Mistletoe Et al.

Some of the leaves used in this chorophyll print study :

Quercus rubra L. Northern red oak

Asclepias syriaca. Common Milkweed

Vitis aestivalis Michx. Summer grape

Sassafras albidum. Sassafras

Acer rubrum. Red Maple

Hedera aralioideae. Ivy

Catalpa speciosa. Catalpa tree

Hosta Sieboldiana Elegans. Hosta Plant

Some Exposure tips to create a Clorophill Print:

Print an image on a transparency sheet.

Place transparency over leaf of your choice and place it inside an old glass photo frame. Make sure leaf is bright green and not dry.

Leave for about 3 to 4 days of exposure under direct sun, in the beginning of fall in the northeastern United States. Approximate coordinates - Latitude: 40.293793°, Longitude: -74.707426°

Some References:

Fabbri, M. (2014). Anthotypes - explore the darkroom in your garden and make photographs using plants. AlternativePhotography.com.

Antonini, M., Minniti, S., Gómez, F., Lungarella, G., & Bendandi, L. (2020). Experimental photography: A handbook of techniques. Thames & Hudson.

Vintage postcard of the first Goetheanum.

FOUNDATION STONE

Dornach, Switzerland.

Buried in the concrete of this building lies a foundation stone. It belonged to a previous building - the original Goetheanum, as this half-theater, half-temple is called. The original structure went up in flames on December 31st, as the year of 1922 was in its final hours.

Rudolf Steiner designed 17 buildings in Dornach, Switzerland that congregated a community of philosophers, scientists and artists. These structures were created by Steiner between 1908 and 1925, “while the dire storms of war have been surging through the world”, as he described.

The first Goetheanum was inaugurated on September 26, 1920. The second Goetheanum would only be completed in 1928, three years after Rudolf Steiner’s death.

Every day as the community walked past the tragic ruins of the Gotheanum he reassured of a time “when a physical Goetheanum will again be here”.

“Courage will keep you wakeful;

lack of courage - that and that alone could cause you to sleep.”

- Rudolf Steiner

Dornach, Switzerland

Tuesday evening, January 1st, 1924.

Along a river

At a region known as Córrego do André, in Minas Gerais, Wania Isabel da Silva (13) insisted that I follow her to her favorite place. I thought she would take me to the river that runs beside her house. As part of the São Francisco River watershed, the River São João is famous in the area for the fishing it provides. To my surprise, she took me to a dirt road in the opposite direction of the river's bank. Her two brothers, Wando Pereira da Silva (9) and Gracemar Apolinário da Rocha (4) followed along.

I asked why they wouldn’t go swimming on such a hot afternoon. I wasn't expecting to hear that the clear waters of the river were polluted. But for local folks, the rareness of the fish had been enough evidence of the contamination of the river. Suddenly, we were interrupted by the youngest brother saying out of nowhere: "My father likes Brazilian rum". Hinting the reason why his father left the family and moved away to another town. They would take me to the house the father had started to build for the family. It was abandoned. They had moved next door where their grandmother, Dona Teresa gladly welcomed her daughter and three kids. 

As we reached a tree with an immense top and shade the girl said she would love to have a picnic there one day. I don’t know if she had the chance. According to family plans, she was being sent away to live with her aunt in a big city where she could find better opportunities, not only to study but also, work. In 1999, Unicef estimated that 14.5% of the Brazilian girls, aged 10 to 14, worked as maids. Unfortunately, Wania probably added to these numbers.

Extractivists

From the coast of Bahia, it takes 40 minutes to reach the farm of Julio Mello in Northeastern Brazil. I ride on the back of a truck. The hot sun releases the scent of fruits growing in the region. I can smell and almost taste caja fruit, cupuaçu and acerola in the air as I cross the Brazilian Atlantic Forest. Of the Tropical Forests, it's the most generous in biodiversity. In the state of Bahia, 270 species were cataloged in a mere hectare. Even though this ecosystem is protected by Brazilian environmental laws, only 7% of the original forest is left. The forest remains for the population that doesn't migrate looking for labor in the urban agglomerations scattered in the Atlantic coast. At least patches of it. They could easily live off the forest's abundant fauna and flora but instead, they have to offer their labor in exchange for a salary and a place to live with their families. Most Brazilians have no land to call their own.

Land ownership is the privilege of a few – two-thirds of all arable land is concentrated in the hands of only 3% of the population. No wonder the Landless Workers' Movement (MST) originated in this nation. Since the 1980's MST remains as the prime advocate for land reform. It uses the invasion of large unproductive land as its main tactic to vindicate the landless. It is estimated that 166.000 families are living in squatter camps on invaded properties in Brazil.

Outside a typical mud house from this region built with straws, twigs and branches, a 2-year-old is sucking on a mango. A woman holds a broom made of dried leaves. She is meticulous as she swipes the dirt floor underneath her bare feet. She greets me with a smile and invites me to come closer. She walks out of the house with a bundle in her arms and proudly introduces her 2-days-old daughter, Joseane. The baby's father had already left to work, he will spend his day of labor working on someone else's land. At least he found a conscious landowner to work for. At the farm owned by Julio Mello, this family will sustainably collect the riches of the forest, respecting the rate of regeneration each species needs to allow the survival and growth of the Atlantic Forest. In return, the forest shows its generosity by giving abundant cocoa, caja fruit, guarana, cupuaçu, cashew, Palm of oil fruit and acerola. It is as if the forest knows not many landowners are of this kind.

For Mr. Mello exploiting the land means preserving it. He mostly collects what the forest offers. When clearing for a crop is necessary he makes sure to keep as much as possible of the original vegetation in some other area of his property. He takes me to one of the areas of Atlantic Forest he preserves. It is intact. As I step into the forest I am engulfed by the thick humid air. The sun cannot accompany us as we penetrate the vegetation, but its heat can. We haven't even walked for 20 minutes and I'm covered in sweat. The vegetation is luxurious: exotic flowers, gigantic leaves, and contorted trunks. From inside the shaded forest, Mr. Mello asks me to turn around as he points to his neighbor's property. No trees are left, only cattle herds that look like small dots on a map. The land looks naked under the thin grassed fields. The landscape is now too vast. Everything will seem small after I've been inside the forest.

A school bus passes in front of the farm's gates. Hamilton, a handy boy in the property, is burning firewood to slowly roast cashew nuts.

Like his brother's before him, Hamilton is planning to abandon school to his mother's dismay. Between smoke and smiles, he tells me about the house he wants to build for his girlfriend, and his wish to be a father one day. Dusk envelops us while the roasted nuts glow red inside a cast iron pan. Our conversation ends with the fire. As I walk away I can't help but hope for his children to stay in school, and for them to have their own piece of land one day.

There is a story behind each print.

M̶i̶n̶é̶RIO

The series of photographs M̶i̶n̶é̶RIO is a going back to the past. Not only as a revisiting of my own photographic archive and an excavation of images, but as an attempt to go back to a time when maybe a choice could have still been made: that of preserving a river and erasing mining off the map.

In 2009, the mining company Vale S.A. officially crossed out of it’s title the name of the river basin where its conglomerate was originated - Companhia Vale do Rio Doce. I titled this work M̶i̶n̶é̶RIO, and crossed out the word mine instead. By doing so I hope to sensitize our collective memory that behind a mine there is always a river. At least, there used to be one.

Here I present images of “Córrego do André”, one of the São João river basin tributaries. This stream, the villages and the population along the river are under an ungoing threat by the talling dam of “congo Soco” owned by Vale S.A. that is about to break and could cause flooding and contamination of all surroundings - water, earth, fauna, flora and air.

River and lives are suspended by a question: What will be crossed off the map?

If this environmental crime occurs it won’t be the first nor the last, a river basin from the state of Minas Gerais in Brazil is to be destroyed. The irresponsibility of the mining Company Vale do Rio Doce, now Vale S.A. - the largest producer of iron ore in the world - combined with government disregard and the complacency of society already eliminated from the landscape of Minas Gerais the ecosystems of the Rio Doce and Rio Paraopeba.

I bring these pictures to the surface, so we don’t become only a shadow of what we once were. a capacity not surprisingly so well performed by documentary photography. after all, shadows and its absence is all that a black and white photograph is made off.

~ To Max Henrique Barbosa

Scroll down for text version in Portuguese.

project M̶i̶n̶é̶RIO was shortlisted at Hariban Award 2019.

This year’s panel of jurors WAs made up of Annemarie Zethof & Martijn van Pieterson of IBASHO Gallery, Takayuki Ishii of Taka Ishii Gallery, Kimi Himeno of AKAAKA & Mirjam Kooiman of FOAM Museum Amsterdam.

2019 Shortlisted artists.

M̶i̶n̶é̶RIO

a série de fotografias M̶i̶n̶é̶RIO é uma tentativa de voltar ao passado. Não é só um revisitar do meu arquivo fotográfico e uma escavação de imagens, mas uma tentativa de voltar no tempo quando uma escolha talvez ainda fosse possível - a de preservar o rio e riscar a mineração do mapa.

Em 2007, a mineradora Vale S.A. riscou de seu nome original a bacia do Rio Doce onde este conglomerado se iniciou. Chamava-se - COMPANHIA VALE D̶O̶ ̶R̶I̶O̶ ̶D̶O̶C̶E̶. Ao entitular este trabalho M̶I̶N̶É̶rio, e riscar as letras iniciais, Risco a mina e deixo o rio.tento assim sensibilizar a nossa memória - que por trás do minério há sempre um rio; Ou pelo menos havia.

Aqui apresento imagens do córrego do André, um dos tributários da bacia do Rio São joão. Neste momento este afluente, assim como vilarejos e a população ribeirinha, estão ameaçadas por uma das barragens da Vale S.A. - a mina de rejeitos “Gongo Soco” que ameaça inundar e contaminar toda a cercania - água, terra, fauna, flora e ar.

Rio e vidas estão em suspense. E a pergunta fica: Será que seremos riscados do mapa?

Não será a primeira vez, e provavelmente nem a última, que uma bacia hidrográfica no Estado de Minas Gerais é ameaçada de destruição. A irresponsabilidade de Mineradoras como a Vale S.A.- A maior produtora de minério de ferro mundial - combinada com o desleixo governamental e a complacência social, já eliminaram da paisagem de Minas ecosistemas como os do Rio Doce e do rio paraopeba.

Trago estes retratos à tona, para que não restem apenas sombras daquilo que um dia fomos.

nada mais natural do que usar a fotografia documental, já que é da ausência e presença de sombras que a fotografia em preto e branco, pura e simplesmente é feita.

~ Para Max Henrique Barbosa

This house is not yours

After ringing the doorbell, the gate was open to us. A polite and timid maid walked us through the garden. The owner of the house waited for us by the door. My parents were received with a warm welcome by Dona Lourdes, their friend of many years; and I, after being properly kissed and hugged, escaped to see the backyard. Immense buildings surrounded the property on all sides. The only allowed view was the sky above. The sunlight was still plenty for the decade-old-trees guarding the house. Fruits like papaya, coffee and jaboticaba (Myrciaria cauliflora) waited to get ripe. Orchids housed by trees, thanked the hospitality with splashes of color on each branch. Pots were carefully planted with herbs  that were used as spices as well as medicine. The memory of my dad crushing boldo for his occasional hangovers came right back to me, as I saw some Peumus boldus growing there.

This backyard would’ve been unnoticed when growing up – just a typical house in my neighborhood. My Aunt Nenem’s place had an immense loquat tree (Eriobotrya japonica) attracting  all kinds of birds, combined with a fish tank and wandering ladybugs –  one would always come back home with me, inside a match box. At my Aunt  Efigênia’s house, I would spend hours making bubbles using the stems of mamona,  better known as castor oil plant. No plastic straws needed. Sometimes on my way home from school, I would stop by a jaboticaba tree, in my friend Raquel’s yard, for some afternoon snacking. And all neighbors knew about the avocado tree next door: “It’s so big, it could kill you”, as some would describe the ripened avocados that fell out of the sky. But, all I had to do was to look up at the suffocating presence of skyscrapers over this house, to be reminded that places like this no longer exist. My hometown of Belo Horizonte, in Brazil, has become a permanent construction site. Most of the houses from my childhood memories have been torn down, long ago. Progress, some say.

I’m invited inside. The table was set. Coffee, biscuits and pão de queijo, the regionally famous yucca bread was served. The maid was standing by and waiting. I am the only one who seems to notice and acknowledge the maid’s constant presence. “Why don’t you sit down, have a cup of coffee, and eat some pão de queijo?”- I dared to ask only in my mind. I quickly avert the maid’s eyes in embarrassment. But as everyone else in the room, I go right back to ignoring her - as I was taught to do; as they were told to do; as we continuously, pretentiously and inexcusably choose to do.

My parents were having lively conversations and old stories were being shared like cups of coffee. I couldn’t resist the architecture and started to wander around the house. Inside, religious relics blessed and protected the home. Even from the precise ticking of the clock. Time stood still. The family history was hanging on the walls as if intact. I walked down the hallway and found one of the rooms inviting. A mosquito net and the open window made the humid South American air even more pronounced. Dona Lourdes walks in. “You can come and stay anytime you want. This house is yours”, she said. And during that afternoon in May, I pretend it to be. Unlike the maid, who is silently but constantly reminded: “This house is not yours.”

A collection of ready-to-mail handwritten postcards celebrating life.

How pre_Scribed postcards came to be.

I created a series of photographs during an afternoon visit to Casa Azul, Frida Kahlo’s dear home in Coyoacan, México. The postcards that emerged are an acknowledgment of how impactful this encounter with her belongings and living quarters was for me.

These photographs are my own interpretation of a life that in so many facets mirrors my own. Each artifact became a potent reminder: It is not about how I may die; It is all about how I choose to live.

As I inscribed each postcard with a quote by Frida Kahlo it became an exercise, a meditation and a quest for appropriation of the strength and the resilience which Frida Kahlo is renown for. 

By not addressing the postcards to any specific recipient I make them available to be mailed by others. An open invitation to identification and sharing of images and text. Who will receive it? Just like my life span. I relinquish the need to know.

Prescribed Postcards have no commercial value.

Reproductions must be credited. All images copyright 2019 © Jennifer Cabral.

To see these artifacts in person, pay a visit to Casa Azul yourself. It is a magical place, located in one of the oldest and most beautiful neighborhoods in Mexico City. Casa Azul was made into a museum four years after Frida’s death. More info at: Museo Frida Kahlo.

December 19th, 2018.

Reminescenses at Coyoacán, México.

~ An essay To Maria José Bretas.

Lent 2022.

FRIDA’S CHURCH

Part visualization, part imagination this photo essay was taken inside the Parroquia San Juan Bautista at the center of Coyoacán, the historical neighborhood in Ciudad de México. THIS was one of the first churches ever built by the spaniards on mexican soil (CA.1522) and stands over the ruins of a school for noble children of the aztec empire.

This was the church where Frida Kahlo would be baptized AS Magdalena Carmen Frida Kahlo y Calderón, and where she prepared for her first communion. Here, one of her sisters would get married and her zealot catholic mother would come regularly to attend mass. meanWhile, her father withstood as a faithful atheist and his footsteps frida would quickly follow.

she describes, In her own words, how at 10 years old along with her sister: ”I took part in religious rituals. For a whole year they made us Cristi and I, attend the teachings, but we would run away and go eat tejocotes, membrillos and capulines in a nearby garden.”

Frida would later write on the back of a photograph where she is dressed in white with lace gloves, and rosary beads at hand: “Friduchita in 1920 when she made her first communion, 10 years old. IDIOT !”

In March,1954 during an interview with Journalist raquel TibOl, which would be her last, Frida described: “my mother was a great friend to me, but the whole religious thing never united us. My mother went down in history for religion. WE HAD TO PRAY BEFORE EVERY MEAL. While everyone else focused on themselves, Christi and I would make eye contact, struggling to contain the laughter… For twelve years my mother won the battle against me, but by thirteen I was already a raging leftist.”

As artists and beings our ideologies, creeds and allegIanceS evoLve and mutate. These believes Mold us as individuals as much as our works of art. veils we all carry.

as I paced down the isles of this church I was given visions of Heart-OPENED chests, blood dripping limbs and mutilated bodies. Are these apparitions Of Catholic Saints, Aztec GODS or Frida-born? I simply could not tell. But Their veils were only one color.

- Villa Coyoacán, CDMX, Mexico.

“I am a communist being.”
—Frida Kahlo

References:

"México, Distrito Federal, registros parroquiales y diocesanos, 1514-1970", database with images, FamilySearch (https://www.familysearch.org/ark:/61903/1:1:JMY7-VC3 : 23 February 2021), Magdalena Carmen Frida Kahlo, 1907.

"México, Distrito Federal, Registro Civil, 1832-2005", database with images, FamilySearch (https://www.familysearch.org/ark:/61903/1:1:QG4T-B77P : 20 February 2021), Magdalena Frida Cármen Kahlo Calderon, 1907.

Helland, J. (1990). Aztec Imagery in Frida Kahlo’s Paintings: Indigenity and Political Commitment. Woman’s Art Journal, 11(2), 8–13. http://www.jstor.org/stable/3690692

Kahlo, F., & Herrera, H. (2020). Frida Kahlo: The last interview and other conversations /cFrida Kahlo ; introduction by Hayden Herrera.

Seven Days Later

 FINAL ACT

It was a final rehearsal for the group Danza Española de Princeton, lead by Alma Concepción. After a lifetime of dancing Alma was leaving the American Repertory Ballet of Princeton, where she taught for 29 years. But, from one of the four corners of the classroom I alternately positioned myself, I could see that Alma was not rehearsing. Just like she never rehearsed at six-years-old when she started taking dance lessons in her hometown of Santurce in Puerto Rico or, when she was a soloist performing in places as far away as Spain; much less, during the 10 years when she ran her own Escuela de Baile Alma Concepción – the name behind it wouldn’t allow it; And less, when she founded a volunteer community dance organization for Hispanic children, Taller de Danza. Performing is all she knows.Alma had done it her entire life.

I could see it when she moved in the center of the room filling the space with hand gestures and playing her castanets with closed eyes. The dancer was in the room. I could hear behind each word of encouragement she would give to a struggling dancer oblivious to his or her abilities. Her voice charged with anticipation for something no one in the room could foresee but she – what they, as dancers were capable of. The mentor was in the room. Perfection was mandatory. She demanded it non-bashfully. In a perfect marriage of intuition and technique, the group’s military precision of steps and castanets merged with a flow of improvised movements. Alma was anxious. She clapped in compass with the rhythm. Stop. Do it again. Stop. Start all over. And then, a contempt smile escaped from the corner of her eyes. Stop. Let’s take a break. She had achieved her goal.

The reflection in the mirror revealed her multifaceted life. She played all parts: The wife; The mother; The artist; The host I witnessed one January 6th. Her house was a combination of Art and Academia like its counterparts. No wonder her offspring are both artists. Welcoming laughs and warm introductions came from a worldly crowd. Spanish weaved every conversation. Music started playing and a little girl danced in the small living room. I recognized the stampede. It was as intense as her grandmother’s. From that evening, as if a Dia de Reys gift, I carried away a treasured realization: That life is a final act. And it never ends.

Amusements of America

Amusements of America is listed in the Guinness book of records as the largest traveling amusement park in the country. Cities east of the mississipi, including the Caribbeans are visited from March to November, by hundreds of portable rides and games of chance followed by the hands to operate them. The caravan of workers travels over 20.000 miles setting up the carnival scene just to desmantle it a few hours later.

Relatives, lovers, fathers and sons join the nomadic lifestyle of unpredictable destination and erratic hours, as the only means to estabilish a family life. For those who passes by, the movement is constant and amusing. For those who stay, the movement is endless and stagnant.

Orphan Land

This land used to be The St. Michael's Orphan Asylum and Industrial School.

Built in 1896, the original HOUSE expanded overtime to be a five story, 450 child capacity stone building. but its foundation is no longer standing and the orphanage was eventually deactivated in 1973. With time, this became an orphan land having parts to its property rented to various farmers since the orphanage's closing. Foster Parenting in a way.

In 2005, The Trenton Diocese, in NJ, approached D&R Greenway Land Trust proposing to preserve its acres of farmland and woods. It was a chance to prevent its 222 acres from being turned into a development. St. Michael's land could have easily hosted from 150 to about 1020 houses, which would have more than double the number of existing households in Hopewell Borough and potentially change the lifestyle of the residents of this historic village.

But that was avoided. Called St. Michael's Preserve, it is now one of the newest farmlands incorporated to D&R Greenway Land Trust. Its wooded areas area a nature conservation, and the open space portions of the property will be accessible to the community through its original farm roads, as well as, by a permanent trail - The Hopewell Valley Trail Run. This land is now a home.

To learn more about D&R Greenway and their environmental efforts visit www.drgreenway.org

Local

This was week 1 of 2 that I would be without a car. And so, a walk in the neighborhood took a completely different meaning: it was no longer for leisure, but out of necessity. I told myself: it would be a good opportunity to see the community, use local services like the library and public parks and shop at local stores.

But when I looked for a grocery store, all I could find were stale vegetables and white bread on the shelves; When I wanted a bakery or coffee shop, there was none to be seen — unless you call Dunkin’ Donuts one; and the public library was closed — summer hours threatening to be effective year around, because of State budget cuts. I saw a neighborhood forgetting what it was like to be a thriving community and starting to acknowledge it was barely making it.

According to a 2001 census, there are about 4,081 people, 1,747 households, and 1,070 families residing in Lawrence Township with me. Well, they might live here, but they are not shopping locally. The concept of “local” is going 20 miles north to the next strip mall. SUV required. The habit of walking around the neighborhood disappeared. And with it, came entire stretches of town with no sidewalks in sight.

When I lost count of how many store fronts were boarded up, I realized the radio announcements of a weak economy had materialized right down the block. Months of vacancy had now become years, and any attempts to keep the empty real state presentable were as abandoned as any expectation of an economic recovery. My inconvenience is easy to deal with for two weeks, what’s hard to face is that, what’s gone is probably not coming back to this neighborhood any time soon.