#john turnley

[yahoonewsphotos]

PHOTOS: ‘Peter Turnley —  Refugees’

Over the last 30 years, renowned photojournalist Peter Turnley has covered most of the world’s significant conflicts, including the 1991 Gulf War, the Balkans, Somalia, Rwanda, South Africa, Chechnya, Haiti, Israel-Palestine, Indonesia, Afghanistan, Kosovo and the 2003 Iraq War.

One of his ongoing projects documents refugee populations around the world, people forced to flee the untenable conditions of violence, homelessness and starvation such upheavals inflict. Turnley’s work draws attention to the suffering and injustices that exist, while also highlighting moments of inspiration and beauty.

His photographs have been featured in numerous publications around the world including, Newsweek, The London Sunday Times, Le Monde and National Geographic.

“Peter Turnley: Refugees,” an exhibition from the Bates College Museum of Art permanent collection, is on view through March 23, 2019.

Photography by Peter Turnley, Bates College Museum of Art, Gift of John and Claudia McIntyre)

See more photos of “Peter Turnley —  Refugee” and our other slideshows on Yahoo News.

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[comradeocean]

On the UFF (Ulster Freedom Fighters) attempt to assassinate Bernadette Devlin-McAliskey on 16 January 1981

[source, via]

Blindboy: So – what was it like being shot nine times? Bernadette Devlin-McAliskey: It was interesting. It was interesting. And it’s funny that I can talk about that much more easily than I can talk about that memory, you know, that memory of Bloody Sunday is more traumatic for me than the time that I was shot. And I think it was because, you know, as we were saying, it’s because I didn’t see Bloody Sunday coming. I didn’t see the 5th of October coming. But by the time people came to our house and kicked the door in and held my two daughters, one at that time four and the other nine, at gunpoint while their parents were shot I knew they were coming, if you know what I mean? I didn’t know they were coming then. But Miriam Daly had been shot. John Turnley had been shot. Noel (Lyttle) and Ronnie Bunting had been shot. And we knew that the penalty for defending the rights of prisoners, the human rights of prisoners, was putting civil rights and human rights campaigners in the firing line and we kept on doing it and that’s why I was saying to you the question is nearly not: What did it feel like to be shot? But was: Since you knew at some point the penalty for doing this was that we were going to be shot. And John McMichael went on television and said we would be shot. So when the people came to our door it was, for us, a day that was always coming and because you understood the context of what was happening I think, for us, the trauma was somewhat less – I mean the emotional trauma afterwards not the physical trauma of it – than for people who got caught up in a bomb or something and didn’t know what was going to happen to them. But what it was I was shot nine times. And again, the real point of this is: The UDA (Ulster Defence Association) just didn’t decide to come to our house. It was part of a campaign that they had been involved in. The British Army and the RUC (Royal Ulster Constabulary) knew they were coming, on the day they were coming and the time they were coming. And they let that happen. They let that go ahead. And after we were shot and left to die on the floor of our own house and our children there the soldiers that I spoke to going home, going into my house that night – and I know why I was shot: The hunger strike had ended after Christmas, the whatever deal was not done – and that’s a whole new story – but it was clear that within the prison itself Bobby Sands and others were unhappy with what had happened – this deal that was supposed to be done didn’t materialise and that there was going to be another hunger strike. And I, in fact, was coming from an H-Block meeting that was discussing this problem and fear and what we would do if it happened. And I almost knew that it was going to be my turn to be shot because I was the PR and I was good at what I was doing so the key person to take out of the equation before the next hunger strike started had to be me. And we were taking precautions at home because of that. But when I came home from that meeting, and I live in the country, pulled my wee car up very close to the wall because it was a frosty night, I could see the soldiers and I spoke to them and I said: Have you no homes of your own to go to? That’s what I said to them. Have you no homes of your own to go to – lying out there outside decent people’s houses? And I can still see their wee eyes peeping up at me and their camouflaged faces but nobody spoke. And I went in, and you know it was about one o’clock in the morning, really cold night and I said to Michael: Soldiers are lying outside our house. Now we lived in, we live in the bog, we lived in the moss, it was up a long lane and an isolated place. And then I got into bed and went to sleep. And the next morning – and there are things, you know, there’s a touch of terrible humour in the midst of tragedies, but when we look back on it sometimes we have to laugh at the chaotic nature of it – but Michael heard the car coming and pulling up right behind mine and he looked out the window and he saw the three men getting out of the car and coming round the front of the house and one of them had the sledgehammer. So he’s shouting at me to get up, get up – they’re outside the house. I don’t like being wakened and I’m not really good at this and I’m saying: I know! (You know what it’s like?) I told you that last night! ‘Cause I thought he was talking about the soldiers. Because he was saying: Get up! Get up! They’re outside the house! He was talking about those men but I thought he was talking about the soldiers I saw. So what really woke me up was the sound of the sledgehammer hitting the front door which bounced the door open and the first gunshots were fired then through the hall door at Michael who was trying to hold it shut and then they came – Smallwoods stood and held my two daughters, Róisín and Deirdre, in their bed at gunpoint. Róisín was the older of the two. She got the younger one into her bed with her and covered her head up so that she couldn’t see what was happening and she kept, I remember her saying in her statement, she kept watching the gunman so – the funny thing I did that myself, that kind of belief that if you’re looking the people in the face they’re not going to do anything to you – and then Smallwoods was doing that and watching them. Graham – it was like a firm of solicitors when you heard of them in the court: Watson, Smallwoods and Graham – they came on in and Michael tried to draw them into the kitchen and he was shot there. And then Watson came into the bedroom and I had just lifted Fintan, who was the youngest, and I realised when I lifted him: If I’m shot he’ll be shot, too. So then I had to throw him – he was only a toddler, he wasn’t two – and it was just as I threw the child away that Watson came in very close behind me and I think he was startled by the fact that I was standing up with my back to him so close to him because he fired straightaway – and I can still remember in slow-motion each place I was hit and how I fell back. And not that it’s a comfort to people but, you know, and I’ve told people who have had relatives killed and whatever little comfort that is that I was totally aware of the impact of being hit and I could smell the gunfire, I had a very strong sense of smell and vision – I could see the blue light of the flashes of the gun and I knew I was being hit – but I couldn’t feel the pain. And I didn’t feel any pain until I was actually being trundled across on a trolley from the helicopter to the military hospital and that was about, must have been about a good hour later. But while we were lying, they shot us and they walked – now they were roaring and shouting when they put the door in and came into the house – but they walked out casually like you’d walk out of a pub. And just when they walked out I heard the English voices saying: Put your hands against the wall. And at that minute I thought it was the soldiers who killed us. I’m still thinking, I saw these soldiers and I thought that a neighbour had heard the shooting and come over and I was waiting to hear more shots to hear the neighbour being killed. But I heard a gun drop and I knew a gun had been dropped on the bonnet of my car and a voice said: Fuck this for a double-cross! Now I believe that that voice was Andrew Watson’s. That’s that who said that. So the Army arrested people who did not expect to be arrested. And then the guys came in and they were Paratroopers and they ran away again, and they put up a flare and Argyll and Southern Highlanders came and administered first aid and then Hew Pike, the Chief of the Paras (Parachute Regiment), gave a press conference on our front street and we – you know, Hew Pike, head of the Paras, never went to give a press conference for anybody else that was shot in Northern Ireland – and Michael and myself were taken to Musgrave Military Hospital and we remain the only two non-combatants who weren’t British soldiers in the whole of The Troubles to have been taken directly to the military hospital. And the reason for that was because we didn’t die – and nobody knew what we knew or what anybody else knew – or what had happened and, much like Bloody Sunday, until the Army got its story straight everybody had to be controlled. And we’re still looking for the truth of who ‘up there’ – you know, never mind Watson, Smallwoods and Graham were found guilty, pleaded guilty, and did their stint – but the real culprits, the same as Bloody Sunday, the same as the people who ran special agents, were ‘whoever’ – in British military and British politics and British Intelligence – were playing poker with the lives of people in this country for forty years.

[caveartfair]

The Daily Routines of 10 Women Artists, from Joan Mitchell to Diane Arbus

Artists’ lives are unpredictable. It’s nearly impossible to guess when inspiration will strike, when a check will arrive in the mail, or when a curator will propose an exhibition. Rituals, whether they’re carefully chosen, superstitious, or compulsive, can help artists cope with such uncertainties.

The 19th-century painter Rosa Bonheur, for example, kept over 60 caged birds in her bedroom. Her mornings began as her pets trilled, then she fed them. Her animal-related routines (she also kept lions, wild sheep, and boars) didn’t just introduce regularity and companionship into her life—they offered great fodder for her canvases. “The real purpose of this extensive menagerie was to give Bonheur plenty of subjects for her paintings, and to allow her to work from her estate without having to make the rounds of farms, stockyards, animal markets, and horse fairs,” writes Mason Currey in his new book, Daily Rituals: Women at Work (2019).

Throughout the volume, Currey details the rituals—from the salutary to the detrimental—of 143 creative female spirits. While the author offers such enticing tidbits as designer Elsa Schiaparelli’s predilection for lemon juice and water at breakfast and writer Isabel Allende’s superstitious practice of beginning each new book on January 8th, we’ve culled details on how 10 major painters, sculptors, photographers, and performance artists have infused their days with both customs and quirks.

Louise Nevelson

Portrait of Louise Nevelson in her New York City studio, 1983. Photo by Jack Mitchell/Getty Images.

Louise Nevelson, famous for her boxy, jet-black sculptures, had no time to fuss over her meals or outfits. According to Currey, the sculptor could make around 60 artworks in a year. By the 1950s, she had amassed nearly 900 pieces in her Manhattan townhouse. To make room for the work, Nevelson even used her bathtub for storage space. In her autobiography, she wrote: “I wear cotton clothes so that I can sleep in them or I can work in them—I don’t want to waste time.…Sometimes I could work two, three days and not sleep and I didn’t pay any attention to food, because…a can of sardines and a cup of tea and a piece of stale bread seemed awfully good to me.”

Her flamboyance was a late-in-life luxury. Nevelson didn’t receive major acclaim until she was nearly 60 years old, when, in 1958, the Museum of Modern Art included her work in the major 1959–60 show “Sixteen Americans.” The exhibition situated her sculpture among works by Jasper Johns, Ellsworth Kelly, Frank Stella, and other midcentury luminaries. Nevelson finally livened up her sartorial selections, becoming famous for elaborate headscarves and jewelry—all the better to complement her thick mink eyelashes.

Frida Kahlo

Frida and Diego, Mexico, 1935. Leo Matiz Bentley Gallery

Frida Kahlo’s famously tempestuous relationship with fellow artist Diego Rivera distracted her from painting. And between carrying out affairs with Leon Trotsky, roving around the United States to accommodate Rivera’s new artistic commissions, and contending with lifelong pain from an early streetcar accident, Kahlo faced many other upheavals.

Yet the artist’s biographer, Hayden Herrera, described how Kahlo occasionally achieved a modicum of regularity: “When all was well between Frida and Diego, the day usually began with a long, late breakfast in Frida’s house, during which they read the mail and sorted out their plans—who would need the chauffeur, which meals they would eat together, who was expected for lunch,” Herrera wrote. Afterwards, Kahlo retreated to her studio or socialized with friends. Towards the end of her life, the artist was bedridden. Only then did her painting practice become more regular, as it offered her a respite from her afflictions.

Margaret Bourke-White

Midcentury photojournalist Margaret Bourke-White was so intrepid in her war coverage that her peers nicknamed her “Maggie the Indestructible.” From the Soviet Union to Germany and from India to the American Midwest (where the Dust Bowl raged), Bourke-White captured trauma and conflict for publications such as Fortune and Life. For her achievements, history remembers her as the first female war correspondent.

Such a description belies Bourke-White’s significantly structured domestic life. When she was home in Darien, Connecticut, she went to bed at 8 p.m. and rose at 4 a.m. She often wrote and slept outdoors, enjoying solitude as she isolated herself from others. When another Life photographer, Nina Leen, asked her to lunch, she recalled that Bourke-White told her “she was writing a book and there was no hope of a lunch for several years.”

Agnes Martin

Agnes Martin, 1993. Timothy Greenfield-Sanders Hiram Butler Gallery

After she left New York for New Mexico in the late 1960s, Agnes Martin eschewed socializing, plumbing, and electricity for uninterrupted studio time. She described her painting, in part, as a way to escape her psychiatric troubles—namely, schizophrenia. Her friend in New Mexico, Donald Woodman, recalled that “she had to quiet…voices [in her head] in order to reach the core of what she wanted to paint, which took an incredible act of will.”

Martin established regularity in her life by wearing coveralls, reading murder mysteries, maintaining a vegetable garden, and occasionally dining with Woodman. For dinner, she’d assemble unusual meals from eggs, peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches, packaged meats, and whatever crop she was growing that year. For Martin, ritual wasn’t just a means of making work, but of triumphing over her illness.

Andrea Zittel

Martin is hardly the only creative personality to disown city life for more tranquil environs. American artist Andrea Zittel famously escaped Brooklyn to relocate to the California desert in 2000. In Joshua Tree, she established a communal complex for artists called A-Z West. In her own practice, she often produces functional objects, from clothing and furniture to sorting trays and camper trailers.

“Because of the extreme climate—with summer highs surpassing 100 degrees Fahrenheit and winter lows slipping below freezing—Zittel’s morning routine shifts with the season,” writes Currey. In the summer, she wakes up with an early hike, chicken-feeding, chore-completion, and meditation—all before breakfast. In the winter, Zittel delays her hike until the cool evening temperatures have dissolved. “Having a pattern helps ensure that you fit everything into a limited amount of time,” Zittel has said, “but too much of a pattern and you get stuck.”

Joan Mitchell

Photo by David Turnley/Corbis/VCG via Getty Images.

Famous for her lyrical, abstracted landscapes, Joan Mitchell had one particular bad habit: heavy, indiscriminate drinking. Yet some of her rituals were more benign. She once described her late-in-life daily routine to an art critic: lunch at 1 p.m., a crossword puzzle, and listening to “shrink programs,” in which “people call up with their problems, and that sort of makes you feel better you don’t have that problem,” she explained.

And Mitchell, indeed, suffered her own psychological setbacks. She experienced depressive episodes, and retained a psychiatrist, Edrita Fried, throughout her life. Her studio became a haven from her difficulties, and Currey recounts that she was once hesitant to even let in a plumber. In private, Mitchell could be vulnerable, open, and free.

Alma Thomas

In 1972, the Whitney Museum of American Art granted its first-ever solo exhibition of an African-American woman to 80-year-old artist Alma Thomas. After spending decades quietly painting and teaching at public schools in Washington, D.C., to earn a living, she certainly deserved it.

Thomas was so driven that she opted to never marry or have children. “A woman simply can’t do justice both to a family and to art. She has to choose which she wants,” Thomas said. Instead, she visited art museums and galleries, and painted in her kitchen or living room. Ultimately, she left a brood of vibrant canvases for posterity.

Tamara de Lempicka

Tamara de Lempicka, 1948. Willy Maywald "Willy Maywald. Photographer and Cosmopolitan. Portraits, Fashion, Photoreports" at Museum für Fotografie, Berlin (2015)

Unlike most of the artists on this list, Tamara de Lempicka opted to give both art and motherhood a try—yet she was hardly the stay-at-home type. In 1918, she and her husband, Tadeusz, fled St. Petersburg (and the raging Bolshevik Revolution) for Paris. She enjoyed the city and used it as inspiration. Her husband helped her care for their daughter: Lempicka fed Kizette in the morning and evening, using the rest of the day and night to paint and party. She enjoyed the city’s cabarets, operas, and nightclubs. “Lempicka preferred pellets of hashish dissolved in sloe-gin fizzes or, her very favorite, hits of cocaine sniffed from a miniature silver teaspoon,” writes Currey. Afterward, she’d indulge in extramarital affairs with men and women, students and sailors.

These rituals were hardly damaging to Lempicka’s practice. After she arrived home, she painted until nearly breakfast. Then she started her days, and her family life, anew.

Bridget Riley

British Op artist Bridget Riley sticks to a specific studio ritual: She begins each artwork as a preliminary drawing, attempting various sketches before settling on a final composition. “You have to build up a working routine—you have to be able to surprise yourself and, above all, to make mistakes,” she once said. She believes that if she gets bored with a particular work, that signified an artistic misstep. She employs assistants to actualize many of her concepts on canvas, which helps her gain some separation from her paintings. Riley’s eye-popping canvases of black-and-white curves, colorful stripes, and scattered polka dots are all testaments to her working methods.

Marisol

Portrait of Marisol, 1969. Jack Mitchell El Museo del Barrio

Self Portrait, 1973. Marisol Escobar Heritage Auctions

The glamorous Venezuelan artist Marisol maintained a movie-star mystique appropriate for the Warhol era. Throughout the mid-1960s, she created sculptures and prints inspired by Pop and folk art—creating larger-than-life wooden figures of the Kennedy family, a riff on the nativity scene, and a silkscreen playing on Coca-Cola advertisements, among other works.

In 1965, the New York Times introduced Marisol’s daily rituals to the world. She woke around noon, ate ham and eggs for breakfast, purchased her mixed-media art materials, worked in her studio throughout the evening, and then partied—often with Warhol himself. That’s not to say that she was especially social, in the typical sense. “At openings and parties, Marisol was notorious for her silences; many friends and acquaintances recalled spending hours with the artist without her uttering a word,” Currey writes. While she was shy, she was also uninterested in what most people had to say. She preserved conversational energy for her work, communing with her objects instead.

Diane Arbus

Diane Arbus, "Love-In", Central Park, New York City, 1967. Garry Winogrand Fraenkel Gallery

The strangeness of Diane Arbus’s portraits perhaps reflects the artist’s own inner eccentricities—which she hid well. “‘A photograph,’ Arbus said, ‘is a secret about a secret.’ And Arbus loved secrets,” Currey writes. According to photographer Deborah Turbeville, Arbus would reveal information about herself and encourage her subjects to divulge their own private tales.

Compulsive sex was Arbus’s own clandestine ritual. According to Currey, she often slept with her subjects or propositioning strangers. Threesomes, vehicular intercourse, and even incest became part of her repertoire (she told her psychiatrist that she regularly bedded her brother, Howard). In both art and coitus, then, Arbus sought human multiplicity and oddness.

from Artsy News

[markerhunter]

Missouri's Marines and their abbreviated service

Missouri’s Marines and their abbreviated service

Early this week I used an entry from the ordnance summaries, second quarter of 1863 to introduce the Mississippi Marine Brigade.  That unit is often associated with Missouri, if for nothing else a lack of proper place to put the records.  Though there was a recruiting focus on the river towns of Missouri.

Before leaving the subject of marines and Missouri, I’d be remiss without mentioning there…

[carlturnley]

A History of Formula One Racing

Check out Carl Turnley’s latest blog post!

Formula One racing uses the fastest one-seater cars developed for road racing, deriving most of their speed from the fact that they can take corners with immense speed and create aerodynamic push that further bolsters their velocity. All vehicles in Formula One races must follow a set of standards first devised in 1946 before several revisions.

These 1946 standards led into the first Formula One events, namely the 1950 race at Pau in southwest France and subsequent world championship at Silverstone. From there, interest was piqued, and seasons started in earnest – the big developments in this era were mostly derived from alterations to the vehicle models.

Early races saw domination by Italian manufacturers like Alfa Romeo and Ferrari, and although the former managed to outspeed the competition during the 1950 season, Ferrari soon developed a new methodology that gave them a massive advantage over the competition.

Enzo Ferrari realized that increasing the engine power of their super-cars would mean lowered fuel efficiency, and that the resulting time spent refueling would ultimately neutralize any advantage from their more powerful cars. As a result, he equipped the Ferrari Formula One team with V12 4.5-litre 375s that saw nearly four times the miles per gallon and decreased pit time hugely.

Things changed again in 1958 when Stirling Moss breezed across the finish line in the 1958 Argentine Grand Prix, marking the first major win by a driver whose engine was mounted behind the driver’s seat. The British had realized that rear-mounted engines could give their cars better handling and weight, putting them at a sizable advantage over the formerly titanic Italian teams.

Dozens of minor alterations and changes to the platform continued until the late 1960s, when a new issue arose – the ever-growing speeds at which drivers moved meant that crashes were often fatal, and safety became more of a focus than it ever had before. Changes to the supercars led to better handling and more focus on protecting drivers.

Over the next several decades, titans rose and titans fell – names like Niki Lauda, James Hunt and John Watson proved their skill on the road and made Formula One racing a titan of world entertainment.

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