Jarrett Street Photo

It may be an old album cover you saw in a second-hand store. Or an old black and white photograph, cracked and faded, folded and hidden away. It might just be a single note, a guitar riff, the familiar sequence of chords, and you remember the first time you heard the song, where you were, and who you were with.

Maybe it’s The Beatles, a Mo-Town, a John Prine ballad or the harmony of CSN&Y. From Blues to Bluegrass, Rock to Pop, we remember the music we grew up with.

And when those memories are on stage, exploding in amplified sound, technicolor lights, and frenzied performances it’s easy to become lost in time, pulled back through the years.

Shooting concerts and musicians, capturing the passion, the power of the performance in a fraction of a second to create an image that carries us back in time and through our memories is a great deal of fun. Nearly as much fun as taking the wrapper off a new album and placing it gently on you turntable and waiting. Listen, can you hear it?

LONG RUN LAKE

Long Run Park, covering 700 acres, is located in Eastern Jefferson County, Kentucky. The park is rich in history and recreational opportunities and acts as a haven for diverse wildlife, including deer, foxes, and various bird species. Birdwatching is particularly popular here, especially during migration season.

Two notable historical events occurred near the present-day lake.

The Long Run Massacre took place on September 13, 1781, at the junction of Floyd's Fork creek and Long Run Creek, along the Falls Trace path in what is now eastern Jefferson County, Kentucky.

The day before, residents of Painted Stone Station, established by Squire Boone, were warned of an imminent attack by a large Native American war party led by Loyalist Captain Alexander McKee. Most evacuated to safer stations near Beargrass Creek, leaving behind the injured Boone and one other family. Some settlers postponed their departure for two days before moving to Linn's Station. Having lost part of their military escort, the group was ambushed at Thirteen Mile Tree, 8 miles from Linn's Station, resulting in at least seven settler deaths; the number of Native American casualties is unknown. The survivors reached Linn's Station by nightfall.

In 1780, Abraham Lincoln, Sr., grandfather of President Abraham Lincoln, purchased a 400-acre tract near Hughes Station in eastern Jefferson County. He moved to Kentucky from Virginia in 1782. His land, located at "the Fork of Floyd’s Fork, now known as Long Run," was surveyed by William May, the Jefferson County surveyor, in 1785.

In May 1786, Abraham Lincoln was planting corn with his sons, Josiah, Mordecai, and Thomas, when a small war party attacked them. He was killed in the attack. Josiah ran to Hughes Station for help, while Mordecai and Thomas fled to the cabin. Mordecai grabbed a rifle and returned just in time to save his father from being scalped by shooting the attacker.

The lake, a favorite location for my photography, is a reminder of the beauty and serenity offered by this beautiful lake, as well as the historical importance of the area.

I recall walking through the woods as a child with my grandfather and being full of curiosity and amazed at the wonders of nature, collecting rocks and sticks and bugs and leaves. Anything that sparked my endless imagination.

Even as adults I think we can all remember this youthful need to know, to explore, to unearth the details in the seemingly obscure yet beautiful world around us. This feeling, an intregal part of the human experience is known as curiosity.

Although I have no doubt lost a lot of that youthful curiosity through the years I still enjoy a walk in the woods even now collecting images of rocks and bugs and leaves and simply things found. In an age of information overload, I’m glad with camera in hand I can still enjoy a walk in the woods and be curious and even amazed by things found.

IN A SLOW DANCE


Signs made of twisted glass and neon gas
keeping time, the shutters hang uneasy, just by chance.
Tap, tap, tap keeping time against the windowpane.
Light and shadows dance below in a common refrain
And across Royal, Toulouse, Melpomene, and Frenchman,
There is mystery in a slow dance.

Wrought iron fashioned long ago,
by founders, blacksmiths, pattern makers, and molders.
Hibiscus blooms overhang
No breeze now, only summers song,
and the sweet thick odor lays still, in a slow dance.

She plays a banjo, alone in her sundress, drab gray color.
A few dollars tossed in the case beside her.
A feather the only color in the band of her hat, she keeps time.
Playing her song and people pause, listen, and move on
loving her, no other, quickly for a dollar.

The sign above the bar warns you
If you want credit go to Helen Waite.
Beignets and Cafe Au Lait below the shade of
green striped awning, they wait.
Signposts warning no stopping here, no parking.
Police zone, keeping time and she sings go to Helen Waite.

Artists painting colors, fortune tellers
witness the theatre of the pantomime.
Hey Mister, throw me some beads!
Rain beats down and
in a slow dance, the city takes her time
and loves her, no other,
quickly for a dollar.

There are many signals to the start of another new year in New Orleans.

By early March, during a season of festivals and parades, city and country begin to overflow with creeping vegetation, boats leave their docks on the levee to become floating social spaces, clothes get thinner and lighter, mornings and evenings open and close with the thick smell of blooming jasmine.

The air, not yet oppressive with humidity, presents opportunities to be outside and in community with others. Crawfish boils, carnivals, krewes, and second lines signal the arrival of a weekend, and time in the garden organizing wild plants into submission becomes urgent maintenance work.

Later, a summer of sweltering heat will give way to the beginning of a season of renewal. Debutante balls mark the end of sugar cane harvests and the anticipation of the season of Carnival begins. They say God’s love and forgiveness is unlimited and in New Orleans it needs to be.

It is a cycle of life not known anywhere else in the world. And it is wonderful. Suddenly, a city dominated by the tidal forces of water and weather allows humans and climate to enact a short, soft truce, leaving just enough room for those of us who live in this challenging place to fall in love with New Orleans anew.

“But a Samaritan, as he journeyed, came to where he was; and when he saw him, he had compassion, and went to him and bound up his wounds, pouring on oil and wine; then he set him on his own beast and brought him to an inn, and took care of him.”
Luke 10: 33-34

Today, Wendell Foster Campus is home to nearly 100 residents and serves thousands of children and adults as outpatients, as a leader in the field of developmental disabilities. It was the dream of Wendell & Edith Foster over 70 years ago, to care for their daughter Louise, in their home, where she could be nurtured and loved, a place where her dreams and hopes could be fulfilled. A place where she would be judged not by her disabilities but for her abilities. The Foster’s dream is a reality today.

I have had the opportunity to photograph and share the incredible stories of the residents and staff at Wendell Foster Campus for several years. It is truly a remarkable story and remains today a testament to the vision of the Fosters, the staff, and many supporters who have made WFC a reality. A leader in person-centered treatment that focuses on each individual the staff and families can design a treatment plan, cultural and educational activities and even integration into the community in a way that best meets the needs and desires of each patient.

I have included a few of the photos of the residents and staff. What I hope you draw from these photos is the deep and powerful connection that exists between the staff and residents. When you are able to witness this, I believe you begin to understand why WFC is such a special place. It is a story that goes beyond medical and technical advances in the care for people with disabilities. It is a story of love, dreams, and hope.

I think most of us are attracted to the science and art of architecture and design, with an equal amount of fascination and admiration. On the one hand, the design, engineering, and construction of great buildings capture our imaginations and cause us to pause and wonder at these achievements. Equally, the design of objects and tools, and things we use intrigue us and cause us to admire their ingenuity.

Design often lends itself to the fine art of styles, textures, colors, and presence that these buildings and objects reveal. There’s a power in both, a timelessness, in the science and art of architecture and design that capture our imaginations.

Roses, Nettles and Solomon's Seal

I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,
Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,
Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,
With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine:
There sleeps Titania sometime of the night,
Lull’d in these flowers with dances and delight;
And there the snake throws her enamell’d skin,
Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in:
And with the juice of this I’ll streak her eyes,
And make her full of fantasies.

From William Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream:

“All you need for happiness is a good gun, a good horse and a good wife.”

Daniel Boone

Daniel Boone left home on a military expedition during the French and Indian War, and in 1769 he led an expedition that discovered a trail to the west through the Cumberland Gap.

This great American explorer, often taking his life into his own hands, blazed a path to the vast lands lying just over the Appalachians. More importantly, Daniel Boone is representative of those courageous early Americans, men and women, who ventured into the wilderness to carve out a new nation.

Spending most of his adult life in Kentucky, civilization soon got the better of Boone who with his family moved on to Missouri. On September 26, 1820, Boone died of natural causes at his home in Femme Osage Creek, Missouri. He was 85 years old.

More than two decades after his death, his body, and his wife Rebecca were exhumed and reburied in Frankfort, Kentucky.

This is their final resting place.

Source: University of Kentucky History Alive Project

As if it matters…

…as we pass one another on the street without notice.
Have you ever wondered what it is we might be missing?
Do you have a notion to offer a smile, the tip of your cap
to solicit a response from anyone listening?

Do our stars line up, is there something metaphysical
about sharing this space in the universe?
Unexplained assumptions,
neither verified or confirmed by observation,
but formed nevertheless
in the abstract, it’s often like that.

Theories created about the people we pass
creatures of beauty and goodness in their own way.
And we pass, barely a notice.
Who are they, but a passing shadow or an oft familiar but unknown face?
And the closer we get to their warm embrace
we pick up the pace
and pass one another with the haste
of finishing a race.

Our stars line up in the symmetry of the streets.
We share this space in even proportion walking arm in arm
creatures of beauty and grace.
Who are we anyway, but a passing shadow
an oft familiar but unknown face
We pass so closely,
"I've seen her before,
I know him from somewhere."
As I stare and wonder, who?

Yes, it matters.

Sorghum molasses, and creamery butter on homemade biscuits. Eggs over easy with a slice of salted ham and rich black coffee. A fried bologna sandwich followed by an afternoon snack of crumbled vanilla wafers in a tall glass of buttermilk. Fried chicken snapped green beans, turnip greens, okra, peaches, and cream. On special occasions grandma’s pecan pie.

Days so long, so hot and so hard, making even the simple things joyous, to be looked forward to, to be embraced, and never forgotten. Near a porch swing, lays a beagle, and pipe smoke drifts along with the fireflies in a summer breeze. Prayer meetings on Wednesdays and church revivals down by the river. Souls to be saved after all.

Pickup trucks, shotguns, pocket knives, and watches. A fishing rod leaning in the corner. A screen door slams, and children run barefoot on linoleum-covered floors. Lightening bugs in a jar on the bedside table and the buzz of insects outside the open window in the heavy summer air.

The work of Eudora Welty and Ernest Gaines reflects a love for photography that has influenced their writing. Welty acknowledged that photographs she took laid the foundation for her fiction: “Nothing could have been written in the way of a story without such a background… It provided the raw material.”

For Gaines, photographs connect him to the roots of his family and their past. Speaking about photographs that he took near his home in Oscar, Louisiana, he said, “I keep the photographs because most of these places are gone now…. They are things of the past. I do not think anything like that will ever be there again, ever, ever again.”

A Beagle barks, an old man hushes the dog quickly, and all is suddenly quiet. And in the dark of summer night, dreams float along endlessly in the moonlight. He taps his pipe on the soles of his cap-toe Sunday shoes sighing quietly noting the end of another day.

The Western Mediterranean Coast is full of contradictions, where monuments of the past tower ominously over the present, where beauty and sensuality are inextricably intertwined. With an ineffable nature, the natives argue with their hands with passion and vigor over the seemingly most insignificant daily tasks.

They have perfected a nostalgic, idealized way of life, a postcard version born of the post-World War II economic boom, with sweet songs, vibrant Vespas, luscious food, beautiful clothes, perpetual summer, and a sense of serendipity. Like all stereotypes, these regions carry a dash of truth—with so much more beyond it.

The Endless Summer has a whimsical and romantic connotation. A moment in time that we wish could last forever—a blissful existence unburdened by the constraints of time. The memories of summer and the experiences associated with youth, the desire for an endless summer represent our longing to preserve and extend moments of happiness indefinitely.

We’ve enjoyed spending time each year in Venice Beach, Florida. A unique and beautiful setting framed in wisps of clouds, sun, and surf. It is a relaxing, peaceful area where palm trees and live oaks line the streets. Throughout the area are the unique Banyan Trees noted for their extensive branches and roots. If only for a brief period this is our endless summer.

And the ever-constant, rhythmic sound of the waves draws us nearer if for no other reason than to sit and watch and wonder in this endless summer on Venice Beach.

Seabirds mill about, brown pelicans slip quietly along the surface, and we look for seashells on the beach and hunt for shark’s teeth in the surf. The perpetual cadence of the waves crashing along the shore and the sun reflects in the pools of the tides and the clouds drift away.

And we watch and wait and remember.

There’s a compost pile near the garden hose and an old chair, where debris, and unwanted plants whose roots have been ripped from their garden homes and are thrown into a pile, creating a world of twisted vines, and rotting vegetables. The textures and colors that result are much more interesting than the gardens themselves.

These photos were shot over a period of about six months from early spring through fall. The compost pile will soon be hauled away, and another will be started at the beginning of the next planting season. Another season of colors and textures and possibilities and the garden remainders in the compost pile.

Black and white photography has been described as stripping the image down to the bare essentials.

It allows you to see the actual composition and texture of the world before you, to focus on the shapes, light and shadows, lines, and perspectives.

Black and white photographs can give you an extremely strong image, direct and to the point. You don’t have to work your way through the image, the point of the photograph is just there, its intent clear. It’s all there in black and white, you might say.

Having grown up with the so-called picture magazines of the 1950’s and 60’s such as Life and Look magazines I often think that black and white is photography. The images from those days show the flow of life--and my seeing of it--is what most influenced my interest in photography in the first place. My first photographs were in black and white. So the form holds a special place in my thoughts.

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“Led by this impetuous chieftain, we swooped down upon our foes with such terrific yells and sturdy blows as might have them believe a whole army was on them; and turning tail, they fled in the wildest terror, a panic-stricken mass of men and horses... cutting and shooting right and left, and Forrest himself in his fury ignoring all command and always in the thickest of the melee.

So fierce did his passion become that he was almost equally dangerous to friend or foe, and, as it seemed to some of us, he was too wildly excitable to be capable of judicious command. Later we became aware that excitement neither paralyzed nor mislead his magnificent military genius”.

— Recollections of Private Adam Johnson, later a Brigadier-General, Confederate forces, describing Colonel Nathan Bedford Forrest at the Battle of Sacramento.

For three days each spring, forces from the “Blue and Gray” once again engage in battle re-enacting Forrest’s attack on Union Forces on the banks of the Green River. The outcome of the battle has not changed.

Pictures of seemingly unremarkable things: Barbershops and pocket watches. Shotguns, fishing poles and memories along the surfaces of the everyday.

The beauty is in the vernacular of the ordinary people, even when there is ugliness mixed in, too. In these river bottoms and small towns of Kentucky, we know what it's like for the eyesore and the magnificent to coexist. True beauty is in that complexity. In the photographs we take along the surfaces of the everyday.

In this season of blazing hot days and steaming humid afternoons, when thunderstorms arrive in late in the day, and after the ferns and flowers of the woodlands have long gone away, the meadows are bursting with life.

The borders of the meadows are tinged with subtle colors, and their glowing green vistas stretch across the fields with a splash of yellow, red and purple that seems to randomly color these well managed landscapes.

Days when the sun is plentiful, and whose early morning light makes the meadows glow, it’s good to stop and pause and take in the subtle colors and vibrancy of a late summer meadow.

"Shoot for the Moon; you might get there." - Buzz Aldrin

There is an entire body of work known as astrophotography and there are photographers who produce incredible images of the stars and galaxies.

I am not one of those photographers. Not having the proper equipment for shooting stars and planets, however, did not deter me from photographing a recent near total lunar eclipse - at least as much as my equipment and skill would allow.

The longest lunar eclipse of the century and the first of this length in 580 years — it was truly a once-in-a-lifetime (or, more accurately, many lifetimes) experience. Not to mention getting out at 3:00 AM in 28-degree weather, it was still an opportunity I didn’t want to miss.

So, on the morning of Friday, Nov. 19, the full Beaver Moon occurred in a 97%-total lunar eclipse, according to NASA, meaning that nearly all of the moon’s surface was shrouded in the Earth’s shadow.

Here are a few of the images I was able to get and lack of equipment and skill notwithstanding, my eyes could see the incredible vastness and beauty that unfolded above on this cold clear morning.

It was quite an experience.

"Shoot for the Moon; you might get there." - Buzz Aldrin

The lunar eclipse, celebrated as the Super Blood Moon, was the longest total lunar eclipse in 33 years, this past May.

According to NASA a lunar eclipse takes place when the Sun and Moon occupy precise positions on opposite sides of Earth. During this alignment, Earth blocks some of the Sun’s light from reaching the full moon. Our atmosphere filters the light as it passes, softening the edge of our planet’s shadow and giving the Moon a deep, rosy glow.

Shot on May 16th with my Hasselblad medium format camera and a 90mm lens these long exposure images provide a glimpse of this Blood Moon, at times capturing water vapor in the atmosphere.

This year’s moon combined two phenomena: a supermoon, when the moon is closest in its path around the earth, as well as a blood moon, a nickname for the reddish glow the moon takes on during a lunar eclipse.

BY GEORGE SANTAYANA

The low sandy beach and the thin scrub pine,

The wide reach of bay and the long sky line,—

O, I am sick for home!

The salt, salt smell of the thick sea air,

And the smooth round stones that the ebbtides wear,—

When will the good ship come?

The wretched stumps all charred and burned,

And the deep soft rut where the cartwheel turned,—

Why is the world so old?

The lapping wave, and the broad gray sky

Where the cawing crows and the slow gulls fly,

Where are the dead untold?

The thin, slant willows by the flooded bog,

The huge stranded hulk and the floating log,

Sorrow with life began!

And among the dark pines, and along the flat shore,

O the wind, and the wind, for evermore!

What will become of man?

The morning air is still and cool and it's quiet, not a sound but the distant caw, caw of a lonely sea bird. I have a few minutes before sunrise so I try to position myself along the pier so that I can capture the best photograph.

The tide is low, and the smell of dried marsh grass is pungent, strong and I think there must be rotting fish somewhere along the craggy rocks left bare until the tide rises renewing the marsh once again. I am beginning to make out the clouds above me as they fan out like cotton fingers reaching for the distant horizon. The sky is beginning to lighten, its blackness becoming a soft blue canvas ready for the brush strokes that only Mother Nature can make, her brush touching here - now there - as the sun's light touches the sky and this masterpiece of a new day is complete once again.

The mirrored glass of the water just in front of the pier is beginning to ripple, as the wind freshens ever so slightly. The azure clouds above are becoming a technicolor mosaic of blue gray, whites and reflected yellows. I adjust the cameras settings in order to expose for the shadows and highlights which is no easy task. Mother Nature does not like to be copied and capturing the true beauty of this morning’s sunrise alludes me.

And so, I step back and just watch as the sun rises over the horizon bringing with it a new day. Slowly the world around me awakens. A foghorn from a distant ship blares in the distance. A pelican glides along the surface of the bay searching for breakfast. I hear the gravel crunching under foot as a jogger runs by me seemingly unaware of the start of a new day, focused instead on the miles ahead. Soon, too soon, the sky brightens, and the new light of day chases the clouds away.

History is not lost on me in this special place along the river, Ft. Sumter only a few hundred yards from where I stand, silent now, just a small out-cropping of rock and sand. A flag flies over the fort commemorating the significance of the battles fought across this water so long ago. And I wonder if the silence and beauty of the sunrise was enjoyed by those brave souls who fought here so long ago in the moments before Mother Nature’s canvas was shattered and torn by canon fire and blaze of musket bore?

One thing is certain. Charleston is a special place for many reasons. The history and events that were played out here, as sad and glorious as they were, serve to give this place its meaning and charm, and as history reminds us there will always be a new day. I snap one last photograph and walk away.

I’ve been thinking. My photos of Charleston or any place that we visit for that matter, are typically snapshots of where we go but don’t give the full picture of the town or city. I didn’t set out to document Charleston, but just took photos while we walked around. To really do Charleston justice, would take a greater investment in time and effort than I was able to give it on this trip.

These are just pictures within the City, the wonderful architecture, gardens and facades - things that appealed to me, but which do for me anyway, evoke “Charleston”. The photographs were all taken with my Leica M-10 and a 21mm and 35mm lens primarily. There are a few taken with a 50mm and maybe one or two taken with my 90mm. That’s really not important because regardless of what equipment you use, it’s how, and with what, you fill the frame with that counts. In the end it’s the story you tell with your photography that is important. I hope I’ve left you with a bit of Charleston that otherwise you might not have experienced.

As you walk through the streets of these old cities, you cannot help but be amazed by the beauty and the artistry of the people who created these incredible places and art.

Entire cities are built out of love and purpose. Who were these people who chipped away at the granite, or who laid the stones, and painted these masterpieces?

The local people recognize its beauty and know it is magical. You can see it in their eyes as you travel these streets.

I grew up in a small town, where living was easy and comfortable. Where people cared for one another and where time seemed to slow down. There was a rhythm to life where mornings started with Jimmie Youngblood on the radio and where kids on bikes delivered the Paducah Sun Democrat newspaper each afternoon. All things you could depend on.

There were Prayer Meetings on Wednesday nights and sermons on Sundays delivered by long-winded preachers, guaranteed to save your soul from damnation, or so they said as they passed the collection plate.

Small towns with long summer nights, where mothers sang softly to their children the melody drifting through open windows, and fireflies floated across the meadows with the whisp of smoke from granddad’s pipe.

Small towns across America shared so much, were similar in so many ways, with stories to tell of lives lived well. Sadly, so much has been disrupted by social media and technology and today the rhythm of a small towns is not so obvious.

Small towns are not the same. “What is?” I guess you might ask. But if you sit and listen patiently you can still hear the sounds and witness the common journey we all shared growing up in small towns. Somewhere a mother still sings to her children. Granddad’s lighting his pipe and the fireflies drift across the meadow.

Smooth it glides upon its travel, Here a wimple, there a gleam – O the clean gravel! O the smooth stream!
Sailing blossoms, silver fishes, Pave pools as clear as air – How a child wishes To live down there!

We can see our coloured faces Floating on the shaken pool Down in cool places, Dim and very cool;
Till a wind or water wrinkle, Dipping marten, plumping trout, Spreads in a twinkle And blots all out.

See the rings pursue each other; All below grows black as night, Just as if mother Had blown out the light!
Patience, children, just a minute – See the spreading circles die; The stream and all in it Will clear by-and-by.

Robert Louis Stevenson’s poem describes the joy of a child playing in a river, imagining the world below the surface, the mysteries, and treasures it holds deep in this cool, constantly changing world.

And we can imagine as the rising sun shines across the water. Ripples form where Mayflies land softly, and reflections of clouds begin to float along the water’s surface a mirror of the sky above.

Each day the rivers flow past countless towns and communities and each day the rivers give us another story and the images change with the currents. The rivers rise and fall, and, we look through the fog, straining to see, but only hearing in the distance a tugboat’s horn as its bow cuts through dark brown water, oil slick and drift.

Some days the River is smooth as glass seemingly calm on the surface, and just as fast it can become dangerous, currents constantly changing. Mysterious and silent, its movement never-ending, never resting.

There is a cadence to the river, its heart beating with a life of its own throughout its channels, streams, and tributaries. Each movement a paragraph in a story, a chapter of a novel you can’t put down.

These images tell the stories of The Looking Glass River from my perspective, still the child playing in a river.

A hot air balloon drifted over the house recently and I thought what great fun that must be, to silently float along with in the clouds pushed along by the prevailing wind. But I don’t like heights so my hot air balloon experience will be limited to being an observer - with my feet planted firmly on the ground.

As the balloon floated silently out of sight, I was reminded of a trip we took through the Southwest, our destination, Albuquerque, New Mexico where we attended the Great Balloon Fiesta.

Imagine waking up at 3:00 A.M. to go out into the cold New Mexico desert to see a hot air balloon take off at dawn. Well actually, there were 600 hot air balloons of incredible shapes and amazing colors that ascend into skies over the Rio Grande Valley in wave after wave after wave.

Our weather was perfect and it was a great day to take photographs especially considering you can mingle with the pilots and crews as they prepared for lift off. Held each year in October over nine days, over 100,000 people gather on the launch field for the rare opportunity to see these magnificent balloons lift off into the New Mexico sky. It’s quite a sight and I recommend anyone add it to their bucket list.

It will lift your spirits.