A Fan

Winning an award is always a joyous occasion and today was no exception. I attended the reception for the Elden Murray Photo Contest at the Howe Library in Hanover, NH and was happy to learn that I had won two awards. My photo, Shadow Girl, received an honorable mention in the pictorial/abstract category and my photo, Julia Grace, won third place in the people category.

But as neat as seeing the ribbons beside the photos, was the reception I received when I arrived. As I entered the long hall of landscape photography, one of the photo club members greeted me. I barely had time to look at her before she seized me by the elbow and began ushering me through the crowd.

“You have a fan,” she noted. “A rather young man,” she said. “This tall,” holding her hand up to her hip. “He’s here someplace. He just loved all your work. At first I thought he knew you because every picture he pointed to was yours, but he said he didn’t. He liked the one of the young girl. I told him a lady did it, and he said, are you sure a lady? I think he thought it must be a young girl who took the picture because that’s whose in it. I told him if I saw you I’d introduce you.” She continued to guide me, almost completing a full circle around the exhibit when she stumbled upon a boy of six or seven standing next to his blonde, ponytailed mother wearing tortoiseshell glasses.

“Is this the boy who’s been here for the past 15 minutes,” the photo club member asked.

“Yes, we’ve been here for that long,” his mother replied, giving us a questioning gaze.

“Well, this young man is a fan of Kim Gifford’s work, aren’t you?” the photo club member asked, addressing the boy. “He was looking at the pictures and he kept stopping at Kim’s, I thought he might have known her but he didn’t,” she explained, this time to the mom.

“Did he?” said the mom. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Well, I’m just happy you liked them,” I said, “May I shake your hand.”

The little boy looked up at me with a quiet smile and offered his hand.

“Do you want to show your mom the pictures you liked?” the photo club member asked. The boy trotted off in the direction of my photos, looking back to see if I was following. His blue eyes twinkled and he kept checking to make sure I was right behind him. As soon as we got to my first picture of Julia Grace, he stopped and pointed, glancing over his shoulder for reassurance that he was correct. I nodded and smiled and then he skipped across the room to my Shadow Girl image and pointed at that.

“Yes,” I agreed as he ran back and pointed to the pug.

His mother appeared around the corner. “He especially likes the ones of the girls,” I informed her.”

“He’s a ladies man,” his mother concluded.

Although my photos and the ribbons will be on display for the month, I took the boy’s lingering smile home with me. I received a number of congratulations and compliments for my work today, but none had quiet the weight of the child running around the room proudly pointing at my work.

I have always had an affinity for pets and children in my photos. It is nice to see that they have an affinity for me as well.

Catherine and Waffles

My niece Catherine and Waffles. Catherine loves dogs. She has a boxer named Sophie at home, but would like a little dog as well. She is saving her money for a Maltese.

Self-Portrait #12: Memoir

I spent today writing. It is a piece for The Hubbard Hall Writers’ Project, a piece of memoir that I may never share with anyone because it is not polished, it is not linear. It may not make sense to anyone but me. It is intensely personal and probably necessary. It is stuff that needs to be put down and sorted through to move on. In many ways it is background material for all that comes next.

It reminds me of my self-portrait projects. For each of us there is a past and a present. The people we were and the people we have become. In my writing, there is the story I have been telling myself and the story I want to tell now. Like these pictures in many ways they are the same and in many ways they are different.

The pictures can’t tell the whole story, there is a wealth of life between the childhood photo and the adult photo and any written account still has such gaps. There are things I want to share and things I don’t, things that are mine to tell and things that belong to others. I would not be who I am today if it were not for all these things, and so I write down what I can and I stare at the words like I stare at my photos and try to understand who I am and how I got here.

That’s what memoir is I guess, whether it manifests itself in words or in pictures. I begin each semester of my Memoir class asking my student “What memoir is and why would anyone like to write one?” But, I’m not sure I have ever tried to answer that question for myself. I have one student who has taken my class eight times and each time she answers this question it evolves. If I were to answer it today I would say a memoir is our search for meaning, the best possible explanation we can give at the moment. It tries to connect the dots and create a story. It tries to understand how the bald headed toddler smelling the roses became the woman doing the same.

Writing Prompt: 1. What is a memoir and why would anyone want to write one? 2. Write about a time you got from here to there. What happened?

Elden Murray Competition

Headed off to Howe Library in Hanover, NH tomorrow to deliver three of my photographs to the Elden Murray Competition. I was fortunate last year to win a couple of ribbons for the entries below. Always enjoy participating and seeing all the great photographs the Upper Valley has to offer.

Gary's Barn

When I was a little girl, my Uncle would bring his friends home from the Coast Guard Academy to my grandparents’ schoolhouse. One such friend was Gary. Gary adopted my grandparents’ as his own parents and they accepted him as a son. He eventually purchased a farm above the schoolhouse. He has rented it out over the years and while there were chickens, sheep, and goats there for a while, in recent years the barn has stood empty and is in a state of decay.

As a child, the barn was filled with my grandfather’s antiques. I would love to go there and look around. My grandfather used to collect glass telephone insulators – a beautiful teal green in color. We would often go antiquing on the weekends and he would bring objects back to the barn. He also stored a number of cardboard cones there and he would help me fashion dolls out of them. I haven’t been inside the barn in years, but it no longer looks safe. The roof is caving in, but it still projects a certain beauty, like an aging model whose skin may sag, but who never loses that great bone structure. Only, that’s not quite true, the structure of this building is giving in, giving up, and eventually it will probably have to come down. I already know some people who were checking it out for the wood, although as far as I know Gary has made no such deal. I will be sad the day it finally happens. We already lost a couple of barns at the farm where my Dad grew up, taken down because they too were falling in and were no longer safe. The hole where they were offers a great view, but it is still a hole, a part of what once was a leaving, breathing entity, now amputated.

Not only are old barns a thing of beauty, but old memories are, too.

Self-Portrait # 11: Uncle Bobby

I am five-years-old. The darkness enfolds me like a warm, comfy blanket. A soft light shines from the other room. I am tucked in my cot next to my parents’ double bed in the barn wood room of my grandparent’s schoolhouse.

“Put the kids to bed and we’ll bring out the ice cream,” my Uncle Bobby jokes, but he comes in to rub my feet before I fall asleep. It is something I remember in the years to come, first, when he is my boss at his granite company and later, when our families go through a falling out. Things are better now, but in the dark times, I remembered moments like this, when he was just my uncle and I was a little kid. The thing about special memories like this is that they can be a glue and a bridge to hold relationships together and to help cross a gulf until things are okay again.

I love my uncle.

I’m not sure where this picture of us was taken, but we spent a lot of time together when I was little. He was in the Coast Guard Academy and he would bring home friends to my grandparents’ schoolhouse. My parents and my brother and I would travel down to camp out with them for the weekend.

When I was older and my uncle married, his wife Lynn pierced my ears with a needle and some ice. She taught me how to make Christmas ornaments out of walnuts and cotton balls so they looked like little mice. She taught me the words and hand signals to a song we’d sign around the campfire “His Banner over Me is Love.”

When Bobby and Lynn had children, they would come down to our house and swim in the pool and we would eat big family meals around my grandmother’s large dining room table at the schoolhouse.

I don’t remember this photo, but it is a rare shot of us together, but I have memories to fill the gap.

I didn’t have time to take a new photo with my uncle for this project, although he only lives 30 miles away. I see him often when I visit my 92-year-old grandmother, who now lives with him, and when they travel down this way to visit us. We even go out to eat together at Cockadoodle Pizza Café, our local haunt. Instead, I chose to recreate the setting and the substance of the photo, but this time with my constant companion Alfie. I love how she studies me in this photo. This is her natural stance.

Growing up, neither side of our family was particularly a dog lover. My uncle got his first dog, a black lab named Daisy about the same time I got my first pug Vader. They both died within weeks of each other. When my Uncle Bobby interacted with Daisy, I saw a side of him that was more playful, less serious. He would get down on the floor and rub her belly. My grandmother said he cried when Daisy died.

Dogs bring out the best in people. They are a catalyst for creating warm memories. In the summer, I now often bring my pugs to my uncle’s pool. He always surprises me with his warmth towards them. They seem to make him smile. His genuine affection towards these creatures and our mutual appreciation of them are another bridge and a glue that binds us. I cross it and know love.

Writing Prompt & Self-Portrait #10: Laid Bare

My self-portrait project raised some issues for me when it comes to body image, but being judgmental of my body is not the only way to be hard on myself. I was reminded of that today.

It was one of those cliché-ridden days. The kind where I woke up on the wrong side of the bed and never should have gotten out of it. But I did and by afternoon had already missed an important interview for work because I had the wrong day. Tonight I had another appointment and was then supposed to head off to my photography class, but when my appointment ran long I realized I would be getting to class very late. I could choose to still go and miss a substantial amount of class, which could be disruptive, or call up and cancel. I chose the latter, but felt guilty about it. First, of all I really respect the teacher, who has become a friend, and second, I had actually worked hard on the assignment this week – taking the photos on color and light that I posted yesterday. I worried that I made the wrong choice and then I worried some more.

How could I have missed the appointment earlier in the day? Was I forgetting things because I was overworked, overbooked? Was I wrong to have taken the photography class in the first place? Was there any way I could have left the appointment earlier and not have been late for class? Should I still have shown up?

Everyone, I’m sure, beats themselves up once in awhile, but I don’t seem to know when to call it a day. By the time I was done questioning myself I couldn’t tell what I really wanted in the first place – to be at class or to go home guilt free? What’s wrong with me? I asked again and suddenly mid-thought, I realized: No one’s upset here except you; no one else is holding you accountable. This is Kim on Kim and you are a hard taskmaster. Your appointment ran overtime, you chose not to show up late, you let the instructor know. It’s over, move on. Let yourself off the hook.

I was scared. When things were laid bare and I could see the monster, I discovered it was me. A sobering thought with a happy flip side: just like I learned that I can be more forgiving of my body, I can also be more forgiving of other aspects of myself. I have been judge, juror and jailor to a woman trying very hard just to be free. Perhaps now I can be liberator instead.

About the photos: I wasn't sure how to handle these photos. The child photo shows me in the tub and as I have already mentioned, I've never been too happy about sharing that type of photo. It also was pretty revealing, so I didn't feel comfortable showing it in its original form. It seemed like such a childhood shot required something similar as an adult, but I wasn't comfortable with a real nude. Instead I set up the camera and took this adult shot, which shows a little skin, but nothing too risque. I'm still uncomfortable, however, with seeing myself in such a sensual way, and chose once again not to share it on Facebook. I used some filters to change the photos to black-and-white and mask some of the more delicate elements. I was going to use these two shots to write more about sensuality and the body, but after today I realized there is more than one way to be laid bare, more than one truth to be discovered in these photos.

The adult shot not only suggests sensuality, but vulnerability. I think many of us consider vulnerability to be a weakness and try to avoid feeling this way. It's dictionary definition  means being open to harm. But, vulnerability is also a pure and honest emotion and there is a beauty in it. To look at my reflection in my photos and my actions is to be laid bare and to be made vulnerable. I am trying to find the beauty in what I see and to be kinder to this  child and this woman in every way.

Writing Prompt: In what ways are you hard on yourself? How can you be more forgiving?

Home

Most of my family lives in a 30-mile loop of each other – a circle from Bethel to East Randolph to Randolph and back to Bethel again. It’s rural Vermont at its best – woods and pastures, dirt roads, dairy farms, cemeteries, schoolhouses and country stores. I traveled this loop today, chasing the light to capture images for a photography assignment on color and light. Sometimes because I don’t have a house of my own I feel dislocated – my life, a story without a setting. But, that’s not true. I am rooted in this town, grounded in its soil. I have memories of two sets of grandparents, uncles, aunts and cousins living, working and playing here; now, siblings and nieces and nephews do the same. We abide here. And, sometimes like today, the light shines upon us and I remember how beautiful it all is and how lucky I am to call this place home.

Best Friends

Proverbs 18:24 reads, “A man of many companions may come to ruin, but there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother.”

I am blessed to have such a friend. I first met Sheila when I moved to Bethel in fourth grade, became best friends in high school and roommates in college. Calling her my best friend or even my sister doesn’t come close to pegging our relationship – although she’s both. We share memories and tears, inside jokes and boisterous laughter. We are each other’s mirrors, consciences and memory banks. When we’re together our lives are in mortal danger – we may just die someday of laughter!

Tonight we spent a night on the town, consisting of dinner and a movie. (Okay, I know I saw a movie yesterday with my Mom, but anyone who knows me won’t find this fact surprising. I see a lot of movies!)

I wanted to see Amour, one of the few Oscar picks I hadn’t seen so far. From the previews we knew it was subtitled and promised a lot of shots of actors staring off into space, what we didn’t realize was that it was a movie dedicated solely to watching an old lady die. I’ve read all the reviews and understand we may be in the minority here, but we just didn’t see any subtext, no layers of meaning, just a chronicling of death and so, we did what we always do when faced with something so serious. We went out to dinner and laughed our heads off. It says something about our maturity that we didn’t start this raucous display earlier while still in the theater. Give us a pat on the back please! But as we sprawled out on two comfy sofas in the restaurant’s lobby waiting to be seated, we dissected the movie, somehow managing to understand each other, as we always do, between snorts, knee slaps and bursts of laughter.

This picture of the two of us was taken 25 years ago in our sophomore year at Middlebury College and is one of my favorites. It is how I always see us when I think of our friendship. Sheila looks maniacal here, me like I’m stoned on laughter. We loved this photo of ourselves so much, even back then, that we printed out a score of them, mailing out one a week to Late Night with David Letterman with the hope that he would invite us on his show for our own segment of Stupid Human Tricks. “Andy Warhol says everyone has 15 minutes of fame, this should be ours,” we wrote on one of the photos. Needless to say we never made it on Letterman and he doesn’t know what he missed. We are a pretty special pair!

Self-Portrait #9: Wearing a Smile

For as long as I can remember, my mother has been my best friend. I can’t imagine my life outside her shadow. She has been a sounding board, a beacon, a shelter and a launching point from which to view the rest of the world.

Lately, we have been dealing with our share of health issues. Chronic allergies, sinusitis and ear infections have led to prolonged steroid use for me, which in turn has had some serious side effects: high blood pressure, increased blood sugar levels, mood swings. Following this last round of prednisone, my A1C readings reached diabetic levels.

On her part, my mom has osteoarthritis, is getting cataract surgery this month, and faces knee replacement surgery in May. Both of us have chaotic lives; neither of us likes to be in a weakened state. We both have an unspoken philosophy that life is doable as long as we keep going; we hold everything together. Only now we can’t. For the moment, we are each having to accept our limitations.

For me this has means some lifestyle choices: I am working on changing my diet, reducing stress, pursuing some long-held dreams. But these things don’t come easily and they take time. It is hard to work on dreams when life feels like a series of setbacks. My Mom has to face her upcoming surgeries, the possibility of being first bedridden and then temporarily handicapped as she learns to adjust to her new knee. In many ways it is easier for me to accept my own limitations than hers.

I look at the picture of me as a child and I wonder where the years went. How did my Mom become old enough for cataracts and osteoarthritis and how can I be dealing with a life-altering illness when I’m just starting to make some headway on some of those dreams?

Illness, surgery and aging are a mirror into one’s mortality. When you stare mortality in the face, you have two choices: you can become immobilized or you can keep on living.

A wise friend of ours once advised Mom and I to take a margarita day every now and then – he didn’t mean literally go out and buy the drink, although we could. He meant relax, take it easy, live it up and have fun. He told us we had to let go of our omnipotence – the feeling that we could control everything or that we had to. The other day after reading my blog, a friend commented that when she looked at me in high school, she didn’t see a chunky girl, but one with a smile on her face, who looked like fun. At the self-portrait review the other day, people too remarked upon my smile. I inherited it and the ability to laugh from my mother. She instilled in me her faith, too.

I don’t like to think of either of us aging or the 20 years between us that means someday I may be here without her. I really wish I could go back to eating whatever I want and that she could move more freely without pain, but I know one thing, we will never be immobilized. I have seen my Mom face life crises that could be the stuff of a Lifetime movie – stories for another time – but she always moved forward. The years between my child portrait of us and the adult one do not merely illustrate time spent, but tracks left as we blazed a trail to the future. And, if you notice, she’s still laughing and I, as her daughter, am too.