In the Labyrinth

Putting Together My Father's Research With The Photos: West Africa 1963-64

 

Balafon performance in the streets of Conakry, Guinea. ©1963 Emile Snyder

 

Among the unique documents that have floated my way over the years was a manilla folder full of gorgeous black and white photographs my father took in the Ivory Coast, which was developed there, and some of them might have also been taken in Senegal, Mali, or Guinea. Among my mother's papers that I received after her death was a carefully cached collection of letters that my parents had written to each other from the fall of 1963 to the spring of 1964 when they were both abroad on Ford and Fulbright grants-- my father to numerous countries in West Africa and my mother to India, Bhutan, and Sikkim.

The letters are fascinating and cringe-worthy in places. One third love letters (with some surprising revelations about their sex life I could have survived never knowing about), one-third about money (there was never enough, and often arriving late, allowing for some desperate nail-biting), and one-third talking about the research and the separate lives they were having on their different continents.

As I read through the research parts of my Dad's letters, I learned a lot about these photographs--especially that he had done many field recordings of musicians, griots, and small village brass bands. He had made friends with prominent African writers at the very start of their careers as authors in 1963, such as Leopold Senghor, President of Senegal, and other writers and poets turned diplomats -- who also gave him music tapes and recordings (especially to the radio stations eager to get their music out to the West as well as Africa.). He sent around 25 videos back to the States with his friend Robert Garfias, an ethnomusicologist Robert Garfias, who then returned them to the Ethnomusicology Archives at the University of Washington, Seattle, WA.

I went looking for the tapes in the archives -- as this was the first I knew they had been adequately given to someone. I was so excited to find them listed here and here. So I will send scans of all the photos (plus more of the notes I discovered in his letters) to the archive there -- delighted that future students will have a chance to see these images and connect them to the music on the tapes. In many ways, the best part of finding all these papers is sharing the great features of their careers with others- to share those moments in history when they saw something, heard something, or wrote something that still matters.

Images are ©1963 Emile Snyder -- please email me at the blog to request permission to use these photos.

From The Innamorati: The Libertini Create New Work in the Midst of Feasting

 

 

Commedia dell'Arte troupes crisscrossing the country to perform are often at the mercy of events they cannot control, like difficult audience members and lousy weather. Amid rain and misery, the kindness of an unexpected patron in a small village becomes a welcomed gift. Food, wine, and local stories fuel the actors' imaginations.

The actors of the Libertini huddled beneath the archway of a narrow street leading into Camogli's triangular piazza. Slanting sheets of rain splashed down on its black and white patterned stones; a church built on the seaward side sheltered it from the worst of the storm. Next to the church, the fishing boats tied to the harbor wall bounced in the rough sea. All along the landward side of the piazza, a street of tall row houses had closed their shutters against the wind and driving rain. No one was abroad in the streets of Camogli, not even the usual stray cat.

In the archway, the Comedians stared glumly at the rain. The women held their skirts gathered in their hands to keep the hems from dragging in the water that sluiced down the shining black cobblestones. The baby Rosella fussed, her cheeks bright red in the chill. The men, leaning against the wall, wrapped their short capes around them, the feathers of their costume hats drooping with the damp. Alberto was alternately swearing at himself, swearing at God, and swearing at the bad luck that had brought this wretched storm on the day of their first performance.

They had entered Camogli in the early morning when the sky was burning with red clouds to match the intensity of Alberto's temper. He was seething over the loss of the Arlecchino mask. Fabrizio had confessed in stammers to accidentally dropping it into the sea. He was falling into the sea! It could portend disaster for the whole troupe. Silvia fingered her little gold cross nervously, Bruno and Gianni made secret gestures to ward off bad luck, Matteo sulked, Flavio chewed his nails, and Antonio tucked a blue Turkish bead on a string underneath his doublet to protect himself from evil. The damn fool, Fabrizio, just made it worse by stuttering worthless apologies to anyone with the patience to listen.

Once they had arrived in Camogli, Isabella urged Alberto to set up the show early and begin with some short pieces to advertise the evening performance. "Give them something to do so they don't fret," she advised. "Applause is the best cure!"

They set up the wagon and the trestle stage on top. They had hung bright yellow drop cloths from the trestle to form background walls. Fiammetta played her mandolin, and Silvia danced the saltarello to attract the villagers. As a crowd gathered, Arlecchino and Pulcinella appeared amid snickers and light applause. The two masks argued over a piece of cake that Arlecchino was happily eating, but Pulcinella wanted. When Arlecchino refused to share even a morsel with his companion, Pulcinella decided to trick Arlecchino into believing he was ill. Before long poor Arlecchino was staggering and moaning while Pulcinella expounded on his pallor. When Pulcinella finally declared him dead, Arlecchino obediently lay down and surrendered the cake to his greedy tormentor. It was left to Colombina to convince her beloved Arlecchino that he wasn't dead after all. Everything was going well. The crowd was small but enthusiastic, standing attentively before the stage, their tasks temporarily forgotten as everyone watched the performance. Alberto knew that if the troupe could hook them now, the audience would return in the evening to see the full performance and pay out a few of their hard-sweated coins. The crowd had just begun to loosen up when a thick bank of dark grey clouds settled heavily above the piazza. Read more > > >

 

Excerpt from The Innamorati: The Libertini Rehearse, I, The Innamorati: The Libertini Dine and Create, II.

More Field Drawings: Darjeeling, India 1964. Tibetan Lhamo Performances.

I posted a few field drawings of my mother Jeanette Snyder yesterday, and wanted to add some more of them because I think they are charming -- and remind me of the days when field researchers lugged heavy tape recorders, cameras, and note books, just in case all that heavy technology failed, leaving only the sketches and notes. You can see many more of her photos and her article about this day at the Journal of Mythic Arts.

 

Bittersweet: An Afternoon Under the Tent Watching the A Ice Lhamo Perform

I have been working through my mother Jeanette Snyder's papers -- including a cash of drawings, and strips of contact sheet photographs (many that were never developed and for which the negatives disappeared many years ago) on her research of the Tibetan Lhamo in 1964.  She rote a wonderful article "The World Beneath the Tents" which included an account of this long summer's day in Darjeeling, India, beneath the Mahabharat Range, watching the Lhamo actors perform their folk operas. It is a wonderful article and so many of the well known actors she saw on that day (and who are in the accompanying photographs) have long since died.

But in all those photographs, I couldn't find one of her -- until now. I took another look at the thin strips of photographs with their tiny black frames with a frenzy of activity occurring within them. I had to squint and then finally scan them in order to see them more clearly in photoshop. And then -- there she was at number 18 -- not her full face, for of course her eyes were fixed forward on the drama unfolding before her, but I know her braid, her bangs, the curve of her cheek resting against her fist. Here is the strip of photos -- so you can see her watching the play. As I did, you will need to click the image to see a larger version. I think this was one of the happiest days of her life. 

And I found these too -- field drawings of what she saw -- perhaps just in case the photos didn't turn out.

Remembering It's All About Balance After A Couple Of Long Weeks of Work

Sometimes in the midst of all our work, it seems impossible to find the breath or the balance to stay upright. I love this video of RIGOLO Sanddornbalance 2012 Art Installation - it has an almost instantly soothing effect. This is the way to work, breathing, focusing, a quiet intensity which balances effort on an idea as fragile as a feather. I love too that at the end of the day, it is all undone -- a way to relieve oneself of the burden and begin again the following day.

Evohe Bacche!

While looking for the title of a specific book (Eros and Magic in the Renaissance by Culiano and Cook) that I knew to be in one of my research notebooks, I came across a little scrap of paper on which I had written a description of a masked ceremonial dance -- probably something from the phallic cults of Dionysus because I also wrote the phrase "Evohle Bacche!" (the invocation to Bacchus) right next to it. Though it's also possible I was reading about the origins of theatre's twin comedy/tragedy masks. Here's what I wrote:

"Men and damsels dancing, each having two masks -- one in front was smiling, the back one weeping...arms linked man to man, maiden to maiden.  Happy face always turned toward the sad face of the next person."

I have no idea from what book I captured this scene -- but I still find it compelling, something that should find its way somewhere in a story. It's also a good reminder for me to re-read my notes more often.

A Forest Story And The Lush Illustrations of Rudolf Mates

I am swooning over these gorgeous illustrations from the Czech children's book The Forest Story," written in 1929 by Josef Kozisek and handsomely illustrated by Rudolf Mates. I would so have loved as a child to receive such a gem of of a book. (Via Will Schoenfeld's amazing 50 Watts, a website dedicated to sharing extraordinary books in print. Careful if you visit there -- it's easy to lose a day wandering through the offerings.)