Sunday, November 13, 2011

Hills Like White Elephants

By Ernest Hemingway


"The hills across the valley of the Ebro were long and white. On this side there was no shade and no trees and the station was between two lines of rails in the sun. Close against the side of the station there was the warm shadow of the building and a curtain, made of strings of bamboo beads, hung across the open door into the bar, to keep out flies. The American and the girl with him sat at a table in the shade, outside the building. It was very hot and the express from Barcelona would come in forty minutes. It stopped at this junction for two minutes and went to Madrid.
'What should we drink?' the girl asked. She had taken off her hat and put it on the table.
'It’s pretty hot,' the man said.
'Let’s drink beer.'
'Dos cervezas,' the man said into the curtain.
'Big ones?' a woman asked from the doorway.
'Yes. Two big ones.'
The woman brought two glasses of beer and two felt pads. She put the felt pads and the beer glass on the table and looked at the man and the girl. The girl was looking off at the line of hills. They were white in the sun and the country was brown and dry.
'They look like white elephants,' she said.
"I’ve never seen one," the man drank his beer.
'No, you wouldn’t have.'
'I might have,' the man said. ‘Just because you say I wouldn’t have doesn’t prove anything.’
The girl looked at the bead curtain. ‘They’ve painted something on it,’ she said. ‘What does it say?’
‘Anis del Toro. It’s a drink.’
‘Could we try it?’
The man called ‘Listen’ through the curtain. The woman came out from the bar.
‘Four reales.’ ‘We want two Anis del Toro.’
‘With water?’
‘Do you want it with water?’
‘I don’t know,’ the girl said. ‘Is it good with water?’
‘It’s all right.’
‘You want them with water?’ asked the woman.
‘Yes, with water.’
‘It tastes like liquorice,’ the girl said and put the glass down.
‘That’s the way with everything.’
‘Yes,’ said the girl. ‘Everything tastes of liquorice. Especially all the things you’ve waited so long for, like absinthe.’
‘Oh, cut it out.’
‘You started it,’ the girl said. ‘I was being amused. I was having a fine time.’
‘Well, let’s try and have a fine time.’
‘All right. I was trying. I said the mountains looked like white elephants. Wasn’t that bright?’
‘That was bright.’
‘I wanted to try this new drink. That’s all we do, isn’t it – look at things and try new drinks?’
‘I guess so.’
The girl looked across at the hills.
‘They’re lovely hills,’ she said. ‘They don’t really look like white elephants. I just meant the colouring of their skin through the trees.’
‘Should we have another drink?’
‘All right.’
The warm wind blew the bead curtain against the table.
‘The beer’s nice and cool,’ the man said.
‘It’s lovely,’ the girl said.
‘It’s really an awfully simple operation, Jig,’ the man said. ‘It’s not really an operation at all.’
The girl looked at the ground the table legs rested on.
‘I know you wouldn’t mind it, Jig. It’s really not anything. It’s just to let the air in.’
The girl did not say anything.
‘I’ll go with you and I’ll stay with you all the time. They just let the air in and then it’s all perfectly natural.’
‘Then what will we do afterwards?’
‘We’ll be fine afterwards. Just like we were before.’
‘What makes you think so?’
‘That’s the only thing that bothers us. It’s the only thing that’s made us unhappy.’
The girl looked at the bead curtain, put her hand out and took hold of two of the strings of beads.
‘And you think then we’ll be all right and be happy.’
‘I know we will. Yon don’t have to be afraid. I’ve known lots of people that have done it.’
‘So have I,’ said the girl. ‘And afterwards they were all so happy.’
‘Well,’ the man said, ‘if you don’t want to you don’t have to. I wouldn’t have you do it if you didn’t want to. But I know it’s perfectly simple.’
‘And you really want to?’
‘I think it’s the best thing to do. But I don’t want you to do it if you don’t really want to.’
‘And if I do it you’ll be happy and things will be like they were and you’ll love me?’
‘I love you now. You know I love you.’
‘I know. But if I do it, then it will be nice again if I say things are like white elephants, and you’ll like it?’
‘I’ll love it. I love it now but I just can’t think about it. You know how I get when I worry.’
‘If I do it you won’t ever worry?’
‘I won’t worry about that because it’s perfectly simple.’
‘Then I’ll do it. Because I don’t care about me.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t care about me.’
‘Well, I care about you.’
‘Oh, yes. But I don’t care about me. And I’ll do it and then everything will be fine.’
‘I don’t want you to do it if you feel that way.’
The girl stood up and walked to the end of the station. Across, on the other side, were fields of grain and trees along the banks of the Ebro. Far away, beyond the river, were mountains. The shadow of a cloud moved across the field of grain and she saw the river through the trees.
‘And we could have all this,’ she said. ‘And we could have everything and every day we make it more impossible.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said we could have everything.’
‘We can have everything.’
‘No, we can’t.’
‘We can have the whole world.’
‘No, we can’t.’
‘We can go everywhere.’
‘No, we can’t. It isn’t ours any more.’
‘It’s ours.’
‘No, it isn’t. And once they take it away, you never get it back.’
‘But they haven’t taken it away.’
‘We’ll wait and see.’
‘Come on back in the shade,’ he said. ‘You mustn’t feel that way.’
‘I don’t feel any way,’ the girl said. ‘I just know things.’
‘I don’t want you to do anything that you don’t want to do -’
‘Nor that isn’t good for me,’ she said. ‘I know. Could we have another beer?’
‘All right. But you’ve got to realize – ‘
‘I realize,’ the girl said. ‘Can’t we maybe stop talking?’
They sat down at the table and the girl looked across at the hills on the dry side of the valley and the man looked at her and at the table.
‘You’ve got to realize,’ he said, ‘ that I don’t want you to do it if you don’t want to. I’m perfectly willing to go through with it if it means anything to you.’
‘Doesn’t it mean anything to you? We could get along.’
‘Of course it does. But I don’t want anybody but you. I don’t want anyone else. And I know it’s perfectly simple.’
‘Yes, you know it’s perfectly simple.’
‘It’s all right for you to say that, but I do know it.’
‘Would you do something for me now?’
‘I’d do anything for you.’
‘Would you please please please please please please please stop talking?’
He did not say anything but looked at the bags against the wall of the station. There were labels on them from all the hotels where they had spent nights.
‘But I don’t want you to,’ he said, ‘I don’t care anything about it.’
‘I’ll scream,’ the girl siad.
The woman came out through the curtains with two glasses of beer and put them down on the damp felt pads. ‘The train comes in five minutes,’ she said.
‘What did she say?’ asked the girl.
‘That the train is coming in five minutes.’
The girl smiled brightly at the woman, to thank her.
‘I’d better take the bags over to the other side of the station,’ the man said. She smiled at him.
‘All right. Then come back and we’ll finish the beer.’
He picked up the two heavy bags and carried them around the station to the other tracks. He looked up the tracks but could not see the train. Coming back, he walked through the bar-room, where people waiting for the train were drinking. He drank an Anis at the bar and looked at the people. They were all waiting reasonably for the train. He went out through the bead curtain. She was sitting at the table and smiled at him.
‘Do you feel better?’ he asked.
‘I feel fine,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing wrong with me. I feel fine.’"

Upwellings, pt. 2

rnh, 6-7-10
Memory: When I was eight, my family went to India for a month. My grandpa was an architect, and had been relocated to New Delhi for a construction project, where both he and my grandma would then live for over a year. I remember going to the Taj Mahal in Agra, witnessing one of the world’s wonders before I knew what that even meant. My timid feet explored its entirely white marble terrain, marveling at the beauty of its intricate designs, in awe of its grandeur and immaculate precision. A pinnacle of extravagance; an emblem of enduring love.
I wondered how humans could construct such a thing.
I did not understand the lifestyle of these people, nor did they understand me. I remember visiting the zoo one day and when my family would stop to rest in the shade, men and women would gather around us, stupefied by the appearance of these tall, fair-skinned foreigners—me in a yellow sun dress with painted toe nails, and my grandparents with visors and fanny packs. The passersby took pictures, gawking, as if we were yet another exhibit at the zoo.
I remember trailing close behind my mom and grandma as we walked through the slums of Old Delhi. I passed rusty bicycles carrying passengers and cargo, open grills roasting ears of corn, clotheslines like power lines, vendors displaying brightly colored saris draped along makeshift door frames under which entire families sprawled on torn blankets in reconfigured cardboard boxes to escape the blistering heat. Sometimes, I passed creeks where mothers gathered water while upstream, others defecated.
I remember peasant children crowding intersections, skeletal, naked, begging at the windows of stopped vehicles. Some groped my ankles; others held their faces in their hands.
 I wondered how humans could construct such a thing. 

And then there was...

rnh, 5-22-11
Once, somewhere, I thought of what it might be like to feel. Always, everywhere, I swim in the myriad confusion of existence (with others).
It’s late, again. I’m drunk on cheap beer. Smoke rolls and twists and fades.
There isn’t much of concern, though the walls seem more out of reach.
I think of that Japanese girl who lived with us once, and wonder if she ever thinks of me. She was so young, and so small. She gave me a kimono as a gift. It sits in a drawer now. 
Currently, I read: living from life, dying from death.
“I will record a story of love
in the heart of time,
and play it back softly
for the one who becomes mine.”
Isn’t it all so very lovely:
recollecting the depths of a winter’s chill,
sketching the promise
of a summer midday?

Artist Bio - Jack Barnosky

Interview by Rachel Hammel, 9/21/11
Artist Jack Barnosky, whose photographs are dark and compelling, evasive and full of history, talks about his vision, his career as an art professor, his favorite city and his loving wife—the “enlightened zen master without a saphron robe.”










Describe yourself.  
I’ve been told repeatedly that I’m a somewhat swarthier and more mature version of Johnny Depp. I’m a left wing secular humanist Democrat who has never voted for a Republican. Why? Because I work for a living.

When and how did you realize your artistic talent? 
 I still question the very notion of “talent.”  What talent is required to make art? Did Jackson Pollack have talent when making his drip paintings? I really don’t have talent. I guess I just have a real blue collar work ethic. I was raised with no sense of entitlement. If I wanted something I had to work for it. That is still true today. Not trying to be self-deprecating, just truthful.

What is your preferred medium for creating art?
Uh, lemme see. Oh yeah. Photography.

Your photographs—why black and white?
Nothing—nothing—is more beautiful than a well made B&W photograph. Originally I just wanted to make beautiful photographs with the whole darkroom process. This ended about 12 years ago when film and paper makers began changing their emulsion formulas. All of a sudden, and I mean literally overnight, the whole process no longer worked. It was the day the darkroom died. I tried every alternative process you can name but could not get, on paper, the image that was in my head. It was quite frustrating. Three years ago I began digitizing my negatives and slowly the digital photography world began to show itself to me. Now I am virtually all digital. It’s like having to learn to read all over again. And guess what? There really is color out there and I’m using it.
                                                                           
What is your favorite city in the world and why?
Paris, followed by NYC, with Florence bringing up the rear. There is nothing like Paris. It is alive and still, after 5 visits, a bit exotic to me. Obviously the scenery is magnificent. Food and wine are great (I don’t like wine but I drink it in Italy and France), and the people are actually quite nice and, I might add, beautiful. Hard to turn a corner in Paris and not see something I want to photograph.

You said once that you spent a day walking around Florence “just making photographs.” Why “making” and not “taking”?
Interesting question. I do say “make” as opposed to “take” or “shoot.” I’m always thinking ahead. I see the scene in the viewfinder but I know it’s not done. I have to make something of the negative—now digital file. It is never finished when in the camera. Never.

When did you decide to teach? 
I attended Brooks Institute from ‘71 - ‘74. This was an intensely hostile place for any talk of art or aesthetics. The moment I got there I knew I was in the wrong place, but I was already 24 years old and had to graduate from somewhere. So I plowed through it and did graduate. Towards the end of this time I realized that I did not want to be a part of the daily grind of making commercial photographs. I began sending out my cute little one-page resume to colleges. Can you say NAÏVE?
Actually, I got 2 interviews, but no jobs . So my wife and I (she was not yet the enlightened zen master without a saphron robe), thoroughly heavy with child, headed back to Philadelphia.  I managed to get that dream job. For a year I made bricks during the day and did custom color printing at night. I don’t remember sleeping.
When the foreman handed me my pink slip, I was relieved, but my first thought was, “O.K., now how do I buy baby food?” In ’79 I began sending resumes again and by an amazing set of coincidences found myself teaching in what then passed for the Community College system in Indiana. Got an M.F.A at IU and spent 12 years there. This is the time I really learned photography. A Bachelor’s degree and an M.F.A and I still had to teach myself. Then on to Sam Houston State University in Texas, and now in my 20th year there.

What music genre do you enjoy most? Are there any artists or albums you’re really into right now?
I have about 20 CDs.  No more. They range from 50’s doo wop to Florence and the Machine. Dylan, Stones, Aaron Copland, Beatles—pretty eclectic. In class, someone asked me what the last song I downloaded was. When I said, “The Dog Days are Over” by Florence and the Machine, there was a dead silence in the room. 
And I only listen to music in the car. Never anywhere else. We are weird. There are NO music listening to devices in our house. Even I think that is strange. My wife (the enlightened zen master without a saffron robe) listens to books all day.

What do you do when you’re not doing art?
I usually am making art. This new digital world is huge and challenging and I’m a slow learner. I do read—science fiction, long historical novels, biographies—again, pretty eclectic. I’m a sports fan and during football season on Saturday the television is mine. Do not touch the remote!

What do you order at Starbucks?
Double cappuccino with a shot of sugar-free raspberry.  “That will be $14.00, sir, and have a nice day.”

If you could collaborate with anyone, dead or alive, who would it be?
I would love to collaborate with the artist Richard Powers. He was my first and strongest visual influence.  In a sense, I am collaborating with him today—I’m seeing a touch of him in many of my photographs.
Then there is: “How about it, Mr. Vonnegut? You write a book and I’ll make photographs to accompany your words.”   Now that would be really COOL.


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For more interviews like these, visit my art blog, Art Etc.