Pierre Szekely Fireplace . . .

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Blogging.
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Blogging is . . .
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Blogging is about meetings of minds. Blogging is about meetings. Chance meetings, encounters of the blogging kind.
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Today I met a blogger, after about three years of a virtual and long distance conversation. She hails from California, but was travelling in France. Her name is. . . well, let's just say her name is English Rider. And her blog is here. (as well as in my sidebar at "Where's My Effing Pony?") And it was a pleasure to meet her. Not only was it a rare pleasure to meet her, but she became the first person today to actually buy one of my books. Imagine that, she came all the way to Paris to buy a book of photos from the Causse Méjean ! Ok, she will be doing some other things in France while on this side of the ocean. But still, I'm thrilled. So thank you E.R. ! ! !
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Not only did she buy one of my books, but she gave me a book of poems by Claude Farhi which was illustrated by her husband, who is a very fine painter indeed. If you are curious, you can find some of his work here. He has had numerous shows in both France and the USA. He is also a sculptor, a carver of stones. He and E.R. run a business doing creations in stones for clients in various places. Stone roofs, stone kitchens, stone bathrooms, and stone fireplaces. When she showed me some pictures of fireplaces they had conceived and installed, I couldn't help but think of a large stone fireplace I had seen this summer in a chateau in Brittany. It was carved by the sculptor Pierre Szekely, and was rather lovely, in my humble opinion, to behold. I mentioned to E.R. that I thought both she and her husband may appreciate it. Without further ado, here is the chateau and the fireplace in question :
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Reflection illusions . . .

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Painting hanging in gallery window
Across from cathedral
Oil on canvas suspended in air
Plate glass as translucent mirror
Sky and clouds in paint
Merge with  sky in window
Seamlessly seeming to be
But all is illusion
Digital image regurgitates
Giving a glimpse
Around the world
Of colors on a screen
But what does it mean
How far is the distance
Between meaning
And meaningless ?
Cathedral in stone
Speaks of ancient rites
From another age
An age of stone
And superstition
While we deal and reel
In reflections
Illusions
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PS... Do stop by Weekend Reflections . . .

" I Read the News Today, Oh Boy ..."

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Today I was dismayed to read
In a French news magazine
The story of a precarious cooling pool
Perched perilously high above the ground
And its precious store of tons and tons of spent nuclear fuel
In the badly damaged building of reactor number four
In a place called Fukushima
And of the radioactive nightmare it could unleash
Should the water in it happen to leak out
In the event of another minor earthquake
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And in the same story learned
That ever growing numbers of outraged Japanese
Are protesting every week now against nuclear energy
They are calling it the Hydrangea (or Hortensia) Revolution
For they have adopted as a symbol the hydrangea flowers
Which bloom in abundance in the summer in Japan
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Hydrangeas also abound in Brittany
Where I photographed a few at close range not long ago
Before I learned about the revolution in progress in Japan
So I offer these images for whatever they are worth
To the revolution, to the people of Japan, to the people of Planet Earth
While hoping it is not too late to avert the catastrophe
Which hangs suspended, fragile yet dreadful to contemplate
Over our heads.
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This evening at the dinner table
I tried to explain to my fifteen year old daughter
What the potential scale of the consequences could be
Were the water to leak and the stored fuel catch fire
But was unable to find adequate words
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The human race perhaps really is
Too smart for its own good
The sorcerer's apprentices may soon have their day
How can such stupidity exist
In a world where delicate hydrangea petals still bloom ?
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A Brittany Bouquet With Reflections . . .

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Why post a picture of of a bright bouquet ? Well, just because. But maybe it was someone's birthday very recently. Or maybe it is someone's wedding anniversary tomorrow. Or maybe... just because life should always be brightly lit by flaming pink bouquets. These flowers cut from the garden outside were seen in a house in Brittany a few days ago. My mother-in-law's to be precise. At 85 she still takes pleasure in gardening and arranging her bright bouquets.
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And for once am getting in relatively early to James Weekend Reflections, with this shot in very old glass in Brittany, in the town of Treguier. I love how the warped surface distorts the shutters and gutter of the house across the street. "Life is but a dream..."
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A few days after the black and white shots were taken shown two posts back, we went back on a much sunnier day to see the house between the rocks in a different light, and caught a bit of a reflection in the pond as well. As you can see the ocean is just behind the rocks and house. Apparently a few years ago during a storm a large wave washed over the property, submerging the car. A precarious place to live.
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Battered Old Boats . . .

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One aspect of exploring in Brittany that I particularly love is the possibility of finding old battered boats that have been abandoned on obscure and rarely visited stretches of beach, and left to disintegrate slowly over the years until they disappear entirely. I have not been blogging much of late as I've been out scouring the Brittany coasts looking for such hidden treasures. (And I apologize for not responding to your wonderful comments... but beachcombing while on vacation is taking up all of my time... well, almost all, some quiet time with family and friends has also been occurring.)
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Few subjects of photography move me as much as the poetry of an abandoned boat which will sail no more forever. The layers of paint applied painstakingly over the years to keep them seaworthy and beautiful to behold, which now are wearing off in the weather, flaking, fading, falling, create works of art (in my humble opinion) which grand masters of the abstract would have a hard time rivaling. When I find such subjects I make dozens of photographs, as the reality of wood and nails and caulk and paint will not last for long. If I had more space at home I would probably have a whole yard full of such relics, and maybe one in the living room. May you enjoy seeing these images of battered boats as much as I did creating them.
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Bisoux From Brittany . . .

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Twenty six years ago I set out on a bicycle from Saint Brieuc in Brittany, and rode along the coast from there for ten days heading north and west through Paimpol to Perros Guirrec. On the second day out I discovered by chance near the village of Plougrescant a house wedged between two much larger rocks. With the camera I was using at the time, shooting black and white film, I took a picture of the place which you can see here, posted in the very early days of this blog. Yesterday, again more or less by chance, I returned to that magical place, and made a new photograph from nearly the exact spot as the one from 26 years ago. As you can see, not much has changed.
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A few moments later it started to rain, speckling the water with drops, as visible below. Within a minute or so, the sky broke open, unleashing a torrential downpour that had me running for the car under an umbrella to protect the camera. Was drenched from the waist down by the time we were able to get back into the haven of the automobile.
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Just before getting up to the house between the rocks on the seashore, we stopped in a small church in Plougrescant, where there were lions waiting to greet us under the tomb of an early religious figure from centuries ago. And there was a pile of wood chairs in a corner in case they might be needed to keep the lions at bay.
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Not much later in the afternoon the wind from the west had driven the rain away, giving place to fluffy clouds and sunshine when we went to visit the nearby Chateau de Keralio, with its portraits of ancestors on the walls and cherubs in the chapel.
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Oh, PS, in the title of this post, the word "Bisoux", in case you were wondering, is French for "hugs and kisses"...
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A Rock Concert . . .

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Out on the north Brittany coast this past summer. Empty white sand beaches as far as the eye can see, and happily nary a human in sight. A place where one can quietly appreciate the subtle forces of wind, water, and weather on rocks that have been there long before man arrived, and which will be there long after we are gone. What a beautiful place we have here, this planet of ours. If we could only keep it that way.
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What I was listening to while composing this minor key rock concert : Click...
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Take Me Down to the Sea Again . . . to Sail in a Ship of Dreams . . .

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...The Lost Lady of Locquénolé
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How many times did we run out to sea
Out to the British Channel
Descending the Bay of Morlaix
So early in the morning
With the tide just starting to turn
And every time we motored by
The Chateau du Taureau in the fog
That fort out on a cold rock
In the middle of the bay
I swore I heard the ghosts of prisoners calling
Those who drowned while trying to swim
From that accursed jail out on the wide water
Where chill currents could drag a man under
Never to be seen again in this world
Those prisoners from fine families of old
Who had found no useful place in life
And turned to gambling and liquor and gold
Or maybe those ghostly cries were from
The souls of 114 men who drowned
When the Alcide went down in 1747
Two days before Christmas
The bay is full of hungry water and cold bones
Yet we motored on out to sea
Time and time again
Day after day, year after year
In fog and all sorts of weather
Reading the compass bearing due north
Heading for open water
Seeking the spots where the sea bass rise
Pulling up traps full of lobster and crabs
Dreaming of mackerel while mending the motor
Some days simply just drifting
Watching the wind play on the waves
Our faces weathered by salted spray
But nothing lasts forever
We grew old and grey
Feebled and hobbled
Our lady put to sea no more
There she lies tied to the shore
For years she'd float when the tide came in
But now she floats no longer
Graffiti grafted on her sides
Perhaps the ultimate insult
Time's cruel work persistant
Broke open her joints, splintered her planks
Before long there will be naught but the engine block
Rusting away in the mud and the flood
And the dream of a seagoing lady
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The photos above were taken in 2008. The hull was still fairly well intact, I don't know if she could have been restored from that state, but perhaps at least salvaged to sit on dry land to be admired for some years to come. But that was not to be, and this past summer I took the following photos as she lay split open and filled with water with every high tide. She will surely soon disintegrate. From dust to dust.
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