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tealight

I remember a furry little friend discovering my tealight candles.  She turned around and tried to pretend she hadn’t been poking her face where she shouldn’t but somehow the scorched whiskers gave her away.

In February 1944, a photographer took a series of photos at the opening of a Labor Canteen in Washington, DC.  The entertainment that night was a young Pete Seeger and in the audience First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt.  Two years after I found the picture, I wrote Mr. Seeger asking if he remembered the photographer.  I was hoping for but not really expecting a response.  But one day I checked my mail and there was a postcard.

One side was covered with words, actually one word, peace, translated into many languages.  On the other side, handwritten, was essentially the following note:  “Cynthia, I’m 94 years old. The details from that time aren’t so clear anymore but my memoirs are being updated and I will make sure that the photographer’s name is duly noted.  Joseph Anthony Horne.”

Joseph A. Horne

Joseph A. Horne

Joseph Anthony Horne was born in 1911 and died in 1987.  I began researching his life out of curiosity.  You see, I knew a man who kept telling stories of a 1950s and 1960s childhood spent in exotic places.  Of fishermen in Genoa, Italy dropping seahorses into his hands. Petting a white elephant belonging to the Maharaja of Mysore. Skating in Vienna by doctor’s orders.  It was a life made possible by his father, Mr. Horne, working for the U.S. foreign service, a post he’d taken on after World War II.  As for what he’d done during the war, “something involving art and books while stationed in Germany.”  In the 1960s the family moved back to the U.S. to the Maryland/DC area where Horne continued to work in foreign service until retirement.

Photo by Joseph A. Horne, 1944, Library of Congress

Photo by Joseph A. Horne, 1944, Library of Congress

I already knew from the son that his father had been a photographer, loved books and music, and that the foreign service position held in all the various countries had involved working with libraries and inviting American musicians, writers and other artists to share their works.  Perhaps inspired by that PBS show, History Detectives, I asked the son was there anything more he’d like to know about his father.  I was given carte blanche to research as I liked.  Those mysterious post-war German years working with books drew my attention but soon I was researching his early years as well. So many files from the early and mid-twentieth century have been digitized, but I kept hitting a wall with finding information prior to 1940.  When I queried the son he mentioned, “that might be because he changed his name. ”  Turned out that Mr. Horne used to be Mr. Wisniewski and had grown up in Nebraska not Maryland as I had assumed.  “So he was born to the Wisniewski family?”  The son shook his head.  “He was adopted, along with a baby girl.  My father thought he’d been born in New York.”  When asked why he had selected Horne of all names, the son replied with a smile, “He thought he was an illegitimate love child of two New York families. the Astors and Langhornes.”  As I stared at the son, he laughed.  “My dad was quite the storyteller.  He even mentioned studying in Europe and hearing G. K. Chesterton.”

One bit of information was easy to find thanks especially to National Archive records available online.  In 1946, Joseph Anthony Horne joined the Monuments, Fine Arts and Archive unit.  From 1947-1948, he would serve as the director of the Offenbach Archival Depot, one of the primary collection points for preserving and returning books, artwork and cultural items stolen by Nazi Germany during World War II.  He had been a Monuments Man.  As for how an orphaned baby in New York City might travel to the American Midwest (along with many thousands of other orphaned and homeless children), and how a young man from Nebraska might find himself working as a photographer in Washington, DC … not to mention exactly who were the people, places and events experienced in Europe during and after the war … Well, all of that, would take a bit more digging.  It would be a treat to discover his connection to photography historians like Erich Stenger and artists like Karl Hofer and quite a surprise to learn of the drama at Offenbach involving missing books and the complex decisions made as the Cold War loomed, reminiscent of decisions made in the world today.  This post is just to set the stage.  More stories to follow.

For the past couple of years, I’ve had the pleasure of engaging in a part-time research project.  Though in the beginning I thought I was documenting the story of one person, it quickly became an opportunity to learn the stories of many peoples, some famous and others not so famous, across many lands.  I’ve been struggling with how to share just a few vignettes.  With the advice of friends, I’ve decided to think of the vignettes as a journey, a walk through history.  Since the stories from that time have relevance today I think it is okay to share some of my findings here on this blog. These “interludes: a walk through history,” present different chapters in one’s man life, but really provide a glimpse into the history that continues to shape this world.  It’s been a wonderful, sometimes surprising, experience for me. I hope you enjoy the tales to be posted over time.  Not too frequently — I still need to share my pictures of the present day, like these branches covered in fresh fallen snow.

a series in light and shadow

The morning began with a question, Steve asking me from a different room, “What are you doing?”  I replied, “Just looking at the caustics on the wall.”  He chuckled, probably remembering that he is the one who introduced the concept to me.  I had always accepted the light bouncing on water and other surfaces.  He explained the science behind what I was seeing.

He came over to stand beside me.  I pointed at the light and shadows shimmering on the wall above the bookcase.  He walked forward, and then with his back to me, said as if it was the most clear thing in the world, something like, “Formally caustics are where the light field intensity reaches infinity and …”  He added some other mellifluous statements about diffraction, refraction, reflection and so forth.

I’ m not a scientist but somehow the words sounded like poetry, as beautiful as the gentle burble of water flowing over rocks.  And like water over rocks, the words were gone too fast for me to hold them.  I had understood just enough of what he said to understand that I really didn’t understand what he was saying at all. “Can you repeat what you just said?” I asked hopefully.  He turned around.  “Hunh, repeat what?”

With some encouragement, he did try to repeat what he’d said.  Wasn’t quite the same.  The science was there but not the poetry of the earlier moment.  Even those words didn’t stick with me after he’d left. And I was reminded of a statement someone said about the physicist Richard Feynman, that in the moment as he stared at you explaining how the universe worked, you felt as if you understood it all … and then after he walked away … poof.  Well, after Steve walked away, I meandered about the house for a bit photographing light and shadows on the ceilings, walls and even the following image of light striking a part of the oven.  I think I see the poetry.  I just don’t have the words. 😉

ice on the house

I’ve since learned that this much ice hanging from the gutters of a house is not the best thing in the world architecturally …

… but these icicles sure were beautiful in the morning light.

… from the computer screen (for a bit).

it still blooms

leftovers

a buttered biscuit, a few blueberries and a drizzle of honey

peering up in back bay …

… before the snows began to fall again.

“I brought you something,” is what Zoe  said as she reached into her bag.  “An apple.”  A healthy snack.  How lovely, I thought as I glanced at the fruit.  As I looked closer, I could not help but exclaim, “Wow, it is like a sunset held in your hand!”  And what did she say?

She said, “Ha!  I knew you’d see it.  I picked it up and turned it around and knew you would see that landscape.  Your challenge is to photograph it!”  My stomach grumbled just a bit.  “You mean I can’t eat it?”

“Of course you can, ” she said, turning away.  “As soon as you figure out how to capture what you’re seeing.  That’s all.”

I must say it was a bit maddening that day to travel home hoping I didn’t bruise the landscape.  Did I capture it?  I don’t know but I sure had fun trying.  As I post these pictures, the landscape has been consumed.  It was a tasty artistic adventure.  I look forward to future challenges. 😉