I swear I felt an earthquake today. I was in the bathroom, when the building seemed to be undulating somewhat back & forth, but somewhat up and down as well. It was mild—at first I thought I might be having some sort of dizzy spell, then decided no, it was definitely not me. Then I thought perhaps it was the building swaying in the wind. I’m on the 15^th floor of the Sheraton hotel downtown, and I have had experiences before at the top of tall buildings in the wind, a light sway. But there was no wind. And the motion went on for at least a couple minutes. Because I’ve never been in an earthquake that I’m aware of, I don’t know what it’s like. And it might have been only detectable on upper floors of buildings, where I presume the building’s more sensitive to ground forces. But no one else said anything.

So I’ll want to see a report in tomorrow’s Raleigh News & Observer. That’s the daily here. It’s a slim-line broadsheet (broadsheets generally in America have about 25% less surface area than they used to, but this one is really small). Standard hard news on page one—hasn’t gone to daft and goofy in the front as the Forum has. Standard news inside, little world news. A fairly all right but respectable newspaper. I was surprised to see a portrait of a turkey on page 1 Wednesday, but it was a story about money for turkeys. Apparently NC grows a lot of turkeys.

But not so many tobacco leaves anymore. Today’s bus tour was to the Washington Duke farmstead. Duke, with his classic southern name, is well known for having pretty much singlehandedly turning cigarettes into a world-class product, from right here in the center of tobacco production in Raleigh/Durham (1/2 hour from each other). Apparently after the Civil War he returned from being a POW in the North to a farmstead without much beyond a load of tobacco leaves, whatever was left from the North soldiers having picked through the crop—turns out they loved southern tobacco. (I seem to recall Richmond was accidentally burned at the end of the Civil War, mainly because the Rebels were trying to keep the Yanks from getting to the tobacco warehouses.)

Duke tried to sell his cigarettes from the left over, to apparent good effect, and soon he was merrily supplying America with smokes. But it really got off the ground when they discovered the milder “golden leaf” curing process (uses heat) and then in 1895 the invention of he cigarette rolling machine that could beat a human tobacco roller (who was capable of rolling only 4 a minute).

The newly formed American Tobacco Company bought out the competition but was split by anti-trust legislation in the early 20^th century. It became the world’s biggest anyway, supplying the troops in World War I, who came back with the smoking habit, creating massive ad campaigns, and from there we know where it went.

So truly this little spot of North Carolina was world center of smoking, and dominated the economy—as it had even in colonial days.

—Oct. 12, 2012, Raleigh, North Carolina

My hand’s still tired…three physical risks to the teachin’ life, hand cramps from writing lecture and grading papers, backache from long hours of sitting, and eyestrain from focusing for hours on details by computer or page. All of these began years ago, but get worse as I get older…. I don’t believe they ever happened before, oh, 25. Of course, other jobs would bring other repetitive stress injuries.

I chipped one of our new pasta plates today, putting it in the dishwasher. I like to work fast, move fast… about 80% of the time, it serves me well to fill up the days with lots of little jobs done. The other 20% of the time I suffer from speed—like tonight. Or times when I forgot to correct the typos, or miss typos. Write poor stories in haste. Lack thoroughness. I remember in 5^th grade (or was it 6^th), making some sort of religious picture based on a biblical scene. They were for a competition, judged by the priest. (Fr. Jerome, I believe…). Of course, many students (probably the girls, like Stephanie Glass, and Nancy Sullivan) carefully and methodically and painstakingly sketched out a nice drawing, all neatly colored and prefect. I, on the other hand, threw together a colored pencil picture based on the burning bush parable, sloppy, perhaps, but I thought I was lively, anyway, and I particularly liked the trick of using gold glitter on the fire.

I won only criticism from the teacher for “not taking enough care to do a neat job.”

Left-brainers.

Well, maybe I was sloppy. The key is to gain enough control over creativity to meet standards of communication through correct work usage, careful use of pen or brush. But not lose the vibrancy of the original haste. For haste can have a delight that plodding mechanical perfection will never understand.

So my rationalization for being fast.

—Oct. 3, 1994, Fargo

 

An absolutely stunning weekend for fall in Minnesota lake country—sunny, 80s, breeze on the lake. I took the ol’ canoe out to take a look from closer to the elements…. From the canoe you can see the sparkling reflection of the firey fall trees on the water, pumpkin and straw tones among the dark green drenched by the blue sky. I reflected that outside of North America’s north country there are few places in the world that offer this panorama of color I the fall. In England, leaves just drop brown among the gloom and drizzle.

The sun’s angle changes by minute, the diamonds in a showcase of small ripples of the water—a breeze lifts the slow sparkle to a shimmer of movement, like a sea of faces at a football touchdown. Above my canoe, seagulls weave in flocks, tracking the air with endless patterns swirling toward the south they know soon will be their destination. They alight on the water, I paddle toward them, and they rustle into flight in a sheet, a white flutter of paper parallel to the sunny surface.

Not much human momentum on the lake; a fisherman’s canoe and a couple small boats at the north end. It is too cold already for the skiers and tubers of summer. I hear a loon strike up a wail, and a faraway chain saw adds its guttural percussion. A radio blares form a cabin, briefly; I can’t tell quite where it’s coming from. Bu mostly the lake is left to the birds and the sun and the breeze.

How peculiar, I think, to reflect that in less than three weeks I’ll be back in old urban hustle, so different from this world.

—Big Sugar Bush Lake, Ogema, Minn., Sept. 17, 1989

I gave my intro media class their yearly “no-media” assignment last week. They are to avoid all media for 24 hours. Predictably , most people say that’s “impossible.” And it’s impossible for the majority not because of TV, which you’d think more essential, but because of radio and music. Some students report they’d “go crazy” without the radio on in their car.

This says, of course, that our society has become addicted to popular culture diversion, that we don’t even know how to be alone with our own thoughts. A rather sad development. Nor do we know the art of conversation anymore, or actually attending a concert, playing a game, walking, other activities. There are, really, very many possibilities. I believe this media addiction goes a long way to explaining this country’s overweight problem.

Strangely, as a “media education professional,” I’m not very addicted to the media. I can go hours without radio in the car, and I very seldom watch TV. I am, of course, pretty dependent on books and periodicals!

—Fargo, N.D., Sept. 15, 1997

I had decided today that I would meet a man, graduate student here, name of Dave, at the rail station and we would go to London to see Portobello market, the great antique market. But he wasn’t at Cambridge station when I arrived. So I went on alone I never did see him. Just as well, probably—it’s difficult to look at antique/flea markets with others, who always have very different interests from your own.

I’ve been interested in ivory things lately, notably scrimshaw. Unfortunately, real ones are hard to find, and outrageously expensive when you do. Tusks and bone are much more common. But I did see a few. Well, actually, I saw many. A great share of them were reproductions at £12-15 each, and while interesting and attractive, I like the real thing. But nothing as elaborate could be found in actual antique scrimshaw. In fact, I came across exactly 5 in the entire huge market. No, wait—6. Two were very nice, pictures made by a real artist. £200 each. One was a faint flower carving, with colored inks. £250. Then there were those in reasonable price range. One was a fair-sized, 4”, or so, a faint carving of a ship, for £55. I didn’t really like the work much and £55 is a little high, though as scrimshaw prices go….

Then a man had two of the very small teeth, one an old one with carving. Trouble is, he wanted £40, and he would not sell them separately. And on principle I won’t buy modern carving on whales’ teeth, no matter how well-executed. Scrimshaw is a folk art, result of life of certain people at a certain place in a certain time. Those conditions no longer exist, and whales are endangered species. I believe buying the “honest article,” not a reproduction—even a genuine tooth. Or especially a genuine tooth. Also, it’s illegal to import them to the States. In fact, I’m a little worried I’ll have a hassle with the old teeth—you can’t prove they’re old, actually, but I suspect they are because they are very simple designs, even crude, and forgers would not want anything crude—people are more attracted to the good stuff.

Anyway, that left one scrimshaw, a fair-sized one, with a ship and a “North Star” and a costume jewelry diamond in the star. The maker was no artist, for sure, but it’s an honest and humble attempt. It has an unfortunate chip, but in the back, not showing form the front. “Only” £35—well, cheap by scrimshaw standards. Probably because of the chip, and crude work. But it was an honest scrimshaw, which I believe really did once see a whaling-ship carver, so I bought it, all the while foolishly thinking not only can I not afford these things on student salaries, but that I am just feeding my noxious acquisitive-collection instinct. Why I need more junk I’ll never know!

In fact, I was thinking—I should clean out a lot of the old stuff. But what would go ? My bell collection? Oh, I’ve been at that for 25 or more years—too much nostalgia, and little resale value on the market anyway. Watches? They belonged to my relatives. Books? Well, I’ve already gotten rid of all I want to. Beer cans? They really don’t pose a problem on the wall at the lake. So I have lots of junk, but nothing I can really get rid of. Need a bigger house… but I don’t want to turn it into a curiosity shop either. It’s best not to go to these shows—I’m not tempted when I’m not there.

On the other hand…. I have some things no longer made, and hard to come by. Surely always be a market So it’s not the worst of purchases.

—May 21, 1988, Cambridge, England

This afternoon I was invited to a little outing with Mme. Cheminal and her 2 kids (about 7-8 yrs). We went to a medieval port town of Aigues-Mortes, now inland surrounded by salty marshes, but then a great fortified part for the Crusades of 1240-1260. The entire city is surrounded by an ancient wall and fortified round tower, and from 1685-1760s, also held prisoners, Protestants who refused to recant. Most medieval fortifications recall a history as grim as their austere grey vaults. But the “high Middle Ages” leave us an astounding number of massive fortifications and churches, surely testimony that no one was exactly sleeping during the time we call dark.

However, we have little left from earlier times, perhaps because, one they were destroyed to build these, and two, many were of wood which didn’t last. We tend to write off too much of 500-1000 a.d., because they kept no history. A civilization with so little pride in itself that it kept none of its own history is treated the way it suggests by succeeding generations. There is virtue in almost any fault, even pride, for it gives us history. The proud ancient Greeks and Romans—where would we be today if they had been modest?

Mme. Cheminal is a difficult person to be with. She means well, but is so tense and hurried that company with her takes on an anxious feeling. And she talks little—when she does talk, it fits her personality, fast and poorly enunciated, so I have major problems understanding. It’s not for me, at this point, so much a question of speed in my understanding French, but a question of enunciating correctly and carefully. This can be true in English, too. Her driving matches the rest, and I’m often best off fastening my seat belt, shutting my eyes, and praying.

Her kids scream a lot, and are noisy, but that’s not unusual for kids of that age, and I being not used to children have a hard time taking squeaks and babble. Then, considering the differences of the Guiol family, tranquil, quiet children clearly are a matter of upbringing.

I’m getting terribly tired of a life of not really understanding people, and am anxious to get back to the States. It’s been a tough year.

—May 20, 1989, Montpellier, France

Last night I did some B & W prints in the darkroom, looking for something I liked, thought was worth displaying. Frustrating—I had a hard time finding anything I really cared for, hard time deciding how to crop them, how to print them, light or dark; it was as is the usual case: when I choose and print my photographs, I’m never knowing what I want, what I don’t. I feel as if I have no anchor, no firm guide to cling to.

But last time, when I did the first “Cambridge series” of B & W that I displayed in the MCR, it was very different form the usual; that time I chose precisely what I wanted from the contact sheets, with little hesitation. I was certain how I wanted to crop and print them. I acted with confidence and security, and was fairly pleased with the result. Why the change? Why did I fall back into my old confusion? On reflection it seems to me the problem is this: in the camera and when it’s in the enlarger. I can’t seem to be fully comfortable, in touch with my negatives, because I photographed them either for a different purpose or, more commonly I’m afraid, for no purpose at all.

For instance, the photographs of Rhodes. I took them for a distinct purpose, a newspaper article illustrating Rhodes as a tourist spot. But when I look at a contact sheet, I may now be looking for the “beautiful, poster-like image” or for “something which sums up the experience or the culture in a statement.” It may not have much to do with photojournalism, but with what I, personally, feel about the area I photographed. I therefore am no longer looking to please a newspaper audience of a travel article, but my own needs and feelings.

So looking at the sheets, I’m at odds with myself behind the camera. I can’t really find what I’m looking for, even if I then do, I’m just not sure about it, and therefore don’t know how to print it. I’m looking with two different mind-sets, and in result I am confused or frustrated.

In the case of the Amsterdam photos, I’m not eve sure why I took them. Was I looking for a newspaper article illustration again? Maybe. Was I trying to explain what I felt toward the city? Sort of. Was I just snapping a few for family, friends? That too, perhaps. Was I looking for beauty? Ugliness? Loneliness? Was I trying to illustrate the feel of the city, or my own feelings? Was I trying to be objective or subjective? What was I doing? I don’t know.

So when I look at my images, I can’t expect to be anymore clear. Looking at the result of a photo session usually only makes one thing more clear: that you didn’t know what you were doing when you took the pictures. That may not be clear when you take the pictures—you may feel in yourself that you’re looking for something “interesting.” That’s my usual subconscious goal, but it explains nothing. What’s “interesting” depends on your purpose, so we’re back to the beginning. So again, I’m frustrated—I finally find something “worth printing,” but I am not really happy with it.

—May 17, 1988, Cambridge, England

Today I went to Erskine with my mother to visit Inga, my great aunt, and see the auction sale of Tillie England’s estate. She was the widow of my great uncle Olaf, died last year. Olaf had died a few years ago. Nothing much of interest at the sale, some cheap furniture, knickknacks of the kind they are so fond of in Erskine; my mother bought a covered butter dish which Inga said belonged to my great grandmother.

Inga seems to look older every time I see her—she’s the last of the nine Englands (and the youngest), but I’m afraid soon I’ll have no reason to go to Erskine anymore. Yet I save lots of childhood memories there….once we’d visit Inga and Amund and Nellie and Elmer on the farm, and Melvin, Tillie and Olaf on the farm, all my old grandmother’s relatives. Then Nellie died…then Amund…Olaf…Melvin…Tillie…my grandmother…Elmer is left—he’s an amazing 96 or 97. My grandmother used to marvel at how robust he was at that age—he toughed it past all of them.

I remember the time I came with my grandmother to stay with the folks in Erskine. I was 8. And I was bored to tears. City kid. I spent hours playing with the old pedal grindstone behind the barn at Inga’s or walking downtown to buy comic books.

I’d go with my cousin Mitchell and Roger and we’d prowl through the old, old car junkyard behind Inga’s home, marvel at the peculiar old engines. Maybe “borrow” a few old car parts….Once Roger and I wrenched off a bunch of rear-view mirrors and took home. This was stealing. We thought it was just an ol’ junkyard, though, and no one ever told us otherwise.

Erskine used to have more than it does today—a department store, for instance. But it was never much of a place. Now stores are closed, for sale. What will happen to little towns in 50 years? Even today there are half as many as their were 50 years ago.

—May 3, 1986, Moorhead

No time for anything lately, it seems, not even writing here. To be very busy can be frustrating, tension-causing, but I always think: someday, as I get (hopefully) old, all of these activates and business will just fall away until I am left with little of nothing to do in my life…. The little things will take on so much more meaning…the weather…the coffee in the morning…visits from friends or relatives (if I have any) will mean the greatest excitement.

I used to see this in my grandmother, how, at the twilight of life, with no plans to make, no places to rush to, her world would be so simple, conversation would be the weather or relatives or people at church. Someday, I will be old too, and now when I still have the visa to be in life’s mainstream, when people still listen to me, care about my work and my ideas, when I can still make things happen, and work and get things done, I should enjoy and savor and revel in the intensity—and remember, for someday it will all be a memory, and tension will be the ticking of a pendulum.

To night I visited the opening of a photo show by Melva Moline, department chair. She seemed generally pleased to see me there. No one else from the department showed up. Hmm. The members of that department, frankly, are not delights to behold…. Melva had worked very hard on this show, as she worked very hard in everything she’s done these last 10 years. And I don’t think she has gotten the credit she deserves for it. The upstarts cast the brighter glow, though surely not the deeper one.

—April 24, 1986, Moorhead

You don’t think Rome as wet, but it rained today steadily until about two, and hard. Fortunately, we spent most of the time inside looking at the Vatican’s sumptuous museums. Of course, the Sistine Chapel is most famous, a small church with ceilings painted by Michelangelo in the early years of the 16^th century. The church itself is gloomy, only a few small windows at the top, but the frescoes high in the ceiling were striking their majestic sweep across the length of the nave. Paintings by Botticelli and other artists climb the walls, but they look dingy compared to the Michelangelos, which have been recently cleaned to reveal a brilliance unsuspected by critics—and some say, unsuitable for the original intentions of the artist.

Canvassed scaffolding still shrouds about 1/5 of the ceiling, under cleaning, but the famous painting “God Creating Adam,” with the finger almost touching, is available for viewing, and seeing it for the first time is like seeing the Mona Lisa—you’ve seen it in pictures or characters so much you think you should know it already, as if you’ve already been here.

The crowed squeezes your view of the Sistine Chapel, as it does everywhere in the Vatican Museums, especially massive tour groups, which clog doorways and block views, a great annoyance to the individual. However, there’s bound to be crowds—after all, this is one of the world’s greatest museums.

Guards blew whistles to ward off errant tourists, and no one could go anywhere except roped off areas, the herd of cattle routine, which I detest, but it’s one of those times which it’s worth feeling like part of a herd to see these famous treasures.

Actually, I was more impressed than the Sistine Chapel, or the dark and small “Raphael Rooms” (painting by), with the less famous “map gallery”—a hall at least the size of a football field, with dozens of paintings between massive gold-leaved crenellations of the ceiling, and maps of the world’s great countries—as they were then—on the walls. I’ve never seen a larger and more imposing single room, even the hall of mirrors at Versailles. It must be the largest, and St. Peter’s Basilica is the largest Catholic Church in the world.

We visited that yesterday, after waiting all morning while it was closed to receive what a lady at a souvenir shop said was “a visiting head of state” to see the Pope. We found out in the paper later that the “head” was actually Lech Walesa, the leader of Poland’s “Solidarity” union.

My mother was disappointed we hadn’t waited around behind the crowd barrier to get a glimpse of Lech, I didn’t much care. I’m not very interested in seeing celebrities.

—April 21, 1989, Rome