A Spirited Lens

Hokey Pokey and the Super Moon

lhartjen — Tue, 26 May 2015 01:32:54 GMT

The sulphurous scent wafted through the air like hard boiled eggs on a crowded tour bus – unwelcome, yet familiar.

The day began well enough – it was a brisk one, so a hot soak sounded appealing on this wintery New Zealand day. The geothermal Polynesian Pools in Rotorua offered just the ticket, and came with a bonus: the stench of rotten eggs - sure to impress friends.

I ventured past the imposing turnstile, likely installed to deter patron escapees. Once the horrifying scent registered in primitive lobes I realized how otherworldly this place was - pumice rimmed pools descended to a volcanic lake strewn with random boulders. I half-expected to emerge from the deep end looking like a pickled dinosaur egg – hot pink on the outside with bright yellow interior. A fresh water shower after my leisurely dip did nothing to shed this vivid thought, despite gobs of fine lavender soap.

Yet an afternoon spent shopping left me yearning for more primal elements. The night sky would soon reveal the queen of super moons, predicted to produce outrageous king tides destined to saturate high plains. In the end, my strategy was to join the flood rather than retreat from it, my day pool pass supporting this illogical move. The thought of soaking in primitive salts with a lakeside view of the super moon cresting distant mountains was simply too much to resist. ???

Returning that evening, I found myself surrounded by large parties of 'pakeha'. Blending in was out of the question, despite my pasty exterior, so I shifted into mermaid mode, gliding through steamy waters like Esther Williams in an Ed Wood film.

?Needless to say, a chatty dairy farmer from Dunedin singled me out, sidling over to my quiet corner when his friends departed for cooler climes. Seemingly oblivious to the near-boiling sulphurous puddle, he proceeded to embark on an hour-long diatribe that masterfully blended the war in Afghanistan with NZ farming policy and Hokey Pokey ice cream. Meanwhile, I managed to avoid lobster syndrome by slithering to the teak sitting wall with each shift in subject. Perhaps this was his plan all along (which would explain the increasingly rapid subject changes). Or, was he hoping to woo me with words in this romantic setting as minerals seeped through my pores, cementing me in place? We'll never know. Departing with the age-old "meeting a friend" excuse, I slipped right out of his hands.
??
After all, there's no hokey pokey allowed in the Polynesian Pools.

Photos: Los Angeles

lhartjen — Tue, 14 Apr 2015 15:46:00 GMT

highlights from brief trip to West Hollywood in LA

Velvet Crush

lhartjen — Tue, 14 Apr 2015 03:33:00 GMT

Los Angeles is a city of broken charm. Like a pair of Angels wings wrapped in crushed velvet this wood promises a touch of stardom at every turn for tourists like me seeking a brush with fame only to be turned away by the finality of each ubiquitous velvet rope. Largo is no exception. If not for a couple of diehard Finn friends, I might still be standing on the wrong side of red, dreaming of better times. Within a few fleeting minutes of ticket buying frenzy, my friends and I found ourselves with tickets for not one, but TWO Finn shows at Largo, and the promise of an intimate evening with Neil, Liam and a few surprise guests at this 288 seat venue.

A day spent baking in the sun to insure a set of up-close-and-personal seats paid off well, with our score of fourth row center seats, we were sure not to miss a beat, or passing comment from this irreverent bunch of musical hooligans, and thanks to a hugely respectful audience, and a well-appointed sound crew, I heard nearly every whispered word, swish and ping.

In true Finn-at-Largo fashion, Sunday's show opened with an unexpected surprise: for three full minutes we were treated to a glimpse of Finn skin as Liam and Neil, in nearly identical striped boxers, wrestled, splashed and frolicked across what appeared to be Hawaiian seaside rocks. Keen eyes were treated to a glimpse beyond the velvet curtain as the family jewels passed subliminally over our stunned retinas - although the owner of this royal flush will likely remain one more unresolved Finn mystery. The audience was in stitches, and we instantly knew all bets were off for this night.

As the screen exited stage right, Neil stepped smartly to the Viking-topped upright as Liam strapped on his guitar and the audience immediately fell into a deeply respectful silence. The walls of this dear old theatre resonated as the first few notes from the Game of Thrones theme, skillfully interpreted by kings Finn.

The first clear notes of Edible Flowers waft into the room and an audible sigh breathes through the audience. One of my perennial favorites, tonight's version was enhanced by Liam's vocal intro followed by father and son easily trading lead and backing vocal positions. Neil's nimble fingers moved effortlessly across worn keys, while Liam added a ghostly atmospheric perfection to this lovely ballad. And unlike many other shows that I've been to, the Largo audience maintained a reverent silence well past the last resonating note.

Throughout the night Neil and friends maintained an exuberant tone within this friendly, intimate set that included outstanding songs from Liam's extensive catalog, a few rarities from Neil's and some lovely, unexpected twists on a few classic Finn tunes.

The setlist:

Game of thrones
Edible flowers
Spill he Light
English Trees
Fire in your belly
Snug as f%*#
Wherever you are
Sinner
Driving me mad
Diversions
Karekare
Help is coming
Shadow of your man
Neurotic
Second chance
Gentle Dave
I'll be lightning
Ocean emmanuelle
Better than tv
Cold feet
Flying in the face of love
Moonage daydream

Photos: The Land of the Long White Cloud

lhartjen — Sun, 25 Aug 2013 11:52:00 GMT

photos from my travels in NZ, 2013

When Next in Auckland

lhartjen — Sat, 10 Aug 2013 15:38:00 GMT

Tonight the stars are out, the moon illuminates my keys and there's a sweet Summer breeze at my back. Yes, I've returned home,

and I'm no longer sure where home is.

That I miss New Zealand is an understatement. This means that I will return. For many reasons.

I'll list a few here:

Where else but New Zealand do you find a polite reminder to curb pollution, set in stone?

Where else does garbage look so appealing? New Zealander's take their waste very seriously with common reminders on waste bins such as, "can that be recycled?"

Public art is playful and found everywhere!

A book exchange in the midst of one of the most highly touristed sections of Auckland, located in a shipping container, no less!

Here's what I'll do when next in Auckland:

* Get oriented at the top of Mt. Eden (this helpful dial points in all directions, near and far)

*Take a plunge in the salt water Tepid Baths

*Exchange a book at the Viaduct Harbor book exchange

*Feed a red-eyed gull (even though I know I shouldn't)

*Forget the time at Albert Park

*Peer through a tiny window to the world outside

*Visit the giant, fiberglass squid

*Witness industrial ingenuity in action like this rolling bridge at Viaduct Harbor

*Drive one of those funny little cars on the left.

*Bungee jump off a stone tower in Albert Park (just kidding!)

A Taste of Love

lhartjen — Wed, 7 Aug 2013 22:21:00 GMT

A few things that I learned from the lovely Camille about wine tasting:

*Most tasting should be done early in the day, preferably before lunch because your sense of taste is more active then (and it’s a great excuse for a relaxing and well-deserved lunch after all that hard work).

* Most of our ability to taste actually comes from our sense of smell, so get your nose in that glass and smell the aromas!

* Oh, and speaking of glasses: Camille wasn’t even aware of the “glass shape” hubbub that certain glass manufacturers are spouting off about. Just make sure that the opening is narrow so that it confines the wine aromas in the glass as you’re about to sense them.

*Do not eat before tasting a series of wines or all will be lost.

*If your palette gets tired, have something familiar to bring it back to neutral. In other words, if you are a coffee drinker, have a sip of coffee. If you smoke, have a cigarette (yes, it’s true. One vintner noted that he had to begin his tasting education all over again once he quit smoking).

*Don’t change your toothpaste just before a wine tasting (really).

*Do not swallow (ahem). Getting wasted will not aid in your quest to find the most delicious aged grape.

*Spit with flair. Try not to spit so hard into the spittoon that your expelled wine splatters all over that carefully tended countertop.

*Wines have many different flavors that can be attributed to things we know and love to smell and eat like fruit, flowers, chocolate, etc. Therefore, when you are learning to identify and categorize tastes in wines, you can practice using a smelling box that consists of plant/flower essences, spices, and essential oils. Camille noted that it can be expensive to establish a smelling box, but is well worth it.

*When tasting, one of the first things to establish is whether the wine contains a dark or black fruit. Dark fruits are obvious things like black plums, cherries, black currants, etc. A wine might also contain a red fruit note like cherries, raspberries, strawberries, etc. Light fruits are things like pears, grapefruit, citrus, etc. These single fruit notes are not always present or so easy to identify, but can be a good starting point.

*Pay attention to all aspects of the wine: the way it looks, the way it smells before tasting, the way it tastes when it first makes contact with your tongue, the way it tastes when you aerate it, the way that it tastes after you expel it.

*There’s so much to all of this, and I can’t wait to learn more. Camille spent two years of intensified tasting and is still learning. Wine tasting is a true labor of love.

Encountering Camille

lhartjen — Fri, 19 Jul 2013 10:01:00 GMT

The wine bubbled on his tongue, aerating to reveal black fruit, dark chocolate, and a hint of tomato vine.

Camille knew wine, having spent two years prior to this one in France, studying to be an Oenologist - a scientist of wine. He was now at the tail end of a one-year sojourn in New Zealand spent woofing at a vineyard on the South Island. I first met Camille while suiting up for a kayak trip around Tasman Bay, his quiet determination to walk a 6 hour track in this popular national park enhanced by the flimsy yellow backpack strings pinned decidedly to his shoulders.

We met again at trails end, his gaze following applications of lotion and light makeup after a hot shower returned sensation to my kayak-weary limbs. Camille looked much the same as our morning meeting, unfazed by a day of winter tramping, his quiet demeanor seemed at odds with his age. He couldn’t have been more than 25, but he had the air of one much wiser.

Within a 5-minute warning from the driver for our return to Nelson, I piled my bags in the van and stumbled into the first available seat. Camille arrived last, inviting his pretty tramping partner to choose her perch, he took the last, sitting beside me. At first I was a bit self-conscious, my wet hair still wrapped in a turquoise pack towel, but when the van warmed up, I let my hair down and conversation flowed more easily. We spoke of hostels and NZ travels, comparing notes with others in the van. My bare-bones YHA hostelling experience paling in comparison to various BBH hostels described by many, including the gold status given to The Paradiso in Nelson for it’s sauna, hot tub, tasty breakfasts and, most notably, chocolate pudding for dessert. And as it turns out, Camille was spending another night at The Paradiso, while I was booked at the more central, and austere YHA Nelson. By the end of the 1-hour drive we spoke long enough to cement a bond and I was saddened to part with my new friends from The Paradiso.

Arriving in Nelson after dark, I quickly realized that there was little to do on this winter’s night when all but the most enterprising restaurants had closed their doors at 5pm. As I walked the silent streets scouting for food and the bus depot, a colorful van whipped past and dropped a dark-haired man off at a nearby bank. On closer inspection, the side of the van was tagged in bubble letters spelling out P-a-r-a-d-i-s-o. Could this be Camille? I couldn’t tell for sure in this half light, but the person who stood by the ATM hurriedly grabbing cash had an uncanny resemblance to my French bus mate. I quickly crossed the street to avoid an awkward encounter, and thought nothing more of it.

Half a day later, as I sat on the top deck of the Inter-islander Ferry on my return to the North Island, a dark-haired man in a red parka appeared and did a quick double-take as he made his way to the deck’s rail. A long gaze confirmed Camille’s presence, not surprising considering that he had told me of his plans to head north. Recognizing me, he changed course and sat down right beside me in spite of the many open seats nearby. After a polite greeting, he proceeded to tell me of the morning’s hitchhiking adventure that brought him to the ferry in record time (he left Nelson that morning at least an hour later than I had). He seemed both pleased and amazed at his luck at finding a ride that took him the entire distance. I don’t remember much more of our conversation during the 4-hour ferry ride except for the fact that he would be flying out of Auckland to France the day before I was due to leave for the States. That, and he told me he was planning a wine tour of Waiheke Island with a friend. I desperately wanted to ask if I could tag along, but soon realized that I would be travelling to Auckland from a short farm stay in Bulls on the day that he planned to go.

As the ferry turned toward Wellington Harbor, Camille left the deck with his belongings, muttering something about strong winds. After a lame attempt to find him in the cabins below, I returned to the top deck assuming that I wouldn’t see him again. When travelling alone, eventually one gets used to brief encounters with strangers that lack clear endings. This is how I thought it would be with Camille, yet there he was, easily recognizable in his red parka, standing by the baggage claim belt. We chatted for a few minutes, and then got separated when loading onto the shuttle bus. Eventually, Camille walked past the empty seat beside me without a word. A man close to my age sat beside me and we immediately struck up a conversation about things to do and see in Wellington. I saw Camille again briefly, passing him on the bus platform, his profile hinting at a sadness that I could not be sure of. Knowing that we would be parting within minutes anyway, I thought it best not to disturb him. Only in retrospect did I realize that it is far better to endure the awkwardness of a goodbye than to part indifferently, as if we had never met.

Once again, I felt a bit annoyed with myself for failing to ask if I might join him on his trip to Waiheke, yet half-hoping that I might find him again in Auckland. In spite of the distractions of cosmopolitan Wellington and two days on a farm in Bulls, the cadence of his words echoed in my head for days. His French-infused English allied with our shared love of wine and stunning landscapes viewed from high vantage points had left its mark on my psyche. So it was with a great deal of amazement that I spotted a black-haired man with a familiar playful lope just across the street from the Auckland International Hostel as I arrived on Saturday night. This time, my double take was met with Camille’s bright smile and a cheerful greeting. I immediately asked how his trip to Waiheke went and he replied that he was planning to go the next day, asking if I would like to join him. My over-enthusiastic reply gave away a bit too much, but he didn’t seem to notice. He said that we could go over details in the common area of the hostel once I had settled in.

Minutes turned to at least an hour when I was delayed by laundry, conversations with new roommates and who knows what else. When I finally made it to the common area, I found Camille engrossed in a game of beer pong. Needless to say, we failed to discuss plans that night. The next morning just as I was heading upstairs to pack for a day of yet undecided adventure (having given up on the Waiheke trip), I ran into Camille. “We’ll need to leave by 9:15.” He spoke casually, as if he expected to meet me at the last minute. I went along with it even though it would only give me 15 minutes to finish breakfast and get ready. I left him to eat his ginger cookies and tea while I hurriedly cleaned up my dishes.

While Waiheke Island offers many pricey options for wine tourists, Camille and I opted for the more independent (read: less costly) version - biking. We picked up our bikes from a tiny shack 50 yards from the ferry terminal, and after a quick test of brakes we were on our way. If you ever plan to go, you should know that New Zealand it is FULL of hills. When I think hills, I envision the slow, rolling kind. It’s not like that here. New Zealand is more like San Francisco on steroids. Everywhere. None of the locals bother to mention this to unsuspecting tourists because, well, they’re used to the rigors of hill climbing, but for a flatlander like me, it was a constant surprise. The first climb nearly did me in, but I made it to the top without having to endure the indignity of dismounting. And the view was very much worth the climb: downy white clouds stretching on for miles across clear blue skies, emerald hills spilling down to azure blue inlets, adjacent hillsides sprinkled with simple cottages and modernist mansions, miles from an already otherworldly somewhere.

We landed at our first vineyard. Its name emblazoned garishly over top of a panoramic window revealing the picturesque harbor below. My heart sank with the ostentatiousness of the place, but I was out of breath and in need of a break, so we stepped into the sleek, whitewashed interior. Our sweaty sneakers stood in sharp contrast to the well-heeled clientele of the adjacent restaurant. One whiff of this rarified commercial air and we left in search of a more authentic vine. A half-mile more downhill and we found just the place: we rang the bell in the tiny tasting room and the vintner emerged from the vines, pruners in hand, with a heart-on-sleeve gruffness that signaled authenticity. While he and Camille spoke of terroir and the delicacies of Italian single varietals, I languished in the voluptuous red, which he described as tasting like Sophia Loren in Desire Under the Elms. This was one of those wines that you remember for years to come – from that first moment when the bright fruit first hits your tongue, rolls around inside the cavern of your mouth to the final luxurious moment when it languishes on the couch of your tongue just before departing down the gully. I nearly purchased a case, and then remembered that we were cycling and one extra milliliter on the next Waiheke hill would send me tumbling down to sea.

If there’s one more thing that you need to know about New Zealand before you go, it’s that the weather is HIGHLY variable. The day can shift from clear, sunny skies to torrential downpour in minutes, with little warning. On a small island like Waiheke, the likelihood of experiencing such extremes is even greater. I had visited once before, so I came prepared with many layers, including head to toe raingear. Camille’s flimsy red parka took a beating that day, but I hugged him even so. On return to Auckland, we waved goodbye and this time it felt right and good to bid a fond adieu.

I tell this tale, in part, because of the un-canniness of my encounters with Camille. It is not so uncommon to run into the same people throughout a common course of travel in New Zealand. There are only so many roads, and in winter, not as many places to eat or sleep in low touristed areas. I ran into several other people who I recognized periodically from place to place, thinking little of it. My encounters with Camille were exceptional because of their timing. Each time, just as I was about to leave, or in at least one case, upon arrival, Camille would be there, present and happy to see me. Perhaps I’m reading too much into these encounters, or being too mystical about it all, but this is not the first experience that I’ve had with repeated crossings, and usually there is an obvious exchange that takes place to confirm the reason for our meetings.

That said I’m still not sure why we met so often by chance. With Camille I felt a fondness, a sense of closeness, and a lightness of being that only comes to the surface for me when I’m most relaxed and happy – unusual for me with new acquaintances. If nothing else, he was a reminder of a way of being that requires nothing but the time and space to breathe into each moment and settle in. I will miss Camille, and in the missing I will remember him with gratitude for the moments made magic by our time together.

Sea Level to Clack Height

lhartjen — Sun, 30 Jun 2013 20:54:00 GMT

I realize that it's been a bit quiet around here lately. Lots of moving of late: one night here, two nights there. This translates into a quick unpacking of essentials, instantaneous determination of the best things to take advantage of in a particular area and then absorbing as much as possible in a short amount of time. Days are shorter here: it's Winter and we just passed the Solstice. Anyway, I'm not complaining, but if I do this again, I will plan a longer stay and will spend more time in each place.

And on this trip I look forward to my travel days because I can see such vastly differing landscapes in a short span of time. Yesterday was the best example so far: I went from Wellington (basically sea level) to the mountains within hours. Then it was back to sea level again in Takaka on the northern end of the South Island. Sunrise on the ferry and sunset a few minutes from my hostel.

The Fantail

lhartjen — Wed, 26 Jun 2013 21:48:00 GMT

I met Luciano in the room with a view of distant snow-capped peaks. His back to the window, shrouded in black puffy down, crouched studiously over his computer, he was ready with a welcoming nod for all who entered the hostel's dining room. After a brief "hello," I quietly went about the business of setting up house (the near-daily ritual of unpacking, packing, and re-packing goods carrying the scent of familiarity), and preparing lunch. I didn't know it then, but Luciano was starving. Not for food. No, Luciano was resourceful. After all, he knew how to make espresso in the Australian Outback for Italian newlyweds gifted with bush walks courtesy of well-meaning relatives.

No. Luciano was starving for conversation. Or at least a chance to loose his verbiage on any willing ear. And what a bunch of words it was: full of wonderings, insight into the underbelly of international politics and friendships made and lost. His words were the equivalent of Huka Falls, fast, clear and bright. The cadence of his tongue lingered long after meaning faded.

I don't think that Luciano really cared if anyone was listening. I think that most people were charmed by his smile, his genial nature and his eyes: deep, black pools that might swallow you up in an act of merciful kindness. Others (myself included) were often willing to withstand a few extra minutes of chatter in light of his charm. And I was, indeed, charmed. And fascinated by this 25 year old Italian man in search of a life unrestricted by the confines of his homeland, which for him meant marriage, and having to answer to his father, the Doctor.

Luciano was searching for another way. A way that was honest and ideal and true. It's no wonder that we got along so well in spite of the years between us. Or maybe because of them. Because in that span of time I have learned at least one thing: how to listen. To others. To the river rippling over rocks. And to my heart.

So I listened to Luciano. And I offered a mirror so that he might see himself clearly, because he was a bit lost in a blur of daily worries. He didn't yet see what was plain to the rest of us: his talent for making people smile.

That Luciano was searching for love, there is no question, but he knew full well that love would find him regardless of the search. More pressing than love was his need for a job. His working holiday visa was used up during his year in the Outback and now he needed sponsorship. The local Presbyterian church was offering as much in exchange for elder care, but he doubted his ability to deal with the messy bits and was flat out unwilling to "sell his soul" to the church. He had only known the stigma of Roman Catholicism and was loathe to be part of any organisation wielding such vast socio-political power. All attempts to explain theological differences fell on deaf ears. 25 is an uncompromising age. I remember it well.

It was at 25 when I decided that I'd had enough of the seemingly endless cycle of love and heartache and a life defined by partnership. I cut loose the bonds of love and went into free fall, flitting about like the Fantail, and diving deep into the real of the unknown and into un-knowing. I have yet to land because, like Luciano and the Church, I am highly suspicious of the power that love wields. That, and I'm in search of a wider definition of love, one that doesn't involve selling my soul.

In Luciano I recognised familiar searching, longing for partnership and a mutual understanding that love can be found even in fleeting friendships like ours. I also recognised the price that we pay for our uncompromising natures: our stubbornness can blur the lines between the forest and the trees. Often what we seek is standing there, right in front of us, clear as the Waikato River, if only we choose to clear our sights of the ideal and focus on the real.

Yesterday, as I returned to the hostel in Taupo for my belongings, I met Luciano on his way out. Momentarily distracted by a text from a girl that he met the night before, he expressed worry about how to proceed, not wanting to confuse her with signals of friendship. With a twinge of jealousy, I told him to take it slowly (advice which I've never heeded). Then we embraced, momentarily compressing fluffy black down, and wished each other well.

On the way to gather my bags, the hostel caretaker, a woman about my age, asked if Luciano was putting the moves on me. "No," I replied, not wanting to limit the sentiment of our parting. "He's quite charming," she said with a mix of genuine concern and a hint of judgement. And for a moment I wondered about what might have been had I been willing to cross a straight and narrow line for the blurring of social norms. And left content with this unknowing.

I hope that you find what you are looking for, dear Luciano. I hope we all do.

Clacks Spotted in Taupo!

lhartjen — Mon, 24 Jun 2013 21:28:00 GMT

My first day in Taupo was a bit of a wash. Hungover from the full moon, I think. Anyway, magic hour made up for it when I spotted more than a few clacks on distant snow-clad peaks.

Then, with beer and wine pouring freely, Italian, Scottish, Irish, German, New Zealand and American accents mingled in the communal kitchen. Now we're cooking with gas! This is what hostelling is all about.

same spot, in the morning with cloud hoovering over Lake Taupo

Near sundown, Lake Taupo, clacks in distance (you'll have to take my word for it)

Like a Box of Birds

lhartjen — Sat, 22 Jun 2013 14:38:00 GMT

22 June Things that I am ever so grateful for (in chronological order):

1. The ferryman who replied, "Like a box of birds" when I asked how he was doing.

2. The creamy mushroom and aubergine tart purchased at the Waiheke ferry dock (36degree Cafe, you rock!)

3. Turquoise waters embraced by volcanic, oyster clustered rocks.

4. Rainstorms that pass by within minutes.

5. Lightweight wind proof rain gear and layers of clothing, removed and replaced several times over.

6. The wine-touring group who shouted, "Female power!" as I passed by on the coastal track.

7. My new moss coloured hiking boots, purchased from a perfect Kiwi gentleman (why didn't I ask for his number?!?)

8. Trees straight out of The Lorax and little birds the colour of Neil Finn's Les Paul.

9. Whittaker's Music Museum: an oasis at the end of a long journey. Filled with kind souls and kindred spirits, including a giant music box and New Zealand's oldest Steinway. Special note: Larry Whittaker plays a mean show tune.

10. A seat by the fire as I indulged in a lovingly prepared meal at the Oyster Inn, Oneroa: Lightly battered delicate white fish and thick, triple-fried chips, delicious local Pinot, cardamom-infused chocolate truffle. Thank you, Andy Harris and Sally Richardson of Stonecrop wines for the suggestion!

So good.

Off to Auckland

lhartjen — Fri, 24 May 2013 19:44:00 GMT

Well, the timing of this article could not be better: 48 hours in Auckland I think I'll put this on my calendar for days one and two.

In the meantime, I'm busy reading travel guides, perusing maps, watching films and reading fiction and non-fiction about/by New Zealand/Kiwis as I prepare to visit this wondrous land.

Here is a sampling (in no particular order):

Fairness and Freedom: A History of Two Open Societies by David Hackett Fischer

This book is a fascinating comparison of the politics and philosophies of NZ and the US. A recommended read that offers up history and politics in byte size bits with a fair share of philosophy to round out the sampling... perfect for pre-travel inspiration. I am so impressed with the political system in NZ, by the way.

Rain (2003), Fireworks Pictures, Directed by Christine Jeffs

I'm listening to the soundtrack now. So lovely.

Anyway, I own this film and have enjoyed watching it several times over in spite (or maybe because) of it's dark overtones. It is a coming of age story set in (1970's?) NZ. Sensuous sepia scenes of no-boundaries parties on the beach intercut with difficult family dynamics - all viewed through the eyes of a thirteen-year-old girl (played so well by Alicia Fulford-Wierzbicki).

Top of the Lake (2013), A mini-series by Jane Campion

Wow! I'm still digesting this one. It's Twin Peaks meets X-Files set in high altitude NZ bush country (backwoods). Feminist retreat group vs. meth lab gangsters with an alternately strong/fragile female lead brilliantly played by Elisabeth Moss (aka Peggy Olson from Mad Men).

Two Paddocks blog

I've been following actor Sam Neill on twitter for over two years now and I have to say, he is the most hilarious, insightful, down-to-earth actor that I have ever known. His blog on the Two Paddocks website is SO funny... Oh, and he has a great "disco" section where he asks famous actors and musicians to list and comment on their favorite recordings (so entertaining).... and in case you didn't know, Mr. Neill is the proprietor of Two Paddocks vineyard in Central Otago, NZ.

And speaking of twitter, I'm following a number of Kiwis, including @JenLongshaw, who is an artist and animal lover living in Hawkes Bay (North Island). She's also very funny and has great pics of her goat Stig and various other animals on her blog. I began following her and Sam Neill on the same day (and they both followed me back the next day... so gracious).

KneesTease

This YouTube channel offers a great sampling of Kiwi music, although, it seems that it hasn't been updated in 5 years. Highlights include rare old footage of Split Enz, a cool hip-hop video by Twin Maori (?) sisters - Sisters Underground, and more.

Lots of great NZ music missing from this channel, but well worth checking out: Finn Brothers (and solo work by Neil Finn and Tim Finn), Bic Runga, Sean Donnelly, Conan Mockasin, Lawrence Arabia, Ladyhawke...

I could go on, but I promised myself an early bedtime, so off I go to dreamland...

What is a Clack?

lhartjen — Thu, 23 May 2013 19:33:00 GMT

What exactly is a 'clack'?

Well, I was wondering exactly the same thing one fine day in May when Neil Finn posted a comment about them on NeilFinn.com (see diary post for 10 May 2013). So I wrote to him @NeilMullaneFinn and asked if 'clacks' were:

The sound of tourist ducks?
The echo of sunlight bouncing off a clear lake's surface?
Traps that capture rogue musicians?

I was stumped.

As it turns out, 'clacks' are "clouds that cling to rocks" (according to Neil, anyway). And where do you think you'll find such lofty clouds? In the mountains, of course. Very high, very lofty, stunningly beautiful mountains occasionally dressed for company in the most sublime clacks you will ever see. New Zealand is full of them.

I am heading to Aotearoa/New Zealand in no less than 26 days (count them)... and believe me, I am counting them because I have wanted to visit NZ for at least 20 years now. This year, 2013, will be the year that I do. And when I get there, what do you think I'll be seeking?

Clacks, of course.

What else is there more worth seeking in The Land of the Long White Cloud?

Whispers from the Clouds

lhartjen — Fri, 9 Sep 2005 22:36:00 GMT

I found my way to the Garhwal Himalayas through yoga. Studying Tantra and Avaita Vedanta in the Himalayan Tradition, I found sages, swamis and pandits who spoke of the inherent spirituality of the mountains, often referring to them as "living sages". Inevitably, my heart told me that it was time to experience this land for myself.

So off I went to India * , yoga mat and cameras in hand, with the intention of (re)connecting with my spiritual ancestral roots as well as my roots as an artist. As I ventured into the unknown territory of spiritual pilgrimage, high altitude and (mostly)foreign culture, I found myself having to consciously put the camera away for the direct experience of being present within the journey. And yet, the amazing beauty of this land and it's people spoke so compellingly to my artist's eye that I had to document some of it.

These images barely begin to capture the incredible spirit of these mountains and the people who live there. My only hope is that they encourage everyone who is able to visit the Himalayas and witness for themselves the spirit of these living Sages, allowing their songs of joy to whisper through all hearts, as they have whispered so sweetly through mine.

Photos: India 2005

lhartjen — Fri, 26 Aug 2005 22:40:00 GMT

from my journey to the Himalaya