there is no oblivion (sonata)

Published by
Jack Wyrick
at August 24, 2008 in poetry. 0 Comments

If you ask me where I have been
I must say “It so happens.”
I must speak of the ground darkened by the stones,
of the river that enduring is destroyed:
I know only the things that the birds lose,
the sea left behind, or my sister weeping.
Why so many regions, why does a day
join a day? Why does a black night
gather in the mouth? Why dead people?

If you ask me where I come from, I have to converse with
broken things,
with utensils bitter to excess,
with great beasts frequently rotted
and with my anguished heart.

Those that have crossed paths are not memories
nor is the yellowish dove that sleeps in oblivion,
they are tearful faces,
fingers at the throat,
and what falls down from the leaves:
the darkness of a day gone by,
of a day nourished with our sad blood.

Here are violets, swallows,
everything that pleases us and that appears
in the sweet long-trained cards
around which stroll time and sweetness.

But let us not penetrate beyond those teeth,
let us not bite the shells that silence gathers,
because I do not know what to answer:
there are so many dead,
so many sea walls that the red sun split,
and so many heads that beat against the ships,
and so many hands that have cradled kisses,
and so many things that I want to forget.

~Pablo Neruda

extremely loud & incredibly close

Published by
Jack Wyrick
at August 15, 2008 in readings and rumination. 0 Comments

“What about little microphones? What if everyone swallowed them, and they played the sounds of our hearts through little speakers, which could be in the pouches of our overalls? When you skateboard down the street at night you could hear everyone’s heartbeat, and they could hear yours, sort of like sonar. One weird thing is, I wonder if everyone’s hearts would start to beat together, like how women who live together have their menstrual periods at the same time, which I know about, but don’t really want to know about. That would be so weird, except that the place in the hospital where babies are born would sound like a crystal chandelier in a houseboat, because the babies wouldn’t have had time to match up their heartbeats yet. And at the finish line at the end of the New York City Marathon it would sound like war.”

I recently finished a novel (the source of the above passage) by Jonathan Safran Foer, titled Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. It was recommended to me by fellow photographer Bjørn Sterri, though I didn’t pick it up until several months after his recommendation. I found it to be the kind of book that you’d never forgive yourself for not reading before you kicked the bucket. It was absolutely beautiful, completely scintillating.

The novel is narrated in two streams: a present-day account of events by young Oskar, whose father has recently died in the World Trade Center collapse; the other a series of poetic, stream-of-consciousness, bygone letters and journals of his grandmother and grandfather. Oskar’s search for a lock to fit a mysterious key found in his father’s closet leads him on a journey through New York City’s diverse populus, and through his own young mind, offering readers youthful witticisms and insights in the process. The chapters narrated by his grandmother’s and grandfather’s letters and journals are brimming with images of art, love, sorrow, and war that (if you’re a note-taker like me) will have you jotting down passages that you can’t bear to part with at the turn of every page.

Here are some examples of the two different narration styles:

A conversation between Oskar and his father, just before his father’s death:

I pointed my fingers at the fake stars and screamed: “I changed the course of human history!”

“That’s right.”

“I changed the universe!”

“You did.”

“I’m God!”

“You’re an athiest.”

“I don’t exist!”

I fell back onto the bed, into his arms, and we cracked up together.

A passage by Oskar’s grandmother, about Oskar’s grandfather:

We never talked about the past.

He opened the flue, although I didn’t know why.

Birds sang in the other room.

I took of my clothes.

I went onto the couch.

He stared at me. It was the first time I had ever been naked in front of a man. I wondered if he knew that.

He came over and moved my body like I was a doll. He put my hands behind my head. He bent my right leg a little. I assumed his hands were so rough from all of the sculptures he used to make. He lowered my chin. He turned my palms up. His attention filled the hole in the middle of me….All that mattered was him looking at me…He would talk about what he wanted to make…We would never talk about the past…The birds would sing in the other room…I would undress…He would sculpt me.

Sometimes I would think about those hundred letters laid across my bedroom floor. If I hadn’t collected them, would our house have burned less brightly?

Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close is a must-read for any artist, and anyone drawn to works of poetry, loss, and memory.


haiti teaser #1: birth

Published by
Jack Wyrick
at August 5, 2008 in book of days and haiti. 0 Comments

Sarah Marsh, a midwife and PIH-er (member of Partners in Health) cleans a healthy 52-centimeter baby girl after a natural childbirth at Hospital St. Therese in Hinche, Haiti.

under the table

Published by
Jack Wyrick
at August 5, 2008 in haiti. 0 Comments

so, for those of you who are looking for the portfolios of the new Haiti work, guess what?: they’re not up!…and they won’t be, until after my co-show with Fred Clarke opens at Sewanee’s Nabit Gallery in January. HOWEVER, I WILL release FIVE individual photos from the large non-digital/Hasselblad body of work, as a teaser, one per month here on the blogfolio main page, until the exhibition opens. Can’t wait to hear what you think!

long train (bill daniel)

Published by
Jack Wyrick
at July 20, 2008 in book of days. 0 Comments

home

Published by
Jack Wyrick
at July 7, 2008 in haiti. 0 Comments

My flight got into Nashville late, late, late Saturday night.

I came home (to Chattanooga) yesterday.

This week, I’m making my rounds to the doctor, dentist, old friends, etc. before I head back to Nashville to get my film processed and start putting it on the web.

Hope everyone’s doing well!

day nineteen: bitter + sweet

Published by
Jack Wyrick
at July 4, 2008 in haiti. 1 Comment

July 4, 2008.

9 PM.

Here I am, on the precipice of leaving, both glad to be going home and wishing that I could stay longer, much longer, months longer. It’s not just the possibility of photographic work that makes me want to stay; it’s the people, the place, the spirit, everything about Haiti. In January, when the doc photo class was in Port Salut (in the southwest of the island, on the ocean), Pradip asked me if I found god here. I told him no. This is still true: I do not find god here. Pradip also said that being here brought him “closer to the center of sadness.” I understand this, I also feel this, but in addition to this, I feel that I am also closer to the source of my happiness. I can’t quite say what that happiness is, or the cause of it, but I find a clarity of being here, as I found in Thailand, that I cannot grip in the United States. I suppose it’s that here, I can just be, and the only obligations I have are those that I take up myself, and so are not really obligations. Yes, the rice sometimes tastes like sweat, yes, people always want something from you, yes, you’re rarely more than a “blan.” But when you make an impact and you make friends, it’s such a genuine event.

Well, ok, I’ll blog some final thoughts tomorrow at the airport.

till then,

jack

day eighteen: tying up ends + karaoke

Published by
Jack Wyrick
at July 3, 2008 in haiti. 0 Comments

July 3, 2008.

10:31 PM

Today was a day of tying up loose ends and making final plans and purchases for the trip home.

Flight is confirmed, and I bought 5 bottles of Barbancourt rum (that I packed in a huge trunk full of recycled-bottle dolls and cloth, and I HOPE makes it through security) and am bringing back 13 of Zanmi’s famous recycled-bottle cloth dolls, fashioned like Haitian women with dresses and baskets on their heads and jewelry. Some are souvenirs that I bought, others I’m selling to raise money for Sant Art ak Kouti (Art and Sewing Center) in Cange, an art store that benefits HIV/AIDS patients.

Ah, karaoke. I keep getting invited to these crazy “yard parties.” Zanmi’s pharmacist, a charming man who wears nice cologne and is far too insistent, was sad to hear that I wasn’t getting far out of bed, much less dancing. So right now, the doctors and nurses aren’t really in the yard, they’re really right next door in the kitchen, singing karaoke to “Ice, Ice, Baby” and “Silver Bells” from the Kenny G Christmas album.  :D  They’re all smashed enough that I keep checking to see if all of my rum is still there! It’s pretty hilarious. There’s this really tall, dignified doctor from Africa that is WAY out of character right now, bopping his head and shaking his butt - it’s great! They’ve all got instruments, too, and this one guy is WAY BETTER than Kenny G on the sax - he must totally be able to perform circular breathing.

So, that’s really all that happened today, not much. Tomorrow I’m going to get some photography of Pere LaFontant’s work in Cange (church, architecture, the band, education, etc.), finish packing, and get in bed EARLY as I have to be at the airport (three hours away) at 6 AM.

hugs!,

jack

bathtime friend

Published by
Jack Wyrick
at July 3, 2008 in book of days and haiti. 0 Comments

day 15/16/17: women’s issues + crappy issues

Published by
Jack Wyrick
at July 3, 2008 in book of days, book of learning and haiti. 0 Comments

Ok, this is the blogpost for Monday (day 15), Tuesday (day 16), and Wednesday (day 17).

7:45 PM.

I’ve been in Hinche since Monday and now I’m back home in Cange.

On Monday, the driver said the trip to Hinche was one hour long, and that he would pick me up at 1:30 PM.

In reality (real time, not Haitian time), the drive is about two hours long, and he picked me up at 5 PM. So, I got to Hinche at about 7 PM, met up with the ever-wonderful PIH-er Sarah Marsh, who continues to save my butt in every way possible. We walked a mile to the hospital, Hopital St. Therese, where I got a quick tour of the women’s and maternity wards. I also met 15 graduate surgical students from Emory Med School and their Master Surgeons, one of whose names was actually Master, so his nametag read “Master, Surgeon.” There was another funny nametag as well: “White, Medical Student.” :D I also met the hospital’s director and head physician, a Cuban gentleman named Dr. Hensey, who is also a surgeon AND an OBGYN. My admiration for him is unceasing; he performs a difficult job with a seeming ease, and still has time to entertain blan photographers. :D The staff at the hospital were all SO nice, and the atmosphere at Hinche is MUCH less political and constrained, even though St. Therese is still a PIH facility.

So, because it was late, I returned the next day, Tuesday (day 16). Sarah and I got up early (4 AM) to start our rounds and get me acquainted with the surgeons and midwives that I wanted to work with. Little did I know that Tuesday was to be one of the most exhausting, mortifying, beautiful, and rewarding days of my entire life, I exaggerate NOT. My first opportunity arose when an expecting first-time mother, a frail 18-year-old girl named Dwela, went very much into labor. I was thinking, “Yes, it’s only 6 AM, and we’re already in for a natural childbirth!” I…was wrong. The situation was this: Dwela had thought she was going into labor about two days earlier, and because she wasn’t sure how far along her pregnancy was, she thought the baby was coming early. She sought out a traditional in-home Haitian midwife, who gave her a packet of various special plants and leaves that were supposed to stop the early birth. To make these effective, Dwela had to pack these plants into her vagina. Yes, ladies and gents, leaves in the vagina. So, Dwela does this, and a massive allergic reaction ensues, causing extreme vulvar edema (swelling of the vulva). I don’t have any digital photos of this, but to try and relate the size of Dwela’s vulva at around 6 AM on Tuesday, if you were to cut a large grapefruit in half and hold it between your legs, her vulva (usually a miniscule thing) was that size. Dr. Hensey attempted to give her a one-finger vaginal exam, and this resulted in Sarah having to restrain her with all of her weight and might, and some of the most ear-piercing, blood-curdling screaming I’ve heard, even topping Hollywood horror flicks. Dwela’s water broke at around 7 AM, about the same time she started screaming “Mwen mouri, mwen mouri!” (I’m going to die!) and chanting funeral songs. Sarah, Dr. Hensey, and Thamy (head midwife) decided Dwela needed a C-section. So, C-section it was! Dr. Hensey rounded me up some scrubs and I got ready to hit the Operating Room with the team and deliver this baby.

(”clinical artist” Wyrick, getting suited up for the OR)

(Dr. Hensey and an Emory medical student performing Dwela’s C-section surgery)

The Cesarean section happened VERY quickly. Having never seen one done, I was shocked at the speed; it took all of 15 minutes from the time Dwela was under anesthesia until the baby was out and in a blanket, and then an additional 15 to get her sewn back up. The baby came out sort of ashen and took a little rubbing to get up to the normal physical baby speed of things, and was sort of tiny, but it all came out OK!

After the C-section, I was exhausted, and since I was going to stay up all night to wait on one of two potential natural childbirths, I decided to take a nap from 2 until 4 PM. When I came back to the hospital at 4 PM, one of the women had already given birth at 2 PM! So, resolved not to miss my last opportunity at this wonderful event, I literally camped out in the delivery room, refusing to leave even to pee. Finally at 6:30 PM, Madame Jirad Nismonfre, age 26, gave birth to her first child after an intense period of labor. By the time Jirad had fully dilated at 10 centimeters, blood and feces were flowing off of the rubber mat protecting the tiny table on which she lay, dropping into a mop bucket at the end of the table. It took about 15 minutes from her full dilation until the baby was completely out, and during this entire time, Jirad screamed only once or twice: as is common with Haitian women, she sang loud, sad songs and hymns during most of the birth. The birth was technically uncomplicated, but I stood in awe at the complexity of it, the pain and joy of it. I was simultaneously thinking, “When this is me, it will be one of the most amazing days of my life,” and “Oh my gods, I don’t think I can do that.” Jirad did it, and did it well, and without any pain medication. The baby would have been delivered in total darkness if I hadn’t requested a floodlight for my photographic work. The amazing vitality of Haitian women despite circumstances never ceases to amaze me. When I saw Jirad this morning, she was happy, smiling, and adoring her baby girl, as though (what I saw as) her very traumatic event had never occurred, rather that some serene event had happened last night and the baby had just appeared thereafter. Come to think of it, she was that serene from the second the baby came out. She smiled at me, still laying on the birthing table, dripping with afterbirth and blood. Amazing. PIH is doing good things.

So, that’s what happened in Hinche. Now, as the title of this post hints, there are other issues.

I am sick. Wow, sick. I’ve been having intense abdominal pains for some time now, and they continue to increase in frequency and intensity. At the moment, walking doesn’t happen, and unfortunately, pain meds aren’t popular in Haiti; I don’t like medicine anyway, but at this point, I would NOT refuse. Also, things aren’t working out so well gastro-intestinally speaking. I consulted some physicians on my symptoms, and they all seem to have the same idea: they think I have ovarian cysts, but aren’t sure - I left the US knowing that I might have them, but didn’t have time to get examined, and an examination isn’t happening here. So, at the advice of one doctor, I’m coming home early. I know!: don’t freak out, everything will be fine. I have an amazing set of photographs that will blow people away, I’m so positive of it, and I’m consoling myself with the thought that it’s doctor’s orders. In addition to the problem of cysts, there’s also a real possibility of a parasite, which grosses me out beyond belief, that I might have a worm in my intestines. Eeeeeeeeeeewwww! So, while I was actually looking forward to the rest of my time here, and even wanted to stay longer, alas, it is not to be. Sarah Marsh helped me make the call this evening: I’m coming home on Saturday. And I have a 10-hour layover in Miami (only one flight from there to Nashville each day, and late at night, no less), so I’m thinking I’ll spend half that time curled under a row of seats, wishing I had some rum to dull the sensations in my abdomen, and the other half huddled beside a toilet. (Sorry to be so graphic!)

So, that has been the past three days. (Today is Thursday.) My computer is seriously on the fritz, the graphics card must be blissing, or there’s a loose wire or something, so if I don’t blog until I get home, it’s because Sanatra (my computer) has gone to the great beyond until the Mac gods can fix him. If all works out, I’ll blog tomorrow and then Saturday once I get to Miami Airport, then that’ll cap off the travel blog! But don’t unsubscribe just yet! - digital scans of the Hasselblad photos and Polaroids will start going up in galleries on the site around July 16th, when I get settled back in Nashville and have gotten the film back from Chromatics. :D

Hope everyone is doing well!

And biggest CONGRATS to Pradip and Rachel on baby Kiran!

love,

jack