Harry Callahan, photographer

The other day my FB friend Luis Alberto Urrea, on his "Operation Uplift" daily challenge, asked people to post photos of windows, and the next day, of doors. This reminded me of a postcard that I found recently in my papers, of an image by photographer Harry Callahan (1912–1999) from 1945 titled Apartment House:

And it reminded me, too, of how much I enjoy Callahan's formalist work. A favorite subject was his wife, Eleanor (1916–2012) (the photo here is of the two of them in Colorado in 1942; they met in 1933 and were together for 66 years, until his death), as well as their daughter, Barbara. So here, for your viewing pleasure, are of few of those Eleanor pictures (mainly from the late 1940s and early 1950s). Maybe on another day, I'll share some of his urban/documentary photography, which I also love (in both black-and-white and color). As always, click on the image to see it large on black.

Okay, here's one color one of an urban setting—no Eleanor, but other themes remain intact; it was taken in Kansas City in 1981.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Today's MoCo stats for Covid-19: 3,059 cases (up 76 since yesterday); hospitalizations, 201 (up 4); fatalities remain at 18.

Stay safe. Stay healthy.

Jigsaw Puzzles

I've never been much of a jigsaw puzzler—until Covid-19 came to town. A friend of mine on FB has been posting completed puzzles, and they looked hard. I envied what I imagined to be the focus that she needed (and cultivated) to complete them. Then another friend mentioned that she does jigsaw puzzles—and had one or two that were looking for a temporary home.

I bit. What the heck? I had time on my hands. And a need for something to concentrate on.

Little did I know what an interesting mind exercise jigsaw puzzles can be. So far, since late May, I've finished three: one featuring many dozens of pencils, one featuring several dozen pairs of ducks, and the third a jewelbox of beetles. Each one was very different in the approach needed.

And fortunately, it seems I was given them in order of easiness. The pencils involved basically organizing pieces by color—red then yellow then white then blue then pink, etc.—and then looking for specific colors or styles of type and piecing them together. I am fortunate to have a drawing table where I can do some laying out of pieces. This puzzle ended up being fairly methodical: as I worked through the colors, and adjoining colors, and more adjoining colors, it simply grew. Easy! I mean, challenging, sure—it's 1,000 pieces, and many of the pencil types were repeated. But it sort of assembled itself.

The ducks were a different story. The edge pieces weren't hard; there were words (the names of the ducks) that came together quickly; and there was an area of marsh grasses that, ditto. But the ducks themselves? They all have webbed feet and wings! On this one, I did a lot more studying of the picture, looking for just the right-shaped, yellow beak, or the right negative space between wings, or the right watery background. I started piling up duck bits atop their respective names. And eventually, I was able to start assembling. Ducks are definitely more challenging than pencils.

And then came the beetles. It's a beautiful painting of an amazing array of bugs. So colorful! And yet, so similar! Beetles have butts and wings and heads. Period. Okay, some of the heads are shaped like a T or have antennae protruding out of them (which helped). But most were just little lumps with eyes. Plus: lots of white space. With this one, after I managed to assemble the purple and white border (itself a challenge), I ended up mainly just shuffling through the pieces in the box, looking for . . . something, anything, that might help: like a pattern of stripes and dots, or like a particular color red, or a rainbow pattern. Forget the greens—though I did pull a bunch of those out, the green ones ended up being the last ones to come together. In the case of this puzzle, I'm not entirely sure just how it came together. But come together it did, and it's gorgeous. (It is sitting on my drawing table right now. I admire it every time I pass by. Simple pleasures.)

Another thing with this one that was different: with the first two, I ended up puzzling a little bit pretty much every day, maybe for half an hour, an hour. With the beetles, I found myself transfixed, and I'd work for two hours at a time, or keep coming back all day long—but then, I'd give it a rest for two, three, four days. It was like my brain wanted to persevere, because it was in a groove, but then it had simply had enough.

I know, this probably isn't very interesting to anyone who doesn't do jigsaw puzzles. (Or even to those who do!) But since I'm discovering this pastime for the first time, I am finding it fascinating to witness my brain at work.

And now, I am waiting for a shipment of three puzzles I ordered several weeks ago. They are overdue. But I realize that jigsaw puzzles are in high demand just now. So I am trying to be patient. Meanwhile, my husband happens to have a 500-piece puzzle that is languishing. I will give it something useful to do.

And the friend who has lent me these three puzzles? She's been working on a puzzle of a peacock, called "The Big Boy," for several weeks now. I may demur if she offers me that one. I saw it. It's hard.

Then again, if I finish the 500-piecer, and she finishes the Big Boy, and my puzzles haven't arrived—will I really have a choice?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Current MoCo numbers: 2,983 confirmed cases (up 70 since yesterday); 197 hospitalizations (cumulative: up 1); and deaths remain at 18. New cases seem to be falling. But it's hard to tell from charts and graphs. Meanwhile, California remains at a fairly high level of shutdown—which idiots out there are complaining about. Would they really rather get deathly ill? Me—no thanks.

Wear a mask. Stay safe. Be well.

Comet NEOWISE

Last night after dark, we went out looking for the new comet, NEOWISE. But fog and low clouds lay off our shore—as happens in summer here—plus we weren't sure just where to look, and basically, we gave up. Thinking maybe tomorrow (i.e., today) we'd try heading south, see if we'd have better luck.

This evening before sunset, we did just that—and although there was some fog on the Peninsula and into Carmel, it just kept getting thicker and higher the farther south we went. We turned around and headed north, but again: higher clouds up past Marina. We turned around, came home (via the Safeway for some wine, beer, and ice cream—David observed that we'd taken the scenic route, considering the market is less than a mile from our house), and spent the rest of the evening watching Justified. 

Tomorrow, we may well try a different tactic. Who knows if we will ever see this beautiful comet. And I can say that it is indeed beautiful, because friends of mine have seen it—and photographed it. So I will leave you with a few of those photos here. And keep hoping that sometime in the next couple of weeks, before NEOWISE departs our solar system for good—or at least for my, and a few others' lifetimes (it won't be back for 7,000 years)—we will manage to find the right viewing conditions. They must be around here somewhere.

I know conditions are right in New Mexico, which is where most of the following photos were taken. But that's a bit of a drive, considering one of us has a Monday–Thursday job. But . . . what about Arizona? Doable in a long weekend? Hmmm. Maybe. Maybe not. Believe me, we are considering the options.

Anyway, yeah: here are some lovely photos of NEOWISE. Thanks so much to the photographers, most of them friends of mine (or, some of them, "friends," as in I only know them through Facebook), who followed their passion to capture these images. (As always, click on the picture to view large on black.)

Photo by Bob Fugate

Over Albuquerque, NM. Photo by Bob Fugate

Photo by Bob Fugate

Photo by Bob Fugate

Photo by Geraint Smith

Photo by Geraint Smith

Cannon Beach, OR. Photo by Maria Owens

And finally, this one from my local friend Peter Kwiek, with his commentary:

Sunday, 4:30 AM in the Sierra de Salinas Foothills.
Across the valley, on the Gabilan Mountain ridge, with the lighted antenna,
is Fremont Peak. Best viewed in the dark on a large screen.
Not a huge lens but my goal was to at least be able to resolve the comet.

I think I'll be lucky if I see it as well as in this last photo (it's there! see it?). But I love it that so many of us are going out to look. And some of us are actually seeing, and sharing the wonder. Marvelous!

We'll keep trying.

[And these, from a couple of days later:]

Photo by Bob Fugate

Over Mt. Shasta; I neglected to
note the name of the photographer,
and now FB has scrambled everything,
so I can't retrieve it...

Looking north toward San Jose and Mt. Umunhum;
photo by Don Smith

Photo by Geraint Smith (the streaks are satellites)

Photo by Bob Fugate. (See the dinosaur?)

Photo by Steve Koppel

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It's been ten days since I last posted. The Coronavirus numbers keep rising. Here are the latest for my county, compared with ten days ago: 2,913 confirmed cases (vs. 2,151); 196 hospitalizations (vs. 149); 18 deaths (vs. 15). I do not understand why people (a) do not take this pandemic seriously and (b) do not wear masks. Me, I'm just staying mostly hunkered down at home. But then again, I have the freedom and privilege to do so. So many people don't. And . . . leadership from the top? Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. November 3 can't come too soon. Jesus.

Book Report: In the Distance

18. Hernán Díaz, In the Distance (2017) (7/6/2020)

Another book that I don't remember why I bought it, but so glad I did. In the Distance is spectacular. So much so that, although it came from seemingly nowhere—more specifically, from a tiny publisher in Minneapolis (Coffee House Press)—it ended up a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize and PEN/Faulkner Award for Fiction and winner of the 2019 Whiting Award in fiction, presented to emerging writers.

It is the story of a gentle giant, a Swede, Håkan Söderström, who as a boy, in around 1850, leaves his impoverished home with his brother to find a better life in New York. Only, he gets on the wrong ship and ends up in San Francisco. From there, he starts to head east, his only thought being to find his brother.

That's the premise, but the book itself is not an adventure story, or the tale of a quest. It is an odd and riveting exploration of existence, of the American west, of survival, of solitude and companionship, bordering on magical realism but never quite stepping into that realm, for it remains relentlessly real. 

Along his journey, Håkan encounters various Old West characters that manage not to become caricatures: the Irish gold prospector, the toothless old lady who kidnaps him to do her bidding, homesteaders, a sadistic sheriff, a vineyard owner, a naturalist who has come up with his own version of evolutionary theory, and a man who rescues him and becomes his only true friend—for a while. But much of the time Håkan simply wanders through the desert alone, or hunkers down in place, surviving, being. He grows old on his journey. He also becomes the stuff of legend—here again, bordering on tall tale, but not quite stepping into that realm either.

And the writing! Alternating between the austere and the lyrical, realism and dream, it is simply exquisite.

Here are a couple of examples:

During their lessons, Lorimer often reminded his student that his remarkable talent with the scalpel would amount to nothing if the knife was not held by a loving hand guided by a truth-seeking eye. The study of nature is a barren enterprise if stones, plants, and animals become frozen under the magnifying glass, Lorimer said. A naturalist should look at the world with warm affection, if not ardent love. The life the scalpel has ended ought to be honored by a caring, devoted appreciation for that creature's unrepeatable individuality, and for the fact that, at the same time, strange as this may seem, this life stands for the entire natural kingdom. Examined with attention, the dissected hare illuminates the parts and properties of all other animals and, by extension, their environment. The hare, like a blade of grass or a piece of coal, is not simply a small fraction of the whole but contains the whole within itself. This makes us all one. If anything, because we are all made of the same stuff. Our flesh is the debris of dead stars, and this is also true of the apple and its tree, of each hair on the spider's legs, and of the rock rusting on planet Mars. Each minuscule being has spokes radiating out to all of creation. Some of the raindrops falling on the potato plants in your farm back in Sweden were once in a tiger's bladder. . . .

And this is how chapter 17 begins, immediately after his friend, Asa, rescues an injured Håkan from the evil sheriff:

Blue and cold were one. Håkan felt the crisp blue sky on his skin and eyes. And with this consonance of sight and touch, he realized that his consciousness had returned. His cramped limbs were an indication that he had been gone for a good while. He tested his other senses (the swish and swoosh of grass, the smell of old coals and manure, the sourness of sleep in his mouth); he confirmed the hardness of the soil under him (so unlike the viscous pit down which he had been slowly sliding for days); he conjured up a few memories (friendly pictures he could summon and dismiss at will, not like the ghosts that haunted him in his dreams); he tried language in his head (jag är här därför att jag kan tänka att jag är här). Dots of bright but undefined colors popped in and out of the sky as he tried to look deeper into it. He was still in the plains.

There are amazing scenes in which Håkan fashions and expands and repairs a coat he has made, starting with the pelt of a cougar, but adding ever to it "the skins of lynxes and coyotes, beavers and bears, caribou and snakes, foxes and prairie dogs, coatis and pumas, and other unknown beasts. Here and there dangled a snout, a paw, a tail." Or in which he or his companion forages for food. Or in which he excavates a meandering underground bunker. Or in which he travels with his horse Pingo and his burro through the desert, avoiding all contact with humankind. Or or or: so many amazing scenes, some uplifting, some horrific. Life is not easy for Håkan, but we are privileged to be privy to his experience of it.

For whatever reason this book ended up in my library, I am grateful.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Current numbers for Monterey County: 2,151 cases, up 87 since yesterday, up 236 since I last posted on the 4th; hospitalizations, 149, up 9 since the 4th; deaths remain at 15.

And meanwhile the resident of the White House says we should just "learn to live with it"? We must vote him out in November. We simply must.

And, wear your mask. Please.

4th of July

Here are a few photos from a few of my Fourth of Julys past. That's all I have for today. I do value our independence from Britain, and the fight of our Founders to escape that particular tyranny, and the ideals this country was founded on—but everything feels so fraught now. There is so much learning we all have to do. I hope we are edging toward an even better, more vibrant, more inclusive union. Change is needed.

Nags Head, North Carolina, 2007

Also Nags Head: a decorated marlin

Honolulu, 2009

Also Honolulu—see the palm trees?

And one more

Some old silver half-dollars: LIBERTY
—it's not something to be taken lightly

And now, I'm gonna go watch Hamilton, streaming on Disney+. It may not teach me much, but it might tell me what I might need to learn more about. Heavens, this last month? I've learned more American history than I ever learned in elementary, middle, and high school. These growing pains are a good thing. Especially if we get some solid movement beyond the (white-dominated) status quo.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Today's Covid-19 numbers for Monterey County: 1,915 confirmed cases—up 124 since yesterday, 224 since I last posted on Thursday; hospitalizations are at 140, up 3 and 5 respectively; deaths remains at 15.

Stay safe. Our "freedoms" don't include endangering others. We are the United States of America, for better or worse. I really believe it's for the better, though sometimes I wonder about some of my fellow citizens.

Garrapata State Park . . . and a few geocaches

For quite a while now I have been wanting to finish seeking out all the geocaches in a state park that is a scant, oh, ten miles? south of here, yet feels like a world away.

The erstwhile loop

The park itself consists of various bits: a long(ish) redwood canyon with a rushing stream, a
"whaler's" knoll overlooking the Pacific, a beautiful beach (and a favorite spot for elopements),
and the ridges high above the redwood canyon. We have hiked the canyon, then up to a saddle, and back down the seaward Rocky Ridge Trail many, many times. It's not a long hike—a little under five miles round trip. But there's an 1,800-foot elevation gain, and after the lazy redwood canyon, the trail goes up right quick. It's definitely a workout.

Today, instead of heading up the canyon (which no longer has a loop option due to many years of trail neglect), we headed up the steep Rocky Ridge Trail—and then kept on going along ridges above the canyon. It was our first time back there, and it was glorious. Long views north to Monterey Bay, still-lingering wildflowers, lots of rocky outcroppings, and shorter views down into the canyon—when all that wasn't obscured by blowing fog. Which, actually, we didn't mind: it made for a beautifully cool hike. It is July, after all. How nice not to be blasted by heat.

Here are some photos I took.

Common madia (Madia elegans)—a tarweed

Dudleya sp.

I picked these geocaching "travelbugs" up in Chile and Salinas,
respectively, and I'm letting them "visit" caches that are too
small or remote to leave them in, just to keep their maps
interesting. Yes, it's a silly game. But it gets us out to
places like this, and that's why I like it.

David was busy looking at the hint while I
turned over the right rock to find the cache beneath.

There were redwood canyons up here too!

Looking north: yes, you can see Monterey Bay
waaaaay in the distance

Large-flowered linanthus (Leptosiphon grandiflorus)

More redwoods, with sticky monkeyflower (Mimulus aurantiacus)

I believe this is a sticky snapdragon
(Antirrhinum multiflorum), and it is blurry
only because the wind wouldn't settle down—
but it was so pretty, with the pearly everlasting
(Anaphalis margaritacea) in the background.

Looking west toward the Pacific from high on the ridge

That ridge in the background? That's where we were today.
But we had to go the long way round.

Darkling beetle amour

Random folding chair, by the barn, just because

It was a great day, and in the end we found four of the seven caches we were looking for. One hadn't been found since January 2016. In the meantime, the Soberanes Fire swept through this area, but apparently it stayed farther south, because this ridge didn't seem to be affected until (maybe) we got to the last cache, which we failed to find. Yeah, I'll just go ahead and blame the conflagration. Why not? Who's gonna prove me wrong? (Well, the next finder maybe . . .)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Today's MoCo Covid-19 numbers: active infections, 1,691—up 45 since yesterday; cumulative hospitalizations, 135—up 4; deaths remain at 15.

On our hike today, everyone was respectful of distancing, and I'd guess that 75 percent of hikers pulled their masks over nose and mouth as we approached. Here on the central coast, we have low numbers of infections (only 7 percent of Monterey County cases are on the Monterey Peninsula and in Big Sur, versus 85 percent in the Salinas Valley) and high respect for the viciousness of this virus. I don't understand people who refuse to wear a mask. I just don't.

A Mary Oliver poem

What I Have Learned So Far

Meditation is old and honorable, so why should I
not sit, every morning of my life, on the hillside,
looking into the shining world? Because, properly
attended to, delight, as well as havoc, is suggestion.
Can one be passionate about the just, the
ideal, the sublime, and the holy, and yet commit
to no labor in its cause? I don’t think so.

All summations have a beginning, all effect has a
story, all kindness begins with the sown seed.
Thought buds toward radiance. The gospel of
light is the crossroads of—indolence, or action.

Be ignited, or be gone.