Happy Halloween

I found out during my "pumpkin selection" a few weeks ago, that the stem is one of the most important parts of the pumpkin when determining if it was worthy for me to bring home.
It needs to have character!
I saw the stem on this one and right away decided I had to have it, even if it meant carrying a large, heavy pumpkin all the way home from the farmer's market to which I'd walked.

I'm glad I did!
Happy Halloween to all of you!

trick or treat?

It's nearing Halloween time again. We don't have a great track record with this holiday. The first year of our marriage, we spent the evening at Border's to avoid the trick or treaters in our apt complex. (I know, real festive of us) The next year we were in our new condo and forgot it was halloween. We were completely unprepared for a knock at the door by a little boy all dressed up. I remember frantically searching the cupboards for something to hand him (other than a can of soup or boxed rice mix), but before I could find something and open the door, he gave up. Year number three we decided to turn out our outside light as to avoid the debacle from the previous year. And now, here we are, year four and we're not going to be in our own place for halloween. Even if we were, we live on a third floor apartment that requires getting buzzed in for access. I doubt we'd be seeing any treaters anyways. But in the spirit of the holiday I thought I'd post some of my "ghostly" images.

too quickly

Anticipation is a funny thing. It's so exciting before something actually takes place and then all of a sudden, after it's over, you find yourself missing the anticipation of it.

That's how last night was for me.

After riding the El into the Clark and Lake stop to meet M at work, we went around the corner and grabbed a quick bite at Corner Bakery for dinner. (Roasted Tomato Basil soup...yum!) Then it was off to Michigan Avenue to locate Columbia College where the lecture was being held. We arrived a few minutes before it started, just in time to snag two remaining chairs beside each other. It was a small gallery room (apparently the lecture hall had been double booked) and it quickly filled to standing room only. It was enjoyable to listen to Daniel Dixon speak of his mother and father (Maynard Dixon, famous painter) and to see her work through his eyes. It was a unique experience for a child growing up, to say the least.

When it was over, about an hour in, he stood up for questions. M looked at me and asked if I had any questions. I shrugged my shoulders, not at all having prepared for the possibility of questions (I've gotten rusty after being away from college!). I think we both figured someone would asking something! The room was silent and before I could really contemplate a question, he was sitting back down and people were beginning to disperse. I stood (more like hovered, actually) around him for about 10 minutes waiting to get the chance to shake his hand and say, "Thank you." I found out I was too timid for this task, as older people kept somehow nosing in front of me each time I thought I'd catch his eye to address him. After thanking his wife, who did some of the reading of DL's quotes, I gave up and ventured through the rest of the exhibit. M was very kind to indulge me and was patient, letting me look at prints and point out things.

Of course on the train ride home, we thought of many questions that could have been asked and we both expressed how we wished we could have listened to him longer. There's something about a first hand account, an oral history, if you will, that is intriguing. Eventually, the first hand accounts are gone, which drives my appreciation for them. We've lost our love for oral history... we write things down in books and that's that. But listening to it, from someone who has been there seems irreplaceable. And so I regret not having a question ready last night, because I think had just one person asked just one question, more might have come and we might have gotten an even deeper sense of what the world of Dorothea Lange was like.

What I wonder now...
1. What was it like to work with Ansel Adams? What differences did you see between his approach to work and your mother's?
2. How did growing up in an household with two artists shape your childhood and how you view the arts today? Was it intimidating to have such talented parents?
3. Did your mother have a favorite camera?
4. Do you have a favorite picture?
5. What do you think she would say of photography today?

It's so much easier after the fact. (sigh)

minolta SRT-101

Isn't it pretty? Okay, maybe you're not as enthralled with old cameras as I am.
But still...it's beautiful, yes?

And, yes, I am sometimes sentimental, hence why my Grandpa's name tag remains on the camera.

brushing up on dorothea lange

Today I took a brief lunch break to briskly walk to the library and pick up the four books I'd put on hold Monday evening. It's getting quite chilly out. Tomorrow night M is accompanying me to a lecture on Dorothea Lange, given by her son (who was born in 1925, I might add) at the Museum of Contemporary Photography downtown. I forget how I stumbled upon it, but I realized it was free and quickly marked it on my calendar last month. I figure if we're going to live in the city, we better take advantage of all it has to offer or else I'll regret it once we're no longer here.

In case you need a refresher course on Dorothea Lange, she's most famous for her work during the depression of migrant farmers and their families. Remember seeing the one of the mother and children, aptly named Migrant Mother? That's her.

So tonight I will curl up with my books and brush up on DL before the lecture tomorrow evening! Fun!

PS: This is only serving to renew my love for black and white photography.
That and the fact that I took my Grandpa's old Minolta SRT-101 out today.
The click of the shutter and the manual advancing of film is such a delight! More on that later...

leaves

getting stuck, momentarily

Last week, I was cleaning up in anticipation of my cousin coming to visit and as part of that clean up, I was taking out the trash. Stepping out onto our back porch I placed the bag on the floor (to be taken down to the dumpster at a later time) and released the door from my hand in order to walk over to the railing and soak up some afternoon sun. After sufficiently warming in its rays, I grasped the handle and tugged the door open. Only, it would not open. I then realized I had not "unlocked" the latch on the screen door. At first glance, this may seem like a small problem, as the landlord works just downstairs and could easily let me back in. A quick look around the back porch reveals another door that accesses the stairs leading down. This we keep dead bolted at all times. So, that means I was stuck on a small back porch of trash bags, between two locked doors and no way of getting anywhere. I stood there for a minute or two thinking, "I did NOT just do this. I did NOT just do this." (To compound the issue I had just put a pot on the stove to boil eggs) In one desperate attempt to get back in, seeing no other way, I grabbed the screen door handle and pulled with all my might. "CLICK" It sprung open and I quickly ran inside, breathing a sigh of relief while considering just how little the lock on the screen door actually does! Next time, I think I'll take my keys with me!

PS: On the right of this picture you can see the table I had previously mentioned.