Autumn at Mount Auburn Cemetery, Cambridge (2)

It was cold today, the wind howling, the leaves wild, and the Mount Auburn Cemetery crowded with pedestrians and cars and performers and singers and warblers.  We even heard an accordion player and watched awestruck a majestic hawk, indifferent, perhaps even oblivious to our amazement.  (He’s in the penultimate picture.)

Soon snow will set in, and all will be inert for months and months and months.  Today was a festival of sorts, the burning sun before the dark, the animation before the long silence of the dead, the exuberance before long wait.  But even in winter, in the bone-chilling cold of winter, Mount Auburn is a beautiful place, the living–most of them–having left, and the dead in full domination, reminding the few daring visitors that to befriend the dead is to know life, life which is its own reward, its own spring.

P1000146P1000144P1000143 P1000140P1000139P1000138*

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Autumn at Mount Auburn Cemetery, Cambridge

Yes, there are the small, quaint towns of Vermont, the daunting heights of New Hampshire’s White Mountains, but there are also beautiful spots of color and energy here in our city, in its downtown and its suburbs.  Mount Auburn Cemetery is one such place, one among half a dozen or so, and today this home of the dead was all life, a dance of shade and wind on an unseasonably warm day.

P1000127 There isn’t much to say about this jewel of a place on the Cambridge-Watertown line.  Easy to get to, welcoming, and stunningly beautiful all year round, but most of all in autumn.  Today was Mount Auburn Cemetery’s day–sunny, yes, but also just windy enough for the constant downward turn of the leaves, one after another, like a blanket over the dead, a preparation for winter’s snow.

P1000126I come to Mount Auburn Cemetery often, to visit a person I love who is buried here, yes.  But also to be with all the dead, the famous and the lesser-known, those who were snatched too early and those who lived into ripe old age, those who sacrificed their life for a cause and those who died in silence, alone.  All here, subject to life’s great equalizer.  But also life’s reservoir of memory and meaning.

P1000132All here, in this expansive, meandering space of the living and the dead.  And a handful of us, pedestrians, lost, stunned, sorrowful, but most of all full of wonderment and awe at a leaf that suddenly begins its journey to the ground, twirls and turns, hangs in mid-air for an instant, then continues its path downward.  At last, it finds its place on the ground, and all motion stops.  Home.

P1000128Farewell, until next time, when the snows melt and spring returns.  But on this miracle of an afternoon, it is life that the dead offer, life which is its own reward, path and destination, fall and rest.

P1000135 *

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“The Color of Pomegranates” Restored

~~From time to time on this blog, I have posted material on the great Soviet film-maker, Sergei Paradjanov.  Today, I am re-posting an important article on Paradjanov’s “The Color of Pomegranates” by James Steffen.  Steffen is a scholar of Paradjanov and author of “The Cinema of Sergei Paradjanov.” He is also a friend, and we have been fellow travelers in Armenia.  The restoration of “The Color of Pomegranates” is a cause for celebration. It heals–as much as restoration can–the wounds inflicted on this great film; it also gives viewers the opportunity to see the film in, literally, a new light.  But most of all, I think, it reminds us, in case we had forgotten, of the enduring art of Paradjanov’s visionary film-making.  The article was posted originally on James’ blog, Dreams and Pomp. Thanks, James!~~

The Color of Pomegranates Restored

DVD frame capture

At the 2014 Cannes Film Festival, The Film Foundation/World Cinema Project premiered a new 4k digital restoration of Sergei Parajanov’s The Color of Pomegranates (1969). Currently it is screening at various film festivals around the world, and one hopes that it will see a Blu-ray/DVD release at some point in the future. I had the opportunity to view the restoration this summer at two different festivals: Il Cinema Ritrovato (Bologna) and the Golden Apricot International Film Festival (Yerevan). Accordingly, I would like to offer some thoughts on the significance of the restoration and the results.

(Disclosure: I served as an informal historical consultant behind the scenes on the restoration, though I did not participate in the actual restoration process. The program notes I wrote for Il Cinema Ritrovato can be found here, on pages 175-176)

As I discuss in my 2013 book, The Cinema of Sergei Parajanov, the film survives in two distinct versions. The original 1969 theatrical release in Armenia ran at 77 minutes under the title Nran guyne (loosely, “The Color of Pomegranates”) and had Armenian-language credits and intertitles. The other version, intended for Soviet-wide and later international distribution, was reedited by the filmmaker Sergei Yutkevich and runs at 73 minutes, with Russian-language credits and intertitles. (The Russian-language title is Tsvet granata, which also translates loosely as “The Color of Pomegranates.”) The Film Foundation/World Cinema Project wisely has preserved and restored both versions, though the Armenian version is the one currently being distributed for exhibition via DCP.

The Armenian Version

The Armenian release version is of particular value because it has been screened much less than the Yutkevich cut. More importantly, its editing is closer to Parajanov’s intentions. If we think of the film as a poem, the Armenian version better conveys Parajanov’s thought processes, especially his more playful and eccentric impulses. One sequence which I have always loved in particular is when the aging Sayat-Nova, now a monk at the Haghpat monastery, savors the beauty of spring. He embraces a young lamb then removes his robe to bask under the sun, and the other monks follow suit. During this sequence Parajanov builds on this basic underlying idea so that it achieves great emotional power. Yutkevich’s reedited version removes several striking shots and fundamentally changes Parajanov’s associative logic, ultimately robbing the sequence of some of its poignancy.

However, even the Armenian version is not without its complexities and compromises. It was already the product of an extended censorship battle both with Goskino USSR in Moscow and the local authorities in Armenia. The most damaging change that the Armenian officials required was to remove almost all references to the poet Sayat-Nova, the main subject and inspiration for the film. In fact, the project was originally entitled Sayat-Nova, though admittedly it is common for film titles to change before release for various reasons, in the USSR, Hollywood and elsewhere. Parajanov is said to have liked the new title.

The greatest harm arguably resulted from the requirement to change the chapter titles. Parajanov’s chapter titles in his original script described the contents of each scene in a relatively straightforward manner, inspired by the principles of illustrations or miniature painting. For example, one chapter in the script reads:

How Sayat-Nova, the sacristan of Haghpat Monastery, found in the women’s monastery the very best shroud for the body of Ghazaros, and saw a nun who resembled the princess.

Parajanov’s chapter title makes the main thrust of the episode clear to viewers, so that they can enjoy how this idea is developed visually during the episode.

Largely as a result of the censors’ demands, the noted writer Hrant Matevosyan was brought in to write new chapter titles for the Armenian release version. They reflected the emotional tone of each chapter but did not describe the contents. His chapter title for the corresponding episode reads:

I asked for a shroud to wrap the dead body; instead, they showed the frenzied convulsions of their living bodies. Where can I find selfless love?

In fact, Matevosyan’s title fits the underlying meaning and tone of the episode fairly well, as do most of his other chapter titles. They are often quite perceptive. The problem is that when combined with the film’s cryptic imagery and extensive use of pantomime, they make things unnecessarily difficult for the viewer. More difficult than Parajanov wanted, arguably.

Although I do not have hard evidence for this, I suspect that the other main alteration in the Armenian version was the soundtrack. The film contains several extended silent passages–much more than Parajanov’s other films and, indeed, more than most modern sound feature films. In some cases it appears that Parajanov intended individual shots to be silent, as part of an overall dialectic of sound versus silence. However, some of the silences are very long indeed, and it is difficult to imagine that Parajanov wanted quite so much silence.

My own (unsubstantiated) theory is that at least some of the silences indicate places where Sayat-Nova’s name was spoken on the soundtrack and simply cut out at the last minute to appease the censors. The clearest example of this is at the end of the film, where the mason says “Sing!” (“Yerki!”) and “Die! (“Meri!”). If one looks at his lips closely, it appears that he originally said “Sayat-Nova, yerki” and “Sayat-Nova, meri,” which matches the dialogue in Parajanov’s script.

As I note elsewhere, Alexei Romanov, the chair of Goskino, disliked the film and initially refused distribution outside of Armenia. Sergei Yutkevich resolved the impasse with Moscow by introducing new, simplified chapter titles that made the film easier to understand, and he even re-introduced some of Sayat-Nova’s poetry. He further trimmed a couple minutes of footage and rearranged some sequences. In fact some scholars I know actually prefer the Yutkevich version, because they have grown up with it and find it easier and more enjoyable to watch. I personally feel that the Armenian version is superior for a variety of reasons, but I do not consider the Yutkevich version to be a travesty by any means. I have shown it to students and in public on a number of occasions because the color and detail on prints for this version have always looked superior. This is because Yutkevich cut the camera negative to conform to his edit of the film, whereas the Armenian version only survives in a problematic duplicate negative.

To sum up: the Armenian release version is not without its problems, though it does represent the original theatrical release version of the film. Thus, it is significant from a historical perspective. In terms of editing, it is far closer to Parajanov’s intentions than the Yutkevich version. Ultimately, I feel that it does a better job of conveying Parajanov’s creative vision.

The 2014 Restoration

During Il Cinema Ritrovato, I had the opportunity to meet Cecilia Cenciarelli, the Archival and Restoration Manager for the World Cinema Project, and discuss some of the specifics behind the restoration. I will do my best to summarize some of her comments and observations below.

As the Cinema Ritrovato program notes indicate, the restoration was conducted by the Cineteca di Bologna/L’Immagine Ritrova and the Film Foundation/World Cinema Project. It was derived from multiple picture and sound elements. The camera negative held at Gosfilmofond of Russia was scanned in 4k, as was the duplicate negative of the Armenian version held at National Cinema Centre of Armenia. For a color reference they used an early Orwocolor release print from the Harvard Film Archive.

For the soundtrack, where possible they used the original magnetic recording held at Gosfimofond, and the optical track from an Armenian print for the audio portions not present in the Yutkevich cut. The audio track on the Armenian duplicate negative apparently contained a great deal of noise and distortion, making it largely unusable. Indeed, the sound was one of the most challenging aspects of the restoration and it pushed the limits of currently available technology. (I should note here that L’Immagine Ritrovata has one of the world’s leading sound restoration facilities.)

The important thing to keep in mind is that restorations such as this ideally adhere to commonly accepted standards and protocols in the archival community. One basic principle is that restorations should be philological—that is, any decisions should be based on a solid understanding of a film’s textual considerations (such as different versions) and surviving historical documentation around it–such as studio and censorship documents. A second principle is that any restoration work is reversible; in other words, the film should not be altered in such a way that work on it cannot be undone. A third principle is that any interventions should be documented. For digital restorations, as is the case with The Color of Pomegranates, this means partly that the work is saved and documented at each stage (raw 4k scan, digital removal of damage and dirt, color correction, etc.) so that one can retrace or undo each of these steps if necessary and do further work based on the same materials in the future.

The End Result

In my opinion, on the whole this restoration looks better than anything I have seen. In places I noticed colors and details in the film that I have not seen before. At the same time, the color timing fits within the general range of the various 35mm prints I have seen, but it benefits from greater evenness. The image is also stable and free of damage.

I have long had concerns about the state of the surviving materials for the Armenian release version, based on the 35mm print I saw years ago and the poor quality video masters available in the US and France. Fortunately, this restoration was able to use the camera negative for most of the film, since there are only a couple minutes total difference in the footage between both versions. Because of the condition of the Armenian duplicate negative, it was not possible to make the footage from that element completely match the footage from the camera negative. In other words, the footage specific to the Armenian version looks slightly softer and has a slightly different color bias. Yet even that footage still looks better than what I have seen before. If anything, these visible differences are instructive from a historical perspective, because they show which shots Yutkevich cut and how the changes affected the film’s underlying poetic logic. The restored soundtrack also sounded stronger and cleaner than what I am used to hearing, including in the more problematic passages from the Armenian version.

For me, this now makes the restored Armenian release version unquestionably the version of choice to view from now on. For those who prefer the Yutkevich version for whatever reason, with any luck that restoration will also be released on Blu-ray or DVD alongside the Armenian version. My ideal Blu-ray edition would include both.

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Mourning Gaza

These lines from Darwish, for Gaza

If you were not the rain, my love, then be the tree
Saturated and bountiful, be the tree.
And if you were not the tree, my love, then be the stone
Saturated and moist,  be the stone.
And if you were not the stone, my love, then be the moon
In the dream of the loved one, be the moon.
This is what a woman said to her son at his funeral.

~~Excerpt from Under Siege (2000) by Mahmoud Darwish,
translated from the Arabic by Taline Voskeritchian and Christopher Millis~~



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~~July 1 is the fourteenth anniversary of Vahé Oshagan’s death.  On this occasion, here is a translation of one of his best, re-posted.  The earth, light, on Vahé Oshagan. ~~


Vahé Oshagan’s poem Դէպի Կեանք (Toward life) was completed in 1983 and published in 1991.  To my knowledge, the following is its first English language translation from the Armenian to be published separately anywhere.



Vahé Oshagan

This midday too
god sits in death’s shade wipes the sweat off his forehead
takes out the round gold watch
thousands cross-legged in circles listen to fairy tales
that swing from the tongues of tiny, suspended bells—
this is our life
dragging a torn fishing-net on our shoulder we walk the streets
the shrieking mob chases a decrepit whore ten months pregnant
liquid-eyed vagrant seven times over
for twenty-four hours we celebrate a single instant’s birthday
arms thrust in the wind fingers of nakedness opened
the longings throb incurably bit by bit—
oh this life
from the cradle they anointed us married us off in the stealth of darkness
we have now left home gone to the villages whoring with every passer-by
day and night hungry sleepless I’m out on the street I search
who is it? what is it? no one knows no one has seen
innumerable fetid wounds pave the world
I will bend down kiss
life is a street where the urchins have seized me chasing me, laughing at me
miniature holy desert I rent out to predators of human beings
and I flee stumbling through photocopy corridors:
How to live?
the invisible steel webs of wisdom cover the universe
caught in it I soar on the surface of consciousness
brand new useless furniture and housewares parade all day
isolated from the desolate living room we will stand face to face
look at each other to say what is already at the bottom of wind and water
fossils glitter in the pearly halls of the heart
seated on the ground I wait I’ve been jobless six months all the way back until there from where we did not yet start on the road all of us huddle nose to nose
no place left on the universe’s weathered sofa except to stand on one leg
cast a shadow in the morning and gather it at night.

And I live
in the pandemonium I have opened my palm begging from all four corners
whatever falls whoever steals in broad daylight
spreads it out carefully in the suburbs of loneliness without streets without sidewalks
but I sprout from the slits of desire bringing the light with me
to find the road before I’m lost traceless formless
caught in the sweet glue we wander how can we not love and hate each other?
the world and I are twins attached to each other on all sides
two bastards we lurk in the vicinity of the whorehouse
looking for our bashful mother
but everywhere the rustle of curtains the veil and patina of brides
thick dust of Vesuvius buried in it inside the horizon’s eyelid
leaning against each other we keep steadfast vigil for a miracle’s birth:

My life is the light
plastered wastefully on the eye of the world
poured freely for the famine-crazed wild multitudes
gigantic bribe for the hiding atoms to come out and look at me
perhaps we will recognize each other have something to say
at the exit of the same womb we too have crouched seated for centuries
our eyes on the empty white walls we smile like idiots
what business do we have in these parts?
for whose soul do these lamps burn?
what waste of luck this is which we barely managed to acquire
and arrived here spread the carpet on the grass took out the sandwiches and lay back
and already the guise of light covers us with the armors of dinosaurs
with insect feet we slide across the invisible hide of light
we have fun toast life strut around wearing shadows.

My life is darkness
I fall in it at each step there are pot holes one inside the other they have no end
and no beginning on this hot pain they have poured thick asphalt
armies of ants carrying the world dance on my skin
who cares that people run barefoot crazed toward destruction
and then they are not there they have escaped and gone to the cellars of exile
and they keep me hostage or bury me or throw me in a corner
all by myself they have locked the photographer’s darkroom from inside and outside
all day all night nothing better to do than sitting around washing and drying film, hanging it on the wall without ever knowing who looks at you from whose voice is it from the depths of mouths the cassettes spin for twenty four hours a day
understand if you can, anyone knocking on the door at midnight? Does the world know                                                                                                                      you are alive?
holding on like this to the limitless sail of consciousness
taut and ready waiting, where oh where is the wind’s feather to come and take me
beyond this darkness this light there’s no address or identity—

only love
from the grids and cages of bones from the gutters of the sky’s roof from the neumes of                                                                                                                             my palms
in the downward sleep of time tumbling all the way to the pail of suffering
never ever use the word for happiness it will die
and with it will disappear love back to the table’s crumbs the crowd has left
everything begins after the feast no one tells you the news
by the time you find out it is too late you will stand under the wall and watch
no need anymore to crack jokes at dinner with your mouth full
to talk seriously about the Pope to hurry to the airport your heart full of fear
to stand in line at the unemployment office for hours and lifetimes
to shovel the snow toward the street toward the city toward the world which is not there
our eyes are cheap beads gathered from streams and sidewalks
the crickets the cars Baron Setrak and Vivaldi
all operate on the same loom of virgin silence mysterious and coded

what message?
whose tongues have Gengis Khan’s executioners cut
and thrown me back to the gardens of childhood filled with mines
now they explode one by one you must walk run play
sing scream this is my body poured like this to edge of the horizon
the ring where shall we take it? we are orphaned atoms all of us
bride and bridegroom father-in-law mother-in-law brother-in-law
sister-in-law cousin niece nephew, godfather, godmother
bridegroom come outside
see, everything and all of us are relatives and in-laws
from the old sorrowful whore seated at the door knees wide open saliva flowing from                                                                                                             her mouth
from the debauched indolent hashish addict the shameless lewd procurer
the virtuous lovesick inconsolable and abandoned nun
from the darkened and virgin thickets the beasts devouring each other
from the volcano’s exploding heart from the seas of misfortune from the houses stacked
one on top of another
from inside the contaminated filth until the altar the chrism the ointment
love a gigantic magnet thousands and thousands of crumbs which shine glitter quiver
stone water air tree light man and insect
we have gathered under the huge empty copula
hey bridegroom of ours look here
how will you recognize us you neither see nor hear nor touch
we sleep in hideouts made of syllables we have built sanctuaries of alphabets
clothes of words cover us, disguise us for eternity
now we are standing in groups our cocktail drinks in our hands we talk about this and                                                                                                                                              that
a little while later faceless employees will ask for our tickets
break the thread of conversation open the door push us all to the tarmac
outside in the dark no one will remember us greet us with a hello
suddenly voices will call us please come this way this way hurry up
and hundreds of hands will hold pull push into the line
it is the old couch of the whorehouse but the anxiety of waiting is not there anymore
the intermission has ended other people are standing in the corridors.

What did we understand from all that has transpired?
the heels always wore out on the outside
against closed doors we cursed we sobbed we yearned
we dyed our hair black secretly we swallowed many pills
we did not eat onions and garlic we used deodorant under our arms
we learned to read and write we had visiting cards printed
taking on the airs of people in the know reliable serious
our heads down with slow steps we walked back and forth back and forth on carpets
talking about immortality the black market the Secret Army
we had our pictures taken we made the sign of the cross we received greetings
on the phone we talked about life death love giving our advice
without a smile wearing glasses holding candles in our hands we walked around each
but no one was fooled
and we remained human-like scarecrows scattered here and there in the silent desolate                                                                                                                                          fields
not a single bird flying back and forth noticed us
while the solitary tiller from the distant mist waved his arm to us
but not a single seed reached the path of consciousness
and I am still here holding a child’s tiny silver spoon
confused useless words hang from my mouth
the colorful threads of the clowns have become a tangled mess

whom to tell the story how to tell it no one believes it anymore
that what happened was not an accident and the fairy tale has no end
a thrust cork floats on eternity’s surface and bottom
there was no escape when they lay the trap.

I will go toward life
to the stairs of the future there a duplicate standing naked
to the impossible appointment when is it where is it oh my god before they lock up the
coffee shop
to the sidewalks of midnight to wander a famished shadow
I am and I am not we will live in the multitude of the covered market
I sell memories . . .   I sell memories . . .  who will buy them . . . come take them . . .
I offer them for free
I am made of crumbs fallen to the ground around the potter’s chair
given shape in a hurry in the dark incomplete
placed at the center breathless to endure until I reach some place
the world poured all over the place  sand heap of an adventure-stricken truck
I sell memories . . . what do you care who I am what I am
I buy your torn underwear the smell of your mouth your shit
I am the only customer of your life you have locked the door inside what are you doing?
I am the sole heir of your treasures where have you buried them?
don’t you know that the desert begins beyond this point
the tortoise has fallen on its back the cripple has curled on himself
people each one a letter-bomb they explode in my hands as soon as I open them
the crumbs the echo fill the exotic bubble
which is carried across rooftops tumbles through the streets

that’s me that’s me
I have come before myself to herald my coming
the guest list in my hand to prepare the big feast
the last hope of the universe’s blind deacon of a firefly
may be this time for a second the narrow path will be visible
toward life.

~~Translated by Taline Voskeritchian~~


Beyond its literary life, Oshagan’s poem has had an illustrious cohabitation with sound and film. In the mid-1980s, sound artist Ohannes Salibian, using a recording of Oshagan reading his own poem, created a text-sound composition which was performed at the University of California, Santa Cruz.  In 1995, film-maker Hrayr Anmahooni produced a new work titled (translated) Tebi Gyank, a 19-minute visual-aural re-shaping of the poem, which has been screened at several film festivals.


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On Michael Haneke’s “Amour”




My essay, “Reading the Book of Living with Michael Haneke’s Amour,”  is now posted on the on-line literary/cultural magazine, The Bangalore Review.

Check it out here.


Posted in Cinéphilia, Meditations, Rx for Maladies, Those we Love | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

A wayward couple in South America I: Argentina

There are voyages, there are journeys, there are travels, and then there is tourism.  I am not sure which one fits the South American wanderings of my dear friends Rostom Sarkissian and Lilit Baldjyan, but it does not look to me like theirs was the last of the list.

From time to time, I post photographs from friends who are traveling in distant lands or who have evocative images close to home. Rostom and Lilit’s text below gives a nice summary of the significance and range of their adventure in South America, as do the photographs, which were taken on their phones as internet access was often limited in many of the places they landed on.  The first installment is from Argentina.  Others will follow.

Thank you very much, Rostom and Lilit, for your words, for the captions, for these unadorned, spontaneous images, and for your willingness to share them on this blog.  Safe travels, fair winds, gentle landings.

photo 4~~

~~Tomorrow, we board another bus, our 25th or 30th of this trip. We’ve lost count at this point.  We will say goodbye to Baños in the evening and when we awake, we will be two buses away from our final destination.  This is now our 33rd city, 5th country, 2nd continent.

In January of this year, Lilit and I decided to leave our comfort zones in Los Angeles to travel, explore and learn.  We knew this was our opportunity and by doing so, we would be more complete individuals when we returned home.  The trip has exceeded our expectations.  This journey has been amazing!!!

We’ve traveled through the Conch Republic, Argentina, Chile, Uruguay, Peru and now Ecuador.  Our travels have taken us to some of the places that we planned to go, but have mostly consisted of detours to towns, villages and regions we had never heard of.

The road has been our guide and it has been kind to us.  It has led us to some of God’s greatest creations (Perito Moreno, Iguazu Falls, the Andes, among others) and to some of man’s finest handiworks (Machu Picchu, the Basilica del Voto Nacional, the Central Squares of most South American cities).  What a journey!

Our lives have become enriched in ways we never expected.  We’ve made some great friends; seen the human condition (good and bad) in places that are far removed from our daily existence; and have gained a greater appreciation for the interconnectedness of people who live on this planet.  It’s cliche to say this, but traveling has reinforced for us the truth that we are more similar than we are different.

From a professional perspective, Lilit has gotten a first-hand look at the medical care provided to women in the field of obstetrics.  I have been overwhelmed by the knowledge I’ve gained of public policy in Latin America–from public transportation, to the importance of the public square, to monetary policy to tourism development, to much, much more.

I can write about this journey for hours on end, but I don’t want to overwhelm you. Take a look at our photos; they tell some of our story.  Siempre bien viaje.~~


Resting place of the haves.  Recoleta Cemetery.  Buenos Aires, Argentina.

Resting place of the haves. Recoleta Cemetery. Buenos Aires, Argentina.


The hidden giant.  The magnificent Fitz Roy mountain hiding behind the clouds.  El Chalten, Argentina.

The hidden giant. The magnificent Fitz Roy mountain hiding behind the clouds. El Chalten, Argentina.

Avance!  One of the few advancing glaciers in the world, Perito Moreno.  El Calafate, Argentina.

Avance! One of the few advancing glaciers in the world, Perito Moreno. El Calafate, Argentina.

Lighting up the sky, one last time for today.  Peninsula Valdez, Argentina.

Lighting up the sky, one last time for today. Peninsula Valdez, Argentina.

Iguazu, in a fraction of its glory.  Photos cannot capture the magnitude of the falls.  Iguazu Falls, Argentina.

Iguazu, in a fraction of its glory. Photos cannot capture the magnitude of the falls. Iguazu Falls, Argentina.

Elegance.  Bosque Tallado (carved forest).  El Bolson, Argentina.

Elegance. Bosque Tallado (carved forest). El Bolson, Argentina.

Our competition for picking blackberries.  San Martin de los Andes, Argentina.

Our competition for picking blackberries. San Martin de los Andes, Argentina.

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