Ansel Adams

by Ansel Adams

  We returned to the house and I fixed hot toddies, which we drank by the fire. My father was dazed, but I am sure he was also relieved. I had a peculiar sad joyousness that I could not share with anyone. For many years my mother had lived but half a life, mentally and socially, a life that brought little pleasure to her or to anyone.

  I went the next day to finalize the funeral arrangements. I was welcomed with a hushed bow and, “We are, of course, here to serve you in all possible ways. Please be seated.” In proper time a portly character in semiformal clothes, face molded in unction, entered the waiting parlor and asked, “Now, Mr. Adams, what may we do for you and your family?” I explained the desire of my father and myself for the most simple service and accessories. He asked me to come to the casket room and pick out what my mother would have wanted. I told him I desired the simplest and cheapest box in the room. Cremation was to follow; why burn up furniture? I passed by the samples he showed me, beginning with the eight-thousand-dollar model and selected a two-hundred-sixty-dollar affair that seemed the least I could purchase without doing the job myself (gruesome thought).

  The undertaker appeared to be shocked and said, with an arched expression, “Have you no respect for the dead?”

  I was, for one of the few times in my life, furious. I said, “One more crack like that and I will take Mama elsewhere.” She was already embalmed in icy grayness upstairs.

  “Very well,” he replied, “Mr. Adams, please pick the casket easiest for you and we shall proceed.” Icicles draped the establishment, its people, and me.

  It was like buying an automobile. The accessories inflated my mother’s final splurge in which I was trapped. Credit was discreetly arranged. The butler of death gave me a scornfully hostile adieu, and I went to greet some friends and distant relatives who had come to pay last respects to an effigy that was definitely not my mother. The distressingly mannered “slumber room” made me want to grab what was left of her and escape to any place where there was some life and fresh air. The assembled group talked in conspiratorial whispers, attempting a mood of awe, but there was nothing to feel awed about.

  The funeral took place two days later: a depressing event with a poor organist and a nitwit minister. A large number attended the affair; people came out of the social woodwork for the occasion. After the remains were viewed, those who were to go to Cypress Lawn Cemetery for the “fireside” services assembled and two limousines followed the hearse in a slow and stately processional, commanding the flow of traffic as is the privilege of the dead. In the chapel adjacent to the crematory, the casket, smothered with flowers, was mumbo-jumboed over and then, with surprising efficiency, wheeled through the open doors into the blazing furnace. The doors closed.

  We rejoined the cars and were returned home at almost illegal speed. Our driver said goodbye in the first normal-toned voice we had heard that day. The house was not really lonely, only different. We went for a drive to Land’s End where we could see and feel the healing beauty and power of the sun and sea and the distant hills. It took me much longer to get over the affront of the Death Business than the death itself.

  One of the bright moments of my father’s life was the award of the Bruce Medal by the Astronomical Society of the Pacific. It was totally unexpected; my father was not an astronomer but was devoted to the subject and this prestigious society to which he gave so much of his time. I wish my father could have lived several decades more to observe the vast expansion of cosmic knowledge and the discovery of billions of galaxies, worlds without end. I remember him explaining to me the LaPlace theory of the spiral nebulae, which were supposed to be solar systems in formation, huge configurations of gas condensing into a sun and attendant planets. So obvious and so clean cut! And so wrong, for spectroscopic research revealed these spiral forms as vast masses and eddies of billions of stars at incomprehensible distances.

  My father survived for little over a year after my mother’s death. He made a good adjustment to the loss but suffered disintegrating health. His infirmity was old age. He became weaker and was finally unable to leave his bed. I rented a TV set in an attempt to interest and orient him. One day he called me into his room. He was watching a bevy of smiling chorines toothfully singing while looking directly at the viewer. My usually immaculate father was unshaven, sitting up in an old robe. He asked me in all embarrassed seriousness, “Ansel, can they see me?”

  Harry Oye had worked for us for many years as gardener and cook. He gave warm support to everyone. A devout Nicheran Buddhist, Harry put on his religious robes, set up a little altar, lit some candles, and silently sat by my father throughout his last hours. As Harry silently prayed, I held my father’s hand. My father’s breathing became more rapid and shallow and then he trembled with the slight shiver of death. The room was silent and his face peaceful. He died on August 9, 1951.

  We held a simple service at home with soft choral music by Frescobaldi and a minister who was human and wise. My father’s ashes rest in the family plot at Cypress Lawn, as do Harry Oye’s. While far more bearable than my mother’s funeral, such ceremonies are completely inadequate in relation to the significance of the person. The most moving event of my father’s death was the presence of Harry Oye in his beautiful ceremonial robe, the symbol of the lighted candles, the ever-present wisdom of Buddha, and his quiet benediction.

  5.

  Yosemite

  WHEN I WAS TWELVE, I CONTRACTED MEASLES AND was put to bed for two weeks with the shades drawn to protect my eyes. My father read to me when he came home from the office. My mother and Aunt Mary fluttered around, commiserating and annoying, though with the best of intentions.

  The spaces between the shade and the top of the windows in my bedroom served as crude pinholes, and vague images of the outer world were projected on the ceiling. When anyone moved outside to the east, the highly diffuse image would move along to the west above me. It took me quite a time to understand this phenomenon; it was my first inquiry into the complex structure of image formation. My father explained it and I then grasped the theory of the camera lens and why the picture was upside-down on the film. He opened his Kodak Bullseye camera, placed a piece of semitransparent paper where the film usually resides, set the shutter on open, pressed the button, and voilà—a camera obscura! This effect had been observed for thousands of years, yet it was not until 1826 that photography began with an image that was actually preserved by the Frenchman Nicéphore Niepce.

  My Uncle Will brought me his old microscope, a dignified contraption of brass with a few accessories. My father gave me some slides, slide covers, and a tube of balsam. I made a lot of microscope slides, including one of a flea that I photographed several years later. I had great pleasure and successful therapy in this exploration.

  In 1915, the family began planning a vacation for the early summer of 1916, destination uncertain. My Aunt Mary flatly declined to come with us, wherever we went, because there would be no one to care for the cat. This was a sore point with my father, who felt she was a bit irrational about the animal, as a neighbor had offered to care for it. This particular cat was a suave, black individual who took every arrogant opportunity to be lord of the house.

  In April 1916, I was in bed again, this time with a cold. Aunt Mary gave me her copy of In the Heart of the Sierras by J. M. Hutchings, published in 1886. I became hopelessly enthralled with the descriptions and illustrations of Yosemite and the romance and adventure of the cowboys and Indians. The text is florid, commonplace, and not too accurate, but I did not know that—I devoured every word and pored over the pages many times. The following quote from In the Heart of the Sierras was written by Dr. Lafayette Bunnell in 1851, who was a member of the first expedition of “white men” to “discover” Yosemite.

  It has been said that “it is not easy to describe in words the precise impressions which great objects make upon us.” I cannot describe how completely I realized this truth. None but those who have visited this most wonderful valley, can even imagine t
he feelings with which I looked upon the view that was there presented. The grandeur of the scene was but softened by the haze that hung over the valley—light as gossamer—and by the clouds which partially dimmed the higher cliffs and mountains. This obscurity of vision but increased the awe with which I beheld it, and as I looked, a peculiarly exalted sensation seemed to fill my whole being, and I found my eyes in tears of emotion.

  To obtain a more distinct and quiet view, I had left the trail and my horse and wallowed through the snow alone to a projecting granite rock. So interested was I in the scene before me, that I did not observe that my comrades had all moved on, and that I would soon be left indeed alone. My situation attracted the attention of Major Savage—who was riding in the rear of the column—who hailed me from the trail below with, “You had better wake up from that dream up there, or you may lose your hair; I have no faith in Ten-ie-ya’s statement that there are no Indians about here. We had better be moving; some of the murdering devils may be lurking along this trail to pick up stragglers.” I hurriedly joined the Major on the descent, and as other views presented themselves, I said with some enthusiasm: “If my hair is now required, I can depart in peace, for I have here seen the power and glory of a Supreme Being; the majesty of His handy-work is in that ‘Testimony of the Rocks.’”

  The promised vacation MUST be in this incredible place: Yosemite! Neither of my parents had been there. Their thoughts were of Santa Cruz or Puget Sound, but my insistent pleadings finally brought them around to Yosemite. June was a month away and it was hard to concentrate on anything except the coming trip, but I endured the agonies of impatience and on June 1, 1916, we boarded the early morning train in Oakland, bound for Merced and El Portal. The car was full of people—fanning elders, active and inquisitive children—shepherded by a disdainful conductor. The air was clean as we traveled through the San Joaquin Valley; pollution had not taken its toll and we could see the distant Sierra Nevada, more than a hundred miles away, as we emerged from the Altamont Pass.

  Our railroad car was transferred from the Southern Pacific to the Yosemite Valley Railroad in Merced, then a sleepy little agricultural town in a flat and very hot plain. After we lunched in the local hotel, the train chugged out of the station, passing pastures and fields on its way to the mountains.

  As we entered the foothills, the heat became severe; the train windows were open, in spite of the dust, ash, and smoke, and we were grateful for the breeze. All the hills were covered with dry, golden grass; this parched color seemed to accentuate the heat. California loses its green mantle at low altitudes in April and May. My mother suggested I take off my fairly heavy jacket so that my perspiration could evaporate. At one hundred degrees in the shade, anything more than a shirt was drenching. My father did likewise, but my mother lived in an age when she could not take anything off; she was very moist and uncomfortable. She wore bloomers, a long khaki skirt, a closely buttoned blouse, wide-brimmed khaki hat, and high boots and carried a warm khaki coat.

  Roaring and belching smoke, the train passed through hills of increasing height to the Merced Canyon. To our right was the foaming Merced River, and far above us the bleached hills rose loftily, dotted with pine and oak. The echoes of the locomotive on the canyon walls were shattering. Blasts of hot air buffeted through the windows, and the steam whistle sent chills up my spine; anticipation mounted with every new vision.

  There was a fresh fragrance from the Digger pines sparsely gathered on the hills, the sunlit gray-green whispers of forest that cast little shadow. The steep slopes dropped to the river with outcroppings of lichened rock and slanting gullies. There was evidence of small creeks, dry since late spring, and mossy alcoves and grottoes.

  Toward the cooling end of the afternoon, thickly forested mountains rose higher above us. We arrived at El Portal at about six P.M. and departed the still radiating coach for the Hotel Del Portal, registered, and were shown to our rooms. I threw open the windows to let out the stifling air, only to find the air that came in even hotter. But the open window also admitted the insistent roar of the Merced River; it was a different sound from that of the ocean and reverberated from the surrounding mountains—new sights, new sounds, new fragrances!

  Under protest I took a bath after dinner. I surely needed one, but at fourteen who cares? The river sounds seemed to swell during the night. I was up at dawn, hours before breakfast, ran down to the river, explored its rocky shoulders, and investigated the train being put together for its departure back to Merced later that morning. I was tardy for breakfast, of course.

  After an ample meal we were called to the huge, open bus that provided gales of fresh air, mixed with dust, fumes, and wonderful views. The road from El Portal to Yosemite climbs two thousand feet in ten miles. It skirts the north and west cliffs along the river; in 1916 it was a rough gravel road with thrilling drop-offs and towering vistas. Some of the passengers kept their eyes closed most of the time; my father called them flatland people. We passed Cascade Fall, the first waterfall I had seen. The guide kept yammering names and heights and fake Indian lore, but the river drowned him out.

  We finally emerged at Valley View—the splendor of Yosemite burst upon us and it was glorious. Little clouds were gathering in the sky above the granite cliffs, and the mists of Bridal Veil Fall shimmered in the sun. We trailed a drogue of dust as we gathered speed on the level valley floor. One wonder after another descended upon us; I recall not only the colossal but the little things: the grasses and ferns, cool atriums of the forest. The river was mostly quiet and greenish-deep; Sentinel Fall and Yosemite Falls were booming in early summer flood, and many small shining cascades threaded the cliffs. There was light everywhere!

  Dazzled, we arrived at Camp Curry and were met by that odd character, David Curry, the Stentor of Yosemite. After dark each night he would bellow for the “Fire to Fall” from the great cliff of Glacier Point, thirty-two hundred and fifty vertical feet above the camp. Whereupon someone up there would push the glowing embers of a pine-bark fire over the cliff while a soprano sang a “thrilling” song. Even at that age I knew it was an insult to Yosemite.

  I do not recall the rest of that incredible day; I had had enough. How we got to tent number 305, what we had for dinner, and how I stayed awake through my first campfire are mysteries to me now. I do recall the shivering night and the unbelievable glow of a Sierra dawn. A new era began for me.

  One morning shortly after our arrival in Yosemite, my parents presented me with my first camera, a Kodak Box Brownie. After a few minutes of simple instructions, my camera and I went off to explore. A few days later, with my usual hyperactive enthusiasm, I climbed an old and crumbling stump near our tent to get a picture of Half Dome. I perched on the top of this relic of arboreal grandeur with my camera and was about to snap the shutter when the stump gave way and I plummeted to the ground. On the way down, headfirst, I inadvertently pushed the shutter. I landed in a cascade of rotten wood on a soft bed of pine needles. Undaunted, I wound the film to the next number visible through the little red window in the camera back and finished the remainder of the film.

  The roll was developed at Pillsbury’s Pictures, Inc. at the old Yosemite Village. I remember that it was Mr. Pillsbury himself, commercially successful in photographing Yosemite, who presented me with my developed film. He had not cut it apart, as he wanted to inquire how this picture had come to be upside down in reference to the others on the roll. He asked, “Did you hold the camera over your head to avoid close foliage?” After I explained to him about my accident, he gave me a strange look and I do not think he was ever certain of my normalcy from then on. The negative is reasonably sharp and one of my favorites from this, my first year of photography.

  Financial troubles weighed heavily upon my father in 1917, but he insisted that my mother, aunt, and I visit Yosemite that summer. I returned by myself in the summer of 1918. I hiked and photographed, concentrating on making pictures of wildflowers that I sent to my father, an avid amateur botanis
t. They were very poor photographs indeed, but the subjects were identifiable. That summer interlude ended all too soon, and I returned home to my music, general studies, and a part-time job in a photo-finishing business.

  In the early spring of 1919 I came down with a cold that turned into the classic flu of the year. This flu was a very serious matter; people were dying everywhere. I was miserable, weak, and just lay in bed, a very sick seventeen-year-old. The doctor examined me and said there was nothing to do. He was bone weary and grim.

  I fully recuperated, though it took several weeks. When I could read, I was given some books; one was about the life of Father Damien, the saintly priest who cared for the lepers of Molokai. The description of leprosy and the lepers had a profound effect on me. In my weakened state the psychological fixation grew into a compulsion. For months afterward I feared to touch anything such as doorknobs, streetcar railings, or people. If contact was made, I would rush post-haste to some washbasin and I would be agonized if I could not immediately find one. I remained physically weak and mentally disturbed.

  I wanted to go back to Yosemite—I was certain there was no leprosy there! The doctor doubted the wisdom of exposing me to altitude and exhaustion. My father thought it a good idea; he knew that I was not progressing in my home environment. He arranged for the old tent at Camp Curry for a couple of weeks and wrote to Mrs. Curry and Mr. Francis Holman, whom we had met in Yosemite in 1917, explaining my condition and asking them to watch over me.

  I will never forget my arrival in Yosemite on that mid-June day. The journey by train and bus had been exhausting. I could hardly walk to the Camp Curry office to register, and the further walk to my tent was an ordeal. The next morning I awakened to the sound of Yosemite Falls and the human chatter and bustle of the camp. I made it to breakfast. Afterward I found that I could walk around a bit. Mrs. Curry was very kind, and I think she knew that I needed anything but coddling. She saw to it that I had lunch and dinner and then hustled me off to bed.