concert review Vergentino Robles concert review Vergentino Robles

A Night with Amanda Palmer...

Amanda Palmer performed to a virtually sold-out crowd at Culture Room in Fort Lauderdale last Sunday. Not a solo performance; more like a reunion of good, old friends. "A Night with Amanda Palmer, Jason Webley, and Jherek Bischoff." And a local string quartet. All on the same stage.

A piano-less Amanda, by her own admission, condensed the usual 88 keys in the fours strings of her ukulele. After a warm welcome with In My Mind, the rest of the night was a full collaboration along with Jherek's compositions and string arrangements, and Webley's high-energy fusion with his guitar and accordion.

It's an understatement to say that people usually expect the unexpected every time Amanda hits the stage, and last night was not an exception. But every performance is (should be) a two-way street. Nothing can be unpredictable without the support of her loyal fans and followers. Only in a night like last night, for example, a viola player can break one of her strings and a new one can magically appear. In seconds. From the crowd. She's definitely elevated the art of asking to a whole new level.

Amanda planned the show in Fort Lauderdale just because it was right in the middle of the way between west Florida, where she was, and Key West, where she's performing on December 13. But incidentally, Culture Room in Fort Lauderdale is the same venue where in 2009 she penned a song for her record label, asking to [please] drop her from her contract.

It can be said that the rest is history. This special night last Sunday was, again, in the room where it happened.

More about Amanda Palmer:

More about Jherek Bischoff:

More about Jason Webley:

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Flamenco Hands

Ten years ago I was not a good photographer.

I'm still working on that. A few hours before writing this, I took a picture of my coffee with my phone. I want to believe that the thought process before pressing the shutter was enough to make me a better photographer than yesterday.

Ten years ago I was not a good photographer.

I'm still working on that. A few hours before writing this, I took a picture of my coffee with my phone. I want to believe that the thought process before pressing the shutter was enough to make me a better photographer than yesterday.

But the ubiquity of the smartphone is a recent phenomenon. Ten years ago there were no iPhones. I didn't even fully understand my somewhat new digital camera. ("Could center-weighted average metering be the right choice for this shot?" ... Exactly.)

Suddenly I find myself on vacation in Spain. It was not my first time in Europe, but it was the first time I remember consciously deciding to photograph people. That can be a terrifying experience for some. 

–"Excuse me, can I take your picture?"

You have to project yourself with security. You fear being rejected. What if there's no connection with the other person? If you think about it... Damn it, it's a micro blind date!

During a crazy night in Sevilla (Holy Week in Sevilla can only be described as crazy, in the best sense of the word) I had the chance to visit a flamenco tablao in the heart of the city. For a while, I was that guy, looking at the show through the viewfinder of my camera, worrying about center-weighted average metering.

A glass of wine later (that's a few minutes for you mortals) I decided to turn it off and just enjoy the show. The music, the dance, the movement, the passion... There was no way to capture any of that in a still image. Why bother?

There I was, absorbing everything, while transfixed on one of the main dancers. I had to take a picture of her, but... How? Her dress, her shoes, her hands, her face? I turned the camera back on and started following her for a while. (If you do it in front of everybody is not considered stalking, right?) 

What would make a good image? [stomp, stomp...] There's too much going on. [stomp...] I would love to capture her hands, but if I could just have them on the front, maybe even covering part of her [stomp...] face... 

[CLICK!]

The second after I released the shutter I knew I had the shot. I didn't even looked at the back of the camera. I had it. I didn't took a picture. I waited for what I really wanted. Probably for the first time, I made an image.

To this day it's one of my favorite photographs. It's on my wall. It's on other people's walls. Simple as it is, what it meant for me in that moment was very special. I was very proud of my "flamenco hands".

It wasn't until recently that I gave myself the task of finding out more about those flamenco hands. Where do I start? I don't even know her name. Can she still be in that place? What was the name of that place again? (10 years is a long time for someone with an undiagnosed case of crippling absent-mindedness.)

Well. Her name is Rocío Palacios. She's a dance and flamenco teacher in Sevilla, and was one of the main bailaoras at El Palacio Andaluz. And today the venue has a copy of the image.

(Thank you, Google.)

I still struggle approaching strangers for unsolicited photos. But more than ten years ago I "took pictures." Today I try to "make images." That's an important difference. And it started with those hands.

(Thank you, Rocío.)

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My Name

my-name-1.jpg

Out of 7.4 billion people on Earth, I shared my full name with only one other person. (I'll let you do the math. I'm not that good with numbers.)

–"Is your name Vergentino Robles?", they asked my dad once. I was with him. –"Yes. And right now you're looking at the only two human beings in the world with that name!"

There was a palpable sense of pride every time he said that. And it happened often. I have to admit it took me a while to share that pride. What kind of name was that, anyway? I always "joked" that it took me forever to write my name in my exams at school, and because of that I never had the time to answer all of the questions. (I think it really happened. And often.)

My dad was in his mid-forties when I was born. An "old man". Some of my oldest memories are of him returning home late at night, after closing up "his" supermarket. (It was a supermarket chain, but it was "his".) Nothing brings me back to that time like walking around my local store and... stopping and smelling the air in the meat and poultry section. Late at night, dad smelled like... chuck steak.

He "went to war" in his early twenties, during the time of the Korean War. He was never deployed for combat; he stayed stationed in Panama. –"I never killed anyone. Or at least not that I know of. But I was a cook, so... who knows? Maybe I did some serious damage after all."

As a young boy, I used to think my family was odd. That my dad was odd. He was... old. My brothers and I always referred to him as our "friend". Amigo. Not "dad" or "daddy". Just... "friend." There was an incredible amount of respect towards him. Usted. But even with the oddness, it felt OK. It was our normal.

(For the record, I still think my family is odd.)

But really, who was this man that let his sons play inside refrigerated trucks and meat freezers at "his" store, late at night?

Who was this man with the darkest sense of humor, that always told his young sons that there was a lady inside the restaurant's restroom, that helped pulling your pants down? (I never peed in that place. Ever.)

–"What do you mean that bread is old? No, don't throw it away. Look, take this knife, you scrape off the hairy part, and... you have a brand new piece of bread!"

He had a 70s Malibu Classic. It was a moving fortress. There was no need for car seats there. And there was no need to change the radio station either. It was almost always 92.5 FM. Radio Oro.

Some of my other early memories are... tales. Like when he spent a whole afternoon at a party, drinking, and having a lively conversation with a tall gas tank. Rumor has it he did most of the talking.

Or the time when my older brother was still a baby and he put (and left) his bottles on top of the car, shortly before taking off for a road trip. –"Hey, the baby's milk!", people would shout at him along the way. –"Yeah, yeah, he drank it already, thank you!", he would shout back.

I didn't know who that man was. But he was... awesome.

In my eyes, he was always working. Some jobs better than others. Some shittier than others. But he always worked. He always provided. He retired and went back to work shortly after. I think he did that more than once.

Growing up, I don't remember ever playing catch with him. The biggest baseball and New York Yankees fan I've ever met, but we never played catch. Again, he was always... working. Years later, after retiring, he visited me in Boston. I was working by then. We did a tour of Fenway Park. We watched a game after that, seating at the bleachers. We didn't acknowledge it at the time, but we finally did it. That was our playing catch.

He always said he was going to live until he was 128 years old. Why that number, specifically? Who knows. And who cares. We got tired of hearing that and we just believed it. And why not? He survived being a kid in the 1930s. He survived becoming a man faster than all of us, something very common for his generation. He survived prostate cancer and radiation therapy. And although not his first one, he was about to celebrate his 49th wedding anniversary. Talk about resilience. Compared to that, getting to 128 was nothing. Of course he was going to make it. He's a Roble. An oak. 

–"Let me check the obituaries in the paper, to see if my name is there... Hmmm. OK, I'm safe for now. Let's play Sudoku."

I can't pinpoint the exact moment when it happened, but I remember making an executive decision about our relationship. I didn't want him to be my amigo anymore. My friend, yes. One of my best friends in the world, if not the best. But I didn't want that strange separation anymore. No more amigo. No more usted. I wanted... Dad. He became mi viejo. Tú.

Without planning it, we started growing closer and closer. I can't say I share his same religious devotion, I really never did, but I did learn from him the true meaning of tolerance and respect. And you don't need a specific label to practice that.

–"I don't care about social media. I don't even know what social media is. I would like to have a tablet; that I want. I've seen people doing a lot of stuff on those things, within seconds. But I want mine without the social media. Eso es una mariconería."

With his actions, he taught me to love. I taught him about YouTube, about finding friends on the "Bookface" and about having your résumé on the "Lindink". He taught me about baseball, and the importance of the WIN column, above all. I taught him (according to him) about common sense. He had a lot of questions for me, specially when my marriage turned upside down. He never asked them. In return, I taught him that if we make a peace sign, and then flip our hands, we had our own "V" gang sign.

I spent quality time with him recently. He saw his youngest granddaughter graduate from Pre-K. We celebrated his birthday. We talked. A lot. Probably like we've never talked before.

Time is a trickster. A few weeks after that I saw him again. Connected to a ventilator. Alert, but unable to communicate. I tried placing a pen in his hand, so he could write instead. The effort was useless. There was no strength in his grip. It was getting late.

He told me everything, only with his eyes. I told him everything, with my eyes and my voice. I spent hours talking, whispering, while he slowly slipped away. I told him about my next races and my training. I told him about my future plans, personal and professional. I talked about our tattoos, about what they really meant. (At least mine.) I told him about my obsession and love for the Moon. I told him about how I learned, mostly from him, to make peace with my own vulnerabilities. I explained to him how the first 26 miles of a marathon are the easiest, but the last .2 are a fucking pain in the ass. I kissed his forehead and told him that he was going to feel better soon. We both knew it was true. We cried.

A few days later he was gone. I couldn't cry. I didn't feel like crying at all. I just wanted to clap, to celebrate his life: His dark sense of humor, his sharp sarcasm, his devotion, his ironclad determination of helping everybody and trying to fix whatever needed to be fixed, his peace. His list of pros overwhelmingly outweighs the cons. His was an awesome, good, long ride.

We are all spectators of each other's life, after all. Once the curtain comes down all we can do is reciprocate accordingly. Seconds after the burial ceremony was over, while the casket was being carried away, everybody had the same response: He got his standing ovation.

Photo: June, 2016

Photo: June, 2016

Out of 7.4 billion people on Earth, I don't share my full name with anyone anymore. It feels strange to write that. It's a big responsibility. But I'm proud to carry it. My name is a great name.

I can cry now.

Farewell, viejo. Thank you.

 

"A man is not dead while his name is still spoken." –Terry Pratchett

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Dear Stranger from Santiago de Compostela

Dear stranger from Santiago de Compostela:

I took this picture of you a while ago. It was Sunday, April 8, 2007. Easter Sunday. I was on vacation in Spain. It was more by chance than anything else that I ended up spending most of the Holy Week in Sevilla and Easter Sunday in Galicia. I'm as religious as a napkin, but as a Catholic in recovery, I'm familiar with most of the rituals. Or I thought I did.

Dear stranger from Santiago de Compostela:

I took this picture of you a while ago. It was Sunday, April 8, 2007. Easter Sunday. I was on vacation in Spain. It was more by chance than anything else that I ended up spending most of the Holy Week in Sevilla and Easter Sunday in Galicia. I'm as religious as a napkin, but as a Catholic in recovery, I'm familiar with most of the rituals. Or I thought I did.

Sevilla was incredible. I had no idea of the magnitude of the celebrations that take place there. One night it took me a few hours to leave the hotel, walk around one of the plazas, and come back to the room. Galicia, on the other hand, was not as crowded. I drove north from Madrid to León, and then west towards Galicia.

Westbound, after crossing Astorga, everything changed. The scenery was different. The infrastructure was different. You could see the pilgrims on the road, on their way to Santiago. The Way of St. James. It's unbelievable that some people walk almost 500 miles (or more!), all the way from France, to complete their pilgrimage. They must be crazy.

Who are you, stranger? You must be crazy.

I saw you arriving at the Praza do Obradoiro, with your giant bag and belongings. You were alone, sunburnt, walking slowly, tired, with your eyes fixed on the Cathedral. I saw you sitting down on your bag, resting your elbows on your knees, and then your face on your hands. I could not see you crying, but I saw you wiping away some tears while looking at the the western façade.

Not counting board games, I've never been much of an athlete. But I'm a runner. I like to run long distances. I'm not fast, I have a bad knee, I don't train well... But I run. It's cathartic. Each race is a new goal. Pinning the bib number on the shirt sometimes is as emotional as crossing the finish line. For me it's 90% mental. The other 10% is in my head. But I do it. I like doing it.

And you did it. Whatever it was you were attempting to do, you did it. Were you one of those walking all the way from France? Farther away, perhaps? If your shoes could talk... How do you pack for a trip like that? How much weight were you carrying in that bag? How much weight were you carrying... inside?

The photograph is out of focus. It's grainy. The settings in my camera were all wrong. But I only had a second to capture (steal?) the moment. And after all these years, the memory is still vivid. I remember everything. A fleeting moment, like life itself. 

If you ever read this and recognize yourself from the photo above, I'd love to know the real story. For now, nine years later: thank you for the inspiration.

Who are you, stranger? You must be sane. 

Regards,

- v. 

More about Santiago de Compostela:

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And the Oscar should go to... Mark Seliger.

A photo posted by Vanity Fair (@vanityfair) on

If you know who Mark Seliger is, you might be very familiar with his recent work. If the name doesn't ring a bell, you might still be very familiar with his work.

Seliger is a New York City-based photographer, famous for his portraiture work. He was chief photographer for Rolling Stone magazine for most of the 90s. More recently, he has worked for Conde Naste Publications, especially GQ and Vanity Fair. It's fair to say that you've seen more than one of his images on the cover a magazine. He has photographed basically everybody. Not me. Perhaps not you. But everybody else.

For the last three years he has been creating stunning portraits of guests during the Vanity Fair Oscar Party, all in a custom-built studio next to the party space.

Follow the links and enjoy the portraits from the last three years:

A Surreal Moment with Jon Hamm in the Vanity Fair Oscars Portr...

Jon Hamm and Tyler Oakley are here to give you a 360° tour of the #VFoscarparty Instagram portrait studio. Check out all the photos here: http://vntyfr.com/QekFsfu

Posted by Vanity Fair on Sunday, February 28, 2016

Visit his website too, for more awesome work. Beautiful images. Great inspiration.

- v.

More about Mark Seliger:

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Gianmarco Zignago in Miami

Peruvian singer-songwriter Gianmarco Zignago closed the US leg of his #LIBRE tour last night at the Miami-Dade County Auditorium.

To the surprise of some of his followers, his name is not synonymous of sold-out stadiums or arenas in the United States and other parts of the world. But that doesn't necessarily mean you're not familiar with some of his songs.

If you have paid attention to latin music in the last couple of decades, you've probably heard some of his songs from the voice of other artists: Emmanuel, Gloria Estefan, Marc Anthony, Alejandro Fernández, Jon Secada and Obie Bermúdez, to name just a select few.

And that's not an accident. It's actually by choice. He has chosen that path deliberately.

During one of his interactions with the audience, he stated:

"We don't sound on the radio, and that's OK. All of you here are our radio."

A three-time Latin Grammy Award winner, recently nominated for Best Singer-Songwriter Album and Song of the Year, he's taking his #LIBRE tour to Europe starting next month. That radio surely seems to be up full blast right now.

- v.

More about Gianmarco:

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Kaleigh Baker at the Indie-Folkfest

"Orlando, The City Beautiful."

Yes, it's grammatically correct. What's the name? Anastrophe? Hyperbaton? My grammar is rusty. It's basically the figure of speech where you change the natural order of words.

It was a beautiful day indeed at the Indie-Folkfest at the Mennello Museum of American Art in Downtown Orlando. There were six artists on schedule to perform that day, but I only had the chance to see soul singer Kaleigh Baker. And I'm glad I had the chance.

I enjoyed the whole set, but her rendition of Tom Waits' Dead and Lovely that day was simply perfect.

There are no orders to transpose or change in Kaleigh's music. Follow the links below and enjoy. Unique is her voice.

- v.

More about Kaleigh Baker:

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Look ma, I have a blog!

The redesign of my website and the creation of this blog has been overdue for a long time. Much longer than I want to admit. Finally, it's starting. It's not "done" by any means. It's just... starting.

Photography is my passion. I love making new photographs. I also enjoy sharing them and writing about them. 

Comments and discussions are highly encouraged. Let's make it a dialog.

- v.

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V's Blog

Photography is my passion. Writing on napkins is my hobby. I love making new images and writing about them. This is my virtual supply of napkins. Comments and discussions are encouraged.

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