12.20.14 Inspiration From Photographer Nell Dorr and Artist Tasha Tudor, Friends

When I was a little child, I had two books by Tasha Tudor. 

In my adolescence, I met and grew to know, just a bit, 

Nell Dorr, a remarkable photographer

in Connecticut, with long grey hair,

two enormous Irish Wolfhounds,

an Octagonal house,

Doves living in her deepset windowsills,

and her remarkable photographs.

And I came to discover, a few years ago,

that the two of them were dear friends.

Tasha lived far up in New Hampshire,

in a house with wood heat, no running water,

four children, dogs and cats and birds,

goats and gardens, where she

made candles, sewed clothes,

and illustrated and wrote 

beautiful books to support

herself and her children.

During the war, Nell Dorr brought her children

to Tasha's house to stay for awhile.

As an adolescent, my school visited Nell Dorr's 

home and enormous gardens and long ponds,

and I wrote her a note afterwards,

thanking her for her inspiring photographs,

for having us visit, and for

her inspiring life.

She wrote me back a note on her cards with

her photographs on them, and 

sent me an inscribed book,

encouraging me.

Her work somehow sank deep inside of me,

and grew and grew, until my children

were grown, and my photographs

and writing somehow morphed,

with her influence.

She photographed her friend Tasha Tudor, as a young woman.

I am imagining they shared a great deal, despite for the most part

Tasha being in N.H., and Nell in Connecticut,

both of them pursuing their art,

and raising their children.

It was such a surprise, after finding such solace in the art of Tasha Tudor

throughout my childhood

to discover and meet Nell Dorr in adolescence,

and live, changed by how she lived her life,

thought for herself

and created photographs that were far different

than the accepted mode of photography at the time.

Only to realize in my late 50's, internet and all,

that the two were friends,

and I imagine shared a great deal.

And both nourished the live I have cherished, myself.

How often do we impact others, with no notion of it;

only aware of how others have impacted us?

Tasha Tudor's art was all about 

elaborately drawn and painted borders,

 of flowers and vines, 

streams and cats and dogs, 

happy siblings 

and a quiet, comforting life. 

They were all about 

comfort and joy.

Now, at 62, I relish their lives and their creations,

and all they have left behind for us.

12.19.14 Land Love. Growing Things Love. Season Love. Love of Quiet Distant Hills, Piquant Telephone Poles, and Old Old Streams

I think taking photographs is like getting to know someone; like falling in love. I am always falling in love, this way. I'm just walking or driving or going to do an errand, or on a walk, and suddenly a sight hits me, as if I walked into something. Bam. I think we are all like this, only with different types of things. For me, it is visual, and out in the world.  

     I suppose if I lived in a city, the subject matter would be very different. But I need the quiet and to be surrounded by living things, living their lives in the way that they do, so I every day know that I'm grateful I am not irrevocably tied to some other area. Although I imagine I would have simply fallen in love with what was there, too.

     When I catch sight of something, it really reminds me of seeing my husband the very first moment. It was a hard hit, for both of us. Hard hits don't always turn, fairy tale, into relationships, or long relationships. And lest we forget, relationships are for the most part much much hard hard work, building and figuring things out and enduring and compromising and blah blah all that stuff. Tough stuff.

     But then, sometimes  you get to know the terrain, and the ways of the environment become understood and peace is chosen; and there are so many harder more pressing matters than your large or small heartbreaks or disagreements or distresses or irritations, that the large horrid or by-the-skin-of-your-teeth stuff that comes up and endures and then hopefully settles, makes your old preferences and crabinesses look so terribly petty, that you let go. You let go and let them slide by each day, and ride the wave of loving someone, and just seeing how good a person you can be, and where the wave leads. Because there are no guarantees, and sometimes it crashes on the shore and off they go and, the end. Sometimes it endures, and you've let go of your grievances and relish what is true and precious.

     

     But I was talking about falling in love with a sight you pass by. Pulling over. Putting on the blinkers. Grabbing the camera. Watching for passing cars. Getting out of a car, in this instance. And then settling yourself down, into the place.

     That's what it was , here. Looking to the left, where the stream swirled into wild rose hips and tangles of growing things and some bittersweet, flowing below the road, on that snowy dark day last week.

          It's like you circle the area, and it whispers to you. You  listen, and begin taking shots. Like this, like that; closer, from this angle, and you hone in. You begin to feel the place, and it speaks to you, as you settle down and gradually begin to really see what is before you.

  

         You turn and carefully cross the road, the teachers at the school watching you curiously, wondering what you find so compelling that you would stop your car, and wander about, in the snow and cold.
  

     You see them conferring, speculating, but  you are drawn to the old old bridge you have passed by for years. The meandering stream. The faint and sublime hint of the hills far behind the curtain of snowing. The elegant ochre Willow standing with such poise, at the edge of the field. The rich evergreens at the side of the curious telephone poles, one of them leaning, almost as if speaking, or having a certain personality. As you somehow become subdued by the rich winter colors of the waters and beautifully tangled grasses and the falling snow pattering about you, it's own song, gradually covering everything.

       And you begin to see one way, and take the shot. Another entirely different perspective, and take the shot. As if you have met someone, listened and watched them do something or interact in a crowd, and you are slowly circling them, learning about them as you pull in closer and closer.

       Knowing that everyone can sing. Everyone can dance. Everyone can share moments from their lives. And it's not about being good or not. It's about experiencing what moves us, and seeing what moves others. 

     And then, you are filled. With land love. Growing things love. Season love. Love of quiet distant hills. Of piquant telephone poles, and old old streams. Red Elderberry branches revealed only come winter. All of it filling your heart and delighting you to your core.

     Falling in love. Over and over and over.