Essay of the Month
Under The Overpass
Light, shade, and perspective
will always make it beautiful.
-- John Constable --
"It's all about the light. We get a wonderful north light here—lovely soft light. You don't want to have full sunshine on the face when you photograph. Here, the light is perfect." This, according to Jeff Drongowski, whose photo session under the freeway overpass at Ivar, just north of Franklin Avenue, I interrupted to ask what he was doing there in that seemingly inhospitable setting.
Those of us who live in Hollywood but are not connected with "the industry" drive our kids back and forth to school, walk our dogs through the neighborhood, hike up at the Lake—and may not often think about the variety of movie and television professionals among us. According to Drongowski, at least nine photographers use the underpasses in Hollywood. The one at Ivar is a favorite because it is quieter than that on Holly, with less traffic to disturb or distract from the serious work of shooting heads. Headshots are "the calling cards of actors" and it takes time and concentration—and constant re-combing of hair and applying of make-up to achieve the perfect result.
In effect, the underpass becomes a temporary studio, complete with umbrellas, softboxes, tripods, two Cannon cameras—a 7D, and a Mark 2, and even a makeup artist in attendance. While Jeff and I were talking, the handsome actor he was shooting, underwent some extra primping—a little patting and tweeking of his curls just so over his forehead.
Not that Jeff doesn't have a studio with, as he puts it, "backdrops, strobe lights—and no trucks whizzing by in the middle of a shoot." There, he makes films, edits, and does the kind of photography that simply can't be done under the freeway. "I wanted to get into newborn and pet photography. You can't ask a new mother to meet you under an overpass."
His story is like that of many aspiring artists who come to Los Angeles with a dream. When you've lived here in the Hills for a while, you learn that your neighbors include location finders, studio hairdressers, script writers, costumers, set builders, publicists, agents, and the whole gamut of people connected with movie-making whose names might appear in the credits as they roll quickly by but whose work is otherwise "invisible" to the general public.
Actors, though, are a different breed. Their dream is to be noticed, to be chosen for an audition, to get the part, to play it well and to become known and recognized for their talents. The headshot can be an important asset to beginning—and sustaining—a career.
When I looked on Jeff's web site, to sample some of his headshots, I expected to see just pretty young women and handsome young men. Yes, there were plenty of those but most impressive were the character shots, the seasoned actors, those whose faces gave a hint of the many kinds of roles they might play. There were the less than perfect features, those who might play villains, those whose plain faces hinted at virtues like kindness and compassion. And I could tell, having been to the site, which ones were photographed under the freeway.
There's
something special about the light . . .
Copyright Monica B. Morris. Published in Hollywood Spotlight. Fall, 2011
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A Melody of Hope
Someone is dancing today in the radiation waiting room. Upright, youthful looking, despite his lined face, smiling, ever smiling, he jitterbugs with any woman who accepts his courteously offered hand. The music he provides by way of a small radio, turned low, not to disturb those who would rather be quiet as they wait for their treatments. Patients are used to him, enjoying the way he expresses his love of life in his movements, his face alight, eyes sparkling, at the music of the 50s and 60s—his day.
Radiation treatments are given five days a week, for several weeks, so people get to know each other, coming as they do, at much the same hour each day. They pass through here by the dozens, six treatment rooms, the treatment itself taking mere seconds. In and out they go, any trace of cancer left after chemo-therapy and surgery being zapped so that, with good fortune, it will never emerge again.
When the swing dancing stops—the dancing man having left the waiting area—another fellow brings out his harmonica, his plaintive music sounding softly through the room. Again, the tunes are of a past time, a different era from before. Perhaps the 40s, when ballads, every word clear and easily understood, filled the airways. People know these songs and they sing along, their voices low.
Cancer, to judge by these patients, seems to attack the old rather than the young, although a few fresh-faced women also await their turn, scarves artfully covering their heads, hair lost to chemo. Other young women accompany mothers, grandmothers, some of whom are so frail they are brought in in wheel chairs. And cancer seems to attack far more women than men here, although a few men also sit and wait for their treatments. Most of the women have—they would prefer to say had—breast cancer, lumpectomies or mastectomies having removed the growths. The radiation is seen as insurance, a leaving of no stone unturned.
The woman opposite turns to me. " I wasn't sure I would opt for radiation but the doctor said ‘You don't want the problem to return in ten or fifteen years or so.' I laughed at him. You must expect me to live to 103, I said. ‘Absolutely,' he answered. ‘Why not'?" She smiled. "Why not, indeed?"
There is little self-pity here. The women chat. No one talks of illness. All are hopeful.
--end--
Copyright, The Los Angeles Times. Health and Wellness Section, October 3, 2011.
In Praise of Grandparents
We who are grandparents all know how important our grandchildren are to us, the eagerness with which we awaited their birth and the rush of pure love we felt when we first held them in our arms. We marveled at their tiny, perfect fingers and at the sweep of their long lashes across their cheeks, and we continue to delight in their antics as we watch them grow, year by year. But it may be not be until those children are adults themselves that they will realize how important their grandparents are—or were—
to them.
Now that I—finally—have a grandchild of my own, I've been thinking about my own grandparents and the ways they influenced me. Both couples were immigrants, one pair escaping the pogroms of Russia, the other fleeing the military pressgangs of Romania (My grandfather used to joke that soldiers in the Romanian army had to buy their own bullets!) They sailed to England at the turn of the 20th century, traveling steerage, of course, and carrying only some clothes, some bedding, a few pots and pans and a pair of candlesticks to keep the light of God shining in their home on the Sabbath.
When she arrived, my maternal grandma was just three months pregnant with my mother, the firstborn of six children, the first British generation in our family. My paternal grandparents arrived at the London docks holding two little boys by the hand. My father was the first of their children to be born in England, followed closely by another boy, a girl, and one more boy.
The two sets of immigrants had not a word of English among them nor could any of them read or write in any language. Their lives were much like those of most poor immigrants anywhere. They made their first homes in tenement buildings with few amenities—kitchens with whitewashed walls and primitive cooking stoves. I recall rooms filled with cigarette smoke as the "boys"—my uncles—and my Russian grandpa, chain smokers all, lit new cigarettes from the embers of the old.
None of the sons were old enough to enlist during WW1 but when WW11 was declared, several grandsons joined the army, the navy, or the air force. My Romanian grandparents, though, were declared "enemy aliens" and had to observe a curfew that kept them indoors from sundown to sunup. I couldn't understand how anyone would consider my gentle grandpa an enemy; he had become as proudly British as if his lineage dated back to Beowulf!
I was especially devoted to my Romanian grandparents and it was they who made me feel so welcome, so loved, that I couldn't wait to get to their house at the weekends. As I entered those difficult teen years, and my father's protection of me became ever more heavy-handed, my grandparents' home became my haven, my escape. My mother knew that and wisely encouraged the close relationship.
Grandpa greeted me at the front door and engulfed me in a huge embrace. "Our Monchie is here!" he'd shout back into the house, using their nickname for me. Grandma and the three "girls"—daughters born late in grandma's fertile years (the youngest was only 6 years older than me)—dashed to the door to greet me with more hugs, as though they had been counting the minutes to my arrival! I felt completely at home there, an integral part of a loving, welcoming family.
The "girls"—my aunts, although I never called them auntie—took me dancing on Saturday nights at the local dance hall and grandpa, who didn't even hint at his concern about a kid barely in her teens going to places where there would be soldiers and airmen from foreign lands, waved us blithely on our way with the admonition to "Have a good time!" Later, he would hide behind the front hedge until he saw us walking back towards the house—and then, assured that we were home safe, he'd duck inside, thinking we hadn't seen him!
Grandma was a wonderful cook and I still use her recipes to this day—great puddings and cakes. Not that they were written down then. It was "a pinch of this and a handful of that and a few of those" that my aunts and I translated into ounces and tablespoons. In return, I tried to teach grandma to read and write in English, and after much effort and practice, she did manage to sign her name in beautiful script. By this time her spoken English was quite good, although she occasionally misunderstood a subtlety or a nuance. I still get teased about the time a neighbor asked her if I was taking thyroid (to control my puppy fat). She responded cheerfully, "Oh, Monica vill eat anyting!"
She loved me without reservations and she was generous in her encouragement. "Our Monchie can do anything!" my grandma would say, "She's going to be a doctor one day"—expressing the wish of all immigrants for their children and grandchildren to build successful lives. I wonder if she realized how much her expressions of confidence in me helped to build my sense of worth. She made me believe I really could do whatever I set my hand and mind to, and I still do. Years and years later, when my own family had migrated to the United States, I thought of how proud and pleased grandma would have been that I achieved the goal she set for me— even though I wasn't a medical doctor, which I'm sure was what she had in mind, but still...
Grandma lived long enough to see me married and to welcome each of my three children. A snapshot in my photograph album shows my new baby daughter, the third of my children, on grandma's lap, my mother and I flanking her at left and right—four generations of "women." We three adults had all been young mothers and I wonder, sometimes, if the trend to later parenting might mean two-generation families rather than three or even four generations. Some children may not have grandparents for long, if at all, and I feel a bit sad that they might not experience that unconditional love in their lives. Grandparents and grandchildren have a unique, mutually enriching relationship. I relish those memories of my grandparents and I hope I can offer my granddaughter the kind of self-confidence that they gave to me.
--end—
Copyright Monica B. Morris
Published in Ken*Again, online magazine. Fall, 2011
Read Monica's Past Essays Here...