Hallowed-ween
The house is in a whirlwind of anticipation. My wife and my soon to be 16-year-old daughter are running to and fro buying fabric, candies, decorations, etc., all in preparation for the most ghoulish of holidays – Halloween.
You would think the Messiah is close at hand with all the excitement! I can smell wonderful things being cooked in the kitchen. Cakes, cookies and other assorted sweets are being made for a party for friends and company next week.
Soon the sewing machine will be humming, whirring out yards of cloth to make my daughter into a beautiful and elaborate Snow White. The metamorphosis is beginning and by next week, it will be complete. My little, rotten 16-year-old daughter will become an angelic Snow White for a day. She will probably still want very little to do with her father afterwards.
So here is the problem as I see it. Not to be a naysayer or a Mr. Scrooge, but I hate Halloween. I have never liked it. Even as a little kid all dressed up as some robot or motorcycle, I was so uncomfortable asking for treats. Why couldn’t they just give them to me without all the hassle?
I don’t understand all the fuss. The last thing I want to be is someone other than myself. It is exactly my problem in reverse. I want to be more of me, not less. Escaping into becoming some bucolic angel or hobgoblin doesn’t make me any happier; it just feels all wrong. I need to stand sure footed in my own shoes, grounded to the earth below, seeking with a little help of Sigmund and Co. to come to grips more with the me that is wiser, bigger and stronger. Maybe this year I should simply beg for treats not as some angelic Mr. Hyde, but just as plain old boring me on stilts.
Well the festivities have begun, the autumn leaves are falling, the smell of wood burning in fireplaces is in the air, and I can feel all the happy little kids around me dreaming of all the treats to come next week.
This un-bemused photographer will fight to the death to keep any pumpkins off his head at least until next year.
Día de los Muertos Leslie Smolan guides Rodney’s spirit back home for the holiday
I am on a flight back from Mexico City, which is primping for its annual celebration of loved ones on November 1st and 2nd. Day of the Dead, or Día de los Muertos, is dedicated to the deceased, upon which gifts and offerings are placed to guide their spirits back among the living just for these two days.
What would draw Rodney back? I’m sure it would be our home. We spent the first 10 years of our marriage rebuilding the small cottage (now the archive), and the next 20 years renovating the “big house,” (now the gallery). Rodney hired artisans and craftsmen from around the world and directed the design of the property, from hand-picking every floorboard and brick to supervising the plastering by Shakespeare-quoting Irish masons.
Rodney perfected every inch of the landscape as intensely as he did each home’s interiors. He would wake up every morning and gaze out the bedroom window to survey his kingdom. Pruning shears in hand, he would stroll the property, taking a nip here, a tuck there, ensuring every leaf aligned with the edge of every hedge. Whether intentional or not, the house and gardens were the backdrop for many of his photographs. Early on this was by choice, later, dictated by budget.
This photograph was taken in the backyard. Just to the right of this pachysandra-carpeted hillside is a small waterfall installed by Dorothy Willard, the property’s original owner, in 1930. Since we’re discussing spiritual matters, I often think Dorothy had a psychic connection to Rodney, as they both had a penchant for endless construction. But I digress…
Rodney would not be enticed to return for the American version of Halloween. It is full of spooks and scary things, too much candy and lots of plastic.
In contrast, the Mexican version of this holiday is a riot of flowers and color. Huge clusters of bright orange marigolds are glued to the facade of buildings, hung as floral arches, and strung as garlands across storefronts. People are parading in costumes and wearing big hats. Happiness in the air. Altars are popping up all over the city with photos and mementos. I think Rodney, Mr. Curmudgeon himself, would approve of this version.
To celebrate the holiday, my Día de los Muertos altar, or “Ofrenda” will contain a slice of coconut cake, a fountain pen, silver polish, A Moveable Feast by Ernest Hemmingway, a postcard of Vermeer’s Girl Reading a Letter at an Open Window, the scent of Guerlains Jicky cologne and flickering candles dancing to the filmscore of Days of Heaven by Ennio Morricone. Welcome back Rodney, if only for a brief visit.
