For your consideration:
Welcome back . . .
It's self-evident that grounds for my attention to this forum have been rather fallow for some extended time. Without offering a concrete commitment — much of the landscape remains acutely unsettled and the route to safe passage ahead unclear — herein I (finally, after much yearning) am putting energy into restorative activities for public consumption and, I hope, reaction (good, bad or otherwise).
While I've been ever more eager to resume authoring some coherent thoughts in new entries, as each day draws to a close so too does the requisite energy and time seem to ebb and evaporate.
So what is different today? A priority of rare potency (and short self-life) . . .
An Homage, or, if you prefer, an Ode.
Today, being April 2nd, marks the twenty-first anniversary of my grandfather's passing; his sinewy, weathered, desert-heat-baked body and stringent yet passionately loving soul transited The profoundly unknowable experience: that of crossing that portal from exhausted animus to ethereal, illimitable enlightenment, and release from his mortal coil.
Pete, as he was colloquially known to what few peers and friends inhabited his small, infrequently accessible circle, was infused with a strain of willpower as indefatigable and uncompromising as his lifelong burdens of severe asthma/emphysema and heartbreak were unrelenting. Born in 1911, Marshall (his proper name, used by family excepting my grandmother Betty, who anointed him "Marsh") was raised by his pure Danish parents in the northern environs of Chicago; he emerged from his culturally conservative, Midwestern, Depression-Era genesis with a strict determination to make a (modest) success of himself, regardless of whatever obstacles might manifest.
The challenges were indeed significant. By the time he was a teen his respiratory condition was such that sleeping laying down was impossible; his "bed" instead was a chair at the kitchen table. It wasn't until a physician urged him to relocate to the arid, warm climate the Arizona atmosphere (then) offered that he found a respite from vertical, ragged slumber: upon checking into a hotel after arriving in Tucson by train he fell asleep, exhausted, on a bed . . . Many hours later, for the first time in more than a decade, he awoke laying down, rested. The year was 1941.
Even so, Tucson's climate wasn't a panacea. His condition even when young was advanced, and when the weather turned cold in the winter my grandfather struggled hugely for oxygen (to the uninitiated reader, the high desert can produce frigid temperatures — naturally not the sub-zero extremes of Chicago — but when the mercury is hunkered down readings in the low teens are experienced).
No matter. His chosen occupation reflected the earnestness and ramrod determination of his essential character — my grandfather was a master Mason . . . a bricklayer. Even my father, who has never been Marshall's biggest advocate, told me that he'd seen his father-in-law routinely out-work men half his age while laboring in the summer's 100-degree desert furnace. Grandpa's drive was such that he designed and built the five homes which comprised what was in essence the family compound. Three were constructed of brick, one of adobe, and the last of concrete block.
This football-field sized parcel became both my own private playground as well as a terrain of many safe, secret hiding places when the insanity of our secret, secluded family dysfunction boiled over into intolerable, toxic levels. Which were ever more frequent occurrences in my childhood. I learned vital survival skills in this constantly turbulent, dangerous emotional territory: escapism (both physically and emotionally), and a vivid imagination to keep myself entertained as well as distracted from the chaos which constantly percolated just beneath the surface between frequent eruptions.
Ergo the source of my grandfather's heartsickness: my mother, in her own right, was a force not to be reckoned with, marinated and steeped in mental illness, aided and abetted by profuse family system denial. She was truly the center of her own hurricane of surreal behaviors, a generator of far ranging downpours of strife, despair, frustration and ultimately numbing depression.
I shall not go into detail here. My mother passed several years ago. What matters is this: my grandfather had invested all of his hopes and dreams in her.
Grandpa had always wanted to attend college and earn a university degree (architecture was his dream), but a single semester (at the University of Alabama) proved to beyond his abilities, largely due to the innate stress and perpetual exhaustion stemming from chronic asthma. While he never gave me the sense that he wore that disappointment as a cloak of failure, nonetheless by the time I was a teen in middle school ("Junior high", in my day) it was obvious that he'd transferred his personal academic aspirations onto his daughter (well before my birth), and when her mental handicaps obliterated that dream I became his last hope . . .
For what? Redemption? Vicarious joy? Indeterminate validation?
No matter.
Despite this desperate yearning that (now I) should succeed in academics, my grandfather never pushed this on me in the mode of a Sargent taskmaster. Rather than overtly, punishingly driving me into a mold from which I might emerge as the idealized image of The Man He Wanted To Be, instead my grandpa gently nurtured my interests in reading, the Arts, and especially all things Science. He lovingly guided my path using the tools of persistent, authentic and unflagging encouragement. Through him I learned to treat books with a sense of both respect and reverence; thanks to this "uneducated" man by the 2nd grade I was already enthralled with the "space race" of the NASA Gemini and Apollo programs; together we watched virtually every launch and related news updates (including the tragedy of Apollo I, and the near disaster of Apollo XIII — sans Tom Hanks).
In the end this was his basal dream: that I get an education. His charter, expressed in innumerable ways, was that I learn. And the beautiful thing was this: he cared little about what specifically captured my interest, so long as I found my own muse, one which would lead me to healthy and happy destinies.
Many, many times he said to me, with an understated yet unmistakable earnestness and passion: "Get an education, get your degree. They [the evildoers, I suppose!] can take away your material possessions, but nobody can ever steal your education."
By the time I finally graduated (after enduring my seven-year pace to complete a four-year degree) Marshall was in extremely poor health. I was surprised, frankly, that he lived long enough to witeness me wearing that cap and gown, and I'd come to believe that seeing my graduation day actually arrive was the sole (soul) thing keeping his paper-thin heart beating. (Blessedly I was wrong about that: he lived a full decade beyond the convocation, which he was too ill to attend.)
Through the course of my life to date I'm not sure how much I've truly learned, but this I do know with absolute certainty:
As proud as I was to earn a university degree, save for his wedding, my graduation was the proudest day of my grandfather's life.
And to Marshall Weston Peterson I shall be eternally grateful; he was far and away my biggest champion, my hero, my mentor and my friend besides being my grandfather.
Rest well, grandpa.
Marshall Weston Petersen, February 11, 1911 - April 2, 1994
§ § § § §
A few notes about the image (below) selected for this essay:
At the very end of a long (and quite enjoyable) exploration of the Livermore area with my fellow pixel hunter Jerry we finally found purchase on a small patch of land affording decent sunset-lighted views of the surreal, looming, somewhat extraterrestrial-esque windmills which heavily dot the surrounding hills known as the Altamont Pass.
Key to the scene was the gorgeous warm lighting from the rapidly descending Sun; the acute, low angle of the sun rays added dramatic effect by casting vast expanses of abstract producing shadows.
Thus the confluence of vantage point and vital, quality illumination finally came together . . . Unfortunately, the conditions were swiftly changing as Sol determinedly dove towards the west horizon. Time was of the essence. A few shots of golden spike-like whirling monsters then — dusk.
Which, for my unrealized/unconscious purposes, is when the magic bloomed . . .
The paucity of light forced an altogether different approach: rather than blazing fast shutter speeds (1/4000 sec) to freeze brightly sunlight propellers (which resulted in unavoidably static scenes) I had to figure out how to work with these behemoth subjects now submerged in swiftly deepening darkness.
Inspiration . . . Yes. . .
Tripod? Check. Long telephoto lens? Check. Sufficient ISO? Relatively new camera, thus vastly improved sensor capabilities . . . Check.
Then, the coup de grâce — the instant of artistic awakening (I hesitate to say, enlightenment . . . but okay, there it is!) — long exposure times = slow shutter speeds . . . which in turn will yield blurred blades slicing through the sky . . . accordingly, I experimented with times between 1 and ⅛ seconds.
Which, for my unrealized/unconscious purposes, is when the magic bloomed . . .
The paucity of light forced an altogether different approach: rather than blazing fast shutter speeds (1/4000 sec) to freeze brightly sunlight propellers (which resulted in unavoidably static scenes) I had to figure out how to work with these behemoth subjects now submerged in swiftly deepening darkness.
Inspiration . . . Yes. . .
Tripod? Check. Long telephoto lens? Check. Sufficient ISO? Relatively new camera, thus vastly improved sensor capabilities . . . Check.
Then, the coup de grâce — the instant of artistic awakening (I hesitate to say, enlightenment . . . but okay, there it is!) — long exposure times = slow shutter speeds . . . which in turn will yield blurred blades slicing through the sky . . . accordingly, I experimented with times between 1 and ⅛ seconds.
Voilà! Dear reader, the emergent image thus depicts motion in an otherwise sterile composition, and action on a grand scale at that. (While there's no reference point in the photograph below, these windmills tower a full 430-feet tall.)
Consequently, not for the first time I realized the beautiful irony that it is often by slowing down that more will be revealed.
There's a vital lesson here: when seeking your opportunities for photographic expression never quit too soon, and strive to keep an open mind (and eye) to sometimes instantaneous moments when the universe presents an entirely, delightfully unexpected new way to SEE.
Consequently, not for the first time I realized the beautiful irony that it is often by slowing down that more will be revealed.
There's a vital lesson here: when seeking your opportunities for photographic expression never quit too soon, and strive to keep an open mind (and eye) to sometimes instantaneous moments when the universe presents an entirely, delightfully unexpected new way to SEE.
Finally, why did I choose this particular image?
It wasn't until I sat down (much earlier!) this evening and began meditating upon and then actively composing this blog entry that I realized I'd already subconsciously picked this shot for this missive. . . or, rather more accurately, the image chose the entry . . .
The tableau I offer for your contemplation is that of a loving, upright, strong and stalwart elder standing behind, encouraging, and, with a hint of wistful yearning, regarding a younger charge ready to head towards the Light beyond . . .
Motion, and e-motion.
© 2015 James W. Murray, all rights reserved.
(click image for larger version)
Details: March 29, 2015, Canon 7D Mk II; f/8 @ 1/2 sec; ±0 EV; ISO 1000;
Canon EF 70-300mm f/4-5.6L IS USM @ 86mm
