Aporia

Henri Matisse, Bathers with a Turtle, 1908.

From Tully “The Better” Mills, master of turtles:

Often regarded as one of the slowest lycanthropes, the wereturtle can take upwards of twelve hours to change form. As a result, the wereturtle rarely completes a shift before the full moon has begun to wane, rendering it mostly harmless to humans and other animals, and mostly annoying to those stricken with the affliction.

Ask and you shall receive!

Tully Mills’ grape snapping turtle, inspired by Natasha, made my year; I’ll admit that the man is a genius, even if it feels some egomaniacal to praise another Mills. What can I say? It’s a name too odd not to beneficially warp whomever it wraps; if you want your child to believe s/he’s an adult -a kind of precocity, a precursor to pretension- bestow a name which will oblige him or her to constantly correct mispronouncing parents and teachers. I am not Miles.

Another radical turtle: Brer Terrapin, by Barry Moser (posted by Joel Chandler Harris and brought to my attention via Rachel Maddux):

Brer is obviously more civilized than the grape snapping turtle, but one can imagine him looking on his primitive relation with something other than pure pity, as was the case with Kafka’s mysteriously civilized ape:

When I come home late at night from banquets, from scientific receptions, from social gatherings, there sits waiting for me a half-trained little chimpanzee and I take comfort from her as apes do. But I cannot bear to see her; for she has the insane look of the bewildered half-broken animal in her eye; no one else sees it, but I do, and I cannot bear it.

I like turtles.

The Tortoise, by Carrie Marill.

Boy Ghost is a wonderful photographer; I am particularly amazed by his ability to see people within moments and scenes. I’ve no idea how it is that his photos seem so spontaneously candid while retaining all the formal qualities of deliberately composed work. I assume that he has the sort of personality which disarms his subjects in some way.

As a former turtle hunter I felt an immediate affinity for this boy, who -as one commented noted- might as well have been photographed fifty years ago:

And again: how does one photograph workmen like this? I do not know how such photography is practiced now that everyone has a camera, a cell phone, knows what they look like, knows their own expressions. I assumed this wasn’t possible:

He has also convinced me that Baltimore and New Orleans have a great deal in common; I would have thought this taken in my hometown:

As if all that weren’t enough, the title of his site refers to one of Paul Simon’s nicest lyrical ideas: “…the myth of fingerprints,” the myth of individuality in the sense of personality as it is understood these days. But the sun gets weary and the sun goes down, just as it has since only the mute flora and inarticulate fauna of the earth were there to see it. The individual overvalues himself. Boy Ghost relates the lyric to the effect his photos can have in showing “that everyone’s more alike than we let on.” He also once sent me a postcard.

I highly recommend his tumblelog, The Myth of Fingerprints, and his Flickr photostream.

Photographs from menageries are emerging as a theme here; previously, we visited an insectarium, an aquarium, and a smaller zoo, but this weekend Abby, Will, Sydney, Wes, Lucas, Amanda, Spencer, Lauren, and I went to the wonderful Audubon Zoo in New Orleans, immortalized in the Meters song.

Above you can see Abby with an angelic goat, the very same that Vera seemed to like rather than the one that ground my finger in its molars. The whole set is here, although I should warn you it’s not particularly special.

Turtletown. As they’re my favorite animals, I could have spent the entire afternoon photographing them alone, from the mata-mata to the common sliders extraneous to the exhiits

Yellow snake.

Lovely gray fox on a log. His pals preferred chairs.

Naturally, the white alligator, which Fat Manatee saw so long ago. There are also monkeys, flamingos, some kind of amazing dog-like animal with a coat it must be extremely proud to possess, and more.

A small, knit turtle with a stone heart is an early Christmas present from my friend, and I appreciate it dearly (although why my heritage should be in dispute is beyond me).

Will and I will be in Oregon from 12/23 through 12/30, and in New Orleans for a while after that, but I will try hard to keep up with everyone. I hope you all enjoy this time of year very much.

Andy Warhol, Turtle (1985). For Seagull, as an expression of condolence for UT’s fate on Saturday and in appreciation for this, a photo that creates a truly childish level of excitement in me.

For just two easy payments of $.39, I will use this turtle’s name as the basis of a pickup line.