Displacement

If I had to give a time period in my life that had impacted me the most, I would have to say it was the summer of 1997.  I had just finished my senior year at Arizona State, were I had been studying photography.    Over winter break that year, my Digital Processes professor had contacted me about an internship with Dan Venator, a well-known wildlife photographer who worked primarily in the Bob Marshall wilderness who was a friend of hers.  I had known I wanted the internship immediately.   I was three credits short of graduating and wildlife photography was what I wanted to specialize in.  So four and a half months later I found myself finishing the twenty hour drive from Phoenix to Kalispell Montana.   Driving through the small town, I looked from the map in my lap back up to the road.  Turning down the last street, I stopped in front of the small apartment I would call mine for the next few months, 105 S. Skylos.   Turning off the car, I sighed quietly.  This had been the longest trip I had ever been on and my legs were killing me.  I opened the door and stepped out, stretching my arms above my head as I tried to ease the aching in my lower body.  I heard a door slam behind me and quickly turned around.  A friendly face greeted me with a small wave as he walked toward me. 

“You must be Anna?  I’m Dan.”  He reached his hand out towards me.

“Hi, and yeah, that’s me,” I said with a small laugh, as I shook his hand.  

“Well, I’m glad to see you made it in one piece, when Carol told me that you were driving here I couldn’t believe it.  That isn’t exactly a short drive.”  

“No it is not, and I’m glad I don’t have to drive it a lot.”

Dan smiled, “Well, the apartment is all set up.  Here are the keys and tomorrow we are going to go out for a short day.  I’ll pick you up at five so we can get out there early.”

“Okay, and thank you again.”

As Dan drove off, I grabbed my bag and started inside.  I hadn’t expected to start so soon and as excited as I was, I was too tired right now to really want to think about tomorrow.  The house was comfortable with furniture already in place and as soon as I had showered and changed, my head hit the pillow and I was out until my alarm went off the next morning at four. 

Soon I was in a small navy blue Toyota Tundra, driving toward the even smaller town of Seeley Lake on Highway 83.   Snow still covered the peaks of most of the summits around us.Dan enjoyed to talk and kept the conversation flowing throughout the drive.   

 After arriving in Seeley Lake, the highway quickly turned into a road and travel became slower.  When the truck finally stopped, we stepped out and started to pull the equipment out of the back, which was covered by a topper.  I grabbed the tripod and the base with the extra lenses.  Dan would be taking most of the pictures as I observed.    Just as I expected, the day passed in flash, with Dan pointing out different things to me as we moved along a well-used path.   But although this day had included a path, I realized that I would soon be going on longer backpacking trips to the heart of the wilderness.   It was something new every day and just as exciting as before.  I loved wandering throughout the wild landscape, looking for different animals and scenes.  I had never felt closer to God and been more amazed by everything I had seen. 

 Before I knew it, mid-August was upon us and we were preparing for one final trip.  Dan wouldn’t tell me where we were going, insisting that I just was going to be surprised.  Usually, he would give me a little back brief on the general location and I would spend the evening pouring over maps, the internet and books to find everything I could about the terrain.  It took us three days to hike in, each of us carrying at least sixty pounds of equipment and supplies.  Dan’s Idea was to spend two days at that location and then head back.  When we reached the site where we were staying, it was already late afternoon.  We set up camp and hurried out to use the last bit of daylight to our advantage.  Of all the places I had been that summer, this beat it all.  

  The landscape was breathtaking, sweeping on for miles, untouched and green with magnificent peaks jutting out as far as the eye could see.  The light didn’t last long and we headed back to camp to settle in for the night.  The next day, it was the same routine as always: breakfast, leave camp, hike, and take as many photos’ as possible, back to camp, dinner and bed.  As I lay down for the night, I was amazed that the next day was going to be the last day in that little haven.  Dan acted different the next day; he was quieter, as if contemplating something.  I just figured he wasn’t feeling well and forgot about it.  My head swiveled around at every sound, every landmark, anything that was around me.  For most of the afternoon, the air had been silent, except for a few birds here and there and the wind through the trees, but now I could hear water.  It was a loud rushing sound, almost a roar.  I kept looking around for a sign of a stream or waterfall but couldn’t see anything.  Finally, around a bend we stumbled across it at last.  It was absolutely gorgeous.  The water streamed down the mountainside with spray shooting out to hit our legs, arms, and faces. 

  I started to pull the camera out but Dan stopped me, waving his hand in my direction

“Don’t, this is something I’ve never documented.  I wanted to show you, but its just my little secret.”  

I nodded and put the camera back.  We stood in silence for what must have been an hour, but only seemed a few minutes.  Finally, he turned to me and smiled, “Okay, let’s go, Anna.  I wanted to show you this one, but if we want to get back in time to camp, we’ll have to hurry.”

“Okay, I just have to go the bathroom first.” I pointed over towards a wooded area, already stepping in that direction.  

Dan nodded, “I’ll wait here.”

As you probably already guessed, I didn’t go to the backroom, but instead found the best angle for a picture and snapped a handful before returning back to where Dan was waiting.  We headed back to camp, and life was back to normal as if the pictures had never been taken.  I left for graduate school soon after that and left behind that summer.  But I didn’t leave the pictures.  I took them with me and during the semester showed them to a professor in a class of mine.  He raved about them and had them submitted to National Geographic.  I was offered a job there and was more than ecstatic to except it.    I still remember Dan’s face when I saw him after the release.  I had never felt so bad, betraying a man who had been my greatest teacher.  I still can’t tell you where we were, and have tried to get back multiple times, but have never found the site.  I learned that some things are just too beautiful to share with the world and that betrayal stings the worst. 

Blackbird

     During spring break, I was sitting in my parents kitchen eating breakfast when my little sister started humming "Blackbird" by the Beatles under her breath.  It was stuck in my head the entire day, and I have listened to a cover of the song by Sarah Darling at least five times now. 

    While reading Ovid's metamorphasis this afternoon, I was all of a sudden struck by how often birds are involved in the transformations throughout the various stories.  From book two with the the stories of the crow and raven to the story of Pierides becoming parrots.  So, now at my curiosity at the deeper meaning of the song I started to research the meaning behind the lyrics.  According to the different things I found, Paul McCartney was inspired by many things to write the song.  One of them was the racial tension in the United States, but also that he used the poem by RS Thomas "Blackbird Singing" as well.  But my mind just starts to wander sometimes and poetry and Blackbirds brings me back to the days of high school English class and the study of Edgar Allen Poe with his poem "The Raven".  I looked up the poem and I had to smile because I realized Poe also knew his Ovid.  One of the lines of his poem says. 

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Poe is most obviously referencing to the story of the Raven were Pallas was directly involved.  I just had to smile that a simple song could cause me to finally make a mythic detective finding that made me smile. 

Beauty

     My mother and I were having a conversation over spring break about an art class I attended during my childhood.   I didn't particularly excel in the arts, but through the years, my different teachers would look down at the piece I had created and smile, encouraging me to continue practicing.  Most months, I would look over to the right and peak a glance at my neighbors artwork and then look back at mine and grimace a little bit.  If drawing was involved, I found myself to be a master at stick-men and women.  But my favorite classes were always on the wheel.  There is something calming in the soft whirring of the pottery wheel, the cool clay beneath your hands, and the water that inevitably dripped from my arms.  I loved the shaping process, first pulling the clay up and then pushing it back down until the base was ready and I was ready to begin creating.  I always see pottery as a picture of every individuals journey through life.  We are all shaped different, and sometimes when we have just about figured life out, something happens and we have to adjust to fit this experience into our own lives.  I think this picture sticks out because growing up I always heard of the biblical story of the potter who, when something went wrong with his pot, he just changed the pot to work the best way he could.  

     After discussing Signs and Symbols on Monday, I realized that while the story could say one thing to me, it might speak differently to another individual and that I just have to analyze things according to how they best speak to me.  As I write, I have to laugh a little bit.  The idea of looking at things differently always makes me think of storms.  One of my friends and I have been unsuccessfully arguing our view on storms for many years, especially thunderstorms.  My experience with storms has left me with a bitter taste.  Whenever there is a thunderstorm, I am immediately reminded of a time period where my dad's radio would go off at ungodly hours, calling him to fight another wildland fire.  This as well as the pain lightening has caused to family members and friends has given me almost a phobia of thunderstorms.  My friend on the other hand, has watched storms with her family and been enthralled with the sheer power such a storm has.  Just because we don't agree on how we feel about these storms, doesn't make one of us right and the other wrong.  We have just had our own life experiences that make us different people. 

Migrant Mother by Dorothea Lange

    Without these different interpretations, though, we wouldn't have the inventors, dreamers, artists, writers, any name you wish to give them.  The picture coming to mind for me right now is one by Dorothea Lange.   The mother's expression shows that life has dealt her with experiences she will never forget, as well as hardships that seem impossible to bear. But then this brings us to Autumn's blog and how we need to find beauty in the things that seem the saddest and most heartbreaking.  My mom once told me that hardships are sent our way to make us better people, maybe that is the beauty in the pain because we hope in the end that it will make us into a person better than we now are.    I know this might seem a bit redundant and breaking off from by detective work, but it seems nice to reflect on the things we talk about it class to make it sink in a little more for me. 

Signs and Symbols

The first time I read Signs and Symbols, I thought I understood the gist of the story.  A crazy boy who's parents try to come and see him but can't and go home about their day.  But then I read it again, and again, and again.  I started to highlight different things.  First I highlighted all the numbers: fourth time in four years, ten different fruit jellies in ten different fruit jars, a real American of almost forty years, ten minutes (man sitting on the steps), different ages of the boy (four eight and ten), midnight when her husband got up, knave of hearts, nine of spades and ace of spades (which I realize now is equal to ten), and the fact that the phone rings three times.  Numbers were somehow important to this story, but why?  Then I read it again and noticed the emphasis on another thing.  One was names and the other was birds.  I noticed the first name was Mrs. Sol.  This is also another word for sun, I circled the name and moved on.  The second name was Isaac, who was also nicknamed the Prince, and the third name was Soloveichiks.

The Triumph of Death by Pieter Bruegel

At this point I was frustrated.  I didn't understand and I felt pulled in a few directions.  I realized that the story was about chances, or opportunities missed, but I was having a hard time wrapping my mind around it (and to be honest still am).  So I decided to continue in searching, and at that moment, Google was looking very inviting.  When I typed "Signs and Symbols" into the search bar and pushed images, one in general caught my eye.  A piece by an artist that we had recently been talking about, Pieter Bruegel.  Only this time, his painting was The Triumph of Death.  Now I was even more confused, and therefore, my fingers flew across the keypad in order to gain some understanding of the information that had just been unfolded in front of me.  And suddenly, it was clear.  The story was about a Jewish family who had escaped from Germany, and the picture in the book the boy was afraid of was this one.  The picture "which merely showed an idyllic landscape with rocks on a hillside and an old cart wheel hanging from the one branch of a leafless tree."

But now that this picture was involved, my first theory seemed a little more out of reach.  I had thought at first that the story was about Tereus Procne and Philomela.  It made sense in my head.  Opportunities missed.  Procne missed the opportunity to see her sister, Philomela missed the opportunity to grow up normally, and Itys missed opportunity to grow up at all.  Somewhere along the way, while I tried to research this story, I stumbled across a finding of another.  I found that the word for Nightingale in Russian is Solovey, which is very close to the name from the story, Soloveichiks.  I must say that although I am still not sure, my interpretation led me to believe that Signs and Symbols was an interpretation of the story of Terius Procne and Philomela, although I will still be researching this because it will drive me crazy until the puzzle is solved. 

The Spinners

In class on Monday and Wednesday I was amazed each time that the painting by Velazquez was put up on the projector.  Breathtaking is the word I would use to describe the work of art.  Vivid colors and texture build the story and show the business of the room.  You can almost see the women weaving, the gentle whir of the wool on the wheel as the wood creaks from the use.  You can see the knowing look shared between the disguised goddess and the maiden by her side.  The bright red curtain seems to tell us that something is to come.  In the background, the painting by Titian is recreated to show the story that Arachne weaved into her tapestry.  Someone in a helmet in the back seems to symbolize the picture of herself that Pallas weaved into her tapestry.  Light from the left side falls on a Arachne, who is sitting with her arms wide.  She has proven at that point she is the better weaver.  In the front to the right, darkness shadows a doorway with a rope hanging down.  I wonder if this symbolizes that a time very soon, Arachne herself will use. 

Beauty is Pain

Last week while we were listening to the different initiation stories, I noticed that when it came to some of the initiations for women, it was to make them more beautiful.  These painful experiences these women went through, such as having their teeth chiseled and scaring of the face, was found to make them more beautiful to the men in their community.  While in our own country we may not chisel our teeth for looks, we have our own share of strange things we are willing to go through to be seen as beautiful.  All you have to do is look at the world of plastic surgery.  A few weeks back, I was browsing through Netflix at different TV shows and saw one that made me stop just by the name.  Bridalplasty.  In the show women fight each other to receive different procedures, of which you can see them while they recover.  All of these surgeries recovers looked awful.  Bruising, stitches, and pain were written across the faces of these women as they lay in bed days after receiving the procedure.  Who would ever want to receive something that would cause so much pain?  But as you look through the centuries, endured pain for the sake of beauty can be found over and over again.  Foot binding in China was thought to make a women's feet more beautiful. Lip plates in Southern Africa are inserted before a women is to be married.  Corsets were worn to give a woman a smaller waist.  Whether physically forced or not, these woman felt to pressure, just as we do now, to be involved in these practices to maintain her appearance of beauty to those around her.  

Crossing the Line

Jonah and the Whale by Gaspard Dughet

My story of initiation, though not gory and obviously painful like that of the bullet ant, crocodile scarification and the land diver, I saw it more as the transformation from an older ritual.  In the initiation of crossing the line, sailors are required to perform different ritualistic activities such as crawling through garbage, kissing the Royal Baby, passing an inspection by Davey Jones and so on.  But there is more meaning to this than meets the eye.  What one might pass off as just a dumb activity of bored sailors at sea, others can see the deeper and darker side to this.  In the ritual, King Neptune and Queen Amphitrite, as well as Davey Jones, play an important role in the ceremony.   From Ovid's story, itself, we know that Neptune is the god of the seas and controls the waves and storms.  Superstitious sailors were very careful not to upset Neptune, in order to ensure safe sailing and reaching their destination. These men knew that the god would playfully send a storm to splinter a ship, and therefore did everything in their power to make sure that his wrath was never sent their way.   Ancient seamen did these ceremonies to pay homage to Neptune, sacrificing a goat or ox to the god during their journey.  Where the ship was during the sacrifice was just as important as the sacrifice itself.  Locations near certain capes, temples or lines (such as the equator) made the sacrifice more acceptable to Neptune.  Sometimes, though, a man would be offered to the god, such as in Jonah's case.  In the biblical myth from the bible, Jonah was instructed by God to go to the city of Nineveh in order to prophesy to the city's people.  When Jonah flees in the opposite direction, God sends a storm upon the ship he is traveling on.  Jonah tells the sailors aboard to throw him over the side and the seas will calm.  Just as he said, the seas calm when Jonah is thrown overboard.  He is swallowed by a whale and stays three days and three nights inside the whale before being spit out on shore.   While researching Davey Jones, I found that links he links to Jonah and this may be where the myth of the Sailors devil originates.  I found it interesting that this modern initiation had the deeper meaning that it did and the connections that can be found woven throughout it.