Kate with Levi and Jordan Griffin, Halloween, Marshall, 1994.
Three Years Ago, Today. . .
July 12, 2012, I posted my first blog entry with the following piece on my grandfather, Joe Galeano. There's been quite a few entries since that time and you can reference all of them by going to the blog page on my website and hitting the overview button.
http://robamberg.com/overview/
Thank you all for your interest and support. It's been a fun project.
http://robamberg.com/blog/2012/7/12/joe-galeano.html
ShatterZone - A Fiction
Our nights are quiet and dark, save for a pair of screech owls calling from either end of the holler, or, coyotes high on the mountain yearning for goats. The sky is studded with stars and when the moon is full the forest dances with shadows and shapes the daylight doesn’t know. Sometimes we lie on a blanket in the yard, smoking, sipping a shared Bulleit, counting fireflies, waiting for comets, and soon making love in the comfort of dusky light.
The 40th 4th
One of the points of consistency in my forty-two years in Madison County has been the 4th of July party held annually by Paul Gurewitz, Laurie Pedersen, and Gary Gumz. This year's event is the 40th consecutive party and while the personnel has changed over the years, the party hasn't, except that it's gotten bigger. I want to believe I was at the first one in 1975, but if I was I didn't shoot any pictures, which would have been unusual. These images are from the 1977 party. Music and dancing in the now mostly demolished Art Gallery, pizza cooked in the car hood oven, and plenty of children and dogs. I met my wife Leslie at the 1988 party so, in essence, this party changed my life and I'm forever grateful for that.
But this party also conjures up childhood memories of the 4th - gatherings of my extended Italian family, first generation Americans all, and proud of it, tons of food, badminton and horseshoes, fireworks, and heartfelt goodwill.
Heritage of Hate
Klan Rally, Asheville, NC 1986
Klan Rally, Asheville, NC 1986
Klan Rally, Madison County, NC, 1976
Heritage is tricky stuff. We all have it. Some of us honor a particular heritage, be it Southern or African-American, or anything else. Some of us honor nothing at all. In my case I choose to pay homage to my mother’s Sicilian/Italian ancestry and culture.
One of the problems with heritage, I venture to say any heritage, is it comes with ugly stuff, incidents and histories we should despise and be nothing but ashamed of. And any objective reading of history would single out Anglo (white) culture as the absolute worst of the lot. We white folks have done our level best to abuse and exterminate every ethnicity and social group on the planet.
I love my Italian heritage. Rome has defined much of the world’s rich legacy of art, food, architecture, culture and much more. I, and many people I know, regularly celebrate some aspect of our shared birthright. We visit the old country. We know a few words of Italian. We cook the food and have recipes from our grandmother. We speak with our hands. And we honor our kin, even those that died fighting for the Axis powers in World War II.
But, I’ve stopped participating in Columbus Day celebrations. Yes, he is credited with discovering America and is ultimately responsible for bringing all of us to this country. But, the bottom line is, he is one of those ugly truths, a human stain that began the 500-year process of liquidating our Native societies. He was also a slaver.
I love the South’s pace, that slow meandering that serves to slow me down. I love the South’s music and literature, its landscape and stories, its food and its drink. I love the men and women, all of them, who have made it the place it is. I love the South’s heritage.
But I do not love, or respect, the part of the South’s heritage that promotes hate, a lack of tolerance, traitors, and reverence for stupidity and ignorance. Surely, by this time, we should understand the part of heritage that disrespects, dishonors, and promotes hatred should be thrown on the trash heap of history.
Dad and Me
Dad and Me, Washington, DC, 1948
My Dad loved his Desotos.
I think this is his first one.
I was his first child. A son.
I would've been a year old in this picture.
He would've been 30.
People called him "Bud." His name was Robert.
He was a good guy, a better than good father.
I couldn't have asked for more.
I know this from my face - secure, ecstatic, bright-eyed.
He has a concerned look.
Why? I wonder.
At Linda Hessman's
At Linda Creaseman's, with Farm Aid, Dodge City, Kansas 2015
Out walking while Charlie and Brooke do the interview with Linda.
In many ways these are my favorite times on these trips of ours.
The walks. Alone. Quiet. No thoughts of others.
Some miles across an open field, pocked with prairie dog holes.
Moments without a schedule.
In a new place. One where I've never been.
Alert. Allowing life to come to me.
Appalachia Now
I'm pleased to have one of my photographs on the cover of this new Anthology of Appalachian short stories published by Bottom Dog Press. The photograph of Natassia Rae is one in a new series of portraits I'm doing of some of the young people who have come into our lives over the last few years. This is a dual honor for me - having my work associated with this wonderful group of authors and an exceptional small press, and, the opportunity to spend time with an amazing group of people far younger than I.
Appalachia Now
Short Stories of Contemporary Appalachia
Editors: Larry Smith and Charles Dodd White
Just Out ~ June 2015
Authors: Darnell Arnoult, Rusty Barnes, Matt Brock, Taylor Brown, Chris Holbrook, David Joy, Marie Manilla, Charles Dodd White, Mesha Maren, Carrie Mullins, Chris Offutt, Mark Powell, Jon Sealy, Savannah Sipple, Jacinda Townsend, Meredith Sue Willis
Appalachia Now is an essential and necessary collection of stories. For too many, the people of Appalachia are little more than stereotypes. Appalachia Now undoes that injustice by representing the real people of Appalachia today without forgetting that we can’t help but be shaped by our geography. Appalachia is as much a character here as are any of these diverse, complex, troubled characters. This collection is a delving—an invitation into a world often represented by pop culture, but seldom as authentically nor as skillfully as by the writers herein. ~Jeff Vande Zande
“The geologic entry to the Appalachian foothills… had a foreboding quality, a warning to travelers that the world beyond was very different.” So states Chris Offutt in his story, “Back Porch.” His and other stories collected in Appalachia Now serve to hammer the point home like a coal miner’s pick or a fist to the jaw.” ~Christina Lovin
178 pgs. $17 from us direct.
*This book is a follow-up to the best selling Degrees of Elevation anthology published by Bottom Dog Press in 2010.
- $17.00
Mermaids, in Marshall?
When I moved to Madison County in 1973, Marshall was a busy place. Three car dealerships, two grocery stores, two hardware stores, the Sunnyside and the Shadyside florists, the library, people lining the counter at Doc Niles's pharmacy waiting for coffee or biscuits and gravy, and an assortment of people attached to the courthouse - lawyers, deputies, criminals, families. Parades were held on Christmas, the 4th of July, and Memorial Day. The town was full and alive and rich with activity. I caught a Greyhound bus in front of the Old Rock Cafe and took it to Knoxville to meet a friend. It was a main route.
By 1983, the town was dying. Businesses were closing and buildings were boarded up. I had opened a studio downtown, Main Street Studios, on the third floor in what is now the Flow Art Gallery and eventually moved into the space. The town would empty by five o'clock, the quiet only punctuated by the regular arrivals of the Norfolk Southern train. As the 1980s passed into the 1990s, Marshall slowed even more, the town abandoned by county residents who now did their shopping, and hanging out, on the Bypass or in Weaverville. The solitary parade at Christmas was attended by fewer people every year. Marshall resembled small, rural Southern towns across the entire region, passed by in a societal rush to modernity.
New people began arriving in the 2000s with money, ideas, and energy. Buildings were purchased and renovated into apartments, offices and galleries. Music, art, weddings and parades brought people into town who hadn't been there for years, or ever. It appears Marshall has been reborn, albeit in ways many long-time residents wouldn't have predicted. Last Friday evening at the Mermaid Parade, there were more people in town than I've seen in many years. Businesses were making money, families were having fun, people visiting, music playing, it was silly and delightful and a precise definition of the word community.
I've heard some born-in-county folk and older newcomers say they just don't like what Marshall has become, what with all the tattoos and dreadlocks and beer. They wish it had stayed like it was and one can sense resentment among certain people. It's too bad, that attitude, and I hate to hear it. The reality is the town was near dead and little effort was being made to revive it. But that's not the point, what is regrettable is that people are missing the opportunity to participate in the rebirth of their town as a destination for something besides court.
At the Birmingham Civil Rights Institute
One of the more moving visits from our recent trip, the Birmingham Civil Rights Institute with Carl Schinasi and Virginia Volker. Got to see an amazing exhibit of photographs by Spider Martin, one of the great documentarians of this period of time in our nation's history. The sculpture gallery in the top two photographs is haunting. Rosa Parks (below) is resolute. A good day.
Old Hickory in New Orleans
Jackson Square, New Orleans, LA 2015
As the winner of the Battle of New Orleans in the War of 1812, and the savior of the city, I can understand why Andrew Jackson would be honored with a special place in the heart of the Big Easy.
He grew up in poverty, but became a cotton planter, relying on the backs of up to 300 slaves for his prosperity. He was also, of course, our 7th President. From that lofty perch he presided over the forced removal of thousands of Native Americans to Indian Territory and bears responsibility for the Trail of Tears. He was a founder of the Democratic Party, which, until the 1960s, was the party of slavery.
His image has been on numerous stamps and graced the twenty dollar bill for as long as I can remember. Lately though, I've heard talk of removing his likeness from the twenty and replacing it with Harriet Tubman, the heroic abolitionist. While it would be nice to see a woman's face on some of our paper currency, one has to wonder about the choice of Tubman. One senses she would understand this "honor" as a defeat, that her image had been co-opted by the masters of capitalism - the system that brought us the slavery she fought against her entire life. The irony of ironies. Better to leave the honor with ol' Andy, or perhaps someone more current and mercenary, say Hillary Clinton.
Two Faces From the Plantation
Whitney Plantation, Wallace, Louisiana 2015.
Rosedown Plantation, St. Francisville, Louisiana, 2015.
From Lee's Levee
From the Levee in Lee Walker's Front Yard, Ninth Ward, New Orleans, LA 2015
Sometimes, when a photographer is lucky and standing in the right spot, when his timing, too, is spot on, he can produce an image that causes a viewer to look twice. It often has to do with framing and point-of-view, and how you transform a three-dimensional subject into a two-dimensional representation on paper or screen. It's part of the magic of photography - the ability to make someone ask, "What is going on here?"
I love pictures that are based in fact, that are believable. I want to come away from a picture and assume what I've just looked at actually happened and has an identifiable reality. But I most like photographs that tell stories, ones that take that reality, that evidence, and give it a twist, a blur, a ghostly presence that encourages more stories, new perspectives, and perhaps different ways of seeing well-worn subjects.
Click the photograph to enlarge, it needs to be big.
Hero - The Honorable John Lewis
Selma, Alabama 2015
Selma, Alabama 2015
One of America's truly sacred spaces and the man who showed us the way across this seemingly unbridgeable gulf. He continues to lead the way today. It was an honor to walk where he and the patriots with him had walked. It was far easier for me - no tear gas, no clubs, no attacking police - just heat and humidity and a town mostly empty of people. Still, the symbolism of this holy place was clear, as was the knowledge we still have much walking to do.
When a Place Reminds You
Highway 212, Olivia, Minnesota, 2015
This for my friend - tie and vest maker, country girl, part of the family - Olivia Shealy. As we drove through this small town in western Minnesota, I could only think of you. It's the Corn Capital after all and you're kind of corny. And I'm sure you grow corn in your garden. We all do. And I think I once saw you wear your hair in a fashion similar to the ear on the building. But I don't know. I think I just saw the name of the town and thought of you, and that was gift enough.
Jamie
Jamie Paul, in my studio, PawPaw, Madison County, NC 2013
It's a rare thing when a person enters your life who profoundly influences you toward new thinking and action. When that happens in one's later years, with the tendency to become fixed in our ways, it's even better. And when the person is young, more than half your age, that's the sweetest of all.
I'm not going to list the details. To do so would make this an extra long post and one of the things Jamie keeps hammering in my head is to keep these ramblings of mine short. The secret is in the edit.
Thank you, Jamie.
Oh, yes, jamiepaulmusic.com
Jamie at Old Ground Farm, Big Pine, Madison County, NC, 2013
Sunset Problems
Sugar Beet Co-operative, Hwy.212, nearing Granite Falls, MN, 2015
At sixty-seven years of age, I've seen many sunsets,
and perhaps even more pictures of sunsets. So many pictures,
that I've long asked "why bother" when faced with a vibrant sky,
begging to be photographed by me.
Does the world really need another to add to the uncountable numbers?
The answer lies in the remembering.
The moment in time.
In the car, 70 MPH, little traffic, and wide open fields,
with only rows of windbreaks to alter the flat horizon.
With Charlie and Brooke to visit a Farm Aid Advocate in Granite Falls.
"I've been to her place before," I say.
All of us jabbering at once. Stories, pieces of information,
"look at that" outbursts.
And the sky, alive and blinding, moving gracefully from electric to muted.
Walking near Granite Falls
Walking near Granite Falls, Minnesota, 2015
High overhead it's bright sun.
Flattening the already flattened landscape.
So subtle a rise just ahead. For an instant,
it's enough to cut off the distant horizon.
1/250th of a second worth.
I'm more interested in the landscape than I used to be.
For years it was always people.
People doing this, people doing that.
But lately, it's the land that has caught my eye.
And held it.
Josh Copus Kiln Firing
Josh Copus checking his kiln, Lower Brush Creek, Madison County, NC 2015
Pleased to be invited to Josh's kiln firing last week and always happy to eat Paul's pizza. Many new people to me, always refreshing to see who is drawn to our county, and why. Lena, the young woman with Josh (below) is from Ukraine. So far away to wind up here.
Josh and Lena making pizza at the kiln firing, with Paul Gurewitz, Lower Brush Creek, Madison County, NC 2015
Finally. . .
Hwy 50 west of Dodge City, Kansas, 2015
Click on image to enlarge
. . .I can use that well-worn phrase about time and place with some degree of knowledge and certitude. Another trip for Farm Aid, this time to a place as different from my spot as any could possibly be. The openness of the sky is unsettling to one used to the mountain's embrace. The waving wheat, and fields ready for planting, stretching as far as my eye could see. The wind, steady and stiff, chilling on a not-so-cold morning walk. Enough talk of Dorothy to keep us glancing at the sky. Combined, on leaving, a sense of getting out of Dodge just in time.