the middle of the venn diagram of photographs of cemeteries & black history

went to the portland museum of art to check out their exhibition of photographs by ed weston, from a collection used to illustrate an edition of whitman's 'leaves of grass.' predictably, i was particularly taken by weston's photographs of cemeteries in the south..

girod cemetery, new orleans, 1941

st. roch cemetery, new orleans, 1941

weston also paid a visit to william edmondson, a stone carver in nashville.


in 1937, edmondson was the first african american to have a one-man show at MOMA. many of his sculptures were made of limestone, and many were tombstones, especially for members of the african american community in nashville. ironically, he was buried in an unmarked grave in nashville's mt. ararat cemetery.

weston images via the center for creative photography

this is on the window of reliable market- i always thought the passenger (driver? depending on where you are i suppose) looked like a floating heart. peeling got to the heart before i did, but, consider this a lovey-dovey sentiment appropriate for the occasion.



my funny bagentine

latest addition to the home nature museum: its very first snakeskin.
from draco, a cool (tarahumara mountain king) snake that made me realize i have no idea how one goes about chilling with a snake.

ye olde valentine-making process

ice at the old goat

a short jaunt from the champs-élysées of somerville

rabbit rabbit
happy black history month everybody!

it's snowing again, right at this moment! so here are some photos from prior snowstorms and their aftermaths that never made it on the net. before that, though, some words by e.b. white on the matter of waiting out a snowstorm at a neighbor's while the snow plow banged and roared...
--
we had no nightclothes with us, so had to invent some, and my wife chose a coonskin coat, and i chose a sweater and socks and our boy chose a suit of heavies and a sweater worn on his legs. and we were much merrier than we had been in the early morning, so i made a rhyme that went:

mamma in her coonskin and i in my socks
had just settled ourselves for a night of hard knocks
when out on the road there arose such a clatter
we stayed comfortably in bed, since it was entirely obvious what was the matter.

just before i went to sleep i heard my wife up and about, and i asked her why and she said she had discovered it was impossible to sleep in a coonskin coat because it tickled the back of your neck. so i asked her what she was changing to, and she replied: "tweeds." which is the kind of direct answer i like to get when i ask a question.

(a winter diary, january 1941, from one man's meat)
--

scarb-over-easy


somerville


releasing the beast/unearthing the subaru