Friday, April 27, 2007

You must rejoice, You must rejoice

Some odds and ends tonight.

I am a lover of great quotes, though not the obvious ones you might find in a guide to best man toasts. No, I prefer the odder and more obscure quotation, preferably ones made by personal heroes of mine.

For instance, my favorite quote of all time comes from Charlie Chaplin, who, towards the end of his life and decades after the demise of silent pictures, was asked about his relevance, and said the following: "I am surprised that some critics say that my camera technique is old-fashioned, that I have not kept up with the times. My technique is the outcome of thinking for myself, of my own logic and approach; it is not borrowed from what others are doing." I can read that again and again and not get tired, probably because it gives me hope to continue shooting with my Deardorff 8 x 10 camera or my trusty Hasselblads.

With the deaths this week of two more of my idols, David Halberstam and Mstislav Rostropovich, I am reminded of two other quotations that I have often pondered.


The first comes from Dimitri Shostakovich, my favorite composer and arguably the greatest composer of the last century. (Luckily, in classical music, one does not have to put up with those silly VH1 "Top 100 Artists" lists that pop up every other day. But I'll keep "arguably," if only to avoid hate mail. There's plenty of room at the table for Stravinsky, Rachmaninoff, Bernstein, Puccini et al.)

Anyway, one can't really discuss Shostakovich without bumping into Rostropovich, the greatest cellist of the last century, and vice versa. The two friends are forever linked, both products of a vicious Soviet system that created some of the greatest music and musicians, all at the figurative (and sometimes not) end of a rifle barrel. Rostropovich, who died today in Moscow at the age of 80, lived much of his life in exile, returning home and having his citizenship returned only after the fall of communism. (He famously played at the foot of the Berlin Wall as it toppled around him.) During his tenure as director of the National Symphony Orchestra here in the nation's capital he made a triumphant return to Russia, capping one concert with the greatest symphony of them all, the Shostakovich Fifth. Sweat poured and poured from the maestro as he led the NSO to the fifth's powerful and triumphant climax. It's a video clip I can watch over and over. In fact, many years ago I remember buying an entire NSO subscription just so I could be guaranteed to see Slava, as he was known, conduct the Shostakovich Fifth. He didn't disappoint.

Which brings us to Dimitri Shostakovich himself and the quote I often think about. The Fifth, which debuted in 1937, is, at least on the surface, a rousing symphony, one which restored its composer to the good graces of Stalin and party machine. In fact, it may have even saved his life. After his "Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk" was savaged by an editorial in Pravda as being shrill and chaotic, Shostakovich became a marked man. Every note he would write for the rest of his life would be scrutinized by party bosses, and as we all know, it's just so easy to produce art at gunpoint.

To that end, Shostakovich was often asked to elaborate on the Fifth. To this day, many accuse the conductor of being a party toady, writing something triumphant to appease Stalin. Others, myself included, have always heard something far more subversive in the Fifth, where musicals questions are answered with dark responses and huge climaxes are abruptly cutoff by militaristic snare drums marching in time.

Of the Fifth, Shostakovich said, "What happens in the Fifth Symphony should, in my opinion, be clear to everyone. As in Boris Godunov the jubilation is forced and comes about by threats. It is as if they were beating us with a cudgel and at the same time demanding, "You must rejoice, you must rejoice."

I remember reading that in the liner notes of the first Fifth I ever bought and thinking, wow, beating someone til they rejoice. What a concept.

___________________

David Halberstam died earlier this week, and when I think of the sad state of the White House press corps, more interested, it seems, in preserving their silly Correspondent's Dinner than maintaining a healthy distance from those they cover, I often think of an amazing story told about Halberstam.

One of the best books about journalism you could ever read is called "Once Upon a Distant War." It was written by William Prochnau some ten years ago and describes the very early days of the Vietnam conflict, from 1961 through 1963, when the U.S. operated in an advisory fashion and reporters would hail French-made taxis to the battles each day. There was no television presence to speak of and the number of American correspondents was less than a dozen. More importantly, perhaps, is that of those very few journalists operating in country, most were still in their twenties. They would collectively change the face of journalism forever, a decade, mind you, before Woodward and Bernstein began investigating a little break-in at an ugly apartment complex by the Potomac.

Of the lot, my personal hero has always been Neil Sheehan, author of "A Bright Shining Lie." I guess the fact that I started my career at the same wire service he worked for in Vietnam, United Press International, has something to do with that. Of course, the fact that "A Bright Shining Lie" is considered to be the greatest of all Vietnam books, winning the Pulitzer in 1989, probably doesn't hurt either.

But Halberstam, who wrote for the New York Times, is widely seen as the force majeure, a reporter whose writing so infuriated the powers that be, so much that both the white House and the Saigon government would have been happy if he ended up sleeping with the fishes. But Halberstam didn't flinch.

In a conversation with C-Span's Brian Lamb in 1996, William Prochnau talked about Halberstam.

"He was 28 years old. He was a man of great passions, great angers. The lying and more deception of another kind, the self-delusion and the self-deception -- he felt was deluding itself as much as deluding the American people -- drove him to fits. At one point, in one very famous episode, he slammed his fist down on a table in a little cafe in Saigon and said that the commanding general, the American General Harkins, Paul Harkins, should be court-martialed and shot. And everybody in the room turned around and looked at this 28-year old making this kind of announcement. He was clearly the driving force."

I've always loved that story. It's just so ballsy. And, of course, true. Nowadays, a reporter with that much conviction would end up in detention with Human Resources. Newspapers are terrified of saying the obvious, of stepping on toes, lest they lose their prized position in the White House Briefing Room.

They should all contemplate that episode for a moment.

__________________

We received some proofs from our new web site from our designer this morning and we're really excited. Speaking of Vietnam, i think we can finally see a light at the end of the tunnel on this front. I'll keep you posted but I'm hoping that we will have the new site up and running in a couple of weeks. At last!!!!!

________________

Finally, a quick update on our mourning dove. Mama bird has two little beaks to feed right now. And, i imagine, it will be just another couple of days before the whole family leaves our cozy kitchen nest. The we can begin waiting for next year.

See ya,


Matt

Monday, April 23, 2007

So we beat on...

F. Scott Fitzgerald may have been alluding to something else when he began that last sentence of The Great Gatsby, but it was the first thing that popped into my head as I pondered how to wrap up a truly sad week here in Virginia.

Thirty-two vibrant lives snuffed out in minutes. Where does one begin?

Well, I guess I can begin two feet from my kitchen window. At around 8:00 this morning, in Arlington, Virginia--forty-five minutes after the first moment of silence was being observed on the Virginia Tech campus, and almost two hours before thirty-two more white balloons would rise above Blacksburg today--a little bird was born.

I can say this with a degree of certainty, as I've been a bit obsessed with this nesting mother for the past few weeks. Like Tony Soprano and his ducks, I find myself staring up at her thoughout the day. Each time I imagine that there will be a bunch of little beaks popping out, and that I'll have missed the big moment for another year. But each time it's the same: she just sits in that nest, the same nest that has provided sanctuary from squirrels and other foes year after year, keeping her eggs safe and warm. And unless you're living in Hawaii, I don't have to tell you what a cold spring this has been. This is one tough mom. Even Alexandra, who has become a great lover and protector of animals, is on bird patrol. I love when she pulls her litle chair to the door and strains to get a good view of the nest. (It beats the time a couple of weeks ago when she found a decaying mouse and held it up saying, "Daddy, we have to help him!")

And so that's why I know that it was today, and not a week ago or yesterday or this afternoon, that this little baby bird entered the world. It was this morning, around 8 a.m., exactly one week after the terrible and tragic events at Virginia Tech, and, as I have said, minutes after life was set to start anew again on that wounded campus.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying this little bird represents anything other than a little bird. But with so much sadness, maybe a little tiny bird hatching from an egg on the first beautiful Monday of the year is enough for one morning.

__________

Those of you who have been reading this little journal for the past few months now that while I may not be the most religious or spiritual person around, I do have a strong appreciation for those little moments of serendipity and chance that seem to follow me around.

This past Saturday, a woman named Mary Seale wrote a letter to the editor of the Washington Post, chiding the paper for poking fun at the deaths of several ducklings that had achieved celebrity status near the Interior Department. After all the fanfare of their birth, most of the ducklings were subsequently eaten by a goose. The Post's Reliable Source had a photo of the ducklings, each with an "x" superimposed on top. I remember turning to Maya and saying, "What a mean-spirited thing to do." And so when I read Mary's letter, I did what any crazy person would do: I looked up her number and called her to tell her how much I liked it.

This afternoon I received the following note:

"Dear Mr. Mendelsohn:

This is a very odd question, but are you the same Matt Mendelsohn who called me regarding the letter I wrote about the ducklings? I am only asking because, oddly enough, I was making reservations for our dog at the Olde Towne Pet Resort today and there was a link to you on their site. Washington DC is a big city, but if it is you it is a small world. When I saw the name on the same day you called, it was surreal. I read your brother’s book The Lost as well, one of the most moving I have read in years. I really like your blog--love the wedding stories. If you are the same Matt Mendelsohn-your call made my day, and I really appreciated it."

Small world, eh?

As Mary points out, I do, in fact, photograph people with their dogs all the time. Yesterday afternoon, I met one of my October couples, Sam and Chris, for an engagement portrait. Samantha had brought her dog Annabelle along and the light was beautiful. As we talked, Sam reminded me of what she did for a living. She's a nurse at Fairfax Hospital's Trauma Center, and given this week's shooting, we all know how important her job is. I know she'll scoff at this, but I feel proud to know people who do such important things as Samantha. I can make people happy with my photography, but Samantha can help save a life. That's amazing.

I've said repeatedly that I feel fortunate to consistently book such great clients. And it's times like these, when current events make us so jaded, that I realize how lucky I am to be around joyous events week in and week out, and to be around people who understand how important love is.


Take care, and let's go Hokies,



Matt

p.s. My assistant Matt Lisack is currently in Africa, doing IT work for the State Department. He emailed me tonight from Namibia and told me to get off my tush and start blogging again. Thanks, Matt! And for those of you who want to see what the other Matt is up to, you can read his blog here.

Also, I know a lot of you are asking about the new web site. While it may seem like we're slacking, rest assured that we're on the case. What started out as a simple desire for a new, updated logo and web site has morphed into a long, strange trip that I hadn't planned on. I promise it won't be long!

Monday, April 09, 2007

Matt to speak Wednesday in LA

We love LA!

Well, maybe not love. No offense to Randy Newman and the big nasty redhead at his side, but it took me about fourteen minutes of driving on the 405 to remind myself why I moved away from this town in the first place.

But it's true--I'm back in Los Angeles this week for a cool event. Sinai Temple is hosting my exhibition, In the Footsteps of the Lost, and graciously invited me to come speak at the opening reception. The wine and cheese event is this Wednesday, April 11th at 6:00. I'll talk a bit about the process of photographing the survivors who make up The Lost a bit. And maybe if I have to much wine I'll rant a little about how ridiculously small the photos are in the book. For the thousands of Dark Slide readers on the west coast, come on down and say hi! Sinai Temple is located at 10400 Wilshire Ave.

(Yeah, yeah, for anyone interested, Daniel will be speaking on Friday and Saturday nights at Temple Sinai as well. If you click the ad here you should be able to read the details.)

See ya,



Matt

Saturday, April 07, 2007

Take that!


Well, I guess I had it coming. Less than 24 hours after writing a sappy entry about how great it is to finally have spring arrive, this is what we all woke up to in Washington this morning: a freak April snow gently blanketing the dogwood blooms.

Serves me right, I guess.

Matt

Friday, April 06, 2007

The Rite of Spring

Every spring, like clockwork, we're fortunate to have a bird take us up on the empty nest that sits two feet above our kichen window. And each year, like excited little kids (as opposed to the real excited little kid we have), we watch the process unfold: the sitting on the eggs, the hatching, the feeding, the first flight. (I can't even think about the year when two of the little chicks fell out of the nest. Traumatic.) This morning, mother bird is still sitting on her eggs. I'll keep you posted when they hatch.

I'm not sure what it is about such a simple act of nature that keeps us glued to our window. Downtowwn Washington, a mother duck and her ducklings have kept passerby at the Department of the Treasury all aflutter as well. Their every move--every street crossing-- is cheered on by crowds. And a couple of blocks away, across the Tidal Basin, a million or so folks have just had the pleasure of viewing the cherry blossoms in full bloom.


This past Sunday, I finished photographing an engagement portrait by 7:15 a.m., (as Robert De Niro once famously said, "Get in. Get out. No one gets hurt.") and had Starbucks on my brain, when I saw a Park Police officer closing down my parking lot in advance of the annual Cherry Blossom Ten Miler. Those of us who were trapped in the lot for the next two and a half hours ended up chatting, cheering on the racers, and having a generally splendid time. After all, if you're going to get stuck in a parking lot for a couple of hours, wouldn't you want to be surrounded by cherry blossoms?

Don't worry. I won't turn this into a sappy ode to nature. But I'm sure glad that spring is here.

Now excuse me while I go find my winter coat, 'cause it's freezing here today.



Matt