Tiny’s Day Book Entry. Friday, November 15, 1985
It has been seven months since BJ died. I still find it hard to believe. Though I am beginning to accept the reality of the tragedy, the pain of losing him is still almost unbearable. If only I could have helped him more! We all loved him so much.
The gingko tree is in its golden glory today. Each year BJ would watch it from the den window, calling me to “look”- it’s so beautiful, and we both loved it. I bought the tree from cousin Mary Smith many years ago and planted it in front of the big Roberson house. After a period of November brief blaze of color it loses its leaves quickly, dropping them in a gold circle-like carpet almost, within an hour’s time. Like life, one barely has time to appreciate the beauty before it is gone. We are so fragile. I am reminded each day- in many ways- our happiest moments concerned the simple things- like the gingko tree. Together we watched the green turn to gold- to brown- to die. God speaks to us- and sometimes we listen.
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tiny’s wedding silver
Many years ago, several pieces of my grandmother’s wedding silver were stolen from her home. Afterwards, she hid what remained in drawers, beneath cabinets, in closets.
In the months leading up to my wedding, my parents searched for weeks to complete the set. A few months before my wedding, my mother showed me the set- complete with the help of e-bay. I imagined my grandmother choosing the pattern (Kirk Rose) in 1938 and later, setting tables for supper clubs or holiday meals. I didn’t expect to feel this way about a set of utensils, but this is my most cherished wedding gift.
Maybe it’s the physical resemblance, or the interest in art and poetry, or her knack for storytelling, or that she understood me in a way that most of my family didn’t – I’m not sure. But I always felt deeply connected to my grandmother. She has suffered from Alzheimer’s for more than a decade, now, and she lost the ability to communicate a few years ago. When I visit, I think there is a hint of recognition. She sees something familiar in me -she sometimes feels the outline of my face or stares intently into my eyes. And then, as quickly as she re-entered reality, she leaves it. She looks away and her gaze is empty again. It’s been this way for several years -looking for signs that the woman she used to be is still there. Sometimes it seems that something within the inner recesses of her mind is suddenly awoken, and we think she remembers… But these experiences have become increasingly less frequent over the years.
Occasionally, I’ll thumb through one of her old books and find pressed magnolia leaves- decades old. And I’m reminded of her.
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tallahatchie flats
Rent a Mississippi Delta tenant house for $65 a night. These shacks were renovated a few years ago to appeal to Blues tourists in search of an authentic experience. Legend has it that Robert Johnson spent his final hours in one of these “flats.” The concept of renting a dilapidated house is a bit twisted, but I suppose the Delta is a strange place. I guess there is a certain symmetry to that.
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Some of you may have heard about Mike Bryant’s illness. He has been critically ill in the ICU since last week. We’ve created a Fundraiser to help Mike and his partner, Randolph, cover medical expenses. Please click here to contribute through PayPal.
Mike has had a profound impact on all of us during the short time that he’s been involved in the USC art community. He was active in the portfolio class last semester, vice president of the photography club, and my much adored studio assistant. If you don’t know Mike personally, you may be a fan of his photographs posted on the usc photo blog here, here, and here.Please keep Michael and his family in your thoughts.
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southern photo-speak
In the introduction to Deep South, Sally Mann writes: The repertoire of the Southern artist has long included place, the past, family, death, and dosages of romance that would be fatal to most contemporary artists. But the stage on which these are played out is always the Southern landscape, terrible in its beauty, in its indifference.
Yesterday was one of those days when I’m reminded why I love being a photo educator. The Photography: Southeast show opened at school (in the McMaster Gallery). Two of the exhibition’s photographers, Nancy Floyd and my dear friend Sam Wang, traveled to Columbia to participate in a panel discussion on Southern photography.
Nancy Floyd, From: “She’s Got a Gun”
Following the reception Nancy and I met some of the photo students at my house, and Nancy was kind enough to sit down with each of them to discuss their work. It was such a genuine exchange- she spent a generous amount of time looking at their work and offering feedback and encouragement, and it was clear that she enjoyed it.
As for the panel, I’d been looking forward to the discussion for months. As the James Lipton of the group, I posed a series of questions about Southern photography, and I was interested to hear from Nancy and Sam, both non-Southern Southern photographers (relocated to the South, but not raised here). There was some debate over whether there still remains a regionally specific aesthetic. I’m not sure these labels really matter, but I am interested in the issue of perspective. Is there a difference in the way we view “Southern photography” in the South vs. outside of the South? Is there a difference between the self-image created by photographers who have grown up in the South, and the “outsider” image created by non-Southern photographers who have relocated to the South?
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the blackbirds
Decades ago, my grandfather planted cane around the houses to provide privacy from the open cotton fields. The canebrake, dense and as tall as the magnolia trees, is where the blackbirds roost. Every winter they arrive by the thousands, and their droppings soon coat the yard and the trees. I’ve tried to describe to friends what this experience (the odor, the noise) is like, but it is pretty unimaginable.
During the winter of 2001, my brother, Steele, and I both returned home to live on the farm (He stayed. I left.) During that first winter, he tried to frighten them away with shotgun blasts and air canons. Nothing worked, and now, the birds have become an inevitable part of our holiday experience.
This was shot a few weeks ago in the field behind my brother’s house.
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