'til next time

A selection of images from my Southern Circuit.

With grateful thanks to Allen Bell --

and to all the kind folks who helped me realize that 

"Southern hospitality" 

is not just an idle phrase.  Not hardly.

(Alexandria, LA)

(near Cullowhee, NC)

(along the causeway, Mobile, AL)

(Church Street Graveyard, Mobile, AL)

(the Rural Studio, Newbern, AL)

(storefront sign, Newbern, AL)

Trimpin: the reunion

Leaving Mobile in the rear view mirror, I drive northeast to Auburn University.  Here Trimpin himself has been in residence, talking with students at the Jule Collins Smith Museum of Art.  I haven't seen Trimpin in months; we celebrate our reunion at the hotel bar, and dead soldiers soon pile up.

(Sunburst, by Gustina Atlas)

The following morning, I meet with Prof. Hollie Lavenstein over coffee at Gnu's Room. Hollie is smart and quick - and seems to be Auburn's only resident filmmaker.  Kindred spirits, we hit it off, and this Yankee ends up talking with the prof's Intro to Film students.

(3 Crosses, by Mozell Benson)

Museum curator Scott Bishop has done an excellent job of promoting the screening of Trimpin: the sound of invention; the theatre is nearly full.  While the film plays, I amble through the galleries.  The textile art (by Gwendolyn Magee, Shawne Major, Gustina Atlas, and Mozell Benson) is especially stunning. 

(Blood and Gumbo, by Shawne Major.)

After the film, Trimpin and I do our customary Q+A (meaning that I hold the mic while Trimpin answers the questions).  It's a pleasure to see so many enthusiastic people at the screening.  

I can't get the images from the quilts out of my mind.

(God of our Silent Tears, 

by Gwendolyn Magee)

[[Please note that these images are not from the museum show, 

but were taken from various locations on the web.]]

partying in the graveyard

Mobile's historic Church Street Graveyard is full of party people.

Locals suggest I visit the grave of Joe Cain; they talk about him with great personal affection, and I intimate that he must have passed away recently.  I find his grave colorfully festooned with flowers, beads, and moon pies - then discover that he's been dead since 1904.

It was Joe who paraded through the streets of Mobile on that famous Fat Tuesday in 1867.  He and six of his friends rode a decorated coal wagon through downtown Mobile, banging drums, blowing horns, and comically declaring some kind of victory.  And thus was Mardi Gras celebration (re)born in the U. S. of A. 

Never one to be outdone, Joe Cain always spent Mardi Gras decked out as the eternally undefeated (and fictional) Chicasaw chief Slacabamorinico (aka "Old Slac").

(And you thought you were hip.)

Another of the partying departed buried at Church Street Graveyard is Mobile's fabulous poet/translator/actor/raconteur Eugene Walter.  

A restless bohemian whose joie-de-vivre knew no bounds, Walter filled books with his poetry, stories, and recipes, co-founded the Paris Review, hosted parties in NYC, Rome, and Paris, and even played bit parts in Fellini's 8 1/2 ("American journalist") and Juliet of the Spirits ("Mother Superior").  Legend has it that Walter schlepped a shoebox packed with red Alabama clay around Europe with him.

(The fabulous Eugene Walter holds court.)

[[With grateful thanks to the indefatigable Mr. Charlie Smoke.]]  

Nothing If Not Mobile

Standing in the lobby of Mobile's Holiday Inn, I feel as if I've entered another world.  I'm surrounded by cadres of spinning little white girls in black leotards.  Hair pulled back tightly into ponytails, wearing surreally heavy makeup, the girls pirouette through the lobby on tiptoe, circle me, and move on.  Clearly, I've stumbled into an alternate universe.

The desk clerk explains that the regional cheerleading competition is in full swing.  

The next morning, with the cheerleaders only an odd memory, I take a quick drive three miles north to check out what remains of Africa Town.

Africa Town was a black community formed by the last known shipment of slaves from West Africa to the U.S.  In 1860, a group of white landowners illegally smuggled captured West Africans into Mobile, intending to enslave them.  The would-be slavemasters were found out and prosecuted for smuggling.  Left to fend for themselves, the West Africans formed a vibrant, independent community known as Africa Town.  Descendants of the original West African immigrants still live in the Pritchard area today; many worship at the local Baptist Church.

Though the visitors center is closed (here in the South, Sunday still means something), the church just across the road is doing a thriving business. 

Downtown Mobile is packed with community history.  Both the Stone Street Church and the State Street Church began as independent African-American congregations well before the Civil War.  

The Gulf Coast Lodge - where MOJO (Mystic Order of the Jazz Obsessed) holds court - is just a short amble from the Temple, its portals protected by torpedo-breasted Sphinxes.  

I talk with Charlie Smoke of the Mobile Arts Council over lunch at a local landmark.

I haven't been to Wintzell's in 25 years, but the gumbo is great, and the fresh oysters are still served fried, stewed, and nude.  While Charlie and I discuss arts funding (or the lack of it), ancient multicolored signs on the rafters overhead offer words of wisdom: 

A Wise Man Will Make More Opportunities Than He Finds!

Men Who Deserve Monuments Don't Need Them!

The Only Way to Get Anywhere is to Start from Where You Are.

Charlie and I head over to the Ben May Public Library for the screening of Trimpin: the sound of invention.  Mardi Gras celebrations took place nearly a week previously, but beads still dangle from the trees (as Mr. Smoke notes) "like so much Spanish moss."  

Though it's Sunday afternoon, library outreach director Nancy Anlage counts 97 filmgoers.  Both she and Bob Burnett of the Mobile Arts Council are happy with the turnout.  While the film unspools, I take a walk through the historic graveyard adjacent to the library.

Frank the Rat - Days 7 & 8

Wednesday February 17th

We spend a leisurely morning in our lovely room at the Hilton Garden Inn, and then head over to Minnie's for buffet-style lunch. The place has a reputation for excellent old school country dining, and we are not disappointed. Best fried chicken in memory.

In fact, we opt for a walk along the Chattahoochee afterwards due to acute chicken overload, and stumble upon a park that tells the story of Columbus' past as a 19th century cotton-trading center. We also discover that Dr John S. Pemberton, the pharmacist who concocted the original formula for Coca Cola, hailed from Columbus.

In the evening. we screen in a black box theater at the RiverCenter for the Arts to another enthusiastic audience. I take note of (and appreciate) one gentleman in particular who gets so wrapped up in the story that he talks out loud now and then. Usually not my favorite thing as a moviegoer, but as a filmmaker, I'm loving it.

Always great to see people losing themselves in the film and connecting emotionally with the material. The discussion and reception afterwards is gratifying - folks are warm and generous with their feedback - and even ask a few great questions I've never heard before.

Thursday February 18th

We catch our flight back to NYC through Atlanta in the morning. After a uncharacteristically chilly week in the South, back home we are greeted by... MORE SNOW!

Thanks to everyone at the venues who hosted us, and everybody at the Southern Arts Federation, especially Allen Bell.

Johnny Cash's cornbread

I leave Jolene NeverLost inside the car in the parking lot at Raleigh-Durham Airport.  It's been fun, but sometimes a man's got to leave his GPS nav system behind.

Fly in to Memphis, then wait for the connecting flight to Mobile, Alabama.

While we're here, thought you might enjoy an authentic recipe from one of Memphis' greatest:

Johnny Cash's cornbread

ingredients:

1 1/2 cups cornmeal, self-rising
1 1/2 cups flour, self-rising
1 1/2 tablespoons sugar
1 teaspoon of salt
2 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
2 eggs
2 3/4 cups buttermilk
1 onion, chopped
1/2 cup butter, melted

directions:

- Mix cornmeal, flour, sugar, salt, and baking powder while humming "Ballad of a Teenage Queen."

- Add eggs, buttermilk, and chopped onions, while doing a quick segue into "One Piece at a Time."

- Pour the mixture into a skillet; pour yourself a beer or two.  Bake the cornbread batter at 350-375 for around one hour.  Watch the bread rise while singing "Five Feet High and Rising."  When ready, sing "Ring of Fire" at full voice, complete with Mexican trumpets.  Have a few more beers.  Get baked.

- Without stumbling, take the skillet out of the oven.  Pour melted butter atop the cornbread (careful!), then launch into "Understand Your Man."  Try to untangle your mind, and wonder why your woman is walking out the door.    

- Let cornbread and yourself sit for ten long minutes before singing "I Still Miss Someone."

  

Duke's Center for Documentary Studies

At Duke's Center for Documentary Studies, I'm greeted by associate director Lynn McKnight, who's clearly done everything in her power to get word out about the evening's screening of Trimpin: the sound of invention.

Founded by Alex Harris, CDS is one of the few educational entities in the country with an abiding commitment to documentary work as it is practiced in the field.  Many documentarians whose work I've long admired - including photographers Wendy Ewald and Tom Rankin, and filmmaker Nancy Kalow - teach at the school; many more have taught or lectured there.  

The screening room is packed.  Extra chairs are brought out, Harlan tweaks the audio, and Lynn introduces me to the assembled.  It's a great audience - receptive and responsive to the film.  After five hours of driving with Jolene, I only wish my answers were half as intelligent as their questions. 

After the screening, I head over to Elmo's for a late-night dinner with my sister Frances and her husband Gaizka.  I haven't seen them in years, and it's a great reunion.

(CDS front porch: tools used for oral research)

A meager sampling of some of my favorite works by documentarians associated with CDS:

Denise Dixon 

"Self-Portrait Reaching for the Red Star Sky, 1977"

c by Wendy Ewald

"Candidate for baptism, fourth week in August, Perthshire, Mississippi, 1989"

photo c by Tom Rankin

"Deacon Fred Davis, Moon Lake, Coahoma County, Mississippi, 1990"

photo c by Tom Rankin

Recommended reading:

Secret Games: Collaborative Works with Children (1969 - 1999) 

by Wendy Ewald

Sacred Space: Photographs from the Mississippi Delta 

by Tom Rankin

The Last Harvest: Truck Farmers in the Deep South 

by Tom Rankin

Recommended viewing:

Sadobabies by Nancy Kalow (go to YouTube)

The Losers Club by Nancy Kalow (again, YouTube)

across the North Carolina wilderness

Back on the road again, headed east on I-40 to Raleigh-Durham, where my film, Trimpin: the sound of invention, will be shown at Duke's prestigious Center for Documentary Studies.

While Jolene recalculates, I take a detour along the lovely Blue Ridge Parkway to the Highlands Folk Art Center.  There's way too much to see here, from exquisite hand-crafted quilts and fine ceramics to a rough-hewn front gate:

At the folk art center, I luck into a retrospective of the work of Charles Counts, an extraordinary ceramicist/weaver/writer and teacher who lived and worked in Rising Fawn, GA.  

(untitled quilt, designed by Charles Counts, 1965)

(hooked rug designed by Charles Counts, ca. 1977-80)

(title page of a book written and illustrated by Charles Counts)

"Art is a disease and there is no cure." - Charles Counts

"You may get better, but you'll never get well." - Huey 'Piano' Smith

Back on I-40, I blow past Greensboro, home to Eugene Chadbourne (guitarist, banjoist, improvisor, and wild man; onetime frontman for NYC's proto-punk band Shockabilly; inventor of the electric rake).

(Dr. Chadbourne, in all his virtuosick cacaphony) 

With no time to spare, I exit at Durham, and promptly get lost in the woods of the Duke campus.  Via cellphone, Lynn McKnight patiently guides me to Pettigrew Street and the Center for Documentary Studies, where a crowd is already gathering for the evening screening of Trimpin: the sound of invention.

John R. Brinkley, I Salute You!

Heading out from Cullowhee, NC, I get lost in the winding roads of the Smoky Mountains around Tuckasegee.  I'm not sure which way is east, west, up, or down.  Jolene is no help; she just keeps "recalculating."  Coming around a creekside curve, I spot a highway marker, and do a double-take.

I've stumbled across sacred ground.

In a land renowned for its hucksters, charlatans, and snake-oil salesmen, John R. Brinkley was the greatest quack of them all.  Con man extraordinaire, "Dr." Brinkley used radio (the 'new media' of his age) to loudly tout a cure for male impotence that entailed surgically implanting 'goat glands' into the male generative organ.  Thousands of men - too pooped to pop, and lured by his radio tales of rejuvenation - traveled miles to Brinkley's clinic in the hope of becoming "the ram what am with every lamb."  Preying on masculine insecurity, Brinkley soon became a millionaire.

When the newly-formed FCC and the AMA finally wised up and cracked down on Brinkley's quack broadcasts, the doc moved his operation across the Texas border into Mexico.  Blaring 150,000+ watt AM signals into homes across America, Doc's border radio broadcasts were renowned - if only for being so powerful that they made bedsprings hum and car headlights flick on.

Eventually the Feds caught up with Brinkley, exposing his bogus operation and stripping him of his medical and broadcasting licenses.  Doc became a national laughingstock.

It's a classic American story of a man who went from rags to riches by exploiting the fear in men's britches.  But who suspected that John R. Brinkley's humble beginnings would be found by a traveling filmmaker lost in the Tuckasegee hills?

Doc: I stand proudly erect, and salute you.

Goldilocks in the Smoky Mountains

The Smoky Mountains Mobile Light Show (courtesy of an NC state trooper) cost me more than I can afford, so I drive slowly into the gorgeous mountain valley.  This is Cullowhee, the home of Western Carolina University.  Ms. Lori Davis checks me into the Alumni Guest House.  There are seven beds to choose from.  All of a sudden I feel like Goldilocks.  Or one of the seven dwarves.

Alumni Guest House Still Life

Later that afternoon, I show a couple of clips to Prof. Arledge Armenaki's senior thesis film class, and start talking.  Everyone seems downright sheepish about asking questions, and I realize that this Yankee's been chattering on way too fast, gesticulating too durn wildly.  They're all just wondering who gave the guest filmmaker the amphetamines.  

Unexpectedly, I meet a former compatriot:  Jack Sholder runs the filmmaking program here.  I knew Jack more than 20 years ago, when he was a respected film editor in NYC (and I was a lowly assistant).  Since then, Prof. Sholder has successfully directed features in LA, then moved to Asheville and set up the film program here at WCU.  We reminisce.

The screening goes very well:  The theater is equipped with 7.1 surround, so the students hear the Trimpin film in all its auditory glory.  Their questions are on-point.  Over brownies, Prof. Marie Cochran and I converse passionately about visionary artists.

Jolene is waiting silently for me in the car the next morning.

Smokey's Mobile Light Show

Fully caffeinated the next morning, I drive into the Smoky Mountains.  Jolene tells me where to turn.  I want to stop off at Toccoa - the birthplace of "the sepia Mae West," Ida Cox, who famously opined that wild women don't get the blues.  Jolene advises me to keep on straight, so I put the pedal to the metal, and cross on over into Georgia.

Every bend in the road reveals another pretty rural church; one even offers free nutritional advice:

"For a Christian, the best vitamin is B1."

Once we cross the border into North Carolina, antique shops hug the hilly highway.  Some of my favorite singers came down out of these mountains:  Rev. Gary Davis; Rev. Julius "Junie" Cheeks of the Sensational Nightingales; Ira Tucker of the Dixie Hummingbirds. I'm trying to make up for lost time when the silver car behind me suddenly starts flashing blue and white party lights.  

I document the state trooper's light show

Uh-oh.

I've blown half my honorarium on a speeding ticket.  

Jolene doesn't say a word.

notes on camp + the emasculation of James Bond

I meet Jolene in the Hertz parking lot at the Atlanta Intl Airport.  We speed off together in the red Camry, out past suburban Atlanta and into the rolling hills of South Carolina.  Jolene is tight-lipped; when I press the accelerator hard to leave suburban Atlanta in the rearview mirror, she doesn't say a word.

Checking into the Comfort Inn in Clemson, I leave Jolene in the car.  Dr. Aga Skrodzka, an expert on eastern and central European cinema, meets me in the lobby of the motel, and takes me out to dinner.  

I was hoping we'd talk about Kieslowski, Zanussi, Agnieszka Holland, and other great Polish film directors . . . but somehow we end up discussing a) the likelihood of frat boys understanding camp (Susan Sontag, eat your heart out) and b) American men's emasculation fears as reflected in recent James Bond films.  

Not uninteresting topics, but not what I was expecting.

Prof. Lee Morrisey - who worked at NYC's The Kitchen in its avant-garde heyday - tells me that Trimpin visited the university a decade earlier, on his invitation.  I try to picture what the frat kids would make of Trimpin's whimsical whistle/duck call sculpture, Phffft!, but my imagination fails me.  Lee and I trade notes about sound artists we know; lots of mutual friends.

Prof. Skrodzka has done her homework: The Clemson screening is packed, the projection is fine.  During Q+A, the students even laugh at my jokes (bless their hearts).  Afterwards, Prof. Amy Monaghan kindly treats me to a beer at the local watering hole.  I decide not to tell her about Jolene.