Goya’s Fantastic Vision
What kind of a person would honor their friend’s birthday with a work of art that depicts a strange, harrowing nightmare? Me, that’s who 
Don’t worry. The birthday boy is my very dear friend – artist, photographer, and blogger Fred Hatt, and I know he won’t be offended. Happy Birthday FRED!!
After years of friendship, and god knows how many conversations about art, I’m well aware of Fred’s favorites. And I can say with 100% certainty that the great Spanish painter Francisco de Goya is on his list of those who most inspire him. Fred is not alone in his admiration of Goya. Minvera Durham, director of Spring Studio – the very place where Fred and I first met – is also a huge fan of Goya. I must confess that Goya is one of those artists for whom my respect grew after becoming an artist’s model. A long time ago, Goya’s macabre painting Saturn Devouring his Son had seriously creeped me out, so I was reluctant to explore his other works. But with little more maturity and deeper understanding of art, I’ve come to appreciate Goya’s work much more.
In his later years, after suffering from illnesses, deafness, and a tumultuous political atmosphere in his native Spain, Goya created a series of dark, terrifying, mysterious works known as the “Black Paintings”. He did not intend them for public consumption. Instead, he painted them directly onto the walls of his house near Madrid, revealing his disturbed and paranoid mental state. This was a man in fear. Confusion. Despair. Revealing a severe disillusionment with humanity.
For this post I’ve chosen the Goya piece Asmodea, or “Fantastic Vision”, circa 1823. It depicts two people flying through the air, possibly witches, with soldiers aiming guns at them. Though art historians have analyzed this work, along with all the other Black Paintings, and speculated about it’s “meaning”, the truth is we don’t really know what the hell is going on here. And I personally prefer it that way. Must we know? Of course not. Enlarge the file for a better view and let the man’s potent expression speak for itself:
Again, a very happy birthday to you, Fred. Thanks for enriching my knowledge of art, challenging traditional notions of “beauty”, and celebrating the powers of all forms of visual communication 
Feeling the Funk
It will pass, it will pass, it will pass . . . That’s been my mantra for the past few days. And it looks like it will continue to be for at least a few more 
Hate these melancholy episodes, grrr. They suck, it’s as simple as that. But I’m still doing what I’m supposed to do – working my remaining few modeling jobs before the May break. Hopefully during that time I can regroup and snap out of it. For now I am a mushy, moody, pensive, wistful little weakling. I am lachrymose <— wanted to use the word “lachrymose”.
But my printmaking class is providing me with much delight and discovery, and my brother and I have planned a fun Mother’s Day on Sunday for our Mom. So there are things to look forward to, pleasures in life not to be taken for granted. Now if only this dark cloud would drift away and stop following me everywhere I go. Scram, dammit!
This is me, in an oil sketch by Daniel Schwartz. It was painted a few months ago but captures my mood of today perfectly.
I’ll see you all very soon.
Hugs and kisses . . .
Claudia
Jessie and the Moon
Ehhh . . . grrr . . . moods. Perturbation. Agitation. Disquietude. Anxiety. Unease. Confusion. Bewilderment. Angst. Yes, it’s been a bothersome 36 hours. Mind cluttered, thoughts preoccupied, a little tense, a little sad, worries that are both real and (possibly) imagined. In other words, I don’t know what the fuck is going on. That pretty much sums it up in a nutshell.
But we pass through these things. Always. It’s important to know that. And the passing process can be facilitated by some strategically made choices. In my case, those choices usually involve receding in some way. I am a Cancer, which means we are crabs who will retreat into our shells if circumstances require it. We hide, and we like it dammit!
So on Tuesday I had only a morning job at FIT and promptly left Manhattan right afterwards. No shopping, no lunch, no walking around, no museum visits. I just hightailed it back to Queens, fleeing the noise, the chaos, the throngs of people, and the infernal police/fire sirens of midtown. Sure I still moped when I got home but at least I was moping in peace, and in private.
In the early evening I stepped outside to get some air, looked up and noticed the moon – a white half pearl nestled in the blue sky, underlined with a wisp of clouds. Pretty! So I went back inside, got my camera and took a picture with my Canon Powershot:
A short while later I checked on the moon again as the night started to fall. This time I had my good camera. The serious camera. My big Nikon. As I stood on the steps outside my kitchen door and prepped my settings for the picture, I suddenly felt warm, affectionate rubbing on my legs. It was my girl, the goddess, Jessie the cat, trying to divert my attention. And it worked. I knelt down and snapped her picture:
Yes, I’m wearing grey sweatpants, the official uniform of a depressed, leave-me-alone mood. Not very attractive or stylish. But at least we have beautiful Jessie. Here she’s thinking, “Can we go inside? I’m hungry. Open the door.”:
So because I have a Dr. Dolittle complex I spoke to Jessie and told her, “Just a minute, baby. Let me photograph the moon then we’ll give you food.” The clouds had long drifted away, the blue had gotten deeper, the moon was a lonely dot:
Jessie wouldn’t leave me alone for a minute. She kept purring and pacing, slinking, and rubbing all over me. This picture, well, just had to be posted
“Come on, man, I’m hungry! Where’s the food?”.
I’m sure many of you know what it’s like to deal with a hungry cat. They are tenacious. But I just needed one last shot of the moon. Why? I mentioned earlier about my zodiac sign of Cancer and how we are prone to moodiness. Well, most astrological signs have a planet as a ruling force. Cancers don’t. We are ruled by the moon. The moody moon. We are moonchildren. No wonder I was so drawn to it at that moment.
Goin’ to the Printshop
Guess what everyone? I registered for a printmaking class at the Lower East Side Printshop, and it starts today. Yay! I’m excited! We will meet once a week for eight weeks. Excellent
This is an Intro class for beginners like me who know next to nothing about how to make prints. Emphasis will be on inatglio techniques like drypoint and etching, blocks, plates, and all that other cool stuff. Now I am fully aware that I’m a neophyte and therefore have no unrealistic expectations. So because I have no illusions about my ability, I’ve set very modest goals for myself. I’m thinking that after eight classes, I’ll be able to produce something of merely this quality:
Um, yeah, that was joke, in case you couldn’t tell
The above image is a drypoint titled Holy Family with Saint John, the Magdalene, and Nicodemus, circa 1512, by master printer Albrecht Durer. One of the greatest printmakers of all time, if not the greatest. Although Rembrandt’s prints are pretty amazing. The Met Museum has an informative essay, “The Printed Image in the West: Drypoint”.
Besides getting my creative juices flowing and hopefully having fun, I’ve also been thinking about how long it’s been since I actually learned something new. Gosh, it’s really been a while. I don’t mean learning in terms of acquiring knowledge. That’s something I try to do every day by reading, asking questions, searching on the Internet, etc. I mean learn how to DO something – a skill or a technique. Wish me luck!
Before I go I want to give a quick shoutout to my friend Janet Cook who is having a solo exhibition, “Power and Beauty”, at Dacia Gallery. Way to go Janet!! And I’ve been informed that one of Janet’s paintings of me will be among the exhibited works. That makes me happy Unfortunately I have to miss the reception Thursday night because I’m working. But I will definitely be seeing Janet’s show before it closes on May 11th.
California Trumpets, Brooklyn Violins
My father is going to be a subject on this blog for the second post in a row. But this time he will be alive in a family memory, not in my distressed drawings of his grave. This story relates somewhat to a superb video I have chosen for Music Monday about the great craftsmen who make musical instruments. But first, the Hajian misadventures.
In the early 1970s our family took a vacation to California. While we were out there my dad, a professional trumpet player, wanted to visit the shop of Domenick Calicchio, an Italian immigrant and well-respected maker of fine handcrafted trumpets and other horns. Perfectly understandable. If my brother and I (nine and five respectively) were getting Disneyland and the San Diego Zoo, and my mother was getting museum visits and scenic drives up the Pacific coast, my father was surely entitled to meet a trumpet craftsman as his must-see California vacation priority. So we made our way to a less-than-spectacular section of North Hollywood. It was hot as hell that day I remember. My dad went into Calicchio’s place ready to meet the man and place an order for a horn. My mom, my brother Chris and I waited in the rental car, mistakenly assuming my dad would take no longer than 20 or 30 minutes, 40 minutes tops. But we waited. And waited. And waited. Bored out of our minds, hot and uncomfortable, stranded in a part of Hollywood in which there was absolutely nothing to do. No place to walk, no sights to see, nothing to eat! We got restless fast, especially my mother for whom patience is not a virtue. The three of us started to go nuts. How long is this taking??? It’s been over two hours!!! Mom, can we leave yet??! Where’s Daddy???!! In Mom’s defense, the woman was in hell. Trapped with two young children in the days when you couldn’t just stick a video game or portable DVD player in a kid’s hands to keep them occupied. The whole situation sucked. My brother went in to see what was going on. It turns out that Dad was having a marvelous time, talking trumpets with old man Calicchio and chatting with other trumpet players who were hanging out, comparing notes about brass, mouthpieces, etc. Musician stuff. Good stuff. Dad stuff.
My father was not a fast-paced guy. He didn’t like to rush or be rushed. He enjoyed conversing and bonding with people who interested him and could spend hours doing so. And he always made the most of unique opportunities. He knew he’d probably never be in Los Angeles again, so why not savor his time in Domenick Calicchio’s shop? That’s how his mind worked.
But friends, let me tell you. I loved my Dad deeply, as you know, but he made us wait so long it was literally HOURS! In hot LA weather. With nothing to do! We were going batshit crazy. It was freaking torture! What we should have done, in retrospect, was tell Dad we’d just leave him there while we took the car and drove around to better parts of LA. We’d pick him up later. But you know when you’re waiting for something and you’re afraid to leave because you think it will only be “another 20 minutes”, so you might as well just stay and wait it out? That kind of reasoning? I think that’s the trap we fell into. Also, we didn’t want to do any sightseeing without him. We had to wait for Dad. He was our guy.
My favorite part of that episode was how completely pissed my Mom was. She’s still pissed to this day. Bring up the Calicchio thing and she’ll say, “Oh god, please! We wasted an entire day of our vacation at that place!! Your father took forever!!”
Keep in mind that my father was just placing orders for horns. When he finally came out he didn’t have any instruments with him. Only receipts for purchases. The custom made trumpets – four I think – were shipped weeks later to our house in New York City. Dad said they were fantastic and well worth the time and visit. Oh sure, to him they were worth it! What about us? The innocent family he left stranded in a rental car in Hollywood??!! By the way, the Calicchio company is still in existence. They moved years ago from SoCal to Tulsa, Oklahoma. See a photo of old man Domenick, now deceased, on their website.
Last point before we move on. My Dad made it up to us days later when we drove up to San Francisco. He took us all on a thrilling drive on the steep, hairpin turns of Lombard Street. Chris and I were laughing and screaming like lunatics, and my father had so much fun amusing his children with crazy driving. It was awesome. We loved it, he loved it. All was forgiven for the Calicchio chapter.
Ok. On to our video. Filmmaker Dustin Cohen profiles Brooklyn-based violin maker Sam Zygmuntowicz. His commitment to craft, music, and his valued clients is evident in this excellent profile. It’s also comforting to know that the great tradition of skilled instrument-making is alive and well in this day and age. Domenick Calicchio may be gone, but the artistry of his specialized field lives. We transition from brass to strings. Enjoy this clip!
Sketching for Dad
Hey gang. I apologize for not posting all week. Yesterday, March 8th, would have been my father’s 80th birthday had he lived. He died in 2004, at the age of 72. My Mom, my brother, and I went to visit his grave to bring him love and birthday wishes. It was a tough experience, sunny gorgeous 68 degree weather notwithstanding. Today I woke up in a really crummy mood and it’s showing no signs of improving.
I took a picture of Dad’s headstone with the flowers we placed there – yellow tulips and blue hyacinths. This afternoon I tried to sketch it, perhaps as a way of working through my lingering grief. I don’t know if artists avoid working when they’re emotionally miserable, but I know I can do better than this if I’m in a more positive state. Or maybe my somber mood is precisely the reason I felt the urge to sketch this scene in the first place?
You see, we never got to say goodbye to my father because he died suddenly, out of the blue. That reality has always tormented me. With feelings of sadness and frustration, I threw down some watercolor here, just to capture the general shapes and colors. There’s a large bush next to Dad’s grave on the right side, just so you know why there’s a mess of green wash there! In real life it creates a beautiful cool shade, but I didn’t have the presence of mind to try to represent it here.
Then I tried a charcoal and pastel drawing. This time I began with some semblance of a plan but I lost my focus, started crying, and gave up. The ground at the base of the headstone is uneven, so at least I managed that detail. The upper left should have indicated other headstones in the the distance, but I made a smudgy mess and didn’t bother to fix it.
I hope you’re all doing better than I am moodwise. I’ll be back real soon, in much cheerier spirits I promise!
Senior Moments
A long day of work. It’s 11:00 PM when I get home and switch on the lights. Hang up bag, hang up coat. Neglected chores are waiting for me. Dirty dishes piled up in the kitchen sink. A full hamper of clothes that have to put in the washer. Garbage and recycling that needs to be put out on the curb. Ok. First things first: feed the cats. They’re hungry, the poor things. Prince and Jessie are outdoor cats and they eat from a dish on the small stoop outside my kitchen. I take a can of wet food, pull off the cover, and open the kitchen door. “Come on babies! Dinner!”. And there are Prince and Jessie, but they aren’t anxious for food with the usual pacing, rubbing, and tails up in the air, behaving the way hungry cats usually behave. Instead, they’re sitting comfortably, licking their lips, doing the distinctive post-meal cat cleaning. Content. Totally happy and at ease. Huh? Wait. What’s going on here? . . . . Then it hit me. Oh my god. These cats have eaten already. I must have fed them, five minutes ago apparently, but . . . but . . . I forgot?? No. How is that possible? Didn’t I just walk in the door? I have absolutely no recollection . . . so I stand there, on the stoop, with an open cat food can in my hand, and Prince and Jessie look up at me with wide-eyes, like they’re thinking “More food? Yeah!!”. No, no, no. I must be imagining things. Maybe the cats are just cleaning themselves? I need proof. If I fed the cats already there would be an empty can in the garbage, right? So I peer into the garbage and sure enough, there it was – the empty cat food can right on top. I am unsettled. As someone who can always see humor in things, I see no humor in the situation at all. I am, actually, a little frightened.
A day off from work. Errands to run. I had made a mental note days earlier to buy three needed items from the drugstore: light bulbs, pack of AAA batteries, and a tissue box for my bedroom. I’d been needing these things for weeks but kept forgetting to buy them. Today is the day. I go to Duane Reade and get them. I arrive home and put said items in their proper storage places. All done. All good. Finished. An hour later I notice that my jacket had fallen off the hook on the kitchen wall. I pick it up off the floor and discover a plastic bag underneath. Hmm. What is this? I crouch down, open the plastic bag and pull out the contents. My heart pounds harder at the sight of each one: light bulbs. AAA batteries. Tissue box. Oh my god. No. Please god. Not again. The receipt is in the bag and I take it out. It’s dated from four days earlier. What. The. Hell. I did it already??? But I . . . what??? When???
ConEdison bill is due. I procrastinated so long I let it go down to the wire. Shit! It’s due today! So I call to pay over the phone with my credit card. I connect with an agent. “Ms. Hajian, this bill was paid yesterday.” he says. I am silent for a few seconds. “Yesterday?” I ask, like a meek, confused little mouse. “Yes, ma’am.”. I am flummoxed. I wrack my brain trying to recall when the hell I called to pay that that bill. For the life of me, I can’t remember. Grrrr … grrr. So I begin the mental rundown. Ok, what did I do yesterday? I woke up. Made coffee. Answered emails. Cleaned the glass on my bathroom mirror and wiped the sink. Yes I remember doing that. Talked to my neighbor outside for a few minutes. Took a shower. Called my Mom. Got dressed. Watered my plants. Went to work in the mid-afternoon. Came home at 10. When . . . WHEN did I call ConEd and pay my heating bill? WHEN??????? Ugh. Oh my god. I can’t fucking remember ever, ever, ever doing it. I started crying. Not out of self-pity, but out of fear.
As you’ve no doubt noticed from this anguished post, I’m only experiencing this problem over mundane, petty things. No significant aspects of my life have been impacted by this short term memory loss problem I’m having. My modeling schedule is completely unaffected. I go to the right job at the right time, flawlessly. When I have to fulfill an obligation or appointment that involves another person, I don’t disappoint. It’s only when I’m alone and have to tend to minor daily tasks that this issue occurs.
Just so everyone knows, and since I have voluntarily shared these humiliations with all of you, I am not a potsmoker. The last time I used weed was over 15 years ago. I don’t use any drugs except alcohol. And occasionally cigarettes. There is some Alzheimer’s disease in my family lineage.
A big blank empty swathe occupies your mind where memory is supposed to be. Things occurred, for a fact, and yet they are wiped away. Things that just happened recently. And yet, I remember the clothes I was wearing on my first date with my ex-husband. That was 22 years ago. I remember every dashboard detail of my first car, a 1985 Oldsmobile Delta 88. I remember the tight perm curls of my 8th grade english teacher. I remember the pink skin and heaving, breathing chest of my niece, born a preemie, as she lay in an incubator in the neonatal intensive care unit at Mt. Sinai hospital. I remember my first kiss, my first visit to the Louvre Museum as a teenager, my first role in a school play (Bye Bye Birdie) and my first step onto a modeling platform. I remember these things vividly. What I can’t remember, apparently, is that I fed my cats five minutes ago 
But now, some minor activity takes place and then . . . :poof!: disappears. From my memory. Everything that happened before and after is intact. Just this one select daily item is erased. Randomly. Why the ConEd bill paying and not, say, my phone call to my mother? Or the plant watering? It cooks up a recipe of frustration, disorientation, insecurity, and confusion. I want, like everybody wants, a razor-sharp mind. I used to have one. Boy did I. Sharp like a saber. But now these empty gaps are slipping in. Over minor matters. And for some reason, they can really enrage you. And distress you. And make you feel . . . far away.
I’m only 43 years old.
“For Olivia, Love Auntie Claudie”
Remember when you were nine years old and your cool, awesome Aunt gave you a harmonica for Christmas? Well, my niece does. It happened yesterday at Grandma’s house:
She’s a Hajian through and through. Brava!
That Time of Year
Hi everyone! Just a quick post to say hi and let you know that I’ll be quite busy the next few days. Working a modeling double today, modeling double tomorrow, and then family day on Sunday, which will be brunch and a holiday concert! Really looking forward to that. On top of all this I can’t seem to kick this darn cold. I went to a Christmas party last night and felt good, so assumed I was all better. But never assume. Woke up this morning and it was back. Ugh. Pesky thing. It is that time of year.
So no Museworthy posts until next week. But remember, you can always follow me on Twitter! Be well my friends. Gotta run now, but see you all very soon!
Woman Sleeping Under a Tree, Odilon Redon, 1901:
Working Through It
I’m here everyone! Sorry for not posting since Sunday. It’s just been work, work, and more work. And today I seem to have been striken by one of those 24 hour bugs. Ugh. I wouldn’t mind it so much if it didn’t happen right in the middle of the busiest modeling week in my calendar. But I guess those pesky viruses don’t care about our personal schedules! I’ve had a queasy, lethargic feeling all day, but it’s nothing serious and I’m functioning fine. I modeled right through it. Hey, that’s all you can do sometimes – just work through it. A thick hearty slice of multigrain bread from Dean & DeLuca helped a lot too. It fortified me. Who says you can’t live on bread alone?
Here’s a really cute, fun drawing of me by Gordon Fitch. This is from a recent session at Spring Studio. I was doing short poses and in a spontaneous creation (which quick poses usually are for the model) I put my hands in the prayer position, lifted my arms over my head, and made a little hip pivot. And there you have it! A pose with personality immortalized in a drawing with personality. I think Gordon used some kind of white pen on black paper.
We’re getting close to the Museworthy Art Show! Tuesday is the big day. I will post here again on Sunday and let everyone know how it’s going. And to those who submitted work, check your emails over the weekend as I might need a little more info from some of you. The post is in draft form right now and I must say it’s looking quite spectacular
Bounce the Moon
I do believe today is October 26th, and that means one thing here on Museworthy: Happy Birthday Mom! She’s 76 years young today and Frank Sinatra is going to sing for her in a moment. But first I just want to say a few things about this great lady. She is both spunky and sensitive, monumentally generous and nurturing, fun, warm, intelligent, ebullient, strong-willed, supportive, artistic, and incredibly young at heart. Don’t even try to tell my mother that she can’t or shouldn’t do something. Just don’t!
But the one detail of Mom’s life that makes her the envy of many women her age is this: both of her adult children, in spite of their busy, chaotic lives and occasional testy moods and impatient snapping at her badgering questions (oops) ALWAYS find time to call her, every single day. No matter what. Believe me, that says a lot more about her than it does about my brother and me. The woman is loved. And she’s earned it
Mom is a huge fan of Sinatra, and who can blame her? Her generation had Ol Blue Eyes, today’s generation has that zero charisma punk-ass bitch Justin Timberlake. Need I say more? Here’s Frank. Happy Birthday Momma! Love you. See you tonight!
“Think Different”
In the early 1980s, we students at Ryan Junior High School in Queens, NY were required to take a class called simply “Computer”. Our teacher was the sideburned, bell-bottom wearing Mr. Berkowitz. The class, in a word, sucked. And I sucked at it. The only reason I passed was because Berkowitz didn’t give a shit and basically passed everybody.
I hated computers after that experience. Even as computers evolved over the years and became popular I still harbored an aversion to them. In fact, I was slow to get on the computer bandwagon compared to others. A friend of mine had a computer in her home – a PC. I tried to use it a few times and it frustrated the hell out of me. How do I work this thing? What just happened? Huh? Aargh! Computers just seemed more trouble than they were worth. Plus, they were ugly.
And then, years later, I was talking to someone about my computer ineptitude, and I’ll never forget what he said: “You should just get a Mac”. I didn’t think much of it at that moment. I knew that Mac was a computer and I sucked at computers so what could possibly be so different about a Mac? As far as I was concerned it was just another computer to aggravate me and remind me how incompetent I was when it came to technology. After I groaned some more this guy said again, without any elaboration, “just get a Mac.”. As if it was the definitive end-all solution to my problem. I was skeptical.
But I took his advice. I got a Mac. A laptop called an iBook. I distinctly remember the first night I spent with it – taking it out of the box, setting it up, smiling at the cheerful prompts, the cute Apple logo and attractive screensaver. It turned into hours of fun. No, it was better than fun. It was discovery. “This computer doesn’t hate me!”, I thought. This computer wants me to use it. I wasn’t just getting the hang of it. I was getting into it. Key difference there. I believe I stayed up until 2 or 3 in the morning, me and my new iBook. It was like a romantic date night!
With the sad passing of Apple founder and chairman Steve Jobs, I knew it wouldn’t be necessary for me to discuss the man’s accomplishments. You all have access to it. Obituaries and tributes are everywhere on the web, and they are as fascinating as the man himself. The words “creative genius”, “innovator”, “visionary”, etc are being applied, rightly and accurately. He absolutely was all of those things. So I figured I would simply share my own story about how Apple brought me personally right here, to this very moment: typing this blog post on my MacBook keyboard. All Museworthy posts have been done on a Mac. I’ve never owned a computer that wasn’t a Mac. It was Apple which brought me into our world as it is today. Many people didn’t require Apple to make that transition and I understand that. But I did require it, and I am grateful. I think many people had their psychological “computer barrier” fears broken down by Apple. For so long I had no flair for any of this. And now I am totally comfortable. Sharing, communicating, learning and exploring. Very cool.
RIP Steve Jobs. Adopted child, Buddhist, college dropout, entrepreneur, Apple founder, cancer sufferer, California native, husband, father, restless ambitious dreamer, the Thomas Edison of our time. Thank you
Happy 4th Birthday Museworthy!!
Here we are again, dearest friends. Commemorating another Museworthy blog birthday We have completed four marvelous years. Who would have thought that the life of an artist’s model could inspire enough material for steady blogging? I sure didn’t! Yet, here we are. Here I am, after all this time. It’s a minor wonder, but a wonder nonetheless.
In keeping with an awesome Museworthy tradition, we have a photo of yours truly taken by my friend Fred Hatt. Together we chose an image that reflects where I am right now personally – content, relaxed, fulfilled, breathing in life. Merci beaucoup Fred.
But will this next year – the fifth – be the last year for Museworthy? I can’t honestly say right now. What I do know is that full time art modeling is beginning to take its toll on me. I’ve been feeling it but trying to keep it to myself, until now. I want to be clear though; It’s NOT my spirit. It’s my body.
So a crossroads might be hovering on my horizon. I can either aggressively fend off the deterioration and fight for my right to remain on the art modeling platform with every fiber of my being, or maybe – possibly – think about my future and consider the necessity, the inevitability, of a new life. A different life for my “second half”.
Ah, we’ll see. Right now I can’t contemplate giving up something I absolutely love. Nope. Not today. Instead, let’s just enjoy the Museworthy milestone together as friends. I am still here. Thanks so very, very much, to each and every one of you
I’ve always liked this track from Bob Dylan. Listen with me to “New Morning”:
Fellow Americans
RIP Tim Welty. FDNY Squad 288 in Maspeth, Queens. Husband, father of two, carpenter, skier, bungee-jumper, fearless individualist . . . usher at my wedding.
“Let every nation know, whether it wishes us well or ill, that we shall pay any price, bear any burden, meet any hardship, support any friend, oppose any foe, to assure the survival and success of liberty.” — John F. Kennedy
Somewhere in the Atlantic
Museworthy friends!!!! Hello my darlings! I have returned! And I miss Nantucket already Our family vacation was absolutely, positively wonderful. One of the best ever, and much needed by all of us.
I took pictures, pictures, and more pictures. So for those of you who enjoy looking at vacation photos, mine are posted on my Flickr. I still have a few more to upload but there’s plenty to see. An abundance of cool beach scenes.
This post title, by the way, is taken from a t-shirt I bought just before we boarded the ferry to come home. So many Nantucket tees to choose from, but I really liked the one that read “Somewhere in the Atlantic . . . Nantucket”, with a little map of the island. That’s exactly how it feels to be there. The islanders and the visitors wouldn’t want it any other way. There are whales, sharks, seals, lobsters, cormorants, and the big blue undulating Atlantic, and then – almost incidentally – an island in their midst called Nantucket
Here is a small slideshow that chronicles our first day. It’s called “Jeep Ride to Sconset Beach”. I’m not in any of these photos because I was behind the camera, so the main players are my brother Chris (handsome guy in the white shirt), my sister-in-law Gayle (great gal in purple shirt), my Mom (terrific woman in blue bathing suit, also known as “Grammy”), and the star of the show, my niece Olivia (adorable, cavorting 8 year-old who LOVES the camera). I would not fullscreen this, as the slide transitions become rough. So watch it here in the blog post. Images are cleaner. Or watch it on Flickr
I made two other slideshows: Biking and Beachcombing at the Jetties and Fun at the White Elephant
One of my favorite things to photograph is colorful beach umbrellas against the sky. Here’s one from beautiful Nantucket, “Umbrellas and Seagull”:
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