Magazine Tear Sheets

This page is updated from time to time. The tear sheets below represent just a small sample of the hundreds of clips for Janis Turk.. Tear sheets are available by writing to janis@janisturk.com.


New York City Plus
http://www.nycplus.com/nyc13/newyorkandneworleans.html
http://www.nycplus.com/nyc11/blowakisstothe.html

The Chicago Tribune
 November 6, 2005 Feature on Arizona, Sunday, Travel Section. See archives at www.chicagotribune.com


San Antonio AT HOME

http://www.sawoman.com/around_the_house.html

Country Lifestyle Getaway and Food Features
Getaway to Bandera, Texas



Tea with Shakespeare - Food Feature (Cover Story)

 


Metro San Antonio In Focus Magazine


Gardening, Neighborhood, and City Features





New Orleans travel feature - Winner of GO SEE DO feature-writing contest

RANCH AND COUNTRY MAGAZINE


Return to Lonesome Dove (Travel Feature on the High Lonesome Ranch Lonesome Dove Village)
and
Day in the Life of a Cowboy  (A day with the Cook Family, cattle ranchers in Gonzales, Texas)

VOLUME 1, ISSUE 13 | May 1 -31 2006

 

 

ORLEANS PERISH? Never.
New York and New Orleans Have a Lot More in Common Than You Ever Thought.

By Janis Turk

Mardi Gras in New Orleans this year was eerily reminiscent of a classic scene in Gone with the Wind – the famous one in which Scarlett O’Hara takes the green velvet curtains of Tara and turns them into a dress. She needs to look good when she goes after Rhett, for she hopes to entice him into giving her money for back taxes on Tara, which has fallen into ruin since the Civil War. Scarlett crafts an elaborate frock and hat from the musty drapes and trots off after the money. Of course her calloused, “cotton-picking” hands give her away, and Rhett isn’t fooled. Still, she is a vision in emerald green.

Six months to the day after Hurricane Katrina wreaked havoc on the South and left its gulf-shore cities looking like a war zone, New Orleans picked itself up from its swampy squalor, just like the desperate Scarlett, and draped itself in green, purple, and gold for Mardi Gras. Spiffing itself up with the brightest bon vivance it could muster, New Orleans donned her Mardi Gras mask and put on a gay front for the Rhetts of the world in hopes that tourists might come back with money to spend.

Hungry for crawfish etouffée, beignets, and jambalaya, and eager to put Anderson Cooper’s tiresome, soggy news reports behind them, the tourists poured in like Lake Ponchartrain over the levees, wearing beads and drinking from plastic “go” cups, bringing with them the hope that the South will rise again. Some stopped to take bus tours of destroyed neighborhoods, snapped pictures, and went home.

Mardi Gras was a good plan, and it worked – just don’t look behind the curtain. Venture a block or two off the parade route and you’ll see the open wounds of a suffering city where Carnival isn’t king. Yet, for one Fat and happy Tuesday, the “city that care forgot” sought to forget its cares and allowed splendid parades to sweep us into a colorful caravan of hope.

It may not seem so at a glance, but New York and New Orleans have a lot in common.

Both cities have suffered a great tragedy from which they may never fully recover. Sure, you can rebuild on the site of the Twin Towers and set up grand memorials, but the emotional scars left on New Yorkers can never be fully understood or appreciated by the outside world. When a community endures a shared trauma, suffers a horrific loss, carries a collective grief, it alters the physical and emotional landscape of that place in a manner more intense and personal than outsiders can ever know. There’s no doubt that shock waves from 9/11 and Katrina were felt throughout the nation and the world, but while people everywhere may sympathize, they can never fully comprehend the magnitude of these losses.

The impact extends beyond loss of life; as if that weren’t enough; it is a violation of our collective being. With it comes a loss of hope, a loss of innocence, and most bitterly a loss of the false sense of security which cradled us to sleep at night and waved like a red, white, and blue magic wand over our nation for so long. While terrorists and torrents are hardly the same, both places were changed forever by an instantaneous calamity that left their citizens reeling.

Like New York, New Orleans is also a walking city. In many parts of town, having a car is more of a hindrance than a help, and people in New Orleans rely heavily on taxis, buses, and streetcars (which are not just for tourists). Jumping in an SUV and racing down the turnpike may be fine in New Jersey, but it isn’t an option for most residents of Manhattan or New Orleans. Just as it does in New York, getting beyond the central part of New Orleans involves crossing bridges, causeways, canals, and waterways. Even if you have a car, everyone leaving en masse would be a nightmare.

Contrary to what many people heard, the poor were not the only ones who couldn’t get out of the city during Katrina; many of the city’s elderly had nowhere to go and no way to get there.

“The one group that was disproportionately affected by the storm appears to have been older adults,” says the Knight Ridder News Source. “People 60 and older account for only about 15 percent of the population in the New Orleans area, but the Knight Ridder database found that 74 percent of the dead were 60 or older. Nearly half were older than 75. Many of those were at nursing homes and hospitals, where nearly 20 percent of the victims were recovered.”

Just as in New York, many of New Orleans elderly live alone in old apartments with only a pet and their neighbors as family. They live on fixed incomes and wait for the Social Security checks. Some live simple, even lonely lives, their routines predictable and quiet – a walk to Matassa’s corner market for milk or a streetcar ride to Angelo Brocotto’s for ice cream. But when water fills the house to the rafters and neighbors axe their way through their roof, what are an elderly woman and her cat to do?

 

Another way in which the two cities are alike is that both are comprised of many little boroughs, neighborhoods, or “fauborgs.” New York has the Bronx, Queens, Battery Park, Gramercy Park, Uptown, Downtown, SoHo, Chinatown, Greenwich Village, Brooklyn, and so on. New Orleans has Uptown, Downtown, the “CBD” (Central Business District), Garden District, Mid-City, French Quarter, Fauborg Marigny, Treme, the 9th Ward, the Lower 9th Ward, Bywater, Lakeside, the West Bank, Algiers, Kenner, Metarie, and more. Perhaps the most frustrating thing for evacuees who watched CNN from the kitchens and living rooms of kind strangers or Houston hotel rooms was that nobody on TV would say exactly where the flooding had occurred.

Reporters would stand waist-deep in water with debris floating by and not know the name of the area where they were. Sure, after a few weeks they figured out the name of the Lower 9th Ward, but not once did anyone mention Treme, Lakeside, or Mid-City. One reporter standing on an Interstate 10 overpass and pointing to the vague distance said: “There is a fire there behind me in that neighborhood and there’s no way to put it out.” If he were pointing west, it could have been my street in the French Quarter. If he were pointing east, it might be Mid-City. I had no way of knowing where he was standing. Helplessness and fear surged in me like floodwaters.

Naming is important. Human beings have to have an identity, and for New Orleanians like New Yorkers, identity has much to do with place. The literature and tradition of the Crescent City is all wrapped up in a mystical, overblown sense of place – an identity refined by writers like Tennessee Williams, John Kennedy O’Toole, Truman Capote, and William Faulkner. It’s the same in Manhattan, though; like the Big Apple, the Big Easy is as much a city of myth as of mortar. We are known by our names, by our music – our jazz – by our words, but most of all by our places. We become where we are.

That is what happened to me.

The moment I first set eyes on the French Quarter as an adult, I fell in love with New Orleans the way I used to fall in love with men – madly, truly, deeply. I loved her without explanation, judgment, or condemnation, blindly and without good sense. It was all over the minute I saw her slender streets and quirky architecture. I knew I belonged to this city. Even though I must work in Texas and I can’t live in New Orleans full time, I quickly found a “Slave Quarter” pied-à-terre behind a 180-year-old house on St. Peter Street and made it my second home. Before long, I was solidly part of the vibrant community of writers and artists who live there, and I found a second family among friends in the Vieux Carré, my adopted village. New Orleans is far more than Bourbon Street madness and the Superdome hell you saw on TV: It’s a place of beauty, tradition, culture, history, Southern refinement, music, memory, and dreams.

After about eight years, I moved from St. Peter to another “Slave Quarter” apartment on a quiet street near a dog park and a small used-book store a block off Esplanade Avenue. Now, 11 years after I came to New Orleans, I sit in the courtyard and contemplate how, long before Katrina was spawned, New Orleans became the name for that thing in me I always knew but never really felt I had – home.

“God, but I was ignorant when I came here! This place has been a — I ought to pay you – tuition!” – Tennessee Williams.

That’s my favorite line from Tennessee’s Vieux Carré, a play set in the French Quarter; I know just what he means.

These are the things I have learned from New Orleans: Mondays are laundry day so you make red beans and rice. Shopping is “making groceries.” Chicory takes the bitterness out of strong coffee, and (according to New Orleanian and poet James Nolan) it takes three days to make gumbo and it takes a year-and-a-day to mourn the dead.

A half-year and a day after Katrina, as I sat in my courtyard basking in my morning-after memories of the best Mardi Gras ever, I thought about how my time of mourning should be halfway over.

I’m not altogether sure it works that way with hurricanes, though.

Just as seasoned New Yorkers know the ropes for living in the naked city, older New Orleanians know what to do when a hurricane hits – or so they thought. They’ve been raised on it like religion. They know how to fill the bathtubs with water, stock up on candles, defrost the refrigerator, hoard jugs of water and canned goods. They know how to put a whole roll of masking tape up on the windows so they wouldn’t shatter and how to sandbag the doorways and put plywood on everything. They know about having an axe in the attic, extra flashlights and batteries, a hurricane box with birth certificates and bank papers, an escape route and a plan. They know to throw a party, drink a hurricane, and fear the fickle gulf storms with women’s names. They’ve been through the destruction of Betsy and Camille. (Telling people I’d lived through Hurricane Camille in 1969 in Mississippi garnered me the same respect in New Orleans as for any decorated war veteran.)

Another thing I’d learned about New Orleanians was that people there are not easily scared. They know about crying wolf, too – about all the silly little storms like Georges that taunted them and turned away. They know about 24-hour traffic jams that leave you exposed to the elements if you try to get out of town, and how from here to Houma to Houston and beyond there’d be no place to stay even if you tried to get the hell out of high water.

My friend, writer James Nolan (who was born on the eve of a hurricane), escaped the city with his neighbor on a stolen yellow school bus almost a week after the levees broke. The neighbor hadn’t been able to get kidney dialysis and was bloating like a beignet by the time they got him to Baton Rouge. Neither owned a car.

There are hundreds of sensational stories I could tell: Of dog rescues that didn’t work, and nursing homes where all the residents drowned. But it is the smaller moments – told and retold in whispers as if they aren’t important enough to mention beside the larger-scale tragedies – that keep me awake at night.

Like the lovely elderly woman I know whose socialite daughter took her in after the levees broke and then treated her like a tiresome houseguest. Worse, the socialite didn’t want her mother to touch anything in the house, as if the rotting moldy film of New Orleans might somehow stain her pretty Lafayette life.

There’s Larry Gonzales, the dapper 70-something gentleman who stayed in the French Quarter during the storm and for months afterward, even after near-martial law took over because kids were running around with guns and stolen televisions. In 100-degree humid days, for a month he bathed in the courtyard fountain and slept outside eating MREs (meals ready to eat from FEMA) – venturing beyond his immediate surroundings only to look for cigarettes and save his neighbor’s dog.

And then there’s “Mr. Eddie,” Eldridge Gabriel, a true New Orleans icon. For nearly 70 years he worked at Pat O’Brien’s famous bar, where Eddie entertained crowds by wearing thimbles on his fingers and tapping them on the bottom of a silver tray along with the music of piano players in the bar.

Mr. Eddie drowned in the 9th Ward.

It took months to identify his body; his jazz funeral was finally held this past Thursday in the streets of the French Quarter. A second line funeral — a jazz procession of musicians and mourners dancing with ribbon-covered parasols in the street — proceeded up St. Peter toward the bar where Eddie spent the better part of a century.

Another good friend, Joshua Clark, a writer/editor who lives off Jackson Square, holed up in a bar called Johnny White’s in the French Quarter for the duration of the storm and several months afterward. On the night the hurricane came ashore, Josh had the name “Katrina” tattooed across his chest. There was no electricity in the city, so he used a car battery to power the tattoo artist’s pen.

Josh never left New Orleans during the storm and its aftermath, though someday I’m sure he’ll go and make his life in other cities. But even on that first night before the levees broke, he sensed that New Orleans wouldn’t ever leave him and that Katrina would leave her indelible mark on our lives.

We can put on our shirts and cover up the inky blue stains on our hearts and skins; we can rebuild our devastated city. We can shroud ourselves in costumes and parade down the streets, masked to the world. Come to our Carnival, watch us float down Canal Street – we’ll rely on the kindness of strangers once more. But we’ll never be the same.

By the way, Rhett Butler didn’t give Scarlett the money, but she found a way to keep Tara after all.

You can be sure of one thing: New Orleans didn’t “put on the drapes” for Mardi Gras this year just because we needed tourists – although we do. I doubt even Scarlet put on the green dress just for Rhett. We did this for ourselves. We needed to cloak ourselves in the beauty of our graceful past, to bring back a time and place that, in a way, really is gone with the wind, even though New Orleans, like Tara, is still (more or less) standing. Carnival is an integral part of New Orleans culture and its hope; it is also a way of saying we will live through this.

And we will.

Ever since Mardi Gras, hope has returned to our city, and we brought it back all by ourselves. Like the second-line parades at jazz funerals, we grieved while wearing beads and carrying pretty umbrellas, dancing in the streets.

Yes, we knew Lent was coming – the long, hard part is still ahead – so we celebrate until midnight and then go home to start another day of work.

If anyone can understand, I’m sure New Yorkers do. After 9/11, they cut the curtains, put on a mask for the cameras, and held their pain back like a tenuous levee.

They’ve been to the Mardi Gras too.

***

Janis Turk is a freelance writer who has appeared in Southwest Airlines Spirit, Chicago Tribune, Country Lifestyle, Ranch and Country, Texas Hills, and other magazines, newspapers, and literary journals. Her French Quarter flat was spared the flooding that occurred in New Orleans after the levees broke following hurricane Katrina.





New York City Plus Magazine


VOLUME 1, ISSUE 6 | October 1 -31 2005

WORK

Photograph by Brett C Vermilyea

Harry Benson at home in Manhattan

‘I Get the Picture’

By Janis Turk

If there are 8 million stories in the naked city, at least a billion more rest just behind the blinking black and white eyes of Harry Benson.

One of the most celebrated photographers of our time, Benson is a treasure trove of memories. With the puckish, knowing half-smile of a man musing to himself over a joke he once heard, this handsome Glasgow-born New Yorker takes his signature kelly-green handkerchief out of his breast pocket to wipe his brow. We’re seated at Benson’s favorite table at Elaine’s, under a photograph of Elaine that Benson took for Life magazine. A waiter sets a glass of iced Pellegrino in front of him, and we begin to talk.

I ask him to tell me a story, and Benson begins a very funny one about Frank Sinatra, only to stop mid-sentence and say, “Never mind — surely you’ve heard this one before.”

He’s right, of course. Because I’ve known Harry for years, I’ve probably heard them all before — or most of them, anyway — but a gleeful “Oh please, Harry, go on! Tell it again!” springs from my lips, offered up like a little prayer over our late-night table. Benson’s eyes sparkle as he leans in and begins again.

Harry Benson’s work, clockwise from far left: Frank Sinatra and Mia Farrow show up for Truman Capote’s Black and White Ball at the Plaza Hotel in 1966; on the cover of Benson’s new book, Donny and Marie Osmond in their kitchen.

 

For the past 50-odd years, as one of the world’s most prolific photojournalists, Benson has gathered photographs and memories in the most remarkable places. He was there when the Berlin Wall went up and when it came down. He was with the Beatles in a Paris hotel room when their first hit record “I Want to Hold Your Hand” went to No. 1.

“They hopped right on the bed and had a pillow fight… in their jammies!” recalls Harry.

Benson was with Martin Luther King, Jr., on the march during the Civil Rights Movement, and with Robert Kennedy as he blazed the campaign trail. Benson stood beside King’s open casket when he was laid to rest and next to Bobby Kennedy at the moment he was shot. Harry stood near the podium as Richard Nixon resigned and the First Lady cried. He has been an invited guest in the private White House quarters of every president since Eisenhower, and was the official photographer for a Kennedy wedding or two. He has rubbed elbows with royalty as well – although he’s dined with dukes and earls and chatted with Princess Di, he claims that seeing the throne in Michael Jackson’s Neverland bedroom was a lot more interesting.

Benson was with John and Paul while they composed “I Feel Fine” at the piano, and he was in Mark David Chapman’s prison cell when Chapman apologized for murdering Harry’s friend – John Lennon.

Harry was sailing by on a catamaran when Greta Garbo took a lonely swim, just months before she died. He’s snapped shots of Willie Nelson in a red bathtub, Frank Sinatra wearing a kitty-kat mask (with Mia Farrow at Truman Capote’s legendary Black and White Ball at the Plaza Hotel in 1966), Dennis Rodman naked in a field near Dallas, Liz Taylor in a hospital recovering from brain surgery, O.J. Simpson in the shower.

The aphorism “Been there, done that,” should be Harry’s motto.

Harry gets around.

President John F. Kennedy in Paris, 1961.

Benson is a veritable “Forrest Gump” or “Zelig,” but only in the sense that, with chameleon-like facility, he always seems to be where history is being made. And at the zenith moment, he’s already poised to go in for the kill with his camera. This plucky 75-year-old professional voyeur blends in effortlessly everywhere, easing his way into places and situations others would never imagine. And Harry does it with a confidence and a charm that is utterly disarming. Benson has documented our nation and our world in a way that has sharpened our perspective of history, and, as he is quick to tell you, he had “ a hell of a lot fun doing it.”

When he’s not on assignment for Vanity Fair or for any of a hundred other magazines, Benson is in New York, walking his dog Tillie, going to Sette Mezzo, or a new restaurant the Bensons have just found – “Fredericks! Have you been there yet? You should, you know” – and dining at Elaine’s.

Harry and his wife Gigi are here tonight to celebrate the international success of Harry Benson’s America – the newest of his nine books.

“My book was doing great until Harry Potter came out,” says Harry with a laugh. Gigi explains: “We love our local bookstore, Lenox Hill, owned by Jeanette Watson. It’s a very savvy, tiny store. For weeks now as we’ve walked past, they’ve had the Harry Benson’s America counter card on an easel outside, but today we saw they’d replaced it with a big Harry Potter poster instead.”

Harry inserts: “Not only replaced, but by a younger Harry at that!”

Harry Benson’s America (Abrams) takes a peek into an America very much unlike yours and mine: Donny and Marie Osmond eating hamburgers in their kitchen, Farah Fawcett leaping in the air in a bathing suit, Andy Warhol lunching with Bianca Jagger, Jamie Wyeth and Larry Rivers at The Factory. You get the picture. Or, rather, Harry does.

“For this book, Gigi and I went through hundreds of photographs to find those that had never been published,” says Harry. “Even my friends were surprised when they saw it.”

It’s all surprising, for there is nothing mundane about Harry Benson’s America. And yet, perhaps in another sense, Harry’s America is everyone’s America. He’s been right there beside us, capturing important moments as the world turned and changed, there every step of the way.

Even Harry’s arrival in this country was unlike that of most immigrants. He first stepped foot on American soil after disembarking from a plane with the Beatles, surrounded by a sea of hysterically happy fans. With a welcome like that, who would want to go home?

“I came to the U.S. with the Beatles and just stayed. I never looked back. I met them in 1964 when I was a Fleet Street photographer for the London Express. I was told I had to go with them to Paris, but I wasn’t keen on the assignment, so I tried to talk my editor out of it. I wanted to be a serious journalist, and was all set to go to Kenya to document a celebration of the country’s independence. I wanted to cover history – not some relatively unknown band – but the editor made me go.

“Well,” says Harry. “I covered history all right. I traveled with them for quite a while, photographing everything. There are some stories in my life that I’d love to go back and do better, but not the Beatles. I know I covered them to the best of my ability.”

Thirty-five years later Benson took the U.S. citizenship test, and the oath, and on September 10, 1999, became an American citizen.

“Not long after that, I was in Texas at the governor’s mansion with young George W. Bush just before his first presidential election. He was playing around, swinging his golf club and paying me little mind, when I mentioned in passing that I had recently become an American citizen. He says to me: ‘So now you can vote! I’m asking for your vote.” So I quipped: ‘Well, let’s just see how this shoot goes first.’ Naturally, I didn’t want to be booted out before I got my picture.”

As if Benson would miss his shot.

“I once photographed Ronald and Nancy Regan in the Map Room as they were walking into a state dinner at the White House. Their staff didn’t think I’d get the shot. They said, ‘When they come through this way, you’ll have two minutes, tops.’ So I made sure the lights and seamless paper were all ready, and I had brought something else – something they wouldn’t expect – a cassette playing ‘Nancy with the Laughing Face.’ The First Lady heard the music, grabbed the President, and they began to dance. That was the moment I was looking for,” says Benson.

“When taking a portrait, I much prefer the subject’s own environment to a studio. If I ask them to walk across the room, then they will have to walk back and you get some movement.  I always like to have something going on in my photos, not have the subject standing like a statue.  I don’t always succeed, but that’s what I aim for.” Harry certainly succeeded with the Reagans: the photo would become one of their favorites.

“As for presidents, I have liked every one that I have photographed and every First Lady as well. Nixon was the most fascinating. There was always something going on. Just days after he resigned, I photographed him at San Clemente, and when I left I said: ‘Thank you, Mr. President, for I know this is not a good time for you.’ He answered: ‘You must let professionals do their job.’ I thought that very decent of him.”

Not all Harry’s stories are uplifting. Benson tells of watching heroin addicts shoot up in the bowels of New York, of driving undercover through impoverished Havana in 1969, being with troops in Afghanistan and Iraq, seeing the swollen bodies of starving children in Somalia, watching the tragedy of September 11 unfold in his beloved city.

“I remember that morning well. It happened that I was home in the city between assignments. It was about 8:40 a.m., and Gigi and I had just turned off the television as the morning shows were going into their cooking segments when the phone rang. It was Gigi’s brother, Dan Daniels, calling from Texas to say, ‘New York is being attacked!’ We were shocked and turned the television back on and saw a plane hit the second tower. I raced down there as fast as I could, but by the time I arrived the police had cordoned off the area. It’s probably a blessing as I feel I would have gone into the tower had I been there.

“Still, I stayed all day in the heat taking photos. Late that day I saw Amo, one of the police dogs who had been looking for survivors. He walked toward me and then collapsed. His trainer got him to the first aid center where they gave him intravenous fluids. Revived, Amo went back to work. I always hate to see animals in distress.”

At 75, Benson isn’t slowing down, and quitting isn’t in his vocabulary. Still, when his youngest daughter, Tessa, became the West Coast bureau chief of Self magazine, it crossed his mind. “Her success pleases me no end, but it gave me pause to think: ‘If Tessa is running things, maybe it’s time to retire!’ But, no,” Harry says, “I still get excited by an assignment, and this summer I have been very busy. I just completed several assignments for Vanity Fair – I’m still under contract – and I’ve just done a fashion shoot on white suits for Playboy in which my pug, Daisy, was the only one naked on the set.”

And Harry is keeping up with times: “I have just started to use a digital camera, and it is magic. I have the Canon Mark II, and I could not do what I am doing without it. The quality is that of a 4 x 5 camera,” says Harry, who just won the American Photo magazine’s 2005 Achievement in Photography Award for his new book. He also received the International Photography Lucie Award for Lifetime Achievement in Portrait Photography on October 17, at the American Airlines Theater on 42nd Street. Next year a retrospective of his work will be at the Scottish National Portrait Gallery in Edinburgh from August 5 to November 5, to coincide with the 2006 Edinburgh Festival.

So what’s ahead for Harry?

“It’s hard to say,” he says, though Gigi confides that her husband’s working on a new book. Its working title: I’ll Take Manhattan.

“I started in this business a long time go, and I intend to keep working,” says Harry, “You know, it’s just like in a photo shoot: The first and last pictures you take are often the key pictures of a story. I haven’t taken my last one yet. I’m out there looking for my story. I still get the picture.”

 

***

Janis Turk is a freelance writer who has appeared in Southwest Airlines Spirit, Country Lifestyle, Tinta Latina, Ranch and Country, Texas Hills, and numerous other magazines, newspapers, and literary journals.

 

***

     

 

 


Interview with award winning photographer Harry Benson


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