[I originally posted this image as early access for my Patreon patrons on 8 December 2020].
wreath. red ribbons. reunited.
[I originally posted this image as early access for my Patreon patrons on 6 December 2020].
black river
One of my photographs taken on Mersea Island last year (cropped to square)
is in issue 1 of black river journal.
The first issue garnered submissions from over 200 photographers and is well worth a browse.
season's grievings
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 2 December 2020].
As promised in my 22 November post, albeit starting a day later than planned, I've been putting together a new series of photographs.
These are images I've previously taken that have a particularly seasonal relevance. Though, as warned, they're not really full of your usual Christmas cheer.
As many of you will know, I've a bit of a thing for graveyards, cemeteries, churchyards and other places of rest. If you don't know, now you know.
Reviewing photos I imported from earlier this year recently, I realised I've gathered a collection of photographs from various places of rest that capture mementoes of Christmas. Festive ornaments and decorations left by family and friends recently or not so recently.
So, I thought it was as good a time as any to edit a selection of these to share with you as a series entitled 'season's grievings'.
I'm still reviewing how many I have and editing them as I find them.
Given the topical nature of the series, I'm going to share them early-access for patrons-only on my Patreon, but only two days ahead of them becoming public and being posted here and elsewhere on the interwebs, instead of the usual week.
For the avoidance of doubt: these photos are shared respectfully. Both, for those who've passed and the families who decorated their final resting place.
I find these both beautiful and heartbreaking tributes to those now gone.
untitled #12
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 22 November 2020].
Reality reared its ugly head again on Thursday afternoon this week after a reverie of about seven months.
Was it reverie or just denial?
Either way, I've had to focus more on things other than my photography, art and writing over the past few days.
On the positive side: I've imported all my photos and videos to near the end of April. I hope to get up to date in the next week, around things that need to be done in 'the real world'.
I fell ridiculously behind with importing after my trip to Australia with Simon. Far worse than I've ever managed before.
I also started work on a new collage recently - which may or may not work out, so it may or may not appear here soon - which is part of a new series.
At the tail-end of the night (what's now last night), I had a chance to look through some of my photos from earlier this year that I'd barely seen since I took them.
Doing so gave me ideas for two new series of photos using images I've already taken but, in many cases, not yet edited. One is Christmas-themed, so I'll start posting that series from 1 December. Spoiler alert: it's not full of your usual Christmas cheer. Sorry.
However, I chose this photo to edit and share with you for now.
It caught my eye earlier this week as I was importing photos from my DSLR from that day. 2 February 2020, specifically. A nice palindromic date: 02/02/2020. The serenity of the scene felt like that particular soothing thing I needed right now.
Listening to Grandaddy's The Sophtware Slump... on a wooden piano as I edited also helped to slow my racing mind.
At least for a while... until my computer crashed and I lost this post and had to start again. Thankfully I managed to get the bulk of what I'd written captured with the camera on my phone before it disappeared into the ether.
I hope this image helps to calm you if that's what you need right now.
Let me know what you're listening to lately to help you deal with whatever stresses you're going through. Music recommendations spin me right round, baby, right round.
landlocked
He was back in front of this window; the window that had ended his school days, every day.
When he was young, he used to stop and gaze up at the model boat and the marine rescue vehicle as he arrived home each day. He would stand there, distracted for long moments.
So long, that his mother - waiting, anxiously, for him to return home from school - would open the curtains and find him stood there. Motionless, head tilted back, mouth slightly gaping and staring up at the boat.
She would come to the front door and watch him for a minute or two, a soft smile playing at the edges of her lips before she bundled him up and took him inside to the kitchen. She would ask him about his day while she prepared supper and listened to the tales he would bring home from the schoolyard.
His fascination with the boat had not waned over the years, but he had stopped gawping at it as he grew older. There were girls to gaze at instead, and as he grew up, they were what caught his eye or kept his attention as he arrived home each day from high school.
As he reached the end of high school, he was usually too busy sneaking in one last kiss with his girlfriend, Sarah, as he unlocked the front door of the house and said his goodbyes for the day.
The model boats, the marine rescue vehicle and the lighthouse baffled him a little bit when he was growing up.
Their home was twenty minutes from the nearest body of water, and that was a river, not an ocean or the sea. Hardly somewhere that a lighthouse or a marine rescue vehicle would be needed, let alone various large boats or ships.
The models were his dad's, but he didn't talk much about them and didn't like being asked about them.
His dad didn't really like being asked about anything. Or talking about anything.
The models just sat on the windowsill gathering dust, hidden from the inside of the house by the curtains. A display for others, not for us.
Except him, of course; he was fascinated by them.
On occasion, when his dad was in a more social mood or simply wanted to distract him while he talked with the grown-ups, his father would let him take down the marine rescue vehicle. Roll it across the rug, pretending he was saving his Lego men from some maritime disaster.
But his dad was always firm about the boat. The boat was not a toy. It wasn't to be removed from the window. He had received more than one firm slap across his legs and buttocks for even inching his fingers up toward the boat.
It was only in the past few years that his mother talked more about his dad's upbringing. It was only in the past few years, as he became more ill and his mind started to slip that his father spoke about the sea. It was one of the few things he could still connect with. That he still remembered.
He didn't remember faces, except his wife's. He never remembered birthdays; that was no change. But he could talk vividly about the sea. The sound of it. The smell. The feel of it on his hands.
His dad would sometimes stop mid-sentence and tilt his head as if listening closely to a conversation through the walls. After a few moments like this, he would invariably ask if they could hear the waves. They nodded and smiled awkwardly, hearing nothing, but knowing that they had to agree. That his dad would look crestfallen and confused if they said "no".
Growing up, he never met his dad's parents. His dad never spoke of his father, so he grew up believing he only had one set of grandparents. He didn't question this for a long time, and then it seemed too late to ask. Too awkward of a conversation to have.
Coming home now, facing the front windows of his childhood home, he gazed once more at the boats, the lighthouse, the marine rescue vehicle. He knew that now he could lift them out of the window and take a closer look. He knew that no one would reprimand him for that.
Since his dad had died, a lot of pieces had fallen into place in the puzzle. His mum had opened up dusty photo albums hidden away in the loft for decades. Too painful for his dad to look at, to speak about, to share.
In the yellowed black and white photographs taken in his dad's childhood, a warm, smiling, middle-aged man gazed into the camera from the railing of a boat.
He waved at the photographer with a look of love.
heaven or hell
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 14 September 2020].
This is another photograph I submitted to issue #149 of Shots Magazine.
Like encrypted, this photo was taken in the ossuary housed in the crypt at St Leonard's Church in Hythe, Kent.
It's a fascinating place for people like me, but maybe not up everyone's alley...
This was taken about 14:00 one day in summer. The mixture of daylight through the window of the crypt and the artificial lighting overhead creates a nice contrast of red and gold light on the shelves of skulls facing each other.
untitled #2423
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 13 September 2020].
This is a diptych I created for my submission to Issue #149 of Shots Magazine but decided not to submit because it didn't translate well to black and white.
I took these images of the River Great Ouse on a walk around Bedford with a former work colleague back in November 2018.
time for reflection
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 11 September 2020].
Last week I submitted some of my photographs to issue #149 of Shots Magazine. The theme for the issue is open, so work on any subject can be considered.
This was one of the images I submitted, though the version I sent through was black and white as the magazine is printed that way.
I took this photo of the Church of St Peter and St Paul, the Appledore Parish Church, in Kent on 20 June 2016. It was taken mere days before the referendum on Britain leaving the European Union.
A short walk around the town revealed posters, placards and flyers proclaiming many of the town's residents as proud Leave supporters. Conversations overheard while we ate at The Black Lion confirmed we were in prime Leave territory.
Fast forward four years and the UK has left the EU, but we're still figuring out what that means.
About five months after the UK referendum, Donald Trump was elected.
The passing of time since then has revealed the world to me as seemingly the inverse of what I had believed and hoped it to be.
I felt we were moving forward as a global population. But since 2016, I feel like we've gone backwards in every way except time. Honesty, compassion, empathy, rationality, sanity and logic all seem at an all-time low around the world right now. At least compared to what I've seen in my lifetime.
Though gender and racial equality has made leaps and bounds over time, it feels like notions of equality are bending back into shapes of the past.
Two steps forward. One step back.
Or, more accurately, two steps forward, three steps backwards, another two, another two, another one for good measure...
I often feel like I'm staring at a weirdly inverted, sideshow-mirror-reflection of the world I thought I knew.
Though I've (perhaps foolishly) not 100% discounted the thought of having children, I've seen so much in the past four years to make me thankful for not having children up to this point. And fearful of what they might face if I were to have any.
On a day when everything feels alternately raw and jagged or dull and numb, this photo feels like a metaphor for the disorientation I've been feeling more and more lately. But perhaps it appears calmer than my feelings.
on the edge
I don't know how the hell I got here.
I mean, really, I do: I walked up here.
Mostly due to the coaxing and pressure from Sean and Nathan not to be a chicken. To climb under or over the barrier off the main path and ignore the clear signage telling us we weren't to go beyond that point.
They were dead keen to see the view. It looked amazing. Me? Not so keen.
I don't like heights for many reasons so sitting up here was a little beyond my comfort zone.
Not a little. A lot. Who am I kidding?
I waver between an overwhelming feeling of invincibility and the overwhelming feeling I'm going to bring up the burger and fries I consumed only an hour or so ago at a nearby pub. They would be preceded by the ice cream I enjoyed about 30 minutes before we headed down the path toward the beach.
The sea below is the most amazing blue.
I simultaneously feel it washing calm over me and calling to me to leap off into it. The second option could surely only result in death.
But the pull of the voice in my head - the physical pull I can't really adequately describe - is real. It's the same pull I feel when I'm right up against the yellow line on the platform in the Tube. A combination of magnetism toward the water or the metal of the train tracks and absolute rigid fear of what my body acting upon that magnetism would mean.
It's equal parts compulsion and revulsion so I avoid both situations as much as I can. Because I'm not ready for what comes after a wrong step; a loss of balance; the loss of equilibrium caused by being that close to the edge.
I sit and talk with Sean and Nathan studiously ignoring the sound of the waves below crashing in my ears. Studiously ignoring the point where the blue of the sea and sky meet that we like to call the horizon.
I focus on Sean's lips. The words pouring out of his mouth are kind of irrelevant. I don't really care about the substance of what he's saying. But they're absolutely imperative to me at this moment. If I lose focus on his lips, the words he's speaking, I lose everything.
I sneak a glance down at the beach. The crowds are growing as the day becomes warmer. Women of all shapes and sizes, in all manner of swimwear. The odd one catches my eye. Sometimes it's her figure. Other times it's an unfocussed splash of colour my eyes burrow into. Colour I can lose myself in. That isn't unending blue sea that hypnotises and calls to me.
Sean is also keenly aware of the women on the beach. He passes judgement and rates each woman who catches his eye. At least from this distance, he can't really see detail. Whether they have part of their swimming costume awry. Whether you can see the outline of their nipples. Whether you can see their tan lines, cellulite, curves ('good' or 'bad') or whatever else he's fixating on this week.
Nathan seems settled at this height but similarly uncomfortable about Sean's critique of the women on the beach. We both stay silent. Listen, but don't engage. Nathan looks out over the sea clearly wishing he was elsewhere, or that Sean was elsewhere.
As vacuous and offensive as Sean's commentary is, my mind focusses on it. Something to distract me from the closeness of the cliff.
I wonder how long we have to stay up here.
I shift uncomfortably on the rock and try to mentally coax Sean to suggest we head down to the beach. The shingle will still be uncomfortable under my arse, but at least I won't be so far up with so far to fall. So far to jump.
The sea never calls me this way when my feet are nestled in the sand or shingle. The sea can lap at my toes as much as it likes but it will never drown me in the siren sound that buffets my ears sat here on the cliff.
I can swim into the sea and feel it buoy me up. I can do handstands and swim out beyond where I can feel the sand under my toes. I can feel its welcoming, hopeful and calming caress against my body down there.
Up here, all I hear is its insatiable need for me to fall into it.
world photography day 2020
The internet: Today is World Photography Day!
Me: Every day is World Photography Day in my world…
a late bloomer
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 19 July 2020].
As I'm sure is the case with many during the current pandemic, my unemployment has meant that this time has been one of personal projects.
Obviously, my 100 Day Project was one of them though I would have tried to undertake it even when employed full-time. And very little of my project directly referenced the current global crisis.
My situation wasn't directly caused by the pandemic. My redundancy was due to a restructure already in the planning before coronavirus reared its ugly head.
The pandemic has had relatively little impact on my life in that I'm an introvert who spends a lot of time at home, indoors, working on my own projects when not in my day job.
In all honesty, had I been made redundant at any other time, life would have been much the same for the past four to five months.
The greatest exceptions:
I wouldn't have washed my hands so often and obsessively.
I would have been able to take at least one city break with Simon.
I would have spent more time in pubs.
I would have spent more time in galleries.
I would have spent more time face-to-face with friends.
I would have spent less time on videoconference platforms.
I would probably not have been able to spend quite so much time on my 100 Day Project. It may have been incomplete or not completed within 100 consecutive days.
I would have spent a lot of downtime in the gym losing weight and enjoying BodyPump and yoga classes to regain flexibility, balance and strengthening my ankle.
I might have seen more films at the cinema.
I probably wouldn't have cooked as much.
I probably wouldn't have grown or resurrected as many plants as I have. And I definitely wouldn't have been able to start to develop our front garden with the aid of Simon and my downstairs neighbour (whose garden it, in fact, is).
And this last project is one that has, surprisingly, taken up a large part of the past week (and before that, many conversations and time spent researching, contemplating and planning).
Surprising mainly because I've never really been a green thumb at all. Mostly my thumbs (and the rest of my digits and palms and half my forearms) were purple or red from picking mulberries and strawberries in my parents' garden. That's as close to gardening as I ever used to get.
Although our front garden is a work in progress, it's taking shape well so far. Hopefully, most of it will be completed within the next few days, slightly behind schedule.
Our front garden is not nearly ready enough to unveil. But thinking about it this evening reminded me of my visit to Helmingham Hall with my parents in June 2017.
Despite the gardens being a little knocked around from a storm the day before, they were quite impressive and gave me plenty of opportunities to focus my lens on the colours and shapes around me.
So I thought I'd share some photos I took in the gardens at Helmingham Hall. And hopefully, I can share some from my own garden soon.
What projects have you been focussing on during the pandemic, whether in lockdown or not?
burst
I remember that day so vividly.
We'd been told time and time again not to play there. Not to go beyond the chain-link fence at the edge of the village. We had the run of the quiet dirt roads, the open gardens of our home and our neighbours' homes. But we weren't to venture beyond the fence at any time, for any reason. It wasn't safe.
Of course, that meant we had to. It was a challenge, not an order, wasn't it?
We imagined all sorts of horrible goings-on beyond the fence. Even though nothing was really hidden by it. We could see what was there. It wasn't really dangerous, was it?
Dangerous was something you couldn't see.
Dangerous was falling down the rainwater drain in the kerbside. Falling into the sewers below and being swept along in our neighbours' wastewater. The foul water filling our mouths, our noses, our eyes and our ears before anyone could hear us calling out.
Dangerous was strange men in strange cars offering us sweets. Men who shouldn't be approaching girls our age. We'd been told what dangers lay in accepting candy from strangers. Those men were old and odd, and we weren't interested in them. But we knew they were dangerous even then, so we never entertained the thought of breaking the rules for a few morsels of candy.
Dangerous was playing too near the nuclear power plant that overlooked our village. We'd heard the local butcher telling our parents stories of animals that had wandered too close to the plant that had developed strange defects and growths. He'd slaughtered them with his own hand but buried them rather than selling their flesh to the village, even as feed for other animals.
But beyond the fence, all we could see was the sea. The beautiful ocean shimmered in the sunlight. Blue as the blue sky above it. The waves generated a cacophony of sound that reached our bedrooms. That lulled us to sleep each night in summer when the salty air wafted in through open windows to cool us.
We watched the waves draw up over the shingle while the boys played football in the street. Our fingers curved around the metal diamonds in the fence. We pressed our foreheads against the intersections of metal and watched the foam as it inched its way up over the dry pebbles. Drawing away to reveal wet pebbles. We were mesmerised.
It was our birthday.
Maybe that's why we were such good friends and had been for so long. We were born on the same day, in the same hospital. Our mothers hadn't known each other. They met in the maternity ward and her family ended up moving to our village just after. We'd heard the story over and over. We didn't really care about the details, we just wanted to go out and play together, and rolled our eyes each time our mothers retold how they'd met.
We each had a balloon in the shape of a star. The star in each was transparent. We pulled faces at each other through them. We pushed our noses and mouths against the plastic to distort our features. We laughed until we thought we might burst.
We ran along the street to the fence with our balloons flying in the air behind us. The boys were playing football, as usual, but we were more intent on seeing, if we ran fast enough, would the balloons lift us off the road? Would the run-up we had and the lightness of the balloons allow us to take off and carry us up and over the fence?
It was worth a try.
But, of course, it was a fool's errand. It was fun, but not going to get us where we wanted.
Instead, we knew there was a section of the fence that had been cut away. Opened up by older kids to access the shingle beach so they could gather after dusk to drink and skim stones on the ocean and make out.
We checked the boys were still distracted by football. That no one was watching.
We shimmied through the fence. Protective of our summer dresses and balloons as we did so. Not wanting to tear one or burst the other.
We made our way down to the water, kicking our jelly shoes off as we got closer. We slowed, the shingle awkward and uncomfortable under our bare feet. Despite that, we continued forward. Intent on feeling the coolness of the water on our small toes. Knowing we were doing wrong but doing it anyway.
Because it was our birthday. We could do anything on our birthday.
She waded into the water ahead of me. The waves lapped at our hands, we giggled and laughed together, the ribbon of our balloons still clasped tightly in our fists.
Behind us, suddenly, we heard a collection of screams. The screeching of brakes. We turned back toward the fence and the road beyond. We instinctively reached out for each other's hand and held our breath.
She let go of her balloon. It wafted gently on the wind back toward the fence.
We watched in horror, everything feeling like it was in slow motion, as our parents and our friend's parents ran out into the street.
We watched as her father scooped up her brother's lifeless body from the road. We watched, horrified, and wondered if this was why our parents had warned us about going beyond the fence. If this was why it was dangerous.
Even now, we wonder if it was our fault.
a bird’s eye view
They talked of little things. Of big things. Of middling things.
The sort of things that stuck in their craw, or alternatively that made them sing. Not that seagulls are particularly known for their singing. If you can even call it that, and most don't. But sometimes, just sometimes, there were things to speak of good enough that they made them sing, even if they were the only ones to call it that.
To be fair, she talked more. He mostly listened. He interjected sometimes with an amusing quip or anecdote and then dropped into the background, letting her speak her thoughts aloud.
Sometimes the deepest thoughts. Sometimes simply gossip about the other birds roundabout. They had views on most things, albeit mostly a high level aerial view, with the odd deep dive into society and its mores. They were dab hands at picking up tidbits around and about, but getting clear of it all when shit went down.
Occasionally they fraternised with the other birds. Other seagulls and pigeons mostly. But sometimes they travelled further afield and crossed paths with blackbirds or magpies, or other smaller neighbourhood birds. Tits, robins, sometimes the odd starling. Though the starlings tended to be a bit too obsessed with flying in formation, which didn't make for much opportunity to just chill out and network together.
They squabbled with other birds over morsels left behind by the humans, or they talked about nesting and raising their young. Exactly how much they should feed their young through regurgitation? How young was too young for the hatchling to fly the coop, or the nest? You know, the usual, really.
Despite the draw of the seafront, they didn't really like crowds much. Their favourite place to perch was over the town square; the one with the church and its churchyard. It was more peaceful and less overrun by tourists - both on the ground and in the air - than the waterfront. The nearest pub was down the hill, so apart from the Sunday sermons, the area was quite quiet.
They liked to watch the humans congregate one day a week in fancy clothes. Occasionally they would swoop down to snatch a beribboned bonnet from a small child or a prim and proper lady, causing a bit of a ruckus, soon forgotten.
Something colourful for the nest was always lovely to have. Something to brag about to their neighbours. When the humans weren't looking, sometimes they took a stroll around the churchyard to gather up the colourful tributes left behind on the graves.
What good was a colourful ribbon, an evergreen plastic leaf, a shiny bit of tinsel, to one of their lost ones? Surely it should be enjoyed by the living? These things made for beautiful touches on an otherwise dull nest of twigs and dry leaves. Something shiny and colourful to brighten up one's home and make the newest member of one’s family feel welcome.
On Fridays they feasted on fish and chips like good locals. They weren't as keen on vinegar and ketchup as their human counterparts, but beggars can't be choosers, I guess.
Some of the local humans had put out bird-feeders in their front or back gardens around the square. Leaving seeds and such out for their feathered friends. Despite initial reservations, they didn't seem to mean any harm; and though the meals on offer were basic, they were mostly hearty.
In between times, the worms surfaced from the earth in the churchyard when the rain fell, and the bins overflowed with takeaway options. The square was a relative smorgasbord without the long lines and bickering to be had by the sea.
They watched from above; surveying all below. They knew all the humans' gossip, but there was little point in knowing it because they couldn't convey it to other humans, and other seagulls just rolled their eyes to hear it. And rightly so.
The humans would never change. They were lower beings. Why bother to observe their ridiculous comings and goings? As long as they left behind the odd scraps to feed on, or left enough fish in the harbour for them to catch their own, then all could live well enough together.
Things had become a little out of hand lately as the humans were leaving the ocean in a right state. Some fish not fit to eat because of pollution, plastic in their bellies, or any number of other reasons, but there was still just enough to go around for everyone. For now.
Meanwhile, the sun was shining. The sky was blue. What more could a seagull want? What a glorious day to go fishing.
encrypted
I don't remember when death was first explained to me. Strangely, because I have a lot of vivid memories from childhood and adolescence. I feel like it's something I should remember.
When did I first become aware of the fact that everyone dies? That my grandparents would die? That my parents would die? That I would die?
I, strangely, don't know. I don't remember that ever being explained to me.
I remember hearing that my grandpa had died. The first of my close family members to pass away in my lifetime. But what I remember most about that was that my parents decided that we children wouldn't go to the funeral. That my father would go, but my mother and the three of us kids wouldn't. I don't remember the whys or the wherefores, but I guess I was okay with that.
My parents had tried to keep us away from seeing him the way he was towards the end. A non-smoker dying of emphysema. A horrible way to die.
My younger brother insisted on visiting him in the hospital to the point that my parents finally relented, but I recall being told that all my grandpa could do was wink at him, as he would always do when he caught our eye across the dining table as we carried on playing in their lounge room while the adults talked around the table and drank tea.
I don't remember the explanation for death I was no doubt given as a child, at some point.
I remember the talk about making love, having sex, fucking. The explanations of puberty and menstruation. The books my mother borrowed from the library to help me understand what would happen to my body as I moved through that awkward stage between being a child and being a woman.
Those discussions, her openness and the books she gave me to read meant I didn't face those things with fear the way her mother had. It meant I could ask any question of her about those things that I wanted an answer to. But I don't remember asking her about death, ever.
I remember my mother telling my brother and me that one of my father's former co-workers in the Northern Territory had passed away from AIDS when we were both still in primary school after we'd moved to Melbourne. Her explaining homosexuality in a non-judgmental way and probably a vague explanation of AIDS; as much as we needed or wanted to know at the time. I guess I didn't ask many questions. I listened. I took it all in. I learned homosexuality wasn't bad from a young age, but I never really thought about his death as deeply.
Then, in 1992, at 14 years of age, I found myself in a cemetery in New Orleans. A cemetery many know from the film 'Easy Rider'. A cemetery full of vaults built above ground to avoid human remains draining off into the river.
I was fascinated. This was the closest I'd ever come to death and I found it intriguing. The way life and death was celebrated through these places. The way their graves were created in as elaborate a fashion as their homes.
They were beautiful, despite the death they encased. They were time capsules. Memorials to those inside. A fashion statement. A record. Bragging rights after death.
Even at that young age, I knew I didn't personally want to be buried, but I had fallen in love with cemeteries. With graveyards. With the art of the stonemason. With the ceremony. The ritual.
Over the years I found myself consuming books about death; documentaries about death and the places people are buried. About how our bodies are handled after we die. About burials. About graveyards. About cemeteries.
I've spent countless hours, camera in hand, wandering through churchyards, graveyards, cemeteries, crypts, and whatever other names you want to call those places where people are laid to rest.
Generally, I find them places of peace, of relaxation. Like parks, but with the remains of those who came before still present in them.
But I know they often have reputations of being places of unrest. Of disrespect to those interred there. Not all of these places are peaceful or have been peaceful in the past.
In the decades since my grandpa died, I've managed to avoid the realities of death. At 42 years of age, somehow, I've managed never to attend a funeral. Never to have seen a dead body. Never to have spent time in the company of someone in their final hours or watching them pass from this world.
I consider myself lucky, but I'm also aware that I live a closeted life by not having been exposed to those things. Death is, after all, a part of life. From the time we're born we're dying. This is a simple fact not even I can escape. And for someone who actively seeks out the final resting places of the dead, it's not lost on me that I’ve managed to evade being exposed to these things.
However, for as long as I can remember, I’ve had an overwhelming awareness of my own mortality. I’m conscious this impacts me in terms of my fear of falling, for example, but also my reluctance to get a driver’s licence. My fear of others around me dying. My fear of dying. And more specifically, my fear of dying alone and no one knowing or being nearby to prevent that.
I often choose a solitary life which means I’m more likely to be alone if something unfortunate happens. Best case scenario: my flatmate will find me hours after the fact, too late to change the outcome. Worst case scenario: he or someone else will find me weeks later, again, too late to change the outcome.
Even in my worst stages of depression, I knew I wasn’t a suicide risk because what was making me most unhappy was not living my life the way I wanted to live it. I’ve always loved life and been aware of how much more I want to do, so my depression has always been related to not being able to live the life I’d like. Not due to wanting to end my life. I count myself lucky again for that.
But it doesn’t lessen my fascination with death. With how we handle the dead.
Despite my fascination with graveyards, I don’t want to be buried. I’m an outspoken advocate for organ donation (and, in fact, donation of anything that can be donated) and, as an atheist, I don’t believe in the hereafter or reincarnation or anything that requires my body to remain whole after my death.
So, while I love the stonemasons’ artistry, and the pomp and circumstance of heraldic funerals and elaborate mausoleums, vaults and headstones, I’ll settle for returning to ashes and the earth when it’s my time.
Though I hope my time doesn’t come anytime soon.
a room of one's own
She circled the brown wooden structure, running her fingers along the wooden slats on the side and the back of the building at waist level. Feeling the texture of the wood and the few remaining thin daubs of white paint worn away by wind, rain and the salty sea air over the last few decades.
To the left of the door, she ran her fingers down the canvas nailed to the wood. Revelling in the contrast of its texture to the wooden slats.
The door's peeling surface revealed layers of varicoloured paint applied over the years. A variety of browns with an underlying coat of dull yellow peeking through.
Despite the erosion of the paintwork, she marvelled at the fact this structure was so intact when so many similar buildings dotted over the shingle beach were in such decrepit states. Fishing nets haemorrhaging from broken walls. Doors sagging on hinges. Burnt struts exposed to the elements like skeletons.
She approached the door, running her fingers over the exposed door handle. Wondering at its seemingly bonelike colour and appearance. She curled her fingers around the doorknob and turned it, expecting resistance. Surely this small building was still in use and therefore locked, with its four walls, corrugated iron roof and door still intact, despite all the wear and tear from the elements buffeting it, placed so close to the sea.
To her surprise, the door creaked open with no resistance.
She almost stepped back in surprise.
The door opened outward. She pulled it toward her, hesitantly peering around the door jamb at what might be inside. She realised she had held her breath, unconsciously, and on becoming conscious of the fact, exhaled heavily then inhaled deeply; the smell of the ocean mingling with the musty smell of the interior of the building.
A strange mixture of nostalgia washed over her: one of childhood summer holidays by the beach mixed with memories of the storage space under the stairs of her grandparents' house. For a moment she felt lost in time, and the darkness of the interior she looked in on made her feel a little off-balance.
The day was overcast and a little hazy, so much of the interior remained darkened until she opened the door fully; and even then, her eyes took a while to pick out the details in the shadows not illuminated by the daylight.
She wandered in, letting the door close gently behind her. She had established that the door had no lock, so she didn't worry about being trapped inside, though she felt slightly apprehensive about what she may find in the darkness.
She turned on the torch on her mobile phone and shone it about her. The building contained a lot of the same contents as so many similar structures along the beachfront: nets, motors, rusted machinery, and implements she knew not the purpose of. Strange artefacts she wondered at and thought may make interesting decorations for her apartment.
Her phone, previously indicating plenty of battery, suddenly turned off. The interior of the building was quickly thrown into darkness, and for a moment she felt like she was blind. She stood stock-still, feeling a little off-balance again, but waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness.
In a few moments, a small amount of light seeped through between the wooden slats. A tight polka dot pattern of light came through the canvas, albeit pale. She let her breath out, realising she'd been holding it again.
Despite her initial discomfort with the darkness, as her eyes adjusted to the low light she found the space quite calming. The sound of the sea reached her through the walls but was less overwhelming when filtered through the canvas and wood.
She moved toward where she thought one of the walls was, navigating the space slowly and carefully. She hesitantly reached out her hands at a forty-five-degree angle, expecting her fingertips to connect with the rough wooden surface quickly, but it took far longer than expected.
When they did connect with the wood, she ran her hand gently down and moved from standing to squatting, using her other hand to check for anything at a lower point. She skimmed the wooden floor of the building with the palm of her hands before seating herself between what felt like a reel of net and some paint tins.
She sat there in the dark, letting the distant sound of the sea wash over her. She slowed her breathing to match the speed of the waves as the water swept onto and away from the shore outside. She felt a strange calm. A peace she didn't often experience. In the darkness she closed her eyes and just focussed on the sound, letting it wash her away.
new york, new york
She'd walked these streets so many times.
Sometimes slowly, taking in the apartments along each block as they moved from utilitarian buildings to grand terraces. Sometimes quickly, dodging and weaving between the other pedestrians on the sidewalk; looking mostly at the concrete, or dashing out in front of yellow cabs, but not taking in her surrounds.
The sounds of the city washing over her. The various vehicles and people clamouring to be heard, but all of the sounds merging into a cacophonous melody that threatened to overwhelm her.
She'd meandered down long avenues of brownstones, wondering about the people who lived within their walls. Coveting their homes, their lives. She strolled through the Park watching the couples. Some engaged in affectionate banter, some in excessive displays of public affection, others bickering and verging on violence, if only in words.
She walked rapidly along the back streets at night, neon lighting up the rain-soaked streets; her head down, but her senses charged and alert for any potential threats.
She'd skipped quickly down the Subway stairs, making a beeline to the platform. Careful not to brush against others if she could avoid it. Focussed on where she was going and avoiding all eye contact.
Her lips and tongue competed with the sun to consume ice creams in the sweltering summer. If the sun won, she would only get the benefit of half of the icy treat. If she won, it would be some insurance against the fatigue the heat brought with it, but it would be scarce protection against the trickle of sweat that would wend its way down her spine, and no protection at all against the cling of her blouse to her skin.
She would gaze up at the skyscrapers, marvelling at the engineering. Admire their sparkle and shimmer in the sunlight, despite despising the ostentation and arrogance of their blocking out the sun.
She watched diners in the prestigious restaurants self-consciously ensuring they were being watched behind the floor-to-ceiling windows. Pinched women with tiny fluffy dogs on the end of leads or stowed in their handbags.
She circled the Square. Watched the advertisements a storey and more tall attempt to sell her a lifestyle she could never afford and probably didn't want anyway.
She visited with Travis, Susan, Patti and Carrie.
She absorbed the art oozing from the streets. Lurked in underpasses. Experienced clubs and bars and cafes, and listened to the music pour out of every orifice. Out of a basement record store. A passing car. A strip club. A busker on a street corner singing Simon and Garfunkel off-key.
She counted her way across intersections. Marking city blocks until she reached the intersection of First Avenue and 42nd Street. She only knew which way the sun would set by the Es and Ws on the street signs; and how far north or south she was by the number of the street.
As she walked through the streets taking in the modern buildings and street scenes, her mind flashed back to the 1970s and ‘80s. The memories of these places stowed deep in her mind from so much exposure. She heard the echos of stock market crashes and organised crime.
All of these visions and sounds washed over her. She lost herself in the moment completely.
For a moment she lost herself so completely that she forgot where she was. And then she remembered.
She remembered that she wasn't where she thought she was. In fact, she had never been there. She had never walked those streets. She had never smelled those smells; heard those sounds; seen that flash of yellow as the cab passed by. Never done her duck-and-weave trick through a sidewalk of people ten-deep between the shopfronts and the kerb.
She'd simply shared a collective dream. Tasted the concoctions and potions of the City mixed together by some of the best filmmakers and writers over the years.
Her memories were poor imitations of their realities. Their stories of a city that never sleeps. Of a city on the edge. Of people on mean streets on a dog day afternoon. Of a Broadway, a Manhattan, a Central Park and a Brooklyn she'd never stepped foot in.
She'd never smelled the Subway on a sweltering hot day. She'd never raised her voice to be heard over the clamour of car horns in the centre of the city at peak hour. She'd never stood on the 102nd floor and gazed out over the city.
She'd never climbed out an apartment window to sit on the landing of a fire escape and swung her legs back and forth whilst indulging in witty repartee with a friend over a bottle of fine wine or a cheap bottle of beer.
The sign above her, not yet illuminated in the afternoon haze of a warm spring day, spelling out the name of a place everyone dreamed of going to 'make it', was about as close to the Big Apple as she had ever managed to be.
Her eyes swept down from the sign to take in the flashing lights and squawking sounds of the arcade behind it. The children attempting to claw soft toys from the machines, and buffeting a puck back and forth in air hockey.
The sign overhead and the ‘Zoltar’ machine spitting out fortunes for a pound were about as close as she would get to New York for now.
[This project is being published as early access on my Patreon. If you want to enjoy new instalments a week before everyone else, become a patron].
pony up* [or, thank you for your patronage]
Just over four years ago I set up a Patreon profile but, for various reasons, didn't go ahead and launch it at that time.
Over the weekend I finally launched it, and I’ve started sharing previously unseen work and new work there.
I now feel there's enough of a beginning to go ahead and share it here in case you want to become a patron and support my photography and other artistic and writing endeavours.
To begin with I’m going to be sharing:
Previously unpublished images I’ve shortlisted for my interior/exterior book as patron-only, with the posts only becoming public when the book is published, or earlier if I decide the specific image won’t be included in it before publication.
The best of my new images or newly-edited images as early access - usually a week ahead of the posts becoming public and the images being posted to my other profiles. These may be self-portraits, landscapes, portraits, photos from my travels, or images of my various favourite things (see: graveyards, gasometers, pigeons, dead creatures, etc.). These images may be accompanied by a post discussing the image, my thoughts about creating it, information about what inspired it, or no text beyond the title.
New instalments of my postcards from another’s life project. These were originally being created as part of my 100 Days Project in 2018 and being posted to Instagram first, but I’m now making these available as early access posts for patrons only as I create them, seven days before publishing them to Instagram and my other profiles.
As I go along, more projects will likely appear as early access or patron-only. This is just the beginning.
Access to patron-only posts - some patron-only indefinitely, others early access - starts at US$1.50 a month, so it won't break the bank if you’d like to get the inside scoop.
There are more tiers if you want further benefits like print discounts, a postcard, the opportunity to be part of my creative process, or loyalty rewards for being a patron for at least three months. The current tiers are my first thoughts on what folk might appreciate, but I’m open to suggestion on how to improve them.
Thank you if you do decide to become a patron. And thank you for following my work if you don’t.
*Those who know me will know I like a good pun and/or play on words. The title of my post isn't supposed to be presumptuous or make you feel under duress to become a patron, I promise.
fairy stories
As she flicked through the brightly coloured pages, the smell of the paper, the ink on paper, wafted into her nostrils in great waves. It drew her back. Back to the sunny front room of her family's home in Aspley. The sun falling on the pages of the book of fairy stories her grandparents had given her for her sixth birthday. She lay on her belly, propped up on her elbows on the green and black mattress of the stacked beds in her mother's sewing room. She was utterly engrossed by the tales of witches, evil stepmothers, princesses, princes, cats, wolves, frogs, soldiers, giants, pigs, bears, genies, elves, dwarves and birds of many varieties.
Since learning to read she had devoured books. She completely lost herself in the worlds they created. Even when there were no pictures to accompany the words she could see the imaginary worlds in her mind's eye. The faces of the characters, the houses they resided in, the cities they inhabited.
At six years of age, of course the concept of princes and princesses was alluring. She asked her mother how you became a princess. Her mother told her you had to have blue blood. She pressed her fingertips against the veins in her arms and swore the rivers that flowed below the skin were blue, but whenever she grazed her knee in the yard or the doctor took blood it was always, disappointingly, a deep crimson colour. Not blue at all. She had not been born to be a princess.
As she grew older she learned more about fairy stories. Their origins as warnings to children about the dangers of nature, of predatory adults, of greed, sin, pride and such. She learned the stories she grew up with were sanitised, censored, made palatable for consumption before bed without driving small children to nightmares, though originally they were intended to strike fear to the very heart of children to keep them close to home and out of danger. The darkness that inhabited the original fairy stories was muted to a dark grey, instead of a deep, deep black. Gruesome endings became happy. Good conquered evil, always.
As she grew older she grew to prefer the darkness of the original stories. There was more reality in the original stories, though they were often heartbreaking. The darkness of the stories drew her in much more than the saccharine, over-bright palate of the stories she read as a child.
She wanted less and less to be saved by a handsome prince, and more and more to save herself. Or be an intelligent woman and avoid any of the traps that befell those princesses in the first place.
She grew up to learn the reality of princes and princesses was one of decisions made for them by others. Everything was strategy and allegiances; not love. For all the romantic stories she grew up on, history told her those were just stories. The realities were about diplomacy, alliances, war, peace, and cold, hard cash. Most princes and princesses were puppets without the free will to choose their love, to choose their lovers.
And yet, the myth of the perfect, all-encompassing love continued to endure in her mind. It pervaded everything, blinding her to the realities of this imperfect world she inhabited. A world that shared more in common with the original brutal fairy tales of the Grimm Brothers and their compatriots. A world not easily drawn into the whims of a ceaseless romantic who truly should have outgrown this fantasy world well before now.
And yet. And yet she grasped onto this ideal with white knuckles.
She built a castle around herself. She secured the moat, drew up the drawbridge, surrounded herself with soldiers to keep this ideal safe away from the bruising realities of life. Perched on a mountain top, she surveyed the lands around and wondered from which direction this one true love would emerge. She gazed across the lands around her, wondering when it would emerge. She waited. And waited.
And still, somehow, the cynicism that drew her away from dreams of princes and princesses and fortunes and kingdoms and all of that pomp and circumstance didn't seem to dim her belief in something she had still yet to see or to have known to even be sure that it existed. Her belief in logic, in fact, in truth; that all took a back seat to her undying belief in something more when it came to love. Despite her better judgement.
eastbourne
now playing: sharkboy - sacramento child