Fezziwig Press & Photography by Stu Jenks

"Dreaming at Full Dome"

"Dreaming at Full Dome, Yosemite National Park, California" (c) 2009 Stu Jenks

[On Black Friday, I visited the Art Institvte in Chicago. [I was in town seeing a couple of good friends of mine for Thanksgiving.] That morning, I yawned through most of the new Modern Wing, even though I knew enough about Contemporary Art to know it was some of the best in the world. Ok, there were one or two pieces I liked quite a bit, but mostly of it was your usual arrogant-one-joke-I-live-in-New-York-and-look-how-smart-I-am-crap, if you ask me. But then I wander around the museum and saw wonders: The East Indian and Tibetan collections, the miniatures in the basement, the Monet Haystacks, "Nighthawks" by Hopper (I cried when I saw that), "American Gothic" and on and on. I took a break and went shopping on the Magnificent Mile [Bought a nice shirt} and then returned to the Institvte in the afternoon. I felt like I had forgotten something there. Then I saw a catalog in the lobby and beat feet to "Apostles of Beauty: Arts and Crafts from Britain to Chicago" (I had missed it in the morning.) I walked through the exhibition once, twice, three times. I read everything on the wall. I lingered at at least half of the work. I wiped tears of joy from my face, more than once. I was the best exhibition of its type I have ever seen. (I adore the Arts and Crafts movement. I was a ceramics major in college after all. Well, kinda, sorta.) But what cracked my head wide open that afternoon was seeing the Pictoralist Photography of Alfred Steiglitz and Edward Steichen. Too often, the Pictoralists get short shaft from the Art Critics, but I have always loved them. And to see "The Pool" in person was truly magical.

Times passes, and then a lovely accident happened, just the other day. I found a certain button on my CS2, that I didn't know existed. (Actually it's one button and then a whole bunch of other buttons and slides.) Oh, oh. Now I've done it! So be prepared to see more Pictoralist-inspired work from me, like the above "Dreaming at Full Dome", now that I've found this magic button.

MP3: "The Ghost of Christmas Present, in Arizona"

MP3: "The Ghost of Christmas Present, in Arizona"

Ghost of Christmas Present,

Happy Winter Solstice everyone!

Attached is a mp3 of me reading my little Holiday story, "The Ghost of Christmas Present, in Arizona." Hope you enjoy it and feel free and pass it around if you wish. Its running time is around 13 and a half minutes.

But I need to address a couple of things that some friends have asked and perhaps misunderstood. And yes, I'm running a terrible risk of explaining something I've written, which usually ends in weakening the piece, but I'll take that risk, so as to quell some confusion.

1) The Woman in the story and her troubles is not modeled after any one in particular, yet her physical traits are similar to a good friend of mine. The Woman's story, however, is not that friend's story. But at the same time, I know that I and many of you have experienced the same pain, hurt and disappointment that The Woman in my story has experienced. I choose a woman because, frankly, I think women get hurt more than men. But that is not to say that Good Men don't have their hearts broken, nor that bad parents have stepped hard on a good boy's soul, or that men don't feel the need to forgive, and open their hearts too. Of course they do. But women, sadly, in this world, have historically taken the brunt of abuse and neglect and violence, and just as sad, only small changes have occurred to help stop this in our Modern World.

2) The Ghost of Christmas Present, crafted by Charles Dickens, only lived for one night, and I made him into an immortal spirit instead. Dickens' work is public domain now, so I've broken no laws by taking one of his characters and expanding him to fit what I wanted to say. I love "A Christmas Carol" more than I can say, and I meant no disrespect by taking one of his greatest characters and placing him in an Arizona canyon.

3) Yes, the Old Man in Texas is modeled after someone I know. And I ain't telling who.

4) Yea, I suppose I am ripping off Tolkien a bit by having Old Mr. Alligator being an old soulful tree-being. But if you had seen those old trees in that canyon in the Sierra Anchas, you would have wondered if they were ents too.

5) And lastly, if I'm in the story as a character, I'm both the Blond Woman and the Ghost. And the forgiveness the Woman gave was from a pain I had, long long ago, in the Early 1990's. And my hope for myself, is that I become more like the Ghost of Christmas Present, in his compassion and free-flowing love and open-hearted-ness. I'm not there yet, but I'm trying.

I really hope you enjoy my little mp3. And by the way, there is an 'audio typo' in it, in which I said "The Ghost of Christmas Past" instead of "Present", but I left it in, since I liked my performance in that section so much, and I didn't think I could recreate it. See it as my Navajo Thread, that shows I'm far for prefect. And feel free and share this mp3, as you wish.

I wish all of you a Happy Solstice, a Merry Christmas, and a very Happy New Year.

Love and light,

Stu

"Bozo Weeps at Monet's Haystacks"

"Bozo Weeps at Monet's Haystacks: Art Institvte Chicago, Illinois" (c) 2009 Stu Jenks

Christmas Haiku #24

Christmas Haiku #24 (c) December 2009 Stu Jenks

Two Kings & One Queen:

Caspar, Balthazar & Blanche,

Bring Gold & Pink Pearls.

VERITAS: Very Energetic Radiation Imaging Telescope Array System

VERITAS: Very Energetic Radiation Imaging Telescope Array System (c) 2009 Stu Jenks

    Located south of Tucson at the base of the Santa Rita Mountains, VERITAS, as their official website states, "is a major ground-based gamma-ray observatory with an array of four 12m optical reflectors for gamma-ray astronomy in the GeV- TeV energy range." Another sister educational website states, in more laymen's terms, that VERITAS "is an observatory built to study gamma rays from extreme astrophysical phenomena in the Universe. VERITAS is now scanning the night sky searching for remnants of exploded stars, distant active galaxies, powerful gamma ray bursts, and evidence of mysterious Dark Matter particles." When Dr. Gibbs told me on Thursday afternoon, that they had recently looked at a large gamma ray emission coming from an enormous black hole at the center of a galaxy, far far away, my first response was 'Wow.' When a physicist told me on Friday night, that they were looking at a supernova remnant that night, 'Wow' was my response. When I told friends and colleagues about this night shoot, the special place and what they studied there, their responses were, you guessed it, 'Wow!'

    The images in the post were taken on Thursday afternoon and Friday night, November 19-20, 2009 at or near the Array. Many, many thanks to Dr. Kenneth Gibbs, Sagar Godambe, Professor Reshmi Mukherjee of Columbia University, Arun Madhavan, and all of the staff and fellows at VERITAS. They were so helpful and very open to my shooting. And happy cosmic ray hunting to you all.

    [Images from the top to bottom: "T-1 at VERITAS", VERITAS Looking Toward Mexico", "VERITAS from the North", "Red-Tailed Hawk above VERITAS", "Bozo Looking at T-1, from above The Devil's Cash Box", "Sagar Leaving T-1", " Sagar and Reshmi in the Control Room", "T-2 at Dusk", , "Pleiades & T-1", "Stars in the Mirrors of T-2", and "Stars in the Mirrors of T-2 (Detail)"]

    Final Fun Fact: Veritas was also the Roman Goddess of Truth, daughter of Saturn and the mother of Virtue.

(And remember: click and/or double-click on the images and they become larger. And yes, the night shots are a bit grainy, due to the short time exposures and the high ISO, but every pinpoint of light you see is a star. All those dots of white in "T-1 at VERITAS" and "Pleiades & T-1" are stars, not digital grain. Lots and lots of stars.)

"I...Don't...Know...What..."

 

"I...Don't...Know...What..." (c) 2009 Stu Jenks

    Mary’s come back to us a bit. Not all the way from where she was a month ago, but enough that she can speak some. She still gets lost in her words, but on occasion, a fully-formed sentence will appear out of nowhere. It’s shocking and delightful, all at the same time. It happened tonight.
    I show Mom the back of my Canon 5D Mark II.
    “I like this shot,” I say.
    “I don’t,” says Mary.
    “Really? How come?”
    “I look ugly,” she says. I think she looks peaceful, kind, pretty, but I’m not making the artistic decisions tonight.
    “I think you look great, but I won’t use that one. How about this one?”
    It’s a shot of her looking up from her wheelchair at the nice hospice worker this morning. It’s a OK shot. Looks a little out of focus. Not great, but OK, if you ask me.
    “I like that,” she says, with a bit of exuberance to her voice. You may not call it exuberance if you didn’t know Mary Jenks, but a slight rise in his faint voice means she’s  quite excited and thrilled.
    “Really?” I look again at the shot. She does look awfully sweet.
    “OK, Mom. I’ll use that one. By the way, I’ve been writing about you and I, and I’m putting pictures of you and such on my weblog, and I’ve got more hits on my blog, than I ever have before.”
    “Is that right?” she says.
    “Yea. People really care about you, Mom.”
    She has this look I’ve never seen on her face until she got sick, but I’ve seen it a lot in the last couple months. A look of being humbly touched by the love of others. No expectations. No demands. Just touched by the Love.
    “I’m going to write about something you said yesterday, and put it on my blog.”
    “What’s that?” say Mary.
    “Well, yesterday morning as I was getting ready to leave, you said very slowly ‘I don’t know how...” and you had a hard time finishing the sentence. I said, ‘You don’t know how to die?’ You said, ‘No, no, no...’ and started over. You said, ‘I don’t know what...’ and then I knew what you meant. I said, ‘You don’t know what you would do without me?’ And you smiled and said yes.”
    The smile tonight wasn’t as big as the one yesterday, but it was a very lovely smile, nonetheless.
    “And then, later in the day, I called C____ , and while we were talking, I told her the story and, out of the blue, she said, ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you either.’ It made my day, Mom.”
    We’re both smiling now.
    It’s great to have Mary back, even if just for a little while: Able to listen, able to respond, able to talk just a little. More times than not, she can’t get the words out but tonight, she’s doing pretty good.
    We talk about this and that. Some sad stuff, but mostly it’s light and breezy. Then I hear my mother use a word I’ve never heard her say before. In my life.
    “Stu...What...I...want......What...I...want....”
    She gives a heavy sigh. She really wants to get this out.
    “What...I...want....is....is...a highball.”
    “A highball?”
    “Yes.”
    “Like a glass of Scotch?”
    “Yes.” She looks hopeful.
    “Well, I don’t know. I know you’ve had wine in the past here. I don’t know if you can have Scotch, but I’ll ask. Would a glass of wine in a sippy cup do?”
    She rolls her eyes, as if saying ‘If I have to have wine, I’ll drink wine, but what I really want is some Scotch.’
    “Mom, I’ll ask Jessica.” I don’t know if hard liquor is on the OK list, but I sure hope so.
    We talk a little more. Mary’s starting to wear out. It doesn’t take long these days.
    “I’m going to go, Mom. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
    Then suddenly, out of her mouth, comes a perfectly formed, perfectly articulated sentence.
    “Stu, do you ever get scared?”
    I pause. I’m taken aback, not by the question, but by how clearly she spoke it.
    “Yea, I get scared,” I say.
    “What do you get scared of?” she asks with perfect diction.
    I think. I know right away.
    “I’m scared of being alone,” I say.
    “Me too.” The light in her eyes says, ‘I’m not alone, thank God.’
    I kiss her goodnight, tell her I love her, and head out to the kitchen to talk with Jessica about the High Ball Request.
    “I’ll give it to her, if you go buy it.”
    “Really? You’d do that?”
    “Sure. It’ll help her sleep.”
    I’m surprised that my eyes mist up so fast, but they do. I’m overtaken by unexpected joy.
    “Thanks, Jessica. I’ll go get her pint of Scotch tomorrow or the next day.”
    As I get in my truck and drive away, the joy doesn’t subside. I call a friend or two or three and tell them about the High Ball Request. One is worried about me buying it. One laughs at the irony. Another is helpful in telling me where the liquor stores are, (For I’m completely out of the loop these days, having not drunk any alcohol in almost 25 years. I was a big Scotch drinker myself, back in the day. Most of us Jenks’ are Scotch drinkers. No bourbon or gin for us. Give us Scotch, single malt, cheap, expensive. We don’t care.)
    I’m home in my apartment. It’s getting late. Tomorrow’s my birthday. A big box with an unopened “Heritage of Scotland” kilt inside sits under my Christmas stick, ready to be opened tomorrow morning. I’m having breakfast with a friend, then helping another friend with a problem in the afternoon. But somewhere, in between all of that, I’m going to a liquor store and buy my mother a fifth of Dewer’s Scotch. I’ll try not to cry at the counter. I know I’ll cry on the drive up to her house.
                            -11:22 p.m., November. 5th, 2009

"Mary Sees" & "I Want My Momma..."

"Mary Sees" & "I Want My Momma..." (c) 2009 Stu Jenks

    Mary sees things that are not there. Dad. Other men. Her mother. Her grandfather, Daddy Saum.
    Mostly it doesn’t scare her, these visions. Mostly she just looks at them with wonder. Frankly, I don’t know all she sees because I only ask her when I’m there and when I think the time is right to ask. I’m sure she sees a lot more people and things than any of us will ever know.
    Mary’s condition has worsened. For a few days, she had a very hard time eating anything. Now, she can eat a little. For a few days, she slept all the time. Now, she sleeps about 20 hours a day. Just a couple weeks ago, she could follow a conservation, and respond with kindness and attention. Now, at best, she just goes away as I talk, to some place where I can not follow.     This morning was especially sad.
    I walk into her room. Mary’s asleep. Jessica told me earlier, she has eaten some pudding. I said, “Good,” but I didn’t really mean it. (If she completely stops eating, she will be dead within a month.) I grab the old wood chair from the kitchen in Virginia, move the thick blue pad by her bed, that’s there to break her falls if she rolls out, and place the old chair right beside her bed. I raise her bed with the electric controls, so I can talk with her easier. She doesn’t really wake up. Her eyes open, but she doesn’t really see. I say, “Hello, Mom,” but she doesn’t really hear. Then she begins to say one phrase over and over, very softly, in her strong Virginia accent. Most people wouldn’t understand her. I know exactly what she’s saying.
    “I want my Momma. I want my Momma, I want my Momma....”
    I touch her hand. I start to cry. I cry hard. Her bedroom door’s closed to the rest of the house, so I let fly. I cry for her, for me, for everything. Everything. I don’t know where some things end and where others begin anymore. My deep grief at realizing (finally) that I’ll never share a life, a home, a love, with that fine woman in California is all wrapped up in my sadness at watching my mother die, a very slow and scary death. My own fears of being self-employed, spending thousands of dollars on my art and writing careers, with not enough money coming back in right now, to even come close to breaking even, combines with managing Mary’s money and making sure there is plenty there, just in case she lives another couple, three years or more. My own loneliness with having no one to share my bed mixes with my sadness at losing this sweet kind mother I’ve had for the past few months, who I’ve shared so much with, but who is here no more. My anger at the withholding of important truths by other people in other parts of my life joins with my rage at the mystery of ‘Just when will Mom finally die?’ But at the same time as all of this fury of emotions fills me, day in and day out, I feel this incredibly gratitude: that I have money to draw from, for Mom, for me and for some other good folk in my life; that I have real friends that care about me and I for them, and who are really there for me, as I go through all of this; and that I have this strong faith that this will eventually end, be it my Mom’s long suffering or my grief regarding this huge hole in my own broken heart. That even though it’s not OK, not even close to OK, I’ll be OK.
    “...I want my Momma. I want my Momma. I want my Momma....”
    “I want my Momma too,” I say to Mary. I chuckle. That’s not going to happen. I’m Mary’s parent now, not she mine. But maybe, just maybe, her Momma, Nannie, will cross from the other side and lend a hand too.

"Love, Let Go, Love Some More"

"Love, Let Go, Love Some More; Cathy's Fault, Arizona" (c) 2009 Stu Jenks

"Beaufort, South Carolina" by Robert Frank

"Beaufort, South Carolina, 1955" (detail) by Robert Frank

[Taken by me at the MOCA in Downtown Los Angeles in September. I had permission. Sadly, the images from "The Americans" series were very poorly lit, not like the same images I saw in August, at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. There, they were exquisitely lit. This, and others in the series are perfect photographs: The woman's radiant face, the sun behind her, the light pole that echos the Cross. Perfect. Other memories from MOCA: LA that day, were a class of tweens taking a tour of the museum and having their teacher or a docent tell them that the poorly-crafted, arrogant, nightmares-on-a-wall they were seeing, were actually good paintings. The look on the kids' faces was priceless. Remember, it was a child who told the townspeople that the Emperor had no clothes on. Sadly, the schoolkids weren't in the room with "The Americans." I bet they would have looks of awe on their faces, not wrinkled-up noses. Hopefully they got to see them before they left.]

"When people look at my pictures I want them to feel the way they do when they want to read a line of a poem twice." - Robert Frank.

"Our Lady of the Rosary: For my mother Mary"

 "Our Lady of the Rosary Church, Little Italy, San Diego, California" (For my mother Mary) (c) 2009 Stu Jenks

[Chapter who-knows-what from the book "Dementia Blues]

    Jessica, the nurse, changes Mom’s diaper as I watch. Mary almost fell out of bed, just minutes before my visit.
    “Oh, Stu. I don’t know what is going on!”
    “I know, Mom. You almost fell out of bed.”
    “No, I didn’t!”
    “Yes, you did, Mary,” Jessica says, gently.
    “Yes. You did, Mom. But it’s OK that you don’t remember,” I say.
    Mary is suffering. Every old ache and pain is brand new, no matter that most are decades old. Her bedroom is forever unfamiliar, in spite of the old prints and needlepoints on the wall that she has owned for years. She often thinks she needs to do something, but she doesn’t know what that something is. I tell her often that this is where she has lived for almost a year. She is surprised every time.
    Later, I just talk about my day; her, laying in her hosital bed, me, sitting on a ancient wooden chair we brought from Virginia. Many days, my chatting about my life is plenty for her. She loves to hear me talk about this and that. She often responds with an “Oh, that’s good.” or “I know you miss your friend so” or  “You know I love you.” Today was “You look so beautiful to me.” But that didn’t last. The light in her eye changes, replaced with the haunted stare of suffering, confusion, and fear of being in a world, a house, a room, a bed, that is perpetually strange to you. The only joy today is that she know me, knows her son loves her, knows that he is here with her, right here, right now.
    I unhinge the gate and walk to my car: thinking, that if Mary lives more than six months to a year, I’m going to be pretty pissed off at God. I know the dementia isn’t God’s fault. That God doesn’t let suffering end, or let Mom die, just because I want it to be so. But God? Christ! Throw the old lady a bone!  And guide me daily in what I need to do and not do with my mother. And if you can, take her. Please take her. In her sleep would be nice, but I don’t care how anymore. Just take her. Soon. Please.