Beryle Mayfield, a good friend of mine, and I recently made a swap. Beyrle gave me the majority of his record collection, hundreds of LPs, many in excellent condition both in terms of the cover art and the vinyl records. His taste being quite eclectic, the artists range from Glenn Gould playing the Bach-Goldberg Variations to the best of Art Taum, Charlie Parker, Sonny Rollins, and many jazz greats, on through 60s-70s rock and roll and I’ve even spotted a Hank Snow album while thumbing through the many wine boxes packed with LPs.

Hank Snow?

I photographed him in his dressing room at the Grand Ole Opry in Nashville once back in the 1970s. Some Hank Williams records are in those boxes too, but he’s in a more revered class than Hank Snow. Now I’m looking for wooden crates to store them in and the possibility of thinning out some of our many bookshelves—dedicated readers, Ani and I have books in every room in this house—in order to make room for my suddenly greatly increased record library. I’ll probably never again have to check out another yard sale looking for record treasures, although I probably will. It’s hard not to.

The other day I pulled out from one of the boxes a 1973 recording of Jean-Luc Ponty and Stephane Grappelli and it reminded me of how much I miss my late brother Bruce’s music. Bruce was a wonderful violinist and a fine trumpet and flugelhorn player. He became enamored with Conn cornets from the 1930s late in his life. He was a smooth jazz player on both horn and fiddle, not someone very much caught up in bebop style. He got his professional musician’s union card at age 13 or 14. As a young man he played for about 15 years in the St. Paul Chamber Orchestra, leaving it to become a freelance violin and horn player, doing a tremendous amount of studio work in the Minneapolis/St. Paul area in the years before that business got digitized and the calls became few and far between. Bruce had a beautiful tone on his violin and could make the instrument sing. He never recorded himself with the exception of a few takes he made as demo CDs to use in booking his various ensembles. I have one of those CDs in my car and I play it frequently. He died of pancreatic cancer in 2008 at the relatively young age of 64.

If you’re wondering what Beryle got from me in trade, it was a couple of prints from my now and then work in Paris. Beryle knows and loves Paris far better and even more deeply than do I. Compared to him I’m a novice regarding that city. Beryle was actually with me one summer afternoon in 2002 when I made one of the pictures I gave him, a 13” x 19” print of a picture I made looking out on some terrace tables in front of what was then one of our favorite wine bars on Rue de Rivoli. He and I almost got caught in an unexpected and tremendous downpour but managed to duck in the doorway of La Tartine. As it poured rain the sun came out brilliantly and the light was champagne colored for just a few moments and I was thinking, this won’t last long, Allard, please don’t miss this. I think just one frame of the few I made with my M6 was successful. But that’s all you need, really. Having more just makes the editing more difficult, doesn’t it?

The other print I gave Beryle is a small one, the picture I call Towering Over Bardot, Paris, 1988, made in the apartment an American model named Tanya shared platonically with Edouard, a young Frenchman who made collages out of pictures of Bridget Bardot he cut from old magazines. I’d remembered having seen Tanya in a colorful mini-dress one day and I asked her to wear it for me and I photographed her straddling one of Edouard’s collages. Other than some portraits it’s one of the very few pictures I’ve actually produced, made happen. I was working in Paris photographing the fashion world for an all-France issue National Geographic had in the works. They never used the picture but Esquire later published it double page in an issue called “Women We Love.” Both pictures I gave Beryle are in my recent book WILLIAM ALBERT ALLARD: Five Decades. So much for the trade. I think Beryle has a few more wine boxes of LPs for me.

Another accomplishment this past week was getting the 48 inch upright Yamaha piano in the music room tuned. I can only play chords and fool with it but my grandson Will Evans, the son of my daughter Terri and her husband Dwayne, is taking lessons from the amazing Charlottesville pianist and raconteur, Art Wheeler. Although the piano hadn’t been tuned in almost three years it was not too far out but I thought Will, who turns 11 this month, should have a good piano available if he wants to come over to practice on something besides his electric keyboard. Now what I need to do is discipline myself to take my flugelhorn out every day or night for at least a few minutes and try to develop some chops, at least enough to amuse myself. It’s a good horn and should be put to use. I guess I think of instruments somewhat as I do cameras. They can be nice to admire and to hold but if they are really good they should be put to use. I think that’s why they say fine violins will kind of “go to sleep” if not played. I don’t think a Leica M camera will do that but I could never understand why Leica thought it appropriate to put out some of those special edition cameras that were obviously meant to be looked at but not necessarily used. My brother Bruce’s old Yamaha flugelhorn hangs on the wall in my writing room in Missoula. It’s got multiple dings and dents, the silver finish is worn down to brass around the valve casings where he’d held it for so many years. It’s a well used horn, certainly not pretty, but I can still sometimes get it to play easier if not better than my Bach Stradivarius that I’ll haul out to Montana later this month along with the dogs and other stuff.

Last night I pulled out at random from one of Beryle’s wine boxes, a Sarah Vaughan LP, “How Long Has This Been Going On?” cut in 1978 with the personnel of Oscar Peterson on piano, Joe Pass on guitar, Ray Brown on bass, and Louie Bellson on drums. Listen again to those names: Oscar Peterson, Joe Pass, Ray Brown, Louie Bellson. Those were some of the finest musicians of their time or of any time. And they’re playing behind one of the greatest voices of any time: Sarah Vaughn. Listening to that record last night with a glass of Chilean red, I mused at what an extraordinary instrument is the human voice. This may not be one of Sarah Vaughan’s greatest efforts but she was such an incredible singer. Many of her contemporary female vocalists must have marveled at her ability to soar from a standing start with no apparent effort and her ability to bring it down again with such grace and feeling. Some might say she could sometimes go a bit too far with her vocal acrobatics, but at her best she was simply unsurpassed. At least that’s my opinion. A year or so ago I read a Sarah Vaughan biography called “Sassy.” She evidently loved to party hard after a gig and could do so long and late but still show up with all the goods when it was time to do so. There’s something to be said for that. On the other hand, she died at 66. I like to think that’s not exactly old. I was 66 once. It was nice.

I’ve been in India a shade over two weeks now and the days have been long.  I thought perhaps I’d have time to write a bit but by the time I finish looking for pictures and then downloading my efforts each day, I’m usually deep into the night.  The era of digital photography is certain one of give and take.  We can look at our work at the end of the day but then it’s a matter of making a rough edit and getting the files into at least two external hard drives.  At least that’s the way I do it.  I’m sure those who are comfortable and well schooled in digital technology know all kinds of time saving ways to get the work safely logged in and perhaps sent on to an editor.  I’m not, unfortunately, one of those kind of photographers.  I have an assistant here in India but he’s involved in making our schedule workable, contacting subjects, tracking our expenses so I don’t lose money which has often been my downfall.  And language.  I can express myself in English fairly well; I don’t have anything else going for me, certainly not Hindi or any of the variety of dialects prevailing in this most wondrous of countries.

I’d like to be able to blog more often but I also like and need to read and a demanding assignment–and what other kind is there if  one is trying to do good work–is all consuming.  I’m lucky if I can get in a bit of reading time at breakfast, maybe some on the road but on the road in India is usually a long series of one-act plays going on in most any direction and requires my attention and admiration at times at the wonderment of the driver’s ability to avoid vehicle catastrophe.  At night the road seems to offer danger lurking in the darkness or in the overwhelming brightness of on-coming drivers who seem to have either headlights that don’t match each other–one is on dim, one is on super bright, or both may be blindingly bright and there may be none at all.  We come up quickly behind trucks rumbling on ahead with no apparent taillights or even reflectors.  The highways of India have improved immeasurably since my last visit eight years ago.  Still, at night, it seems a crap game of travel chance but I suppose if one lives here and hopes to continue to live, one gets used to it or at least has a good driver.  And to date I’ve seen only one accident and that was of no consequence and was within the city of Ahmedabad.  God only knows, or perhaps I should say one of the many Gods here may only know just how the cars, the trucks, the auto-rickshaws, the buses, the motorcycles, the motor scooters and the pedestrians somehow how criss cross each other’s paths in a series of sudden braking and renewal of speed, like some huge dodge ‘em car rink where everybody tries to avoid hitting the others, somewhat like a reverse demolition derby.  I think India has this mastered.  France, Germany, and Italy, may all have faster cars and highways but they often also have some spectacular high speed tragedies; I saw one once at night in the French country side I wish very much I hadn’t. I can still see in my mind the car, its top sheared completely off by the tree around which it had wrapped itself, ending at rest with the four young men sprawled in death within like some godawful horror exhibit.

Enough of that.

Better that I comment on the extraordinary visual effect common here in Ahmedabad and, I’m told, other parts of Gujarat, but not in other parts of India, and that is how the young women tear along within the miasma of the ever ongoing traffic, their heads and faces completely enwrapped in scarves, only their eyes visible and often those dark beauties are hidden behind stylish sunglasses.  And their slender arms are covered in gloves that reach to their upper arms.  What at first look I thought to be some kind of modesty given to a religious concern is simply their desire to protect their skin from the heat and grit of this city and its outlying areas.  When wandering in the markets and in their shopping ventures their faces are usually revealed. But while astride their scooters there is a wonderful visual secret behind all that fabric and those dark glasses.  And when there are no dark glasses, only dark but brilliant eyes seen framed by a narrow opening in the fabric, I always look to see if those eyes seem to be smiling as they pass me by.  Sometimes they are.

I just returned this past weekend from the annual National Geographic Photographers’ Seminar at National Geographic headquarters in Washington, D.C.

The Photographers’ Seminar is a time when one might see certain friends for the only time during the year. They may have come from Paris, New York, Sweden, almost anywhere. But because many of us lead a semi-nomadic life, crossing paths with others of the same ilk can be rare. Like the sighting of some elusive species of wildlife.

It’s the one time in the year when many–although never all–of the photographers who contribute to the magazine are brought together to share their thoughts, their work, and to enjoy and contemplate the work of photographers invited to speak and show work, photographers whose photographic interests and aspirations may be greatly dissimilar to those of the Geographic photographers, but still of strong interest and visual value.

There was a time when photographers not part of the Geographic’s stable of staff and freelancers were not invited as speakers. Fortunately, that changed years ago, notably when Rich Clarkson came in as Director of Photography. It’s not important if the speaker does work that doesn’t come close to what the Geographic might publish; that’s actually often very refreshing and stimulating. In fact, au contraire. What a bore it would be if all of us leaned in the same direction in our efforts.

Paolo Pellegrin, who opened the seminar Thursday morning, showed a variety of his work, ending with a selection of images on New York. Paolo’s pictures are always so well seen. He is a favorite of mine. I can sink into his images at times. On my writing desk I still have a copy of the New York Times Magazine from February, 2009, with his marvelous portraits of Oscar nominees. Much of the work he showed last week was far darker. I won’t say deeper because some of them showed the seemingly never end of man’ capability for brutality. Maybe they could be fairly said to be more important. But I wouldn’t ever want to give the impression that his movie star pictures were shallow in comparison; nothing could be farther from the truth, in my opinion. His access to those people who act and create a place for us to momentarily escape and at times bring us to a higher emotional and intellectual level, was evidently better than very good and he took advantage of that access and depicted the various players in ways really brilliant.

I won’t go through all the presenters at the seminar other than to say it was, as usual, quite a mixed bag. I wish I could remember it accurately enough to quote from National Geographic senior picture editor Todd James’ well thought out introduction to David La Chapelle, who closed the seminar, but I will say that La Chapelle’s pictures ran the gamut from startling to stupendous, and his visual thinking is extraordinary. His imagery is such a wonderful combination of intellectual interpretation and photographic mastery. Even if one is not quite taken with some of his pictures, I, for one, find his visual contemplation fascinating.

I am now going to take a break from writing here in a Waynesboro, Virginia Starbucks (I suppose if I were a tweeter I could announce it that way but I’m not and why tweet, anway, about just getting in a car to go home?) and go home to my writing area where I can play some music and finish this up. I’m in Starbucks because our Hughes high speed Internet connection has given up the ghost and we can’t get a service guy until the end of the week. And then they say we have to pay a service charge. How is it that when a service one pays for breaks down, the person being serviced gets penalized by having to pay for it to work? We live on the side of a mountain with not much in the way of high speed Internet options. We’re a step up from dial up, but it’s a very short step. And for now there is nothing. No step. No signal. Nothing.

It’s an hour or so later and I’m back. I had to stop at the deer processing guy’s house to find out why my son Anthony got all burger and no steaks or summer sausage from the deer he brought in last week and I picked up on my way home from the seminar.

But now I’m not really up for music, having stopped on my way up the driveway at the pump shed to check on the water pipes after a very cold last night and discovered we have a leak, maybe from a frozen pipe and now must have a plumber come out, after normal workday hours to fix what ever needs fixing. Last week while I was up in D.C. the boiler providing our hot water and heat went bad and was exhausting carbon monoxide into the house so we now need a new boiler and the accompanying new exhaust piping and tearing out of ceilings and all of that. It will cost a lot. Possibly over twelve grand.

And now we need a plumber. At after hours prices.

Sadly, I’ve lost my craving for music for the time being. Can’t think of anything to play that will help my anxiety over the onrushing bills to pay, so I’ll try to finish up this thing while writing at a table just off the kitchen, watching Every Day Italian with Giada on television, between paragraphs. She’s always a pleasure to watch and I may, although not often, jot down a recipe or take note of a cooking technique. It sometimes depends upon what Giada is wearing.

Probably one of the most awaited aspects of the National Geographic Photographers’ Seminar is the day after the seminar speakers, on Friday afternoon when “Works In Progress,” kicks in for about three hours. Open basically only to photographers who are regular contributors to the magazine or who have recently had something in the magazine, they are invited to show work they may be in the midst of producing, not necessarily for the magazine, although many do show assignments on which they are currently working.

The natural history guys never cease to amaze me at the “Works in Progress” sessions. They seem to constantly raise the bar ever higher for excellence in what they do. I’m so happy I don’t have to compete with them for a gig.

Paul Nicklin and Brian Skerry continue to make incredible images in their underwater explorations; David Doubilet, now, I think, considered one of the pioneers at underwater work, always seems to have that slightly more artistic edge to his images. He showed some fascinating half in/half out-of-the water pictures.

Tim Laman, whom I kiddingly called “The Blue-Eyed Maniac” after watching his video of him descending from a canopy where he had been photographing Birds of Paradise or some other winged creature reached photographically only by climbing high into the jungle tree tops using some kind of rope device and once there, by climbing by hand, limb-to-limb.

Nick Nichols is in the process of making pictures of lions in the Serengeti with an intimacy perhaps never before seen. Some of the pictures he showed were made through his use of a camera mounted on a motorized, miniaturized tank-like vehicle that rolls along, moving in on the lions in a way one normally cannot and with a far greater intimacy than with a long lens. Once he has this thing fully mastered his pictures are going to be something else, indeed. Unless, of course, the lions refuse to consider it something to be tolerated and eventually kill it. At least they probably can’t eat it and the parts might be salvageable for some other use.

Alex Webb showed pictures from East London. As usual, his pictures often had a lot of moving parts; his opening, bus stop picture was a favorite of mine. David Alan Harvey showed pictures ripe with the fervor of Rio. And a young couple with names I’m embarrassed to say I don’t remember, showed some images from the Andes I liked a lot.

Gerd Ludwig showed some very surreal cityscapes from his work in Astana, the new capital of Kazakhstan. An extraordinary set of pictures with the people as well.

I can’t possibly list everybody that showed great work in what was a strong afternoon of well-seen imagery.

As for me, I didn’t have an assignment last year and photographed not much more than a few portraits of a naked pole dancer at her home and a hair stylist in her Day of the Dead makeup in a small, empty room at her hair salon. Both women live in Missoula, Montana and I may eventually add them to my ongoing “Her Picture in a Frame” project but I didn’t think it was enough to show. I spent most of my time in Montana last summer and fall working on a novel I started maybe 15 years ago, then put aside for a long time and just last year returned to and hope to finish sometime later this year as time permits. I’m not a good multi-tasker and if on assignment I don’t try to write on the side if I’m not writing the story.  Can’t do that.  An assignment is an all-demanding kind of thing.  And good writing is hard work and takes a lot of time.

But I’ve always participated in the “Works In Progress” part of the seminar so I asked Nick if I it would be okay to read a couple excerpts from my novel and I did.

I’ve read a piece of my writing before at “Works In Progress,” eleven years ago.  But that was non-fiction from a retrospective book I was working on.  That reading was about a Wyoming range detective I photographed for LIFE, who once drunkenly held a gun on me.  This time it was fiction and fair to say, more sexual than riding the range with a range detective.. I needed a bit more than the three-and-a-half minutes limit imposed on the photographers, some of whom honored it.  I think part of what I read might have struck some as a bit over-the-top, but that’s what this kind of thing is about and you  have to be willing to stick your neck out.  I chose excerpts that had lots of word pictures, ones that didn’t have to deal with the vagueness of plot in such a brief time.  When you take a piece of writing out of context and let it float out there by itself, it may not fly as well or as high as you would like.  But I was in the mix and enjoyed it.

During his presentation David La Chapelle made an interesting note of something quite unusual to him: the comradeship he witnessed among photographers who work for National Geographic.  Quite different from what he’s used to in the world of fashion, I guess.  And he’s right on the mark today because the comradeship among National Geographic photographers has never been better or stronger, not because the times are better, but very probably because they are not.  We seek common goals and it isn’t just about making more money.  It’s about getting a fair trade for what we do and what we do has always had maintaining the highest excellence of the magazine possible at the top of our priority list.  We in the newly formed Photo Society, with its dedicated and extremely hard working elected advisory board, have a presence not seen before among our type and I’ve been around National Geographic photographers for 48 years.

The seminar wrapped up Friday night at a place called the Potomac Boat House in Georgetown and it was a fine party.  I had new boots that were hurting and did not dance, but many did.  And there was that same spirit of comradeship evident on the dance floor.  Even John Fahey, CEO of the National Geographic Society was out there, looking good.  I think it was a night to remember.  I also saw several interesting women during the seminar days that I hope I’ll be fortunate enough to photograph some day, if they’d like.

Just a closing note that fits right in with the way things have been going around here on the mountain lately: While trying to finish this blog the plumber arrived. It seems a pressure gauge down in the pump house is what has broken, sprouting a steady stream of water, requiring the water to be shut off until the plumber can return in the morning to replace the gauge.  So from here on to morning, no water.  It’s not quite dinner time.

After the plumber left I’ve taken telemarketing calls from someone offering “A really good way to avoid septic tank problems…” (we do have a septic tank but currently and surprisingly enough, no problem), and just now, a call from a guy with some company called, I think, “Walk In Care.”  He said it’s “A walk-in-bathtub.”  I said, no, I’m not interested.  Don’t need one.  I guess they have information that tells them who to prey on, who lives at such and such an address and how old the inhabitants are. Not to say there aren’t people who would find benefit from having a walk-in bathtub.  My wife is much younger than I and doesn’t need one and although I may be 74, I can still shower with the best of them.  That is, if I had water.

It’s now the next day.  The plumber came early this morning.  It took 15 minutes for him to install the new water pressure gauge.  The gauge cost $11.00.  The total bill for the part, putting it in, and the time involved, coming from his house to mine last night and then this morning, came to $491.00.  The hourly rate yesterday because it was after hours was $150.00 an hour.  Today it was down to $105.00 an hour.

Am I in the wrong profession? If so, it’s way too fucking late to change.