Sirenas

And the little boy was ready to become what he was born to be: his mother’s joy.

“All is accident,” she was told, “your entrails are now hiding that accident.”

But she did not listen.

…One day, when the date trees were bearing fruit and the whitest clouds had fallen into the Mediterranean Sea, he discovered a small book of poetry and asked his mother to read it. He was 6-years old and poetry was his latest discovery. The lines, the balancing sounds, the words he did not know all reminded him of the songs his mother sang, in a different language, when plucking chicken or sweeping the terra cotta floor tiles.

And she read to him, while smiling at his interest. Slowly, she pronounced the words as she interpreted them; her voice changed with each interpretation, and she stopped a few times to look at his wide-open eyes. “These eyes are not from an accident” she convinced herself.

He listened to every word as if it were the first sunrise he had seen.

Sirens, sirenas or nymphs

Had vast wings to fly

From Scopuli to Anthemoessa

But one day

Brown eyes

Will forget

The pain they leave behind

When they open their wings wide

In cities of asphalt

And over narrow balconies

Upon which

Rain

Plays

The empty words

Of good-bye

… Years later, he found that book in a shoe box where his mother had kept receipts from the monthly water bills, an ivory comb missing a few teeth, and letters once held together by a broken and now dry rubber band. He recognized that rubber band as the one used by street peddlers to hold fresh thyme or oregano in bunches.

He held the poetry book in his unsure hands and resisted to the urge of opening it. Instead he looked out from the window and remembered his mother’s words, her own, that she added to every reading:

“One day you will understand these poems, my son. And when you do, remember that nothing is by accident – we do what we should do, even if we do not know why. We become who we already are, just that we learn how to be comfortable with ourselves. I hope one day you will reach that comfort.”

He put the book back in the box, caressed the ivory comb, and shut the lid.

“Some boxes should remain shut for a long time,” he thought, “especially when there is poetry in them.”

January 27, 2014

© Vahé Kazandjian, 2014

I took this picture in Barcelona, Spain.

A Street Moment

.. I watched a couple carry their baby to the Emergency Department.  A major university hospital, in the middle of Baltimore’s splendor for cultural acceptance and heritage, offers hope.  Hundreds of couples would carry their babies into that old building today.  Most would carry their babies back home.

The streets were full of students, many wearing their white coats in pride.  One day they will offer hope as well.  They will wrap a stethoscope around their neck and believe in themselves. One day they will be in that Emergency Department and learn how one swallows his own soul while telling couples that their baby will not go home tonight.  May be never. But for now, students wore their white coats for innocence.

.. I was in thought when a man touched my arm.

“Excuse me sir, where can I find something to eat?”

He was in his sixties, I guessed.  Clean shaved, yet wearing what men wear when they cannot afford clothing.  His eyes had opaqueness, and no depth.

“The cafeteria, of course, or  ...”

“Is there an eatery for plain folks like me?” he interrupted.

Plain folks.  Are these the ones who do not wear white coats? 

“Sure.  There is an all-you-can eat Oriental food place around the corner.  And a hamburger joint a bit left from there.”

He looked at me with some curiosity.

“With your permission, sir, I have to say that you have an interesting accent.  What is your heritage?”

Unexpected question!  A hungry man turned sociologist.  Yet, there was something about him that intrigued me.

“Armenian,” I said, “very Armenian”.

He hung his head down for a minute, and then looked back at me.

“I would have thought more from the Mediterranean than from Asia Minor,” he noted.  “But, I am hungry and cannot think well.”

Then, he shook my hand, and said “All-you-can-eat sounds good!”

And left.

I watched him disappear around the corner.  I did not try to understand the conversation, nor be surprised by it.  It was an old campus in the middle of Baltimore, where students wore white coats, and where couples carried their babies to the Emergency Department, located in an old building.

Date unknown

(While the story is from Baltimore, the picture is from Taipei... Just that I smile every time I see the name of this restaurant. I have not been there yet, but hope to do so an my next visit!)

© Vahé Kazandjian, 2014

Business Trip

And you want to give

The last candy bar

To Alex or Nalva

But they are not alone

The streets belong to street kids, who do not know the name their mother once gave them, when she gave them away.  The city keeps time captive; feels like watching a silent movie to which sound was added.  As a remake of past miseries.  As if to make you hide the last candy bar so the kids will not know you have it.

And you want to see

A smile on Alex or Nalva

But they are not alone

And they do not smile

You do not walk fast.  You stay still in fact.  You think of other kids who always had candy bars.  But who want more than candy bars.  Who do not know about these kids in the streets of a city near a river, for which songs have been written.  Songs that were not real, for the waters never washed the streets where kids do not smile.

And you want to forget

That your home has a door

To leave the street outside

And make your selfish world

Warm

January 21, 2014

© Vahé Kazandjian, 2014

Anti-Hero

Say you know

That no

Lilac fills the night

Like the salty tears

Of goodbye

          Say you can

          While in the rain

          Taste those tears

          And walk

          Alone

Say you knew

What I would say

Yet took the bend

And went your way

To find the rain

          Say in simple words

          That trains only depart

          And that the moon gets full

          Just to hide its lonesome side

Say you still can

On a summer day

Hold my hand

And together

Grow apart

Again

January 20, 2014

© Vahé Kazandjian, 2014

I took this picture in Bilbao, Spain.

Rocky Hills of Jordan

“I never aimed at impossible stars,” she once wrote me. “I wanted the comfort of knitting colourful socks by the fireplace.  I never had that time.  I worked for others, and they never knew I did.  I did not have the time to be selfish.  Or personal.”

The sun had long set, yet there was plenty of the day left in this medieval Italian city.  I almost jumped thru the closing doors of a sidewalk pub and asked for two beers.  “I am tired of the day,” the man said, “but if it is for the pretty lady…!”

“He gave the beer for your eyes only,” I said.

“You are being silly.  My eyes now only see and do not attract.”

We watched young students go by on bicycle.  A camionetta crammed with seasonal cut- flowers was selling its day-weary load half price.  The sweet smell of wild flowers filled the sounds of the city with harmony.  And the beer was crisp.

“Have you looked in the mirror one morning and saw your father?”

Yes I had.  Many times over. In fact, once when I was in Taiwan I was so shocked by the way I brushed my teeth in the morning that I took a self portrait doing so.  In order not to forget I caught, as a still picture, my father’s facial expression while brushing a pre-molar.

“It is not the picture of my father I see, but rather his mannerisms.  Somehow, decades later, things we have seen our parents do, we do them too.  The way we show surprise, the way we limp when the back aches, the way we spit watermelon seeds over breakfast.  Ah, even the way we drink our coffee!  I was soo surprised to hear myself sip, retain the elixir between my lips and tip of the tongue, then swallow and almost feel my insides.  “I know exactly where the coffee is now in my stomach,” my father used to say.  Funny, I can almost tell you about the passage of that warm liquid in my esophagus and when it reaches my deeper insides.  Yes, I have seen my father in the mirror.

“And you?”

“Well, I have not.  I seem to have not paid attention to the mannerisms of my parents.  Or, perhaps it is because they are still both alive, and becoming like them is a post-mortem thing.”

“So you are uniquely yourself?  And since this man has drowned in your eyes, should I get another round of beer?”

We stayed there for a long while.  Often silent for long stretches, watching the stone buildings turn dark.  After three rounds of beer, the pub owner came to tell me that if he does not close and go home, his wife will never sleep with him again.  “I am still young,” he said with a pouty mouth, “do not take sex away from me…!”

We laughed, paid, and left.

                                                                       

... ”When are you going to knit those colourful socks?”

 I asked without looking at her.  She was walking by the old city wall and seemed most interested by the history of it.  We stopped every 5 minutes to read the informational boards about the various segments of the wall.

“In my mind I do often.  In fact, I have miles, and miles of socks knitted with colours you do not even know!  These are the colours of my days, but mostly of my nights.  Nights are lonesome and long when you spend the days cleaning others’ wounds.”

We had been walking for a while.  The cobblestone paved streets can get rough on unaccustomed feet. 

“Let’s have wine.  Let’s have a table-full of antipasti.  And let us smoke a Garibaldi cigar!”

It was not difficult to find a small restaurant with minimal lighting.  The antipasti were just right for the taste buds to come alive.  For her eyes to get deeper into the shades of hazel and green.  Till the wine numbed all taste buds.  Till her eyes got deeper into her dissociation from the antipasti and me.

“You left,” I said.  “I am not sure where your mind is.”

She puffed on the bitter cigar like non-smokers do.  Then took a sip of the deep-purple wine and looked at me.  Intensely.  As if I was supposed to know why.

“You know what we should do after we finish the next bottle of wine?  We go back to the hotel, and wake up our lazy friend.  He is not supposed to sleep when in Italy!”

“And we would do that why?” I wondered.

“So we can walk around the city the three of us, all night.  Then, we can have breakfast, we will kiss upon the cheeks three times, then we go to the airport.  And when we get home, we email each other saying” I wish we had rented a bike and checked every corner of that small city.”

I took a puff on that bitter cigar.  It tasted of an unusual evening and night when I was in company of a woman who knew what she had missed.  I just happened to be there when she was searching for herself, to see if she had become her parents, to test if men still drown in her eyes, and on a cold night, tuck her feet under herself on the old sofa and knit a colourful pair of socks.

… As we got into the hotel elevator, she whispered:

“Let me knock at his door alone.  You just hide in the hallway.  Let me see how men still react if I knocked at their hotel room door at midnight!”

January 20, 2014

© Vahé Kazandjian, 2014

Year of the Horse

On my first trip to Asia, I was told that I was totally predictable for being a Rooster. Among other obvious traits people immediately had noticed in me were independence and curiosity, as I was told over a dinner where chicken and pork were successively served.

… Last night, I decided to read, in original Italian, a book recommended by a friend—Alessandro Baricco’s “Mr. Gwyn”. I was also told that the moon was full in Cancer, and therefore it was a good time to do what I had not done for a while. So I decided to read that book.

I found my return to reading in Italian most enjoyable, and the full moon a bit spooky. But it was the charming thesis of the book, to look for a story in people’s character and to capture it, that fit effortlessly into my roosterness, since my curiosity as a photographer and writer had always been about stories in people, especially when they did not know they had a story to tell.

But what about my independence? Can one be curious without depending on others to satisfy his curiosity? Can a scientist uncover while totally detached from the subject? Would a portrait be as telling about the person if that person had not posed for it? Would a writer be independent from the person of whom he is writing the portrait, as Mr. Gwyn decided to do?

Is it possible that I am not a true Rooster?

I stopped reading, looked at the moon, and decided to do a search on Google. I typed “Chinese Zodiac Rooster.” The cartoon of a rooster showed up on top of the search result. I clicked on it.

 Acute, neat, meticulous, organized, self-assured, decisive, conservative, critical, perfectionist, alert, zealous, practical, scientific, responsible. Can be over zealous and critical, puritanical, egotistical, abrasive, opinionated, given to empty bravado.

I quickly calculated that there were 14 positive traits and 7 negative ones. I liked the ratio, although wondered if the 14 positives were part of the empty bravado. Did not matter, overall a rooster seemed a good thing to be.

Next, wanted to know what happens to a Rooster in the Year of the Horse. So, did a new search “Rooster, Year of the Horse.” It read:

“A positive, yet realistic outlook is the key to making the most of this year. Now's the time to make the most of your skills, like your attention to detail and innate leadership ability. You can do a lot with the five auspicious months of this year -- while the Horse favors you, it's also a Wood year, which can clash with Metal, your fixed element.”

I clearly needed to know more about that clash between the Wood and the Metal. But I had enough to think about already and decided to postpone that last search.

Back to reading my book.

“Traduttore, pensò. Ma da che lingua?

Alla fine, l’unica cosa chiara che gli venne in mente fu una parola : copista. Gli sarebbe piaciuto fare il copista. Non era un mestiere vero, se ne rendeva conto, ma c’era un riverbero in quella parola che lo convinceva, e gli faceva credere di cercare qulcosa di preciso. »

That was it! I was searching for the distinction between a translator and a duplicator. Was it the moon, full in Cancer, guiding the flow of my thoughts? Chinese Zodiac, full moon, Alessandro Baricco and my curiosity to learn more about becoming who I am.

Not a duplicator. That much I knew. The Metal as my fixed element, I had to be a translator. One who translates steel to Damascus blades; one who translates a look into a portrait.

… I read a bit more. What was still unclear to me was not the role of translator, since I consider art as translation not creation, but that of identity and belonging. Where does a rooster find its niche for translating? Where does he feel independent to do so? And, will his curiosity eventually make him face his ultimate weakness, that of impulsive compassion?

Then I remembered a photo I had taken in Morocco of a crane sitting in its nest atop a tower in ruin. It was perhaps the full moon, but I thought I took that picture somehow knowing that it represents a metaphor.

Maybe it does now.

January 16, 2014

© Vahé Kazandjian, 2014

Seasons

As if to hang

A wet towel

In a room where many before have hung

Their wet towels

As if to slide

The balcony door

And watch a secretive sunset

As many celebrated before

As if to light

A dried cigar

And in the lonesome sunset rays

Exhale, as if incense for a prayer

And then to write

A note in ink

And write again, way after dark

To those unknown, for them to read

… As if to be

The last vagabond

Who hung a wet towel

After sunset, on a wall, in a room

Where men have loved

The moment of loving alone

And women have wondered if men

Can still love them more

As if to forget

That love is of seasons

No matter how wet the cotton towel

Or how secretive seems a sunset

As tomorrow

All towels

Will be

Dry

January 14, 2014

© Vahé Kazandjian, 2014

Teeth of the Tiger

The first frost on the kitchen window’s glass always amazed her. “A work of art—the shapes are so delicate, and so simply made, just water and cold. No color to distract the eye. Soon all will be covered in deep snow and my world will be in black and white for months.”

There was a river nearby. And a faux-semblant of a beach where granite colored rocks had anchored themselves in clay and sand.  Clay so dense that one could make a swan just by shaping a handful from the beach, right from under the rocks. Or perhaps a vase in await of spring flowers.

There were no tigers around the river. Just men who smiled but she did not trust. Yet their teeth were white and some even pulled their long hair into pony tails. Men who came out of the deep woods to tell stories about short creatures with pointed hats. About tigers that did not exist. But mostly about the loneliness of the deep woods.

The first frost turned to the long winter and all became black and while. Like the old pictures hanging atop the stairs.  The wooden frame was now the kitchen window and the picture changed with the winds. Soon the river would freeze and the short creatures would come out of the woods to walk upon the ice. She will be able to walk on the icy river and feed black swans.

The river was already cold and iced upon its surface but it ran gently under what the eye saw. That river was like her, like the men wearing pony tails and like the tigers no one had really seen. It was a river even if, at times, it froze upon the surface.  In a few months, the short creatures would go back to the woods and wild flower would blossom upon the shores of that river. All will be color and spring scents.

And yet, little boys and blond girls will be told the story of the tigers. A story so mysterious that one can shape a tiger from the clay near the river.  Just like they learned to shape a vase or a swan.

And little boys and blue-eyed girls will almost see the teeth of that tiger as shiny ivory in that clay. But no one would dare to tell them that when one sees the teeth of a tiger, one should not think the tiger is smiling at them.

That is why short creatures cannot walk on the water and men wearing pony tails prefer the loneliness of deep woods.

January 12, 2014

©Vahé Kazandjian, 2014

The Warping of Absolutes

All is white, shiny and uninviting. Yet I do like to go there. Because I know I can return to a warm cabin, atop a mountain where all looks like a picture, often two-dimensional.

Just after sunrise, the white is shadowy, and not yet shiny. It is an aloof tableau where I paint every day. Flowers only die, snow slowly melts, but the cabin remains warm. Because it is a rebel in a mountain where all is a cycle and predictable.  And I like to go there in search of absolutes.

Crunching ice and snow under my slow stride, I dream of islands and long days of sunshine. “Would a man stranded on an island, bathing in sunshine and glorious sunsets but alone, still feel passion?” I wonder. A passion for what, since it cannot be ‘for whom” anymore?  Or will he learn how to become detached, be in the moment, just because he has to be?

Passion and detachment. An unlikely tandem yet essential to co-exist for their own very existence. Two extremes where nothing can be relative as there is no partial-detachment. Nor negotiable passion. The man stranded on an island is every man in cities of steel and stone. And the island is never surrounded by oceans deep and angry, but by other men, women with large feet and children who do not have imagination. That island is where all absolutes get warped, as the stranded man becomes fully detached.

Yet there is a cabin on a mountain where one can go to feel warm. There are sunsets on shiny snow where the cabin, the rebel against all things relative, finds its absolutes in passion alone. But not for someone or for the now serene tableau repainted every day. Not a passion doomed to become love. Not a passion that burns you to ashes and then blows them to the winds, swirling and cold.

Rather, the passion for stretching oneself upon the warped reality of absolutes, like a lover without passion, and watch the stars at night.  In a warm cabin, atop a mountain quiet in snow and its own shadow.

January 9, 2014

© Vahé Kazandjian, 2014

Reverse Mandate

Good will to man. The last night of 2013 was full of old songs, sub-zero temperatures and an old dog that refused to go out and freeze his paws.

This made me think about free will. 

So around midnight, found Perlman’s violin concerto CD, a tortured compendium of Spinoza’s writings, and sat in the rocking chair by the fireplace.  When I opened the book, my dog curled next to the fireplace and I thought “This is how one welcomes the New Year.”

Determinism, causality, cosmic harmony. Good-willed people, at some stage of life, touch upon these concepts. They may not call it determinism, but they may wonder why they act in a certain way. They may not know it as causality but may be told that the blueprint in their cells has been written a while ago to predispose them to events and behaviors. And, they may not see harmony in their daily struggles, but somehow wonder why the heavens above do not collapse.

Good will to man, the wishful song repeated. Free will to man was how it resonated in my mind, past midnight, reading Spinoza. Determinism was central to the pages I was slowly reading. Slowly, because I stopped to think, re-read, and listened to my snoring dog with Paganini's Caprice No. 24 as background . Did he exercise free will by refusing to go out in the cold and keep his bladder distended?  At the bottom of one page there was a reference to Schopenhauer saying “A man can do as he wills, but not will as he wills.” I put the book down. It was 2014 already even though time had no meaning in determining what free will good-willed men will discover next.

But is that true? What about the space-time serving as the canvas for our understanding harmony? A bending time, an expanding space, somehow causally related. Where was free will in there?

… I realized that my feet were now cold. “Maybe all my blood has gone to my head while reading Spinoza at midnight” I made light of the moment.

Then closed the book, turned the rocking chair around to fit my feet under my dog’s warm belly, tickled him with my toes a couple of times, and shut my eyes to recall a few moments from the past year.

January 1, 2014

©Vahé Kazandjian, 2014