Untitled

A proposition.

2008-11-07T20:35:00.001-08:00

Hey guys, I know it's been awhile but I'm curious to know if any of you wish to finish this. Let me know and we can divide up the bits amongst the willing.

Perhaps, to Share?

2008-07-07T19:03:00.001-07:00

I've just thought of something.
Since we're already a bit of the way through the story, I was thinking maybe we could open up the blog to let others read through. I know I have a couple of friends that would want to read what we have so far.
There's also the bonus of being able to access the site, even if you've forgotten your passwords.

What do you guys think?

2008-06-16T16:26:00.000-07:00

Aran,

I just read this—beautifully done! Chris, it is on to you!

Vickie Carr

#5: Sparkling Cities

2008-06-04T12:45:00.000-07:00

I wonder if this person fumbled with the aperture ring, concentrating on technicalities of the image, contemplated holding the camera vertical or horizontal as they pressed down on the shutter release. It is a technical shot, the gray scale is perfect. Annalisa is in complete focus, hair disheveled, wetly caked to her face, pouting a little as though she is providing a comic sideshow to the receding thunderstorm. Tufts of grass whisper alonside her knees spreading grains haphazardly against her dress and making flaxen lines of pollen that mesh into the fabric. A stone wall defines a boundary between the field she stands in and a road; mostly tar though cobblestones still show through, which winds off to a city sparkling out on the horizon. A beam of sunshine illuminates the city making me think of a holy and utopian setting where ‘crime’ is a dirty word from the past and people like Annalisa can live dynamic and fearless lives without hesitation.

Annalisa’s dress has gotten dirty; speckles of mud rise up the wedding dress to her waist, a few burs stick to her behind, and tree sap stains run down her right shoulder. It was warning, I believe, a warning from our merciful Lord telling little Annalisa to be wary, that not all of life is pristine, that there is a reason why people take formal transportation when traveling long distances. The symbolism of her outfit dims with the aesthetics losing their ‘wedding’ symbolism in the thunderstorm’s sudden rainshower. But she does not see it this way, does not even pray to St. Anthony when she fears she has lost her way. She is Dorothy in the poppy field of her mind, drugged on optimism, and ready to step in to the threshold of every sparkling city she sees, determined to make each her kingdom of Oz.

#4: Daughter of all

2008-05-19T12:23:00.001-07:00

A serious moment captured by the shutter with unknown hands; Annalisa never told me who shot her this way, bathed in solemn light. I never asked. The skilled hands must remain unknown though I would press them against mine in thanks if I ever had a face to resolve them.

Annalisa never went to church. Our mother would weep behind her closed door while Annalisa examined the new stud in her nose, smiling lopsided into the mirror where I could answer with a frown. There is no communion dress to lay into tissue beside mine. Always there was a space in the pew that reminded me of her shape but she was never there, not even for the weddings of others. It is even stranger now to see how right she looks at the altar.

She cups a slender ivory candle in both hands, supplicant before a God that I have never known. It is not yet lit, her prayer only half-formed in contemplation. Veil carelessly crumpled away from her face, no shoes, eyes turned away and down past the candle. The church is bare stone save the altar-cloth, meticulous stitches worked in gold and blurred green and maroon beyond the locus point of Annalisa. She draws all color and line to her like a magnet as she did in life, the center around which we orbited in anger or love equally passionate for she would merit no less.

Just the barest hint of a smile on her lips and I would say that it is demure. I want to step past the lens of this moment, to ask her in a hushed voice what she is thinking, why she is here now after years of railing against our family’s faith. I want my heart to be full in the late afternoon silence with her. I want to frame her now in this way, sublime with gentle, hopeful hands in this tiny house of God.

Part 3: When Lost, Forward is the Only Direction

2008-05-11T19:15:00.000-07:00

Even frozen in time, my sister had her way of escaping black and white. This was Annalisa, bright, vigorious, a blur. Her letters were like this also; Comic Sans, exaggerated and bold, a hint of the child in the guise of a woman. She wrote underneath the picture in short sentences, excitement barely hidden even if some vowels had disappeared, as she told me what it was all about.

"I have fallen in love with the countryside." She said. "The flowers are beautiful in the springtime."

That was her, down to a tee. She travels to a place of history, of grand tradition and proud people. And yet, The flowers are beautiful in the springtime. It is strange for someone so close to the Earth to never ever land.

I try not to look at her face, because if I do, I will smile too, and the inappropriateness of it will make me cry. The countryside is as she says: Beautiful. Tall cypresses line the road like temple columns, and the sun - high at noon - casts deep shadows on the ground even as it lights the cloudless sky in perfect monochrome.

And of course, Annalisa, as usual, is center of attention for all the wrong reasons. She falls forward in a clumsy white blur, with her foot caught in the step of the frail little donkey cart. An old farmer, even frailer than the cart, holds his arms out to catch her. Annalisa's own arms spring up in wild abandon, flinging a bouquet of asparagus into the air. Her hair is wild, her dress pristine, and yet her face, oddly clear in the commotion, still holds that brilliant smile.

Remembering her like this is easy; Annalisa never had the time to frown.

Passing the torch ...

2008-04-24T07:54:00.000-07:00

I just posted the second episode, so I guess it's on to you next, David.

Thanks for setting up the blog. And thanks, Chris, for letting me sit in on the workshop at the last minute. It was really fun and a great way to generate ideas.

Image #2 : Departure

2008-04-24T07:20:00.000-07:00

In this image she is leaving us with a benediction. Hand raised, palm faced outward like a Papal blessing. Or is she only saying goodbye? Her fingers come close to the edge of her veil but don't touch it. A shadow crosses her face as she's framed in the rear window of the taxi, moving forward but looking back. Facing the camera. Facing us.

This is what I am left with. Images I must try to interpret, messages saved to a phone. How many days missing. How many days gone. Surely not so long but already I see her in snapshots, in snippets. The ring on her finger, our grandmother's ring, coyly exposed as she fans her fingers before her mouth like a forties pin-up queen. That same hand, black as split eggplant, the ring wrenched off.

The images I don't want to see are the ones imprinted forever, fluorescent-lit against my closed eyelids. Only by opening my eyes can I see Annalisa as she was, a girl smiling into the sun, willing herself to fall, believing against all rational advice that loving arms would always be there to catch her before she hit the ground.

I was as trusting, once. But even when he left her, literally at the altar, her heart did not harden. Her journey was not revenge but healing. We don't live in a world of peace and love, I told her once, frustrated. Annalisa laughed and sang a fragment of an old song. I won't live in a world without them, she said.

The photos

2008-04-21T04:39:00.000-07:00

Nice work Vickie - so, we're off to a flying start. And thanks to the artist known as David Destrato for setting up the blog. The list of snapshots I noted down during the session reads:

(1) Bride prepped by mom & sisters - Vickie
(2) Bride drives away viewed through rear window of taxi - Kathryn
(3) Comedy aisle shot - Destrato
(4) Lighting a candle at the altar - C. L. Harader
(5) Dress gets dirty in sudden shower of rain - Aran
(6) Hitching shot - Chris
(7) Getting-into-car shot - To Be Decided
(8) Self-taken couple shot - TBD
(9) Casting off the veil, smiling, at sunset - TBD

So over to you next Kathryn, I guess.

May I just say how much I enjoyed sharing an hour with you fine people - I'm really looking forward to seeing how this project turns out.

C

2008-04-19T20:18:00.000-07:00

Annalisa was going to marry the earth. Her plan was simple. She would take nothing for her journey but a wedding dress. No bread, no bag, no money. "The world will care for me, Calina," she cried. Even as a child, Annalisa saw the poetry in everything—the trees, the clouds, falling stars.

Who was I to tell her differently? She is ten years younger than me and still believes in love. I know better how a marriage can smother the soul. Once, I did not clean my apartment for 15 years to protest this fact. My husband never even noticed—he shoved the cat off the breakfast table, spread out his newspaper, and drank his coffee each morning as though nothing was amiss. He did not see, as I saw, the dust that covered everything.

I should have stopped her. Instead, I helped her sew the white dress she is wearing in this picture. I embroidered it with our mother's pearls. The photograph was taken on Easter morning, the day she left. My sister, Annalisa, the woman who said she would marry the world. Her eyes are bright, and her face is flushed and radiant. She has that shy, crooked smile. She looks like a real bride—full of hope.

2008-04-19T20:11:00.000-07:00

Well folks, here is the first post of our story.