[Images (slideshow): “No Evil, #1 and 2 (I-40 Footbridge, Durham, NC),” by John E. Simpson.]
Among the pearls on whiskey river‘s string this week was a meditation on hope. The focus of the passage is on maintaining hope in what is often regarded as a political and cultural environment which discourages it. I’ve chosen to supplement the river‘s excerpt (marked with italics) with a bit of context from the work it comes from:
Cause-and-effect assumes history marches forward, but history is not an army. It is a crab scuttling sideways, a drip of soft water wearing away stone, an earthquake breaking centuries of tension. Sometimes one person inspires a movement, or her words do decades later; sometimes a few passionate people change the world; sometimes they start a mass movement and millions do; sometimes those millions are stirred by the same outrage or the same ideal, and change comes upon us like a change of weather. All that these transformations have in common is that they begin in the imagination, in hope.To hope is to gamble. It’s to bet on the future, on your desires, on the possibility that an open heart and uncertainty are better than gloom and safety. To hope is dangerous, and yet it is the opposite of fear, for to live is to risk.
I say all this to you because hope is not like a lottery ticket you can sit on the sofa and clutch, feeling lucky. I say this because hope is an ax you break down doors with in an emergency; because hope should shove you out the door, because it will take everything you have to steer the future away from endless war, from annihilation of the earth’s treasures and the grinding down of the poor and marginal. Hope just means another world might be possible, not promised, not guaranteed. Hope calls for action; action is impossible without hope. At the beginning of his massive 1930s treatise on hope, the German philosopher Ernst Block wrote, “The work of this emotion requires people who throw themselves actively into what is becoming, to which they themselves belong.” To hope is to give yourself to the future, and that commitment to the future makes the present inhabitable.
Anything could happen, and whether we act or not has everything to do with it. Though there is no lottery ticket for the lazy and the detached, for the engaged there is a tremendous gamble for the highest stakes right now.
(Rebecca Solnit [source])
But hope, of course, comes in many flavors — and is useful in many contexts of (potential) despair, from the global and cosmic macro to the personal micro. For instance (and not from whiskey river):
Hope is the thing with feathers
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
(Emily Dickinson [source])
…to which one observer added a Dadaist footnote:
How wrong Emily Dickinson was! Hope is not “the thing with feathers.” The thing with feathers has turned out to be my nephew. I must take him to a specialist in Zurich.
(Woody Allen [source])
[The next — longish — section of today’s post addresses the slideshow displayed above, and gets into some technicalities of photography. If you’d rather skip over that, please skip down to the section which follows it. I’ll never know!]
Thanks to a generous Christmas gift-giver (AKA The Missus), this week I acquired a new lens for my camera. It’s not an exotic thing — not a telephoto lens, not a wide-angle lens, performs no special photographic “tricks,” really… which is why this kind of lens is classified as a “normal” lens. (And yes, that’s the technical term!) Informally, it’s what’s referred to as a “nifty 50” (a reference to its focal length), and I’ve also seen it called a “walking-around lens.” I like that: the whole point of a “normal” lens is that it reproduces, roughly, what the human eye actually sees: it doesn’t bring distant objects apparently closer, and it doesn’t extend the field of vision beyond what we say we’re “looking at” at a given moment.
Weirdly, or so it may seem, I already had two lenses providing such a normal perspective. One is a zoom lens which came with the camera body: a zoom lens ranging from the moderately wide-angle to the slightly telephoto; the other, a slightly telephoto lens which has been designed with (haha) an eye towards close-up work — not quite a “macro” lens (insect eyeballs and such), but allowing me to focus on subjects less than a couple inches away. So why, then, did I decide I needed another lens in the same range?
(By the way, if you’re wondering what all this has to do with hope: hang on; there’s a connection.)
Lenses for serious-amateur and above cameras allow for control of two qualities of objects’ visibility: (1) perspective or field of view (that’s the “focal length”), and (2) how much or how little light the lens passes to the camera’s film or (in the digital-camera era) sensor. The latter quality is controlled by adjusting the size of the lens’s aperture — i.e., the little porthole through which light passes. The bigger the aperture, the more light allowed in. And the term by which aperture is measured is f-stop: the smaller the f-stop, the larger the aperture. For this new lens, the aperture can be set to any of numerous f-stops between 1.7 and 22. Which matters to me because it’s the first lens I’ve owned capable of an aperture setting below 2.8 or so.
Given all the above, you can gather, then, that I was interested in a lens which could gather more light — useful in low-light circumstances like right after sunset, say. But wide-open apertures (smaller f-stops) have one other useful feature: the ability (in certain circumstances, and thanks to the physics of light and lenses) to focus on subjects without focusing on their surroundings.
And that’s what that little slideshow above illustrates. I took the two photos within seconds of each other; for #1, I used the smallest aperture the lens afforded, and for #2 the largest. See the way #2 isolates the pipe and “No Evil” sticker, not just because it’s centered but because everything else is rendered indistinct, almost entirely featureless? (Contrast with #1, which bombards the attention with details of the chain-link fence and even of the grassy background, feet away from the railing.)
That’s what it comes down to: choice. Simple choice.
Almost 50 years ago, I took part in a marriage-counseling program with my then-Missus. Obviously, the program did not salvage our own relationship. But one of its principles has stuck with me ever since; as presented in those sessions, it was, “Love is not an emotion; love is a choice.” In less succinct terms, we cannot control what we feel (which simply results from a momentary flash-flood of one or more hormones); but we can exercise a level of control over what we do with those feelings — what happens as a result of them. We can choose.
That idea, I believe, extends to other emotions besides the tumescent bubble of sentiment and attraction commonly called “love.” If angry in the moment, for instance, we perhaps can’t control the outburst of anger which directs spiteful words at another person, at an institution, at the universe in general. But the flash flood of emotion eventually recedes. What happens next is what really counts. Do we apologize? Do we continue to stoke the resentments which triggered the emotion?
I think hope is like actual love (or anger, come to that), and I think that’s what both Rebecca Solnit and Emily Dickinson are getting at. We have a choice: we can regard the maelstrom of our daily lives in confusion, with everything at once a suitable candidate for our limited attention, skipping from one subject to the other and reacting to it separately, anxiously, the general good and pleasant and merely acceptable being shouted down by the cacophony of the background…
…or we can quickly survey the landscape, disregarding the bombastically abnormal and comfusingly stressful aspects and instead drawing, yes, hope from what remains: the things going constantly, quietly right. And as with a camera lens, the way to bring about this happy outcome is to let as much light as possible into one’s perspective at the moment.
Based on emotions though it may be, I think this is the only way to live rationally. You?
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