JOLLY JOB ONE

By MICHAEL PERKINS

THE CLARK GRISWOLD IDEAL of Christmas illumination, in which one’s house resembles an iridescent birthday cake ablaze in billions of blinks, is now so fixed in the American mind that it can make those who decorate with restraint or modesty seem downright Scroogish. ‘Tis the season to be excessive, to be loud. And, yes, even as I write these words I sound, even to myself, like the neighborhood crank who keeps all kids’ balls that bounce into his yard. Still.

The idea of slathering the outside of the house with cascades of yuletide lights, to say nothing of the army of inflatables that now fill ever-increasing numbers of front yards, was, in my youth, either not yet technically possible, or economically feasible, or both. Or maybe things were quieter. They were certainly simpler, something that, as my photographer’s eye ages (along with the rest of me), I appreciate more and more. Saying more with less has proven to be the hardest lesson I ever learned about making pictures, and I readily admit that I am drawn to subject matter that conforms to that notion of visual economy.

That’s why I’m sad that my neighbor has sold his house.

The idea of using one’s front picture window as the simple yet ideal frame for the holiday tree was the focal point of my Christmases growing up. Get the tree perfect, let it alone speak to the mood of those who dwell within, and give a glimpse of all that joy to the outside world with a peek through the pane. And then, stop. Undersell the message. Let peace carry the moment. That was the tradition at the mostly dark house across from ours for many years (seen here), a house that is now merely empty. In a world where Silent Nights have become blaring battles instead of calming invitations, the folks down the street decided to play their particular carol on the soft pedal. And I will miss it, much more than I ever could have imagined.