mosquito repellent, but the pump house is now winter-ready. Bill Dugan gave me thick foam insulation that I cut to fit between the studs. It had to be cut from both sides, due to my wimpy saw, which was above my pay grade. However, it is done. The electrician came out and installed wiring for an outlet and overhead light. A tiny thermostat-controlled (orange) heater is operational, and when it gets cold again, hopefully the pipes won't freeze up, and the water will keep running.

 

summer roundup

 

My sister bought a house on Block Island. Yay! Someone else from my side of the Family That Ate The World! Here it is. Erin is at my house now, overseeing trim rebuild and repaint. In T'ville news, the beer store is for sale, but meanwhile has become an Air BnB here. And now waiting for the fallout from this gathering.

 

summer's last gasp

The last bbq as Bill and Carla packed up the Caddy to head back to Arizona. They left this morning I have had the heat on for two nights in a row.

The last tomatoes were gathered at Mary's organic farm. She is pulling up the summer plants to make room for kale and broccoli and other fall crops.

The last hummingbirds are nipping at the feeders. Most have already gone. The few that linger have their feathers fluffed up in the 40-some degree mornings. They don't know it, but after they finish up this round, the gravy train is over.
 

signs of the times?

On one trip to West Plains, I saw this. I find both of these signs unintelligible. As in I have no idea what they are trying to say or how they fit into the authors' worldviews (which would seem to be opposed, but I really can't tell). The one below is deeply offensive, and I know I could catch heat for posting it, but I am showing what is. Also the guy sitting next a public park looks like a serious racist who would be pro-cop, so I really don't get it.

 

birthday house

This week's New Yorker cover looks just like Hannah and Chris's house as they celebrated Camilla's socially distanced tenth birthday on Sunday. It's like the magazine took a picture of it and then drew it, with the addition of a grill and sans the kids on bikes.

• 

The birthday was a success, and of course I was happy to see the girl dressed in Walmart camo.

 

hog heaven

They roared through town in a steady stream, fifty or so in a row—I didn't count. Motorcycles, tricycles and some weird-looking things that I have no idea what they are. The loop across northern Arkansas and southern Missouri is well known in motoring circles for it's banked curves, empty highways and welcoming business, including motels, restaurants and even a motorcycle church. The group then forgathered, helmetless and maskless (but of course! they are outlaws, even if most of them will never see 60 again!), at the nearest truck stop in Birch Tree.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the highway in Thomasville, there was a different kind of hogfest going on. Feral hogs have long been a problem in the Ozarks, as well as other parts of the country.The conservation department here traps them and shoots them. A neighbor managed to score quite a few of them, and spent the afternoon gutting and skinning them, which is no easy job. He then cooled them in the river until he could cut them up and smoke or freeze them. I foresee bbq in my future.

 

weather report

Not making sense. Darkness at noon in Sausalito.

Monday 90 in Santa Fe, today snow.

 Missouri, all well. So far.

Apocalypse soon?

no laboring

No laboring for me anyway. David did the laboring on the oysters, overnighted from Cape Cod, cleaned, popped on the grill and dressed with butter, herbs and garlic. Yum! If it weren't for him, I'd be stuck with nothing but fried catfish. Not that I don't like fried catfish—I do—but I like oysters and seafood a lot more. Fortunately, so does he.

Saucing up the oysters. They were large ones.

Al fresco dining

Remembrance of Oysters Past

Then Bill and Carla and I paid a visit to Mary's organic garden and picked up some produce. Not a labor intensive experience for any of us. And later on Dianne, aka Gunga Din, brought me water from her well.

Mary's garden is transitioning into fall—kale etc. We scored some of the last tomatoes.

THe weekend was topped off with a late afternoon Labor Day tailgating at the Slab.

king john

King John's trucked a motherload of shit out of Thomasville the other day. He paid an emergency visit to Bill's place first, and I figured why not forestall an emergency at the Goose. There had been so much rain here that Bobby (his name is Bobby, not John) was afraid of getting stuck in the yard with a full tank. He almost did, but made it out to the hard road, leaving only some deep ruts. He was so relieved (and me too, now that I can relieve myself without fear!) that he stopped in the middle of the highway for his check. I wonder where he pumps out. I wonder the same thing about the used cooking oil tank truck that drove off from the cafe this ayem.

aloha

Actually we were all pretty stuffed, not just Dugan.

My sister-in-law gifted me the beer Aloha shirt.

Have I said this before? I am so pissed that the race-war inciters, the Boogaloo Bois, have stolen my uniform: camo shorts or pants with an Aloha shirt. I have never sported the AK-47, as they do, however. I am not nearly as pissed as Hawaiians, to whom Aloha means hello, goodbye, welcome, peace and love.
  But I am pissed. I now wear camo without an Aloha shirt, or an Aloha shirt without camo. Never the two together.
   At David's the other day, we all sported the shirts. No fucking camo! We had a luncheon of crabs' legs, tuna/potato/green bean/tomato salad and shrimp. I did not get any of it on my white pants.
   Sorry about the pic, guys, in which Dugan looks like he has been stuffed and David and I look like lunatics. Oh well!

block island views

Distance visiting with Edie this spring.

Many of you faithful readers know how fraught the situation on Block Island has been this year.  I hear that things are settling down a bit now, which is good news for the volunteer rescue squad and the medical center people. An ordinary summer is exhausting enough that the island doctor typically doesn't last through many of them before burning out. This year there was quarantine, Covid-19 tracing and a huge number of traffic accidents, some of them fatal.
  Just imagine the island in the old days, with no medical care closer than Newport by fishing boat. My friend Edie Blane lived through it and describes those days in this video. Well worth checking out. And donating.