A compendium of images - most original, some not - words, and links, sometimes musical, gathered for the exclusive enjoyment of friends and relatives, some old, and some new.
I love to take pictures of old houses. This one isn't particularly old, not like some of the Victorians in San Francisco which survived the Great Quake and Fire of 1906 (the 103rd anniversary of which we just commemorated). The house is located in San Mateo close to the railroad tracks, and may have been built, I'm guessing, around a hundred years ago. An ordinary house, not of great architectural interest, but sturdily built, with a few touches that speak of old-time craftsmanship in the fish-scale siding at the top, the turned porch posts, and the carved wooden cornices.
Edward Hopper's famous painting "House by the Railroad" (1925) may be compared here -
The annual Lisbon Book Fair is one of the big events of the publishing industry.They hold the fair near the Marquês de Pombal square near the very top of Lisbon's Avenida da Liberdade, the wide boulevard that runs down from near the Botanical Gardens to the River Tagus.There are stalls upon stalls filled with books of all kinds, and thousands upon thousands of visitors.
This photograph is not directly related to the fair.It simply makes my point that the Portuguese love to read.Here on this train, which runs on a regular schedule from the Cais do Sodré in Lisbon all along the coast to the fashionable western suburbs of Estoril and Cascais, with stops along the way, are three men, all of them fully engrossed in their reading material (okay, okay, so one of them, the bald guy, is writing and not reading).
The young woman, the back of whose head occupies the left foreground, is not reading, though you can't tell from the photo, since all you see is the back of her head, her dark hair, and a glimpse of her shoulder.She is not reading, and she is rather attractive. She is attractive in a way that most men, young or old, if they were not blind, would be looking at her every chance they got, though out of decorum they would be doing it in a nonchalant and inoffensive way.
Portuguese men, in general, are exceedingly courteous, but even so, sitting there in close proximity to a charming young woman such as this one, they would not be immune to her charms. If they were not so deeply immersed in their magazine and notebooks, it is possible that a smile or a few innocuous words about the weather might be exchanged.
But trains aren't good places for complete strangers to strike up a conversation.And the simple expedient of reading a book or a magazine would certainly discourage anyone, even an attractive and bored young woman sitting alone, from attempting any small talk.
Composition-wise, I think this picture is working. There is some cohesion, not to say unity, among the individuals in the shot, each minding his own business except for the gent on the right, who in midstep is casting a wary eye towards the photographer. The fact that the heel of his right foot is just clear of the ground gives the composition a tension, an expectancy. I could be prompted to suggest that it is like the Henri Cartier-Bresson shot of a Parisian man leaping over a puddle, but I would not go so far as to claim that this pic is in the same league as the master's. Click: Henri_Cartier-Bresson
So here in 1985 was my entertainment center.A Scandinavian teak wall system dominates one wall.Yep, I put it up myself, and it's still there, though everything else has changed.The speakers were U.S.-made Advent two-way bookshelf units, which I had owned since the Seventies.The books are now in my garage, having been replaced several times over by newer ones.
The long-play vinyl 33 rpm records on the shelf beneath the right speaker were mainly of classical music, probably alphabetically arranged according to composers' last names, as are my current crop of CDs.(In those days a name-brand classical LP cost around $6. Compare that to a good CD today; that is, if you can even find one!)Not to sound elitist, but truly my collection of classical pieces far outnumber the other stuff.
A Panasonic 19" television (still made in Japan at that time) with rabbit ears, no remote control, and only a very limited number of channels, sits on a stand with casters, that I had built myself in my garage workshop: a simple box, unpretentious, but nicely stained in mahogany and black, and varnished with satin polyurethane.Behind the TV, a framed print of Columbus's "Nina", "Pinta", and "Santa Maria".
On the chest of drawers left of the TV sits a Panasonic VHS videotape player.It has more buttons on its front than anything else. (A good blank videotape cost sixteen bucks back a quarter-century ago.) Next to the player is the Harmon Kardon stereo receiver, which we used about fifty percent of the time as an FM radio, and the rest for playing LPs.Radio was still pretty big back then. There were no remote controls for either the receiver or the VHS player, so you had to get out of your chair to twist knobs or push buttons, just as you did for the TV.
The phonograph, or LP turntable, was also made by Panasonic, but had the name Technics.It worked well, though you had to be careful that the arm was balanced so perfectly that the diamond point of the long-playing needle, manufactured by the American company Shure, made the lightest possible contact with the record in order not to damage or distort the grooves. Because dust can cling statically to vinyl records, there is a special felt roller brush that can be placed at the opposite edge of the turntable from the arm to clean the disc as it plays.It was a high-maintenance device to have to upkeep.The diamond needles needed replacement periodically, and they were not cheap.
I don't know what the black thing is that's sitting on the top of the turntable – probably a sweater that I had just taken off.
If you're a regular visitor to this blog, you might have noticed that I have posted portraits of cars in it at various times. And quite a number of those are green.
I don't own a green car. Green is not my favorite color. (In fact, I don't even have a color that can be described as a favorite.)
But cars that are green-colored make good subjects for my camera. I don't know why that is. But if I have my camera with me and I see a car that's green, it'll have its picture taken.
(Here I must pause for a little grammar lesson. Many, and I mean many, people think that the possessive case of "it" takes an apostrophe; like so - "it's". There are well-meaning, well-educated, well-heeled, well-spoken, well-regarded people who make this mistake constantly. They do not know that "it's" is a contraction of "it is", and that its use as a possessive is wrong. Oh, yes. It's wrong. Indeed, 'tis.)
Now back to my green cars. Do I go out looking for them to photograph? Heck, no. Where have I got time to do that, for cryin' out loud!
These slides were taken with my Leica IIIf with a f/3.5 50mm Elmar lens in October 1979. Great little camera, which I still have, sturdy, all-metal, no electronics, exposures made without light meter, using the old-time photographers' f/16 rule.
The Red-and-White ferry is heading back to San Francisco from Tiburon across the Bay. The yacht-owners seem to be having a late-afternoon tete-a-tete.
A U.S.Navy ship glides beneath the Golden Gate Bridge heading out to sea.
Chinatown, where almost every other shop is either a restaurant or a jeweler's store.
The Chinese character in the middle is pronounced 'chook' in Cantonese. You know what 'chook' is, dontcha? That rice gruel that you eat with those delicious deep-fried crullers.
This is either Jackson or Washington Street as evening approaches.
A couple of days ago it was sweltering. Temperatures were in the 90's. And here we are today at a very mild 58. No sign of rain in the forecast.
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Made a less-than-successful chicken curry last night. Should have followed the recipe in the old family cookbook instead of playing it by ear. The result was edible, but not worth a second helping, which was just as well because I'm trying to shed a few pounds.
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Need to do some more scanning of old family photos. Got a box full of them, and dozens of Kodachrome slides as well. Then there's some editing of old analog movies to digitize and burn to DVDs.
Outside my window, a male bird's mating call is answered by a female.The trees are in leaf and the hills are green. A scent of star jasmine enters my room through the open window.The air is clear and calm.It is finally spring in Northern California.
J.G.Ballard died yesterday, April 21, 2009, at the age of 78. The author of many novels - including some of the science-fiction novels I read in my teens, he passed away in London, reportedly of cancer. Perhaps the best-known of his works is the semi-autobiographical "Empire of the Sun", which was made into a Stephen Spielberg movie of the same name.
I found in reading his obituary that he was left at an orphanage at birth.
Checking further, I discovered that there is a special category in NNDB.com for well-known people who were left at orphanages. Here's the link. Orphanage -
Every day at noon he arrives in the dining room of the private club.It is a ritual he has observed for decades. He walks slowly, with shuffling steps, but his back is straight, and on his way to his reserved table, he reaches a hand toward a chair-back to steady himself for a moment before proceeding.
There is a tired look to the imperious, heavy-lidded eyes, as his long fingers grasp the typewritten menu that the waiter has handed him.He scans the menu, but it is just a cursory inspection, for he orders the same meal every day: a bowl of tomato soup, chicken breast in a sauce béarnaise, two black olives and julienned carrots cooked with raisins.
The waiter pours ice water into his glass, next to which is a small dish with two slices of lemon pierced with a cocktail pick.The waiter dips the lemon in the water briefly, and then sets them back on the dish.
The old man's eyes survey the dining room, beginning at the entrance through which he had come, moving first to the left, then across to the right, where they rest on the two women who are sitting at a table next to the far window.The older of the two glances up from her soup plate, sees the old man, nods a greeting, then whispers something to her companion.The younger woman gazes momentarily at the man, displaying no sign of recognition, and resumes her meal without a word.
The old man knows who they are, knows, in fact, their family backgrounds as far back as three generations, knows that the older woman has debts well beyond her ability to repay, that her late husband also had a problem with managing his finances, that her children are good-for-nothing wastrels, and that the younger woman will be picking up the tab for this lunch and might even have been touched for a loan, perhaps not for the first time.
At a table by the wall, below large formal portraits of founding members of the club, sits another regular diner, a corpulent man in his late sixties. He has finished his dessert of blancmange, drained the last of his coffee, and carefully wiped his lips with his napkin.He looks up, appearing just at this very moment to notice the old man, and yells out a hearty greeting across the room.Then he gets up, picks up his golf cap, walks over to the table where the two women are sitting, and offers his compliments, which the older one returns with a labored smile.There is a brief introduction to the younger woman, and a gallant kissing of her hand.
The old man watches all this with Sphinx-like impassivity, his hooded eyes barely moving. He knows that the fat man has an enormous bar tab at the club, and the installment payments he has been making will barely cover his new purchases. He perceives that the fat man today did not have his customary two martinis at lunch.
Having finished with the two women, the fat man now approaches the old man's table. He has a slight limp. He is not invited to sit, and stands uneasily twisting his cap in his hands.The old man knows all the signs. He is quite prepared to deny the request he expects will issue from the fat man's mouth. The hooded eyes are raised to the ceiling.There is a curt sideways movement of the head.Negative. There will be no reinstatement of the fat man's credit at the bar, certainly not until the entire bill is paid in full.
The old man's chicken arrives.Without another word he begins to eat. The fat man stands there for a moment, then turns and starts to walk away.Several feet from the exit he stops, and retraces his steps to the old man's table.Again he hesitates.The old man does not look up from his meal. The fat man leans forward, whispers in the old man's ear.
The old man starts to cough and choke.Bits of chewed chicken fly out of his mouth.His face changes color, as the fat man backs away.A waiter rushes to the old man's side.The two women stare.
The old man recovers, gasping for air. I'm all right, he mutters, I'm all right.
We went to our local Hunan-style restaurant for dinner last night. One of the dishes we ordered was Deep-fried Chicken Wings with Red Hot Chillies. Even the whole coriander seeds and the star anise were deep-fried. The dish was excellent. And this shows what was left on the platter after the chicken wings were gone. I'm thinking they must have used a half-pound of hot chillies for the dish. .
Today my late father would have been ninety-five years old, and I know he and my mother would be proud of their offspring and their offspring and their offspring, até que todas as gerações vindouras (and all the generations to come.)
