An Artist at Work

So I just finished reading Annie Leibovitz's biography "At Work." If you don't know who that is, she was a photographer for Rolling Stone back when Rolling Stone really mattered. She eventually went on to work for Vanity Fair and she's most famous for her pics of Yoko and John Lennon and various celebrities in surreal settings or poses (re: a pregnant Demi Moore on the cover of Vanity Fair). I'm not a huge fan of hers. I don't "get" the depth or magic in her pictures. And to be honest, celebrity shots bore me. Maybe I've just been too inundated with EXTRA and US Weekly to give a hoot.


But Leibovitz's place in culture fascinates me. In this book she talks about working with Hunter Thompson during Nixon's resignation--taking mescaline --only because Hunter told her too. And getting invited to all the swank parties with Tom Wolfe. She was the official photographer of the Rolling Stones. And throughout the book you'll see shots of Mick Jagger and Keith Richards jamming, wrenching about onstage and passed out. There are photos of Andy Warhol and Truman Capote socializing and working in warehouses, restaurants. I happen to think these folks are really icons of history--unreal and unreachable. To think about their influence on one of the most radically shifting era is astonishing to say the least.

At the conclusion of this book I was left with another emotion: disappointment. Here's a paragraph from the book:

“The people I worked with at Rolling Stone in those early years didn’t tell me what to do. It never occurred to them. Most of the time I could respond to what was happening without preconceptions or an agenda. I was never thinking about the magazine when I was on the road. I was in the thick of it and I made my own decisions based on what was possible. Things happen in front of you. That's perhaps the most wonderful and mysterious aspect of photography. It seemed like you just had to decide when and where to aim the camera. The process was linear and it never stopped."

Today I feel most things are contrived. Marketing is so pervasive. Art is so measured and commercial. When was the last time you felt so strongly about something that you took part in changing it? It's a complacency that's killing what's magical and revolutionary about art. And I'm not just talking about photographs or paintings. If I had a camera, I don't know what I would shoot. The events don't unfold like they did. Or is it just me? Maybe I'm just blind to the wars that make my community.

I don't know. In many ways the 60s and 70s have been glamorized. And I'm sure it wasn't all love-ins and drugs. But at least people felt a part of something that was bigger than themselves. And I can't help but wish I could have been a part of that.

The "Troubles" continue

Making headlines today: Police Arrest 11 Men After Slaying in N. Ireland (http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2009/05/26/AR2009052602995.html?hpid=topnews)

While spending time in Northern Ireland, both me and my traveling partner Michelle, were surprised to note just how fractious the area was. In a local Belfast bar, Kelly's Cellars, tensions ran high and it was easy to notice the way surrepticious glances were thrown between friends; how big husky men shifted behind their scrawnier mates. Everyone was waiting for the spark--a sharp word, a drunken push. When a group of IRA "criminals" as they were described, staggered lugubriously into Kelly's--more than just eyebrows were raised. Men quietly put their coats and rucksacks behind the bar and the bartender declared the group "have had enough to drink," while the burly Polish bouncer perched himself near the door.

Nothing much happened that night. There were no fists thrown; no spittle hurled. But you could taste the bitterness in the air. It was exciting until I realized that it wasn't a game. This was a way of life. The unrest in Northern Ireland is referred to as "The Troubles" locally. Whatever peace has come, it has been uneasy.

In Derry (or Londonderry depending on your point of view) at the Bloody Sunday memorial museum, the past comes crashing down on you. Shouts from the protests--replaying on a TV monitor-- fill the room as you read about the 13 victims of the day's events. I will never forget the baby shirt stained a withering yellow behind the glass case. It was used to staunch the flow of blood from the head of one of the Bloody Sunday victims. All 13 victims are named; memorialized; martyred.

When the past is replayed over and over; when hatred is allowed to fester under the guise of remembrance; when history has a stranglehold on the present, well, how can there ever be any real peace? Or must we all languish in a world where the best we can hope for is that there will be no fights when you're out for a pint?

A thousand shades of green doesn't begin to cover it!

Ah..Ireland. Poets have long praised the country for its lush rolling green hills, the warmth of its people and the reasurring familiarity of its pubs. But there's a beauty here that no word nor photo can truly capture. It's in the fine mist and grey fog that wraps around you. It's in the ground pregnant with rain yielding under your footprint. It's the earthy scent of a peat moss fire that settles into your clothes.

This particular photo is taken at a sixth century monastery at Glendalough in Co. Wicklow.