Walking Around: Poetry, Photos and Paintings of Carnegie
November 2, 2017, 7:00 p.m.
Andrew Carnegie Free Library & Music Hall
Observations and findings from walks around Carnegie, finding insights in everyday things and events, the extraordinary in the ordinary, including a poetry reading and exhibit of photos and paintings.
It’s been a while since I had the chance to have a poetry reading, and I’ve always included my art and photography because all those inspirations come from the same place. The most amazing things and thoughts can be found just walking around in your own back yard, literally or metaphorically. I’m expanding the boundaries beyond Carnegie’s outline to the surrounding communities and areas along Chartiers Creek.
I read a couple of essays and a dozen poems, each one with a narrative about it, in a room where I’d hung art and photographs inspired by those walks. The poems I read were inspired by my neighborhood and neighborhoods around me, events, and details of daily life in a small town, and the thoughts I’m led to from that starting point. The essays and poetry below are followed by galleries of the artwork and photos, below.
I was always wandering off to look at things. No one else seemed to be interested in how the sun shone on a big red zinnia, or how the clouds marched quickly above us as they dropped snow showers on a windy winter day, but those details made a memorable impact on me. I can still clearly remember them.
At some point in grade school I read a column by Pittsburgh Press reporter and photographer Gilbert Love titled “Serendipity”, which became an exciting new word for me and a concept which explained a lot of things. I can’t find the article but I remember he began explaining “serendipity” as “finding something interesting on the way to something else”, something he was known for in writing columns about the interesting places and things he’d found and learned, especially around Pittsburgh. From then I knew I was not the only one who saw these things and regardless of the fact that no one else seemed to be interested , I continued finding them, and saving them up.
I still do this, every day, everywhere I go, even around the house, and especially when I’m outside, “walking around”. In time I began to pull some of these moments from memory and let the inspiration they brought become some creative thing, a painting, a poem, a short story, and began building the creative skills I’d always wanted on these fleeting but memorable moments. I bought a camera decades ago to capture some of these as best as I could because there were so many with details easily forgotten, and they became images in themselves as well as touchstones for sharing a moment of inspiration. I call it “finding the extraordinary in the ordinary”, noticing the world around you.
But it’s not just for someone like me. I think we should not only take time to notice these things, but notice them as part of our everyday life. When we look at the world, we see what we subconsciously choose to see, things that are familiar and that we find worth our time, and that may not be flowers and clouds, it may be cars and architecture. Focus, focus, focus, get this done, go there, deadline, errand, and then because you’ve been so busy you may take some time for yourself to go out and look at the world around you. Instead, take some moments in between all those things, when you’re distracted by the bee on the flower or the sunlight on the water, take that moment, enjoy it moment for what it is, get out of your life for a few seconds, then move on, or stay a while longer, let your mind wander and arrive at a destination in your own thoughts. Life will continue while you’re away, you can rejoin as soon as you are done.
And especially in the face of tragedies, we need to reinforce that everyday life is safe. How many of us have laughingly said or heard the phrase “if I get hit by a bus”, if the unexpected happens while out walking around, but that is an accident. Those eight people killed and the others wounded were on a bike and walking path, just enjoying the day. Can we really feel safe to let go, even in a place that used to be safe? This is when it’s most important to just stop and look at the world around you.
Poetry: Around My Neighborhood
This was inspired by a spring day out working in my yard, and was one of the poems that led me to having poetry readings and ultimately publishing a folio of my poetry.
The dogwoods are blooming up and down my street.
The breaking of the cold,
The unusually warm, brilliant spring day
Has brought my neighbors out to wash cars and cut grass.
Like the returning birds
Their conversations drift and circle from yard to yard
And cross the street on capricious breezes;
We have been put away all winter
Like articles of summer clothing
Our potential at rest,
Yet now, even at night,
Pale, airy clouds of blossoms
Hover in the darkness all over the neighborhood.
poem “Dogwoods” ©2005 Bernadette E. Kazmarski (read more here)
Flocks of Children
Working in my garden in spring while watching the birds and the children.
Swirling, swooping clouds of starlings
fill the air
noisy, babbling conversation
flying about the neighborhood
flocks of children
run in circles, laughing
up and down the streets.
poem copyright 2010 © Bernadette E. Kazmarski (read more here)
My First Decision
This goes all the way back to the neighborhood where I grew up, and the memory of the decision to enjoy the outdoors on my bike on a summer day when I was about eight instead of watching a ball game indoors with my family.
I am riding my little red bike up and down the street
in the sun I think it is July the black pavement
is a little soft and smells like asphalt down the street
it looks wavy above the surface just like the mirages
in the desert you read about I am the only one out in the street
I ride to where the hill starts on one side then to the
bend where I can’t really see the house on the other
then turn around every time I go past the house I check
the driveway for the big light blue car with wings
on the back it looks like an airplane I’ve never
seen one close up from every house I pass I hear
the hushing sounds of an crowd and Bob Prince
I know his voice everyone is watching the Pirate game
on TV my mother father sister brother are in there in
the shade watching the game they cheer and yell and scream
when anything happens it sounds exciting but I don’t understand
I’d rather be out here in the blue and yellow afternoon
riding my bike up and down the street forever
just the scent of a hot July breeze grass and sunshine
and the hushing sounds of the audience and yet
another announcer announcing another Pirate game
has brought this all back in a rush thirty-some years later.
poem copyright 2008 © Bernadette E. Kazmarski
Essay: The Light in the Darkness
The photo above was my signature photo for this poetry reading, and coming upon it led me to a collection of similarly interesting photos, and deep insights, and an essay.
I have had far worse days. Overwhelmed by the demands of commercial work as my customers and I prepared for the holidays along with merchandise orders and custom portraits and my own preparations for ending the year and beginning the next as a small business, I left the house at 4:00 p.m. destined for the post office and bank just before they closed.
Though I had walked this half mile route from my home to Main Street for years, I had lately been driving, using the need to save time or the awkwardness of a pile of packages as an excuse for wasting gas and a chance at exercise and fresh air. The day was hardly inspiring—five days prior to the winter solstice the days were frighteningly short, sunset less than an hour away, and in a series of heavy dark days typical of this area in late autumn and early winter, dense pasty clouds hanging low overhead and so dark it had felt like dusk at noon, and now some of the street lights on Main Street were already alight. I nearly always take photos on these walks, and while I laid the strap of my camera bag over my shoulder I was glad that, for once, I would probably not find anything to photograph and take time from my day in conditions like these.
Traffic was heavy so I took my route under the bridge, next to the creek where traffic noises faded and birds sang, a trickling sound as water flowed smoothly past over the rocks in the shallow waterway. And in the dim and fading light a world so familiar at first appeared dark and nearly colorless until my eyes adjusted to the light and found such wonders among the wildflowers along the way, standing upright though dried and every shade of brown and tan and umber I found fantastical birds, abstract sculptures, amazing complex patterns among the dried flower heads, exposed and broken seed pods, curled leaves clinging to stems.
I could not stop for the post office and bank both closed at 4:30, so I walked as fast as I could with my camera bag on one shoulder and a large canvas bag of packages on the other so that I could amble back through this wonderland on my way back to my neighborhood. The light was so dim then, as the time approached sunset within minutes, that I had to set the ISO of my camera on 800 to get anything but vague images floating in sepia darkness, even with all my settings to admit as much light as possible.
These plants had sprung up from seeds tossed here on the wind and water, carried by birds and people walking past, sprouted in spring, housed birds and insects in summer, borne their flowers in summer and fall. I had walked among them many times with my camera and sketchpad, I knew where each stood, when they bloomed, their botanical names and history, I looked for them each year and anticipated the best times to compose the images I visualized, but this was a gift in its unfamiliarity.
Now, after several frosts, autumn storms and snow, the weak parts had been stripped away and the strongest parts of them were burnished by adversity and stood dignified in the dim, with just enough sheen to highlight their most interesting shapes, textures and combined patterns.
The background now, rather than the usual details of other plants and flowers, was darkness, the more perfect to silhouette each delicate construction as if in a gallery featuring the finest art.
Milkweed pods became flocks of fantastical birds, or individual exotic species clinging to stems. I walked among tightly curled dried flowers or clusters of puffy seeds set loose, sere and twisted leaves and flowers of another time. Even the holiday decorations in a shop front, capturing the blue from the late afternoon light with highlights from the store within echoed the shapes and patterns of the natural forms outdoors, as the raindrops that would soon fall.
I arrived home with dirty shoes from walking in mud, and dirty knees from kneeling in wet grass, bits of leaves and stems and seeds flocked with frills to carry them on the wind on my skirt and jacket, in my hair, on my bags, souvenirs of a timeless magic, both in letting go of the time of day, and letting go of time altogether for that period. I only let go and rejoined the day because it was too dark to photograph any longer.
I am grateful to this gift of creative vision that releases me from everyday cares for just a short time, exercises those aesthetic senses and relaxes the overused worry lines, and gives me these wonderful gifts of images to share, just for noticing the inspiration was there.
There is always something new to learn about the things we think we know well. Never forget that when the light seems dim there is much to be seen with the heart, and when adversity has taken away the quick and obvious beauty, the strongest parts remain, dignified in their naked and twisted strength.
Poetry: Seen Around Town
Snow in the Cemetery
Ross Colonial Cemetery, named so for the Ross family of settlers around the time of the Revolutionary War, contains graves and headstones that date from that time as well as more recent ones. But the site has been a lookout for millennia by generations of humans well before European settlers; standing there, I can feel the history.
How many snowfalls have gently covered this ground,
How many summer sunsets flared against the rock of this cliff,
How many feet have trod this sacred spot, human and animal alike,
Stood on this outcropping as I do today
feeling history beneath my feet
in the remains of recent generations
and from the millennia.
The land, carved by the wiles of nature through the past,
stretches out before me, opening
into the hills and valleys of the future
and I wonder,
have all the watchers felt the same exhilaration
at the potential of the unknown
and, so moved, place their beloveds’ remains in this high cliff
so that they could still watch eternity unfold
beneath a comforting blanket of snow?
poem ©2011 Bernadette E. Kazmarski (read more here)
Traveling down an ordinary street I saw a magnificent vision warmed by evening sun, circled the block to photograph the beauty then saw a shadow creep up the scene as the sun lowered, revealing a tattered and disheveled scene.
An ancient rambling rose
Spread her arcs of deep red blossoms,
Rich against the yellow painted wood siding
At the corner of the house,
A creamy lace curtain in the window just above,
All soft, washed by the warm, gentle sun
Of an early June evening.
I paused, considered, returned to the spot,
Coming back to capture the last of the moment
Just before the shadow of the house across the street
Crept up over the rose,
The siding and then the window
Revealing faded, peeling paint
And a gray, sagging curtain,
The rose but a clump of brambles
Among tall grasses and thistles.
poem ©2005 Bernadette E. Kazmarski
Inspired in a vintage shop, what makes us keep things and pack them carefully away?
Colorful beaded necklaces, orange and apple green,
and pearls and plastic flowers,
a linen hankie with soft green lovers-knot lace edging,
a blue and white stripe pillow cover, real pillow-ticking,
a ruffled chair cushion,
what made these things so cherished
that they survived the years intact,
ready to be cherished again
even when similar things, in other hands
were broken, stained, discarded?
Were they curious heirlooms from a dear ancestor,
whose very touch caused an item to be cherished?
A gift from lover to beloved,
kept for the memory of a special night?
A young girl trying her hand at
the lovely things her nurturing grandmother taught her?
Jade beads purchased to match a special dress and kept “for good”,
just a glance at the box recalling a fond memory?
Though we’d like to choose noble symbols for our memories
we mark them with what is at hand, familiar everyday items;
the next generations may shake their heads and wonder
even as they set aside their own vintage memories.
Poem © 2011 Bernadette E. Kazmarski
Essay: The Cabinet, and Things I Find That Tell Me Stories
Several poems I’ve written are about or refer to things that I’d…found in the trash, and the stories they told me, mixed with the experiences of my own life.
Many homes around town had been owned and occupied by only one family from the 1930s or 1940s to today, and contain a lot of things people kept for various reasons, things that tell a story about life in that house, and the eras the house was occupied, typical of Carnegie and towns like it.
The Cabinet is so named for a cabinet I saw one evening out of the corner of my eye as I hurried off through my day. The cabinet looked to be in good shape, the drawers stacked on top, and I’d take it just to look it over, maybe I’d stop later, maybe I could pass on this one, but then I saw the little scalloped and curved decoration at the bottom. It reminded me of things around the house my father had made of wood that had just such decorations: awnings outdoors, cornices above the drapes, room dividers in our little post-war ranch house. My mother had designed the idea, my father had designed the item and made it by hand.
My errand on that evening was my daily visit to my mother in a critical care hospital. She’d had lung cancer surgery two months previous but her hypertension had caused her to unexpectedly slip into a state of dementia from which she was not expected to recover. I visited her twice each day, about mid-day and evening, and I knew I did not need to take on a stray wooden cabinet. Driving through the evening to see her the cabinet had led me to remember those projects the two had created before I was born, that I saw in the house each day when I stopped to pick up the mail and check things over; if her recovery had been as normal, she would have been back in the house, but this strange netherworld of waiting, and the quiet calm of the house with no one in it followed me as well.
So of course I swung past that cabinet on the way home from my visit to my mother, took a closer look and saw that indeed it was a sturdy cabinet, handmade with a birch wood top and red Bakelite handles very common and popular just after WWII, all the drawers were solid, and I crouched down to run my finger along that simple decorative curve, the only decoration at all added to the bottom to span from foot to foot of the cabinet just below the door with the thumb latch that held it closed.
So I struggled to fit it all into my little wagon and drive about a half mile home with the wagon door open, unloaded it and carried it into my basement for inspection. The paint was older, that shade of warm white that older oil-based paint became after years of sitting on the surface. The birch wood top was partially covered with real “linoleum” in a distinctly late-40s pattern, faded, dirty from probably motor oil, and more than half scraped away.
My parents lives had been marked by WWII, and all the indications that this had been made or at least updated at that time were pulling on those stories. My father had served in the Asia-Pacific theater from 1942 to 1945 and come home not knowing he had developed Parkinson Syndrome from a malarial fever that had nearly killed him. My mother had graduated high school in 1942, and all her memories of late high school, her early working career and life as a young adult were bound up in the American homefront experience during the war. I only heard the good stories, but in time I determined there was much sadness and pain underneath the shiny surfaces.
As I walked around the back of the cabinet, a single bare, unpainted panel darkened by age, I saw handwriting at the top. There, in pencil, was written:
MADE BY R.O.M.
And the story began to write itself of the person who’d returned from overseas with all the pain and trauma and trying to get back to “normal” life, creating this cabinet by hand, and letting this simple creative activity help to start the healing.
The story was always intended to be a short story. My mother actually recovered and lived 10 more years though she was ill and needed constant care, and many stories never came to be during that time. I still have the cabinet in my kitchen, see it, touch it, use it every day, and had to share something of it in my own creative efforts, so I wrote the poem for my 2014 poetry reading at Andrew Carnegie Free Library & Music Hall, “In This Valley”, commemorating the 110th anniversary of the merge and founding of the town of Carnegie because my parents were so much of this town, and the town itself, like so many others, was marked by that war. I read it again in my recent reading, “Walking Around”, because this finding and the inspiration for my own creation perfectly illustrate things you find when you carefully observe your surroundings, and how things we need sometimes magically appear when we need them.
I have not matched anyone from our town’s history with those initials—yet, but I hope to find a clue someday. But for the story it told me, lending its own magic to my memories and experiences, this will always be the tale.
(The poem is below.)
Poetry: For Veterans
Because the Carnegie area sent many people off to wars and the area was deeply touched by the experiences and the loss. This poetry reading was very near to Veterans Day as well.
The wounds of trauma,
the sin of killing,
the witness of unspeakable acts
against the bodies and minds of others
the leaving behind of others held more dear than lovers
another world, all too real,
all came home in the duffel
unpacked into the house
worn like unwanted medals
that could not be removed
but with your hands you made this lasting monument
to prove to yourself you could still build, create, give
to start your new life,
not the one you left behind.
poem copyright 2014 © Bernadette E. Kazmarski (read more here)
Bridal wreath was once a very popular shrub in every yard, with cuttings given down the generations. Left untrimmed it grows huge. I saw the last family home on a street turned entirely to businesses surrounded by fence to be demolished, and the bridal wreath, as tall as the porch, hid peeling paint, dry-rotted lace curtains and blinds, broken windows, but the memory was still there.
Blooming in drifts so dense and tall they hide the entire porch
The bridal wreath greets the May bride
Though she first crossed the threshold decades ago when the shrubs were new,
And placed a vase of the blossoms on her first dinner table,
Has since raised her children,
Lost a son in Viet Nam
And a husband to cancer,
Her daughters moved off
And she is a grandmother and a great-grandmother
Through it all the bridal wreath unfailingly welcomed her in the morning every May
In the neighborhood lined with large, neat family homes.
Now the paint is peeling,
Drawn window shades hang in tatters
The bride herself is gone,
Her home the only one remaining on this dusty deserted block
Yet the bridal wreath blooms as fervently as ever this May
poem copyright 2014 © Bernadette E. Kazmarski
August 28, 1941
Several years ago I pulled several things from a pile of trash at a house that was about to go up for sale, one of them including a section of classified ads from The Pittsburgh Press from August 28, 1941.
Bits and pieces from The Pittsburgh Press, evening edition, August 28, 1941
1935 Ford sedan for $95.
’33 Auburn Sedan for only $5.68 per month.
Cary Grant’s Mexican jaunt to invest $300,000 in silver mines there.
Fred Astaire is building a private golf course on his San Diego County ranch.
Steelers Make Guard Out of Dan Williams, Texas Tackle.
LifeGuard tires save lives, money, rubber.
America’s snapshots better than ever…most of them made on Kodak Verichrome film—to those in Service, send the news of your new life in the Nation’s service with the portable form of snapshots.
New York Central System, Travel in comfort, every Sunday to Cleveland $2.50.
Mt. Lebanon, New, 6 rooms, 2-1/2 baths, brick, large wooded lot, $9,600.
I can give you my word that Roosevelt, the man, has a deep personal hatred for war. Roosevelt, the president, has the task of carrying American Democracy forward under God against any resistance.~Rear Admiral Richard E. Byrd.
Pirates Run Over Phillies, 12-2.
College days are with us again as students across the nation start cutting rugs and classes.
At the “New Carnegie Theater”, Carnegie, PA, Cary Grant, James Stewart in “Philadelphia Story”, also Cartoons and News.
Hitler’s Broken Promises Occupy Nearly 1,000 pages in his own words—“My New Order” from Reynal and Hitchcock.
Ten Homewood children, between the ages of 7 and 12, held a lawn fete last Friday afternoon at the corner of Gettysburg and Edgerton Streets for the benefit of the Milk and Ice Fund. Today The Press received the proceeds, $3.57.
Among the novelty high shoes this season is one of black patent leather having bowknot patterns showing an underlay of white kid.
And when we witness the downfall of dictatorship—what then? A world union of self-governing peoples to guarantee and enforce peace.~Associate Justice Owen Roberts, U.S. Supreme court.
Today’s newspaper boy, tomorrow’s leader—When Robert S. Bogda, son of Mr. and Mrs. S. H. Bogda of McKees Rocks, finishes high school, he intends to go into the steel mill with his father. He is the junior merchant who delivers The Pittsburgh Press daily and Sunday to subscribers around Ridge Avenue. Bob likes to travel and also runs errands for neighbors to augment his fund for travel.
A program that is heralded as the world’s first all-Negro opera will be previewed on KDKA at 8:30 tonight as Negro performers from all over America perform selections from “Celeste Aida”.
Bellevue couple welcomes twin girls.
But did anyone see the storm darkening the horizon?
poem copyright 2008 © Bernadette E. Kazmarski
Who We Are
Kingfishers are known to be a harbinger of the health of a stream because they needs to feed directly from creatures that live in the water and will leave if there isn’t enough to eat. Once Chartiers Creek was so polluted even plants died on its banks, but after decades of a ban on dumping and a mandate for cleanup the waters were safe to be in, to fish in and fish and other aquatic species began to return. I had been hearing a kingfisher’s chittering along the creek for a couple of years but the actual bird was hard to spot. Finally one March afternoon I saw the actual bird and photographed it diving into the water. We had reversed a century of pollution.
I don’t have an essay for this section, but it’s all about who we’ve made ourselves into in this little valley.
Memorial Day Parade
My parents’ generation called Memorial Day “Decoration Day”. It was the weekend to clear away the weeds, trim the grass, and spend time in the cemetery, and the graves of family members were decorated with wreaths and flags and freshly planted flowers, veterans or not. I’m not one for parades, but I took my mother to the parades in our town for years, as well as my brother.
The sun shines at full volume on the brick street,
The American Legion has equipped everyone with a small American flag on a stick;
Children race around waving their flags
While adults carefully hold their flags,
Mill around looking for a good place to open folding chairs
Waiting for the parade to start.
Politicians roll by in fancy cars and fat shriners on tiny little cycles,
Floats from the Viet Nam War and the VFW,
Cheerleaders and dancers and a polka band
Police bagpipers and Civil War re-enactors and Marines,
Color guards from organizations we’ve never heard of,
Music and car horns and loudspeakers blending into each other as they pass,
Fire trucks, police cars, ambulances from every community around
And we wave and cheer for each of them,
Glad to know that there is someone who will risk their lives for us
on all these levels.
For some reason I always get choked up when I see
The high school marching band,
So seriously playing some arrangement they’d never otherwise listen to
And have spent months learning to play on their instrument,
Marching together in nearly perfect alignment,
Soon to take their places in a bigger parade.
poem copyright © 2009 Bernadette E. Kazmarski (read more here)
After the Flood
On September 17, 2004, Hurricane Ivan stayed a little too long in our valley, dumping torrents of rain on our hillsides, already sodden from the visits of three other hurricane remnants in the month prior.
Dedicated to the people and places of the Chartiers Valley after the flood of September 17, 2004
After a day of rain
the creek has been rising
and by night it thunders down its channel
writhing around its curves like a medieval dragon,
pulling at its banks and anything overhanging,
carrying whatever it can grasp along the way,
and I have seen this creature before
in the creek’s rise and fall,
now tamed by engineering,
filling its channel to the brim, then receding
each spring and summer
and not felt threatened but fascinated
by its power, power not of humans,
power to change absolutely to a form
unrecognizable from its usual character,
yet always returning to the quiet,
sleepy nature which I had explored from childhood.
But I am remembering another night
when the creek refused to stop at its brim
but spilled over and over and over,
thundering down all the hillsides came its sustenance
tributaries filling their valleys as never before,
rushing to join with the writhing creature,
mixing and turning and thrashing and smashing anything in its path
so drunk with its own power
that it forgot all those who loved it,
who lived on its banks and in its valleys,
listened to its soft murmuring voice in the darkness of a summer night,
but even as I pleaded with the creature to stop, it had gone too far,
my friend, my refuge, how could you betray me,
I knew that the creek would not listen,
it was no creature gone on a rampage
it was simply following its nature, and this one time
it defeated our intelligence with its simple power
and all our homes, possessions, lives
were nothing in its path.
The next day the beast no longer raged,
the sun shone and the air was mild,
and the autumn continued like any autumn before,
but we were changed, all of us,
the long journey ahead, longer than we knew
and our place here will never be the same.
poem copyright © 2008 Bernadette E. Kazmarski (read more here)
Blending with the scenery, more chittering sound than sight,
you are more than just a bird fishing for an afternoon snack
but evidence of changes that have already come
and those certain to be.
Little indicator of the health of a stream
and by that the health of a community
and a region
your presence here means we have made change,
we have turned around and made right something we had spoiled
and we have made welcome not just for you
but for ourselves as well.
We can stop for a moment to appreciate
but you tell us to be ready for new accomplishments and adventures.
Even better awaits us.
Poem The Kingfisher © 2014 Bernadette E. Kazmarski (read more here)
I participated in the exhibit “Carnegie Painted” from 2000 until 2010, entering one or more paintings each year. In 2009 I hosted a solo show of all the originals I had plus prints of all the others entitled My Home Town. I’ve continued adding paintings and sketches to that each year including one I just painted last month.
From familiar scenes of Main Street to details of the flowers in the planters and the geese along Chartiers Creek, I’ve walked through town and around it with a camera for nearly two decades. Many photos were used for websites and flyers and promotions, but many more are just nice photos of seasons, day and night, unique sights. I’ll have prints on paper and canvas and a limited number of framed prints as well.
In addition to the featured photos, I made prints of 300 various other photos just to show the diversity and interest to be found…just walking around. I don’t want to upload all of them here to create a gallery in the interests of time and space, but I will present them in some collected form for you to browse.
Other photos and art of Carnegie
You can find a special collections in the galleries:
- The Light in the Darkness, featuring winter wildflowers along Chartiers Creek
- Of Harps and Fig Leaves, photos of Andrew Carnegie Free Library & Music Hall
- My Home Town, my 2009 art exhibit and ongoing art gallery
You can also visit Today, my photography website, in these categories to see others I’ve taken in between:
I look forward to seeing you if you can make it.
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