G is for Graininess

Graininess

The sand-like or granular appearance of a negative, print, or slide. Graininess becomes more pronounced with faster film and the degree of enlargement.

The grain in film reminds us that we are not looking at life, but a reproduction of life. The seems start to show, the gaps between the particles start to yawn, and we see the thing we love breaking apart.

But the memory is like film in so many ways. We focus on some snapshot from the past, but if the snapshot was taken to quickly, and if we look too close, the image starts to grow grains, each particle becoming a large blob of color, pushing out beyond its natural border, both smudging and sharpening the edges at the same time.

When we look too close at anything, it becomes sharper and duller: it's sharpness appearing in the honed focus, and disappearing in its lost relationship to everything surrounding.

Interesting Buddhism Article: Selling Tibet to the World

Selling Tibet to the World

F is for F Stop

F stop controls the amount of light coming in through the lens.

Taking a digital photography class with Rick Wright, I am learning about composition, light, pattern and texture...all the things you can do with a digital camera. But, I'm not thinking about F stops, or the more technical end of photography. For this, I am grateful. Each thing in due course.

But F stops are important. And F stop is a number that represents the size of the aperture. The aperture controls the amount of light coming in, which can affect many photographic elements. The smaller your F stop number, the more light comes into the picture, decreasing the depth of field. The smaller the aperture opening, the greater the depth of field.

I wrote about this in an earlier essay, and I find I still have trouble with it. Yes, I struggle with keeping an eye to the close and far away, keeping a sense of three-dimensionality, both in my photographs, and in my perspective.

I tend to make pictures that use symbols, abstractions, a language of shapes and images. I am interested in a narrative coming across. But a good writer keeps an eye to the bigger picture, the distance, while articulating the close-up details. How can we do this in our lives?

Well, the first thing is to admit that you can't actually focus on both. You can focus most of your attention on one and hold the other in the periphery, as a balance, as a context. This requires a little bit of doubled vision. It requires discipline. And it requires a clarity of purpose, so that the doubled vision doesn't contain too much, doesn't become a chaotic or messy vision.

I am writing a novel. There are moments of grand vistas, and moment of the smallest shift in an eye. How to hold that tension between the two? The only way I know is focus your vision into a small frame of light, narrow your vision, squint your eyes.

photo by Nina Alvarez

To see more of Nina's photos, go to http://gordianknot.wordpress.com

E is for Exposure

This is the most recent entry in a photo-essay series written by Nina Alvarez.

Exposure: The amount of light that is allowed to reach film or printing paper.
It is controlled by the size of the aperture and the shutter speed.

Exposure. Too much and you burn to white. Too little and you grope in
darkness. The controlled and conscious photographer can play with these slopes into extremity, dance into them to produce a measured effect: the blackness of an alleyway, the pure white of a distant sky. The artist in art and life cannot always walk the controlled center of exposure, crisp and even at every click. Authentic living requires dips into vulberable openess to experience, and the requisite period of closing the aperture.

My psyche has been, of late, suffering overexposure: the raw open aperature allowing unsolicited pain and experience from too many corners. I am burning to white, losing the edges of things, losing the clear view of objects where they are outside of my emotional space.

Yet, to tighten the aperature, in these moments, almost always lacks grace. It shuts too far. To a tiny pin. And suddenly I cannot hear, see, or smell. To be small and dark is the relief that does not relieve.

It is dramatic, these overexposures and underexposures. There is suffering in this life, but these dramas can add beauty and effect to a scene. They paint in an exaggerated view of what we are looking at, sometimes highlighting the emotions that would otherwise remain hidden.

These days I am hoping for nothing more than a clear view, an eye that assesses the light in the room or the field, and adjusts its openness accordingly. It requires subtely and mastery. And yet I fear too much subtely and mastery, too much evenness. How funny, to feel strange without the extreme always edging in at the corners.

Stok-La--The Peak

When I woke up on the third day of the trek, my headache had dissipated and I was ready to hit the peak. After a hearty breakfast of milk tea, eggs and porridge and some sort of greasy fried bread, I had enough carbohydrates in me to take Everest itself. The going was difficult at first with the brittle rocky surface constantly giving way under the pressure of our feet. Our ankles were bent at the angle of the mountain path, which was now little different in texture from the surrounding terrain. The tan color of the mountains below us turned to an alternating grey and magenta, and the angle at which our feet arched increased dramatically. Flat (or nearly flat) surfaces dissappeared entirely and I often found myself on my hands and knees in order not to slip down the mountain side. Gusts of wind caught one off balance and led to brief moments panic. The air chilled even further even though there was not a cloud in the sky. Our party and the Israeli party spaced out until I couldn't even see Paul down below. It was late morning and I dared not look up for each time I had earlier, my exaggerated breathing and heightened pulse were exasperated by frustration of how far there still was to go to reach Stok-La. I cannot emphasize enough how difficult it was to breath. Like a meditating monk, I had to scrutinize my body to make sure I didn't attempt to breath in too deeply or too shallowly or I would fall into a coughing fit reminiscent of an asthma attack. To regulate my bodily exhaustion, I imitated the gait of the pack horses walking just in front of us. Placing their entire weight on the foot they proceeded with, they took a deep breath. For a human, the mode of imitation required NOT walking uphill on the balls of one's feet (as we are naturally inclined to do), but to placed one's foot down putting equal pressure on all parts, from heal to toes. After placing one's foot down and taking only one moderate breath, shifting all weight to that foot before placing the other in front, shifting weight evenly and breathing out. I utilized this method as much as possible. 300 meters from the top, I stopped for a break and glanced out over the valleys below and the ice-covered glacier peaks that now sat at eye-level. There was some green in the distance but not much. We had left the tree line far below. As I sat, one troubled looking Israeli inched her way past me, in pain because of altitude sickness. She was determined to make it. By this time, I had been imitating the pacing of the pack horses for 2 hours and had a strong rhythm going. I thought it was pretty impressive for kid from the city who had had asthma as a child to be at 15000 ft. With these thoughts I pressed on step by step, my body aching, my breathing labored but with a smile on my face, the faint expression not fully representing the excitement of the prospect of making it to the top. The final 200 meters, on my stomach, I crawled up the trailless moutain surface by filling my fists with clumps of rocks that themselves just barely clung to the largers boulders in which they were lodged. Sometimes working only with pebbles, I used my center of gravity to anchor myself to the slope and gain traction to leverage myself toward more firmly implanted rocks. In this way I sloshed through the rocks and pebbles before me, sending many off the cliff som 50 meters beneath. The very last bit was comprised of large craggy elements that functioned almost like posts signaling that the moutain was giving way to its ascending conquerers. "You have made it!", they bellowed in the deep fatherly voice of Himavat (the name of a god who is the father of Shiva's wife, Parvati, from which the Himalayas is an eponym). Pulling myself up on these rock posts, I gazed breathless out at the Karakorum mountains to my northwest, marveling at their snow-capped peaks lined up one after another and thinking about both the ancient caravans that moved through them and Osama and his crowd still hold up there. The Karakorum range runs from China southwest through Pakistan and into northeast Afghanistan. That history and modern politics immediately ran through my mind during this final stretch of the trek is, I suppose, a testament to the cosmopolitan tendencies I have been bred with. But they didn't in any way take away from the experience. I felt free and overwhelmed at the same time. But not small.

Ascent to Stok-La Day 2

The second and third days of our trek up to Stok-La began at about 3500 meters, the same altitude as Leh. From the campground we set off to conquer at 40 degree hill that, combined with the thin air, immediately challenged the feeling of confidence (about the nature of the 2nd and 3rd days trek) we had woken up with. Arriving at the time of that hill, Paul looked winded and I was gasping for breath. A 150 meter climb in just 30 minutes. Having been burned by the sun the day before, I lathered up with some suntan lotion, drank a couple of deep draughts of water and pressed on. The complete lack of moisture in the air made the hike significantly easier. Though the sun beat down on us, all perspiration disappeared within moments. Even at midday, I was completely dry. Negative side effects did accompany this extremely dry climate. By the time we reached 4000 meters (12500 ft), my nose, skin, mouth and lips had dried out completely, driving the incessant peeling on exposed surfaces and a perpetually bleeding nose. These were not severe nose bleeds precisely because it was so dry. In fact, they dried up almost as soon as they began. Paul would blow his nose only to find that his nose had bled briefly and then clotted before he even noticed it. Other undesireable consequences of a lowlander pushing his body to the top of the highest range of mountains in the world included constipation, an inability to let loose a continuous stream of liquid waste, and extremely frequent urination, and most importantly symptoms of altitude sickness. I am inclined to say that the first two were a result of dramatic changes in air pressure. I had mentioned in an earlier post that our symptoms of altitude sickness were limited. However, there were moments, especially the second night on the trail, when my head was pounding from the change in altitude. We camped near the village of Rumtek, a beautiful collection of houses, varying in size and distinctiveness set against terraced barley fields displaying an almost neon-green stalk that was only just recently planted in anticipation of Ladakh's only harvest seaso--late august. The bright green color of the barley was enhanced by the bright sunlight that gave it its iridescent quality. Amidst the fields were stone-fenced pens of newborn kids (goats) and beyond larger enclosures where the spring calves mooed, calling the attention of their elders and the other farm animals. The traditional Ladakhi architecture of chalk-colored exteriors with lintels and and window frames brightly colored in yellow, blue, red, and green nicely set off the verdant barley and the sandy-colored moutains in the background. Old women dashed wet laundry against stones set aside for drying, a couple of old men perched themselves on the stoops of their homes, as if waiting for our party to traipse through, and our guide chatting up some of the young women as their children chased after one another with sticks. It was an idyll of a kind I could never quite have imagined before experiencing it. And yet, the harshness of the terrain was carved into the faced of even the youngest of the village of 96. Even the young brides of the village displayed lines in their smiles. We arrived at camp on the second day in the late afternoon, spending an extra 2 hours on the trail than the previous day on account of the ruggedness of terrain and the increasing heights to which we ascended. About a mile from Rumtek, we made camp and twilight soon set in. I was distracted from my headache by some friendly conversation with a couple of Israelis, who had also made it to our campsite for the evening. Israelis can be found anywhere in India, even on a Himalayan trek, a particularly powerful testement to their ubiquitous presence as the highest percentage of GYT's (Global Youth Travelers). They now exceed even Australians and Brits, I would wager. As the sun set, I downed several Peracetemol to reduce my symptoms of dizziness, nausea, headache and loss of appetite. It was chilly up there. Leh cooled off to about 15 at night but at 4300 meters, I had to wear just about every thing I had brought with me, including the Tibetan woolen blanket I purchased a few days before. When the stars finally came out, they were brilliant, more than I had ever seen before in my life. That night I slept well, my exhaustion from the day's trek overshadowing the bizarre bodily consequences of trekking in the Himalayas.

To Stok-La and Back

"La" means pass (as in moutain pass) in Tibetan. Stok is a village located in a fertile valley that is home to the Ladakhi royal family. The trek we began 4 days ago began about 65 kilometers to the Northeast of Stok, which is several valleys away from Leh, Ladakh. We knew that the trek up to Stok-La was going to be challenging at best and possibly even miserable at times. The cause--altitude. Just going from Manali, at 8000 ft, to Leh, 12500, was trying, with periods of dizziness and some nausea throughout the trip. Even during the first two days in Leh, itself, Paul and I had to deal with mild symptoms of altitude sickness. So naturally, we were concerned about moving up to 15500 ft. The trek began as we were driven out of Leh, to a cluster of small villages called Spitok. We met up with our guide, Thundup, his son, Thupten and Sonam, the horseman. Yes, horseman. We had 5 pack horses to carry all the camping equipment. The first day began rather uneventfully. While Sonam and Thupten packed up the horses we started off with Thundop across a 12 kilometer stretch on a rocky desert plain. The high desert in Ladakh is comprised of primarily narrow valleys, with streams at the bottom that have hollowed out the rock and created canyons. The first day of our trek was to be the last sight of the rocky open plain that was split by the Indus river. After about 2 hours of walking out in the open, we met up with the horses and hiked side by side with them up a fairly steep incline into the moutains that would take us up to Stok La. The horses carried 50 kilos with little effort urged on by Sonam with an occasional "Ooch" ("go") or a sound that was somewhere between a whistle and a whisper. The air was clear, exceptionally dry, the sky was the typical summer Ladakhi bright blue with a few cumulus clouds drifting lazily. The path we were climbing was about 10 ft wide, giving the horses and us ample room to criss-cross back and forth. Knowing that this first leg of the journey would be the simplest, and that I would tire as the hours and days went on, I began asking Thundup a slew of questions about Ladakhi culture, Ladakhi views about Buddhism and the history of the caravan in Ladakhi and geography. Although he was basically a barley farmer who worked as a guide in his spare time, his English was impeccable and his knowledge of and pride in local customs and history was impressive. He and his son were exceedingly goodnatured and we passed the next few hours ascending into the towering heaps of sand and rock in leisurely conversation. Sonam and Thupten pushed on ahead while Paul, Thundup and I took our time on the last segment of the trail for the first day. By the time we arrived at camp, to our surprise, the tents were set up and dinner was already going. It was three in the afternoon and the dusty brown of the high desert moutain valley trail gave way to an oasis of green fed by a glacial stream.

Letter from Leh

Our second day in Leh. Have walked the streets of the 30,000 strong old capital of Ladakh. A beautiful town, with a large 17th century castle, modeled on the Potala Palace in Lhasa. We are staying in Old Leh, a district of narrow winding streets that a pinto would have trouble navigating, lined with 6 foot walls made out of a mud brick that matches the color and consistency of the mountains that encircle the city. Leh is clearly an entrepot to central Asia, the faces, garb and hats of the people clearly reference their ethnic and religious affiliation. There are Tibetans, Ladakhis, Muslims of different Turkic groups and of course, sikhs and regular Indian Hindus. Leh is certainly the most comfortable place we have visited thus far. There is a calm that has to do with the size of the city, its proximity to nature but also with the culture of Ladakh. The marginalization of Tibetan populations throughout Central Asia by the larger powers seems to have forged a greater unity among the different ethnic subgroups. Whereas India is a severely class and caste stratified society, the exile communities and even the broader population of Ladakh itself does not exhibit these fissures. The viciously competative spirit of Delhi has given way to what feels like a genuinely liveable and yet culturally rooted Central Asian/Subcontinental city. To digress from pure description for a moment, our journey has meant day after day of travel and then on days within a particular place, perpetual planning for the next stage. This involves going to banks (always an experience rife with absurdities), travel agencies for trekking, and bus stations, which make walking through Times Square feel like a leisurely stroll in the open countryside. By the time we had reached Manali, my experiences of only 5 days in India were sufficiently consuming that each day functioned as prism of memories that so distorted the previous 24 hours that Stanford, and the US came to seem as distant mirages, or like the traces of dreams hours after one has woken up. The ride from Manali to Leh further reinforced that mode of remembrence. 23 hours in a jeep over some of the highest passes in the world was an experience too overpowering to be captured in words. This was my sentiment at the time. As we passes through Indian army checkpoints at the outset of our journey, I couldn't imagine the beauty of the tiny farming villages perched on the edge of cliffs, their terraced fields creating a ripple effect on one's visual field. These ripples of green (probably a hearty crop like barley) gave way to tan and silver sheer moutain faces which soared up to snowy peaks. Much of the Manali-Leh road was a trip through valleys--some narrow, some wide, all enchanting. Altitude sickness concerned Paul and I. I had never been above 8000 ft in my life. But as we began our steep climb on the road to the first major pass, Rohtung-La (3850 m/13000ft ), and the air thinned, and the glacial waters turned from running streams to frozen masses, it became clear that there was no turning back. We drank gallons of water, layered up--shirt, shirt, fleece, fleece, coat, hat, gloves--and breathed deeply hoping our headaches and mild nausea would soon subside. All, in all, we were successful--no serious altitude sickness. As we pressed on from village to village, the mountains peaks ranged higher and higher and the road often dissipated to a crumbling mass of stones and mud. Passing over the washed out portions of the road not yet repaired by India's BRO (Border Roads Organization), we shot up and landed hard, tossed about the jeep like popcorn kernals. Then a stretch of reasonably well-paved road would provide us with a reprieve. The intensity of the beauty and tumult that characterized my experience on the Manali Leh road faciliated a greater psychological remove from the West and the "civilized" life. The discipline and order within Western society's now seemed a distant dream. In Leh, I begin coming to terms with that break.