"It is never too late to be what you might have been." - George Eliot

At Bonaventure Cemetery. Not anyone I actually know.

"It is never too late to be what you might have been." - George Eliot 

Part two of my photography bio. This is the hard part, the personal part.

My grandmother was a photographer. My mother's mother. She was good too. This was in an era of dark rooms, chemical developing, and actually knowing how to use the aperture on a film camera. She took amazing pictures- of her children, landscapes, of things happening.

My grandmother was also abusive to her children, enough that two of them danced on her grave when she died. Their memories of her photography are tainted by this abuse. To me she was a doting grandmother when I was a child and a sickly old woman with a temper and dementia when I was a teenager. She once grabbed me, by my neck, from across Thanksgiving dinner to accuse me of being a lesbian because I invited my female best friend to eat with us that holiday. I know she was mean and violent and I never doubted any of the stories told about her.

I know that she handed out a lot of pain to people in her lifetime. I have a difficult time sifting through all the memories of my family though because every single person was also a liar when it came to telling it to us as children.

For example: A drunken uncle once told us he had secret documents relating to the JFK assassination taped to the back of a picture at his house. Later he told us that our grandmother was the Babushka lady, the lady with the headscarf seen unflinchingly taking photos of the assassination and that no one has yet tracked down.

She was in Denver when John F. Kennedy was assassinated.

Another family member claimed that Melba was actually Princess Anastasia of Russia and showed us a hand typed autobiography that she had written about her escape to America.

She wasn't even born yet when the Tzar's family was killed.

It was all bullshit. Intertwined with accusations of child rape, drug abuse, and other illegal harms. We believed it all, as children often do. There are no dinosaur gizzard stones that the Smithsonian tried to buy. The Life magazine didn't steal anyone's negatives. My grandmother was not the elusive babushka photographer nor was she Anastasia.

So when one of my family members reminds me that my grandmother was a photographer too? That my work reminds them of her daring work? It is very much not a compliment. It is the worst insult they can think of in the moment, a sweet and subtle emotional stab wound to the heart. No one overhearing the conversation could know what horribleness that drips from such words, but I do.

I write poetry like my grandfather and photograph the world like my grandmother. I still have all my fingers though and I try really hard to be the end of abuse in a line of awful mothers, cherishing my children and being mindful of the power and cruelty of words as well as hands.

I am sure I take more after my aunt than I do any of the others in my family, not just because she is one of three people from that side that still talk to me. I hope I also take after my dad's side too, I know I look quite a lot like his grandmother Madeline. But how much of this inheritance actually matters? I am not them. I have my own life experiences that have shaped me, my own abuses, loves, and travels.

I am not them.

This is the anchor that holds me to the seafloor when pursuing photography as an art. Twisting and twining of seaweed and rusty chains, these associations are what hold me back- not just in art but in writing too. When I dredge up these family and childhood memories, they are not just mine and it picks at the wounds of everyone involved. I can only hope that they all understand that I tell my own history, tell my own stories, and that telling them sometimes keeps me up at night.

This is the photo bomb that I was thinking of yesterday. Legacy and letdown. The phoenix rising from the ashes of a dysfunctional history.

Can I take from this and create some new legacy without whitewashing the histories that brought us here? What is it that is said in writing?
“You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.
-- Anne Lamott”

It isn't too late for me to be a photographer, a poet, a memoirist. It isn't too late for any of it.

Photo Bomb

It is a complicated history I have with my camera. I have always loved photography.

I loved the mildew smelling old photo albums we had when I was little. I loved the machiney feel of my dad's old Nikon film camera. I loved black and white films and pictures. I just loved it all. When I decided that my habit of getting woozy and passing out at the sight of blood eliminated the career track of trauma surgeon, I turned to photography. I worked on the year book at the first high school I went to. I played around with cameras as much as I could, though this was when it was all film and I understood nothing about aperture or shutter speed or film type and when I would get packets of developed film back from Walgreens I would say a little hopeful prayer that something good would have come out of the roll. Usually just 1-2 photos did. It was so frustrating. This was before the Internet was the amazing trove of human knowledge too and our library had nothing of help.

It was frustrating to have this vision in my head, to be in so many moments that I knew could be artistically saved, and not have a way to save any of it. Of course I could throw words on to the page and I taught myself to draw and paint eventually, but I longed for the experience of creating photos that saw what I saw in the world. Captured the magic I encountered.

When we moved, the new high school had a photo lab and a professional vocational class. It also had a waiting list a mile long and students had to start at year 1 of 4. At least that's what I was told. Crushed. The same was true of the drama program. Theatre had also been a huge part of my life at my first school.

So I wrote. I painted. I drew. I dreamed. I read. I experienced.

I went to college eventually. In that time, photography changed. It changed fast. Digital cameras happened.

After college, my first job was an internship at the State of Iowa Historic Preservation Office (SHPO), because at that point my interest was deep into historic architecture and old house restoration. Working there gave me access to the files on my neighbourhood and house. My job was to drive all over the state and photography, with a digital camera, old houses and buildings.

I could take a picture and right away see if it turned out. My job was to take pictures of historic architecture of all kinds, rural and urban. Public, fancy, residential, shanty. Oh, it was the best job. I loved it. LOVED IT. I wanted a camera like this, but alas, I was a new college graduate and the camera was something like 9,000K$. Yike. Still, madly in love. The biggest heartbreak when the job was downsized and I was let go, wasn't having to go t o work at a credit card call centre (though that was pretty darn soul crushing and awful), it was breaking up with that camera. Packing it away and saying goodbye. Tears. Big awful, ugly, tears happened.

When Lily was born, Grampa gave me a tiny point and shoot camera so we would take more pictures of her. I did that and I used them to start a blog. There was no photo editing, pretty low quality pictures, but again, I was able to see and shoot. I did my best with what I had and was grateful.

Chad saw how happy it made me to take pictures. Christmas when I was pregnant with Holly, he bought me the D40x Nikon. I still had no idea how to use it. I carried it everywhere with me, it fit in the diaper bag. I just shot on auto.

That worked for me for years. Three kids in though, it was just harder to manage to bring with me. Soon, I only took photos with my phone. I missed out on a lot. When we upgraded to smart phones and Instagram, that just became the default. It wasn't as sexy as the feel of a real camera, but the best camera for the moment is the one you have with you.

That brought me to the point of having my photos published. So many people commented on some of my creative photography, especially the landscapes, and encouraged me to submit the work....and I did. It was very well received actually. 

http://flyway.org/art/visual-art-by-danelle-stamps/

This was taken without filter on an overcast day with my phone. No, I take that back, I increased the colour saturation to make the photo match the actual colour around me. The camera adjusted it to be blander. I held it up and made the colour match. So the world could be in my moment. This was after I decided that the alligator was not actually going to eat me. See it there in the water? Perhaps it didn't see me?

I still didn't know how to use my Nikon off the auto setting though. That bothered me.

Recently, I began looking into classes, whoa money. Then the brilliant idea hit me.... I work for a college that dose tuition waivers for employees AND offers photography classes. Bingo.

Last night, I purchased the book, filled out paperwork, and walked into a classroom as a student.

There is more to this story. I'm not sure if I have the words put together in my head to share it just yet.

Fennel and Leek Soup With a Fairytale Twist

Fennel bulbs were on sale at the local grocery. I can't resist buying up weird veggies when our rural shop gets them in. I knew this would be destined for a soup so I grabbed a bunch of leeks too. Mmmmm. Leeks. I love leeks. They are perfect for soups.

I had turkey stock on hand, celery, and leftover mashed potatoes. It all simmered for hours and then I pureed it into perfection.

A perfection that my children decided to name.....

Ogre Snot Soup.


Because it looked like,  you guessed it, ogre snot. Thank kids.

It was so good though. Lily had, not one, not two, not three....but four bowls and had it for breakfast the next day. I am quite sure that part of it was the disgust that Holly had at the mere sight of the soup in the bowl and Lily's slurping took her disgust to the next level- the run and hide and play ponies upstairs level.

Here is the recipe, if you dare:

Fennel and Leek Soup With a Fairytale Twist

One entire bulb and frond of fennel.

Two stalks of celery with greens on the end.
Four whole leeks, green and bulb.
       Chop that whole lot into smaller bits.
2 quarts of broth. I used turkey.
Simmer until it is all soft and then add 2 cups of mashed potatoes (or diced potatoes, about 4, and add at the beginning with some butter).
Once package of sour cream.
Salt, thyme, tarragon, cayenne, and white pepper. I used our Prairie Fire seasoning salt.
Simmer some more.
Then take off and cool down a bit, puree in blender in small batches, and return to the pot.
Bring back up to simmer for about 10 minutes.
Serve into soup bowls and garnish with white cheddar and croutons.

Tell your kids that it is made from ogre snot and they will have to eat it all up or their hair will fall out. Just kidding. I didn't do that. I did read the original Sleeping Beauty to them, all the way to the end, where the Prince's mother, who is half ogre, tries to eat Sleeping Beauty and her two beautiful children while the Prince, now King, is off making war. Spoiler, the evil Queen throws herself into the giant vat of broth and makes herself into soup.

Mmmmmm. Soup.

Winter Mists and Reflections

Fall on the farm was busy, then there is my job, recitals, deliveries, escaping livestock, paperwork.....fall is non stop. I actually get excited for blizzards and standstills and even technology outages because it means just a little time to catch my breath.

I don't get time to write. I don't get time to make art. I don't even get time enough to enjoy a cup of coffee in silence because I am grading papers, entering cut sheets, answering questions, booking meetings, and parenting my three kids at the same time. Even if I leave the house without them- brain is on that.

This time is critical for me as an artist and it is not lost. Instead, this is the life I write about. Without this, I am simply experiencing fingers on keyboard and not the amazing and breathtaking life of a homeschooling, permaculture farmer. It is one thing to know how to write and another to have something to write about. Ink without muse is just smudges on surfaces.

It is still hard to remember this when my hand reaches for my pen and I fall asleep before the thoughts escape. It is hard to remember this when my boots are full of muck and it is a freezing rain and an animal is conversing quietly with death as I can do nothing but hold her head through the transition. It is hard to remember when the laundry piles up and the children are fighting each other like angry wild things over toy or turn rights. It is damn hard to remember what my husband's kiss feels like when my mind and body are torn from chores and business work that takes all of my time and energy and not even coffee can restore my senses long enough to return affection.

Yet, this season will pass, transition to the next, and we press on.

Farming is hard. Living is hard. Being human....hard. You get the idea, yeah? I live this life intensely so I can feel it that way, then I write about it.

One day a fellow writer asked me what I love about this landscape, because what I write in my poems is desolate and heartbreaking. Why do I continue down this path, why not move to a city apartment and be happy buying veggies at the grocery store?

Good question.

Because I love it. I love how close to life we are here but that means we are always a breath away from the work of death too. I can see the stars at night, see the heavens light up with twinkling wishes. In the city the sky was always an orange haze at night or just darkness that seemed like it would swallow me whole. Here it is quiet, but in a musical way, with chirpings and hoots and the wind in the trees. In the city it was always loud, people fighting, having sex loudly, blaring music, cars driving, cars breaking, sirens, noise, noise, and noise of people living. Garbage trucks, snow ploughs, delivery trucks. Just noise. Clunky, screaming, horrible noise. Here? I have found peaceful refuge. Here my children can play without fear of sex offenders that live next door. Here my children can climb trees all day if they want because there are trees to climb. Here in this wide open space of prairie and timber, we are free.

That freedom comes with a cost. To offset that cost, we grow extra food and sell it to friends and family. The benefits are pretty amazing though.

So though I may dread lambing season and predation in ice storms and the cold wet mud of winter thaws and so many other things.....I'll take that over the sickly, polluted, and unsafe life we lived in the city. I'll take making food that heals people and changes the world one acre at a time over being a prisoner in my own home because of neighbourhood violence.  Self reliance over being at the mercy of a storm when the power is out for a week.

There it is. Back to work now. Winter is here.