THE ROOSEVELTS

Every night for the past week I have been watching a TV documentary about the Roosevelt's, made by Ken Burns. Fourteen hours of photographs and film clips were enhanced by compelling story line, tracing a hundred years of a family’s legacy and a nation’s journey. Teddy Roosevelt, FDR and Eleanor were the main characters but it embraced their extended family as well. 

I remember when FDR died, I was five years old. Even though memory is subject to err I always understood that the name “Roosevelt” was larger than life. The program was about people more so than the history they lived. It brought up an idea that has been with me for a very long time. The question is, do people rise of their own volition to make history or does history propel people into the mix and their destiny simply plays out? It begs many questions. History, in the short term for sure, is written by the victors and they frame it in their own favor, whatever the case. We use dumbed down, sound-bite logic to explain cause and effect when it comes to big ideas and complicated stories. Most of what we come to believe is based on what we want to believe or what seems to validate our prejudices. The Roosevelt’s were very private people, thrust into a global arena and they lived up to their ideals consistent with how they had been shaped. Their place in history is fixed but their reputations depend on which side of the political divide you stand. Franklin and Eleanor were either loved or hated; they betrayed their own class in favor of a fair, just society that protected the weak and the poor. 

It is interesting how some families, over generations, accumulate not only wealth and power but also assimilate an overarching consciousness that extends beyond that wealth and power. In the Roosevelt’s case it was a responsibility to promote and advance the greater good. Other families amassed great fortunes but never stretched their own purpose beyond the acquisition of more wealth and power. 

Teddy, FDR and Eleanor all realized they were not only in a unique position to influence the path of history but were by nature and disposition, compelled to spend themselves in that cause. I can imagine what that might be like but I can’t imagine myself in their place. The idea that any person can rise to that level of readiness is naive at best. Somewhere in the balance between heredity and acquired personality, equality is an ideal. We are not equal. Dedication and worthy purpose are not enough to insure anything. It’s not that simple.

Franklin and Eleanor identified with and protected vulnerable people from exploitation by the rich and powerful. I don’t think it was a choice as much as it was simply, who they were. I believe we all do that, be who we are. I am simple and small but life has been good to me and mine. We will not make news or history but a hundred years from now it won’t matter. We were here and it was good. 

KEEP COMING BACK

     Back in the days of Kodachrome 400 film I spent forty dollars on a workshop, Photographing Nature. It was at a hotel on the Plaza in Kansas City. I have forgotten the expert’s name and most of what he talked about was beyond my experience. I didn't have a darkroom so that part didn’t help me and correlations between settings were too much to remember, even if I did understand.  I thought I’d take notes but that was naive of me. He had thousands of photographs and a Kodak Carousel projector that flashed images on the screen, one after another, on and on. They were awesome but he went too fast for me to appreciate the object lesson. My eye wasn’t seasoned enough. It’s notable how some sounds are so unique you never forget them. The projector was on a tall stand beside the podium microphone. Everything he said was accompanied by the sound of the cooling fan on the projector and punctuated by the anticipated, three syllable action of slides being changed and advanced. I can hear it inside my head now as if I had one here beside me. 

      In the end I absorbed a couple of good ideas which is pretty good for any workshop. Enough was getting through to keep my attention. When he finished there was an open ended, question and answer session. Someone noted that there was a particular tree that kept popping up in the stream of photographs. The photos were taken from different angles,  different distances; some with the tree a lesser element in the design and others it was the main feature. Even I had noticed the frequent reoccurrence of that tree. Off the cuff he said he had noticed the tree in Jackson Hole, Wyoming in the 50’s. He kept taking photos of it over the years and it gave him a chronological index on the same subject where he could see for himself, how he was growing as an artist. That really resonated with me. It’s when I stopped thinking of myself as a man taking pictures and started thinking about photographs as an art form. 

     I began to think, ‘That’s what I need, a special place to keep coming back.’ Now, thirty years later, I have several favorite places that present wide ranges of opportunity and challenges as well. I keep coming back. Every time, there are changes in the landscape, different light, new angles and the camera sees with new eyes. I spend as much time as I can, reacquaint myself with the setting and look for compelling elements; lines, shapes and color. I don’t know how many photographs I’ve taken of the beach and lighthouse in Grand Haven, Michigan, or in the high meadow just north of Glen Arbor on Michigan Route 22. At Crow Agency in SE Montana, Little Bighorn Battle Field is a powerful place. I’ve only been there four times but it’s on my favorite list and I’ll be taking photos there again. Then in Alaska, where the road splits to either Seward or Homer, Tern Lake is a spot I can not drive by, I have to frame it through my lens, look for flashes of color, reflections in the water or a new array of shadows on the mountain side. I keep coming back.

     North of the river in Kansas City I noticed a hillside that was groomed like a golf course with well spaced, mature trees but it wasn’t a golf course. Behind the hill was a seminary for wannabe preachers. I stopped and took photographs. That was three years ago and I now have a file full of those trees. The way the hill slopes in two different planes makes framing tricky. There is no horizon for reference and the tree trunks lean into the hillside; nothing vertical or horizontal to show level or perpendicular. The whole scenario changes from one extreme to another as the light changes, early to late. I went there this morning to get early morning light and late summer foliage. Someday I want to hang a grouping with that tree through the four seasons. Before I could get the first frame my socks were soaked and my shoes full of water. I made more noise sloshing than the traffic down on the street. Changing lens’ and shuffling things in and out of the camera bag was tedious at times but there were a few photos worth keeping and that’s a good start for the weekend. I be coming back again.

ROADHOUSE

When I’m on a road trip I pay attention to traffic and drive safely but I also look for photo opportunities. Like a moth to the flame I can’t resist lines and angles, something about edges and shapes layered over and under. When I notice something it’s usually too late for scrutiny or a second look. Sometimes I just drive on, other times I juggle possibilities with logic weighing the inconvenience of getting turned around, where to park and the value of the time I’d lose. A well conditioned gut reflex responds in parallel; “. . . was that as good as it looked or were there things in the frame that would spoil it all?” It can take a few seconds or several minutes; I let it go or we turn around and go back. Maybe half the photographs I take on go-backs are worth the trouble. Yesterday I went back. 

Mid morning I was making my way north between Forrest and Carthage, in the middle of Mississippi. Highway 35 is a good two lane with narrow shoulders and deep ditches. Farms and homes, neat and well groomed, you would think the area to be properly gentrified. Traffic was light and I was stretching the speed limit by a few mph. There it was, and there it went. A glance in my mirror didn’t help, too many trees. So began the dialogue; was it as good as it looked or do we keep on going? A mile up the road I saw a turnout in time to slow down. I am a story teller who plays with a guitar and takes photographs. A photograph is a razor thin slice of a greater story and it’s better than nothing but why settle for a slice if you can have it all?

There was a building near the road, under pine trees. It was well maintained but it was old, unpainted. It looked like the office to a camp ground or a store straight out of the Great Depression but there was no camp ground; only a blue, Pepsi Cola machine on the porch to suggest any commerce. A low roofed addition had windows that were boarded up and I couldn’t help myself. I remembered the movie, “A River Runs Through It.” Two boys, sons of a Presbyterian minister, growing up in Montana just after World War I. The older, serious and grounded one goes off to Dartmouth College while the younger, prodigal son (Brad Pitt) stays and becomes a rebellious journalist. Looking for the younger, they found him in a remote speakeasy where people of all races and classes mingled, where whiskey and poker were righteous and the saints left their haloes at the door. But this was Mississippi, nearly a century later. Still, it was all there. Come friday night, I can imagine music of Son House and Robert Johnson from the far end of the boarded up addition. Musicians of another generation but their legacy is still part of Mississippi’s foot print. Baptist deacons and Pentecostal Elders from neighboring counties drive long miles so they can tip long neck bottles and bourbon shots with local sinners. Everybody dances, nobody fights, girls go home with the guys that brought them and the devil’s in the deal. Sunday comes soon enough. 

If it’s not a road house, I still like the story. 

p.s.  Nearly two years ago I posted my first blog entry. It was from Peggy's Cove in Nova Scotia. Today, "Roadhouse" is my 100th blog post. I have several regular followers and I think of you every time. The website records over 5000 hits, from all over the world. I'm not sure how that works but those of you I don't know, I hope you like what you find here.