Monday November 1

Chiaroscuro.

That's a great word, don't you think? Because even if you don't know what it means I think it's so much fun, the way it sort of unfolds in your mouth when you say it -- the first half gone just as your voice rises in your throat, racing to land on the long, pure "ooo" and then finishing with a flip of the tongue and a barely-there "roh."

Oh, Italian! You're so much lovelier than French, if only because your phonetic rules actually make sense.

So it was love at first sight for chiaroscuro & me. Or maybe love at first say? Either way, this is a word absorbed equally into my lexicon and into my life. After learning it's meaning - the variation of light and shade in a picture - I fell even deeper because, as anyone who takes even a passing interest in photography can tell you, a great picture is all about light and contrast. And I have more than a passing interest, to be sure. I'm no Annie Leibovitz or Ann Geddes (two ladies who, I am quite sure, have nothing more in common than this very paragraph) but I do love to see life through a lens. There's a thrill in capturing the perfect scene at the perfect time with the perfect light, and when it can be transformed into an image that transcends the time and place to speak something meaningful and true to the viewer, well... that's pretty fantastic.

I tend to view most things as pictures in one way or another. I make lists and diagrams to process what I need to do. I scanned my visual memory during those grad school exams in neuroanatomy to recall the afferent and efferent functions of the cranial nerves (and just now again to recall the terms "afferent" and "efferent."). Most recently I've created mental snapshots of the walls in my house, now blank except for a coat of fresh paint. But in my mind they are filled with beloved photos telling the story of our family, stretching across time and place but always capturing the light and shadow of each season and face. Beautiful, transcending chiaroscuro.

My only living grandmother is 96. Every year for as long as I can remember she has made, from scratch, noodles for our family's holiday meals. Until recently she would make these noodles entirely on her own, mixing flour and egg and water and salt until the dough was just right, then rolling them out and cutting them into long, thin strips with a paring knife. Batch after batch was kneaded and rolled and cut, then dried in her kitchen over the weeks the led up to Thanksgiving and Christmas until finally! The blessed day came and the stock pots came out, and all the women took turns at the stove, stirring the noodles so they wouldn't stick and sampling now and then, just to be sure they were OK. And they were always, always, OK. As I got older I'm not so sure it was the recipe as it was the time and care and effort that went into making them that made those noodles so delicious. They are precious to us, at least as much as a humble noodle can be.

Last year she found herself unable to undertake the Great Noodle Project and so my aunts, cousins and I joined my grandmother in the making of the noodles. Her 95 years of experience was parceled out to us as each required: Molly needed more egg. Beth needed a thinner round. I needed more flour on the board. Throughout the day my grandmother sat there, bewildered by our love for the process and amused with our delight in success. She pitched in, too, her gnarled hands working in the flour so we could know the right feel of the dough. And as I watched her work my mind saw the shot: 95 years of kneading, rolling, and cutting captured in her flour-dusted, arthritic hands.

This is not a prize-winning photograph. I can, but won't, point out a half-dozen flaws that an objective viewer would recognize in an instant. But to me this image summarizes so much about my grandmother and the family she raised up. There is history reflected in the light and shadows here, and I know every time I see it I will remember all the things about her that I love and honor.

That's why I took it, to always remember. I didn't need these 819 words to recall her story because to me this image says it all.

Pictures and words. They are so fun to play with, each one saturated with meaning and life. There is such joy in remembering, sharing and connecting through them. Honestly, there are few things I would rather do. It's just the shezizzle.

And I'll bet you know exactly what I mean.