Nature is coming…and she’s bringing flowers!

Twelve days ago we had a foot of heavy wet snow on the ground. It seemed as though winter would never loose its grip on us. But over the last several days there were a few days that were glorious with warm breezes and sunshine, and suddenly, as spring is apt to do in this part of the world, the earth began to bloom.

 

 

The green of spring is so strong in contrast to the grays and browns of the still barren trees and shrubs. But Nature, in its unrelenting regularity, will bless us with flowers, beautiful flowers. The magic of nature lies in its beauty and sophistication and diversity.

 

 

 

 

I wonder if the other animals see the beauty of flowers. If they realize how remarkable they are in structure and design and purpose. Certainly the bees and moths and hummingbirds and other pollinating creatures must feel something is unique about them, that they are drawn so compellingly and purposefully to visit them. But do they sit and think and muse over their beauty, and fragrance, and thank nature for their blessing?

 

 

 

All those elements of flowers that are so pleasant to us that actually serve great purpose in nature’s design are seldom considered by us as functional. We appreciate the fragrance of a rose, yet the smell is there as an attraction for bees, just as the specific colors, many of which we do not see in the same way as insects, are there shining like a target in the landscape.

 

 

 

We cut flowers, we wear flowers, we eat flowers, we decorate our homes and yards with flowers, we paint them and sculpt them and give them as gifts of love. We treasure them among the most desirable objects that nature provides. Perhaps there is a correlation between flowers and women. Both are nature’s sources of reproduction of the species, the birthing mechanism, the providers of new life, nature’s most sensual creations. And both, through our attraction to their beauty, are celebrated in our art. Probably more than just about anything else. Even the most undesirable weeds of a field can be objects of beauty because nature dresses them up with color and lace and all manner of attraction.

 

We are blessed with flowers. They bring value and satisfaction and happiness to our lives. How did we get so lucky?

 

If we could see the miracle of a single flower clearly, our whole life would change.
- Buddha

 

All images are copyright © George Cannon / All rights reserved.

 

Thanks, Grandad.

Webb Moses Alred was a barber and he was my grandfather.

I don’t remember “WM” as he was called and seldom heard my mother speak of him. He died on March 12th, 1954 of a heart attack. I was 4 years old then. He and my grandmother, who we called “Big Mama”, had divorced by that time. He had three children, my mother being the eldest, followed by WM Jr., and Betty. I always had the impression that he was a stern man with a temper, but that was just my impression. I never had the chance to really ask my mother what he was like.

My mother kept scrapbooks. Large scrapbooks as I recall. I believe my oldest sister ended up with them since she has sent me a few old photos from time to time. Oddly, the only family scrapbook I came to possess was my grandfather’s. It was somewhat sparse in what he had collected, with a number of empty pages at the end, but I recently took it out and removed all the photographs in order to restore them digitally and preserve them, since the old acidic paper they were pasted to was taking its toll on them. In taking them out I began to realize what a treasure I held.

There were the photos of WM himself. Portraits he had posed for at various times in his younger years. I was struck by the incredible beauty of these images. He was a handsome man with a stern face. In two of the pictures his hair was noticeably neat. To be expected of a barber. The earliest image was in his military uniform. World War I vintage. The other two in suits. I couldn’t help but stare at these images, their richness, their classic poses, the character in his face. They were mesmerizing.

There was also a picture of very old vintage of a woman and child. I can only imagine who this might be since there is no note on the back, but I assume it was his mother. Maybe a sister and niece. I just don’t know. Then there was the photo of the old man standing by a grave, piled with large rough stones and adorned with a simple basket of flowers. Again my guess is that it was his father at his mother’s grave.

There was only a handful of pictures representative of his family, my grandmother at various ages, my mother, my aunt and uncle, some of babies, mostly me and my brother and two sisters. A picture of my mom when she was probably 19 or so, and one of her with him where she appears to be pregnant.

But the majority were of his son, Webb Moses Jr. who we called Uncle Jim. There are several pictures of him as a boy and in his Navy uniform. There are letters home from the Korean War and a map of the war zones cut from a Life Magazine. There are his selective service registrations and draft cards. It’s obvious that he had a special relationship with his son. There are also several pictures of my Aunt Betty, his youngest, who he seems to show great affection as well.

The big surprise for me as I looked at these images more closely was what I discovered among the pictures of my mother and father. One of the first images in the book was a picture of my mom and dad, neatly dressed, standing in an office with another couple. The ladies are wearing corsages. After removing the photo from the page in the scrapbook, I read the back. There’s a note there from my mother. The man on the left was my father’s best friend and best man, and the woman on the right, my mother’s maid of honor. The photo was taken in the judge’s chambers on the day they were married.

There was also a postcard next to the wedding photo showing a car driving through the opening under a giant redwood tree. I removed the postcard to find it was from my mother. She always had the most beautiful handwriting. It was dated July 16th, 1944. My father was in the Army Air Corps as a quartermaster at the time. They were living in California. Her reference to feeling fine was because she was pregnant with her first child, my oldest sister, who would be born prematurely in September of that year.

There were other pictures of my mother and father. A great one of my Dad leaning against a post in what appears to be Santa Fe or some other similar location. There are Native American paintings behind him on the wall. I love this photo for its casual feel and his long legs. He was well over six feet tall.

There was a wonderful picture of my brother and sisters in a tiny wading pool in a back yard. Most likely our house in Cedartown, Georgia. And a couple of images of an infant that I believe is me. Probably the oldest pictures of me that are still around. The one I found most touching is of a black woman, most likely our maid, holding me. I know from the stories my brother and sisters have related that we had a few black maids when I was little. I remember one or two.

I treasure these pictures. They have been sitting in my closet in this old album for years, and I have not, until recently, realized how important and rare and beautiful they are. I have few pictures of my father. He died on April 30th, 1952, when I was only two and a half years old. So the images of him, and my mother, and our family together are my only record of his place in my life, however brief. I have no actual memory of him.

So I take this opportunity to thank Webb Moses Alred for saving these moments, for placing these ragged photos in that old worn album, and for whatever course of events happened to place these things in my care. Thanks, Grandad.

Copyright © George Cannon, All Rights Reserved

Small town…big culture!

One of the wonderful things about living in a university town is the cultural exchange that takes place. I posted early this week so have had some extra time to work on a few other photos and also spend some extra time with my daughter. My daughter is a dancer. Seven classes a week. So through her interest in dance and my interest in her, I have been exposed this past week to Pao Bhangra, the annual Indian dance festival at Cornell.

This is three hours of high energy traditional Indian dance performed by teams of dancers from Cornell, NYU, VCU, Northwestern, GWU, Columbia, and SUNY Geneseo.

The dance is beautiful, inspiring, sometimes acrobatic, great fun to watch. Each number lasts ten to fifteen minutes and is a testament to the physical stamina of these performers, yet you can see from their faces that they totally enjoy this expression of music, movement, and traditional culture.

This program draws over two thousand attendees every year and for a small town, is a fantastic view of art from the other side of the planet.

Then within the same week I had the privilege of attending Cornell’s annual Native American Pow Wow and Smoke Dance Competition. People from regional tribes come every year to meet, celebrate, and dance.

There is traditional food served, vendors selling crafts and jewelery and musical instruments. Flute playing and drumming, singing, and of course, lots of dancing by performers in fantastic costumes of feathers and ribbons and bead work. Traditional dances are performed honoring veterans and women and the Creator.

Audience members are encouraged to join in and dance as well. It’s meant to be a social gathering after all. It’s an inspiring weekend of Native American culture and beauty.

We are so lucky and honored to be presented with these wonderful opportunities on such a regular basis. Ithaca is a big city atmosphere with small town charm. A center of spiritual energy and natural beauty. It’s home.

All images are copyright © George Cannon / All rights reserved.

They were not for sale…they were for remembering.

Florida vacation was postponed. It’s cold there. At least for Florida. But even with the cool weather, I’m still disappointed that we had to wait. I’ll save my vacation time for later in the summer, but could have used the time to relax.

We didn’t decide to wait because of the weather, we’ve been there in February, but had to wait because my wife is in Connecticut taking care of her mother. She needed the vacation as much as I did, maybe even more, but as much as we’ve anticipated the day when we would have to deal with aging parents, we had hoped it would be later rather than sooner.

We could tell my mother-in-law’s condition was deteriorating when we were there over Christmas, but calls from a couple of her close family friends brought the news that they were worried for her and the decision had to be made to start helping her more directly to simply deal with everyday life issues.

So my daughter and I stayed here while my wife is confronting the unpleasant circumstances of doctors, and lawyers, and accountants, and a mother who is confused and ill and irritable, but at the same time thankful for the assistance. My wife is not the nearest offspring. There are two brothers that live within minutes of my mother-in-law. But my wife is the eldest child of five, and feels and accepts the responsibility the way it has always been thrust upon her in her family.

So I have been here thinking about memory. And losing one’s memory. And losing those memories of our lifetime. And I am glad I am a photographer and have spent so much of my time documenting various phases of my life. So many of the images I have recorded are meant to be a record of who I was at the time, what my life was about, where I have been and with who.

That’s what we do as image makers. We create memories to hold on to. Points in time, reminders of people, and places, and events. But also of feelings, and loves, and hurts, and joys, and life. Lest we forget. A way to hold on to our memories and know how we got to this point in our lives and what has shaped us as friends and family members and human beings.

I began working this week on scanning some older photos shot in the late 70’s and early 80’s with my Polaroid SX-70. I shot hundreds of these, and have looked back through them a few times. I wanted to preserve some of these before they deteriorate and are lost. Many are pictures of dear friends from the past, and some are of people I can’t even remember. The great majority were of Mark, the closest male friend I ever had. We were very close back then and spent a great deal of time together. Sadly enough, Mark and I drifted apart, and have not spoken in over five years.

It seems almost all of the others in these photos have also passed out of my life as well. Our lives change, people come and go. For some, old friends last a lifetime, and for me, they seem to have moved on, or I suppose, I have. They are replaced by others who will share another part of our lives as we grow and change and create new memories.

These photos were taken when I was becoming a professional photographer, but they were not my professional images. These were more personal, more intimate, more about my art and my personality. They were about my spirit and my passions and the beauty of my experience. They were not for sale. They were for remembering.

My mother-in-law’s house is filled with memories, memories of her family, photos, Native American objects her father collected, antiques acquired over years of hunting and dealing, stonework around the mantle done by a family friend, shrubs she has tended and pruned for years. But in the last few years it has also become cluttered with other stuff, useless nick-knacks and extra dishes, baskets and spare chairs, books that will never be read. It’s so symbolic of her. So symbolic of the breakdown of old age. I wish for her the uncluttered house and mind, the comfort of the memories and the safety of her home, the simplicity of only what is needed to survive with joy day to day, the warmth and beauty that was there when I first walked into her house, before my wife and I were married. For the past slips away as the memories go and we are left with our pictures and our treasures and our clutter and those who love us to remind us of who we are and how we got here, and that our lives and our experiences have meant something.

All images are Copyright © George Cannon, all rights reserved.

A source of satisfaction…

Now that the ice is gone from the inlet and winter seems to have delivered its final blows, the rowing crews are out practicing every morning and afternoon and those who spend their summer days on the lake are thinking about boating season.

For months the sailboats have sat on trailers and cradles with masts stored atop and bright blue wraps protecting them from the winter snows. The slips at the marina have sat empty and the docks have been idle and home only to the few gulls that stick out the cold months by the lake or in the shopping center parking lots.

One of my favorite photographic haunts at this time of year is the Ithaca Boating Center. Still quiet and yet to see the business of warmer weekends, the boats that have been stored there sit waiting for attention, under their tarps of blue and green and silver, like hibernating whales. Many of them older wooden crafts in need of scraping and sanding and fresh paint, showing the age marks of seasons in the water. There are also the fiberglass beauties longing for a good scrubbing and waxing to make them smooth and sleek as dolphins.

There are boats on their last legs, and boats wishing for restoration. There are bits and pieces of boating detritus left behind from the disintegration of old boats no longer worthy of repair or salvage. They create a maze through which to walk exhibiting countless opportunities for abstract compositions of colors and lines and shapes and textures.

The boating center itself is a great subject as well. The building has stood here for many years and been added on to with little attention given to architecture and more to function. The area is prime for development, having seen, in the last few years, the construction of a very popular restaurant on the point next door and a beautiful new health center complex across the street. The city has also been putting money into waterfront development.

So this structure is one whose days are numbered. I feel a bit of nostalgic angst at the thought of this place falling to the wrecking ball. But one of the things photography makes you keenly aware of is the impermanence of our world, the passing of the old. Things you photograph today are gone tomorrow. You notice your surroundings more, so when something disappears it’s like losing a piece of the landscape that you had come to depend on. Like that feeling of loosing a tooth, that sudden strange newness of the hole that slowly is replaced by something else that eventually becomes normal and familiar.

I visit the boatyard frequently. I pass it everyday, sometimes several times. So it’s like an old friend even though I’ve never owned a boat myself. It has great variety and character. It feeds my creativity with its seasonal changes and its strange character and its slight neglect. So I document it, and linger about, feeling its spirit and history and extracting images that feel fleeting and hidden and satisfying. Come on Summer. It’s time to be on the water.

All images are copyright © George Cannon / All rights reserved.