Little Worlds - The Capitola Mill

One of the first things I noticed when I entered the Glove Plant was that the vast majority of people working were women. There were a few men acting as supervisors or doing the heavy lifting, but the actual work - the sewing, the attention to detail, the sitting in the same position for eight hours a day - was being done by women.

I knew a couple of the women and they, and most of the others, were glad to get the work. There weren’t many jobs available in Madison County in the late 1970s beyond farming and fabric mills provided a steady paycheck. Plus, while the work was hard and monotonous, most people knew one another so there was a sense of family and working with friends.

The Mill has been closed since the early 1990s, but is about to be reborn. The Opening is this Thursday, the 21st, from 5-8 pm. Come take a look.

Marshall Glove Plant, 1979.

Marthie Chandler, the Marshall Glove Plant, 1979.

Little Worlds - The Capitola Mill

In 1979, I was working on a Photo Survey grant from the National Endowment for the Arts. As part of the project I spent a day photographing in the Marshall Glove Plant, where county residents made brown cotton work gloves. The Glove Plant closed in the early 1990s and was basically abandoned. Until now. Pet Whitlock of Mosaic Management in Atlanta has renovated the old Capitola Mill into apartments and studio and office space, bringing the building back to life.

As it turns out my photographs from 1979 are the only existing images of the Glove Plant while it was in operation and Pete is hanging a number of them in the renovated Mill to remind all of us of what once was.

There will be a grand opening of the Capitola Mill on Thursday, October 21, from 5-8 pm. I encourage everyone to come out and revisit a part of Madison County's history.

Little Worlds - Common Ground?

These photographs do not represent the Madison County I have lived in, and loved, for the last forty-seven years. These are not the people I have considered friends and neighbors since I’ve called this place home. Yes, evil and hatred have always been here; they’ve never been hard to find if one took the time to look. But the anger has mostly stayed hidden quietly beneath the surface, occasionally rearing its head in the form of protests against asphalt plants, or “we still pray,” or development. People, neighbors, had learned to be around one another, even though the “other” might have radically different opinions and cultural habits. There was a mutual respect and the knowledge that the “other” would always be there in time of need, like a good neighbor. I sense that attitude has changed. We seem to have lost the ability to be tactful with our differences and find common ground with all our community members.

I think about that often, common ground, and ask what is the common ground within our increasingly diverse population? I start with the mountains themselves. I can say with certainty they are sacred for all of us. We live here because of the mountains and the role they play in our lives. Newcomers and born-in- county residents choose to be here because we all appreciate what the mountains mean to our very existence.

We’re in a bad place now, both in our county and in our country. The divisions are sharper, more pronounced, and the displays of vehemence more blatant and ugly. Groups of people seem unable to accept any outcome they disagree with and invent their own facts to fit any situation. Society cannot function if there is no agreement about what is truth. I fear things will only get worse.

Walking today in the mountains surrounding our home, the dogs chasing squirrels and flushing grouse as we walk, the leaves beginning their change, the light more angular, I’m struck, as always, by the quiet. This million-of-years old granite beneath my feet doesn’t say much. But it does offer stability, firmness, and the belief it will always be here. Its change is so slow and meticulous. Trees age and fall, slabs of rock sheer off, hillsides collapse, all of it happening over time, years, ions.

And I ask, what is the mountain’s message for us?

Main Street, Marshall, NC 9/21

Little Worlds - Our Reality

We want to believe we live in an open and welcoming community. And we do. Madison County and Marshall welcomed me and others over forty years ago and continue to embrace the flocks of new people moving here in recent years. I’ve always felt that openness was one of the county’s best features and certainly something that kept me here.

But I think we are fooling ourselves if we assume everyone thinks this way. They don’t. The signs are everywhere in the county—confederate flags, trump billboards, election signage—all speaking to divisiveness, hate, and fear. This is our reality, this unsettledness and division within our community, and we ignore it at our peril.

Little Worlds - Accidents

Sometimes when you set out to make pictures you’re not satisfied with much of anything you imaged. I set out the other day to make some pictures in town, something I hadn’t done much of lately. There’s a couple of nice portraits I like and many record photographs, evidence so to speak, of some of the changes in town, which feel flat and lacking energy.

So, it interested me that the most visually interesting image of the whole bunch was when I accidentally tripped the shutter as I was getting out of my car. The composition is dynamic, the framing is contained, yet there’s a manic energy within that tight frame. I love the spontaneity. And it’s full of information. Make of my car. It needs a good bath. Leaves in the gutter, so approaching fall. A strap, probably the camera. And that block of color, blue, azule, leading the eye to my seemingly opposite facing feet. What is going on here?

I sometimes suggest to students that they set the self timer on their cameras and trip the shutter as they throw it in the air, just to see what they get. The idea is to loosen up your approach to picture making. Be more intuitive and spontaneous. Respond more to your instincts and less to your head when making pictures. You might be surprised by what you get. I know that I often am. It’s like life.

Little Worlds - At Paul and Laurie's

Scott Pilar’s Hair and Steve Davidowski’s Hands, Music/Pizza night at Paul and Laurie’s, 2021, Anderson Branch.

Sometimes when making pictures you don’t see the possibilities of two images working together until well after the making. Maybe on a contact sheet, or in front of the computer, does one see the potential of placing two pictures together. This combination isn’t perfect, the space between the images needs to be removed, but I haven’t figured out how to do that on Squarespace. It works much better on my Facebook page. <https://www.facebook.com/rob.amberg>

I like the individuality of each image, they speak to documentary moments. But when squeezed together, boundaries touching, they become something else. Still those facts, that evidence, but now with a surreal, but almost believable, look.

Little Worlds

Come to the Old Marshall Jail Hotel and Bar on Thursday, June 17, from 4 to 8 for an Open House where you will be able to see this photograph, along with artifacts, memorabilia, art, and community bricks. Josh and Emily Copus have created a work of art that speaks to Madison County’s history and culture and illustrates the vibrant renewal of downtown Marshall, Madison’s County Seat.

Little Worlds

I’m honored to have this photograph, along with four others, hanging in the renovated Old Marshall Jail. The photograph is of convicted murderers Philip Turpin and Lorenzo ‘Crews being led from the Courthouse back to the jail.

In the renovated jail, now a hotel and bar, Josh and Emily Copus have included the photograph along with artifacts that turn this singular image into a piece of Madison County history. In this case the history presented is one of the more notorious crimes in the county, one that shook us to our core.

At the Madison County Jail Hotel and Bar

One amazing piece of history that I didn’t know, but learned because of Josh and Emily’s research is that one of the murder victims was a man named Bennie Hudgins. It seems Mr. Hudgins spent May 17 and 18, 1970, in the Madison County jail and during his time there etched this message onto a metal plate that is next to the photograph and other artifacts. A true blending of art and history.

Josh and Emily will be hosting an Open House at the renovated jail on June 17 from 4 to 8. So come to the Old Marshall Jail Hotel and Bar and learn a bit of our history and thank them for their efforts to keep our history alive.

Little Worlds - The Chinook

The Chinook - Still remarkably unsightly, but carrying an all important message.

PawPaw, Madison County, NC 04-23-21

Benny is 41 Today

Benny at the Rat House, Marshall, NC 1985

I’m sure most parents say this, but it’s hard for me to believe I have a child who is forty-one years old.

This picture was made when Benny was five. I was newly single and struggling to get my photography work in front of people. We moved a lot in those first years—the cabin on Big Pine, downtown Marshall in a converted warehouse space, The Rat House, a house in Asheville, an apartment in Durham, and finally closing the circle and moving back to Big Pine. We did this in four years.

Benny was a trooper throughout and I look back at our time together then with fondness. Time at the beach, marching in Civil Rights Rallies, playing in Wilson Cove Branch on Big Pine, train rides.

The Rat House is not one of those fond memories. The place was fine when we moved in, but within weeks we were seeing rat droppings and then rats most mornings. We set out bait, and traps, and knocked them back for a few weeks, but they always returned, in seemingly greater numbers, and wise to our defenses. We moved.

I bring this up because Benny and I are dealing with rats again. Benny at his house in Portland and us in our barn on Paw Paw. Again, we set out bait and traps. We moved our chickens to a rat-proof enclosure and removed access to their food sources. We await warm weather and the awakening of the two black snakes who live in the barn. Benny called an exterminator who set traps and bait. That first morning he called to say he had caught three baby rats in one trap, all craving their first, and last, taste of peanut butter.

The Last Day of Women's History Month

I’ve thought a lot about what to write on this, the last day of Women’s History Month. Although I’ve written about my maternal grandmother before on this blog, I could think of no other person more important to my history than her. Jennie Lozupone Galeano.

She was born in Gioia del Colle, Italy, and migrated to this country with her family in 1906. In that regard her story is no different than the millions of immigrants who came to the United States fleeing poverty and political strife, all looking for opportunity and a better life.

She married young to a Sicilian immigrant, Joe Galeano, and they had four children in quick succession. Along the way she discovered she had a gift with her hands and began working in Jimmy Bello’s tailor shop in downtown Washington. There, she made suits for Franklin Roosevelt and robes for the Supreme Court justices, along with dresses and suits for her grandchildren.

She and Joe fashioned a good life. Sunday dinners with family and friends, poker games on Saturday night (my grandmother loved cards, and bingo, and the racetrack), and enough money to buy a house in suburban Maryland. My mother would tell a story of coming home from school, or her job, and finding her parents sitting at the kitchen table, a open jar of hot peppers and a bottle of anisette between them, both of them laughing and sweating like there was no tomorrow.

That proved to be the case for my grandfather who died from Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever in the summer of 1948, when I was six months old. They had just bought their house on University Boulevard and Gram immediately understood the difficulty she would have paying the mortgage. So, my parents, with me in tow, moved in with her so she could keep her house. My mother went back to her government job and my grandmother became my caregiver for the next three or four years.

During that time my grandmother imprinted with me: the memory of her childhood in Puglia, her accent and mix of Italian and English, the smells and tastes of her food, her belief in family. Much of that has stayed with me to this day. Four years ago when Leslie and I visited Italy, we stopped briefly in Gioia del Colle and I was struck by how familiar and comfortable the place felt, even though I’d never been there before. I can only understand that as genetic memory, my grandmother’s imprint on my young mind.

Jennie eventually went back to work at the tailor shop until it closed. She continued sewing for us kids and later made vestments for the priests in our Catholic parish. As she aged, her eyesight began to fail so she shifted to crochet, making multi-colored Afghans, which she called “Africans” because her language couldn’t quite comprehend the word “Afghan.”

She gifted me the first one she made and, to this day, I sleep under it every night, secure in my memory of her and the history she bequeathed to me.

Week 4, Women's History Month, Mothers

Without Mothers,

There Would Be No History

Madison County, North Carolina

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Madison County, North Carolina

Madison County, North Carolina

Madison County, North Carolina

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Charlotte, North Carolina

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Madison County, North Carolina

Madison Coumty, North Carolina

Week 3, Women's History Month

Madame Lili Kraus, Burnsville, NC 1978.

The Asheville area has always been a bastion for the Arts. From writers—Charles Frazier, Thomas Wolfe, and O. Henry—to musicians—Robert Moog, Warren Haynes, and Doug Wallin—to visual artists—Will Henry Stevens, George Masa, and Julyan Davis—and many, many more—Asheville has produced or attracted a plethora of incredible artists.

One of the more amazing, but little known, artists, a musician I had never heard of, was Madame Lili Kraus, who lived her last few years in Burnsville and died in Asheville in 1986. Kraus was considered the foremost interpreter of Mozart during her career. She was born in Budapest in 1903 and studied in Vienna and Berlin before beginning an international touring and teaching career. While playing in Java at the beginning of World War II, she and her family were incarcerated by the Japanese and held in concentration camps until the end of the war. She resumed her career after that, playing thousands of concerts around the world and recording over a hundred albums. She eventually settled in Fort Worth, Texas, where she became the long-term artist in residence at Texas Christian University.

In addition to her musicianship, Kraus was also fluent in seven languages, a formidable athlete, and a fierce lover of life. I thank Martha Abshire, the founder and publisher of the Asheville Arts Journal, for sending me to Kraus’s farm outside of Burnsville, where I spent an afternoon walking in her gardens and receiving a private concert from the master.

Week 2, Women’s History Month

Eva Wolfe, Cherokee, NC 1985

Eva Wolfe was a master Cherokee basketmaker. She was born in the Soco community of the Qualla Boundary in 1922 and lived and worked most of her life in the Big Cove community, where she died in 2004. Wolfe mastered the intricate double weave tradition that utilized rivercane in her baskets. She often used over 100 strips of cane in one basket, which were dyed with native plants, such as bloodroot and the roots of the butternut tree. Wolfe was the recipient of numerous awards for her work including the North Carolina Heritage Award from the NC Arts Council, the Brown-Hudson Award from the NC Folklore Society. In 1969, Wolfe’s baskets were part of an exhibition at the Renwick Gallery, part of the Smithsonian Institution, in Washington, DC.

I was fortunate to photograph Ms. Wolfe twice—once for the Qualla Arts and Crafts Mutual in Cherokee and later for the NC Arts Council. In addition to her amazing baskets, Wolfe raised eleven children, raised a huge garden, and was a noted community elder. Her double weave baskets continue a fading tradition.

Thank you, Anna Fariello of Western Carolina University, for the excerpts from her book, Cherokee Basketry: From the Hands of Our Elders.

The Long Hiatus

I see that my last post was July, 2020, a long time away from this blog. It’s hard to say why I stopped—Covid, boredom, depression, simply nothing to say. For the longest time I’ve wondered if the world would continue. I’m sure many of you have felt the same way. But I’m ready to return to the fold. I’ve had my two shots and can see a light at the end of the tunnel. The world will go on and I, once again, will likely have something to say about it. So, thank you for your patience. Shots, or not, wear your mask. Keep your distance, but hug your grandchildren. Be careful. Be safe. It’s still the same old world, but it feels entirely new. Perhaps what is new is our appreciation of the old.

The "Stay at Home" Pictures

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On Anderson Branch, 2020

I so tire of this shit.
I’m walking and come around one of the many steep, hidden bends on my route.
It’s pleasant - not too hot, or cold.
The dogs are with me and they’re behaving,
Not chasing cars.
And then, there it is.
Evidence of yet another asshole in this world.
Someone who thinks they can dump their crap wherever they like.
Too lazy, or too cheap, to go to the landfill.
No respect for others, or the land itself.
I just don’t understand.

The "Stay at Home" Pictures

When I first moved to Madison County, it seemed to my suburban self that the county moved on “slow time.” People spoke slowly and their movements were deliberate and purposeful. No one got in a hurry. I was more impatient. Over time, and with age, I’ve begun to learn the art of “slow time.” But, ironically, it’s the county that now moves at a faster pace. We’re busy all the time, with no time to visit or share a meal. There are times of the day when traffic on the bypass is unruly. We allow ourselves no time to appreciate the beauty in which we live.

Our imposed and necessary isolation has served to put all of us on “slow time.” We’re at home more and on the road less. Learning to entertain ourselves, we’re gardening more. Walking. Reading. Making music. Learning the nature of quiet. I’ve read that with people driving less, air pollution has dropped significantly worldwide. And absent the daily docking of cruise ships, Venice Bay has cleared and dolphins have returned to the canals. There are lessons here we should heed.

I mourn the loss of physical contact with people. We had a rash of visits just before the shut down and I wonder when we’ll be able to do it again. At the same time, while shut off from closeness, it seems that we’re having more conversations - in person at six feet, and by phone, and email, and zoom. And we’re talking with people we haven’t spoken to in years. It seems everyone feels the same urgency to be in touch, perhaps concerned it could be our last contact.

Now, three months in, I, like many of my friends, wonder when it will end. Will I ever hug again? Will I ever be able to go to a store without worry? At my advanced age, I ask if I’ll ever travel again. How will this change us? How has it changed us already?

The "Stay at Home" Pictures

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Peace, PawPaw, 2020.

PEACE!

Where you least expect to find it.

The "Stay at Home" Pictures

In 1987 I was on staff with the Rural Advancement Fund, a non-profit, farm advocacy organization with a field office in Pittsboro, North Carolina. In addition to working with small, family farmers throughout the two Carolinas, RAF also ran a Justice Project in rural Robeson County in the southeast corner of the state.

Robeson County’s population is one-third white, one-third African-American, and one-third Lumbee Indian and racial strife has long been an issue. The County is noted for the Battle Hayes Pond, which took place in 1958, when hundreds of Lumbee confronted the Ku Klux Klan and ran them out of the county as they were attempting to stir animosity among the races. Despite the positive outcome of that situation, the County has been plagued by unsolved murders and extra-judicial killings throughout its history. The photographs here are from a Justice Rally in the county seat of Lumberton, demonstrating against the killing of Jimmy Earl Cummings, a native-American man, by the county Sheriff’s Department.

For obvious reasons these images have been on my mind for the last few weeks. I look at them and see faces, and signs, and situations that could easily be transposed to today’s world. And I think, I made these pictures thirty-three years ago, and yet, here we are, fighting the same battles, with the same adversaries, demanding the same basic rights, freedoms, and respect. And certainly, this fight has been going on a lot longer than that. And the battle doesn’t seem to be ending anytime soon.

Often, the most simple observation is the most prescient. And I keep coming back to Rodney King, who asked with an almost childlike wonder, “Can we all get along?”

Happy 4th of July.

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Lumberton, NC, 1987.

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Lumberton, NC 1987

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Lumberton, NC 1987

The "Stay at Home" Pictures

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Our Pasture, PawPaw, Madison County, NC 04/20

These days
With time suspended
Not knowing one day from the next
Mind muddled from the effort of keeping track
Easily confused
Surrendering to the lethargy.
Why bother?

I mean, will we even be here in a year, six months?

Solace comes from our pasture and
The woods around it.
The daily changes in light and tone.
Bursts of green after a rain
Followed by heavy mists that give the Smokey Mountains their name.
Drought that drives even the grass to crackle.

The longer movements come season to season.
The deep shadows of fall that open to
The long visions of winter.
The smell of spring.
The breathlessness of summer.

Yet for all the change,
Both long and short,
There is the sense that
Nothing changes.
Maybe this is particular to the time in which we are living.
But what if it isn’t?
What if it will always be as it is now?
What if it always has been?