John Palcewski's Journal

Works In Progress

LJ 18th anniversary
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#mylivejournal #lj18 #happybirthday


Different Careers
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Wiki: James Jones (November 6, 1921 – May 9, 1977) was an American novelist known for his explorations of World War II and its aftermath. He won the 1952 National Book Award for his first published novel, From Here to Eternity, which was adapted for the big screen immediately and made into a television series a generation later.

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Chester Palcewski and James Jones served together briefly at the US Army's Schofield Barracks on the Hawaiian island of Oahu during WWII. Both went on in civilian life to significantly different careers.

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Preference
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Because we are used to seeing ourselves in a mirror, studies show, we often prefer the reflection over the face we see in photographs.





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Bella Napoli
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Hatshepsut
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Maria beside the statue of Pharaoh Hatshepsut, "Foremost of Noble Ladies," 1507 - 1458 BCE, the fifth pharaoh of the Eighteenth Dynasty of Egypt, at the Metropolitan Museum in New York. Maria's blurred face is a metaphor for her parents' determination to obliterate her true identity by failing to disclose that she had been adopted. Gradually she comes into focus, assumes her true identity. As in ancient Egypt, when men and women were truly equal.

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Half A Century Ago
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Youngstown, Ohio. The neighborhood where I grew up. The aerial view suggests a rather normal residential area, but up close it shows clear signs of decay and abandonment.

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Another World Heavyweight Boxing Champion
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My Encounter With Muhammad Ali
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These are among the multitude of images I took on assignment for United Press International in early September, 1980, at Muhammad Ali’s training camp in Deer Lake, PA. Ali was preparing for his final attempt to regain the World Heavyweight Championship from Larry Holmes, set for the following month at Caesar’s Palace. At the time Ali’s record was 56-3 with 37 knockouts. His three losses had been to Joe Frazier, Ken Norton and Leon Spinks, and he later came back to defeat all three. Ali was about to fight for the first time in two years, whereas Holmes had successfully defended his crown three times that year.

Ali, despite being terribly out of shape, still proclaimed confidence. “Holmes is a great champion…and when I beat him, I truly will be king of kings, the greatest of all time.”





But, as boxing journalist James Slater put it a couple years ago, the fight in Las Vegas was “one of the most hard-to-watch and tragic boxing matches in history.”

From the start of the fight it was clear Ali was in trouble. “His timing was completely off” Slater wrote, “and his punches were lacking any snap whatsoever. Ali failed to win a single minute of a single round. Holmes even held back as the bout wore on, refusing to put full power into his hurtful punches. By the 8th and 9th rounds Ali was practically motionless and could barely hold up his hands. It was truly awful to see.





“Finally, over the protest of Drew ‘Bundini’ Brown, veteran trainer Angelo Dundee pulled his fighter out. Holmes was the winner by 11th round TKO, the one and only stoppage loss of Ali's long career.

“No one benefited from the contest. Not Holmes, who later cried at having beaten up the man who gave him his start, not the fans, who were witness to one of the most harrowing and pitiful boxing matches in history, and certainly not Ali, whose health was made even worse thanks to the taking of what was his 60th pro fight.

“It should never have happened, but it did.”









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Spring
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Chester's Death Certificate
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I saw the obit in the Youngstown Vindicator, but I needed confirmation. I had to be absolutely sure he was now six feet under and I'd never see or hear from him again. Now, I read somewhere that a a myocardial infarction means a heart attack, but in the instance of an 89-year-old, it simplly means his heart stopped beating because he died, not the other way around. Dead. Gone forever.

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Neighbor's Flag
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The design of the Commonwealth flag of Puerto Rico reflects the close ties that bound the Cuban and Puerto Rico patriots in the 19th century for the flag that waves over the Capital of San Juan is the Cuban flag color reversed.

The flag was first used on December 22, 1895. A group of 59 Puerto Ricans led by Dr. Julio J. Henna, gather at "Chimney Corner Hall" in Manhattan, New York City and organizes a political group, attached to the Cuban Revolutionary Party, which advocated independence for Puerto Rico and Cuba from Spanish rule. As part of their activities, a flag was created to rally support for independence from Spain. The flag was soon adopted as a national symbol. In 1898, the flag became the mark of resistance to the US invasion; and in the 1930s it was adopted by the Nationalist Party. When Puerto Rico became a Commonwealth in July 25, 1952 it was officially adopted as the national flag.

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A Poet & Her Aunt
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This is a fresco by an anonymous 16th century Neapolitan artist entitled "Madonna of Mercy," which I photographed a few years ago at the convent of Sant Antonio di Padova, in Ischia Ponte. Renaissance poet Vittoria Colonna (at right) and her aunt Costanza d' Avalos presided over literary gatherings at Castello Aroganese.

from: A.S. Brundin
reply-to: Abigail
to: John Palcewski
date: Mon, Sep 7, 2015 at 2:22 PM
subject: Re: Vittoria Colonna, cont.

Dear John,

After many years, I am coming back to you once again in the hopes that this is still the way to contact you. I am after permissions, as usual! We are publishing a 'Companion to Vittoria Colonna' with Brill, and a Swiss academic, Gaudenz Freuler, has written a piece on Colonna in portrait, including discussion of the Ischia altarpiece. Would it be possible to reprint your photograph (this time of the entire central panel, rather than just a detail of Vittoria) in the book? We will send you a copy to add to your library, of course! Do let me know.

Am I right that you moved back from Ischia to the US? Do you still keep your links with the island? I thought I had stopped working on Colonna some years ago, but she keeps coming back to haunt me!

All good wishes,
Abigail

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Departure
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Maria & John At Four Sutton Place
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24.

Jade took me aside and told me in nearly a whisper that Leila, to celebrate and honor the arrival of Maria, is hosting a formal dinner for the two of us that evening at eight, sharp, and that Leila of course expects I will "dress." Lucky that when I packed my bag in Ischia, I decided to include a white shirt and dark blue silk tie, to go with my blazer, kahki slacks and loafers.

I descended the creaking spiral carpeted staircase, took a left. It was dark in the hallway, because The Queen, ever frugal, was intent on saving on the electric bill. I entered the dining room. Leila was in a purple robe-like thing with a tangle of chain-linked gold and silver necklaces and faintly clinking oversized bracelets on both arms, and several rings, one of them bearing a cluster of glinting diamonds.

She sat imperially at the head of a nine-foot-wide and twenty-five-foot-long mahogany dining room table that bore a multitude of lighted candles held by an array of highly polished silver candlebras. Scattered helter-skelter on the polished surface was a gaggle of four-inch-high silver ducks and geese, as well as tiny silver salt dishes, and an assembly of forks, knives, spoons, and elegant crystal glasses, everything glinting and glowing in the warm candlelight.

As I was about to take a seat, Leila impatiently motioned toward her left, indicating I take that seat, most certainly NOT the one on her right, which was reserved for you-know-who, the guest of honor.


Three minutes later Maria entered the room.

"Oh, darling!" Leila said, with a dazzling smile that replaced the mouth-down-turned semi-scowl she'd shown me when I entered. "At last, at last, here you are! I've so much looked forward to finally having you here with me."

Sally the maid served us shallow bowls of soup, each with a dollop of sour cream. Through the various courses, Leila quizzed Maria about her childhood on the island of Ischia, her strict father Ernesto and his vineyards, her dour, disapproving mother, and the whole family emigrating to America when Maria was twelve. Now and again I'd offer a comment, but Leila ignored me.

Maria described each summer going on long boat rides to visit her Nonna on the island of Ponza, and picking vegetables in the garden, and lemons and oranges from the trees in the orchard, and of course daily swimming in the sea.

"Oh, yes, yes, YES!" Leila said. "You must know that 'A Garden By The Sea' is the title of my latest book, which was published just last week!"

She turned to me.

"Go to the den and get a copy," she commanded.

Ever her obedient servant/slave, I rose and headed down the dark hallway. Of course there was no copy of the book in the den. How could there have been? I considered going upstairs to get one from the huge pile of her books in the closet in my room, but I thought no, that would take too much time. I didn't want to risk annoying her royal highness.

"Well then for God's sake go upstairs and get one from the pile of books in the closet in the second guest bedroom!" Leila said, clearly annoyed.

Book finally before her, Leila reached for the little black plastic thing that resembled a TV remote control, and pushed the button. Sally quickly emerged from the kitchen. "Bring me a pen," Leila commanded.

"Yes, mum."

"Leila took the cover photo," I said.

"Oh, it's SO beautiful," Maria said.

And indeed it was. A grassy slope facing the dark blue Long Island Sound, below a light blue sky, a mass of blue flowers behind a tree, and in the foreground lots and lots of yellow flowers, and a bench. A wonderful composition.

"Sally!" Leila shouted.

"Yes, mum?"

"Where's the pen?"

"It's right there beside your plate, mum."

"Oh? Yes, there it is."

Leila rapidly scribbled:

"For dear Maria, with much love from the author, Leila Hadley Luce."

She boldly underlined her signature, and I recalled decades ago, when I was her houseguest at 1160 Fifth Avenue, she told me that were I to send my editor at Esquire a note, I should do this. Why? "Because it has a motor effect on the mind of the reader. The royalty in England do it, and for good reason."

Leila handed Maria the book, then leaned back and looked up toward the ceiling. "I got the title from a poem by William Morris, the nineteenth century writer," she said. "It goes...

I know a little garden-close
Set thick with lily and red rose,
Where I would wander if I might
From dewy dawn to dewy night,
And have one with me wandering."

After a pause, she continued.

"I grew up believing that cultivating plants and flowers is an indispensable part of any good life. My grandmother, you know, was a friend of the great British garden designer Gertrude Jekyll. I was steeped in the notion that truly beautiful gardens are composed with restraint and harmony. Size and extravagance is never the point. I've cultivated gardens all over the world, from South Africa to California, but one of my favorites remains a little jungle of blue morning glories in terracotta pots on a Manhattan balcony, no larger than a bath mat..."

Maria nodded, and smiled. Was that a little tear welling and glistening in the corner of her eyes?

Sally served desert, a fruit paste encased in a flaky crust, with a small scoop of walnut ice cream. She poured us Columbian coffee from a large silver pot.

"My beautiful garden on Fishers Island," Leila said, "is a form of personal expression. Yes. A most exquisite way of communicating. And of course my need, my passion, my obsession to clearly express myself began in my childhood."

Leila then launched into a detailed, dreamy description of being at the beach when she was a toddler. She ran from her nanny to splash at the sea's edge, and fell down, and got herself trapped beneath a thick rope safety line. As the waves drew back and rolled over her head, she shrieked for help, and swallowed salt water. Her nanny, sitting upright on the clean, white, soft-sugar sand above the wrack line, knitting bag beside her on the striped beach towel, obviously thought little Leila was screaming with delight, waving simply to show off and attract attention…

I looked at Maria. She was entranced, utterly captivated by Leila's narrative, which I recognized as being nearly word for word from her book, "A Journey With Elsa Cloud." This woman, I thought, forgets absolutely nothing. Her memory is photographic. Her mind is a vast labyrinth.

"From that time forward," Leila continued, "words and communication took on an immense significance to me. There are times when I fear that I'll be cut off, unable to communicate, annihilated. My mother used to say that speech is silver, and silence is golden. Of our unspoken words we are masters, but our spoken words are masters of us."

After a few sips of coffee, Leila reached over and put her hand on Maria's. "I understand, darling, that after your brain tumor surgery you experienced episodes of amnesia."

"Yes," Maria replied. "It was very strange. For a while I didn't recognize my family. But I was still ME. I could still speak Italian. I could remember some stuff from my childhood, like going to Ventotene and Ponza. I think it all happened when I found out that my parents had lied to me all my life about who I was, where I came from."

There wasn’t a trace of anger in her voice, she was just directly and clearly answering Leila's questions. How utterly beautiful she looked in the warm, soft candle light.

“Are you artistic?" Leila asked. "Do you paint?”

Maria replied that she likes to sketch, but absolutely loves photography.

"She's got a natural and flawless sense of composition," I said. "Something that can't be taught. You either have it, or you don't."

Leila beamed. "I knew it, I just knew it. You, my darling, are an artist!"




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Lac Léman
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Lac Léman is on the north side of the Alps, shared between Switzerland and France. It is one of the largest lakes in Western Europe and the largest on the course of the Rhone.





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Ischia Porto
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Place of Worship
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Villa Arbusto, Lacco Ameno
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In the dim light of the museum of Villa Arbusto, you can't quite make out the faint scratching of a Greek inscription, made in the seventh century BCE. The cup was found broken in a grave of a teen-aged boy, unearthed in a nearby necropolis. Further information about the cup's origin, or why it was tossed into the boy's grave, is unknown.

But the scratching represents the earliest known example of written alphabetical Ionic Greek. It's a love/sex spell:

"I am the goodly cup of Nestor. Whomsoever shall drink of me, fair-crowned Aphrodite shall Immediately seize."

Seventeen years ago, Maria came into my life and opened the door to her island, and its rich history. How could I not drink deeply? And so willingly become entranced?

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Walking
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Amore
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