Stu Jenks: Fezziwig Photography, Music, and Writing

"Darkness Darkness": An Exhibit of Contemporary American Night Photography

"Darkness Darkness": An Exhibit of Contemporary American Night Photography

[Lance Keimig asked me to be part of this show. It'll start at Harvard and there is talk (and hard work being done) to put the show on the road. Being in this show is an honor and kind of a big deal, if you ask me. If you are in Boston in March and April, feel free and check it out. And if you can't make that, here is the link to the Darkness Darkness website and you can see the images there. Mine will be a huge photograph on nylon that was first shown, in that format, at the last Mythic Journeys Conference in Atlanta. Thanks again to Lance and all those who have helped me, financially, spiritually, and emotionally over the last decade and more of my art career.]

"The Goddess Kali at Cold Harbor Battlefield" (c) 2008

"The Goddess Kali at Cold Harbor Battlefield, Virginia" (c) 2007, 2008 Stu Jenks

    When I fly to The River, I land in Richmond, the Capital of the Confederacy. I rent a car or a truck and take a short cut through the thick woods to hook up with Route 360, avoiding the Interstate completely. Along the way, I skirt the Malvern Hill and Cold Harbor National Battlefields. And these days when I'm returning to Richmond International after a visit to the Rappahannock, I stop at Cold Harbor and pay my respects. What were mostly open fields in June of 1864 are now hardwoods and pines growing up from the old eroding earthworks. But the Park Service did leave the largest field of battle tree-free. So unlike most small Civil War battlefields, it still looks close to how it was 140 years ago.
    First time I came here in the 1990's, I cried hard, as much for my dying father as for the ghosts of the Union dead. Today, I just stopped and made a couple of cell phone calls, finished my Diet Coke and took a few time-travel shots of a hundred-year-old poplar tree. It's overcast today with a sprinkling of rain. It's a damp cold that seeps into the bones. A nice change from the desert cold I'm used to but I'm happy that I don't live here anymore, for a good number of reasons, not just the cold or the mosquitoes. I haven't called The South home for over twenty years. But I know the speech. I understand the people. Yet my heart resides atop a Mesquite-covered hill north of Tucson.
    But no matter where my heart lives, I am a Son of Virginia nonetheless. I have a burial plot of my own, that I may or may not use, at St. Mary's Whitechapel in Lively, Virginia, and I am happy that I have the option to eternally rest in the Old Dominion (even though my guess is my friends will take my ashes to Owl's Head instead.) I love Collard greens, Krispy Kreme donuts and Camel cigarettes and I relate well to people who pray. And I have a hard time with hardcore Yankees from New York City who think they are smarter than me, just because they were born above the Mason-Dixon line. And when someone mentions the name of Robert E. Lee, I instinctively nod my head and lower my eyes.
    I am a Son of Virginia and here at Cold Harbor, for just a few days in 1864, we were victorious. Not that Slavery or State Rights were just causes. It's just nice to remember a moment when Virginia won.

[For my information about the Battle of Cold Harbor, go to the Wikipedia link at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Cold_Harbor. It's a good and accurate site.]

 

"Medusa Revisited" by Ben Heaven

"Medusa Revisited" by Ben Heaven (c) 2008

    [Another wonderful image by the English Nocturnal Photographer Ben Heaven. Here, in his own words, is how he made this digital photograph.]

    I shot this with my D200 which has pretty poor battery life. However there is a popular technique to remove noise that I adapted to deal with the battery issue. The technique works like this; you use a remote release with a timer (or lock down the release shooting 30 second exposures) so that you take multiple shots for the entire length of the exposure rather than one single long shot. You need to make sure there is almost no delay between shots. At the end you take an additional frame of the same period as one of the single frames, with the lens cap on. This is the 'dark frame' that you use to subtract noise from your stack of images. Using this technique you don't need to include a 'noise reduction' stage in the camera that often takes 1/2 as long again (or sometimes the total time of the exposure). You use software to combine your stack of images into a single file. I find with the D200 I can only get about 80 minutes total from a single battery, but with the stacking method, if I'm quick I can swap the old battery with a fresh one and just keep stacking!

OK, here are the specifics on this shot:

D200, ISO 100, 24 exposures of 5 minutes duration @ f5.6, 10mm. Tree painted for 2 minutes at ISO 400 and the image overlaid in PhotoShop. Processed with DXO film pack to resemble Acros 100, Terra Sepia Tone 'printed' at grade 3.

"Rappahannock River Prayer Stick" (c) 2008

"Rappahannock River Prayer Stick" (c) 2008 Stu Jenks

[Batik Fabric, Crab Pot Buoy, and Eye Bolts: 7'10" x 21" x 5"]

Flame Spirals: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks: Chapter Fifteen: “Ed-Lil"

Flame Spirals: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks:

Chapter Fifteen: “Ed-Lil, Virginia” © 2002, 2008

    Dad's been dead nine months. Mom has to sell the river house, so she can invest the cash and survive on the interest. Dad didn't leave Mom enough money to live on. Dad didn't believe in life insurance.
    People loved my father, for he had a public persona of a funny happy-go-lucky smart old Southern man. But his private face was much darker. At home, he was a cynical loner, who greatly feared poverty and taxes, and preferred his own company than that of his family.
    But oddly, all that doesn’t seem to matter now, the man he was when he was alive, for I can feel him around me often. I can call him to me, simply by saying his name. He seems to be this pure good soul of what was once Stuart Jenks Sr.: loving, tender, accepting, and kind. And I feel that he actually likes me now which is sweeter than honey, I can tell you.
    Months ago, I had to send him away for a week because the new-glowing-light Dad was interfering with my grieving process of the newly-dead-Dad. I needed to be mad at Dad for a while, but when God’s-Light-Bulb-Dad was around I couldn’t feel the feeling and let it go. But I called him back after awhile, after I’d release the rage. And unlike the living Stuart, Ghost Dad understood completely.
    When I'm worried about money and going further into debt around my failing art photography business, I hear him softly say, "Don't worry, son. The money will come and if it doesn't, it doesn't matter. You have the love of your friends, the love of your Art." Other times when I'm filled with self-doubt and internal hatefulness, I hear him whisper off my left shoulder, "I love you just the way you are, Son. You don’t need to change a thing." A month ago, when Ghost Dad was saying another ethereal message of Love, I actually said out loud, "Who is this guy?”
    A little about Ed-Lil, though, The Jenks’ ancestral summer home on the Rappahannock River, that Mom is selling:
    It was bought by Papa Edgar Jenks, my grandfather, in the 1920’s from Johnny Mothershead. It consisted of a two story house with five bedrooms and a bath, and a one story house that had the kitchen, the dining room and a tool shed. My father deeply loved the Rappahannock River, the Ed-Lil house, and the people who lived along its banks. Loved them since he was a teenager.
    Every August, Mom, Dad, Pamela and I would come to the river for two or three weeks. I hated the river as a kid. Hated the mosquitoes, the fleas, the stinging jellyfish but mostly I hated being around my parents. They were so judgmental, so critical, so volatile in bullshit ways. I couldn’t wait to get back to Raleigh and back to school in September. But then, 25 years ago, I started coming here because I wanted to, not because I had to, and I always had a car, so I could come and go as I pleased, if things got too dark.
    After Dad retired from IBM, he built himself and Mom a modest three bedroom house next to the old houses. He then tore down the bedroom house and the kitchen and left the old dining room as his workshop. The dining room/tool shed was and is gorgeous, with its ancient tongue-in-groove wood walls, the old rusty gas fixtures from the 1920’s that still hang from the ceiling, and the tattered and stained white lace curtains that haven’t been washed since the Eisenhower Administration. The new smell of gasoline is added to the mix that come from the riding lawn mower that is parked on its stained hardwood floors. An old map of Richmond County is pinned to the wall. It’s been crudely attached there since before I was born. Change is good sometimes, but consistency and tradition are beautiful too if they are humble. That is one humble map. This is one humble room.            
    I'm standing in the old dining room this afternoon, with the lace and the tongue in groove and the old map on the wall. And a big rain is coming. Spirit Dad is here but I sure wished Old Living Stuart was here right now. Dad and I did loved watching big storms cross the river.
    The window facing the river looks great. So would a flame spiral next to it. Wonder if I can pull it off. It’ll have to be a short exposure, maybe ten seconds. I put all the red filters I have on the lens of my Rollei and hope for the best.
    I open the window, get out the Zippo and wait for the storm.
    A line of rain crosses the seven-mile width of the river. The river slowly goes away, replaced by a dark gray of Big Rain. Half way across the river now. Just a mile away. Almost here. Now it’s here. The storm is here.
    Loud thunder crackles in the corn fields behind me. Bright lightning highlights the lace curtains. Heavy dense rain blows in through the window. The river completely disappears.
    I open the Rollei’s shutter and ignite the Zippo. I paint a spiral to the left of the window. I close the shutter after ten seconds. I do this a few times.
    Then suddenly, in between exposures, a small gray finch flies through the open window, confused and wet and lands on the lens of my camera. We both just stare at each other. He's scared, fidgety and soaked to the bone. My first thought is 'Don't shit on the lens. Please don’t shit on my camera.' His first thought was probably something like, 'Where the hell am I? How did I get in here and who is that guy?' He doesn't fly away but stays perched on my camera for at least a minute. We continue to look at each other. I don’t care about bird shit anymore. I just care for the little bird. Suddenly he flies off the camera but now, poor thing, he can't find the open window. He’s feverishly flying around the dining room. I quickly grab a broom. I open the ancient screen door and prop it open with an old gas can. The finch is banging itself on the ceiling of the room, completely frantic now. I gently put the straw broom head on the ceiling and usher the bird to the door. He gets the idea before we get there. He see the open door and streaks out into the pouring rain. Success for both of us.
    I go back and paint another Zippo spiral, this one for the bird. The exposure feels right. I call it a day. I put the lens cap on the camera and sit in an old chair now, looking at a small lake that is forming under the old cedar tree out front.
    I love the River now. I'm going to miss it. But you got to do what you got to do. Mom needs money to survive, and she really doesn’t like living this far away from civilization anyway. She only came here to live because Stuart came here to live. Now, he’s gone. Now, it’s time for her to live where she wants, for her to have her own life. She’ll be living soon at a cute little house next door to the organist from church. Glen’s his name. He’s a good guy.
   

    “It's a sad dog that won't wag its own tail” - Stuart Jenks Sr., 1976.

Flame Spirals: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks: Chapter Fourteen: "That Everything of God"

Flame Spirals: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks:

Chapter Fourteen: "That Everything of God" (c) 2001, 2008

 

    Haze on the Rappahannock just before dawn.

    A pinhole camera shot of the pier.

    A ghost image of me.

    The ghost of my father.

 

    Leaving tomorrow for Tucson.

    A last day at The River.

    Sitting on that same step as on the night he died.

    Still feeling him around.

    Thinking, that maybe what all the holy men and women say is true:

    That separation is an illusion

    That there is no difference between this world and the next, except for the point of view.

    That the ego's judgments create a wall that only exists in my mind.

    That the River flows, with and without my judging it.

    That Dad is here and not here and still here.

    That I'm here and not here and still here.

    That a part of a full spiritual life is knowing that being in this physical world is only a fraction of the complete reality.

    That by standing on this pier, I'm on the pier and I'm everywhere in the universe at the same time.

    That Love and Acceptance is in all of the worlds, in all of the universe.

    And that Love is the only thing that matters.

    And that it is in Everything.

    That my Dad is part of That Everything now,

    That he was always part of That Everything of God.

    And so am I.

 

Flame Spirals: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks: Chapter Thirteen: “The Pier Spiral, Richmond County, Virginia”

Flame Spirals: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks:

Chapter Thirteen: “The Pier Spiral, Richmond County, Virginia”
© 1999, 2001, 2008

    Damn.
    The last thing I wanted to do was get into a fight with my Mom. Words like 'Stop being such a god damned martyr!' and 'Quit trying to control how Dad is dying, will you?' flew out of my mouth.
    Bottom Line: Mom is just scared. She's not the asshole. I'm the asshole.
    While I was yelling at Mom, Pamela was in with Dad, quietly singing to him.
    Now, the fight is over. Pamela’s on the front porch swing. Mom’s at the kitchen sink, crying. I feel like shit.
    I go into see Dad who hasn't been awake since yesterday.
    "Dad, I'm sorry," I say to the unconscious man, "I'm trying to get along with your wife but it is hard. I'm trying. Really, I am. Again, I'm so sorry, Dad."
    I go out to the kitchen.
    "Mom, I'm sorry."
    "Just leave me alone, OK?" she says through her tears.
    I touch her shoulder. She cowers away. I remove my hand and take a step back.
    "I'm really sorry, Mom."
    She doesn't say anything. She just turns and walks away.
    I can't feel any guiltier for yelling at Mom. I've been keeping my powder dry for the last month, ever since I arrived to be with Dad as he dies, to be part of this odd makeshift hospice group of my mother, my sister and I. But the keg finally blew tonight.
    I go out on the porch and talk with Pamela for a while. She suggests I yell at her instead. I know she’s trying to help. It doesn’t
    A couple of hours pass.
    It's quiet at the River house now. Mom has gone into the bedroom to lay beside her husband. I'm back out with my sister on the front porch. We're just talking small talk now, smoking cigarettes.
    Then Mary comes out to the porch.
    "He's gone" she says, "It was so beautiful. He just stopped breathing. So quiet. So peaceful."
    "Are you sure?" I say.    
    [My first thought is pure selfishness. ‘Oh, Dad, not tonight. Don't die tonight. Not after I've had a big fight with your wife.' Now who is trying to control how Dad dies?]
    We all go into the bedroom. Not much different than other times, but it appears Dad isn't breathing at all. I place my hand under his nose and feel some air coming out.
    "Mom, I think he's still breathing"
    "He's gone," she says.
    I bend down closer to him and realize that his skin is beginning to change color. I ask for a mirror and put it under his nose. Nothing. He's getting whiter. I then know he’s dead.
    "Remember Stu, what you said? That we need to open the window to let the soul out?" Mary says.
    "I'll do it" says Pamela.
    I said this Window/Soul thing over a dozen years ago. It was just a bit of conversation. I think I was reading about Navajo Spirituality at the time. I don't really think Dad's soul will get trapped in this house, but I say nothing as Pamela opens one of the windows. Then I open a window just so they think I'm being compliant. I'm really in shock right now. Dad's dead. My Dad is dead.
    Mom then says it's time to dress Stuart. I've been dreading this moment since the day Mom told me that she wanted Pamela and I to help her dress Stuart in his favorite shirt and kakei pants after he dies. I thought it would be difficult to manhandle the old man, both physically and emotionally. But after being such a jerk tonight, I'm going to go along with whatever Mom says.
    Pamela is at Dad's head. Mary and I are on either side. We take off his nightshirt and make him naked. We grab his pants and pull them on him. We have to pull hard to get them to his waist.
    And at that moment, it all feels completely right. We are performing a ritual that has been done for centuries: The dressing of a dead loved one for his passage to the other side.       
    Pamela holds Stuart's head and we pull him up into a sitting position and put on his favorite plaid Dockers shirt, the one with the turquoise checks. We gently lay him back down. Mom buckles his belt. I'm standing next to Dad holding his hand. It’s cold and slack. A lifeless hand, but still my Daddy's hand. Mom leaves the room to call the minister, the nurse and the undertakers. Pamela stays a bit longer, then she leaves too.       
    Then it’s just Dad and I.
    I whisper to his body.
    "I'm so sorry Dad about getting into a fight with Mom. I'm so so sorry. If I could go back in time....." I trail off. I can't talk through my tears.
    Scott, the priest at St. Mary's Whitechapel is the first to arrive. The nurse and her husband are next. The undertakers have to come from Richmond so It'll be an hour plus before they get here. It's after midnight now. Dad died a little after 11. Everyone except me is on the screened-in porch making small talk. I was there for a minute or two but it felt a little disrespectful somehow. I kept thinking 'My father is dead in the other room and we're talking about the weather?' I seem to be going back into Dad's bedroom a lot, holding his hand, watching him change color from red to pink to white. I can't help but wonder if he's really dead. It's hard for me to wrap my head around the idea that Dad is truly gone. I hold his cold hand again. The undertakers will soon be here. I'll only have a few more opportunities to touch my father.
    I want to hold his hand forever.
    I'm in the kitchen getting a soda when the nurse comes up and says:
    "Stu, are you planning on being in the room when they take your Dad out on a stretcher?"
    "I might," I say.
    "I would really suggest you not be there for that. All you'll remember is seeing him put into the bag. That memory will overshadow all the rest. You may want to go upstairs or go outside when they do that."
Pamela walks in on the conversation and is getting the gist.
    "I'll go up stairs," she says.
    "I'm going to the pier," I say.
    The next hour is so weird. More small talk on the porch, but I can't hang there. I drift back to the bedroom to hold Dad's hand, then outside to have a smoke, to back to his bedside. At one point, the nurse's husband comes up and talks with me. I don't have a clue what he said.
    Finally at around 1:30 a.m., a black hearse comes up the drive and two men enter our kitchen. One is a very skinny man, in a huge black suit, that fits him like a tent. Next to him is large fat man with a small black suit, that fits him like a child's hand-me-down that’s two sizes too small. Wait a minute. They seem to have on the exact same size black jacket, the one-size-fits-all-undertaker's-jacket. When did I enter a David Lynch movie? When will the midget appear? Is Dali going to walk through that door?    
    The skinny man holds his hands together in that earnest sort of way. The fat one just stands there. They talk with the nurse and Mom for a bit and then go outside to the hearse to get the stretcher. I take this as my time to exit stage right, for the pier. I grab the cordless phone as I leave the house.
    Out on the pier, I call Annie to tell her that Dad's dead. I already talked with her earlier about the big fight with Mom. Annie's trying to help me not feel so guilty about it all. God bless her, but her words give me little comfort.
    "I feel so guilty about the fight," I say, "I wish Dad had died tomorrow instead"
    "I know, Sweetie." she says.
    Ironic that I have been so critical of Mom for wanting Dad to die on her schedule, and now, on the pier, that's exactly what I'm wishing I could do. Have Dad die a day after I'd been a jerk, so I can feel better.
    I talk with Annie a bit more, saying I'll call her tomorrow. I also asked her if she would call Len and Virginia (My mother's sister and brother-in-law in Tucson). That would be great, I add. And check on plane tickets for you and Len to come to the funeral.
    "You are coming, aren't you?" I ask.   
    "Of course," She says.
    "I really need you, honey."
    I'm back up at the house now. The undertakers are gone. So are the nurse and her husband. Scott the priest is still here. Pamela is nowhere to be seen. I tell Mom I'm going back to the pier. So glad that Scott is here. Mary loves Scott. She seems OK too, considering she’s lost the love of her life.
    I walk the couple-hundred-feet again to the pier, this time with my Dad's old Marine Corps blanket and the phone again. I call Michael, and tell him about Dad's dying. He's great as ever. We talk for a half hour and then I hang up and put the phone down.
    I've barely noticed the weather these past few hours but I sure do now. The wind has really picked up. Must be a storm in the Bay or a front moving in. The river is choppy. The wind howls.
    I then begin to talk to my Dad. The wind swallows my words but that's alright. I'm sitting on a step at the far end of the pier, looking out into the dark Rappahannock River.
    "Dad, I'm so sorry," I say to the wind.
    "I'm really sorry about yelling at Mom. Please forgive me. Please forgive me. Please." I just keep crying harder. I don't speak for a while. I just cry.
    Then I feel a presence. I don't trust it at first, but then I know it's him. I swear. It's Stuart.
    He then sits down beside me on the steps of the pier and put his arm around me. I could feel the light pressure of his hand on my shoulder. And I swear to God I hear him speak.
    "I forgive you, son."
    "You do?"
    "I do."
    "I'm sorry."
    "I know."
    "I love you, Dad."
    "Me too, honey," he says.
    I just sit there at the end of the pier with my Dad for a long time. I'm wrapped up in an old blanket. I feel his weight against my shoulder. I cry a lot. He doesn't say much more than he already has. I feel his love. I hope he feels mine.
 

Flame Spirals: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks: Chapter Twelve: "Grass, Graves and Fire: St. Mary's Whitechapel Episcopal Church, Lively, Virginia"

Flame Spirals: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks: Chapter Twelve:

"Grass, Graves and Fire: St. Mary's Whitechapel Episcopal Church, Lively, Virginia" © 2000, 2008

    Dad's cancer has shrunk but hasn't gone away. After almost two years of awful chemotherapy, we are pretty much where we started: that Dad has a bad lymphoma and he's probably going to die.
    I was up in New York City for a few days shooting and attending a friend's wedding. [Major emotional highlights were the Klezmer band at Craig and Barbara's reception; the delightful and generous devotees at the Hare Krishna Bed and Breakfast in the Lower East Side; and the many Monet haystacks at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.] I've just come down to Virginia for a brief visit with the folks, before flying back to Arizona.
    It's good and not-so-good to see Dad. I always experience some sort of internal emotional bugaboo when I'm hanging around my mother and father. All of us Jenks' are judgmental (this is good, that is bad, blah, blah, blah) but my mother and father have it down to an art form. Dad's mockingly sarcastic laughter at my going to their church tonight to shoot is just one example. Mom's subtle shaming sighs of disapproval are another. God love 'em, or to Hell with 'em. See what I mean? I inherited the virus too.
    Within twenty minutes, I’ve parked my rental truck in a gravel parking lot of their church.
    My parents' church, St. Mary's Whitechapel Episcopal Church, is just down the road near the little town of Lively, Virginia. Lively is actually just a crossroads, with a drug store, a post office, and a bar called 'The Corner' that serves pretty good shrimp and really great hamburgers. The church is a few miles south of Lively at an even smaller crossroads. The church is the only thing at the corner of routes 201 and 354. It's a very small chapel that has been there since 1669. It thrived during Colonial Times, was vacant and abandoned for fifty years during Antidisestablishmentarian Times (when the Church of England was shunned by most new Americans after the Revolutionary War), was reborn in the 19th century, and is now an historic financially well-endowed little church in the middle of nowhere in Virginia.   
    There's no moon tonight but there’s plenty of good light shining in the graveyard that comes from a strong streetlight near the back of the church. The church’s sexton has apparently cut the grass today. What a delightful surprise. Large amounts of cut grass are scattered all around. I guess he didn't have a grass catcher. My good fortune. I walk around the cemetery looking for just the right stone, just the right light and find the stone and the light pretty quick. The smell of the grass is strong and pungent. We just don't have grass like this in Tucson.   
    I make a circle of cut grass on a tombstone. I look and find the angle, set up my Rollei, and practice making circles with my Zippo. I get the hang of it after a few minutes. I stop and take in the space: The ancient Oak trees that surround me; the graves of wealthy Colonial Virginia planters; the monuments of  a  movie star or two. 
    I think I know what I'm going to do. I open the shutter and enter the frame and begin to paint a flame circle above the grass. Cicadas sing loudly from the surrounding woods. I close the Zippo, and then go for a walk in the cemetery. This is going to have to be a long exposure. Probably a half hour or more. It's a strong streetlight but it give off less light that you think.
    Up the hill, I visit the four plots for the Jenks Family. No markers or graves yet. Two huge Oak trees grow just north of the plots. I won't mind having my ashes here some day. I walk some more. I walk to my rental truck to check the time. Fifteen minutes have gone by. I throw in a Peter Gabriel CD and light a smoke. After 25 minutes, I get out of the car, and return the grass circle. I close the shutter and repeat the process all over again. I paint a flame circle, walk about the graves, think about my Dad, and think about Death. Sometimes I don't think about anything at all.
    I didn't think about Death much until my Dad got sick, but I sure do now. I believe in some sort of Soul Survival, be it heaven or just a part of a big ocean of souls. I don't know, but I'm not scared of that. Actually looking forward to it, in some small way. Ok, maybe a little anxious but not bad. But I'm in my mid-40's, still thinking that my death is a good thirty years away. But being around Dad, who seems to be getting sicker and sicker, seems to be dying more than living, and this taking-for-granted-that-I'll-surely-live-a-long-time is leaving me a bit each day. When they found his cancer, it was no bigger than a pencil point. They cut it out, but it came right back, even larger. So they cut it out again, and that just made it mad and it spread like a weed. To his lymph nodes. To his lungs. All over. Now it's filled most of his left lung, all in a year or two. And if he hadn't taken the Agent Orange Chemo, he would have been dead months ago.
    It could happen to me, to you, to anyone. Cancer, that is. And Death is surely going to come to all us someday.
    But again, it's not Death or Heaven that I'm scared of. It's living an unfulfilled life, here on Planet Earth, of wasting the time I have, of not risking greater happiness or larger service to others, of not fully loving those who I love and not fully receiving the love they give, of not forgiving myself when I truly fall short of the mark, of not applauding myself when I get it right. That's what really terrifies me, that at perhaps age 77, I'll look back at my life with deep regret, knowing I should have eaten more ice cream, should have forgiven that friend, should have loved the imperfect Stu just a little bit more.
    Then again, I could die tonight, by accidentally hitting a deer with my truck on the way back to The River House, and avoid this imaginary-unhappy-old-me all together.
    Nah. That won't happen.
    I guess I'm going to have to eat more butter pecan, forgive Rocco, and love Stu more.
    Damn.

Flame Spirals: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks: Chapter Eleven: “Casper the Friendly Ghost"

Flame Spirals: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks:

Chapter Eleven: “Casper the Friendly Ghost" © 2003, 2008


    The canyon smells of dark musk and wet sand. It rained yesterday which is uncommon for the Sonoran Desert in the springtime. Usually we’re without rain until July. This thick rich scent is three months early, but neither I nor the Palo Verde trees are complaining.
    I’m rock-hopping up this anonymous canyon at the base of Mount Lemmon. The Full Moon's large and bright. I need no flashlight. There is no trail. It doesn't matter. I’m just wending my way up through the large granite boulders that sit in the trickling creek.
    I find the angle pretty quickly. I've come with an idea but then again, maybe, I'll try something else. I have my Zippo, my Pentax and a 28 mm lens, for my idea is to create a wide angle flame spiral. But wait a minute. There's a small puddle of standing water in a depression on this boulder. Hmm. I do a practice drawing or two off to the right. This'll work.
    I set up the angle and the shot, and focus on a spot on the boulder. Then, with my index finger, I dip into the puddle of water and begin to draw a water spiral on the rock. It takes many passes back and forth from the puddle, but a wet spiral slowly appears. I return to the Pentax and look through the viewfinder. Yea, boy. I then open the shutter, draw a flame spiral and wait ten minutes before closing the shutter. I then notice something that I didn't expect. Over the ten minutes of exposure time, the water spiral has almost completely evaporated, leaving barely any wetness at all on the rock. I just stare as the spiral disappears. I close the shutter at the end of ten.
    I redraw the water spiral, open the shutter, do another Zippo pass, and step out of the frame for another ten minutes. Cars pass far below on the Mount Lemmon highway, cold air rushes down the high mountain wash, and the water spiral fades away. I don't have to be Buddha to recognize how this vanishing water spiral shows me that Life is temporal. That nothing is permanent. That everything changes.
    An old lesson that can't be taught enough, to this Middle-Aged, Middle-Class American White Boy.
    It's the Wednesday before Easter. I'm aware of a Christian energy, a Holy Ghost, that's moving through this time of year. Yet this water spiral evaporating right before my eyes truly resonates far more with me than any image of a suffering Christ or thoughts of his final dinner of bread and wine among friends. This water spiral is my own personal Holy Ghost.
   The Holy Ghost was always a cool thing to me as a kid. The Father, The Son and The Holy Ghost. Amen. I didn't trust God the Father all that much. My own Dad was a distant man who rarely praised me and often seemed to look at me with silent scorn. It was hard to wrap my arms around an image of a Loving God the Father, with a Dad like mine. Also, I didn't know about the Son, Jesus. He seemed a little weird to me, getting himself crucified and what was up with the drinking his blood on Sunday. Ick, I thought as a child. But the Holy Ghost? Now that I could get behind as a six year old. Mysterious and a little scary but I always had a feeling that the Holy Ghost was on my side. A wispy piece of God that was everywhere. A part of God that liked me personally. Sort of like Casper the Friendly Ghost but bigger.
    I can still get behind Casper. I feel him here tonight with my Zippo, and the little water spiral that keeps disappearing, and the musky green smell in the creek, and the cold mountain air that comes from above.
    After a bit, I pack up and rock hop back down to my truck. When I reach the road, I look back up the canyon and thank it for the good night and for the little bit of magic that it gave me. And also for the little lesson that everything changes, and that nothing stays the same.
    A little lesson, perhaps, from Casper the Friendly Ghost.

Flame Spirals: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks: Chapter Ten: “Altar of Repose, Maundy Thursday, Tucson, Arizona”

Flame Spirals: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks:

Chapter Ten: “Altar of Repose, Maundy Thursday, Tucson, Arizona” © 2000, 2008

    The Altar has been stripped. The crosses in the sanctuary are all draped in black cloth. The choir chairs are now stored in a closet somewhere. The church is dark. It's 2:00 a.m. on Good Friday and it's my watch. The woman I relieved has just left. My camera and tripod are in a pew, and I'm standing in a side chapel at the back of Grace St. Paul's Episcopal Church. I have an hour to pray and shoot. Better get to it.
    I was here earlier tonight for the Maundy Thursday service. Some Christians live for Easter, or for Christmas. I live for Maundy Thursday, the most meditative service in the Episcopal liturgy. We arrived in the evening and heard the story of the Last Supper, of how Jesus told his disciples that they should love everyone, serve many, and be humble to all. The story goes that after bread and wine, Jesus washes the feet of his followers. Symbolically, the congregation of Grace St. Paul's washed each other's feet. Back in the day, the priest used to wash all of the feet of the parishioners, he being Christ, we being the disciples. I preferred the old way. Now, first I'm Jesus, then I'm a disciple, and we now only wash one foot per person, which seems just down right silly to me. Both feet or none at all, I say. But I'm just an artist, a mystic, an odd duck, who comes to the church of my birth infrequently. I really shouldn't criticize them. The Washing of One Foot is about as experiential as most Episcopalians get. They are doing the best they can, but sometimes I do wish that I had been born Black Southern Baptist. Now those folk know how to raise the roof for Christ.
    Sometimes I think the reason I like Maundy Thursday so much is simply because of an experience I had as a child. Mom took me to the Maundy Thursday service at Zion Episcopal Church in Upstate New York in the early 1960's. I guess I was around seven. After the foot washing and the communion and the stripping of the altar, they turned off all the lights, and then they rolled in this cannon. Yes, a cannon like the one they shoot off at football games when the home team scores a touchdown. Well, they rolled in a this cannon, pointed it right up the center isle, and shot it off. KA-BOOM. As a seven year old, I thought that was the neatest thing. Usually I had to be quiet in church, but that night they are shooting off fireworks. Neat-O.
    No cannons at Grace St. Paul's tonight. Strong incense but no cannon. Pity.
    Tonight, after we had delivered the host to the Altar of Repose in the side chapel, we were instructed to leave the church silently. No coffee hour. No shaking of the priest's hand. Just go thoughtfully and quietly to your car and go home.
    But for the hard core among the faithful, there is the Watch of Gethsemane.
    As soon as tonight’s service ends, someone will be praying in the side chapel until Noon on Good Friday. This is the Watch of Gethsemane, the pulling-an-all-nighter-for-Christ.
    On the night prior to being arrested, Jesus went to a Garden at Gethsemane to pray and he asked his disciples to come and pray with him. They came to the garden but they soon feel asleep. This made Christ mad. Then the Romans came, the boys woke up, ears are flying off of people, ears are being miraculously reattached back onto people, Jesus is dragged away by the Romans, and Christ had one hell of a bad day on Friday. You know the story. But before the Romans came, Christ prayed and really wished his disciples had stayed awake. So, today, modern Anglicans, stay awake too. Well, sort of. At least some of use lose a little sleep on the night before Good Friday.
    I'm here at two in the morning for a number of reasons:
    1)   I love being in the church alone, late at night and this is the only time I have the chance to do that.
    2)   I like praying and meditating in general. (I pray all the time.)
    And 3)   I’ve got a photograph in mind.
    I turn from the large sanctuary and enter the tiny side chapel. It's so beautiful, with many white candles lit all around and white lace meticulously hung on all the windows and walls. A one-person kneeler is positioned in front of the small altar that holds the bread and the wine, the Host. I close my eyes, then open them, then close them again. I can see it in my mind’s eye. I know what to do.
    I go and get my Rollei and tripod and set them up and compose the shot. Focus 2/3 back. Set the f-stop to 5.6. Get out the Zippo. There is a ton of light here. Half a minute exposure time tops. I open the Zippo and go to work. I flick the flint. I make a spiral. I snap the Zippo shut with a loud clack. I repeat the process. Once, twice, six more times. Time becomes timeless as it does sometimes when I'm shooting. Not always, but it is tonight. I take a deep breathe and close my eyes after the seventh exposure.
    "You have a shot," says The Small Voice Within.
    I pray the voice is right.
    I'll take it on faith.
    I open my eyes
    I still have to pray and experience the wondrous dark of the church before the next Watcher arrives at three. I quickly pack up the Rollei and the tripod and place them to a pew, outside of the side chapel. I slowly walk around the sanctuary. Down the center aisle. Up by the pipe organ. Around the main altar. Back down a side aisle. I breathe it in again and again.
    I return to the side chapel and the Altar of Repose. It’s got to be close to an hour now. Time to do a formal prayer. I kneel on the single kneeler, close my eyes, lazily clasp my hands, and pray.
    I pray for my ancestors. I pray for my mother and father. My sister, too. I pray for Annie and all the past women in my life. I pray for the recovering addicts and alcoholics, newcomers and old-timers alike. I pray for friends, near and far. I pray for the healing of strangers and the healing of loved ones. I pray for healing for myself. I pray for the best possible outcome for everyone. I pray with words. I pray with no words at all.
    My eyes open after a time and I see the Altar of Repose above me, with its crystal white light and its sheer white lace. I smile.
    "And God," I say quietly aloud, "Thanks for guiding my hand and my mind tonight, so I didn't catch the lace on fire." I chuckle. “That would be a bad thing.”
    I then hear a soft knock on the outside door to the church.
    Must be the three o'clock shift.

Flame Spirals: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks: Chapter Nine: “O.K. Street, Bisbee, Arizona"

Flame Spirals: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks:

Chapter Nine: “O.K. Street, Bisbee, Arizona"
© 1998, 2008

    Annie and I have driven down to Bisbee for a night. We checked into The Copper Queen Hotel late this afternoon and just now finished a pretty good meal at a cafe nearby. It's quiet tonight and delightfully cool. Standing in front of the hotel, we lean against each other in that comfortable way that lovers often do.
    "Mind if we go for a walk and I shoot a bit?" I ask.
    "Not at all," Annie replies, with a bit of a come-hither look in her eyes.
    I grab my camera and tripod and we walk up Brewery Gulch, past St. Elmo's Bar and a number of closed little shops filled with bad Hippie art. [I used to make bad Hippie art myself. I was great with the details but bad on the Big Picture. Came from smoking too much dope, if you ask me.] We walk a good ways up the Gulch until we are out of the bars and into the houses. We marvel at the quaint little homes as we walk past them and then, after a while, we head back down toward Central Bisbee.
    We come down Brewery Gulch a different way this time, past the old Bisbee Jail, and I spy this wonderful alley.
    "Wow, that's great,” I say, looking into the space. “I wonder if I can pull off a spiral in there?"
    "That'd be great if you could," says Annie.
    "I think I'll give it a try."
    The Rollei sits on the tripod. Shutter set. Lens focused. I then open the shutter.
    I walk into the narrow alley and paint a flame spiral with my Zippo. I then stroll out and spontaneously give Annie a big wet kiss. She grabs a hold of me, pulls me close and kisses me back, just as deep and then some. Time passes. We break the kiss and I go and close the shutter.
    "Now, that was fun," I say, as I advance the film, looking back at her.
    "Yes it was," she says.   
    I open the shutter again and repeat my light painting. I also repeat the long deep kissing with Annie. I take about another two exposures. Seems like the length of the exposures are getting longer and longer. I wonder why. After exposure number four, I suggest to Annie, that we head back to our room.
    "Sounds good to me," she replies, with a shy grin.   
    I pack up the gear and walk toward Annie. She hooks my elbow with her arm and pulls me close. Then, side by side, we walk up the hill to the Copper Queen Hotel.

Flame Spirals: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks: Chapter Eight: “Grace St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Tucson, Arizona: Labyrinth Walk”

Flame Spirals: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks:

Chapter Eight: “Grace St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Tucson, Arizona: Labyrinth Walk”
© 1997, 2008

    The Sexton was nice enough to put up an extension ladder. I climbed onto the roof of the Parish Hall, that overlooks the maze. The Sun’s going down fast. Gordon and Judy, the two priests at Grace St. Paul's, have OK'd my shooting the Thursday Evening Labyrinth Walk. The parishioners have just arrived, about ten in all. From the roof, I tell the walkers that I'm going to shoot their meditation this evening.
    "And don't worry if you're shy and don't like your picture taken," I say. "I'm using real long shutter speeds so everyone will be a blur. That OK?"
    "Sure that's fine," one woman says, with others nodding their approval. But one woman walks to the side.
    "Really, you can walk the Labyrinth. No one will know who you are." I say.
    She doesn’t say anything but she doesn’t return to the circle until much later.
    Judy, the facilitator of the Walk, explains to the congregation how this works.
    "One by one, we'll enter the labyrinth and begin to walk," she says. "You can have a prayer or a question in your mind or you can just empty your mind. You can walk it fast or slow. There is no right or wrong way. I would just suggest that you stay as much in the moment as you can. Just be in the Labyrinth. And when you reach the center, stop for as long as you like, and then walk back out. And don't worry about bumping into each other or passing each other in the Labyrinth. It's really easy to pass and it’s OK to touch each other."
    Some people chuckle.
    "Also, I suggest you walk silently. All right, let's start."
    Judy presses play on a nearby boom box and Gregorian Chants come from its small speakers. One at a time, the participants enter the labyrinth.

    A little history about the Church and I:
    I was born and raised in the Episcopal Church. Baptized, confirmed, the whole nine yards. My mother Mary is what I affectionately call a member of the Episcopal Mafia: A member of the Standing Committee of the Diocese of Virginia, music director and a vestry woman at her parish in Lively, Virginia, and active in the Church since she was a child. Dad was Senior Warden for a time and designed the Memorial Garden at his home church of St. Mary's Whitechapel. He rarely goes to church in his retirement years. He doesn’t believe in God, much less Jesus, but he is still a cradle to grave Episcopalian. My sister is a member of the choir at St. Mark's Episcopal in Raleigh, North Carolina, but by her own admission, she is only going to church to ‘cover my bets just in case there’s a heaven.’
    I rarely go to church. Christmas. Maundy Thursday. Maybe Good Friday. Not Easter. Funerals, yes. Weddings, when they happen. That's about it. I'm not a Christian. I don't believe in the Risen Christ, and I believe that they basically fucked up the faith after the Nicene Convention in the third century AD, when they took out the Gospels of Thomas and Mary Magdalene, and minimized the Sacredness of Women in the Church. Plus I believe in Reincarnation, the validity of all of the world's religions and the sanctity of the mystic's individual journey to God. Some would say that shouldn't exclude me from attending Grace St. Paul's, a very progressive, liberal, reconciliation church, but it does. In my own mind, not the minds of the congregation or the clergy, but in my mind.
    When I do, on those rare occasions, attend a service at Grace St. Paul's, I add and take out words from the liturgy so I don't feel like a hypocrite. You'll often hear me say ‘Through Jesus Christ and others’ instead of ‘Through Jesus Christ our Lord’ and when the congregation is reading the Nicene Creed, there are whole sections in which I stand silent and mute.
    But my roots, both ancestral and personal, are in the Anglican/Episcopal church and to deny that would be, for me, like a Jew who doesn't go to temple, denying that he is a Jew at all. And I do like the ceremony of Holy Communion, a good non-shaming sermon from the pulpit, and strong loud music from a big pipe organ. I go to midnight service on Christmas Eve, primarily to sing "Silent Night", and at the outside chance, to sing "In the Bleak Midwinter." And even though I don't go to Easter services, I can easily hum the refrains from "Hail Thee, Festival Day" and "Jesus Christ is Risen Today."
    The Church is in my DNA and in my muscle memory whether I like it or not. And I believe it's important to honor the spiritual practices of my ancestors, living and dead, regardless if I practice them myself.
    And even though I don’t believe that Jesus was the only Son of God, I do believe in a number of his teachings, most important in my mind: That we as human beings have a moral obligation to help those who are poor in body, mind and spirit; that God is Love and Love is God; that God is a mysteriously magical healing energy, and that He loves me, no matter what.
    He loves me when I’m sober. He loved me when I was a drunk. He loves me when I eat too much. He loves me when I eat my vegetables. He loves me when I give a kind word to a friend. He loves me when I’m a judgmental asshole.
    And that one of my jobs while I’m on the planet is to try and love myself a fraction as much as He loves me. And by doing so, I’ll hopefully love others a whole lot more, than if I was trying to do it alone.

        The Labyrinth is full of people, perhaps a dozen now. Some are solemnly looking down as they walk. Others are joyously swinging their arms around the corners of the maze. A couple are sitting outside of the circle. Me? I'm on the roof mumbling about how I'm losing the last bit of sunlight. My exposures are up to 5 seconds now but it's not the blurs I mind. I want them. I just need some light for a good negative. I'm a little flustered. I relax and take a breath. Breathe, Stu, breathe. I see my friend Beth make a sweeping move around a sharp corner of the labyrinth. I open and close the shutter. Nice. I watch the changing composition of people below in the ground glass of my twin lens reflex. I wait, and then shoot again. Wait and then again.
    After a few more minutes I'm done shooting, yet the parishioners are still walking the maze. I climb down the ladder and walk toward the entrance of the Labyrinth. I take a breath. I wonder 'Did I get the shot?' I clear my head of that worry as best as I can and enter the maze, slowly passing someone who is coming out. I follow the path. I look at my feet as I walk. I take one of the hairpin curves a little fast, and allow my arms to swing wide as I regain my balance. I smile. And for a few moments, I'm grateful to be a member of this Episcopalian Tribe.

Flame Spirals: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks: Chapter Seven: "Millennium Eve, Arizona"

Flame Spirals: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks:

Chapter Seven: "Millennium Eve, Arizona"
© 1999, 2000, 2008

    “I’ve got to go out and shoot” I say to Angie.
    It seems like we have been in bed for months. Now that I think about, we have been in bed for months, at least since July. Well, not every waking moment, just from when the sun goes down to when the sun comes up. Problem is, that’s the usual time I’m out shooting.
    Angie just looks at me and smiles. Does that smile mean ‘Yes, it’s OK, honey. Go out and shoot?’, or does that grin mean, ‘You silly boy. Who do you think you’re fooling? I’m beautiful, half your age, and willing to have sex with you anytime you like. Do you really think you’re going out into the desert tonight and shoot photographs?’
    “I really got to go out and shoot, Angie. You don’t mind, do you?” I ask.
    “Of course not. Go.”
    She smiles again. It doesn’t help matters that she's naked.
    “I’ll go tomorrow night,” I say. “The moon will still be pretty full then.”   
    “Okay.” She says, and reaches out for me.

   

"New Mexican Prayer Wheel" (c) 2008

"New Mexican Prayer Wheel" (c) 2008 Stu Jenks
(Batik Fabric & Plastic Hubcap from New Mexico: 7'9" x 15" x 4")

[Stu's Fun Facts: The Prayer Wheel was photographed in the hallway at Studio BR-549 in Tucson. No fancy lighting, just the Halogens that we have there, so there is some color-shift in the photographs that I tried to correct in Photoshop, but alas, I couldn't fix it all. If you would like see the piece in person, just give me a call. It is much better live than it is on tape. If you want to purchase it, one of my business managers suggests $1,250. By the way, the hubcap was found in the high desert, south of Carrizozo, New Mexico and the batik fabric is from Tucson. And this piece is dedicated to all those who pray on Bear Butte in South Dakota.]