On the plane from Miami to home, I watched the movie adaptation of this book. I probably watched half of it because of the self-prescribed high-melatonin-dose-induced half-sleep. Regardless, I dare safely state that the book is much more enjoyable.
Aza, a girl with an obsessive awareness and fear of bacteria in her body, goes through her teen life. She falls in love with an old friend she was friends with in her early youth. His father is now a billionaire. He goes missing. Daisy is her best friend. Aza and Daisy search for the father, and in the end, they find him, dead.
John Green is a writer who can create moving stories without falling into traps of cliches or annoying theatrical emotions.
J.A. Baker is a unique character in English literary and ornithological history. Baker wrote two books. The first is a classic called The Peregrine—a book you have never read before. Baker visited a 50-square-mile piece of Essex for years on his bicycle. He meticulously described the movements of the birds, especially the peregrines in the area. Baker is fascinated by the peregrine falcon.
The second book is The Hill of Summer. This book has a broader subject, the south of England.
Werner Herzog and The Peregrine
Director Werner Herzog recommends the book The Peregrine as a lesson in observing, describing, and evaluating viewpoints.
That’s how a filmmaker should see things: in loneliness. He or she or it should see the world with an incredible amount of human pathos and enthusiasm and rapture.
Indeed, the book describes the life of the peregrines in his part of Essex in very attractive terms, both visually and metaphorically.
Throughout his life, Baker lived in Chelmsford, Essex. Baker was a manager at AA and later at Britvic, a soft drink company. In his spare time, he biked around the area and worked on his observations of the nature around him, especially of the birds and peregrines. Baker was a very reclusive person. He married a colleague, Doreen Grace Coe. They did not have children.
He died of cancer, caused by his medication for his severe arthritis, from which he suffered increasingly throughout his life.
The Peregrine
Baker describes his observations from his point of view but also flies with the peregrine. He follows the peregrines through the Essex nature reserve. In particularly poetic prose, he describes the environment, how the birds fly, and how they hunt and kill.
Peregrines are known for their unique killing method: stooping. They fly high up in the air, target their prey, and start a skydive reaching 400 kilometers per hour. Baker describes the kill in clean, surgical, and visual terms.
The peregrine swoops down towards his prey. As he descends, his legs are extended forward till the feet are underneath his breast. The toes are clenched, with the long hind toe projecting below the three front ones, which are bent up out of the way. He passes close to the bird, almost touching it with his body, and still moving very fast. His extended hind toe (or toes — sometimes one, sometimes both) gashes into the back or breast of the bird, like a knife. At the moment of impact the hawk raises his wings above his back. If the prey is cleanly hit — and it is usually hit hard or missed altogether — it dies at once, either from shock or from the perforation of some vital organ.
Prose like poetry
Many passages are pure poems. Not even sentences, just words in a sequence increasing the power of the language.
Screaming gulls corkscrewing high under cloud. Islands blazing with birds. A peregrine rising and falling. Godwits ricocheting across water, tumbling, towering. A peregrine following, swooping, clutching. Godwit and peregrine darting, dodging; stitching land and water with flickering shuttle. Godwit climbing, dwindling, tiny, gone: peregrine diving, perching, panting, beaten.
Tide going out, wigeon cropping zostera, herons lanky in shallows. Sheep on the sea-wall grazing. Revolve the long estuary through turning eyes. Let the water smooth out its healing line, like touch of dock on nettled finger. Leave the wader-teeming skies, soft over still water, arched light.
And more.
The sky peeled white in the north-west gale, leaving the eye no refuge from the sun’s cold glare. Distance was blown away, and every tree and church and farm came closer, scoured of its skin of haze. Down the estuary I could see trees nine miles away, bending over in the wind-whipped sea. New horizons stood up bleached and stark, plucked out by the cold talons of the gale.
I read the book like I read a book of poetry: a few poems, passages, and pages per day. More I can’t consume in one sitting. The prose is too strong. You have to give it room to rest and appreciate. So progress through the book is slow. But there is a difference with poems. For with every new poem, I want to be surprised. But with Baker, the longing is for that feeling to come to you in a new form from the next page. The outliers keep you on your toes, but the detailed, poetic sentences are addictively satisfying.
Identifying with the birds
Baker identifies with the birds. With the hunter, with the hunted. On fear.
All morning, birds were huddled together in fear of the hawk, but I could not find him again. If I too were afraid I am sure I should see him more often. Fear releases power. Man might be more tolerable, less fractious and smug, if he had more to fear. I do not mean fear of the intangible, the suffocation of the introvert, but physical fear, cold sweating fear for one’s life, fear of the unseen menacing beast, imminent, bristly, tusked and terrible, ravening for one’s own hot saline blood.
Baker often finds himself the hunter, following the peregrine, and they become the same. As we will see, Baker prefers the company of birds and can relate much better to animals than humans. Unconsciously, the hunter starts resembling the hunted.
Unconsciously I was imitating the movements of a hawk, as in some primitive ritual; the hunter becoming the thing he hunts. I looked into the wood. In a lair of shadow the peregrine was crouching, watching me, gripping the neck of a dead branch. We live, in these days in the open, the same ecstatic fearful life. We shun men. We hate their suddenly uplifted arms, the insanity of their flailing gestures, their erratic scissoring gait, their aimless stumbling ways, the tombstone whiteness of their faces.
And despite, or probably because of, his bad eyesight, he identifies with the peregrine hawk scanning the area for prey.
I scanned the sky constantly to see if a hawk was soaring, scrutinised every tree and bush, searched the apparently empty sky through every arc. That is how the hawk finds his prey and eludes his enemies, and that is the only way one can hope to find him and share his hunting. Binoculars, and a hawk-like vigilance, reduce the disadvantage of myopic human vision.
More poems, and unification with bird life.
All day the low clouds lay above the marshes and thin rain drifted in from the sea. Mud was deep in the lanes and along the sea-wall; thick ochre mud, like paint; oozing glutinous mud that seemed to sprout on the marsh, like fungus; octopus mud that clutched and clung and squelched and sucked; slippery mud, smooth and treacherous as oil; mud stagnant; mud evil; mud in the clothes, in the hair, in the eyes; mud to the bone. On the east coast in winter, above or below the tide-line, man walks in water or in mud; there is no dry land. Mud is another element. One comes to love it, to be like a wading bird, happy only at the edges of the world where land and water meet, where there is no shade and nowhere for fear to hide.
We are the killers
Death, pain and fear, and his dislike of humans becomes more recurring. The prose becomes darker.
No pain, no death, is more terrible to a wild creature than its fear of man. A red-throated diver, sodden and obscene with oil, able to move only its head, will push itself out from the sea- wall with its bill if you reach down to it as it floats like a log in the tide. A poisoned crow, gaping and helplessly floundering in the grass, bright yellow foam bubbling from its throat, will dash itself up again and again on to the descending wall of air, if you try to catch it. A rabbit, inflated and foul with myxomatosis, just a twitching pulse beating in a bladder of bones and fur, will feel the vibration of your footstep and will look for you with bulging, sightless eyes. Then it will drag itself away into a bush, trembling with fear.
We are the killers. We stink of death. We carry it with us. It sticks to us like frost. We cannot tear it away.
Then, this confession: the peregrine hides for humans, but is it the peregrine hiding, or is it Baker’s aversion to human contact?
I avoid humans, but hiding is difficult now the snow has come. A hare dashed away, with its ears laid back, pitifully large and conspicuous. I use what cover I can. It is like living in a foreign city during an insurrection. There is an endless banging of guns and tramping of feet in the snow. One has an unpleasantly hunted feeling. Or is it so unpleasant? I am as solitary now as the hawk I pursue.
The birds-eye view
He puts himself in the view of the bird. We fly over the fields like in a drone, but much more beautiful.
Looking down, the hawk saw the big orchard beneath him shrink into dark twiggy lines and green strips; saw the dark woods closing together and reaching out across the hills; saw the green and white fields turning to brown; saw the silver line of the brook, and the coiled river slowly uncoiling; saw the whole valley flattening and widening; saw the horizon staining with distant towns; saw the estuary lifting up its blue and silver mouth, tongued with green islands. And beyond, beyond all, he saw the straight-ruled shine of the sea floating like a rim of mercury on the surface of the brown and white land. The sea, rising as he rose, lifted its blazing storm of light, and thundered to freedom to the land-locked hawk.
Idly, indifferently, he saw it all, as he swung and swayed round the glittering gun-sight of his eye’s deep fovea, and watched for a flash or spurt of wings at which to aim his headlong flight.
And like Baker, we cannot get enough of this.
She drifted idly; remote, inimical. She balanced in the wind, two thousand feet above, while the white cloud passed beyond her and went across the estuary to the south. Slowly her wings curved back. She slipped smoothly through the wind, as though she were moving forward on a wire. This mastery of the roaring wind, this majesty and noble power of flight, made me shout aloud and dance up and down with excitement. Now, I thought, I have seen the best of the peregrine; there will be no need to pursue it farther; I shall never want to search for it again. I was wrong of course. Once can never have enough.
When he sees a seal in the coastal waters, he philosophizes how much better such a free life for animals is.
He looked at me, breathed in, and dived below. Slowly he splashed and idled round the bay and out to the estuary again. It is a good life, a seal’s, here in these shallow waters. Like the lives of so many air and water creatures, it seems a better one than ours. We have no element. Nothing sustains us when we fall.
On beauty
He can get very dark.
But the pull and twist of his bill to break off a bud reminded me of a peregrine breaking the neck of its prey. Whatever is destroyed, the act of destruction does not vary much. Beauty is vapour from the pit of death.
Afterword
In Robert MacFarlane’s afterword, some more personal details about Baker are shared, but none go further than what you can find online and summarize on a single page.
This scarcity of personal information about Baker is primarily due to (he would say thanks to) Baker’s own doing. As said, I will have to read his biography now.
About the peregrine: The species has been under pressure in England for almost a century now. During the Second World War, the birds were believed to potentially disturb the Royal Air Force and were actively hunted. After this ban was lifted, insecticides like DDT became the biggest threat. Nowadays, it is the ridiculous English tradition of grouse hunting that threatens the bird population. Baker was right, you would say. We are the killers.
We visited the Cobra Museum on the second-to-last day of photographer Diana Blok‘s exhibition “I challenge you to love me.” This was September 30th, and I only found my notes back today. We came for Blok, but most of the exhibition on the second floor of the Cobra Museum is devoted to the work of photographer Pierre Verger. The exhibition on Verger is called “The One That I Am Not.”
In the name of Verger’s exhibition, each word begins with a capital. For Blok’s, it doesn’t. And that says a lot. The exhibition of Verger’s work is, above all, much.
Pierre Verger was an anthropologist who traveled extensively, taking photographs. His images led visitors around the world. He made a lot of images. Some are monumental, but many are primarily ethnographic documentary. And many they are. A tighter selection would have been possible, leading to a more a more exciting exhibition.
We walk on to the exhibition on Diana Blok in the corner of the room—or so it seems. Unlike the exhibition on Verger, Blok’s work is tightly curated, leading to a very interesting tentative exhibition.
Diana Blok has created work around different concepts. Strong images have always been selected based on the themes. Blok’s work is fresh and surprising, sometimes uncomfortable. I find a family portrait of naked sons lifting their naked mothers uncomfortable but wonderfully well-made.
Diana Blok walks around and films the exhibition on her iPhone. She turns I look straight into her camera. Imperturbably, she continues filming, as she should.
This Boy’s Life is a memoir written by short-story writer Tobias Wolff. I stumbled upon a recommendation for the book somewhere, though I can’t recall the precise source, and was intrigued enough to purchase it.
A boy in the late 1950s United States lives alone with his mother after her divorce. They frequently move from place to place, with his mother consistently drawn to problematic men. Then, after settling in a boarding house at the edge of poverty, she meets Dwight. After moving in with Dwight, Jack discovers that Dwight epitomizes the toxic men to whom his mother is inexplicably attracted. He is a manipulative, deceitful, downright stupid, and self-serving alcoholic who despises Jack. Dwight exploits the boy, forcing him to work and stealing his hard-earned money. Despite being shaped by this harsh environment, Jack retains a moral compass and a sense of decency.
Even when not burdened by Dwight’s demands, Jack struggles. One afternoon, he gambles away the $100 he had painstakingly saved. He also manages to get himself expelled from school, further complicating his tumultuous youth.
Eventually, several pivotal events unfold. Jack’s father appears and helps extract him from Dwight’s toxic influence. Jack is admitted to a boarding school and the narrative gains speed. During his final year, he is expelled and subsequently decides to join the army.
The book was adapted into a 1993 film starring Leonardo DiCaprio and Robert De Niro as Dwight. Though I haven’t seen the movie, De Niro’s reputation for portraying intense, complex characters suggests a compelling interpretation of the villainous Dwight.
I enjoyed creating a new mixtape on Friday and Saturday of this weekend. Searching for the songs was great fun, sifting through the selection to find the song that belongs to this Mud Pump Wrangle mixtape.
A couple of songs founded the theme for this tape: Tom Waits’Make It Rain (Jim Jarmusch’s Down By Law vibe), Left Lane Cruiser (goodness, what a band), and Grinderman’s Electric Alice. I was looking for a scratchy guitar, probably a very American, rural feel, bar band, and fun to play. Instruments may be slightly out of tune, distorted, scratchy, drum sounds improvised, wobbly, and the singer hissing and humming in the microphone. And goodness, Black Diamond Heavies – Oh, Sinnerman, what a song with that keyboard solo let through a fuzz-box!
I drew, scanned, cut, and glued the black-and-white cassette cover using the templates from de Bandjesfabriek.
Side I Tom Waits – Make It Rain – Remastered Captain Beefheart & His Magic Band – Sure ‘Nuff ‘n’ Yes, I Do Left Lane Cruiser – Big Momma De Kift – Kijker T Bone Burnett – Palestine Texas Grinderman – Electric Alice Black Diamond Heavies – Oh, Sinnerman The White Stripes – One More Cup of Coffee Side II Mr. Airplane Man – Sun Sinking Low Soledad Brothers – Going Back To Memphis Billy Childish, Dan Melchior – Bottom of the Sea C.W. Stoneking – The Thing I Done The Wanton Bishops – Howl James Leg – Drinking Too Much The Dirtbombs – Livin’ for the City King Automatic – Le Redresseur De Torts Don Cavalli – I’M Going To A River The Abigails – The One That Let Me Go
I am massively enjoying making these prints of my black-and-white Polder project. I also like printing in the darkroom but never got to do it.
Before the black-and-white project, I have always photographed in color for no other reason than to limit my options. For more than ten years, I shot with little direction. Consequently, my work is all over the place. I have always liked this, and still do. I do not like to put any boundaries on my work a priori, but at the same time, I wanted to create a more consistent piece of work.
Looking for a more intentional, focused project, I began to analyze the pictures from the past decade and stumbled on my polder landscape pictures. I like a couple of them, but I found for a larger work, the dominating green color became problematic. So, I tried to convert a couple to black-and-white, and I liked the result. So I crawled through my archive and surfaced about 200 acceptable images, which I further edited down to some 40 pictures.
When converting to black and white, you find that some pictures do not work in black and white. B&W needs more rest. Where color may divide a picture into spaces, after converting it into black and white, the result may be a headache of grey tones and forms.
Color pictures, I think, have a closer relation to reality, opening a broader palette to distort that reality and create an interesting image. On the other hand, Black and white pictures can have a more poetic, sometimes dreamy effect. Black and white pictures, I think, need more space and benefit more from careful design-like composition (though I am not a fan of the word composition in photography). That is probably also why snapshot-type pictures work best in color.
Anyway, I searched for some nice papers (a rabbit hole in itself), and a friend advised me to use Canson Baryta Photographique II or RAG Photograpique Matte. Never mind the name. The first is a fine art luster-type paper, and the second is a high-grade matte paper. I started with the Baryta and liked it so much I have not even tried the RAG/Matte. By the way, I am printing on an Epson p600, a good entry-level pro photo printer with good ink.
Here are some results. Needless to say, taking (iPhone) pictures of photo prints does not serve them as it should.
Fablabs are global network maker labs that give individuals access to tools for digital fabrication. They Are also a learning and innovation platform based on open-source principles. In the article, Gershenfeld explains how manufacturing technology changed in a few decades. New technologies became available that allowed for ‘additive manufacturing.’ That means that instead of making things by cutting away material, like in milling processing and wood carving, 3D printing tools could build things by adding material.
These new tools became available to the public at affordable prices. Gershenfeld uses the analogy with personal computing. At first, large and expensive computers were only affordable for large organizations. In the 1980s, personal computers became more and more accessible to individuals at home.
Similarly, 3D printing technology, laser cutters, and other technology have become affordable for individuals. These developments changed manufacturing principles. In the past things were made for the masses to keep things affordable, but now, products can be created for the market of one.
Fablabs further lower the bar for access to such tools by making them available as a shared platform. Now, you can make things you can buy, customize them to your own needs and tastes, and have them produced locally.
According to Gershenfeld, the next phase would be the creation of digital assemblers, which are Lego-like structures on a much smaller scale (nano-level) that allow the building and recreation of structures. Ultimo assemblers could build assemblers.
In the article, Gershenfeld discusses the potential dangers of this technology (I would generalize this to any technology): it could produce weapons and jeopardize intellectual property.
So, do we need to regulate these technologies? Very difficult. And how would it help against bad actors? Regarding intellectual Property rights, Gershenfeld promotes the idea of open source. In Fablabs, like in the software industry, open source has become the norm. Communities have sprung up, helped by digital communication. Fablabs allow communities to address local demands and create what is locally needed. Gershenfeld emphasizes the key innovation potential of this movement. Innovative people question assumptions, and communities drive innovation. This development provides an open innovation space to many more people outside known situations, and it can potentially change the culture.
Creating this first mixtape after getting a (cheap second-hand) Pioneer cassette deck was tremendous fun.
I reused an old cassette I found in my mother’s cassette deck. I tried to fix the cassette deck but had to part with it in the end—replacing the electromotors became too much of a hassle. I found another place that sold old cassettes for 50 cents. I bought a handful and will use these for other mixtapes.
The first mixtape theme I hit upon was Dutch bands, probably most 90s bands, although De Kift and The Ex have been around much longer and are actually still active. I called it Melkmuil. You can find the Melkmuil playlist on Spotify.
Creating the cover – collating – was another part of the fun. Cassette cover templates were easy to find, for example, at de Bandjesfabriek.