A View of the Peace Garden

 

As I mentioned in my previous post, my dad's camera has been following me on many of my recent excursions and adventures. On Tuesday Don and I had planned on visiting the Lake Harriet Bandshell in Minneapolis to have a picnic and listen to music. We packed up our food (forgetting the fork for the fruit salad as well as something to drink) and made the short drive to the lake. Fortunately (and unfortunately) it was a beautiful day, and we therefore couldn't find a parking place within a reasonable walking distance.

I let my spontaneous spirit lead the way, and as soon as I saw the Peace Garden I told Don to stop. We first explored a walking trail in the forest that looked like a scene from a fairy tale. I could have spent an entire day hiking if time had allowed.

The Peace Garden came next with its stunning flowers, fountain and typical park atmosphere.

What really caught my attention was the sculpture with origami cranes draped over it. Along the walking path you can find paper as well as a description of the folding process to make your own crane. This is how the Minneapolis Parks and Recreation Board site explains it:

"The sculpture represents the international tradition honoring Sadako Saski, a girl who developed cancer as a result of radiation released by the atomic bomb dropped on Hiroshima. Told of a Japanese legend that people who fold a thousand paper cranes will be granted a wish, she folded over one thousand cranes before her death at age 12."

The story behind this sculpture really inspired me, and its use of color stood out even among the thousands of flowers. Allowing the viewer to actively participate in the origami as Sadako did helps us feel like we are part of the story and its ultimate sadness. It was emotionally powerful.

On our way home the sun was beginning to set, so we camped out on the beach and watched the sailboats and ducks. We were even able to hear the end of the concert we missed at the bandshell.

It is so easy to get wrapped up in the world's noise. When I feel stifled creatively, separating myself from my everyday routine is a breath of fresh air. Sometimes it seems counterproductive to step away from the never ending lists of things to do, but it is exhilarating and makes the daunting tasks seem easier.

Below are a few of the photos I took that night.

The Self-Portrait (A Tribute)

I've always had a profound love for photography, but it has intensified since my dad's death last June. He carried his camera with him everywhere, and had couldn't have found less opportune moments to capture his photos. You're eating? Great, let me snap one. Needless to say, there are hundreds of awful full-mouthed photos of me floating around. There are also hundreds of beautiful, touching moments that he discovered with that camera. I remember getting irritated with him once for having the camera out at what seemed like an inappropriate time. He fought back, stating that I would now forever treasure the little memories I would have otherwise forgotten.

When looking at our family pictures, I always notice the random self-portraits he took by holding his arm out and pressing the button blindly. This was his way of proving his existence to the camera. Dad was the photographer, and therefore was rarely featured in the pictures. I may not be able to see his face in most of the images, but those photos are taken from his vantage point. He pulled out the camera during the moments he felt held a certain importance. To me, that is so much more meaningful than having him on the other side of the camera.

This past weekend I was in Iowa to visit family and honor my dad, as tomorrow marks the one-year anniversary of his death. I felt it necessary to to pull out his beloved camera for the occasion. No act makes me feel closer to him than when I'm holding his camera, framing out my composition. Above you will see my self-portrait, my blind attempt to show the face behind the images.

Here's to you, Dad. Thank you for pulling out the crayons with me when I was little and letting me color outside of the lines. Thank you for drawing goofy cartoons and teaching me that creativity has no limits. Most of all, thank you for allowing my brother and me to see the world in a way that is truly our own.

I cherish my unique vision of the world.

The Diary Project

I can't help but share the experience I had yesterday. My aunt Rose Ann visited me, bringing along photo albums that held photographs from her childhood. For years now she has been encouraging my grandma to document the story of her life. After recording several years worth of experiences, my grandma gave Rose Ann permission to summarize the writings from her diaries. I remember watching her write pensively in that red book when I was a child, sometimes writing two pages worth if she had been too tired to go through her routine the previous night. She would fill the entire page with information about the weather, the grain prices and the day's activities and adventures. Her cursive handwriting curled around the edge of the page when she inevitably ran out of space.

The finished draft is now in my hands to design. Yesterday we attempted to pick out photos that will serve as visual references to complement the written words. Photos capture something pure, something hypnotic. Looking through the gorgeous black and white prints yesterday was a captivating experience. It put me in a hypnotic state of mind, placing me in a time and place I never experienced. I thought I would share a few of the discovered treasures with you.