Stu Jenks: Fezziwig Photography, Music, and Writing

"Ms. Spyder's Tea Party" (c) 2007

"Ms. Spyder's Tea Party, Flam Chen, Tucson, Arizona" (c) 2007 Stu Jenks and Flam Chen

    [Two images of Paul, Nadia and the Flam Chen Troupe performing 'Ms. Spyder's Tea Party' at Nimbus Brewery, on April 28th, 2008. Not many good images that night, from me. I really need to invest in that $1200 long Canon lens. I hate to go more into debt, but I may have too, if I'm going to stay viable in all of this. (My current lens just isn't fast enough.) But I got a couple of OK images, I think. I quite like the intimacy and strength in the image of Nadia and Paul, spinning poi. And the graininess of the big poi shot doesn't bother me that much.
    Again, friends and neighbors, if you have a chance to see Flam Chem, run don't walk.]

"From Lively to Sin Vacas" (c) 2008

"From Lively to Sin Vacas" © May 2008 Stu Jenks

    [Images from top to bottom: "The Last Chair, Lively, Virginia", "The Flowering Oaks, Lively, Virginia, "Ancient Oak, Lively, Virginia", "Harriman, Tennessee", "Minnie Pearl's Hat, Ryman Auditorium, Nashville, Tennessee", "Mary at the Cadillac Ranch, Amarillo, Texas", "The Very Large Array, New Mexico", "Panoramic Cadillac Ranch, Amarillo, Texas", & "Cattle and The VLA"]

        We had just had a perfectly nice little box lunch at an Interstate rest stop in the Valley of Virginia. No harsh words. No crazy comments. No imagined slights from us. Then, as my mother was getting a scarf out of the car, preparing to walk over and get back into the Penske truck, she said to me.
    "You know, after Pamela was born I had a miscarriage and I fought to have another child, so remember that, the next time you get upset with me!"
    I shrugged my shoulders, gave Annie a crooked smile with a slight shake of the head and walked my elderly mother back to the truck.
    And this was Day Two of what turned out to be a week-long journey, driving my mother and her things to an independent living place, near my home in Tucson, Arizona.

    I thought it would be fun, driving Miss Daisy across the country. It was anything but. When Annie arrived, ten days before we were going to leave for Arizona, she was prepared to do a lot of work, packing my mother up. What she didn't know was that in the months leading up to the move, Mom hadn't done a thing. When I arrived three days before we departed Virginia, Annie had done an amazing job, in spite of everything.
    Even though I had been to The River to visit at Christmas, I had no idea how much my mother had begun to fade. She started out the day as a woman in her eighties and ended the day as a six-year-old child. When friends would ask me, on the phone, how my mother was, I would say she was 'petulant'.
    But my mother’s old, and it's not her fault that she has become more of a spoiled brat. She has always been this way. But now, she was ruder, more insulting, and more manipulative that I've ever seen her. She’s never been one to apologize or try and walk in anyone else's shoes, but now it was all or nothing, black or white, good or bad, with no gray in between. And the All was All Her. We either loved her or hated her, and she wasn't shy to say anything now. [Like she ever was.] And even though it was never her intent to be hurtful, that didn't mean it didn't hurt. [Whether a truck runs over you by accident or on purpose, you've still been run over by a truck.] Add to that the entitlement issues in her DNA and the occasional histrionic tears and you've got a nightmare for Annie and I.

    Miraculously, we got the 26-foot Penske truck on the road on Friday Afternoon, with Mother and Annie following in Mom's Buick Le Sabre. We made it as far as Charlottesville, Virginia that night.
    Besides the little adventure caused by me getting the truck stuck in the parking lot of the motel, (I embedded the rear end into the pavement while trying to go up a little hill. Had to get a tow truck to wince it free), the first day's drive was uneventful and rather pleasant for me. For me. Not for Annie. For Annie had Mom in the car with her, for hours. After Day One, Annie and I traded off my mother. Day Two, Mom rode with me. Day Three, she rode with Annie, etc. That way, we each had every other day without the presence of my mother.
    When Mom doesn’t get her way, either she is wrong, you are wrong, or all of us are wrong. There is no simple difference of opinion in my mother's world. If you disagree with her, you hate her. If you are angry at some behavior of hers, you hate her. If you ask for something that she doesn't want to give, you hate her. I wish I could say this was new, but it isn't. It's just more so.
    Also, Mary puts people into two groups, those she considers family and those she doesn't. If you are considered family, then you are obligated to do what ever she asks. You are her servant, her peasant, her slave. And if you refuse, politely or no, she gets mad and either insults you or tries to shame you into doing what she wants. Again, not new. Just more desperate and pitiful these days. (Then again, my mother’s ancestors did own slaves and she was raised by black servants. Perhaps I expect too much.)

    The manipulations and criticism started long before we left Lively, Virginia.
    By the time we reached Tennessee, Mom was saying she wanted to go back home to Virginia or go to Raleigh and live with my sister, Pamela. (Not an option, now or ever.)

         
    In Nashville, she thought she was in Richmond, Virginia. Truly. She thought we were on Broad Street, seconds after we had left the Ryman. Thought the Mosque was just up ahead. ‘What the fuck,’ I silently mouthed to Annie in the rear view mirror, as we drove back to the Interstate.

    In Arkansas, she tried to jump out of the car. We affectionately call it The Arkansas Incident. We were driving slow and it was at night, so no one got hurt.
    By Oklahoma, we couldn't stand to even think of eating dinner with my mother. We prepared food for her to eat and brought it to her room at sundown, and then Annie and I went out and had our own dinner.
    I took some pictures of Mom at the Cadillac Ranch near Amarillo, Texas that turned out to be somewhat iconic. Thanks God for that.

    By Santa Rosa, New Mexico, she was weeping in the hallway of the motel, saying we were abandoning her.
    The Very Large Array was fun for Annie and I, and we even had one lighthearted moment with Mom. The sustained winds were 40 miles per hour that day and as we were walking Mother to the Visitors Center, one of us on each arm so she wouldn't blow away, Mary said, with a bit of wonder in her voice,
    "Son, you are really taking me on an adventure."
    We all three laughed. The one and only time that would happen in 2500 miles.

    I could say more. I probably should have said less. Bottom Line: Mary is all settled in at Sin Vacas, an upscale retirement village, where all the street names are in Spanish for nutty things. ('Street Without Sin', 'Street Without Denial', 'Street Without Danger'. Mom lives on Calle Sin Envidia: 'Street Without Envy'. And Rancho Sin Vacas, the gated community where the elderly village is, means Ranch Without Cows.) She’s making some new friends and going to church. She's slowly learning how to get to the bank and to the grocery store. And she’s even saying thank you to me when I come up to help connect the computer or put together a lamp (Even though I know her 'thank yous' really mean 'please don't leave me all alone'.)
   
    Mom and I don't really get along. Haven't really for years. I tolerate her and she probably tolerates me too.   
    But one piece of advice or rather a warning to all.
    Don't say to me "You're being such a good son."
    I'm not. And if you say it to my face, I’m probably going to get pissed off.
    I didn't move Mom because I'm being a good son. I did it because Mom begged me to move her to Arizona, and that we had few options left, for Mary can't really take care of herself anymore without help.
    I told Mom a number of times, that I really didn’t think it was a really good idea to leave 100 friends in Virginia behind, to live near her son and her 92-year-old sister and her son's ex-girlfriend in Arizona. But we have a saying in my family: "Mary does whatever Mary wants to do." Her so-called friends in Virginia, most of them rich, white, arrogant fucks, call Mom ‘a force of nature.’ They are not complementing her.
    No, I'm not a good son.
    I'm not doing this because I want to, or that I even think it's the right thing for her to live in Tucson, but our choice are limited now.
    Retirement places in Virginia are much more expensive there than in Arizona.
    My sister Pamela lives in Raleigh, in the Old Home Place, but she is fighting cancer and is really in no condition to be around Mom, in a number of ways.
    It's by default that I'm doing this, have done this.
    I'm not a good son.
    I'm just the person who’s doing what needs to be done.
    That's all.
    If I had my way, Mary would be living in Virginia somewhere.
    But you rarely gets your way if you are with my mother.
    It's Mom's way or the highway, pretty much.
    Even though she would deny that.

    “Your hair is so beautiful,” she says.   
    “You’re as handsome as your father was,” she says.
    Mom is over the top with her compliments now. I’m repairing a chest-of-drawers in her new apartment. She’s following me around.
    She may be a bit sun-downy these days. She may be her normal Narcissistic self, but she isn’t stupid. She knows she fucked up. She knows Annie and I are pretty tired of her shit.
    Phase One is done: Mary and her stuff have been moved across the country.
    Phase Two is mostly done: Unpacking Mary’s shit and getting her settled in.
    Now, on to Phase Three: Maintaining Mom in Tucson.
    Once-a-week visits and occasional chats on the phone is the plan. My plan. Her plan would be for me to be at her beck and call, 24 / 7 / 365. That ain’t going to happen.

    The view from her balcony is fabulous. City lights in the distance at night. An arroyo filled with birds and their songs during the day. I close my eyes and hear the quails’ sing. I feel sad. Mom doesn’t even notice the beauty right in front of her. I open the sliding glass door and reenter her apartment. She yells something at me from the bedroom. I can’t hear what she is saying. I don’t really care.

"Harriman, Tennessee" (c) 2008

"Harriman, Tennessee" (c) 2008 Stu Jenks
[An homage to a Blake Hines' photograph]

Hoop Dancing: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks: Chapter One: "The Wisteria Prayer Tower"

Hoop Dancing: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks: Chapter One:
“The Wisteria Prayer Tower, Sonoran Desert, Arizona" © 1999, 2008

    I'm here alone tonight with a small hoop made of wisteria, the vines a gift from Mary Ann’s backyard. I twisted them into a circle and wrapped the hoop with a battery-powered string of clear Christmas lights. The hoop and lights sit at the base of a saguaro cactus. I open the shutter and walk back to a nearby shelter. It's a simple structure. Just four posts and a crude roof made of two by fours, spaced a few inches apart, to give some shade from the midday sun. A couple of benches too. From this short distance, I can see the glow of the hoop, and I begin to drift off into memory, thinking of a night under this shelter, just last year.
    [It has just begun to rain. We've had a great dinner at Caruso's, celebrating her birthday. It's Monsoon season and we decided to go look for storms. We found a big one. The rain's coming down in sheets. The shelter proves little relief from the storm but we don't care. I gaze upon her silk green dress, not completely soaked, sticking to her beautiful body, her nipples showing through the fabric. Mary Ann and I are very wet. In many ways. We laugh. I press her against one of the shelter’s supports and kiss her deeply again. She kisses me back hard and makes a little moan. I feel a stirring. It's really pouring. I hardly notice.]
    I blink and sigh. Back to tonight, this moment, this time. I leave the shelter and walk back to the hoop and the saguaro. The glow of Tucson's city lights shines over the mountains to the East. I gingerly approach my Rollei. Ever so slowly and evenly, I advance the film, with the shutter still open. I turn the knob a third of a turn, then another third, then another, until I'm relatively sure I've drawn the film through at least two or three frames. I then close the shutter.
    I consider another exposure. I open the shutter again. I slowly take my hands away from the camera, and step back from the tripod. I walk toward the shelter. I then take myself out of the moment, out of this night, and daydream myself back to that night, last year, with Mary Ann. The one with the hard rain, with that never-ending kiss, with that wet silk green dress.

"Night Train at the 7th Avenue Railroad Crossing, Tucson, Arizona" (c) 2007, 2008

"Night Train at the 7th Avenue Railroad Crossing, Tucson, Arizona" (c) 2007, 2008 Stu Jenks

Flame Spirals: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks: Chapter Seventeen: “Tumamoc Hill, Tucson, Arizona"

Flame Spirals: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks:

Chapter Seventeen: “Tumamoc Hill, Tucson, Arizona" © 2007, 2008

[December 21st, 2007: The Night of the Winter Solstice]

     The Mount Lemmon Road is closed at the base. Too much snow for travel to the top, to anyone other than residents of Summerhaven. I wasn't happy about that but I wasn't that mad either. OK, a little angry maybe, for I do prefer to pray at Solstice Rock on this day and I knew that I could make up there in my 4 x 4 truck, but it's really only important to me, that I pray on Solstice Rock. God doesn't care where I am when I do my Big Prayer. Actually, my God doesn't care if I pray at all. He's that loving of a guy.
    So I trusted my gut and headed to Tumamoc instead.
    It's around 7 p.m now. It's dark up here at the summit but bright as Christmas below. The view from Tumamoc Hill to the East is of the whole Tucson Valley. Tumamoc is literally in the center of the city, a protected nature preserve, two miles east of downtown. Lights are on in the nearby skyscrapers. I’m guessing that immigrant cleaning crews are emptying the trash on this Friday before Christmas. Semis with red and yellow running lights, roar on the Interstate below me. The street grids can easily be seen, of Broadway and 22nd Street and even of the diagonal Aviation Parkway. And thousands of sepia brown streetlights twinkle below, like a old photograph of a Christmas tree.
    The Big Prayer was for Open-Heartedness this year. Unlike other years, I started with myself. I usually end with asking God to hear my personal prayer, but I was pretty annoyed with not being able to get up to Solstice Rock. Then that brought up some anger and disappointment regarding some friends and then some frustration with my family at Christmas Time and before I knew it, I wasn’t even walking up Tumamoc anymore but living in the blind illusion of my own expectations and thoughts. I became aware of my own insanity about halfway up Tumamoc and said loudly “God, help me be Open-Hearted to them!” Then I smiled and realized I had my Big Prayer. By the time I reached the summit I had prayed for Open-Heartedness for everyone from Catalina, who live just over there, to the Universe itself.
    I don’t want to leave. It’s so beautiful up here tonight. I take a deep breath and smile. Just a bit longer. The wind picks up, chilling me through my polar fleece. I pull down my Boo Boo hat to warm my ears. I breathe in deeply again. The smell of creosote and mesquite is on the wind, a scent created by yesterday’s rain. The Catalina Mountains loom to the north, capped with new snow.
    I feel very blessed. Very rich, with little cash in my pocket. Very loved, with no loved ones close by. Very fulfilled, with no personal accomplishments near me.
    Time to go. Catalina and I are going to do a bit of Christmas tonight, since I’ll be in Virginia for the holidays. Hope she likes the photograph of Laxmii I made for her.
    I stand, blow Tucson a big kiss, and then head down the hill to my truck.

Flame Spirals: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks: Chapter Sixteen: "Solstice Rock, Catalina Mountains, Arizona"

Flame Spirals: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks:

Chapter Sixteen: “Solstice Rock, Catalina Mountains, Arizona” © 1998, 2008

[December 21st, 1998; The Day of the Winter Solstice]

            I've just passed Windy Point and it's beginning to snow. Oh boy oh boy! I'm leaning a little forward in my seat in my old King Cab, looking out the windshield at the flurries, as I continue to climb the winding two-lane road up Mt. Lemmon. My heart rate has increased just a bit. I can feel it pound. I light a smoke.
            My truck is not good in snow. No weight in the back. A 2 x 4. Just a couple years ago, when I was coming up here to pray at Solstice Rock, I had to turn around for I was slipping and sliding so much. I ended up praying north of Prison Camp instead. But today, it's just starting to snow, not much on the road yet and if it does snow a lot while I'm up here, I'm pretty sure I can get down. Getting up is the hard part, and I've only got another few miles to go anyway. I can make it.
            Soon, I reach the pulloff near Solstice Rock. It's snowing quite a bit here. Less than an inch on the ground, but it's sticking. I park the truck, pointing it downhill toward Tucson and pull the hand brake. Screw it, I'm going. It's powder so I'm probably OK.
            I put on my Boo Boo hat, slip on my old gloves, and zip up my blue polar fleece jacket. And lastly, I wrap my old tan wool scarf around my neck and tuck it into my coat. A scarf that my sister knitted 30 years ago. Not knitted for me personally, but I ended up with it anyway. My favorite scarf. I lock the pickup and walk across the road to the little trail that leads up to Solstice Rock.
            Just a short walk up to the Rock. It's delightfully cold. Within minutes, I'm standing on a ledge made of flat granite slabs and huge granite boulders that I call Solstice Rock. No one else calls it that. Just me. A grand view of the Rincon Mountains opens to the east. A thousand foot drop is right below my feet. Snow is coming down heavier now. Best back up a bit away from the edge. Think I'll go to my praying place now.
            I've been coming here since 1988 on the day or night of the Winter Solstice to pray. I pray other days, at other places, quite often actually, but this is the place I come to pray big prayers. I take a deep breath. I close my eyes, then open them. What to pray for this year? I empty my mind. Something short, simple, true. Light. Yes, Light.
            I begin locally. I speak out loud. No Americans around to think I'm crazy for talking to myself. Actually, I'm talking to God. Ok, Stu, empty your mind again. Light. A prayer about Light.
            "God, it's me again. Not that you don't hear from me often, but I'm up here on Solstice Rock to do my Solstice prayers, like I do every year. God, I call you for Light. Bring Light. To Annie, bring her Light. To Michael, bring him Light. To John and Beth, bring them Light. To Mary Ann, bring her light. To Lisa, bring her Light. To Mike, bring him Light. To James and Julia, bring them Light. To Len and Virginia, bring them Light. To Jeff, bring him Light. To Linda, bring her light. To Dirk, bring him light. To Karen and Steve, bring them Light...."
            I pray for God to bring Light to all of my friends and acquaintances I can think of, a few people that used to be friends and a couple who unfortunately are enemies now. Then I expand the circle to include strangers. To every one in Tucson.
            "God, Bring Light to all those who are struggling to recover from addiction. To all of the poor, bring them Light. To the rich too, bring them light. To all who suffer, bring them Light. To all those in the Tucson Valley below, bring them Light."
            I turn to the face northwest toward Prescott.
            "To Byron and Shawn, bring them Light. To all in Arizona, bring them Light."
            My voice begins to rise, stronger, louder.
            "To all in the West, bring them Light!"
            My arms spontaneously open by my side. I face to the east.
            "To Mary and Stuart and Pamela, bring them Light. To all I know and don't know in North Carolina, bring them Light. To all in Virginia and all up and down the East Coast, bring them Light. To all of America, bring them Light."
            My voice is quite loud now. The snow's coming down hard and fast.
            "To all who are suffering in the world, bring them Light. To the people in Europe, bring them Light. To all in Asia, Africa, South America, The Whole World, bring them Light. God, please, bring them Light. Bring us all Light."
            Tears are flowing down my cheeks. I cry every year.
            "Bring them Light!"
            My voice gets quieter.
            "Bring me Light, God."
            Almost a whisper now.
            "Please God, Bring us all Light"
            The snowfall is heavy, with many little and big flakes. I tilt back my head and watch the flakes come down. They hit my glasses but I don't care. I watch them for a few seconds and then I adjust for the slight wind. I spy one I want.
            And then, I catch a big snowflake with my tongue.

"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.]

"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.

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 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.

   

Flame Spirals: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks: Chapter Six: "Stuart's Circle, Richmond, Virginia"