If you are a member of the Baby Boom generation, you may remember a song that goes something  like this……………….”If you’re going, to San Francisco. Be sure to wear some  flowers  in your hair.”

Being hair-impaired, this is problematic, yet I understand the message of the song.

I was in San Francisco as a host/greeter at the historic Warfield Theater on Market Street, for GLIDE Memorial Church’s holiday benefit  featuring Robin Williams, a resident of San Francisco— and a very, very  funny man.

Robin Williams is not only  an actor and comedian; he is a humanitarian. He is gracious when it comes to supporting causes he believes in. This particular evening, Robin was rapid-fire funny as ever. Most important, Robin Williams gives back to the community where he lives.

GLIDE Memorial church is a historic church, with a monumental mission. Located at the edge of San Francisco’s Tenderloin District, GLIDE’s doors are open to  all who enter. GLIDE serves 3 meals a day, has an award-winning child-care center, an organic garden on the church’s urban roof, and operates a housing center to combat the issue of homelessness. Also, GLIDE Memorial Church has a health clinic, mental health services, and supports many support groups. I am happy to lend my time and talent to this San Francisco institution. GLIDE is a true safety net. It is a church where one  receives unconditional love, assistance if needed, and spiritual guidance.

When I am in San Francisco on business, I attend GLIDE’s worship service. I truly listen to the words of Reverend Cecil Williams (no relation to the comic and actor Robin). The Church has a gospel choir the size of Manhattan and  a rocking band at its Sunday worship services. The music gets me up on my feet, and makes me all the more want to serve humanity. I find music and worship go hand-in-hand.

I remember one Sunday, at church, Reverend Williams asked the congregation, “Can I get a witness? Can  I have me an AMEM, brothers and sisters?” 

RIGHT HERE.  AMEN!!!! YOU HAVE YOURSELF A WITNESS!!!!!  Oops. I think I was a tad too loud.

So what…………… the spirit was moving me.

So stand up and shout out praises for those who do charitable works. Acknowledge those who try to change society–yet are sometimes met with cynicism, criticism,  and/or adversity–yet they march forward.

To all who attended this benefit, I thank you. I’m positive Reverend Williams thanks you.  And I am certain Robin William’s thanks you.

CAN I GET A WITNESS???? DO I HEAR AN AMEN?????

Over here!!!!!  Pew/Row E, seat 5. Brendan Ben Feeney is in the house.  

Brendan Ben Feeney

What city am I in?

Sometimes I feel like George Clooney in “Up In The Air”—- minus the firing part.

Thank goodness I have Joyce, my “Road Manager” to whisper in my ear….”Ben, we are in Providence, Rhode Island. This is Brown University. This is Rhode Island School of Design. This is the way to the Men’s Room. You have marshmallow Fluff on your face”

I just returned from an incredible tour of Providence, Rhode Island. Special thanks to the staff and students at Rhode Island School of Design who I encountered. You made me feel welcome on your campus. I truly enjoyed RISD’s world-class art  museum.

Second. Thank you Mr. Bill Marriott and Providence Renaissance Hotel staff for an outstanding stay. My room-with-a-view (A great movie. See it. ) was quiet. The art in the hotel was superior. Hats-off to the front desk staff who knows I wake early and delivered real cream for my coffee at  4:45 AM. Dedicated service.

Here are some of my impressions of Providence, Rhode Island.

* Friendly people. Thanks to the family near Brown University who gave me detailed driving directions—and noticed sitting on the passenger seat of  my car a  rare John Lennon CD with John chatting between takes. I hope you enjoy the autographed post cards. Thank  you for not sending me on a “joy ride.”

* The ownersof Scialo Brothers Bakeryon Atwells Street, Federal Hill. The bakery  owner saw me shooting images of his historic, turn-of-the-century family pastry shop—then invited me past the EMPLOYEES ONLY sign to shoot images of drying pastry bags, antique cake stands, frosting tips, uber Hobart stainless steel beaters, and  very interesting historic baking ovens.

I bought a dozen pastries—and raided the pastry box on my ride back to Boston. So what if I was covered in confectioners sugar? I looked like a winter holiday pageant after eating their incredible cannolis (plural.) I was the snow flake. Not you know who. The King of Kings. PS: The word is out. I am legally changing my middle name to “Dessert.” Kind of 60’ish wouldn’t you say? Heck, it is better than “Moon Beam.”

* To my friends J and N who now have the largest collect of  Brendan Ben Feeney art works this side of the Mississippi, I enjoyed seeing you. What a great time we had at the Renaissance sharing stories and laughing about our adventures. 

* Historic preservation. I admire the fact the city of Providence did NOT take the wrecking ball to many buildings. I commend Mr. Marriott for rescuing a 1920s era structure and turning it into a 5 star hotel. I admire the houses throughout the city. I had a change to see many neighborhoods. People take pride in their property. This is evident.

* Thanks to the construction worker who did not mind posing for an impromptu photo shoot wearing his hard hat. Others would tell me where to go. Not in Providence!

I will return to Providence this winter  with cinematography equipment. I can only imagine how your city looks with a backdrop of snow.

Once again, to all the good people I met and  encountered in the smallest state in the Union; I felt a large welcome.

Thank you Peoria!  I mean Providence………… Joyce………help me out!

Brendan Ben Feeney

We all know the 4th of July. And who cannot miss Thanksgiving or Passover. Yet, I just want to remind readers of Blog-O-Sphere that today is World AIDS Day.

The world had lost many talented artists and individuals to this disease. Ponder this point. It is up to us to advocate for more medical research–in all forms–for all conditions. Lobby our government and the United Nations to free up research funds. Contribute to charities that support all forms of medical research. I do.

Today, think of those suffering with HIV and AIDS  in Africa, Asia, the USA, and ALL corners of the globe. Think of the care givers. Family members. Give praise to the medical and social workers who work with patients. Give thanks to those who work at hospices.

I could not let the day go by without thinking of Keith and his brilliant  swirling cartoon-like figures, and Robert’s masterful photographs of flowers and the human form. Keith and Robert, your lives were cut short by AIDS, yet you live on through the stunning images you left behind.

Brendan Ben Feeney

Here I am, causing a retail store cash register line to back up like a bad toilet—-AGAIN.

There is an art supply store I shop at. I know where everything in the store is located. I know pretty much what to do with over two thirds of what they sell (A pallet knife? Isn’t this a TSA banned item? Well pat me down! Scan me on the busiest travel day of the year—-in a suit of medieval armor). Every time I shop at this particular art supply store, they offer me a job.

My shopping carts (plural) looked like those cardboard recycling trucks I see while combing San Francisco streets when I’m shooting night photography. These trucks are massively overloaded, balancing like a strong, yet tender ballerina, on her toes, looking as if she is about to topple over; but she doesn’t. From being associated with the dance world I’ve learned ballerinas may look tender, however they are very strong women. I admire strong women.

 I also admire recycle trucks.

Why?

ONE) The underemployed get money from cardboard left by merchants on the curb to be recycled. TWO) The cardboard doesn’t go into landfills. THREE) The byproduct from cardboard recycling eventually comes back to me in the form of a birthday card. I get to have a Hallmark moment. Ahhh.

A win, win, win situation.

People get all “pissy pants” when standing in long lines at cash registers. I once told a person who was hissing, tongue clicking, watch watching, foot thumping, and using the Lord’s name in vain—-“Imaging if this were the Former Soviet Union? Why this could be the ONLY line in Moscow to get BREAD !” I went on to say…” Next stop, the MILK line.  After that, the MEAT line. Oh my goodness! I have to get into the CHEESE line!  One cannot forget EGGS. Back to the MEAT line to get bacon to go with the eggs.”

I could not stop. I think it as after “the ASPARAGUS LINE,” line, the impatient man stormed out of the store. Yet, before leaving, he felt the need to have “the last word.” He told me to do something to myself  that was very, very  naughty. Mr. Bubble, anyone? Someone needs his mouth washed out with soap.

Back to art shopping.

The cashier at the art supply store did NOT get all bent out of shape, like a Gumby doll, regarding the growing line. (Last count, there were 19 people behind me.) She rang in my $350 plus order three different ways. This was so I could take full advantage of coupons I accumulated for being a loyal customer. I enjoy being loyal. One coupon per transaction. So she did three distinct transactions.

I always fill out comment cards. I filled out a very favorable comment card for S (Name withheld for privacy) who rang my order. Praise good work. People often neglect to do so.

Reinforcements were called in. More cash registers opened. The uber long  line “I” helped create dissipated. Only one woman chose to remain in same register line.  Others bolted as if someone opened a bag of chips. Get my drift?

We struck up a conversation. My ultra close friends would say, “Gee, that surprises me, Ben chatting?”

 They can be sardonic—and get away with it .

I do talk to strangers. Strangers are potential friends–unless Ted Bundy or the Craig’s List Killer shopped at art supply stores. 

I spoke to this patient woman who did not run like  Jackie Joyner Kersey when the other cash registers opened for business. This gave her the opportunity to be SECOND in line. Go for the silver! It is that season. Silver and gold. Get it?

Have you noticed that life in the USA is often all about the Olympics? We run. We train for the big moment. We race. We make false starts. We win. We loose. We are in the middle of the pack. We ski off the trail. We stay on the trail. We fly off the ski jump. Wow, do we have to  jump higher these days to be competitive!  We pant. Our lycra suit tears. We fall. We get up. We get heckled. We sweat the small stuff. We collapse at the finish line.

 My new chant is— I’m number 4!    I’m number 4!  Does this give me the aluminum medal?

The kind customer who was next in line inquired about  what I was going to do with all the  art materials in my shopping carts (plural people). I gave her my business card. She exclaimed….You are a photographer! You are an artist!  Her voice then lowered.  She commented, “I guess I can’t afford to hire you to take pictures of my children (or it might have been her grandchildren. Sorry if I am now inadvertently aging y0u. I apologize.) . She then said something that stuck a nerve …………….”I am JUST a secretary.”

I though……”Just a secretary?” That devalues the work of secretaries. I find  secretaries hold corporations together. They are often the pulse of an organization. If it were not for secretaries, who pick  up ringing phones, I would have to listen to despicable music, while placed on hold for long periods of time, as I age like Vermont cheese. 

She laughed. I laughed. For a moment we forgot the Christmas music playing 4 days before turkeys all across America get shoved into ovens. Thanksgiving is also a day when  big men throw small footballs, on large fields, and jump on each other. Ouch. Pass the gravy. Cranberry sauce, anyone? Does anyone else fantasize about a Macy’s cartoon character balloon getting loose—and landing in Uganda? Hello Betty Boop. Welcome to Uganda! I imagine Ugandans uttering, “Who is Betty Boop and where did SHE come from? Did she enter the country legally?”

I value the work of all individuals. From cash register ringer “S,” to workers who comb the streets of San Francisco to recycle cardboard, to secretaries, who are the glue–like the special epoxy I use–who keep their cool when being yelled at by rude callers on the other end the line. Secretaries are often on the “front line” when having  to put “important people” on HOLD—-and Blog-O-Sphere readers, have we noticed lately EVERYONE is IMPORTANT and needs IMMEDIATE attention? (Do I hear an Amen, Reverend Cecil and Janice?)

I am all for job creation. Work build self esteem. Good jobs that pay good wages fuel our economy and creates deficit reduction revenue. Yet we must pay a decent wage to workers to afford to live in America— a country growing more expensive to just ‘get by.” Bring back manufacturing jobs. Stop outsourcing. Hire older/mature workers. I am witnessing ageism is on the rise.

Here is a message to the secretary standing behind me in line on Blue Monday—–contact me. I will do a photo-shoot of your family, and donate the money to charity. I will know you because you will know what I was buying, where we were, and  my latest art/motion picture work.

After all………I’m just an artist.

To my loyal readers of by blog, collectors and admirers of my artwork, and to those who see their lives projected on the silver screen of life—-Happy Thanksgiving.

Brendan Ben Feeney

One of the most challenging art assignments given by an art instructor, whom I deeply admire, was to “paint the wind.”

First, I thought of  ancient seafaring maps, with a puffy cloud in the right corner,  completed with robust fluffy cheeks and a gleeful look. Wind depicted as a cartoon character? This is not the wind.

Then I thought of the swirling night sky of Vincent Van Gogh’s The Starry Night. Can’t touch that image. Brilliant beyond brilliant. Never copy a master. Be original. Be bold. Let your art move people’s emotions. This is what a former Hans Hoffman student once told me when I was a student in her master painting class. The original thing……………..

So how will I paint wind?

Often the impossible is put before us, yet we rise to the occasion. This happens in art, and in life. There are many times in my life when I was faced with the impossible, yet I found the courage–or gumption–to face adversity eye-to-eye and not blink, or burst into tears, and run.

How does one depict love on canvas? I have no aversion to Hallmark greeting cards, but a semi nude cupid? Is this love? Puppies? Kitty cats? Happy mice? Lovable—-but not love.

Then there are hearts. But is this love? If you were to paint an authentic looking heart, one would have to dust off their copy of Grey’s Anatomy. The human heart is not a pretty sight…..veins and ventricles. Kind of yucky looking.

Love resides in the soul.

How does one paint the soul?

Do you see the challenges artist face? Yet, artists rise to meet challenges. Many are successful depicting wind, love, and the true essence of the soul using brushes, canvas, fine oil and acrylic paint. The same is true of photography. Many fine photographers capture wind, love, and the soul with a shutter speed faster that what feels like the speed of light—- or slower than the speed oil painting drying.

HOW DO YOU DEFINE ART?

 Give it a try……….in 18 words or less.  This is the Brendan Ben Feeney challenge. What is art? What does it look like? Render your thoughts on art. Be as open and creative as the outer limits of your creativity.

Put on your artistic thinking caps Blog-O-Sphere readers and fans. Share this post with others.

There are no Dunce Caps at the Brendan Ben Feeney School of Thought. All opinions are respected, encouraged, and welcome.

Now go out and paint the wind…………………

Brendan Ben Feeney

Happy Halloween, Blog-O-Sphere readers.  

Halloween falls somewhere right  up there between Christmas Eve and my birthday–and below  Arbor Day and Ground Hog Day.

Have pillowcase……….will Trick-or-Treat.

I miss Trick-or-Treating.  How about you????

Plastic pumpkins as Halloween collectors of candy? We didn’t go that direction.

A paper bag from an upscale grocery store? Snooty and would lead to years of therapy. No.

We ran with those Hallmark Halloween bags. Paper, not plastic. We were green back then–and had no clue what that meant. And, the paper bags were made in the American Heartland–not China—where their human rights record is scarier than any Nightmare on Elm Street Hollywood movie or CYO haunted house.

Ah….memories of Halloween. What drug was the city planner on when her/she was designing my childhood neighborhood?  The neighborhood is designed in a swirling pattern.  One could Trick-or-Treat about 43 houses without crossing a single street. Pretty safe. It was a simpler time. We were allowed to Trick-or-Treat with friends. No helicopters swilred above us.

When we would arrive home after Trick-or-Treating, we would get out the bathroom scale and weigh our bags of candy. Now people pay good money to stand on scales at diet workshops and weigh themselves–then bust into tears.

Next, we would divide our candy into distinct categories. On the Darwinian scale of higher order candy, there were Reeces Peanut Butter Cups, Hershey Chocolate Bars, Baby Ruth bars, Junior Mints, and Butterfingers. On the lower rungs of candydom were boxes of raisins.  Raisins? Say what? Raisins are not candy. That is a TRICK.  They are dried grapes,  people. Hello…..

Oh, and folks who gave out popcorn–that did not make the count—nor our Trick-or-Treat bags. We tossed bags of popcorn “to the wind” before ringing the doorbell of the NEXT house.

Another “does-not-cut-the-mustard” item—-Apples. Are you kidding? I am looking back to 1969. Are we not in a Great Depression.  I was history savvy at age 9. I would say to myself—-shouldn’t one be  selling apples–and pencils—on the streets of Manhattan, on Wall Street, across from the Stock Exchange building? Apples=dull. Healty, yes. Dull, another yes.

 The razor blade scare of the late 70s threw both a wet blanket and a monkey wrench on the bliss of Halloween Trick-or-Treating. The same was true of the public service announcement from our community hospital advertising they would x-ray one’s Halloween candy bag free of charge. What? no co-pay? How about tossing in a free tonsillectomy while standing between the X-Ray and Pediatric Surgical suites.

My new neighbors with young children and I were talking about our Halloween experiences. My friend  mentioned a dentist in his neighborhood gave out tooth brushes. Before exiting the dentist’s driveway, he and his Trick-or-Treat mates impaled the toothbrushes in the dentist’s pumpkins. Message to all dentists……..skip handing out toothbrushes. Go with floss. You cannot impale pumpkins with dental  floss.  I believe one of those cooking divas recommends stringing/tying up turkeys with dental floss. Candy, yes. Anything that remind y0u of the end results of candy–no.

I did go out tonight  with my camera equipment the night before Halloween on Cape Cod. I took a series of night photographs of a fine French bistro in Wellfleet, MA. I dined in a relaxed atmosphere.  Once I finished a delectable meal, chef/owner Phillipe invited me to photograph a roasted pig’s head.  The cooked-to-perfection pig’s head was placed on a classic French copper pan. It  was attractive to the eye in a macabre irresistible way; a great subject for fine art photography.  The motif was  tres Halloween’ish.

Share your memories of Trick-or-Treating. Relay a Halloween story. Write. I will reply. I’m listening………….Do I hear ghosts? No. It is just the heater kicking and sputtering for one of the first chilly New England nights. 

 Boo.

Brendan Ben Feeney

“May I HELP you?,” said the manager of a very up-scale, boutique shopping market in Mill Valley, California.

Those who know me would say—Ben, why didn’t you tell him you are BEYOND help.”   “Rattle off a litany of things you need help with–such as not washing light clothes with dark clothes ” (Oops. Sorry EH for doing your laundry when we were on  Sanibel Island, Florida. That white t-shirt is now a stunning shade of pink. I apologize.)  

I had a dead mouse stuck in my car’s fan/ventilation system. One hundred eighty four dollars later, the problem was solved. I could have used HELP getting that critter out of my car’s vent system. So THAT was what was making that loud whirring sound all summer when I turned on the AC. And the smell? I thought it was a pickle that fell between the crack of the diver’s seat from Sonic take-out.

What about help with a photo shoot from the tippy top of the pointed antenna-thingy, on the top of the Empire State Building? I could use help. Anyone willing to climb up with me, to help change photo lenses?

I have noticed, the phrase “May I help you”……decoded is…………………..Brendan Ben Feeney is taking photographs where he should NOT be taking photographs…………….and management wants me out! Or, management wants to move along people who they deem a threat to their operation. Silly me for intellectualizing a phrase. But I am silly. And I do intellectualize.

Back to the very chi chi grocery market in Mill Valley, California.  Was there a sign posted noting no photography? I did not see one……………..

Were there   security cameras (plural) in this particular tiny, tiny, tiny upscale market PHOTOGRAPHING ME?

Yes.

But I must first roll back the tape. BEFORE being asked for help —–AKA.”Get out of here,”——– over the store’s  loud speaker system  came a voice. It was a smooth melodic voice with a very cool California accent.”Manager to aisle  one, manager to aisle one……” Why the repetition? I knew what was about to happen——— but did not run.

Like working on a movie set, the line was delivered with intensity and precision———————-“May I HELP you?”

I should have said……….’Man, I am beyond help, but I  was transparent as to what I was doing————-photographing  the beautiful olive oil bottles on the shelf.

We do not see stunning, artistic olive oil bottles back on the East Coast. Click. Click. Chick. Chick. Close up. Now an establishing shot. Click. Click. Done.

Then I personalized it. They were now HIS bottles.  HIS beautiful bottles. HIS store. HIS olive oil. I told him about color theory, symmetrical alignment, abstraction, and asymmetrical alignment…………all deep artistic elements I use in my visual artwork. And I learned my craft from many art mentors whom I dearly love as friends and colleagues. (Coffee, S & B, when I am back on Cape Cod?)

When I began discussing the interplay of light on negative space…………I think this manager was so confounded, he was about to GIVE me all the olive oil bottles on the shelf to get me the hell out of his store.   I could have been more of a pain in the keester, butI  let him deliver his company line.

He thought I was some sort of industrial spy, trying to copy the design of his tiny, tiny  tiny, tiny,grocery store, in a tiny beautiful small enclave of a town, nestled between redwood trees.  I gave him my business card, and told him to look up my work. I can only guess where that business card is now. Can you say, landfill?

If he was PC, he would have recycled it—then it would come back to me in the form of birthday card made of recycled paper.

Yet, I do have a dear friend who is of color. She says she is habituated to “May I help you………………………”

She say, she gets followed around almost every upscale store she enters.  Even “down-scale stores!”

Is this where we want to be as nation in 2010? Then she went on to tell me this has gone on for generations for her, her friends, family, and members of her church…………this “May I HELP you” line.   Translated, in her situation, I hear institutional racism. Believe me, my friend who is educated as I, and  has every right to look, linger, and shop where she pleases, yet still gets the” May I help you? treatment. AKA………………..Leave………………………….Hurry up, and get out of here……………………We are watching you……………………

I am booked for a photo shoot in California soon. Should I return to the store to snap more pictures of olive oil bottles, or should I drop it?  I need advice Blog-O-Sphere readers.

Yet there is something deeper here. Are we growing more suspicious of each other as a society? Security cameras are in every row practically at that big box store that begins with a “W” and ends with a “T.”  And in the other store that begins with a “T” and ends in a “T.”

I get gasoline. I am being filmed at the pump. Then I go to the pharmacy to get a birthday card for my father, and business manager, who turned 82 this October. I am being watched by security cameras. Oh, and the highway I often drive on outside of Boston, there are cameras on every bridge, filming each car as they pass.  Coffee anyone? Yes, I am being filmed at the 3 coffee shops I frequent. Eggs and milk?……………….I SEE MYSELF on a TV monitor, the size of Arkansas, even before I pass through  the second set of doors to begin grocery shopping.

Maybe I should ditch art photography and take up security surveillance photography.

Not an option.

Our privacy is eroding. Our life is being documented on film. Some have no problem with this.

I do.

Is this what our Founding Fathers envisioned when establishing our democracy……………to be watched and followed where ever we go?

I think not.

So next time when being filmed in a store…………practice your silly faces. The ones that your parents told you as a child that, “If you keep this up, your face will get stuck in that position—-FOR LIFE!”  (I believed my parents—and still do.)

Ask yourself today…………………..do you feel your right to privacy has eroded since you were growing up? Then ask, why? Is all this filming truly necessary?

I am not fool. Yes, we live in a Post 9/11 world……………….yet when I want to get one of those gross purple Slurpees at Cumberland Farm, that God only knows when the machine was last cleaned (1972?),  do I really want to be captured on film drinking a Slurpee?

So,…………………………May I HELP you?     Or—- maybee you cannot help me.

 Is your list of items that need attention, in your, life as long as mine?

Smile. make that goofy face. Question one’s right to privacy. Smile, again. It is good for the world—and baffles security cameras.

Brendan Ben Feeney

“Someone has been good to me.”

I give attribution to James Taylor for this truthful line.

Recently I have been doing a lot of traveling. I have been on the road photographing new genres, interacting with people who are familiar with my artistic work. Chatting with people who have not seen or aware of my artwork.

Recent events come to mind when I think of what James penned many years ago……………

Thank you to the group of friends, all in their 20s,  who gave me a lift in their white pickup truck, on the sand fire road, in  the High Head area of the Cape Cod National Seashore Park.

Mom. Dad. Do  not read this…………..I had my thumb out. I was hitchhiking—and I am alive to tell the story.

What delightful truck mates. One, a lobster-man, told me to “hold on…..it is going to be a bumpy ride.” The voice of Betty Davis past resonated in my mind.  And it was  a bumpy ride. Sort of like being in Cody, Wyoming, at the rodeo grounds,  riding “Kiss-of-Death” or “Killer” or “Side-O-Beef” all 3 famous rodeo bulls.

As we approached what was to be the rise over the sand dune, and the gateway to the beach—there was a wire fence closing access to the beach. We made the best of an unfortunate situation. I took a series of photographs of my truck mates, standing in the back of their parked truck.  I informed them I would process the images and send them “snail mail.” One replied…”What is snail mail? …… sort  of  some slower e-mail?”

Ah, the techo gap …………”The Baby Boom/Cold War” generation gap merges with the “Ipod/I-Phone/Text Messaging” generation.  The encounter ended with  hearty laughter.

I receive a ride to take my photographs. When we parted, we all smiled and laughed some more.  I hopped off the back  of the truck as they turned around on the sand road.

I lingered on the beach, snapping images of how the reseeding tide makes vein-like impressions and patterns in the sand. It was a quiet  moment in time for me. Nature photography to me is  zen-like.

Later in the evening, I stopped on the benches in front of Town Hall, Provincetown, MA. My wallet fell out of my pants pocket. I noticed no wallet when reaching for money to treat myself to a Lewis Brothers ice cream cone. No wallet. No ice cream. Unhappy BBF……….So I raced back to the bench to where I left the wallet and here were the most kind and delightful couple from the Boston area calling out my name…..BRENDAN FEENEY!!!!  BRENDAN FEENEY!!!

Had I won a prize????

They had a plan. If no one responded they would turn my wallet into the Chamber of Commerce or the police. When I, the real Brendan Ben Feeney came racing up Commercial Street, with a Cannon camera— the size of Texas—hanging from my neck, the true owner of the lost wallet arrived—- breathless.

Do not think for a moment that there are no kind people left on planet earth. These two educators, whom I struck up a wonderful conversation with, were benovelent  to track me down. And they insisted on no reward.

Kindness begets kindness. I truly appreciated the lift to the beach in the back of a pickup truck. I feel blessed that there are people out there who were so concerned about my lost wallet and were so nice to return it in a delightful way. They wanted NO reward. But the reward they receive came in the form of a bright orange parking ticket. I paid it. They insisted I not. I did.

So do not let moments of kindness pass. Savor the world as it is……..and often not portrayed.

Brendan Ben Feeney

Twelve years ago,  I came across an extremely historic graveyard in Wellfleet, Massachusetts.

I had no intention of wandering around this tranquil site. I came to Wellfleet to eat a hot dog, drink a Coke, then go to the beach.

Across the street from this non traditional fast food stand was a well tended, ancient graveyard. It has ancient slate gravestones in asymmetrical patterns. I was drawn to enter this resting place first by its look , then by the etching, later by the epithets on the gravestones–many dating back to the 1700s.

As I wandered around this peaceful resting place for generations of New Englanders who came before me, I was struck by the peacefulness of this place. I strolled deeper into this graveyard, alone, reading epitaphs and snapping a few photographs. 

I read notations such as, “Found washed ashore. Name Unknown.” “Died in New Amsterdam.” “Loving wife, devoted mother.” “Farmer and Revolutionary War Soldier.” “Entered Eternal Life in his 28th Year.”

New Amsterdam? This is modern-day New York City. Manhattan. Land of skyscrapers. This person pass away at a time when New York was politically and economically controlled by the Dutch.

Naturally, I took pictures. I always carry a camera.  In those days, I used 35mm film. 35 mm has gone the way of the wind. Remember black and white television? I didn’t think so. Can I find the pictures I took 12 years ago?

No.

 I was back in Wellfleet this summer. I convinced myself I must revisit this historic graveyard.

Mistake. A huge mistake.

I was horrified what I encountered.

Gravestone after historic slate gravestone lay in ruins. Smashed. Reduced to stubs sharply protruding from the ground. Shards of slate scatted like an unfinished jigsaw puzzle no-one wants to finish.

I felt sick. Really. I did. I felt sick.

Then that sick feeling turned to questioning. “What happened here?” Why? “Who would do such a thing?” My first guess was that some under-age kids must have been drinking in this out-of-the-way graveyard, then took baseball bats to the stones –“wilding.”

A rush to judgement on my part.

 I walked over to one gravesite were someone lovely pieced the ancient slate gravestone back together, as best as he or she could–with caulking compound; the kind one uses to repair broken bathroom tiles.

The gnawing question as to who would destroy an ancient cemetery with graves of Revolutionary War heroes, sea captains, stranges lost at sea, strong women, and children who never made it past their second birthday haunted me.

I went to the Wellfleet police. I told them that I was a photographer and I had once visited this particular cemetery in the past–only to return and find so many graves leveled. Shattered beyond recognition.

The police office was very matter-of-fact. He told me a woman was drunk. She drove her car into the entrance of the cemetery road—-thinking it was her driveway. Like bowling pins, she struck gravestone after gravestone until the car came to a halt.

How can one mistake a graveyard’s road for the entrance to one’s home?

I was angry. Strike that. I was furious.

Yet, what was I furious about?

The lost of history? At someone drunk taking to the road?………….. What was driving my anger?

I was angry because I returned to a place that once held a special memory for me.

Why did I not hold on to that memory, of an  idyllic summer day, twelve years ago, with grass still wet from Cape Cod morning fog? I should have just remember this particular graveyard as a sanctuary to the past. A peaceful day.  Yet, I wanted to return to a place that offered me solace. It was if I could revisit a sacred moment in time, from the past. Now this idyllic place was destroyed.

What now?  Damage is done. Do I warn people of the dangers of taking to the road intoxicated?  Should I return with caulking compound on a Fall afternoon, like some unknown concerned person did, who lovingly tried their best to piece together one shattered gravestone—a  memorial to a forgotten soul who has no one to visit his or her grave? What shall I do?  

Brendan Ben Feeney

The Four Seasons……………….

No. Not the “I-want-an-extra-set-of-white-fluffy-over sized-bath towels—–placed in a bathroom with a Vermont marble-floor—-the size of Alaska.” NOW.

 I am referring to the change of  season here in New England.

You have to take time and truly notice change. The change of season here in New England occurs fast.

One year, when I was not at the top of my game, I woke up, and I asked myself, “How did  this happen? These once green leaves turned brilliant shades of red, fiery orange, burgundy, burnt orange, and husky brown with hints of light green in their veins. I missed the event. I never arrived at nature’s party. My loss.

 I again said, “When did this happen? How did this happen? Was I not paying attention?”

Yes.

As busy as I am this year,  I vowed to take time to truly observe nature’s pageantry. To document it digitally. And I will not doctor up the end result with thousands of changes. This is a hallmark of my photographic still work. What you see has very, very, very  little tweaking. I work from classical art training, rather than the , point, shoot–then colorize the leaves as if they they had an appointment with the “Wardrobe and Makeup departments” of a Hollywood movie studio.

Yet, as I watch the change of season unwrap like the foil layer of a Hostess Yodell, I am reminded of the true nature of the event. A change in leave color signals death. People often do not want to talk about death. Death is often “off the table.” It is one way to end a conversation, STAT.

What a metaphoric way to exit life here on earth. The Director calls out through her/his megaphone…….”Que talent. Talent take position.  Roll film. Film rolling…….. ACTION. Stage left………………..Talent,  gracefully fall to the ground. Twist. Wobble. Flutter.  Defy gravity. Fight it. Fight it. Fight it with strength—– then give into the moment. Cut. That’s a wrap.” It is not that simple friends.

I cannot fight nature. Nor can you fight nature.

I want to go out in a blaze of color. I want to gracefully float to the ground then be apart of one of childhood’s delightful tradition—the pile of raked leaves. As a youth, I would revel running  as fast as I could, wheezing with abysmal asthma, then jump into a mountain of raked, fallen leaves. I would leap towards the sky with wild abandon into a pile of leaves. Maybe that is why I appreciate the art of dance. Yet come to think of it, I was leaping  into a heap of  wilted, crisp, dead leaves. Death was in the form of a pile of fun, on my front lawn—–and I did not know it at the time.

I lost a friend this week.  I reflected during the Shiva period how he loved nature. He was an Eagle Scout.  Later, he was a troop leader.  He would conduct hiking trips with his Boy Scout troop and teach young Scouts to appreciate nature and take time to notice the change of season.

Look. Take time to really, really watch nature unfold around us. I know,  I once forgot or was not in the proper frame of mind to do this.

This neighborhood friend passed away far too young. Yet, as I concurred with his mother and his sisters when I visited with them at their house, “He is at peace. No more  suffering.”

 He passed like a autumn leave. He left this earthly world as I described……..with a backdrop of brilliant color leaves, landing gracefully into his next phase of life.

 I awoke early this morning.  I felt a wave of melancholy. Why? I now know after writing this blog entry.

 I looked out, then up a the brilliant blue sky this morning, here, on Cape Cod. The leaves here that were once green are turning  shades of color—similar to a seasoned artist’s pallet. My neighborhood friend is not here to see this beautiful day unfold. 

Life on earth is a short journey. Take time to notice the change of seasons. Hone in on this four-time-a-year event. When in California, I still see signs of seasons moving from one scene to the next.

Look.

Look carefully. It is all there before you. Appreciate the change of season. Most of all, appreciate those around you. They too will be like an autumn leaf–changing color— then passing. We want this display of color to be continuous.

It is not. 

 Look at leaves today. During my friend’s mourning period, I held tight my friend’s mother’s hands. Both hands.  Think of the comment “a short life well lived.”

Look. Listen. Observe. Appreciate.

Brendan Ben Feeney