The Wishing Tree

Before I went to meet my friends for what turned into a tipsy afternoon of drinking us$55 pitchers of sangria at the Hudson, then into a night of boogying somewhere deep (and sweaty) in Brooklyn, I spent a lovely stolen afternoon at the MoMa in NYC. What decadence to spend an entire afternoon doing nothing more than….looking. From Picasso’s etchings, to an exhibit on Women in Photography, I spoiled my eyes and mind with beauty. Except for this thing, which is either a testament to the MoMa’s sense of humour or to just how drunk the curator was when she chose to include it:

It’s called Purple Obsession and is by a Japanese artist who regularly sews phallic symbols to everyday objects (as one does). In this case, a rowboat. According to the blurb on the wall, it “offers a wry documentary on the phallis as a symbol of virility and power.” Wry indeed;).

Into the museum garden I went, where I found a “wishing tree” put up by Yoko Ono.

Slightly cheesy concept, but it’s actually beautiful, and heavy with wishes, some of which brought me to tears. Check it out.

“I wish for the health of my family and for cancer to leave my mom forever”.

“I wish that I can speak with them all the times and forever.” I wonder who “them” is?

“Avoir des enfants avec Gilles, me marier et avoir la plus belle des vies” (“have children with Gilles, get married and have the most beautiful of lives”). Full sniffle.

That would make a nice change from meatballs falling from the sky.

Darn right.

Amen.

“I wish that I had one of my paintings was in a museum”.

“I hope that there is an afterlife so that I can see my love again who died last March”. At this point I put my sunglasses back on so that I could weep incognito. Whoever you are, I’ll make your prayer my own.

And just in case you need to laugh after that…check out the sign I spotted in Central Park. And no, I didn’t donate to his cause.

Where are the freaks, anyway?

Instead of 5 days away, I spent 10 days split between Santa Barbara, Los Angeles, Connecticut and NYC. It’s such a luxury to fly by the seat of my American Airlines pants, even if I did have a mini panic attack on the last flight home, and had to restrain myself from grabbing the man sitting next to me. Still worth it. If I hadn’t extended my trip, I would have missed out on….

Venice beach, which was curiously devoid of freaks, to my great disappointment. I was there on a weekday, which means that even the Pierced, the Tattooed and the High have day jobs. Hmmm, does that make me the freak, wandering the beach on a weekday, with no schedule to follow other than my own?

I did meet Brett and Devon (not typical Cali names at all). We started talking after I burst out laughing because I overheard them talking about the “clubhouse” they were planning to build on the beach. Out of discarded palm fronds.  They’re look like they’re over 17, right?

- “Dude, we need a no girls allowed sign”.

- “Yeah, ok. And we need rules. And a punishment if they break the rules!”

- “Totally dude. But what are the rules?”

- “Dunno. Something gnarly. We’ll worry about that later – do you think we should let Brad into our club?”

Sometimes you meet people who are stereotypes on legs. Just as I was cackling to myself and feeling superior, I morphed into Canada’s very own stereotype when I apologized to the waitress while asking for extra napkins, “um, sorry but could I have some more napkins please?”. Devon teased me and my Canadian-ness through 3 tacos and a Corona, then bought me one.

Los Angeles: Paul lent me his Mini Cooper – even though I was basically a stranger, and one who had admitted to him the night before that I’ve been in 2 car accidents. What I forgot to tell him was that no, I wasn’t driving either time – and yes he still he trusted me to navigate the freeways of L.A. (although he called 30 seconds after I pulled out of the driveway, to make sure I’d taken the parking brake off). I pretended I wasn’t terrified and zoomed off to see Frank Gehry’s magnificent Disney Hall.

Worth it, don’t you think?

It’s incredible from all angles – organic flowing moving architecture plonked down in the middle of a big intersection that couldn’t be more urban. Frank rocks.

I’m sure Disney himself would agree that it’s supercalifragiliciousexpialidociously fabulous.

My Pilgrimage of the Pauls

I’ve now left one Paul to visit another. From Santa Barbara to Los Angeles, from one musician to another and from one friend to another. They both love what they do, they’re both generous, intelligent, irreverent, creative, and yes, pretty damn cute. I’m lucky to call them my friends. Seeing them choose to live creative lives reminds me to do the same.

It’s my Pilgrimage of the Pauls. Or as my grandmother says “mais c’est comme dans l’evangile, il y’en a combien de ces Pauls?”.

So I left Santa Barbara and what I now call Camp Merkelo, where relaxing is a scheduled event rather than a goal, and where Mr. Merkelo somehow became my (bossy but sweet) counselor and I became the (rebellious) teenager. I have proof: I decided to cycle to the beach one day, imagining my hair blowing in the wind in a doesn’t-Cali-like-totally-suit-me kind of way. It turned into an epic journey along major intersections, with my bike stuck in such low gear that – legs flying, bike barely moving, sweating profusely – I must have looked like I was in my own private spinning class. Never believe a man when he tells you to just “hop on the bike – the beach is around the corner”. What he means is: “I hope you survive that crappy thing that calls itself a bike, and make sure not to wear a semi-see through beach dress because not only will you cross multiple highways but you’ll get lost in a rough neighborhood, and may end up married to a taco vendor named Paco”.

Two hours later, I waddled through the door salty sweaty exhausted and definitely walking funny, to:  “Soph – we leave for dinner in 5”. And he meant it.

And yet. I hope to be invited back to Camp Merkelo next year, because if this trip didn’t solidify our friendship, then I don’t know what will.

Back down the Pacific Coast highway I went, where Paul (Hepker) picked me up at the airport. We met on Facebook.  We were (virtually) introduced by our mutual and fantastic friend Lindsay Eberts months ago – thank you Linds. Kudos to him for offering his hospitality to my navel-gazing, surf-attempting, Wonderland-living Barbie self.

“I’ll be the one in the Black Mini”, said his text.

“Car. Not skirt”, said the next one. I knew we’d get along well.

He composes music for movies like Tsotsi and Rendition, and for the Discovery Channel, among others. Which is why one room of his house looks like Mission Control for NASA. Check it out (www.paulhepker.com)

We had dinner at his neighbor’s house – funny, warm, cheeky people. It’s nice to be around people who enjoy being around each other. This was a family that loves to laugh – more often together than at each other (note to my family;).

Out came the L.A. Tales (I didn’t even have to beg that much): D. worked with some huge director who would likely have my nostrils sewn shut if I used his name, and J. used to be an actor. He was on one of my favourite shows, Lost, in season 2 – in one of the rare scenes I not only remember but actually understood (but no, even he couldn’t explain the ending to me).

Other stories include a huge star who shall not be named filming in Alabama two days after 9/11, and demanding that the airport be shut down and sealed off because he was convinced that his plane would be shot down by Al Quaeda. And shut it down they did. Take that, Al Quaeda.

How about the star who demanded that the arts department draw up the plans of the hotel he would be staying in during a film shoot so he could figure out how to get a suite adjacent to his own…for his pet?

Or filming in some U.S. city, only to find that one of the film producers didn’t trust the dry cleaners in the entire city to handle his…bed sheets. They had to be fedexed in and out of L.A., to a drycleaner he did trust.

I told you shallow was the new deep.

Surf Barbie (aka Drink the Pacific Ocean Barbie)

Yesterday I went surfing for the first time in my life, which happened to coincide with one of the coldest days California has had in a while, for July at least. Grey skies, grey seas, grey mist, grey horizon. I even got a grey surfboard. But I was psyched, despite the fact that a baby great white chomped on a surfer ten days ago. What are the chances?

One of my friend Paul’s colleagues, Dave, is not just an oboe player, but also Paul’s “surf guru”. He taught his 6 kids to surf (who has time to surf when you have 6 kids?), and yesterday he was taking 4 of his oboe students out, so Paul and I tagged along. I made the mistake of telling Paul that I used to wakeboard and windsurf, so he made the mistake of assuring me I would get up on my board on my first try. Yep. Surf Barbie, that was (supposed to be) me. Surf Barbie and the Oboe Players, to be exact.

The waves were small, so we spent a lot of time sitting on our boards, feet dangling in the water, just…waiting. “It’s the Church of the open seas” said Dave, and he’s right. It’s peaceful, and there’s a community bobbing next to you, entirely at the mercy of nature. It’s peace. You have to be in the moment, because this moment is the one you need to somehow go from lying flat on your stomach, to standing victorious, arms out, legs crouched, gliding along the crest of a wave that didn’t exist 30 seconds ago.

I had a grin pasted on my face from ear to ear for so long that it hurt – despite the frigid water sloshing into my wetsuit, despite countless and multiple wipeouts due to the fact that I couldn’t seem to get my right leg on the board fast enough and kept tipping over the right side of the board. Despite drinking way more of the Pacific than I had planned. Despite definitely not getting up on my 1st, my 2nd or even my 6th try. And despite the fact that 3 of the 4 oboe players – yes, the slightly geeky oboe players – all got up before me.

And then – victory – I got up for all of 5.5 seconds, and I can prove it because Paul, my very own surf guru, witnessed it.

And no, that is definitely not me on the right. That’s the gorgeous girl who surfs so well that her hair never even got wet.

If this is church, I’ll be going every chance I get. Amen.

Navel Gazing Barbie

I have a confession to make.

Not only did I not end up going to Haiti to work with an NGO and save as much of the world as I could in one very short week, but I used the plane ticket to go somewhere that is the polar opposite of Haiti: California. Land of the sleek, the slim, the Botoxed, the manicured pedicured Botoxed Restylaned blow-dryed wheatgrass-munching beautiful people. Where navel gazing (and wondering whether you should have it lipo’d) is practically a profession, if you go by the stereotypes.

My friend Paul – a gifted and fantastic trumpeter for the Montreal Symphony Orchestra, teaches at the music academy here every summer and invited me to visit him. I think he meant it, because he was sober at the time. He’s one of those creative, cool people I mentioned I met in the last six months. He’s also one of the few men I know who will let me into the male psyche, warts and all, so we gossip like two old friends sharing truths that members of two opposite sexes don’t usually share. Our conversations make “He’s Just Not That Into You” seem like a kindergarten primer for dating. We may have to write a book. But for now I’ve been sworn to secrecy, and even threatened with “if you ever tell anybody anything I’ve said, I’ll throw you over the balcony”, and I kind of believe him. Either that or he’ll knock me over the head with one of his heavier trumpets.

So 3 days ago I landed at LAX and hopped on a bus to Santa Barbara, driving past the Santa Monica pier, through Venice Beach, then flying down the Pacific Coast highway, past the multi-million dollar homes that sit back right against the highway as though the sea has slapped them away from her shore. I’ve never been here before, and yet it’s so familiar – one massive deja vu, minus the taste of popcorn in my mouth as I watched this before on the big screen.

Oh the irony – my goal in Haiti was to be helpful to others, here I’m helping myself. I’m stepping away from my every day, my ups, my downs, the “deep” version of Sophie. Bring on Shallow Barbie.The kind that poses for pictures with large bunches of seaweed on her head.

I wish we all could be California girls – or at least that I could. Why? Because: the local CVS (yes, the pharmacy) has a larger and better selection of wines than any SAQ in the province of Quebec, and a bottle of Chateau St. Jean that costs me $20.00 at home, is $11.50 here. I am shallow (and possibly alcoholic) enough to consider moving here for that reason alone. Another reason I’d move here is Trader Joe’s, land of fab packaging and inexpensive gourmet food that makes me want to skip through the aisles. Best and most Cali of all is that the largest, grandest house in all of Santa Barbara (I haven’t seen Oprah’s pad) – the one that overlooks the beach above – is the home of the man who invented…Beanie Babies. Does it get more Cali than that?

Shallow is the new deep.

Braless in Wonderland

So this is Wonderland.

To recap: I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole (see http://countessdiaries.com/2010/04/23/follow-me-down-the-rabbit-hole/). Actually I flung myself down the rabbit hole by quitting my perfectly good job almost six months ago. The job that caused an annoying buzzing sound in my ear that turned out to be my own voice, whining about my lack of fulfillment.

I’ve come out on the other side and my Wonderland is a place where I am free from the “shoulds”. Where I “should” fall for the perfectly nice guy who would make a perfectly nice partner; I “should” stay in a job simply because I’m as good at it as I am bored by it; I “should” not go dancing til 4am. Wonderland has been my rebellion and a place of freedom – sexy, terrifying, uncharted freedom.

And I’m getting closer to choosing my path to fulfillment.  In the past six months, I’ve done things I never had the time or the courage to do before. I got published, I made new friends whose ideas and projects are so fabulicious that they make my own ideas seem not only doable, but possible. I became interested in contemporary art and in documentary photojournalism, became a better photographer, worked for an NGO in Calcutta, and am now launching an NGO that promotes human rights through photography with its founder, Mathieu Rytz. My ideas are beginning to form into something more concrete, something that doesn’t involve my logging onto www.sugardaddy.com to survive.

But there are so many ways to live this life that I’m overwhelmed. Too much freedom can be confusing. I think I said that curiosity was my cat. In fact, curiosity was my kitten, and now that she’s full grown, she’s clawing at my life. I can’t take any more ideas, any more creativity.

Add to this the fact that my daughter left a few days ago to spend almost three weeks with her dad in New Jersey, and I’m completely unmoored. Because her needs and schedule govern my life, the first few days away from her leave me feeling lost – she takes part of my identity with her.

It’s the emotional equivalent to going braless – great, but different. I move more freely, but somehow I also feel exposed. Braless in Wonderland?

It’s time to choose, and frankly, I can barely cope with choosing a meal off a restaurant menu. I have to imagine myself eating the different meal options before I can decide what to order. So if you walk into a restaurant and see a girl with her eyes closed chewing on an imaginary hamburger, that’s me. Give me a minute while I twirl my imaginary pasta around my imaginary fork and take a mouthful, then send the waiter over please.

I was supposed to go to Haiti to check out an NGO last month. I couldn’t wait. But my daughter decided it wasn’t to be. She asked me not to go, then her body asked more loudly. She got sick, and I couldn’t leave her – nor could I face having to build an eight-column spreadsheet to organize her care while I was gone. It seems I’ve found the limits to my Wonderland, to my freedom. It’s time to work with what I’ve got and stop searching. Finally.

On photography, war and bad parking: my lunch with a legend.

I met a photography legend the other day – Reza Deghati – a photographer whose images you’ve seen on hundreds of magazine covers, or as the people of The Prix Pictet put it: “There is no photographer in the world that has graced as many covers of the National Geographic Magazine and major international publications”. I went to Concordia to hear him speak on human rights – a subject he knows all too well, because he’s seen it ignored so often and in so many places.

I was lucky enough to have lunch with him twice, and to drive him around briefly. At one point, he started waving his arm out the window to signal for me after it became clear that I drive like a maniac and like to swerve madly between lanes.  I slowed down once I realized  how embarrassing it would be to be the cause of this wonderful man’s death after he’d survived twenty-five years worth of war zones. Then I tried to parallel park on the left side of the road between a Smartcar and a monster truck – and succeeded after five attempts. Good times. This is my idea of celebrity stalking. And this is the look of relief on his face after we survived.

Anyway, despite my driving and a hectic schedule that has him traveling nine months of the year, he’s agreed to help my friend and colleague Matthieu Rytz and me grow our baby, www.anthropographia.org, into an established NGO dedicated to promoting human rights through photography. More on that later.

Reza has spent the past thirty years wandering the earth with his camera. He’s Iranian, but left in 1981 after he’d been arrested and imprisoned for three years, five months of which were spent in solitary confinement, where he was tortured. He was 22 at the time.

(I was working as a GO at Club Med when I was the same age. Nice.)

Today he is a National Geographic Fellow, an Ashoka Senior Fellow, recipient of countless awards and prizes for both his photography and humanitarian work, and as I type, is at the UN in Geneva, speaking on human rights alongside Kofi Annan. Ah yes, and he founded Aina, an international nonprofit organization dedicated to the education and empowerment of children and women through the use of media and communication. He was also close friends with the Afghan rebel leader Massoud until his death.

How did he become a photographer? “Actually, I’m an architect by training – photography is my hobby”. Just as breathing is mine. He shoots in war zones simply because he grew tired of war reporting that showed only “ambulances, bombs, and people crying” instead of the human beings behind the story. Strangely enough, seeing so much pain has given him more – not less – faith in humanity. That and reading Rumi, Rimbaud and other poets every single day. Take that, Xanax.

These are the stories behind his favourite photos…

This image was taken in Tora Bora – which used to be home to Osama Bin Laden, and the look in this little girl’s eyes embodies the trauma and defiance of the region she comes from better than any words can. He constantly repeats that images have power – they cross borders, languages, biases and cultures, and therein lies their power and their worth.

He took this picture in the former Soviet Union – this man was thrown out of his home after the fall of the Communist government. On his chest are (I’m guessing) Tsar Nicolas II, Trotsky, Lenin and Stalin. When Reza asked the man his name, he burst into tears. It had been 10 years since anybody had cared enough to ask.

This was taken in a Rwandan refugee camp, and these women are looking for their children. During and after the genocide, families were destroyed or separated, leaving 12000 orphans spread throughout four refugee camps. The Red Cross and UNICEF asked Reza for help, so in the space of  a few months, he trained refugees to photograph all 12000 children, after which each child was given an identifying number, to avoid them being identified as either Hutu/Tutsi. Then refugees from across the region were encouraged to come see what was in effect the largest photography exhibition in the world. 3500 children were reunited with their families this way.

I can’t recall where Reza took this picture, but it was his first experience of famine. In order to prepare for the trip, he spent three days alone in his Paris apartment starving himself, to get an idea of what these people endured every day. It’s one of the most beautiful photographs I’ve ever seen. And it reminds me of what he said to me at lunch: there is beauty everywhere, even in misery. Use that beauty to draw the eye to the image and the story behind it.

This was taken during apartheid in South Africa. At the time, there were no visas being issued for journalists, so Reza applied for a hunting visa, telling the consul he was an avid elephant hunter. Later he was arrested in Soweto and confronted with the same consul, who asked “so, where’s the elephant?”. This image reminds him of Mandela – it even looks like him  as a child. He was there when Mandela was freed from prison, and in this child he sees the same look of strength and pride that he saw in Mandela’s face.

He says this image “sums up the brutality of war” for him. It was taken in Sarajevo during the height of the Bosnian war. The little girl is standing in the street despite the risk of being shot by Serbian snipers. Reza took her picture and asked her what she was doing there. She answered that she was selling her dolls because she and her grandmother hadn’t eaten in four days, and she was hoping to make enough money to buy food. It was taken a few days before Christmas.

Thankfully he gave this talk in a darkened room, so that we could all quietly sob into our handbags.

And yet sadness is not the point – his point is that we are all connected, and “tant qu’il y a des gens qui souffrent dans le monde, toute l’humanite souffre” (as long as there are people suffering around the world, all humanity suffers). He believes the time has come for a new kind of humanitarian aid – one that is as focused, if not more so, on repairing the spiritual, cultural and emotional traumas undergone by a war-torn population, as it is on rebuilding their physical world.

“If we are to teach real peace in this world, and if we are to carry on a real war against war, we shall have to begin with the children. “
Mohandas Gandhi

Interesting links:

photography.nationalgeographic.com/photography/photographers/photographer-reza.html: Biography

webistan.com - Reza’s agency

ashoka.org – Global association of the world’s leading social entrepreneurs

ainaworld.org – Reza’s NGO