three cheers for the red, white and blue

Please click below for the soundtrack to this post:



All set? Good.

So I woke up this morning - another cold, grey, wintry July day in London - and realised it's the Fourth of July. In America. Not here. Not a sign of a bar-b-que, or fireworks displays, or hot dogs or, for that matter, sunshine and swimming and celebration. And when I told my husband what day it was, and he said 'You should go out and celebrate'. I laughed, thinking he was kidding. But he was serious. 'Go see a film, or something.'




The irony is, I was meant to be in Italy, still. Where it is hot, and sunny, and in a parallel universe, that's where I am, with my friend Valeria and no doubt, members of this extended family, this tribe, that I've known since their time in NY, when many of them were young diplomats at the UN. Memories of an open air cafe on an Italian lake, watching Italy beat France in the World Cup, on a sheet hung up with the television projected on it. Valeria and I didn't have a clue what was going on, and no one had the time to tell us, but when we saw the French guy head butt the Italian guy, we figured, that had to be good for Italy. The crowd, as they say, went wild with National Pride: people cheering, fireworks going off, horns honking in the little town, the restaurant owner's wife, a little woman, lifting me up and swinging me like a pendulum, in jubilation. I felt like I had gone into an alternate reality, and was inside one of those charming foreign films.




But instead of swimming on a tropical Italian island with Valeria, she is at her friend Anna's funeral. Mourning the loss of someone she loved, and - knowing Valeria - celebrating her life. And I feel that I owe it to a woman I've never met, will never know, to treat each day that I am here as if I am a visitor. Pinching myself that my holiday to the UK has lasted over fifteen years, so far. Relishing walking in Regent's Park, in the Queen's Rose Garden, in the misty rain - the roses are incredible, thanks to this freak weather - huge ripe overblown giant things, heady, gorgeous scents - and I'm doing things, sometimes with friends, sometimes alone, sometimes with my husband - tourist things, like I did with recent family and friends visiting. And going to the Globe, seeing Henry V, made me think even more about the idea of Nationalism. Because this was all about history, about a war between England and France. Of a battle at a place called Agincourt, that resulted in terrible loss on the French side, and a marriage that united the two nations.





So I went back to my photos from the Jubilee, the flotilla on the Thames, and all the many creative ways that people wore the flag. Variations of red, white, and blue - which I always felt was uniquely American - but is not only the British flag, but also France, and then, just for fun, I looked up 'what countries have red, white and blue flags' and discovered, there at at least 28. And that includes Thailand, Samoa, Cuba, Iceland, Russia, and the Czech Republic. In fact, the only place I can find that uses MY favourite colour - aqua - is, ironically, the Bahamas. Where my family have land. Where I wish I were right now, with my father alive, swimming in warm turquoise water, with the fishes.














The truth is: I'm not especially nationalistic. I can just as easily cry watching the footballers from any country sing their national anthem before a game. There is something so deeply primitive about song, any song, but especially when people sing their country's anthem, like a prayer, it carries such emotional resonance.

So, as an ex-pat living in London, every time they sing God save the Queen, I put my hand on my heart, and sing the words I sang as a child every morning in school. I sing it loud, and I sing it proud.

And they say the Americans don't do irony.



Happy Fourth of July, to my American friends. And to my British ones, thank you, for letting us go, and moving on, and remaining our friends. For to forgive is divine.

To my friends from every other nation, let's celebrate the concept of Freedom, for which our flags stand, and think of the people in Syria, and North Korea, and anywhere in the world where the pursuit of life, liberty, and happiness, are concepts that they can only cling to, with hope.

the view from here

So much to catch up on: lovely friends and family visiting, coming and going, and the sun is finally starting to come out here in London: getting dressed this spring is a total washout. I have lost any sense of knowing what my style is, and all those dreams of overscale lace shorts and neon versus pastels.. HA! We're all just covering ourselves for survival in dreary drabby greys and hooded winter coats and raingear and things.

More shots from the Jubilee: because I never could actually SEE the flotilla - even when the crowd thinned out at one point and I was three or four back, I was still only able to follow the proceedings via the wonderful big screens - but I've got an ongoing series for you on the creative ways that people found to get their shots. Mostly employing their own kids as human tripods.

And then I noticed this sweet little child: totally oblivious to the festivities, but intently focused on something no less fascinating, I'm sure.

homage, in hermes

She stood out in the crowd, a sea of red, white, and blue, and endless variations of the British flag. In the whole day, she was the only soul I saw dressed like the Queen on a typical day - not a public day, but the type of day she no doubt loves the best - walking in nature, with her husband and her Corgis, in tweeds, Wellington boots, and her iconic Hermes scarves.

Even tho I tried, I never did see her face. But just as I snapped this shot, she turned slightly, and it was like going back in time: this glimpse seemed to me that of a shy, young Elizabeth.

honey i'm on the phone

Shot this while flitting about in the crowd along the Thames, near Albert Bridge, last Sunday while the
flotilla went by.
Kept losing my husband: thank God for cell phones. ('One is near the big tree, wearing a tiara.')

I loved the bit of orange and pink in this shot: one of my favourite colour combinations.
I like wearing pink nail varnish on one hand, orange on the other.
So many more shots to show you: last week gave me a renewed zest for street shooting.

get well wishes for the duke

I recently read that, during their early courtship, the favourite song of the young Princess Elizabeth was People Will Say We're in Love, from Oklahoma. This was, of course, before the public knew of her romance with Lieutenant Philip Mountbatten: a man for whom the word dashing seems invented for. A film that has vivid early memories for me. So the theme song for this post - more shots from the Jubilee Flotila on Sunday, is the following:

I love the image of a young princess, listening to this song in her bedroom, on a Victrola. Wanting to shout to the world that she has found her Prince Charming. But she can't: not yet. Not until other people decide if he will be suitable, the right choice. But One's heart, even the heart of a future Queen who will put duty to her nation above herself, can't always be that pragmatic. And - as tall and attractive as he is at 90, when I see the images of him in those early years, I can see why. Even my own heart skips a beat or two.

When the rain was pouring down, and the Royal Couple were with their family on the Thames Sunday, I must admit, I was worried for Prince Philip's health. Not the Queen's: even at 86, she strikes me as the sort of person who could stand for a month in a Turkish prison, without batting an eye. But last night, watching her face the end of the concert at Buckingham Palace on TV (and hearing the fireworks outside our window), I felt she was putting on a brave face, gracious and grateful for all the fuss, of course, but patiently waiting until she could be, once again, at her True Love's side.

Get well soon, Dear Duke of Edinburgh.

land of hope and glory

'When they talk about the weather,' my musician brother, (who tours with British bands) told me with authority, when I was moving here with my English husband, 'you know they're talking about so much more than that. They are telling you how they feel.' For a nation that is known for not exactly wearing their heart on their sleeves ('the problem with you, my future husband once said, is you are too much in touch with your feelings'), when the English talk about the weather, they are very much in touch with their feelings. For a small island surrounded by a cold sea, the changing mood of the weather has enormous emotional power.

And yesterday, bearing witness with my husband by the Thames in Chelsea, a short walk from home, right at the start, The Albert Bridge, the beautiful and sacred bridge we call 'my father's bridge,' watching the crowd blatantly throwing two fingers up to the skies, jubilent, I felt that this event, this Diamond Jubilee flotilla, three years in the planning, could not have been more magnificent on a blindingly sunny day. On a perfect day. This weather, this brutal wintry day in June, could not have been more perfect. As a photographer, I know that colour looks brighter against a grey sky. And the hope - the glory - that flowed through this day.. I cannot put into words. I think we were all feeling that if the Queen, an 86 year old grandmother, can stand in the rain on a boat on the Thames all this time, who are we mere mortals to complain. We all pulled up our socks, kept calm, and carried on.

Someone posted this wonderful video right after it aired on the BBC, and this is for you, Mom: because you remind me of the Queen - a bit younger, but still - and for my Dad: I wish you were here. You'd have loved it. If you can get past the broken bits in the beginning, it's worth seeing. And I'll share more posts with you over the next days: I simply couldn't choose my favourites in one post. 

There's a saying I love: if you want to make God laugh, tell Him your plans. This one day was planned three years in advance, and I applaud the organisers, for it went off without incident, as they say. And yet it was a tremendous incident indeed. I was watching the creator, whose vision it was (and I wish I knew his name!) talking with someone at the BBC at the National gallery, looking at the painting of the Caneletto that inspired this day. And yet for all the planning, the one thing they could not control were the skies. At the finale, as the fireworks went off on the Tower Bridge, the heavens opened. And as the men and women sang Land of Hope and Glory, on a boat in the pouring rain, it could not have been more perfect.

It's funny: I woke up yesterday, the day of the Queen's Diamond Jubilee, grey skies and rain and yet, in the windowsill, our first morning glory had bloomed.