Many regions in the world boast artists in long-term residence whose
work, over time, becomes a widely accepted aesthetic archetype of local
scenery. Giverny had its Monet, Venice its Tintoretto, Japan its
Hiroshige and New Mexico its O'Keeffe.
Where I grew up, the most
eloquent visual documentarian was Ansel Adams, whose striking portraits
of
Yosemite and the Sierras captured the majestic geography of
California in a way no other artist could. His images were iconic
emblems of rugged western terrain and, for me, certain particularly
familiar pictures such as "Moon and Half Dome" were as moving and
meaningful as the American flag.
Having been exposed to his exquisite oeuvre at an early age, however, my standards for what constitutes a truly compelling photograph of nature have always been inordinately high. His compositional valor, nuanced light and meticulous clarity have always remained unrivalled, in my mind; that is, until my recent encounter with the work of Ron Rosenstock, on view through July 27 at the Vermont Center for Photography in Brattleboro.
Rosenstock has been something of a global artist in residence for 40 years, since studying with eminent black-and-white photographer Minor White before earning a master's degree in photography from Plainfield's Goddard College in 1977. He has traveled around the globe, capturing shifting patterns of light in Italy, towering mountain ranges in New Zealand, spindly rows of trees in Nepal, rocky surf off the coast of Ireland and the sweeping valleys of Peru.
All of his images attain that same razor-sharp detail, potent composition and intuitive sense of light that makes Adam's work extraordinary, so when I recently spoke with Rosenstock it made perfect sense to learn that the man himself had been a core influence, particularly with regard to technical issues.
"I used to write to him in the '60s," he said. "I was doing large format and there was no help line like today. He was so generous in responding all the time and I still have the correspondence."
In those days, most photographers used a condenser enlarger, but a new type — called a coldhead enlarger — was beginning to gain popularity. "Ansel was a real proponent of the coldhead, which has a different light source and feel to the photo. He gave a talk at Boston University in 1972, and when we met he convinced me, so I got one and have used it all these years."
Adams' advice has served him well. Rosenstock's portfolio is an exquisite record of the frequent treks he makes to remote corners and renowned destinations, often in the context of photography tours that he has been guiding since 1969.
One would think that the Taj Mahal couldn't be any more mesmerizing than it already is in person or in full color and yet, as seen through his lens in a 1996 image, it takes on an ethereal fragility in soft, silvery hues behind a scrim of milky mist.
Each Rosenstock image compels the viewer to examine every inch. "Himalayan Horizon," from 1994, blends grandeur with simplicity, employing massive peaks that touch whiffs of clouds in the distance as a dramatic backdrop to a small, delicate tree in the foreground. In "Bunowen Beach, County Mayo, Ireland," from 1979, imposing black rocks are skirted by a fine white sea spray under weighty, roiling cloudcover. "Torre Guelfa, Florence", 1995, depicts an arched window casting a stark geometric pool of light over an empty interior stairwell.
All of his work exudes a meditative silence, an inexorable reverence for his subject suggesting that he invests a significant amount of time crafting each picture. His compositions are uncomplicated yet abundant with detail that pulls the viewer in beyond initial forms into the far reaches of a setting. Far off mountain ranges are as riveting as the ripples of a sand dune spilling off the front edge of the paper and the shadowy carvings atop a Venetian gable draw the eye just as powerfully as the luminescent streetlamps glowing in the piazza below.
Minor White once said, "Be still with yourself until the object of your attention affirms your presence," and his guidance is evident in all of Rosenstock's work, including this latest series, which heralds his decision to explore a very different creative process.
After four decades of black-and-white photography, shot either on his trusty but hefty Deardorff 8-by-10 or the lighter field camera he switched to in the '80s, this current exhibit reveals a distinct technological departure: The show is in color and taken with a digital camera.
It's a shift that a number of photographers I know have made, albeit tentatively, and often only temporarily, and I was curious what moved Rosenstock to consider it.
"Basically, I got into it because on the tours that I lead, people started bringing digital cameras," he explained. "I had to learn — I'm the expert and I didn't even know how to turn one on, but then I got excited about the possibilities."
When I asked why he'd waited, his response was candid and eloquent. "Two things kept me from getting into it: fear and ignorance. Fear of being a beginner again after 40 years of being a photographer and ignorance that it works differently from traditional film cameras."
"But once you learn the basics," he continued, "you get back to your own visualization, you find yourself again through a different technique, so that comfort level comes back. It's a flirtation with color just because I've never done it before. It's like having a new toy to play with."
Because the exhibit, as well as "Journeys," the latest of his four limited-edition photography books, is in color, I was interested in what he had to say about the aesthetic challenges that must have presented, as well as the notion that so many photographers today work solely in color.
"Having the foundation of black and white is far better because you're really seeing the composition and the balance of dark to light. There's more shape, design, texture and awareness of the light in black and white."
And yet this foray into color clearly invigorates Rosenstock. "I'm just delighted with this new technology and the fact that I can continue working with older negatives. I'm finishing a project now that I started 30 years ago, of Stonehenge and other rock circles. I was never happy with the size of the prints I could make — 16 inches by 20 inches was as big as I could go and now I can make 24 inch by 30 inches. There's still a lot of energy you can feel. It's really quite magical."
With color, Rosenstock retains his sensitive handling of light and detail in the context of everything from orange peels draped against an inky blue Moroccan wall to a double rainbow in Iceland.
There is a bold, seasoned serenity in all of Rosenstock's work that is borne of consummate visual criteria. It comes through when he pairs monumental geographic scale with quiet signs of human presence, as in "Church at Vik, Iceland", 2006, in which a red-roofed house of worship is dwarfed against the parched lower slopes of Iceland's natural grandeur. It is just as evident in his lush, impressionistic portrait, "Vineyard Leaves, Tuscany", 2006, or the Escheresque scalloped doorways of "Arches in Arches, Hassan II Mosque, Casablanca", 2006.
Whether black and white or color, Rosenstock's vision galvanizes diverse cultures, locations and natural elements together into a powerful body of work that is sage and astute, yet always evolving.
He will speak at the Vermont Center for Photography at 7 p.m. July 17.
It was called "Love Letters To Vermont" and it was the first book I'd
ever opened in the sole Vermont bookstore I'd ever browsed through
during the exploratory trip that my family and I made here years ago
when we were considering moving to New England.
Insightful, bold, graceful and captivating, author Elayne Clift had put into sharp focus the place I'd heard so much about and that I have since come to cherish. From seasons to cemeteries, people to pastimes, her descriptions of life in Vermont — written from the perspective of a fellow urban refugee — were enticing, endearing and humorously blunt.
Also on the shelf was a book of Clift's poems, "Other People, Other Lands." Upon opening it, my eyes instantly fell upon a quintessentially northeast topic.
The good news is: It's mud season.
The copious sooted snow
banked against the side of the road for months now;
will soon melt into the warming earth.
The poem went on to exquisitely elucidate the budding of spring and then when I saw that the next stanza opened with "The bad news is: It's mud season," that clinched it — Vermont was for me. That singular amalgam of wry wit, staunch pragmatism and abiding tenderness was more than charming — it felt like home. And I already had a favorite local writer.
As serendipity would have it and in the spirit of full disclosure, Elayne Clift and I are now in a book group together and have become good friends. Her robust joie de vivre, rich intellect and glorious command of the English language never fail to inspire me, as a writer and a woman. Clift is not only a prolific author, she is also a forward-thinking feminist who constantly utilizes the immense wisdom she gained while on front lines of the first wave in order to champion the smartest choices for girls and women now. She is an eclectic, indefatigable powerhouse with an expansive, compassionate and refreshingly feisty perspective, who — per the unspoken Law of Tenacity in Vermont — wears many professional hats and has accomplished much.
In no particular order, she has degrees in English, psychology and health communications; taught at numerous distinguished academic institutions, including Yale, George Washington University and Emerson College; traveled the globe, lived on three continents and written about all of it; produced more than a dozen books of short stories, memoirs, poetry and nonfiction; been a guest expert for various media outlets, such as MacNeil/Lehrer and NPR; and contributed reportorial and opinion pieces to a long roster of publications, from The Washington Post to The Christian Science Monitor. She has also been happily married for 36 years and has two adult children.
When we sat down to talk about her work, my first quest was to find out what motivates her to accomplish so very much — and where I can get some of that mojo.
"The two philosophies that have guided me," she reflected, "are 'Change is the only reality' and 'To thine own self be true.'" Greek philosopher Heraclites and trusty W. S. would surely be proud to note that she has evinced their wisdom many times over.
On the topic of change, well, it has to be said, she wrote the book. Raised in New Jersey by Russian Jewish immigrants, Clift has endured great hardship and enjoyed hard-earned success, from caring for her gravely ill mother throughout her childhood and then working as a medical secretary to becoming program director at the National Women's Health Network in Washington, D.C., being appointed to the FDA Consumer Consortium, testifying before Congress and serving as a Vermont humanities scholar.
Throughout all of it, one aspect of Clift's life hasn't changed and that's writing, which became a steady drive early on and has guided her unquenchable thirst for new, meaningful experiences ever since.
"I've always written," she attests. "When I was about 7, I remember going to a five-and-dime store in Woodbury, New Jersey, and telling the clerk 'I want the biggest tablet you have … because I'm going to write a book.'"
Gloria Steinem once said "Writing is the only thing that, when I do it, I don't feel I should be doing something else." Clift concurs.
"I used to love term papers, to deconstruct how to write a paper, that's how seriously writing appealed to me. The first thing I ever submitted was a poem to the Saturday Evening Post when I was 13. It got rejected." With a hearty chuckle, she adds, "But I still think it's a good poem."
Elayne didn't let the rejection stop her and has an abundance of tomes to prove it, with fascinating titles such as "Telling It Like It Is: Reflections of a Not So Radical Feminist," "To New Jersey, With Love and Apologies," "Women, Philanthropy and Social Change: Visions For a Just Society," "The Limits of Love" and "Demons Dancing In My Head." They all reveal the breadth and depth of a remarkably varied life that is as diverse as ever these days.
Her latest book, "Achan: A Year of Teaching in Thailand," describes in buoyant, nuanced and candid detail her experience living in Chiang Mai in the north while teaching courses on creative writing, oral presentation and gender issues at Payap University. Clift is clearly one of those travelers who squeezes all she can out of every adventure and who chronicles them with minute and broad strokes to convey the full flavor of a place.
"Achan" — which means teacher in Thai — is a resonant, satiating and intimate homage to the complexities and beauty of Thai culture, from her small flat with its outdoor kitchen and the constant tapestry of sounds wafting in from a bustling neighborhood to excursions through the lush, vibrant countryside outside Chiang Mai, all of which she diligently recorded throughout her stay.
"As we drive on, we see 'the real Thailand.' The hills are planted with corn and other crops, poinsettias grow wild, trees with yellow and red blossoms dot the winding road, villagers trudge up the hills in colorful tribal dress. Lanna-style houses built of teak wobble on their stilts and chickens, goats, and dogs congregate beneath them. Children with shiny black hair and ready smiles gaze curiously at the three strange women in the black car."
In discussing Thailand, Clift is as impassioned about the philosophy as the inhabitants and landscape. "I was always attracted to the whole notion of impermanence and I really embraced that in Thailand," she explains. "It's like a deep meditation and really living in the moment and being able to let go, because nothing is permanent. I knew it wasn't going to last forever, so I lived for the day, not in an excited, conscious way, but I just lived."
I asked if she was able to bring those sensibilities back to Vermont with her. "To a certain extent, it has stuck with me, but I had a difficult adjustment because when you have an experience like that, living in a different culture, it's really hard to come back. Same thing happened when I returned from working in England. I couldn't adjust at first."
That tough reentry hasn't stopped Clift from revisiting what has become a sacred place where she forged precious friendships and a deep sense of belonging. She leaves for Thailand in a few weeks, where she will again become "Achan."
Having read galleys of her first full novel, "Hester's Daughters," which is under review by publishers, I'm an even more avid fan of the engaging lucidity with which all her edifying observations are infused, whether in the form of creative nonfiction, sublime poetry, astute commentaries or vividly crafted fiction.
Clift is a woman with a great deal to say and, as far back as she can remember, she's been opinionated and vocal. "In junior high, we had to take home ec and sewing and I hated sewing and couldn't do it, so I got sent to the principal," she laughs. "I'm outspoken, decidedly feminist and I refuse to be silenced or marginalized or have other women silenced or marginalized. I truly have always had a social justice thing. I have always been a crusader."
Online: www.elayneclift.com
Annie: annieguyoncommunications.com
Coming back from the left coast would have been easier if another 8
feet of snow had arrived in our absence but somehow, returning to what
must be about the fifth mud-season so far this year, was harder. I'm
starting to think it's a meteorological fifth dimension, with a groovy
theme to go with it (sing along, everyone): "When the mud, is all
around the house, and furniture is lined with soil."
When mud is all around the house, the yard, the sidewalks and the state, my tendency each weekend is to find fun things to do in places that are, by definition, dirt-free, and what better destination than museums? As mentioned herein last week, Vermont is home to a constellation of intriguing creative institutions filled with far more than just fine art.
There's the American Precision Museum, the Birds of Vermont Museum, the Cornish Colony Museum, the New England Transportation Museum, the Shelburne Museum and even the American Museum of Fly Fishing. Rumor has it there even used to be a Vermont Wax Museum renowned for its revolving Elvis but, alas, he's left the turntable as the place is now closed. The mind boggles at what else might have been in there … a marble-eyed Hetty Green savoring her fortune or an ashen Ethan Allen being charged with treason?
The top of my unconventional museums list, however — the mother of all treasure troves — is the Fairbanks Museum in St. Johnsbury. Vermont's much-celebrated field-trip favorite boasts more than 160,000 natural science, historical and cultural objects that 19th-century industrialist Franklin Fairbanks collected during extensive travels around the globe. Overflowing with everything from Victorian dolls, Egyptian sarcophagi and rare gemstones to paintings, textiles, farm tools and taxidermy — not to mention a planetarium and weather station — the Fairbanks is an ideal place to take friends and family for a remarkably engaging day steeped in vicarious sightseeing and international geographic illumination.
Soaking up this diverse collection is tantamount to taking a slightly surreal jaunt to other continents, distant cultures and past eras, an experience both abundant and intimate, if not occasionally daunting. During my first visit a while back with my daughter's class to what looks from the outside like a Victorian castle, I entered the massive main room, with its barrel-vaulted oak ceiling, and was instantly transfixed by a startling tableau. Just through the main doors, a towering stuffed polar bear the size of a minivan rears up on his hind legs in frozen, bared-ivories rage, dwarfing a massive grizzly and two black bears nearby.
Taxidermy isn't everyone's cup of tea but there is something profoundly stirring, albeit a tad spine-chilling, about being able to examine such gorgeous, colossal creatures up-close and personal. Watching bears on the Discovery Channel or pacing inside far-off cages surrounded by cement moats affords a modicum of enlightenment, of course, yet this was the first time I'd ever been in such close proximity to a species that's universally feared and revered, and it gave me a whole new perspective on their plight.
When I spoke to the Fairbanks Museum's Anna Rubin, she revealed that my reaction was not uncommon and also offered crucial and informative insights into the singular passion and purpose of Mr. Fairbanks who, I gathered, was something of an amateur Darwin of his milieu.
"The practice of collecting natural specimens in the late 1800s was not perceived in the same way we might look at it today," she explained. "It was really in the cause of science and wanting to preserve these animals so they could be studied and protected. All the pieces in the museum are from that era."
Before establishing the museum in 1891, he regularly invited the public into his home to see his "cabinet of curiosity" in which he displayed his eclectic collection, which contains items of international, national and regional interest. One of my favorite displays was on the second-floor balcony, which is brimming with shelves, cabinets and cases of antique dolls, vintage toys and various household and historical artifacts.
Inside a low vitrine is a group of personal possessions dating from the Civil War. I was particularly moved by a small, lovingly handmade sewing kit, given by a local 15-year-old girl to her sweetheart before he left to fight. One can only assume it was found out on a battleground, and the inclusion of that kind of human iconography in the context of a museum containing more than 3,000 natural specimens reflects Fairbanks' holistic view of the world and its inhabitants.
Fairbanks would come back from his trips with assorted pelts, weapons, insects, photographs, costumes, shells and other discoveries that could help to edify his friends and colleagues back in Vermont. Having inherited great wealth from his uncle, who invented the platform scale and founded the Fairbanks Scale Co., Franklin Fairbanks was committed to giving back to his hometown and integrated his own zeal for travel into this impulse.
"He was like many Victorian civic-minded family members who felt a real love for the community," said Rubin. "He wasn't a scientist or scholar but out of a deep appreciation for nature, he brought to this isolated part of New England these views of animals and visions of other parts of the world."
Working with local, self-taught taxidermist William Balch, Fairbanks eventually built a museum to house his finds, an eccentric landscape unto itself, filled with recreations of the flora and fauna that he'd come to cherish in places he knew most of his friends, family and neighbors would never see.
Balch proved to be an innovator in exhibit design as well, crafting lush, convincing dioramas in which he placed the exotic creatures he'd carefully preserved, deftly utilizing materials of the day, such as linen (this was long before plastic's time) to create the illusion of natural habitats. With the same scientific authenticity and remarkable eye for detail that was being employed in New York City's Natural History Museum right around the same time, Balch was, as Rubin reverently put it, "at the cutting edge of interpreting the natural world."
Together, the two men filled custom-made wood-and-glass cases with meticulously arranged environments, including a truly exquisite display of what is thought to be the world's largest collection of hummingbirds. With 131 shimmering specimens presented on realistic-looking trees, replete with nests, under glass at eye-level, it is yet another of the museum's many breathtaking exhibits.
Everyone at the museum clearly venerates Mr. Fairbanks' pioneering sensibilities and generosity of spirit, and with good reason. Though through our 21st-century lens we might consider a room full of posed animals in ersatz environs to be tacitly un-P.C., everything Rubin taught me about Fairbanks' motivations and expansive thinking as a true animal lover convinced me that, were he alive today, he'd probably be out there picketing for PETA and holding fund-raisers for Greenpeace.
The entire collection of the Fairbanks Museum is a manifestation of its founder's global sensibilities, which were evident in his respect for cultural diversity, an abiding love of nature and a staunch devotion to the stewardship of all the world's creatures. It is sobering and inspiring to realize that his visionary achievements pre-saged the very issues with which the human race now struggles, on so many fronts.
Eloquently summing up the magnitude of Fairbanks' accomplishments, Rubin said it best: "The museum is a timepiece, about the Victorian understanding of the natural world and the awesome beauty of these creatures."
Online: www.fairbanksmuseum.org
Postcard from California: Absence makes the art more cherished
I remember her saying the exact same thing while gazing up at Andy Warhol's huge, high-contrast, vividly hued portraits at the Brattleboro Museum and Art Center's exhibit four years ago. Likewise, her brother thought Spheris Gallery's show of Donald Saaf and Julia Zanes' fanciful paintings in Bellows Falls a while back was "totally cool" and he's made the same assessment in front of a few über-hip west coast walls throughout this vacation.
This morning, when we stopped in at a high-end gallery up the street — one of San Francisco's top purveyors of contemporary art where years ago I was co-director — they said the paintings, which were all minimalist squares of glossy enamel, were boring and that they liked Vermont art more. I have to admit, I agree, though I'm surprised by my somewhat blasé reaction to the breadth of wild art here because usually when I come out I'm a hopeless culture vulture.
Here in this crowded, costly cultural oasis, where we've seen a number of off-the-grid exhibits during a fun and fulfilling visit to the Bay Area from where we moved to Vermont seven years ago, I've actually found the art scene more irksome than iconic. I thought I'd be a veritable sponge, soaking up every ounce of S.F.'s world-class art exhibits, illustrious literary heritage and renowned music scene but in the three years since our last visit, something in me has changed. To put it simply, it's because of this column.
When I first approached Randal Smathers, the Rutland Herald's fearless editor, with the idea of writing a regular spotlight on Southern Vermont arts and culture, part of me was unsure as to whether there really was enough going on to merit a weekly column. Oh, me of little faith, my worries couldn't have been more unfounded, for there is so very much happening in the lower Green Mountains that I quickly learned it was far more a question of what not to write about than finding something good to cover.
In the nearly two years since the Sover Scene was born, I've become well-versed in the oodles of galleries, museums, literary centers, music venues, playhouses, move theaters, dance events, book stores, CD shops and sundry cultural festivals, forums, summits and sanctuaries that thrive in the region.
I remember that, prior to our big move out east, some of my friends and associates here were worried that I'd be culturally isolated with not enough intellectual stimulation to feed my thirsty, artsy soul. Heck, I wondered too, fretting that perhaps all the fascinating online arts organizations that had inspired me to explore Vermont as a potential home would prove to be little more than empty ethereal promises of a culturally rich existence.
Yet within, oh, all of 20 hours after rolling into Vermont, those fears were duly allayed, for on our first drive around Bellows Falls we ended up in a gallery on Canal Street watching a Nigerian dancer perform to live traditional drumming. I recall looking down at my kids' upturned faces, their mouths and eyes open wide at the beautiful, bead-festooned man shaping the air with elegant arms and pounding the floor with strong, sinewy legs to a pulsing djembe accompaniment. I remember thinking, "They aren't going to miss out on anything."
That was just the beginning of my edification on the diverse creative happenings that take place in Vermont on a regular basis, from international film festivals and pivotal fine art retrospectives to premier performances starring eminent actors and informative lectures by distinguished political experts.
During this trip out west, I've not only been reminded that Vermonters are in no way deprived of top-notch creative and intellectual resources, but have also come to appreciate one crucial element of the cultural experience that makes every exhibit and performance far more powerful and pleasant: access.
Take my trip here, to one of the most popular destinations for Bay Area art lovers, for example. Though I drove only a few miles from where I'm staying at a friend's house near Golden Gate Park, it took me 40 minutes to get here and 20 minutes to find parking, which, like the museum entrance fee itself, cost $12. So with an hour of gasoline and another 20 minutes looking for parking at the other end, just getting to the museum door and back is a two-hour, $30-plus venture. Then there's the $2.50 cups of coffee here in the café, but don't get me started.
Though the exhibits themselves are exquisitely curated and displayed, the epic black marble lobby seems more like a cavernous corporate atrium than a museum and I was not surprised when, upon entering, my son asked, "Where's the art?" Good question. After scaling three flights of a dramatic central staircase that's floodlit by a massive round skylight, we finally found the art, but, having been spoiled by the less ostentatious yet equally high-caliber venues back home, such as the Southern Vermont Arts Center, the Bennington Museum and BMAC, the trek seemed absurd.
The show we finally found was interesting, however, and the kids liked it. "America By Car," an expansive series of Lee Friedlander's black-and-white photographs, documents a trip throughout the United States with multi-faceted images that use car mirrors and windows to reframe various corners of the country in inventive, thought-provoking ways.
Afterward, we headed over to the Exploratorium, a hands-on science and discovery museum replete with inventors' lab and "Tactile Dome," but, again, the congested streets, parking hassle and steep entrance fee sure took the sheen off the experience for me and, once inside, I noticed that the kids seemed far less engaged than when we go Norwich's Montshire Museum. With its enlightening, interactive exhibits on nature, astronomy, science and the environment and a great educational program, not to mention the outdoor water sculpture garden, hiking trails and groovy fog machine (which, admittedly, would be redundant in S.F.), the Montshire is everything a parent could want for their kids and easy access to boot.
We're headed back to Vermont tomorrow and — though it's been a great trip with lots of family visits, fun with old friends, running on beaches and panning for gold in the foothills, not to mention a terrific jaunt southward to Disneyland — we're all looking forward to coming home.
Thanks to their culture-vulture mom, the kids have seen some great art and have been wonderful gallery-goers throughout, but their quota is definitely full. Yesterday, I wanted to show them around the Stanford campus and after parking the car near a grove of trees, I mentioned the wonderful nearby museum. Almost simultaneously, they both wailed, "No more museums, Mom!" before bolting from the car to run, climb and swing from the trees.
They're homesick for Vermont and, as of a few minutes ago, after discovering two photos I'd initially overlooked up in the Friedlander exhibit, I am too. One depicts a corner in Bellows Falls, the other a porch in Putney and the sigh I let out upon seeing both confirms what I've suspected through this entire trip. I left my heart in Southern Vermont.
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