It’s a bit daunting to shoot a portrait of one of the world’s great photographers, but I went over to see George Forss today and try it out. He is utterly unpretentious and humble, I took the plunge.
We went into his darkroom and wandered around his art gallery, I wasn’t feeling it. Then he stood in front of his large screen TV and told me these lights were the flying saucers he photographed the night of the Summer Solstice, and I knew I was on to something.
George, apart from being a photographic genius, is also a UFO Investigator with 300,000 miles on his investigations ban, an ancient Volkswagen bus kept alive by string and prayers. Until the solstice, George had never actually seen a flying saucer, but there, up in the sky, sitting in a lawn chair with some friends, two or three hovered right over his head and he got a photograph of them.
There is no better portrait of George than to catch him – entirely by accident – in front of the first flying saucers he has seen in his 75 years. He is excited about the alien spotting in the sky. He says when they come for us, he will be the first one out there, yelling a the top of his lungs, “take me!”
George’s portrait will go in my Portrait Show, to be held sometime this year at the Round House Cafe. Maria is curating it, and I will get no breaks from her. I love this portrait of George, he is an amazing mind, it is much like the tunnels that run underneath the big city subways, it goes off in all kinds of directions, and never rests.
George just got out of the hospital, he was told to get serious about his diabetes, he told me his diet, and I almost fell over. It is a miracle he is walking around at all. We are going to meet and talk about it.
The Kelly Nolan story is really a tale of coming together, fate, people, cruelty, anger and love.
It began when Maria and I started eating at the blog, a family place I’d never been to in the 15 years I have lived here. It just didn’t seem a place for me, I thought it was a biker bar. I was wrong, Maria and I loved it from the first, felt completely at home there, loved the good burgers.
On some days, it is a biker bar, but the bikers are very nice and welcoming people, and the burgers are always good.
One of the reasons we loved the Bog (the real name is Foggy Notions) was Kelly. She took orders, waited tables, ran the bar, cleaned the tables, collected money.
She did everything but cook.
From the first, I loved her radiant smile, one of the most beautiful I had ever seen. And I loved her manner – gracious, courteous attentive. Nobody knows how Kelly manages to do all that she does with so much grace and efficiency, but she always manages to do it. She is never angry, rattled or negligent.
And that smile, so real, so present.
I asked Kelly if I could take a photo one day, she said sure, and I started putting photos of her up on the blog. Strong women do that, they just look at the camera and dare the shutter to click.
The photos were instantly popular, as happens sometimes on the Internet.
When I missed a week, people messaged me, they were upset. Where was Kelly? How was Kelly? Other people saw what I saw in her smile – goodness, love and connection. Beauty comes in many different forms, Kelly is a beautiful person.
I love photography because the camera doesn’t lie very often, no one with a smile like that could be anything but a good person.
I would never have known Kelly if we hadn’t gone to the bog on Thursday nights, one of the nights when she works.Or if I hadn’t taken Red to the vet one day more than a week ago. Or if all of this hadn’t happened in an awful week of violence and hatred. And it wouldn’t have happened if she hadn’t adopted a dog named Zoey, who turned out to be pregnant.
I was at the vet with Red in the afternoon, he was being laser-treated for his injuries. An examining room door opened and Kelly came out. She was not smiling, and so I was slow to recognize her. She looked haggard, she was shaking her head.
Her face was filled with worry and sadness. She told me the hard story of her new rescue dog Zoey, who was found to be pregnant. The labor was awful, she rushed the dog to the vet, surgery was required to save the mother and two puppies, three died. Red and I had to leave, the staff was fully engaged in saving Zoey.
At the bog two nights later, I saw Kelly again, and her smile was struggling a bit. I asked her what happened. And then, on impulse, I asked her what it cost. It’s not something I usually ask somebody else, but in a small town – we don’t have a lot of wealthy people here – we often talk about what things cost. We share the information like secret agents trading intelligence. It could be us.
Kelly smiled her smile and shrugged. It cost $1,300, she said. “What can you do?” No complaint, no lament, she said she put it on her credit card, she would eventually pay off.
If you know Kelly, and you see how hard she works, you know right away how much work will go into paying off that credit card bill. I talked to Maria about using the blog to try to raise some money to help Kelly, she thought it was a great idea. I put it up on the blog, and I said I was drawn to doing a small act of good on a night where the country seemed so angry and torn and broken-hearted.
It would make me feel better, perhaps some others. And it would help a good person.
Three days later, we were able to go to the bog on our usual Thursday night and hand Kelly an envelope containing more than a hundred messages and more than $1,400 in checks and cash from all over the country, and from parts of Europe and Australia. She will use every penny of it to pay her vet bill and some of the recurring costs for caring for her new dog.
So the Kelly story turned again, and revealed the power of empathy, something so lacking in our leaders and politics.
Everyone reading this has been there, has been hit with a big bill and wondered how we could every pay it off. The thought of taking that burden off a deserving person lifted all of our spirits, and this wasn’t just as easy as sending a nasty e-mail or complaining bitterly about life.
People had to think about it, get envelopes and stamps, put money or a check in, get it to the post office, write a note. It took time and thought, which made all of it more astounding and precious.
I thank you all, and she thanks you. It does feel good, it feels very good, something we all need. It reminds us of what it really means to be a human, what kind of world is possible for all of us.
Kelly’s very radiant smile has returned. And it isn’t just the money. She is deeply touched.
Kelly is a shy person, not used to much public attention. She said she saw my blog and was startled, but thought she might get $50 or $100, “something like that, which would have been very nice.” She never imagined paying the entire bill so quickly, or that so many people would want to help. She does not know the readers and followers of this blog.
We are a community, neurally and emotionally and digitally connected to one another. We know how to step out of ourselves for others.
I knew from the first that Kelly’s bill would be paid, although I was nearly overwhelmed by the beautiful messages and the wide range of the givers – they were all over the country. How touching for me as well as her. I had the joy of going to my post office box, crammed full of envelopes.
There were a lot of them, most of the donations were small – $5, $10, $20, folded neatly, disguised in note paper. There were checks and some were for $100. From California, Montana, Ohio, Nevada, Oregon, Canada, Florida, Texas, Arkansas, Alabama, and on and on.
It was clear from the first that Kelly’s bill would be paid, but I was not expected it to happen so quickly or joyously. The messages were just beautiful, most people thanked me for giving them the chance to help Kelly.
Kelly did not really know what to say, she handed me a note, hand-written in a white envelope. There was a card inside. It said “Thank You” on the outside cover.
“Dear Jon and Bedlam Farm Blog Community: I am humbled by your graciousness and your generosity. Beyond the monetary relief you have provided, you have offered me the opportunity to experience being on the receiving end of such an amazing act of kindness.
It is a wonderful feeling I will carry with me forever. I am truly thankful to you all,
My sincerest gratitude,
Kelly.”
I am humbled also. When I walked into the Bog, Kelly was behind the bar, she looked at me and shook her head, as if to say “what have you done?” And then she came over and gave me a hug and kissed me on the cheek. I turned red and loved every second of it.
The idea of doing small acts of good as something that is healing and affirming is a good idea, I will not forget it.
This weekend, I’ll go to Kelly’s house to take some photos of her with her puppies. And I will continue to photograph that smile. Kelly definitely has a place in my portrait show, she started it all.
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If additional contributions come in, they will be forwarded to Kelly, if there is any money left over beyond her needs, we will find a good place to donate it and I will let you know what that is. Thanks so much for this great experience, it makes me stronger and fills me with hope.
I’ve been married to Maria for more than five years, but almost every day, I find new reasons to love her. Standing in the pasture on this blistering hot day, swarms of flies and bugs swirling and buzzing, even the dogs were slugging, I looked up and saw this striking figure of a woman shoveling manure out of the pole barn, dressed in knee-high boots and a flowing red gypsy skirt, and a sharp black vest.
It was a cross somewhere between Willa Cather and Frieda Kahlo. You are always you, I thought. In your studio, in the barn, on the horse, shoveling manure, digging holes, planting flowers. You are always you, you are never anyone else, you have found yourself, and you are always you, no matter what you are doing, where you are, who you are with.
You are not like anyone else.
You could never be mistaken for anyone else, no matter what you are doing.
This is the artist inside of her, but also the human being. This is the gift of identity. I told her this when we got back into the house. “You are always you,” I said. “Oh,” she said, startled, somewhat shocked at the idea. “I hope that’s true. I’m glad to hear that.”
The shearer found shards of barbed wire throughout Izzy’s wool, our friend Jay Bridge brought some to us so we could see it. Izzy, like Kelly, has become a symbol to us and others, something to feel good about as we are swimming in this sea of sadness and anger.
Small acts of good, I find, keep me afloat, keep hope alive, remind me of the glorious promise of human beings, the only species on the earth who can choose to be good, choose to be better.
Our imaginations lead us to the promise of good things, the power to do good.The fierce power of imagination is a sacred gift, joined with the complexity and grandeur of the human mind, our unique ethical depth, and our innate and natural sense of the divine. Imagination becomes a powerful tool, a magnificent instrument for hope and for seeing what is good in us.
I imagine Izzy lying for days, months, even years, on wool laced with barbed wire. I imagine someone wanting to save her, to find a good home for her rather than sending her to slaughter. I imagine someone taking her in, having him shorn, giving her the good life all living things deserve. My heart sings seeing her lie down in comfort to chew her cud.
All of this imagining came to be. We’ll keep the barbed wire in the wool, not as a reminder of cruelty or neglect, but of goodness and redemption.
