Coffee, Tea and Make-believe

Today is my 16th day of being in Ireland. I want to point out that during this time I have not had a single drop of coffee. Not one. Probably a record for me. Not that I'm not getting my caffeine—let's be realistic—I am. In the form of Irish tea. When in Rome…

While tea seems to be the rule, it also seems fitting. Here in the upper latitudes (+-53° N ) this time of year, the progression of light lazes through the day. Light is slow to disperse in the mornings and dissipate in the evenings. (I shot till almost 8:30 p.m. last night, albeit with a Feisol tripod. And I know the 5 a.m. atmosphere from taking my niece to the airport twice as she eventually fled the volcanic ash.) Just like the upper-latitudinal light, tea seems to distribute stimulants to my system in a similar languorous way. Instead of a jolt, it's a gentle easy progression. Don't get me wrong, sometimes a heady uppercut jolt is what I need, but this is a welcome departure from my usual wonts. I don't speak Irish (although it sounds like the greatest made-up language ever—even more than Klingon) but by regular tea I feel a speck of something that isn't the usual Slavic-Sicilian me.

Not being fussed about coffee brings me to other things I am not fussed about while in Ireland. Models. Sometimes I have them, sometimes I don't. I like having models. I am often vexed when I don't because as a lifestyle photographer they are preferred. But I can't just create a model from thin air. (Believe me, I tried making one out of scrap metal and construction tidbits lying around the Reynolds Kingdom junkyard-forest. Ridiculous.) Instead, what I did manage in a small way was to invoke human presence with some old weathered chairs that I selectively placed around the Kingdom of Reynolds.

As you can see, I am playing with invisible make-believe tea-people. You can't see them but you know they are there. This is me, in Ireland, drinking tea, playing, in the sometimes-rain.

Cork-Off-Shannon

Minotaur.

The Bull of Minos.

According to Briney Reynolds; I, one, James John Jetel, am the progeny of Pasiphae and the mythic Cretan Bull.

There is really nothing I can do to prove him wrong. However, anyone reading this may email my mother at jjetel@gmail.com . Her name is Janet.

Moving on.
I think it's time to broach the subject of Eric's physical indestructibility. I don't really know how to put this, but I watched Eric Raptosh somehow manage to appear in control of the horse dragging him by his ankle across the field in front of the Reynolds house. Yep. It was awesome, you know, once I found out he was completely unharmed. Not only completely unharmed, but he felt more "alive" after the fact.

Prior to the epic dragging, I had loaned my giant boots to the gracious and fabulous model Deirdre King. Therefore I was relegated dry, sock friendly areas. Due to my zoning, I had the privilege of being at a vantage point which expressed the sheer speed with which a horse can haul a human.

Really friggin' fast.


It's getting late here in Cork...Tomorrow I'll tell you about the Silvermine Mountains, Tipperary, and Count Yorga.

Eyjafjallajökull in Ireland

First, there is the psychic uncertainty caused by Eyjafjallajökull (AY-yah-fyah-lah-YOH-kuul)­­—the most awesome name ever for a volcano--well, glacier actually--that you never knew existed. A force majeure in spite of which Eric still found himself driving to Dublin at 5 a.m. to drop off his favorite niece to her non-existent flight to the states. (I suppose it didn't help that he stayed up till 2 a.m. watching Zombieland with his hosts.)

Then there is Fergal Harman. If Fergal were a meal he would be sharp cheddar and tabasco on rye bread with Costa Rican black coffee. He's thin as a tulip stem with dark sunken eyes. He looks strung out whether he's sober or has downed an entire bottle of champage, which, incidently, is exactly what he won singing for a competition at Dunn's Bar in Carrick while we downed Guinnesses and listened to the crowd scream-singing along to his tempered rendition of Billy Joel's "Piano Man."

People in Ireland are much too eager to work with us, so we have decided to exploit this innocence to the fullest extent before everyone starts learning better and turns on us. Wednesday we convinced James and three of his friends to tromp with us out into the woods (again with our beloved wrestler masks) to film a slo-mo walk up and around the circumference of the spruce trees. There is a simple beauty to the boys slowly winding themselves around the trees, yeilding to the branches, marking a path and a place their own. Through our forest romps, we have discovered a species of wild garlic whose leaves, piquant to the taste, can be munched on the walks between shots.

Yesterday we rented a row boat and, in perfect Viking form, JJ rowed us across Lough Key to a 12th century castle. After scouring the castle, I was reminded of the words uttered by Elizabeth Taylor in the 1966 film version of Edward Albee's "Who's afraid of Virginia Wolf," "What a dump!"  The castle, while beautiful from afar is, upon close inspection, plainly tragic.

OK, now that I've settled on the fact the temper tantrum of a certain Icelandic volcano has closed the Ireland airports entirely, I’m finding myself stranded with these harebrained, testosterone-ridden madmen for another few days or maybe many more. Good thing I have my noise-cancelling headphones, rice milk and vegan scones, for which Bernie has willfully perfected the recipie. And garlic leaves when I’m short on my allicin and diallyl sulphides or just want to spice up my pasta sauce or Irish potatoes.

Spaghetti Road to Galway

The fun continues here in Ireland as we “manhandle” the sharp turns of spaghetti roads on our journey from Carrick to Galway. Galway is a bohemian coastal town where James goes to college. On the drive west we stopped to take some shots at an old cemetery. Some gravestones had odd fishtank-like domes with whimsical religious panoramas inside them (note: whenever that day comes, Eric would like his grave fishtank-panorama-free, since algae seems to gunk up the scene quite quickly). After the cemetery we drove through downtown Galway and decided to park in a lot to grab dinner. Unfortunately, public parking in Galway seems to close at 7, so we had to get back into the car and drive to James’s dormitory to find a long term space. Once there, we got out to ask James’s roommate if it was okay to borrow his space for a few hours. Fortunately, James's roommate, Niall, is darn cute, so we felt obliged to barge in on his instant white rice and popcorn chicken student dinner to snap some stills of the Ping-Pong table in the dining room, laptop lying in the backyard, and Niall playing his guitar in the midst of all the four-boy-house post-apocalyptic chaos. This trip JJ has been filming and had the opportunity to shoot his first “music video.” After bombarding the boys’ evening (completely uninvited, of course), we hit up a chic Italian restaurant called Milano’s, which came highly recommended by the workers at Foot Locker, where we briefly stopped to see the advert photos of our friend Dave Reynolds. Eric ate a gelato chocolate cake desert we coined “Hiroshima,” which made him walk like a penguin all the way back to our parking spot at James’s. Driving on the left really burns the calories, after all. 

Carrick-on-Shannon

Well, Eric Raptosh and crew are finally here in Carrick-On-Shannon, Ireland, after two full days of uncomfortable airplane seats and over-salted peanuts. Our hosts, the Reynolds family, have graciously welcomed us into their home, the Old Rectory, which was built in 1805 and still stands two stories composed of the same stones. The Reynolds’ pony, Slowy, has worn a perfect circle of bare dirt in the front yard. Our guest house is in the backyard, overlooking a very bouncy trampoline and colorful graffiti paneling.

This morning Dave’s mom, Bernie, cooked a traditional Irish dish called “boxty”—a potato, flour, and water mixture that’s deep fried, and is wonderfully tasteful in its simplicity. After breakfast (which so far we’ve been eating between noon and one thanks to jet lag), we all headed down to the Boyle River to go bridge jumping. Eric turned this adventure into a photoshoot by convincing James and his college friends to wear wrestling masks and jump together in synchrony. The four stooges agreed all too eagerly, pretending to be Mexican wrestlers swimming across the border. In most of the photos they look like a hardcore boy band, equipped with British fortified wine and Duff beer.

After Mexican wrestler bridge jumping, Dave showed us two abandoned castles that looked like a hybrid between Fern Gully and William Henry Hudson’s Green Mansions. We explored the area despite a prominently posted “danger: keep out” sign and after a few hours of shooting came home to homemade scones and barbequed pork and sausages.

Overall, the Irish people have been unbelievably gracious, giving us directions when we’re lost, food when we’re hungry, and cooperating even when we ask them to go jump off a bridge—topless with bandit masks and blue dreadlocks, nonetheless.

Todd Cherniawsky

Todd Cherniawsky cover story. The man behind the magic in the blockbusters "Avatar" and "Alice in Wonderland" featured in the Spring 2010 Work of Arts Magazine (pgs. 12-15). Eric Raptosh Photography shot Todd in January for the feature. It was a day of creative frolic and intellectual stimulation with heady accounting about the science and research that went into Avatar. I was pleased to find out that Todd still plays with Legos (having seen a box sitting out he got for Christmas). A great day of work that felt like anything but.