In 2007, John Maloof, a young Chicago street photographer/ real estate agent in the process of writing a book about Chicago, went to an auction of objects repossessed from a storage locker whose rental had gone long unpaid.  Among the items, a large plastic bin filled with black and white negatives.  A cursory inspection revealed some images he thought were from Chicago; he thought perhaps some of the images might be useful for his book.  A bin full of celluloid objet trouve-he paid 400.00. Since that day, he has learned the images were taken by a Chicago photographer who made her living as a nanny between 1950, and the 1990’s.  He has since collected other bins, suitcases with clothes, and cameras.  Vivian Maier was a street photographer whose prodigious body of work might have passed into oblivion, but for Mr. Maloof.  Though only a small portion of her work has been scanned and viewed by Mr. Maloof, and the noted art photography historians he has consulted, there is talk in the air that Vivian Maier may be one of the mid twentieth century’s most brilliant street photographers.  The entire story?  Go to www.wimp.com.  Watch the video: January 7: Vivian Maier, Street Photographer and Nanny.

I like everything about this story.  Vivian Maier, a nanny for familes on the north shore of Chicago, was a very private woman, off duty.  On her days off, she would leave, dressed for the weather, camera in tow.  Her destination, her thoughts, her work-entirely unknown.  Mr. Maloof was so taken with the images he saw, he bought more plastic bins, suitcases-whatever he could find relating to her.  Her hats.  Her cameras.  It took lots of time for him to to even discover her name.  One employer was forthcoming about her tenure with their family-as much as they knew. There is no doubt he has become obsessed with his objet trouve.  But his treasure has become his responsibility.  There are 100,000 negatives.  He worries about how long it will take to scan them all.  He has made a considerable effort to recreate a life, and a body of work, from so many strips of film.  A 400.00 plastic bin full of negatives has shaken him up but good.

Mr. Maloof (I am spelling his name only having watched the video) might stand to profit handsomely, should the work of Vivian Maier stand and deliver, as well he should.  But for him, her work might have been put out like so much garbage.  I am not much interested in this part.  I am really interested in what I saw on his face.  What he saw in her photographs moved him.  Beyond this, I believe his passion and committment for what he never saw coming is extraordinary.  Face to face with an objet trouve of this caliber, I would only hope I would have the courage, committment and foresight to respond fiercely and seriously-as he has done.

An objet trouve does not come with directions. The video clearly expresses his worry, and angst in this regard. The chance relationship between a maker and a finder can create some high voltage.  That moment when I consider a serviceable wood box that might move on and become a container, that incredible bracket fungus that organizes a sculpture, that tree whose trunk inspires a design for a garden, the raindrops that make me hang glass drops from a tree-powerful stuff.

The work I have seen of of Vivian Maier-astonishing, and compelling.  Many of the images I have seen are portraits.  People on the street.  People in cars.  People in transit.  People in motion. People in flux.  People whose eyes meet mine. People of all ages. I plan to go to Chicago this winter to see that exhibition of her work. 

Her work is making me think so much about portraits.  The work she left behind is creating a portrait of Mr. Maloof; he seems forever changed by them. My garden has no doubt changed me, as much as I have changed it.  It is a portrait, of a sort.  Gardens have much to say about the gardener- their interests, hopes, and dreams.  What few photographs of Vivian Maier I have seen-so beautiful.

Update:  Many thanks to www.fourdogfigfarm.blogspot.com for letting me know Mr. Maloof has a website devoted to his project: www.vivianmaier.blogspot.com.

No person in their right mind would avoid the opportunity to be enchanted. I use the word opportunity loosely; it really is the wrong word.  The experience of enchantment cannot be summoned, or conjured.  If I could really demand enchantment, it would come reluctantly- sulking and muffled-as if wrapped in a wet blanket. Engineering is best applied to roads and buildings, not moments.  I have always thought the French word “enchante” was as much a spontaneous expression of surprise as it is a gesture of appreciation.  Do you agree?  One cannot foresee an enchanted moment or experience; it is the spontaneous gift of another. It more often than not is the unintended gift of another. More than once I have given a gift, sure that it would enchant.  The very moment I am sure it will enchant, my gift souffle is doomed to crumple and fall flat.  Other gifts I thought bordered on a big bunch of nothing were received as if they had an energy supply all their own. Funny, that.  To paraphrase JB Priestly, the first fall of snow is not just an event, it is a magical event.  One goes to bed in one world, and wakes up in another. 

Anyone who gardens understands this.  We all know the snowdrops bloom here in March, but to suddenly and unexpectedly see the snowdrops in bloom is enchanting.  Some springs I am unexpectedly awakened by birds singing-that singing is so powerful, given its long absense. A gift-that sure singing sign that winter is over. Though nicotiana alata lime is my most favorite annual flower, I am perennially shocked by the beauty of the first blooms.  And the last blooms.  A gangly 5 foot tall Venus dogwood I planted on a lark in a client garden in 2005 knocks me over and out- on a chance June visit in 2010; I had never seen any tree flower like this.  The clematis hybrid Sho-Un, clumsily planted in heavy clay and shade early in my 20’s gardening life, bloomed intermittently, and continuously that entire summer.  That heliotrope blue was unforgettable.  I bought a one way ticket; that enchanting experience made me a gardener. For years, the space I devoted to my parrotia grove makes me wonder what I was thinking.  In 2008, all of a sudden I noticed the thick and curving trunks, and the bark dramatically exfoliating.  The science of the maturation of trees was not on my mind-just the magic.  Just as I was about to pull out every shred of herniaria in my front gardens, the weeds disappeared.  No more verbena bonariensis seedlings.  No more crabgrass. No more poa grass.  No more oxalis.  No more dead spots.  That all my troubles disappeared by magic-enchanting. Not that I believe solely in the magic part-it was a gift.  From whom, I cannot say.  But most gardening days I go to bed in one world, and wake up in another.

This late summer , there were sightings at the shop.  A woman unbeknownst to any of us, coming to the shop on Sunday mornings, setting up props, and photographing.  One Sunday, the police called.  I drove over.  She had set up a dressmaker’s form in a limestone pot.  On the form, a stole trimmed in fake fur, child-sized.  A hat, and a fake fur muff.  I asked her if I could help her; we talked.  Though she had a job at a dress shop, she designs and hand makes beautiful princess dress clothes for young women.  They were beautifully executed.  Her Sunday forays to the shop-she wanted to photograph her work with that garden in the background.  I saw no problem with that; we parted on friendly terms.  Just last week, she unexpectedly comes to the shop with a giant box of Christmas cookies.  But it was the letter that was enchanting.  It was all about her passion to make clothes for young people.  Every stitch supported her argument; this I already knew.  But she wrote me compellingly about how the shop garden enchanted her.   She believed her work would be endowed with the magic with which she sought to create them-photographed in front of the shop.    She was so pleased I had listened to her, and agreed. One never knows how much the simplest response can mean to another. It was a gift I never had any intention of giving.

My blood family consists of a brother Pete, and his wife, Tine. That Tine-she is an angel. For as long as she has known Pete, she has been so exceptionally good to me.  When they lived here, I had an invitation to dinner every single Sunday.  She took it upon herself to sort out some accounting problems for me-she is a CPA.  She would stop by for no reason, bring me things for no reason. They moved to Aspen some years ago-that was tough for the both of us. Her love at my back enchants my life.

She sent me, among other things,  a Christmas ornament of the Eiffel Tower.  It took my breath away.  That is to say, this ornament inexplicably enchanted me.  I hung it up, and took lots of photographs.  I haver been thinking about this gift for the better part of two days; I have never been to Paris. She says, should I have a mind to, she will go with me.  This further enchants me. I am thinking I might go to Paris.

For me, the lesson of the holiday is simple.  Give what you can.  Good things can come of that.  You never know what gesture that you might make that could resolve itself in enchantment for all. There is always the chance you will go to bed in one world, and wake up in another.  This day after Christmas, thanks to a gift from Tine, I am thinking about Paris.

I have never posted any pictures in a Sunday opinion post before.  I like the chance to just muse and type.  But today it seems important to talk about my friends, and show pictures of what they have done for their holiday. It is unforgettably inspired.  Buck and I had drinks last Thursday night with very good friends.  You know that really good kind of friend.  You can forget to show up on the right night (we did)-no harm, no foul.  The second you are in the door, the conversation flies fast and furious.  Should you have not seen them in a while, that physical interruption matters not one bit.  The exchange is personal, direct, intense, and above all-accepting. 

 We have another connection; for many year’s I did work for my friend’s father-mostly at the holidays.  She lost her Dad not so long ago.  The loss of a parent-there is never a good time.  It is agonizingly painful beyond all belief.  There may be making peace with the loss, given enough time-but there is no getting by it.  One could go blind from it.  I know, having lost a Mom I so loved-it has been eight years.  I can think about her often, and not cry-but for the holidays. 

 Buck and I went to the side door-friends do that.  A lit tree outside the French doors welcomed us.  Their good friend foyer is really a music room-I would call it a space into which I am ushered, and encouraged to shed the cares of the day.  Having done so, I am drawn to the mantel; she explains.  Her family is Swedish.  There is a history there that is important-especially important, this holiday.  The candelabra dates back to a great grandfather.  The reindeer figures have been collected for generations.  This mantel speaks to and celebrates that family history of hers. The loss of her father means a holiday of a different sort this year.      

I decorate homes for the holidays both inside and out.  That work seems to pale in comparison with my friend’s visual discussion of the holiday and family history sitting on this mantel-as well it should.  Anyone who has lost someone they love deeply understands what it means to be set adrift in the dark without a map.  The mantle so rich with history is flanked by a short and substantial Christmas tree-the crystal tree.  My friend has been collecting, and given by friends, crystal holiday ornaments for many years.  That glass spills over onto the piano.  This is her tree, set in the context of her history.  This room dressed for the holidays is so so very beautiful, for all that it means, for every question it asks. Lacking answers, the decoration for the holidays says hello.  There is celebration in the truest sense of the word here.  A family celebrating Christmas in a very personal way.  

For many years, I stood a cut Christmas tree in a stout steel stand, dripping in all manner of lights, on the rear terrace of my client.  I will say I only saw that tree in the shop-I never saw it in place, and ablaze with light.  My friend tells me her father spent lots of time in his kitchen this past winter, with a view of that tree.   She asked if I could take his lights, and recreate that tree in her garden; this we did.  She wanted me to see that tree.  I had no idea how badly I needed to see that tree-so many thanks, BW.  I work very hard to make the holidays of others more festive and beautiful-but the moment I saw this tree I realized that sometimes I make a difference.  Learning what this tree meant to him, and now seeing what it means to her, made my heart shine. 

From upstairs, her father’s tree lights the landscape.  His tree lights this night beautifully. I am thinking so much about those gestures gardeners manage to make for the better.  There are things that irritate me, but this tree makes most of that seem irrelevant.  I so like the hope and forward thinking energy a garden provides. My garden moves me.  Most days, it encourages me to still my complaints, and go on.  This tree glowing-I get the message.  It is keeping someone I care about very much a certain kind of much needed company.  The holidays provide a way for all of us to say thanks.      

From BW’s bedroom, the landscape is illuminated in a very special way.  I can tell she is not sleeping well.  I cannot in any way help her with her grief.  Though I long to help her, her grief is hers alone.  That I was able to bring her father’s tree to her-all her idea and doing-not mine.  Her vigil is a lonely one, but she took the time and effort to invite me to see it, and explain what a comfort it is to her.  Thanks again, BW.  Her landscape lighted so softly and beautifully for the winter-understand this.  A landscape-no matter its configuration-a beautiful landscape makes for a better life.

BW took me to her daughter’s room to look out the window on her father’s tree.  I was in no way prepared for what I saw.  This may be the most beautiful holiday expression I have ever seen.  BW tells me she decorated her daughter’s room for the holidays like this in celebration of her return from her first year quarter in college.  And ever since.  A truly heart felt expression of love like this-beautiful beyond words.