Occasionally I meet people who, upon learning I was a Marine, tell me, “thank you for your service.” This is meant well, although their thank you is always tinged with guilt. People learned after the Vietnam War not to visit their dislike of America’s misguided politics and wasted wars upon the veterans who had to fight them.

I am conflicted about being thanked for my military service. Should I be gracious and accept it? Or should I tell the person to study the history of America’s war and politics and ask themselves some hard questions? Should I point out that the Vietnam War is now recognized to have been folly—that the 51,895 names etched on the wall in Washington D.C. testifies to their sacrifice in service of too many lying and dithering politicians who played war games from the comfort of their desks? Should I point out that our current “all volunteer” military is for many a last resort employment program led by career professionals—that in effect it is a mercenary force used to extend America’s influence by means of threat and violence. Should I point out that for all the deaths and maiming suffered by the United States, its allies, and the Iraqi and Afghan peoples that Osama Bin Laden has not been brought to justice, and that weapons of mass destruction have not been found in Iraq—although they certainly exist in arsenals throughout the United States?

Recently, while in New Mexico, a place I love for its stark contrasts, I photographed the roadside marker at the entry to Trinity Site.

Trinity Site Marker, near San Antonio, NM

It was at Trinity site, not far from San Antonio, NM in Socorro County, on 16 July 1945 that the equivalent of 20 kilotons of TNT was released with the detonation of the first atomic bomb. It was here that the biblical promise of Armageddon was made possible by science, engineering and American ingenuity. It was here in the desert, south of the Valley of Fires, that 45 mile stretch of malpais, and west of the Three Rivers Petroglyphs site with it 21,000 drawings carved in the rocks by nameless and faceless people more than 1,100 years ago that the objectivity of science was irretrievably surrendered to the service of politics.

Valley of Fires, Malpais, near Carrizozo, NM

Petroglyphs, Three Rivers, NM

We know the rest of the story. The bombs were dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki and all that was living below perished or suffered. The bombs could not distinguish between combatant and non-combatant, the innocent or evil. They cooked the young and old, babies, dogs, cats and birds without discrimination.

Of course, the destruction and horrors of Little Boy and Fat Man were no greater than those caused by the fire bombings of Tokyo on the 9^th of March 1945, when more than 100,000 people died that night and more than a million were wounded!

On 5 August 1945 the bomb bay doors of the Enola Gay opened and America gained the distinction of being the first nation to drop an atomic bomb (Little Boy) on a living population. Later, on 9 August 1945, Fat Man fell on Nagasaki.

It is argued that hundreds of thousands of allied troops would have died invading Japan had the bombs not been dropped. This is likely so. Yet the fact remains that the single most horrific and powerful weapon ever made was used, in spite of the pleas by many of the scientists who developed it. They said it should not be used until it had been first demonstrated to the Japanese thus giving them the option of immediate surrender. President Truman, ignored those pleas and ordered the bombings. Science was now an arm of politics. Realizing what he had done  J. Robert Oppenheimer, quoted from the Bhagavad Gita, saying, “Now, I am become death, the destroyer of worlds.”

Thus far we have avoided another war on the scale of World War Two and have settled for exercising our military skill in a succession of mini-wars—tactical adventures that increasingly resemble video games except for the real carnage they exact. This way we continue to produce a steady stream of new veterans—veterans of our political policy wars—of our wars to extend corporate influence in the guise of spreading Democracy (mostly to those who haven’t asked for it).

As a nation we seem to have lost our stomach for wholesale slaughter and subscribe to the unfounded belief that war can be waged clinically using missiles, drones, and robots, remotely controlled by operators sitting in front of computer monitors in air-conditioned command centers. We believe, or want to believe, that we can kill only the bad guys while avoiding “collateral” damage. It doesn’t seem to be working. We seem resigned to winning the immediate engagement but not the war. In fact we can’t seem to define the war—to decide whether we are at war, conducting a police action, doing peace keeping or nation building.

There was clarity about World War Two. Neither the Axis or Allied powers deluded themselves believing limited war was possible. It was a fight to the finish. It was freedom versus the forces of oppression. Hitler and the Imperial Japanese had to be stopped. And it was over in four years.

The bombings of Tokyo, Hiroshima, Nagaski, London and Dresden were not surgical raids on military targets only. Instead both sides aimed at inflicting so much pain and suffering on the respective enemy populations that they would be compelled to capitulate or wiped out. War then was understood as total. Whether you were a civilian or served in uniform you were involved and vulnerable. It was inescapable.

Today, in the United States, there is no compulsory national service, military or otherwise. Consequently the conflicts we are involved in, such as those in Afghanistan and Iraq are executed by volunteer troops, commanded by university educated and professional officers. Thus our civilian population is free to support, dismiss or totally ignore the American soldier and the military in general. Instead of military service being an obligation, or perceived as a duty it is now considered just another job or career choice. New recruits are given signing bonuses and in some cases permitted to take holiday leaves during boot camp! All of the military services now use branding and marketing agencies to sell themselves, promising to turn the young recruit into an invincible high tech warrior—off to see foreign lands, seek thrills and find adventure.

So, as a veteran how do I feel about being thanked for my service? I feel unsettled, embarrassed and somewhat grateful. I appreciate that my service is acknowledged. Yet I know I did not enlist out of patriotism. I enlisted because the G.I Bill promised me an opportunity for an education, if I survived—a way out of a dead end situation. And I got that education and opportunity at a price.

During and after my service I came to know that my nation lied to me about Vietnam. I began to realize that the pay and benefits I’d received as a Marine had come at a cost in blood for many innocent people, both American and Vietnamese. So how can I be proud of this? Why should I be?

The veterans of World War Two can be proud of their service, knowing it was truly necessary and noble. And those of us who served during Korea and Vietnam can take a measure of solace in knowing that we had few choices—we would likely have been drafted if we hadn’t enlisted. Drafted or enlisted most of us went in with our eyes open and aware of the calculations.

So I will graciously accept the thank you for my service. However, anyone who would truly honor me as a veteran must pledge to rise above the words of politicians, professors and religious leaders and search for the real truth—the truth one must recognize in their heart—the truth that tells them that “blessed are the peacemakers for they shall be called the children of God.” (Matthew 5:9)

War should never be the political solution. It should only be entered into in defense of the innocent and helpless, and then only as an absolute and unavoidable last resort.

The best way to thank veterans is by not creating the conditions that produce them.

© Michael Maurer Smith 2009

“Why should I explain it? It’s art and if it’s any good it doesn’t need explanation. I’m a painter. My pictures speak for themselves. Words can’t explain the ineffable.” Said Carmina, her voice replete with protest and doubt.

On this day Anthony (Tony) West, a photographer, and his friend Carmina Sfumato, a painter, sat in the northeast corner of the Supreme Bean and at a respectable remove from the other regulars. This was good, not because the two were dangerous but because their discussions could be intense, even erudite. To the other habitués of the coffee shop—a mix of lobbyists, legislators, law students, and state workers—it could be disturbing to overhear two people passionately discuss something besides office politics, case law, who was sleeping with whom, and how best to get in other peoples pockets.

Tony and Carmina were discussing an essay Tony recently read in a fine little book, Why People Photograph, by Robert Adams. In that essay, titled Writing, Adam’s wrote, “ART is by nature self-explanatory. We call it art precisely because of its sufficiency. Its vivid detail and overall cohesion give it a clarity not ordinarily apparent in the rest of life.”

Tony had encountered this sentiment many times before. It was common within the arts community and many artists said they felt insulted when asked to explain their work. So Tony asked Carmina, “Do you feel insulted when you are asked to explain your paintings? “Sometimes,” she answered. He then asked her, “Do you believe your paintings can be fully understood without discussion? And is it possible for an individual to appreciate a piece of art and not hear the words of history, comparison, theory, and taste being spoken in his or her own mind?”

Carmina ran her fingers through the patch of carmine colored hair that was her signature, as she pondered the last two questions. She asked herself, “What do I believe? If I have to explain my art is it a failure? Can my art really be understood without explanation? Is it art just because I say so? And just who and what is an artist? Who decides? If I call myself an artist and no one else agrees, am I really an artist or deluded?

Her introspection was interrupted when Tony asked, “do you know the work of the photographer Walker Evans? “Yes,” she replied. Tony continued, “then you may know that Evans said, ‘Whether he is an artist or not, the photographer is a joyous sensualist, for the simple reason that the eye traffics in feelings, not in thoughts.’ Of course he also said, ‘Fine photography is literature, and it should be.’”

“In my opinion,” said Tony, “fine photography and painting are both literature, because they point beyond their surface and invite feeling, dialogue and thought. Good art is about the eye and the mind, the senses and the intellect. So Adams is right to say that a worthy work of visual art will present itself as clear and sufficient, but I would add, only to the thoughtful, informed, perceptive and capable viewer.”

Carmina, nodded in the affirmative. Then she and Tony turned to look at the remaining patrons. Most of them looked back with the gaze of spectators at a zoo. Being artists Tony and Carmina knew that look well. They turned and gave each other a knowing smile and promised to meet again next Thursday. It had been a satisfying talk. 

© Michael Maurer Smith 2009 

Snapper figured if he bought the best he’d be the best. So he made the call and ordered himself one of the finest digital single lens reflex cameras money could buy. This puppy came with 24.5 megapixel full-frame capability, a magnesium body shell, a carbon fiber composite shutter, a 922,000 pixel LCD monitor, and it could shoot 7 frames per second.

Snapper was elated. In just a few months National Geographic would be asking him to do assignments—he just knew it. The $8,000 he’d just charged on his VISA was investment, he told himself.

The next day FedEx delivered the camera. Snapper tore into the package. He couldn’t wait to begin using this gem. Nonetheless he took some time to study the manual. It seemed to address every conceivable function and contingency.  “For sure, this baby has a ton of buttons and menus.” He thought.

After taking some get-acquainted shots Snapper was anxious to do some serious picturing. But this was Monday, it was late, cold and raining outside, and he was tired. He’d wait for the weekend when he’d have more time. Over the next few days he continued to familiarize himself with the camera’s menus, sub menus, buttons, functions, and combinations.

Saturday came and Snapper was ready to roll. But what would he photograph? What should he photograph? Where? Why? He hadn’t really thought much about these questions until now and it occurred to him that they were not easy to answer. Feeling a tinge of buyer’s remorse, Snapper thought, “I just bought a camera that can photograph nearly anything, under almost any circumstance and I don’t know what I want to do with it.”

“Maybe I missed something in the manual, maybe I can get some ideas there,” he thought. He pulled the plump booklet from his camera bag and began flipping the pages—all techs and specs—nothing about what to photograph, why or when. So he spent the next few hours wandering around his neighborhood shooting pictures of this and that—nothing in particular.  

He got bored and decided to stop at the Supreme Bean for coffee. There he noticed a poster for an exhibition currently on view at the University Art Museum. It featured the work of some photographer named Henri Cartier Bresson. Snapper decided to go, hoping to pick up some pointers.

The exhibit was a revelation for Snapper. From one of the wall labels he learned about something Bresson had called the decisive moment. “What was that all about?” Snapper wondered. Did his new camera have a decisive moment function on one of its menus? He’d have to find it. On another label he read that, Bresson had made his pictures using a completely manual camera—something called a Leica. It had no auto focus, auto exposure or zoom lens. The label also said Bresson rarely used flash. Snapper was dumbfounded. “How could Bresson make such stunning photographs using such simple technology?” he wondered.

Snapper resolved to find the answers. He rushed home and pulled his new camera from its bag. He turned it on and systematically punched up every menu item for review in the LCD viewer on the back of the camera. He searched and searched but he could not find the decisive moment option nor could he find menu selections, dials or buttons for:

·      Inspiration

·      Beauty

·      Meaning

·      Passion

·      Creativity

·      Observation

·      Awareness

·      Appropriateness

·      Good taste

·      Cliché avoidance

·      Good composition

·      Preparation

·      Readiness

·      Imagination

Snapper was disappointed. The advertising had promised him that the technology built into his new camera would assure great photographs with every click of the shutter. But after seeing Bresson’s work it sure seemed like there was a lot more to photography than just the camera. Apparently greatness as a photographer, even basic competence, did not come easy.

Snapper sulked for a few days until he had an epiphany. He would not have to spend years and years learning the art of photography as did Bresson, Evans, Weston, Avedon, Mapplethorpe or Leibovitz. He would not have to study the history of photography, art and design. There was no need to pull himself out of bed at 3:00 a.m so he could get to the right location to capture the perfect pre dawn light. Every effect, every correction, every addition or subtraction, could be done with Photoshop. In fact with Photoshop Snapper knew he could create an endless variety of pictures from just a few. How hard could it be—clicking a mouse and applying filters? So Snapper made another call and ordered the latest version.

© Michael Maurer Smith 2009

As ever more information (text, sound and image) is shifted from the printed page and onto hard drives and servers, its long-term survival becomes uncertain and problematic. 

Where information exists only in digital form many questions of originality, intent, context, and veracity, must go unanswered. For example, after a digital photograph is downloaded from the camera (digital storage cards) to the computer there is no way to know how many times the original file may have been duplicated or altered. In effect there is no original—nothing comparable to a film negative.

Moreover, as our scientific, cultural, literary, artistic, political, spiritual and historical records are increasingly saved only in digital form they are subject to unprecedented levels of risk—from incompetent archiving practices and the failure to migrate them to new media as digital storage formats and software become obsolete and are replaced. And where those files exist on the web they are subject to cyber attack, the failure of the servers hosting the files and breakdowns of the web infrastructure.

Historians and scholars lament the destruction of the library in ancient Alexandria. Yet in our zeal to embrace digital technology we may be creating the conditions for a modern version of what happened there. To the extent we entrust our collective world library to digital media and the web, and fail to back it up with non-digital, durable and archival forms, we are positioning ourselves for what could be the greatest single loss of knowledge and information in history. 

Simplicity is a virtue. Books have survived for centuries—as unchanged physical records they have literally been handed down from generation to generation. A person can read a book by the light of the sun, a candle, or kerosene lamp but to access digital information he or she must have the necessary hardware, software and electricity and live within an economic, social and political sphere that makes it possible.

Imagine if the Constitution of the United States existed only as a Microsoft Word document and no hard copy with the actual signatures of the signers existed. Could the nation rely upon something so insubstantial and unverifiable—something that could be changed without a tell tale trace or deleted with a keystroke? And even if there were multiple copies of the file who could tell which was really the original? After all, you can’t carbon date a digital file.

Clearly it is counterproductive  not to use digital technology to record and archive the important texts, sounds and images of our civilization. However, to put all our informational eggs in the digital basket is foolish. If we want to preserve and pass on a meaningful record of our own times and the past we cannot treat that record as digital ephemera. We must preserve it in both digital and non-digital forms. The printed book remains one of the best ways  to do this—to preserve and pass information from person to person, generation to generation and from century to century. So lets not rush to empty our bookshelves.

© Michael Maurer Smith 2009