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“I suspect that cooking with love is an inversion of a different principle: cooking to be loved,” Bill Buford says in Heat. Perhaps that’s why eating a restricted diet feels so lonely: cooks — whether they are homespun or professional chefs — are deeply annoyed by being confined or regulated. If you are on the receiving end of this annoyance, it feels personal, especially if your finicky-ness is a result of necessity rather than preference. But for the person preparing the food, even a simple request can create a major upheaval, undermining both flavor and technique. Food designed for specialized diets tends to expel puffs of uncertainty and sometimes disdain. (If you don’t believe me, just go to your favorite pizza joint and order a gluten-free crust. If they have one, it will almost certainly be served either nearly raw or burnt, and although it may have the same sauce topping and cheese as your usual order, it will exude none of the decadent coziness of your typical slice.) More… “Comfort”

Laura M. Martin resides in South Carolina and teaches writing at Lander University. Her essays appear at Luna Luna, The Establishment, and Mr. Beller’s Neighborhood among other venues.

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If you need to be mean
be mean to me
I can take it and put it inside of me
-Mitski, “I Don’t Smoke

I have a picture of us from when we were ten years old — Rose, Audrey, Sam, and me. We’re standing on the gravel shoulder of the highway that cuts across our hometown like a life line across a palm. Our arms are wrapped around each other, affectionate and possessive with the weight of preteen desires. Have you noticed the way young girls cling to each other in photographs? Maybe we knew then the terrible possibilities of separation. If we hadn’t held on to each other so tightly through childhood, how would things have ended?

That was all before we grew apart. That was before I hopped on a plane, before Rose came to meet me, before we ended up in the mountains of Italy, alone in a 300-year-old farmhouse. That was when we still lived in our small universe of Halfmoon Bay, in homes secluded from the highway by long gravel driveways and undisturbed forest. What would have happened if the ghost had shown up then, when we were still so connected, instead of a decade later, across the world when there were just two of us in the middle of the night? More… “Gone Ghost”

Gena Ellett’s writing has appeared in literary magazines across North America, including Slice, The Malahat Review, EVENT, and Gulf Coast. She lives and writes in Vancouver, BC. @HeyGenaJay

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That first blast of fall air can bring sensational reminders of good ol’-fashioned school days. If not received already, many will be getting an invitation to attend a school reunion this fall. Reaction to these invites, however, is often met with great angst. On balance, responses from alumni are less than sanguine and may be sour.

Considering going to a reunion could conjure up sundry emotions such as: “Why do I want to go back to see those jerks?” or “Nobody I hung out with will be there” or “I see the people I need to see in my life now” or “I would love to go, but what if I see (him/her) again; I just could not bear it.”

Certainly, such emotion is understandable, especially if it is your high school reunion — adolescence is a tough and awkward time for all. While Hollywood gave us the good feeling that we can overcome the deep and personal pain of those school days, as did members of The Breakfast Club, sticking one’s neck out in the schoolyard again is too much reality. More… “Reunited . . .”

Stephen F. Gambescia, professor of health services administration at Drexel, has perfect attendance at school reunions.

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A few months ago, I decided to take a sentimental stroll through my old uptown neighborhood in New York City. It was about four in the afternoon that late autumn day when I exited the subway station at 145th and Broadway. Since it was cold, I wore a heavy leather coat, a black turtleneck with matching jeans, and black Timberland boots. Besides the McDonald’s on the corner, the one Jay-Z refers to on “Empire State of Mind,” little remains from those years when I was just another shortie growing-up along the way.

After years of neglect due to drugs, it was nice seeing new shops, restaurants, and clothing stores opening, but, at the same time, it was depressing to peep through the window of one bar/restaurant and see no faces of color except for the dishwasher. Walking down the avenue, I stared at the unfamiliar storefronts that used to be something else, as well as the newly built structures that will one day serve as landmarks in the memories of the new kids when they are middle-aged and obsessed with the way things used to be.

More… “Homeboy”

Michael A. Gonzales has written essays and articles for Vibe, The Source, The Pitchfork Review, Complex and Essence.. Co-author of Bring the Noise: A Guide to Rap Music and Hip-Hop Culture (1991), his short fiction has appeared in Bronx Biannual, Brown Sugar, Black Pulp and Crime Factory. A columnist for soulhead.com, Gonzales is currently finishing his New York City hip-hop novel Boom for Real.

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We’ll go to Del Taco,
And order something macho.
And when your lips go down to take a bite,
Your face is covered in food but it’s alright,
You know it’s gonna be good, you and me tonight.
─ Hunx and His Punx “Good Kisser”

The day my friend Rich bought a Del Taco T-shirt from an employee was the day I realized that my fixation with the fast food Mexican chain was about more than beans. Back then, in 1993, I was an 18-year-old Arizonan obsessed with California beach culture. I owned a boogie board that I used one week a year. I wore vintage Hang Ten and Hobie surf tees that I found at Phoenix thrift stores. I favored Van’s and cutoffs, and I rode a late ’60s red and white Schwinn beach cruiser whose sleek beauty and tall white walls had strangers yelling “Hey, Pee Wee Herman!” at me on the street. If the southern California coast was the center of my landlocked universe, then Del Taco was a bright star in my sky. What did I know? Fresh out of high school and uncertain about the future, I was searching for an identity. All I knew for certain was that I wanted to live on the beach. More… “Cheddar Suns over Lettuce Mountains”

Aaron Gilbreath is the author of the personal essay collection Everything We Don’t Know, and the ebook This Is: Essays on Jazz. An editor at Longreads, his essays and articles have appeared in Harper’s, The New York Times, Paris Review, Kenyon Review, Lucky Peach, Brick, and Saveur. He’s working on a book tentatively titled Tanoshii: Travels in Japan. @AaronGilbreath

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It’s an ambiguous pileasure, but a pleasure nonetheless, to look back at the photographs I took decades ago when I was in my teens and early 20s. Those images make me realize there are moments that seemed so consequential to me, that felt so charged with happiness and meaning, that I felt compelled to make a record of them. They also remind me that I was once young and dewy and that I am not so any longer.

These photographs have a random, desultory quality to them. Each one is like the proverbial insect that got stuck in amber. If things had been different on some particular day 150 million years ago, if a different unsuspecting fly or beetle had blundered its way to its sticky doom, then the chunk of cretaceous petrified tree resin that I hold in my hand would display a different mummified arthropod. It’s the same with all these photos I have of people I didn’t know, or barely knew — friends, or friends of friends, or other young people who frequented the same bars and restaurants long ago.

Most of the photos were taken with a 35mm Olympus camera my father gave me as a birthday present in 1981. When I was 13, I didn’t think to ask for or even to want a fancy camera. I was more interested in getting my own stereo so that I could listen to Blondie 45s in my room. It seemed to me that my father did a perfectly good job of taking family photos with his Nikon camera and I even had an Instamatic that I could resort to in extremis. Still, he wanted me to have a really good camera; he had always loved taking pictures and thought that I might too one day.

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I brought the Olympus with me to stave off boredom during the obligatory attendance at my brother’s soccer games, which is the reason why I now have charming photos of the boys I went to high school with wearing their sweaty, grass-stained uniforms. In college, I got in the habit of lugging the camera around on weekends when I left my suburban campus for Boston: on exciting, unpredictable nights when I didn’t quite know where I might go and what might happen. The camera, an encumbrance on the dance floor, provided an excuse to sit out the dancing since the evening’s photographer had the unspoken right to drink rum and cokes on the sidelines while waiting for a picturesque excuse to snap the shutter.

I think the key thing was the literal and figurative weightiness of the camera. I took it out for special events or when I wanted to make ordinary events special. It recorded things, but its presence changed the atmosphere and the images being taken. Thirty years ago, cameras weren’t ubiquitous. Even if the subjects were encountered at random, making photographic images required some commitment. It strikes me that my photos taken back in the 1980’s and 1990’s have a good deal in common with carefully posed daguerreotypes — perhaps more than they do with the throwaway digital images I have on my smartphone today.

For most of history, of course, there were no cameras, no way for ordinary people to record the visual with any measure of verisimilitude. Even after the 1839 introduction of the first camera for professional photographers, the Giroux Daguerreotype, it took another 50 years for George Eastman to bring to market the easy-to-operate, amateur-friendly Kodak. Then, right at the turn of the century, he came out with the small, portable, one-dollar Brownie camera — which made the technology available to just about everyone. Portability is relative, however. I took my childhood Instamatic with me on the junior high field trip from Albany, New York to the Boston area, where I struck a sassy pose in front of Concord’s “rude bridge that arched the flood,” along with pre-teen girls named Andrea, Pam, and Lara. That camera and the low-quality snapshots it tended to produce now seem as archaic as Emerson’s anachronistic poetic diction.

Today I am a librarian at a university and have plenty of opportunities to observe college students. They are, as we all are now, a little trigger-happy when it comes to the cameras on their smartphones. Still, they’ve been taught to be nervous about exposure — and I’m not referring to the amount of light hitting a camera’s sensors. Incriminating photos, posted thoughtlessly or even maliciously, can ruin a reputation or repel a potential employer. They can even go viral. I try to imagine how stultifying it must be to have to worry about the omnipresence of camera phones and Facebook, the fear of being captured chugging beer at a keg party or puffing on a joint in a friend’s dorm room. I’ve added this low-grade but constant anxiety to the list of reasons why I don’t envy today’s college students, along with the high cost of tuition and the dismal job market for recent graduates.

If you’re worried about the potentially compromising future uses of your photographs, it’s easy to forget to question whether those images will actually have a persistent afterlife. My sense is that the longevity of today’s photographic record is in question; digital images are less stable than those printed on high-quality photographic paper. Decades from now, today’s college students might not have a photographic record of their undergraduate years at all.

There was data loss before the internet of course. To use literature as an example, Sappho, whose work is now only available in tantalizingly fragmentary form, is one well-known example. Her poems were recorded on papyrus, a writing material from Egypt that was used in the ancient world as an alternative to more expensive (and, as it happens, more durable) parchment. Archivists and fans of Thomas Pynchon will recognize the characteristic disintegration of papyrus over the centuries as an example of “inherent vice” (that is, the way in which a material’s own chemical makeup leads to its self-destruction).

There’s also data loss due purely to human neglect. In the 17th century, Ben Johnson bemoaned the loss of a painting in his poem “Picture Left in Scotland.” In it, he regrets having entrusted a portrait of himself to a woman who didn’t love him enough to take good care of or appreciate his gift. He expresses regret too that he is no longer young. He seems to have hated the sight of his middle-aged self in the portrait, and hated even more the fact that the woman he was enamored with clearly didn’t care for it either. “My hundred of gray hairs,/Told seven and forty years,” he wrote, adding ruefully: “she cannot embrace/ My mountain belly and my rocky face.”

I feel his pain, having just turned 47 myself.

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The carelessness with which the painting was forgotten wounded him, but it wasn’t tragic; the reader senses that aging Ben was probably better off without the heartless little minx. The loss of the current college generation’s photos — images of poignantly young people who will inevitably grow apart from one another — won’t be a tragedy, either, perhaps; as I say, ordinary people have only had access to photography for a bit more than a century, and it’s possible today’s college students will not miss what their distant ancestors never had: a photographic record of the past. Still, I think it’s hard for one generation to accept less than what the previous one had, and I think it is painful to lose what could have been saved. What’s more, I believe there will be a collective data loss that affects millions of people and alters future generations’ ability to know us through our creations and artifacts.

Digital preservation requires conscious effort. Unlike in the analog world, digital photo albums shouldn’t be abandoned for decades if one wants their contents to remain accessible. Without constant vigilance (old files, for example, being migrated to new formats) those photos won’t be available for viewing years from now. Archival studies scholar and photographer Jessica Bushey has noted that the cloud-based services consumers use to store photos take no responsibility for preserving them; the Instagram Terms of Use contract, for example, states, “We reserve the right to modify or terminate the Service or your access to the Service for any reason, without notice, at any time, and without liability to you,” and also, “Instagram encourages you to maintain your own backup of your Content. In other words, Instagram is not a backup service and you agree that you will not rely on the Service for the purposes of Content backup or storage.” In other other words, Instagram, like most social networking sites, refuses to promise to back up data, while retaining the right to cut off access to the site without notice. Instagram isn’t Snapchat (which, due to the supposed ephemerality of its images, has distinguished itself as the go-to photo sharing service for dick pictures). Instagram, like Facebook, is a service users turn to for images that they actually want to save.

Instagram, then, takes us back to Ben Jonson’s early modern era — and not just because of the seemingly whimsical capitalization employed in the Terms of Use. In the decades ahead, we will have to start taking more care to preserve images, not because they are rare (as they were in Jonson’s day) but because they are more fragile than we may think. Doing what I did a quarter century ago — that is, stash my photographic prints in an album and then forget about them for long periods of time — simply won’t be feasible. Either we’ll take good care of our images and not entrust them to unreliable stewards or we will, like Ben Jonson, suffer loss and perhaps even long-term regret.

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Many commentators have noted the Faustian bargain we’ve made with the likes of Facebook, YouTube, and Instagram: in exchange for a purportedly free service, we have handed over our personal data to corporations. Furthermore, the so-called “culture of free” has eroded the ability of musicians, photographers, and writers (among others) to make a living from their work. Less examined is the inability of free services to preserve our data. The aforementioned internet-based services make money selling data, not preserving it, and obviously corporations exist to make money. This means that they will preserve our images stored on their servers only for as long as it is cost-effective to do so — and not a moment longer. There have been hacks of websites — Target’s for example — that have led to data leaks. But as we wring our hands over the potential for identity theft, we should remember that any hacker who can steal information could, of course, also erase it. (This happened to Wired writer Mat Honan.) Furthermore, time is the ultimate thief of digital information. The slow-motion erosion of papyrus over the centuries is nothing compared to the rapidity of data loss in a digital environment. Files crash, and new iterations of hardware and software can make old data inaccessible.

My own smartphone is filled to capacity with images that I’ve failed to back up, even though I know well how easy it is to lose them. Internet culture has come to favor dissemination over preservation, and it has encouraged users, even vigilant ones like me, do the same. It’s easy for me to post images that can be viewed by millions, while properly saving my images takes effort and even some money. In spite of my hundreds of gray hairs and my 47 years, I, short of time and cash, fecklessly procrastinate rather than immediately create satisfactory backups of everything I own and want to save. Every time I look at my old college photographs I feel grateful to have grown up in a time when careless handling of images didn’t lead to catastrophe — viral images whose spread is impossible to halt or lost photographic treasures that even an expert may not be able to retrieve from oblivion. •

Images courtesy of OsmowSusan, John Overholt, and Kadorin via Flickr (Creative Commons)

Rachel Paige King is the media librarian at Long Island University in Brooklyn, NY. Her writing has been published over the years in Salon, Newsday, Tablet, and Contexts.

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I turned a corner, and there it was: The Arch. I gulped down my surprise and walked down the cobbled street, toward the strange yellow structure. Plump women in patterned huipiles perched on the sidewalk with baskets of fruit.

Robert Isenberg is a writer based in San José, Costa Rica, where he serves as a reporter, videographer and photojournalist for The Tico Times, Central America’s most respected English-language newspaper. He is the author of The Archipelago: A Balkan Passage and the poetry collection Wander, as well as numerous plays and stage works. Originally from Vermont, he spent 15 years living in and writing about Pittsburgh.

Invite your most aloof and sophisticated friends to the New York Public Library exhibit, The ABC of It: Why Children’s Books Matter, on display through March 23, then watch them melt. You’d have to have a heart of stone not to be charmed by the books, illustrations, manuscripts, and sundry artifacts in this exhibit — and you’d have to have been born a grown-up not to regress a little.

“The ABC of It: Why Children’s Books Matter” The New York Public Library, Through March 23, 2014.

“There’s the Pokey Little Puppy!” I heard a woman in tweeds squeal, pointing to that book, with its familiar cover, displayed in the manner of Renaissance painting in a vertical glass case in the middle of one of the rooms. “C’est George!” exclaimed an impeccable Frenchman to his impeccable wife as they… More…

In a public park where families take their children to play on the swings, in what was, just a few decades ago, East Berlin, is a wall of relief sculptures. The sculptures date from the Communist days. They depict children who are happy and healthy, adults who are industrious and kind. There is work, play. There is life. Monuments like these — the remnants of the dreams and aspirations of a lost civilization — can stimulate that most disconcerting emotion amongst Germans: ostalgie (literally, east-stalgia, nostalgia for the old East Germany). It is not the first thing you expect to encounter in Berlin, ostalgie, until you realize that nothing in Berlin is settled, no aspect of the recent past has yet been laid to rest.

 

Just up the block from the park is a square, in the center… More…

 

I remember seeing a reproduction of Andrew Wyeth’s “Christina’s World” when I was a child. It disturbed me. I felt that something horrible had happened to Christina and that she was left out there in the field, maybe to die. And what was happening in that lonely house up at the top of the hill?

There is, perhaps, no other American painting as recognizable and as loved as “Christina’s World.” The only other painting that comes to mind is “American Gothic” by Grant Wood. But for all his popularity (or because of it), Wyeth has generally been scorned by the critics. He has been called a cheap sentimentalist applying painterly tricks in the service of an empty nostalgia. New Criterion founder Hilton Kramer said simply, “he can’t paint.” Dave Hickey said Wyeth’s palette was “mud and baby… More…