A Visit from Carl

We had a visit a month or so ago from our friend Carl Schinasi who lives in Birmingham. We've known Carl for ten or twelve years. He is a retired English professor at Miles College, a native of New York City, a writer, painter and budding photographer. We met over pottery and baseball, but have found over the years we have so much more in common than that. We share literature, art, and political leanings born in the sixties. Last summer we visited him and went on a great tour of Civil Rights/Birmingham with his good friend Virginia who was on the front lines of that struggle during the sixties.    

With Carl in our kitchen, PawPaw, 2016

A few years ago Leslie and I were taking a trip to Maine and Nova Scotia and were looking for someone to house and farm sit. Carl was interested as he could hunt for pottery while staying centrally located and free. Seemed good for all involved. We had some initial concerns like when he got out of the car and mentioned he was deathly allergic to cats. We had five in the house at that time. Later, explaining our feeding and egg collection system, Leslie suggested he watch out for black snakes who sometimes ate eggs and rested in the nests. "Why," he asked, "don't you kill it or remove it?" "Well," Leslie responded, "He helps with the mice and rats." Carl, in his best NY accent said, "Great. Rats and snakes, my two most favorite things." He had never really been on a farm before or even out in the country all that much. 

 

 

But we left. Carl called a few days later to check in and mentioned he hadn't been sleeping that well. "Why?" "One of the dogs, Ralph I think, barked all night long, just wouldn't quit and I was sure there was something out there. Then I remembered the headline of the newspaper that came today and was sure the guy was out there, coming to get me."  We assured him that wasn't the case and if, in fact, the guy had been out there lying in wait for Carl, he would already be dead. 

A few days later we were staying in an old sea captain's house on the Bay of Fundy that had been turned into a B&B. It was quite idyllic. Our phone rang about ten that night. The house was asleep. It was Carl. "I think Isabell died under your bed." "Why?" "She's been under there for thirty-six hours and won't come out." "Why? Did you have any rain, thunder?" "Yes, and she's been under there ever since." "Get a bowl of grease or a hot dog and try to lure her out." Next call ten minutes later. "Didn't work. She didn't budge. She growled at me." Leslie grabbed the phone, "Plug in the vacuum cleaner and shove the nozzle under the bed. See if that works." Next call, "She ain't dead. I stuck that nozzle under there and she came out like a greyhound."

 
 

 Carl Schinasi with his affectionately named Dick Tree in Birmningham, AL, 2015 

 

FROM or OF

High School Graduation, 1965.

Madison County, NC 2010

One of the underlying reasons for my solo road trip last fall was to think about my relationship with the place I’ve called home for the last forty-three years. To be honest I was tired of the place in a way that had not happened in the past – tired of the maintenance work around our farm, tired of the daily drama that often seems like the lifeblood of the community, tired of the expectations of others regarding my work.

Don’t get me wrong, I love where I live and continue to believe that moving to the mountains was the single best decision I ever made. But increasingly as I’ve aged, and ostensibly “seen it all,” I find myself asking what if? And if that question was persistent enough, what would I do about it?

Throughout my time in Madison I’ve heard the old adage, you ain’t from around here. I’ve generally ignored it, but lately I’ve come to understand its truth. My upbringing, my values, my cultural influences, my manner of speaking and acting, and many other characteristics all mark me as an outsider. Sometimes, those ways of being come into conflict, but most often they don’t because I’ve learned if I can’t be from the place, I can be of the place.

The difference is subtle. I think of it as the difference between thought and instinct. I’ve been able to learn how to live here: How to sort of manage our place – the firewood, the water, the gardens, the mowing, the dead animals; how to live and relate in a community as foreign to me as some small village in Sicily. I learned the dialect, and about ballads and tobacco, and how to be moderately self-sufficient. I learned about darkness and quiet. Some of those lessons were hard learned and few, if any, came instinctually.

What comes naturally for me are Italian Delis, Broadway Musicals on Sunday morning and Blues and Rock the rest of the time, and the ever-present light and hum of a big city. I know the proximity and abundance of people, the availability of anything I want, anytime I want it. I can talk fast and do so without thinking. I love to dress up. I know pavement and chain-link fences and comfortably motor the DC Beltway. I effortlessly find my grandparent's graves in Arlington Cemetery or my parent's in Gate of Heaven. Of course I can, this is where I'm from.

It's the same for people who are from Madison County or the wider region. I watch them – how they interact, or dig, or grow things, walk and talk, how they live their lives - and I say, “They are from here.” There is an ease about them – a sense that what they say or do comes from a knowledge learned long ago, so ingrained it’s now part of the DNA. “How do you know that?” I might ask a local friend about something that stumps me. “Why,” he would answer, “I just do. I'm from here.”

Debbie and Dellie

 

Debbie Chandler brushing her grandmother's, Dellie Norton, hair, Sodom, Madison County, North Carolina, 1991

 

I've been thinking a lot about Dellie .
I'm not sure why today.
Most days I see photographs of her hanging in my studio
so it's not like she isn't around. She is.
But for some reason, today, she's popped in my mind and stayed. 
I'm fine with that.

This photograph was made about two years before she died.
She had been in declining health for a couple of years prior.
Here, after a stay in the hospital, back home,
with family members taking turns in her care.

Perhaps that's why she's stayed with me today.
Because of our own situation caring for Leslie's mom.
Watching her age, needing more and more, 
content to sit and be quiet.
Me knowing, it won't be long. 
 

 

Redbud

 

Paw Paw, Madison County, NC 2016

It's been five weeks ago now that I took a walk thinking redbuds.
It's not like me to do that,
 go out with camera in hand and nature in mind.
I've not been much of a landscape photographer.
People and culture have been my thing.
But it was a vibrant spring day,
bright and crisp and
the redbuds were waiting patiently for me.

I've long thought it trite and repetitive to do this type of picture.
It's what we see in camera club contests and
postcard racks, 
on facebook. 
But here I was.
In the woods,
searching for the mix of angle and light,
wondering, 
how is it I've not photographed such beauty before?

 

Doe Branch Ink

Looking forward to this workshop with my long-time buddy and work partner, Charlie Thompson, in an absolutely stunning location. Not to mention that Jim and Deborah are the best hosts one can ask for. 

A Week of Images, Ideas, and Inspiration

Sunday June 12th to Saturday June 18th - register now!

We're pleased to announce that long-time collaborators Rob Amberg and Charlie Thompson—with deference to Agee & Evans and other documentary teams who have worked to bring stories to light—will be at Doe Branch Ink to lead a workshop on documentary fieldwork. There are a few spaces left, so be sure to claim your spot today.

Not so much a technical workshop as a discussion on the documentary fieldwork process, Amberg and Thompson will lead discussions about how to conceive and plan projects, meet and cultivate collaborations with interlocutors in the field, collaborate with other artists without coming to blows(!), and take your work to larger audiences as articles, books, exhibits, and more. 

Rob and Charlie encourage participants to bring your own ideas and projects to the workshop, and they'll ensure plenty of time for reflection and deepening your work. They plan to workshop their own project in progress: a retrospective on their 30 years of work in rural America, on farm advocacy and the culture of agriculture, including the portion of their work sponsored by Willie Nelson's FarmAid.  

They'll also organize field trips to local sites, photo talks, film screenings, and focused discussions of the leaders’  work will make for a full and rewarding week. You can read more about their workshop and our other spring / summer offerings at our new website.

About the Artists
Rob Amberg is an award-winning photographer and writer who has made Madison County, NC his adopted home for going on four decades. His books include Sodom Laurel Album and The New Road: I-26 and the Footprint of Progress in Appalachia. His photographs are part of the permanent collection of the David M. Rubenstein Rare Book and Manuscript Library at Duke University. 

Charlie Thompson, a writer, filmmaker, and photographer is a member of the Anthropology Department at Duke University. His most recent books include Border Odyssey: Travels along the US/Mexican Divide, an ethnography and memoir about his 2,000 mile journey through the borderlands, and Spirits of Just Men:  Mountaineers, Liquor Bosses and Lawmen in the Moonshine Capital of the World, an inquiry into his ancestors' roots in Franklin County, Virginia.  

Yours,

Deborah and Jim

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A Community Coverlet

 

Quilt Presentation, PawPaw, Madison County, NC 1983

Back in the olden days,
(Oh, how I love being able to say that)
 new people moving into Madison County
began a tradition of making and gifting quilts.
For weddings, or new babies, or friendship.
Receiving a quilt meant a certain acceptance.
An embrace.
You were part of the community.
A member of the tribe.

It's a tradition that continues with young people today.
And I think, how rare is that?
Except in places like ours.
Small, close knit, and hands on.
Welcoming. 

In this photograph Vicki Skemp, aka Vicki Lane, is
thanking her neighbors and friends for the
20th Anniversary Wedding quilt
presented to her and her husband John.
It's a Sister's Choice pattern, 
organized by Vicky Owen and Fay Skemp Uffelman.
It was a potluck day, of course.
This one held at Wayne and Fay Uffelman's farm on Paw Paw Creek.
 

 

 

For Governor McCrory

 

Big Pine, Madison County, NC 

 
 

Our two-seater, useable by all, no questions asked, no ID required, no confusion, no stupidity. Governor, quit pretending you know what's best for our state, and for us. You don't. Do us a favor, gather your minions and just leave in the dark of night. You should be ashamed.
We are. 

 
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photo+craft

photo+craft, hosted by Warren Wilson College, is an unprecedented community arts event happening March 31—April 3, 2016 at multiple venues in downtown Asheville and the River Arts District. Through exhibitions, talks, film and panel discussions, this cross-disciplinary festival explores visual and material culture in the 21st century by examining intersections between photography and craft.

Included in the notable list of presenters is my old friend, Harvey Wang. I first met Harvey in Madison County in 1976 when he was doing a project for a senior project. At photo+craft Harvey will be showing and speaking about his latest film, From Darkroom to Daylight, an exploration of the evolution of photography with twenty masters of the medium. 

http://www.darkroom2daylight.com/

http://photocraftavl.com/

 

As part of this event, I will be showing photographs with Asheville photographer, Tim Barnwell, in the Revolve Arts Space in the Cotton Mill Studio at 122 Riverside Drive in Asheville. The exhibit is titled Hands On and includes work Tim and I have made over the last forty years. 

http://www.revolveavl.org/hands-on

 

Josh Copus Firing His Kiln, Lower Brush Creek, Madison County, NC 2015
- Hands On, Revolve Gallery, Asheville, NC

 
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A Walk's Treasures

 

Paw Paw Creek, at Anderson Branch, 030916

 

One of my walks last week yielded a bounty - a mini fridge, a shop vac and TV, a clothes dryer, bedsprings, and should you be hungry, a rotting goat. It's easy to be angry at this wanton disregard for our environment and the accompanying belief that the land is big enough to absorb whatever we throw at it. And I am, angry.  

 
 

Paw Paw Creek, at Anderson Branch 030916

Anderson Branch Road, 030916

 

Upper Paw Paw, 030916

 
 

 

But I also remember a time many years ago when I first started hanging out with Dellie Norton. This one particular day we went to visit one of her relatives - a short drive and longer walk into a deep holler, following a boldly flowing creek. A small, broad valley with a patch of waist-high tobacco alongside a significant garden, a log cabin with wrap-around porch and smoke rising from the chimney - it couldn't have been more idyllic. We forded the creek, stepping gingerly on wobbly rocks and there we came face to face with the household dump site - an enormous pile of milk jugs, disposable diapers, tin cans, clothes, tires, and appliances - all spilling from the road and into the creek. 

The very idea of trash was a relatively new concept for people like Dellie. Her's was not a throw-away culture. Use and reuse was what she lived by. But the arrival of modern culture to the mountains brought plastic, more packaging, and more waste. The thought of hauling it to a landfill and paying money to throw it away made no sense when it could simply be thrown in the creek where the next heavy rain would wash it from sight.

 
 
 

Upper Paw Paw, 030916

 
 

Upper Paw Paw, 030916

Now, some forty years later, I want to believe people surely know better, that we've learned that plastic and electronics don't simply vanish in the soil, that tires don't recycle in creeks. But evidence from my walks says, "no, we've learned nothing." Makes we wonder if it's not my anger that's misplaced. 

That I should think instead of A Boxspring's Memory. Bits of cloth, cotton stuffing, invoices, a pair of intact panty hose, lacking only a good washing. And stories. Stories from the boxspring itself, of bouncing and creaking, of rust and decay. And stories from the owners of such things - My life with Boxsprings. And maybe from the imaginations and memories of people who see these pictures. It's what pictures do.

 
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