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The Monday Morning Memo



Illustrator John Groth was a war correspondent in WWII where he hung out with his friend, Ernest Hemingway. (Prior to the war, Groth had illustrated a number of Hemingway’s columns in Esquire magazine.) Groth used a technique called speed line, in which he sketched his subjects using rough, unperfected lines and then filled in between the lines with watercolors.

In September, 1944, Hemingway convinced Groth and a handful of other buddies to gather a pile of weapons and follow him out to “help” the U.S. Army (although it was a violation of the Geneva Convention for war correspondents to carry weapons.) Hemingway referred to the gang as his “irregulars.”

When they entered an abandoned farmhouse at Schloss Hemingstein near Bleiauf, Hemingway rolled several live grenades toward Groth and told him to “drop them from the second-floor window if a German patrol came through the garden.” 1

The following year, when Groth published his war book, Studio: Europe, Hemingway wrote in the introduction,

“None of us understood the sort of shorthand he sketched in. The men would look at the sketches and see just a lot of lines. It was a great pleasure to find what fine drawings they were when we got to see them.”

  1 Hemingway: A Biography, by Jeffrey Meyers. p. 409

 

 

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Random Quote:

“Insofar as the dry valleys of Victoria Land are known to the rest of the world, they are known for their similarity, it is believed, to the rainless deserts of Mars (the Viking Lander would have found no life on this ground either); and for a scattering of mummified creatures on the valley floors, mostly young crabeater seals and, rarely, a penguin or skua.

No one is certain why the seals come up here. A good guess is that they are inexperienced. They wander up from the coast, sometimes traveling as far as forty miles inland, hunching their way over the gravel fields with — to judge from the few, fresh trails that have been found — intractable determination. But it is travel utterly in the wrong direction.

They succumb eventually to starvation on these errant journeys, but an animal dead for a decade may be so well preserved that it looks, as one approaches, as if it might move off.

The taught skin of these dessicated animals feels smooth under the hand and hard, like water-polished stone. The wind freeze-dries their flesh. No predator bothers them. The faces, if they can be said to have an expression, are distraught, catatonic with a sudden, horrible misunderstanding of geography.

Whenever I encounter one of these animals I found it difficult to leave them. And when I left them, often as not, I turned back. They were inconsolable. They had made an error. Their lips parted in some final, incoherent noise. They had, most of them, died alone. Some lay with the clouded eyes of the blind, preserved for years in abject disbelief.”

- Barry Lopez, "Informed by Indifference," Ch. 4 in About This Life

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