tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88319828704168877592024-03-19T18:52:39.813+09:30Tom Dinning's ImagesUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger20125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8831982870416887759.post-92031133463167130682012-05-14T20:15:00.001+09:302012-05-14T20:15:29.658+09:30New LookWell, its not really a new look, more of a change of socks.<br />
The new posts 'Notes from the camera' will have their own home at:<br />
<a href="http://notesfromthecamera.blogspot.com.au/">http://notesfromthecamera.blogspot.com.au/</a><br />
There's a link between each site using the tabs under the banner so you can follow either blog or both - or none.<br />
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I'm spreading myself a bit thin so be patient. My brain isn't coping all that well. I keep forgetting to do the things on Christine's list.<br />
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Cheers<br />
TomUnknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8831982870416887759.post-74779300227520490732012-02-13T12:57:00.002+09:302017-07-08T17:13:20.216+09:30LEARNING TO SEE - THE COMPLETE VERSION IN pdfIf you want to read Learning to See in its entirety its available free of charge at :<br />
<span style="background-color: #ffe599; font-size: x-large;"><a href="https://www.dropbox.com/s/sekqy3m859vlysv/learning%20to%20see%20PDF.pdf?dl=0" target="_blank">LEARNING TO SEE pdf</a></span><br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8831982870416887759.post-16855687159819048272012-02-06T18:37:00.000+09:302012-02-06T18:37:10.437+09:30LEARNING TO SEE - The conclusion<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">On any day you could find my mother, in her later years, perched on a seemingly awkward chair on the back veranda or at her bedroom window if <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Weather</i> (she would spitefully call it) was not to her liking. The atmospheric conditions could only be proclaimed as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Weather</i> if they didn’t suit her aging, arthritic bones. The rest was declared as ‘just fine’. She would place a book on her lap and a dinner-plate sized magnifying glass in one hand and scrutinize the contents, page by delicately turned page. At that stage of my life I didn’t believe books warranted such inquiry and my curiosity in her persistence took me to ask: </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">‘Mum, why do you read so much? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">‘There is so much to learn and see and so little time left’ she replied, looking at me through her already clouding cataract eyes. ‘I can’t go to these places so they come to me. I can be in Egypt this morning, New York for lunch and warming myself on a sandy beach in Queensland as the Sun sets.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">She would return to her books and leave me wondering about the significance of all this. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">‘By the way, what’s for lunch?’ I would add. Significance was never an easy thing to grasp on an empty stomach.</span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-b2vb6E9Fl6M/Ty9zNQjKzTI/AAAAAAAADCM/vmp9AThxDIQ/s1600/_DSC3198.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" sda="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-b2vb6E9Fl6M/Ty9zNQjKzTI/AAAAAAAADCM/vmp9AThxDIQ/s400/_DSC3198.jpg" width="312" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Photography has always been like that: a way of seeing distant places without travelling. It was seen as more literal than narrative or painting. It seemed more real and closer to the truth; like being there as my mother suggested. The world began to shrink when photographers took their cameras to far off places and returned with ‘postcards’ of unbelievable beauty and intrigue from destinations undreamed of by all but the wealthy and adventurous. Coffee table books with titles from Abyssinia to Zimbabwe filled the bookshelves and littered the living spaces we call home (which now seemed ordinary and dull in shadow of such splendor).</span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CNj7QmtW2sE/Ty-SdKWqPyI/AAAAAAAADCc/kbR61pGRzmU/s1600/IMG_0002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CNj7QmtW2sE/Ty-SdKWqPyI/AAAAAAAADCc/kbR61pGRzmU/s320/IMG_0002.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">There were also endless personal photo albums of past events scattered about the rooms which would be proudly displayed at any opportunity warranting a close inspection of our meager family history. Cousins, aunts and uncles, grandparents, siblings and unknown figures whose name escaped even the most astute memory. There were stories to tell of pride and incest, events and catastrophes, births and deaths, marriages and funerals to accompany every image that lay faded and creased beneath tattered tissue and precariously held in place by gummed corners and pieces of cellotape. Hardly a day would pass without the Box Brownie being scheduled for an airing and pointed at some disgruntled relative or unsuspecting pet. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This personal history is a characteristic of the photographic age. The immersion of our generations into telling stories with photographs with the advent of the fixing of that first image and development of photography to a common, everyday pastime has allowed us to share with the new, remains of the old. The story teller not only speaks but holds the past in his hands. We can see where we came from and what our ancestors looked like. We could, in a way, verify our place in a historically changing world.</span><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8KB61d_yw8E/Ty-TVLOaXtI/AAAAAAAADCk/kjXKG13KngI/s1600/Untitled_Panorama1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="209" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8KB61d_yw8E/Ty-TVLOaXtI/AAAAAAAADCk/kjXKG13KngI/s640/Untitled_Panorama1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We also discovered what things look like. The image through a microscope or telescope, the fields of battle or the depths of the oceans, the world from on high, inside and outside, through, under and over everything possible, was now available for all to see. From the seller to the buyer, the teacher to the student, the scientist to his critics, the artist to his admirers, the traveler in his search for the lost horizon, we all found a use for the photograph in our work, play, business and pleasure to describe what we see and to share with our audience.</span><br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-r1dRHCQrIlQ/Ty-Tl_Ql7qI/AAAAAAAADCs/JQovY5AY_UU/s1600/_DSC8337.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="358" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-r1dRHCQrIlQ/Ty-Tl_Ql7qI/AAAAAAAADCs/JQovY5AY_UU/s400/_DSC8337.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We also found another use, less pragmatic, more esoteric yet liberating. We found ways of expressing ourselves, of finding more in the landscape than others could see, more than the hues of a pretty flower, more than a the blue of the sky, the red of a sunset, the green of a forest. We found ways of expressing our love, hate, fear, anger, sorrow, happiness and concern. We discovered that the photograph doesn’t always tell the ‘truth’ or share in beauty. We found that we could influence others, persuade them, sway their opinions, and convince them of matters otherwise. We discovered the Power in a single photograph.</span><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lx4Folmp-u8/Ty-T7W1XdgI/AAAAAAAADC0/Kq4TWHQazvA/s1600/_D3S9454.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="285" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lx4Folmp-u8/Ty-T7W1XdgI/AAAAAAAADC0/Kq4TWHQazvA/s400/_D3S9454.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In the almost 200 years we have been photographing we have learnt to see many things in many different ways. It has been an incredible journey for us all. Even if we have never taken a photograph we have still shared in this incredible adventure.</span><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EYe0_MVmcdI/Ty-UUKyFLuI/AAAAAAAADC8/f9p05QNfYPI/s1600/_D3S9039-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EYe0_MVmcdI/Ty-UUKyFLuI/AAAAAAAADC8/f9p05QNfYPI/s640/_D3S9039-2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I remember seeing a documentary many years ago when a group of journalists and anthropologists ventured into the Highlands of New Guinea to find a group of indigenous people who had never had contact with people outside their own village. One of the photographers took a Polaroid image of a village member and showed him the photograph. At first the villager was bemused. He had no idea who it was. He then became terrified when it was explained it was an image of him because he thought the photograph contained part of his ‘soul’. Slowly he realized the significance of what he held in his hand and he smiled deeply, shared the photograph with his family.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We can all be bemused by photographs other people take. For that moment we are seeing as they see. Take pleasure in that as much as seeing for yourself.</span><br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Dl3PLnlSPU0/Ty-WUyma16I/AAAAAAAADDU/-l95J2OxSeo/s1600/_DSC8982.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="247" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Dl3PLnlSPU0/Ty-WUyma16I/AAAAAAAADDU/-l95J2OxSeo/s320/_DSC8982.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Over the past 65 years learning to see for me has been accompanied by the photograph. I have learnt to see like no other generations before. I can relish in that.</span></div>
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<br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8831982870416887759.post-20494527591587224662012-01-25T15:13:00.000+09:302012-01-25T15:13:09.498+09:30Learning to See Part 9<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">This photography lurk is incredibly frustrating.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-M3BKmjCTggQ/Tx-Q7Pm4BeI/AAAAAAAAC_A/e1GeuwtRz5o/s1600/_D3S8523.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gda="true" height="266" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-M3BKmjCTggQ/Tx-Q7Pm4BeI/AAAAAAAAC_A/e1GeuwtRz5o/s400/_D3S8523.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’ve read all the books of late (it seems), searching for a resolution to this hindrance to my artistic endeavours only to find myself in a deeper quandary. Nothing fits. My efforts dissipate like pigeons in heavy traffic. My results are a misfit of misaligned, malnourished oddities waiting for the judgement of those to whom it can to be thrust upon and those that can’t be trusted to be objective: me.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-efjhEb23HHE/Tx-RIBkz8MI/AAAAAAAAC_I/nPuaBtCoX6w/s1600/_D3S8412.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gda="true" height="310" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-efjhEb23HHE/Tx-RIBkz8MI/AAAAAAAAC_I/nPuaBtCoX6w/s400/_D3S8412.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Some of you who find it within themselves to feather praise on some of my photographs (mainly relatives, friends and those whose taste still allows them to wear stripes with checks) may suggest politely and encouragingly that I am being too harsh. After all, denigrating oneself is a trait all artists develop as part of their self-examination. Appropriating praise is apposite; languishing praise on oneself is garish.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WIe3ijxAQj8/Tx-RYLeZwfI/AAAAAAAAC_Q/581kPMpL6Ik/s1600/_D3S8443.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gda="true" height="241" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WIe3ijxAQj8/Tx-RYLeZwfI/AAAAAAAAC_Q/581kPMpL6Ik/s400/_D3S8443.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But in the face of current thinking within the photographic fraternity I find myself drowning in a sea of rules, guidelines, suggestions, recommendations, lists and liturgies on how to improve my photographs and I just don’t get it!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-N6OdZqJqC9A/Tx-RrEN1u2I/AAAAAAAAC_Y/2WycRJVa6_o/s1600/_D3S8577.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gda="true" height="266" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-N6OdZqJqC9A/Tx-RrEN1u2I/AAAAAAAAC_Y/2WycRJVa6_o/s400/_D3S8577.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Maybe I never have ‘got it’. My art teacher at school, Ken Reinhardt, suggested, in the light of my attempts at wielding a bush or pencil, I might consider my options and head for the woodwork classes where at least my handiwork could be used to warm myself if all else fails. Outside his critical view I found solace in the camera, more as a scientific tool for recording the miracles of nature in the working class, treeless streets of western Sydney.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There was no ‘art’ intended here. Point and press, then leave the rest to fate and the corner pharmacy who would, for a few shillings, turn the views of a young boy into blurred and blackened images to be cherished, if only by me.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1NrvTDlAum8/Tx-Sttcn3WI/AAAAAAAAC_w/jnfeGpaB33Y/s1600/_D3S8790.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gda="true" height="318" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1NrvTDlAum8/Tx-Sttcn3WI/AAAAAAAAC_w/jnfeGpaB33Y/s400/_D3S8790.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then came the ambition to be like others. Magazines and news print displayed masterpieces of photographic style that took my breath away. National Geographic, Life, Vogue, Playboy (for the articles only) and the like, all created a great deal of angst and anxiety within my pubescent sole. What I would give to photograph like that (as well as dealing with some other compulsions a growing boy might have)?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-r4io7KUguks/Tx-TCNI3eFI/AAAAAAAAC_4/L22i2Y4gEjM/s1600/_D3S8825.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gda="true" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-r4io7KUguks/Tx-TCNI3eFI/AAAAAAAAC_4/L22i2Y4gEjM/s400/_D3S8825.jpg" width="398" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So I followed the rules, or at least attempted to. Concepts like ‘balance’ and ‘contrast’ meant nothing to me. Curves, diagonals and point sources evaded my vision. Negative space seemed more astronomical or mathematical. The Rule of Thirds was about as much use as a Band-aid on a battle ground. And the Golden Rule was lead in my shutter finger. I saw none of this in the viewfinder of my trusty Rolleiflex. All I saw was ....... life. People, buildings, hills and gullies, flora and fauna, all interacting as they do, passing in and out of my life as they do, allowing me to see it all on the ground glass screen and occasionally record what I saw for my amusement and possible prosperity.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--wItjb9_jLc/Tx-TRoFuCZI/AAAAAAAADAA/NyNdiqgBzdc/s1600/_D3S8832.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gda="true" height="286" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--wItjb9_jLc/Tx-TRoFuCZI/AAAAAAAADAA/NyNdiqgBzdc/s400/_D3S8832.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So, like many of the things I did not understand as a young man (Shakespeare was bewildering, Byron was baloney and women! Well, what can I say?) I cast aside the idea of ever becoming an accomplished photographer and concentrated on photographing what I saw instead of what I couldn’t see.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8xdCULyAd3g/Tx-TiS63-uI/AAAAAAAADAI/TdtLeIRdAFU/s1600/_D3S8928.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gda="true" height="266" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8xdCULyAd3g/Tx-TiS63-uI/AAAAAAAADAI/TdtLeIRdAFU/s400/_D3S8928.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There are those that say my photographs fit the ‘rules’ anyway. It’s as if I have no choice, as if I have a ‘geometry gene’ attached securely to the 19th chromosome or some such place and it was inevitable that I fall into the paradigm bestowed upon all those who pursue photography with any serious intent. Their reasoning for me having taken photographs which do not fit their prerequisites for ‘good’ composition is because, subliminally or subconsciously, I ‘know’ the rules and choose to break them.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PvueRVQGDPc/Tx-T97s4ohI/AAAAAAAADAQ/qQU6t7bXpR4/s1600/_D3S9181.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gda="true" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PvueRVQGDPc/Tx-T97s4ohI/AAAAAAAADAQ/qQU6t7bXpR4/s320/_D3S9181.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">All this may be true, for it is not for me to know what I am thinking when taking photographs. I’ll leave that to someone more astute. What I do know is that the pursuit of life as I find it is far more fulfilling than any quest for the perfect picture where all the numbers have been considered and the composition has been formulated instead of the image felt. What sits before me is not presented as compositional elements to be placed in the frame in a manner befitting a draughts-person but a set of circumstances for me to take in and ponder, reflect and wonder. Sometimes I will choose to record what I see. I don’t know why I enjoy it so much. Maybe it’s because I don’t have any rules to follow, just feelings to express.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">My physics teacher told me that light enters the eyes for us to see. Apparently, back in the old days when everything was deemed to emanate from the body, the soothsayers suggested that we see because something leaves our eyes and falls upon the objectives of our vision, illuminating it in some way. I know this not to be the case. My physics teacher was very convincing. But maybe ‘seeing’ is that mystical material, that ethereal quantity, that indefinable fabric of thought that stems from looking and letting out sole project its wonder and mystery onto what is there.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Maybe there is a little bit of magic as well.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EhbolFRIYcA/Tx-VpBX050I/AAAAAAAADAw/bf5YDKvp-YI/s1600/_DSC8835.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gda="true" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EhbolFRIYcA/Tx-VpBX050I/AAAAAAAADAw/bf5YDKvp-YI/s400/_DSC8835.jpg" width="270" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
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</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8831982870416887759.post-76611634000671234732012-01-22T15:49:00.000+09:302012-01-22T15:49:58.829+09:30LEARNING TO SEE (Part 8)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HzMkwA7OT50/TxumeKiHa5I/AAAAAAAAC7A/bP6s2pzgPK4/s1600/_D3S8587.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HzMkwA7OT50/TxumeKiHa5I/AAAAAAAAC7A/bP6s2pzgPK4/s320/_D3S8587.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I never thought this pursuit would be so challenging; this photography. After all, we all ‘see’ and photography can only be one step past that. Press the button. Record what we see. Then why is it that disappointment follows so often. If frustration would be a reward for endeavour then surely I am a rich man.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Thomas Mann defined a writer as ‘...a person for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people’. I wonder if he thought similarly about photographers. This characterisation unquestionably and clearly befits my persona.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Certainly I consider myself a photographer; for better or for worse, successful or not, richer or poorer, and certainly until some demise falls upon me. Even if a lengthy span of time enables me to take advantage of a ‘Grandfather Clause’, then so be it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yet one would expect the challenges of my chosen malinger would be more fruitful than, say, yesterday or last week or at the birth of my first (and only) born or when my pet rabbit was committed to history as it peered into the lens of my Box Brownie. Yet with each passing day, the gap between what I achieve and what I seek widens with every click of the shutter.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was said of Ansell Adams that, after spending many hours in his darkroom, processing the results of many days of photographing his beloved landscapes, he would occasionally burst into the daylight holding a freshly exposed and still dripping print and utter excitedly ‘I think I have got it’. How nice that must have been for him. How rewarding. How pleased with himself he would have been. And if we were to ask him (in the figurative) how often does that happen, his reply would undoubtedly be: ‘Not often enough’. He seemed content, at least comforted, with the occurrence of such manifests at least ten or twelve times a year.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I ask myself: What is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">‘it’? </i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What makes the difference between a print Adams might have left hanging in the darkroom to falter and fade under the influences of time and the vapours of the fixing tray and the one he chose to proudly display to us all. Does ‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">it’</i> have a name, a shape, a texture, a place within the frame, a colour, an identity at all? Is it tangible or ephemeral? Does it have a formula or form?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is it the muse, the Loreli who calls us from the broken waters, the angels who ride the silken beams of light that fall from dusted skies? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fCdTrDLkycM/TxunXbAaVyI/AAAAAAAAC7o/-O0hBaiZ6UY/s1600/_D3S8735.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="406" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fCdTrDLkycM/TxunXbAaVyI/AAAAAAAAC7o/-O0hBaiZ6UY/s640/_D3S8735.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Or is it the black of death, the mystery of dark corridors, the rage of a rampant thought that carries a crowd to their destiny, the wake of a father over a spent son.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is it the blossom of a new rose, the smile of recognition from a friend, the fresh skin of a teenage girl or the glisten of muscle above an opened hearth?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It seems each photographer has their own elucidations into the subject matter of their endeavours; their own version of ‘it’.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Some lay claim to beauty (whatever that is), others explicate with such ordinariness that it’s difficult to understand why it is so painfully evasive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is a suggestion of passion (assumingly on the part of the photographer), of personal expression, of love for and of the object or subject in question. Others talk of ‘the moment’ as if each moment holds the magic as a conjurer contains a rabbit in a top hat. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1CR7tX4AnuY/TxuotTgYbRI/AAAAAAAAC8I/dQBTZqMdRU0/s1600/_D3S8754.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1CR7tX4AnuY/TxuotTgYbRI/AAAAAAAAC8I/dQBTZqMdRU0/s400/_D3S8754.jpg" width="265" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">For those of a more technical and analytical persuasion we might hear them talk of composition, balance, and Gestalt in the same way we might consider items on a shopping list. Finally, we bear witness to those who hold tenure over the latest in digital image recording. They seek reprisal from those who might find photography a more artistic venture than that of algorithms and optics.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rUhk6xV8eos/TxupAmwGKuI/AAAAAAAAC8Q/AhwXTZEI8e0/s1600/_DSC8851.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rUhk6xV8eos/TxupAmwGKuI/AAAAAAAAC8Q/AhwXTZEI8e0/s320/_DSC8851.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">For many, it is the recording of memorable events. We do this with such vigour that it is hard to imagine any of us escaping the ravages of dementia before the week is out. From babies to birthdays, parties to parades, holidays to homelands, visitations, ceremonies, pets, people and public events. Nothing escapes our internment of such everyday events.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-u8ORmHFEqns/TxupOGyC7VI/AAAAAAAAC8Y/Grngd_txrWg/s1600/_DSC8865.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-u8ORmHFEqns/TxupOGyC7VI/AAAAAAAAC8Y/Grngd_txrWg/s320/_DSC8865.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And what do we do with these metaphors for our daily lives? We plaster them on Facebook or store them in dark and dusty corners of the house (or the electronic equivalent) until a disaster hits. When the fire threatens, a Force 9 gale removes the roof or a magnitude 7 earthquake shakes us from our foundations we grab the kids, the cat and the photographs and head for shelter.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mL-dJB7S47s/Txupe11zEnI/AAAAAAAAC8g/T0vYkGjXeUQ/s1600/_DSC8931.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mL-dJB7S47s/Txupe11zEnI/AAAAAAAAC8g/T0vYkGjXeUQ/s320/_DSC8931.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Because whatever <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">‘it’ </i>is that is contained in those precious moments that we lovingly recorded, it is worth something to us. ‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It’ </i>is our memory, our record of the past, our ancestors, and our history. It describes, explains, expresses, pleases and pleads. For us it can be the words we do not have, the feelings we cannot express, the knowledge we accumulate, the journey we take.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UcUpuxaGbD8/Txupqtl9M5I/AAAAAAAAC8o/qWp4y5rvAgI/s1600/_DSC8633.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UcUpuxaGbD8/Txupqtl9M5I/AAAAAAAAC8o/qWp4y5rvAgI/s640/_DSC8633.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">What Mann wrote in his definition of a writer may well apply to us all in some form or other as we seek to express ourselves more fully. For some, the process of writing may be just too hard, so we choose to photograph instead. In this way we allow the viewer to find their own words for what we see. The photographer’s burden is to find the image that says: ‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">this is it’ </i>for all of us.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We all continue to search for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">‘it’. We </i>all have our own version of what<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> ‘it’ </i>is. The Holy Grail was easier to find. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jason had less trouble finding the Golden Fleece. The Meaning of Life and the origins of the Universe are less elusive. That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t stop looking. Whatever path we take will take us there and each will know when we have arrived. And when we do, we will speak as Adams did, shake of the excess fluid and hang the image out to dry, pick up our camera once more and continue along another path of frustration and disappointment.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Why? Because that’s the way we are.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cUFRc6OJpD0/TxuqHbVa6XI/AAAAAAAAC84/4ghyAuhwT6o/s1600/_DSC8433.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="353" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cUFRc6OJpD0/TxuqHbVa6XI/AAAAAAAAC84/4ghyAuhwT6o/s640/_DSC8433.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8831982870416887759.post-10859357825821745762011-12-08T16:13:00.000+09:302011-12-08T16:13:35.231+09:30Learning to See Part 7<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Vd6Gl8PkO9E/TuBUSEcBQJI/AAAAAAAACqo/WiufYveANgA/s1600/_D3S2772.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Vd6Gl8PkO9E/TuBUSEcBQJI/AAAAAAAACqo/WiufYveANgA/s320/_D3S2772.jpg" width="250" /></a></div><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My great-grand-daughter, Nevayah, (it's one of those New Age made up names designed for rock stars and super models) is one year old; just. What a delight it is to watch a child grow. They learn so fast. Movement, sounds, tastes, reaching out, finding things; ‘milestones’ her mother calls them. I wonder if there is a metric equivalent. The modern mother knows all this. Nothing is left to chance. Each advance is mapped and coordinated like a Photoshop workflow. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">‘She’ll start rolling over at 10 weeks and 3 days. Exactly 8 days later she will discover her toes,’ her mother reports. Any delay in progress is a disaster. A step ahead is celebrated as if the child has been selected for Eton or the next Moon landing. A genius is in the making I hear them say: mothers competing for ownership of the brightest and most advanced child.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">‘My child is smiling.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">‘Well, mine can hold a spoon.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">‘Can yours say “abomination”? Mine can.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">‘Yeah, well my boy translated the Koran into Japanese yesterday’.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">‘But can he pilot a Lear jet?’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And the creche skirmishes continue.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-eO_1MyqI74U/TuBUb0-XsaI/AAAAAAAACqw/FsTP9cH4C7I/s1600/_D3S2173.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="286" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-eO_1MyqI74U/TuBUb0-XsaI/AAAAAAAACqw/FsTP9cH4C7I/s320/_D3S2173.jpg" width="320" /></a></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">What I have noticed among all this scurrying for child supremacy is that there is a distinct lack of interest in the child’s development in ‘seeing’ past the initial concern that the eyes are functional, they are the colour of at least one of the parents and there is no more than two. Learning to see appears to be taken for granted. Yet outside the speech centre of the brain, the visual cortex is the largest single area of the brain dealing with function other than movement and sight is responsible for 80% of sensory input and learning for a sighted person. For some strange reason we expect it all to be working perfectly from the moment the child sees the light at the end of the tunnel, so to speak.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m a curious person, so I watch and learn from my great-grand-daughter. Maybe she can teach me a thing or two about learning to see.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aFS8J_JJj8U/TuBUm8W_g1I/AAAAAAAACq4/v_k9k4qg6NI/s1600/20110705_0116.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aFS8J_JJj8U/TuBUm8W_g1I/AAAAAAAACq4/v_k9k4qg6NI/s400/20110705_0116.jpg" width="397" /></a></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">She stares; intently, wide-eyed, glaringly, as if everything is new: as it is. As each object, place and face comes into view she takes in what she sees and places it carefully into her memory. Objects become familiar, recognizable, and repeatable. She begins to search, looking for things she knows exist in her memory. She connects those visions with places and experiences. Relationships are formed. She learns to see in conjunction with her other senses. She learns to know where objects will be and what they mean. She learns to associate the real with the symbol. A photo on the wall, a representation of an animal in a story book, a reflection in the mirror, another human, someone she knows: herself.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-AzyTC8mkndE/TuBUwB2x1rI/AAAAAAAACrA/R0VcYZ7IfzY/s1600/20110705_0033.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="290" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-AzyTC8mkndE/TuBUwB2x1rI/AAAAAAAACrA/R0VcYZ7IfzY/s640/20110705_0033.jpg" width="640" /></a></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The process is slow at first, blurred slightly by the physical restraints and then by the experiential limitations of a child. Her eyes dart back and forth across the vista in a never-ending search for meaning. When a connection is made she reacts. A smile, a puzzled expression, a sign of fear, a moment of hesitation, joy, anticipation, excitement. She learns that seeing is a way of finding out. She learns to enjoy the experience. Eye contact between other humans is rewarding to her. Seeing becomes rewarding.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-duJVrIbVP9g/TuBU4oU9LHI/AAAAAAAACrI/W_dLhkjNLVI/s1600/20110705_0028.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-duJVrIbVP9g/TuBU4oU9LHI/AAAAAAAACrI/W_dLhkjNLVI/s400/20110705_0028.jpg" width="327" /></a></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">You and I know where this is going, of course. I have grand children and children of my own who have all been along this path. They learn to see and recognize shapes and colours. They establish preferences and partialities for certain objects and people. They learn to associate words with objects and they learn to speak those words. They learn to read. They learn their language; to put ideas into words and describe what they see. At the root of all of this learning is the sense of sight. A child without sight learns all of this by an entirely different process and the other senses must fill in the gaps where lack of vision leaves the learning spaces void of stimulus.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-m1HfB5sfSu8/TuBVCifSW9I/AAAAAAAACrQ/HSSBk2V1Kxk/s1600/_D309760.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-m1HfB5sfSu8/TuBVCifSW9I/AAAAAAAACrQ/HSSBk2V1Kxk/s320/_D309760.jpg" width="248" /></a></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">As this learning process continues the child learns to focus. In a somewhat confusing and over-stimulating visual world, the child must learn to isolate those things which are important and ignore those things which are unimportant. We teach a child to concentrate their attention. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">‘Watch to the front’, the teacher says.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">‘Keep your eyes on the traffic’, warns the parent.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">‘Look at me’, the sibling demands.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">‘Stop looking at that’, you will hear the crier call.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We learn to be selective in our vision. That’s a very important skill for us all. Its necessary for our survival.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-90ePkdt5A4o/TuBVK7MSQ5I/AAAAAAAACrY/hPB8hkAK29Y/s1600/20111118_4861.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="434" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-90ePkdt5A4o/TuBVK7MSQ5I/AAAAAAAACrY/hPB8hkAK29Y/s640/20111118_4861.jpg" width="640" /></a></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">As we grow and develop we begin a new process of selection based not on visual isolation but one of cognitive isolation where our already existing learning begins to select only those things which we find relevant at the time. This selection process is influenced by our memory, understanding, beliefs, customs and knowledge. In a sense, our vision seems to narrow. We no longer see with the eyes of a child but of an adult. Our visual input is the same but our 'vision' narrows.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TxH6fkQwA5A/TuBVUe0HTfI/AAAAAAAACrg/-ndOWTdxSy8/s1600/20110807_3843-copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="277" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TxH6fkQwA5A/TuBVUe0HTfI/AAAAAAAACrg/-ndOWTdxSy8/s400/20110807_3843-copy.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">This new vision can blind us. We drive without noticing where we are. We don’t recognise people we know. We ‘don’t see the nose on [our] face’ as my mother used to say. We read and re-read the same lines in a book. Something seems to appear out of nowhere. ‘It’s been there all the time’ I hear Christine say. How did I not see it? It’s a peculiar phenomenon that is characteristic of us all.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-R7et_-LeQLI/TuBVdRqcKHI/AAAAAAAACro/MYOomJ2EFIY/s1600/_DSC2660.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="226" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-R7et_-LeQLI/TuBVdRqcKHI/AAAAAAAACro/MYOomJ2EFIY/s400/_DSC2660.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And what of the photograph?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We give the image a passing glance. It doesn't 'interest' us so we move on. We may ponder long enough to notice something. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">'Nice flower'.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">'</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I've been there'.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">'Don't go much on the dress she's wearing'</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We might consider the image in our own light.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">'$4m for that! My kid could do better'</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1D2MFEWDQt8/TuBVmehoK7I/AAAAAAAACrw/hfGe0SFGKpE/s1600/20110728_0818.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1D2MFEWDQt8/TuBVmehoK7I/AAAAAAAACrw/hfGe0SFGKpE/s400/20110728_0818.jpg" width="275" /></a></div><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We may have some knowledge which we can apply.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">'Interesting PoV' the budding photographer observes.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">'That horizon could be a little higher.'</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">'Nice and sharp!'</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Were not these people’s vision blurred by their own experiences, knowledge, biases and expectations? Did they take the opportunity, as a child might, to seek new experiences, to expand on what they already knew, to 'see' as other might, to search the frame for detail, clues, connections. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The photographer presents us with a view of the world, neatly packaged withing a frame. That particular view is is unique. It has never been seen in quite that way and from that point in time before. The photographer sees something worth recording, worth sharing, worth expressing in his/her own particular way. This is the visual fingerprint of that particular place at that particular time by just one person. And how do we respond? 'Nice colour (it'll match my curtains)'.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The adult often sees and endeavours to eliminate what they don’t understand, comprehend or believe. We resist the relationships for fear of misunderstanding them. We ignore the symbolism for fear of stimulating our own feelings. A dead flower is a dead flower and not a symbol of loss or mourning. A fallen petal cannot be a moment of sadness. A white vase doesn’t show us purity of form: its just a vase. Something seemingly out of place is a mistake and needs to be corrected.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-e-o6aeVkeH0/TuBWZJFpC_I/AAAAAAAACsA/7WwPPK1SHzE/s1600/20111122_4928.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-e-o6aeVkeH0/TuBWZJFpC_I/AAAAAAAACsA/7WwPPK1SHzE/s400/20111122_4928.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">If we learn to see as the child does, we open a new world to our vision and add to our own experiences. We learn about people and places. We see the connections and relationships. We share in a world as no other generation has ever done before. Don't let the world pass you by. Stop for a while and ponder. Learn to see as others do.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZiMS9OeaYcY/TuBV1sAFQkI/AAAAAAAACr4/kfDFiNT6GkM/s1600/20110807_3842-copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="486" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZiMS9OeaYcY/TuBV1sAFQkI/AAAAAAAACr4/kfDFiNT6GkM/s640/20110807_3842-copy.jpg" width="640" /></a></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br />
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</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8831982870416887759.post-50568446963517627262011-11-24T11:13:00.000+09:302011-11-25T07:15:08.381+09:30Learning to See (space) - Part 6<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iXWvl8e6Udg/Ts2XNxOQ15I/AAAAAAAACns/riVq64ByjXA/s1600/20110805_3753.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="176" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iXWvl8e6Udg/Ts2XNxOQ15I/AAAAAAAACns/riVq64ByjXA/s400/20110805_3753.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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We are truly never alone. Nor are we truly ever without.<br />
Wherever we are there is always a sense of presence, a proximity to something else, another human, the company of another animal, the structures that make us human and those that do not. We feel a part of and never apart from the natural world and its diversity and the unnatural world and its complexity. We breathe its air, walk its terrain, swim its oceans, climb its trees, occupy its food chain and contribute to its existence. We also add to it with structures and destruction. There is no escape. Gravity takes care of that.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TBMtAT2LmY0/Ts2XxONUXZI/AAAAAAAACn0/VlwNaiaS63o/s1600/20110804_3474.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="303" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TBMtAT2LmY0/Ts2XxONUXZI/AAAAAAAACn0/VlwNaiaS63o/s400/20110804_3474.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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When we photograph we search for that connectedness. We look into the landscape to find its beauty. We want it to be part of us as if the feelings it imposes will transform us. We hunt the flora and fauna and see ourselves in their behaviour. Their beauty is ours to capture. Our camera scans the seas and sky for signs of life and to verify our existence. I am here. This is what I see.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AR-suXpnzfI/Ts2YAKvONkI/AAAAAAAACn8/P7aSO3Vslsk/s1600/20110728_0906.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AR-suXpnzfI/Ts2YAKvONkI/AAAAAAAACn8/P7aSO3Vslsk/s400/20110728_0906.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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But what of the space in between, the emptiness, the void that fills the gaps in this connectedness we all seek. Lord Rutherford pronounced: 'There is only two truths: atoms and space; the rest is mere conjecture.' According to modern cosmological theory, Rutherford might have been unaware of a few things but at least he was heading in the right direction.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--HZ1LAnk2Yg/Ts2ZNX4l4pI/AAAAAAAACoE/LnIF41XYFYk/s1600/_DSC8914.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="288" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--HZ1LAnk2Yg/Ts2ZNX4l4pI/AAAAAAAACoE/LnIF41XYFYk/s400/_DSC8914.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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What we photograph, in Rutherford's terms, is the atoms. They make up the 'things' we seek, the objects of our attention, the focal point and something for our auto-focus to align to. We fill our frame with atoms and molecules. We compose based on Form, the form of solids, liquids and gaseous vapours. Edward Weston suggested Form was everything in a photograph. He, like all of us, have a great attachment to the 'solidarity' of the Universe. Even in the vastness of Space we seek the stars and planets and use them to define its existence.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TtNDIU5bBqQ/Ts2awVoiaXI/AAAAAAAACoM/2iaNGTnFV0I/s1600/20110821_2873-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="352" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TtNDIU5bBqQ/Ts2awVoiaXI/AAAAAAAACoM/2iaNGTnFV0I/s400/20110821_2873-2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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As I learnt to see as a photographer I became more and more aware of the stuff between the Form, the emptiness that edged to the surfaces and textures of my subjects. This nothingness began to grow in importance as a child becomes aware of the bareness of a crib or a surfer grasps the vastness of the ocean as he stares at the horizon. I wanted to photograph this abyss, this gaping hole that pushed against the frame and squeezed the 'things' from my view.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fO__yYRCEx4/Ts2bSsfp9yI/AAAAAAAACoU/DvTmCdBgRTE/s1600/20111110_4621.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="278" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fO__yYRCEx4/Ts2bSsfp9yI/AAAAAAAACoU/DvTmCdBgRTE/s400/20111110_4621.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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How do I photograph nothing? Other photographers described this void as 'negative space' as if it took away from the content, as though it meant 'less than' or a subtraction, almost an annoyance that persisted, like a whining child who just won't go away. In an effort to deal with this aggravation they began to use it as a means of visually describing content. It was used to 'divert the eyes' or outline the form or fill the frame as if it was a half empty bowl and you didn't want the contents to be discarded so it was easier to fill the container with whatever was available.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9mOAR2ssGTY/Ts2brDPIVHI/AAAAAAAACoc/rwZzLAe23Rg/s1600/20111122_4951.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="168" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9mOAR2ssGTY/Ts2brDPIVHI/AAAAAAAACoc/rwZzLAe23Rg/s400/20111122_4951.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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Now, most of the time it worked. We never notice. We are told it was OK the do this. After all, who in their right mind would want to make 'emptiness' a subject for portrayal. Stare at nothing? Who does that? Do we look at a blank wall and wonder at its beauty? Do we stare blankly into the distance and picture its content as interesting and exciting? Would we read a blank page or drink from an empty vessel or breath the contents of a vacuum?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cUWEhxobaA0/Ts2cccpSE7I/AAAAAAAACok/mDPRBS71mSg/s1600/_DSC8907.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cUWEhxobaA0/Ts2cccpSE7I/AAAAAAAACok/mDPRBS71mSg/s320/_DSC8907.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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Then I saw it! Brice Marden's 'The Dylan Painting'. You would need to be there. It was what I would image it is like standing on the top of Mt Everest and realising you were on the edge of it all and the rest was space; empty, hollow, endless space. And you could do what you like with it.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-G09oAM0TWu4/Ts2dHsNeBYI/AAAAAAAACos/823i9Y_vl-w/s1600/20110728_0805.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-G09oAM0TWu4/Ts2dHsNeBYI/AAAAAAAACos/823i9Y_vl-w/s640/20110728_0805.jpg" width="408" /></a></div><br />
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So begun my plight. Finding the space and photographing it. It easy enough to find, or so you'd think. Its everywhere. It fills the sky, it holds the ceiling of a cathedral, it keeps me at distance from my foes and it brings me close to my loved ones. How wonderful this space is. It occupies office blocks, streets, rooms, my backyard, the glass I hold and the place behind my mirror. It creeps into every crevasse and fills it with visual splendor. It has no colour, no texture, no form, no properties of its own but it gives life to all it encompasses. We can look into it, or out of it, be in it, on it, under it, surrounded by it or surround it. And like Gravity, it spreads all the way to the edge of the Universe and then it starts all over again, only to return and fill our lives with magic once more.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MtZTGLoJEEU/Ts2dl084WXI/AAAAAAAACo0/33-W7QoqJoo/s1600/20111122_4917.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MtZTGLoJEEU/Ts2dl084WXI/AAAAAAAACo0/33-W7QoqJoo/s400/20111122_4917.jpg" width="268" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Still Life - Space and Roses</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Walking Space</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CsLiZMzyKTc/Ts2eElbFBTI/AAAAAAAACpE/sytd7IbVSNY/s1600/20111117_4780.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="326" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CsLiZMzyKTc/Ts2eElbFBTI/AAAAAAAACpE/sytd7IbVSNY/s640/20111117_4780.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Breathing Space</td></tr>
</tbody></table> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wvKdSNbWztw/Ts2eXMnWvNI/AAAAAAAACpM/HMI8BgGY51Y/s1600/_DSC9402.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wvKdSNbWztw/Ts2eXMnWvNI/AAAAAAAACpM/HMI8BgGY51Y/s400/_DSC9402.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Finding Space</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-C_ifJF755Bk/Ts2flkwjqcI/AAAAAAAACpU/aCrQlC2QLEg/s1600/20110804_3463.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="412" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-C_ifJF755Bk/Ts2flkwjqcI/AAAAAAAACpU/aCrQlC2QLEg/s640/20110804_3463.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Office Space</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Floor Space</td></tr>
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</div> Photographing this 'stuff' isn't easy. Its elusive as quicksilver. Just when you think you have it and you pick up your camera, its gone, only to be replaced with a dog or a rock or a family member or a Sun setting on the horizon. If you wait for it, it will never come, if you search for it, it will evade you like the meaning of Life itself. Its the place that needs filling, like a pause in a conversation. There's an awkwardness with a necessity to be 'taken care of'. <br />
'There's a space there. Can you put something in it?' <br />
'It really annoys me when people leave spaces!'<br />
'How much space have I got here. I want to fill it.'<br />
'Oh, look. A space. I'm going to put my big fat arse there. Who needs space?'<br />
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The next time you see some space, call me. I might just be able to capture it before it disappears.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8831982870416887759.post-29639707301039589222011-11-12T14:20:00.000+09:302011-11-12T16:10:03.474+09:30Learning to See (Part 5)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_0rAsJPZvl2J3qhfwKosNwTjplDhCKcOADl5cq-Ws48Tl8TXe8ohOlrCd7a3ZVxrV8J9jHH_C3shNHpzwUy62isCm3EOPYrtKmjT-KJTwMJAfhLZwpvUBOCZYTz668e67JwSqDOcZbhpk/s1600/_D306336.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_0rAsJPZvl2J3qhfwKosNwTjplDhCKcOADl5cq-Ws48Tl8TXe8ohOlrCd7a3ZVxrV8J9jHH_C3shNHpzwUy62isCm3EOPYrtKmjT-KJTwMJAfhLZwpvUBOCZYTz668e67JwSqDOcZbhpk/s640/_D306336.jpg" width="424" /></a></div><br />
In the process of learning to see, ordinary days and ordinary events can often take on a significance that is, to say the least, surprising, if not profound, but certainly extraordinary in their connection. Today is such an ordinary day.<br />
The first event was a simple question posted on a blog.<br />
" Where is your next big travel trip?" <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsOVP2eU0kEy2hSFbshP6uoGngqOo_7EGUXAOmZUxGiRIK_l5VYf6VWxjer13lJ_SMUmSrHW25PKPhKHzXhuGX4KrANaNcUpTJdE4rOwQOTQg73bgOjZdLJsJQcMEIDgAJSR51A-7mPkip/s1600/seascape.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="152" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsOVP2eU0kEy2hSFbshP6uoGngqOo_7EGUXAOmZUxGiRIK_l5VYf6VWxjer13lJ_SMUmSrHW25PKPhKHzXhuGX4KrANaNcUpTJdE4rOwQOTQg73bgOjZdLJsJQcMEIDgAJSR51A-7mPkip/s320/seascape.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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Simple enough inquiry, but the implications in the particular context was that one needs to travel to photograph; to find new destinations, grandeous scenery, interesting people, places of beauty, the obligatory sunset or sunrise on a new and more exciting horizon, captivating architecture or the progression of interesting and dramatic lives and events other than those that fill our own seemingly mundane existence. We need the imagery of the imaginary, the visual spectacle of the spectacular; we need to see and record what we don't have or pay homage to the representation of what we do have: the landscape.<br />
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The travelling photographer is armed with a vision we envy. He brings us a world out of reach to many. Like The Grand Tour we plan our lives, in part, to fulfil the dream and return with the booty of other places, neatly parcelled in a digital slide show which will be presented to friends and family on our return.<br />
"See where I have been," and we will sit in amazement at the splendor and beauty of it all.<br />
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The second event was as ordinary as the first.<br />
Over the past few weeks I have been teaching my grand-daughter to drive. On the morning of her driving test I accompanied her to the testing station. We had a calming coffee in the local shopping centre beforehand, then she left me in the car park while she went for the test. <br />
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As always I had a camera with me. My thoughts went back to the question: "Where is your next big trip?" For me, this was it! Standing alone in a strange carpark in a 'foreign' land. My thoughts begun to shift from the ordinariness of the surrounding (after all, there is nothing unusual about a car park surrounded by offices and shop fronts) to the extra-ordinariness of the place in which I have found myself. <br />
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People going about their business, cars coming and going, conversations barely audible over the traffic, trade noises eminating from a shop front, machinery humming away in the background, distant sounds blending into city's white noise. I began to notice the shapes and forms occupying the space: colours blending, shadow and light interacting, textures and tones giving visual life to this inner space buried deep inside the city in which I had spent a good part of my adult life. And somehow I'd missed it.<br />
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I raised the camera to my eye and started framing and shooting. Each click of the shutter was, at that time, recording the truth, a beauty that can only be seen from where I stood, not only in locality but in time; my time.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFLVs0Fw_MXHoEq3HsWU7QVAtJr_wIrg2MbJJotZG9b9U2jRx0hrP2TgVfqC7dxGz0h2315l5BQb5F0BM39V13HaMiRovYFYxeZJNQEt_D1Wz2yw6W1zeneyOI7NWXA7zMZi5UVY7iCKXO/s1600/20111110_4613.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFLVs0Fw_MXHoEq3HsWU7QVAtJr_wIrg2MbJJotZG9b9U2jRx0hrP2TgVfqC7dxGz0h2315l5BQb5F0BM39V13HaMiRovYFYxeZJNQEt_D1Wz2yw6W1zeneyOI7NWXA7zMZi5UVY7iCKXO/s400/20111110_4613.jpg" width="241" /></a></div><br />
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My time to this point was filled with assumptions and stories, memories and recall, words, poetry, events, imagery of my past. I could here my father describing a Rembrant, my mother reading from a Bronte novel, my physics teacher describing the magnetic field of a dipole (whatever that is), my sister reciting a rhyme, Christine re-affirming her love for me. All this guided me to frame within the lanscape.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6c9kPKuBwNOhEcTyTN0syDVr_BHu-FOHEeTm9EM86A8dLA_XpUuzU6Yvgk_BNQqE6j8KXT7RPnefpaKhk52NkG6pdafcb4xizWrpKFvl2D_nDNBTS-y788NJSX6dHbNM8uyu1Yk4jMuNB/s1600/20111110_4607.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" nda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6c9kPKuBwNOhEcTyTN0syDVr_BHu-FOHEeTm9EM86A8dLA_XpUuzU6Yvgk_BNQqE6j8KXT7RPnefpaKhk52NkG6pdafcb4xizWrpKFvl2D_nDNBTS-y788NJSX6dHbNM8uyu1Yk4jMuNB/s320/20111110_4607.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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The present was where I found myself, standing in a carpark, waiting for my grand-dauhter, and the taking of photographs became a verification of who I am and what I can see. "I am here. See this picture. That's what I saw. I exist and the landscape exists at the same time" It seemed a strange place to be, as if I was a time traveller and I was recording this simple landscape to take into the future where I could once more travel back and revisit. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwE23r2evroePnRROftlgZHSqHsK9YQfjglqdUJFqfQjSATTeEMSsO-Xizju6IiTEqmjGEn6nIYKnQQK06L-891R8Wa7105QkYqTtyrlhyphenhyphenOTF8uaeYELSmOkQdCkpXhTHLOyUn6sg86CLh/s1600/20111110_4625.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" nda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwE23r2evroePnRROftlgZHSqHsK9YQfjglqdUJFqfQjSATTeEMSsO-Xizju6IiTEqmjGEn6nIYKnQQK06L-891R8Wa7105QkYqTtyrlhyphenhyphenOTF8uaeYELSmOkQdCkpXhTHLOyUn6sg86CLh/s320/20111110_4625.jpg" width="214" /></a></div><br />
But unlike the painter who composes the lanscape from bits and pieces, my landscape was there in all its 'glory'. My task was to select those bits that play some significance in my view of life. Not what is beautiful but what is true - for me. Beauty would follow.<br />
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While standing in the middle of the road framing one of many shots I took that morning, drifting blissfully through my own world, a gentleman approached from the curb.<br />
"What are you photographing?' he asked sincerely.<br />
" The truth" I responded, only after the shutter hand been pressed and I was happy I had captured it as I saw it.<br />
"I used to photograph rock art" he added, with some trepidation, moving back to the curb and seeking safety from the traffic and me.<br />
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Everyone has a vision of the truth. We can all find it and photograph it as we see it. When that is done, the beauty will be revealed. Finding your truth may be closer than you think.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJeYqSOt4SsNB2Z8MUwdSxsDAJVVLVkeyGG3fYMKNfNjbwAc6wpFeeSg9g1kWMdGgLFxjAw4q7w9KJED2qkTZN54bXVsikuUEZdCm6RfjC_fgSLLPNJV-V_SuNN4hOwL7WOjcEaD2oKFY1/s1600/20111110_4588.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJeYqSOt4SsNB2Z8MUwdSxsDAJVVLVkeyGG3fYMKNfNjbwAc6wpFeeSg9g1kWMdGgLFxjAw4q7w9KJED2qkTZN54bXVsikuUEZdCm6RfjC_fgSLLPNJV-V_SuNN4hOwL7WOjcEaD2oKFY1/s640/20111110_4588.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8831982870416887759.post-66686822364922028832011-10-28T11:09:00.000+09:302011-10-28T11:15:26.561+09:30Learning to See (Part 4)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRdpz4N-fxwaDuJFmbuF5j9yMDwMVdYFuYPsXD-dPUoZWyW1HVK-Zn7H1-V-gTTRAtSs-LUknq-Zu1FIKB7A-iqvH0ZkWSJWJm4m7zxSDHvgzDTeLOpmUbWenyaMaXlYGoXfBztc2mI1Dr/s1600/20110728_0885.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="333" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRdpz4N-fxwaDuJFmbuF5j9yMDwMVdYFuYPsXD-dPUoZWyW1HVK-Zn7H1-V-gTTRAtSs-LUknq-Zu1FIKB7A-iqvH0ZkWSJWJm4m7zxSDHvgzDTeLOpmUbWenyaMaXlYGoXfBztc2mI1Dr/s400/20110728_0885.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>In the seemingly never ending and ridiculously brisk pace of life it's often difficult to take the advise of others, especially when banal comments like 'Take time to smell the roses' or 'Take some time out for yourself' seem the only offer as the solution to what you might see as a train wreck about to happen or a nuclear holocaust already in progress. In a world where a strong work ethic is God and financial security is the panacea for all ills, time to watch the lawn grow or the paint dry on the walls of your newly renovated suburban castle has been replaced by more mundane pass times such as watching the mortgage grow and the competition's name dry on the office door next to yours. After all, photographers have to eat. Some days it seems as though your very own heart rate can't keep pace with the blood that flows through your clogged arteries.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3fQuXlFjAlyhmGdA1JHf5EhqiY-PsCU4tXGLdGTy7r4gTbSMLOPAoZ5xew4x2GCrGj3VvJGFhvMZq8CqAez0tJfYegXj_IRwsByq4biPV60L2Hj44cg_e1TOSAJLv10-8qHBl6xQHeT32/s1600/DSC_3276.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3fQuXlFjAlyhmGdA1JHf5EhqiY-PsCU4tXGLdGTy7r4gTbSMLOPAoZ5xew4x2GCrGj3VvJGFhvMZq8CqAez0tJfYegXj_IRwsByq4biPV60L2Hj44cg_e1TOSAJLv10-8qHBl6xQHeT32/s400/DSC_3276.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Yet, for some inane reason that is completely beyond me, I have chosen a profession that requires just that: a pause, momentary as it is, to reflect on the present and the past, to spend some time pondering the life of another human being, to give life to their Truth, their Beauty, to render their purpose purposeful. My life is filled with imagery, photographs taken by myself and others that require a presence, an understanding, a vision to produce and an insight to read. Each one of these images requires of me to 'smell the roses', to give the value they deserve.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrlDAX2ga2Ci0o1mfA_B3TZNyfQEHUQIjlln16oHupLfrZe_eOWpFptbmgMYYctReYxR9EV0naWfDnF6EMam2VY0D9GvjWOEu0szNNJb-Oh-5EkN3tHcBkn0qv8P_XAxRbYcNQkbM2zzNN/s1600/20110730_1969.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrlDAX2ga2Ci0o1mfA_B3TZNyfQEHUQIjlln16oHupLfrZe_eOWpFptbmgMYYctReYxR9EV0naWfDnF6EMam2VY0D9GvjWOEu0szNNJb-Oh-5EkN3tHcBkn0qv8P_XAxRbYcNQkbM2zzNN/s400/20110730_1969.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br />
But why?<br />
I don't have time for this! I'm a busy man. I have 'things' to do, 'places' to go, 'people' to meet, 'business' to deal with. When do I have time to look at my own images, let alone the myriad of visual stimulation thrown at me on a daily basis, all geared to influence my thinking. Buy this, sell that, the shock of the old and new, now for the news, a touch of beauty mingled with the torment of a nation, sickness and well-being all neatly parcelled in a box and plastered onto the screen or tabloid before me. Stop! Look at me! I'm the best. My photograph is the Truth. It holds the answers to all things. Emulate me and your dreams will come true. Envy me because what you see is unattainable. Dare to like what you see and I will stay with you forever. Hate me and I will have won.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit6teNRQnlpr_dz17Y4bm5lBs1wESFZ_ywkWOpBhDAz2AF_Bb-ahW_X7xAxBpyOPrHDlgkwVhrOzS8qAGJO16ekxIjFl8NKlVbQOKhACxB2aW8Z9YkuaeivOiKOsAc5RrTzRMlBFgyxs-l/s1600/_DSC2601.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit6teNRQnlpr_dz17Y4bm5lBs1wESFZ_ywkWOpBhDAz2AF_Bb-ahW_X7xAxBpyOPrHDlgkwVhrOzS8qAGJO16ekxIjFl8NKlVbQOKhACxB2aW8Z9YkuaeivOiKOsAc5RrTzRMlBFgyxs-l/s400/_DSC2601.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
This is a terrible dilemma for us all. We swim through the sea of sensory stimulation willingly, constantly tortured by the savagery of other people's skills. We are the baited fish dragged behind the boat, desperately dodging the snapping jaws of the frenzied school of sharks. Everyone wants their bit of flesh and all we want is to be dragged from the water screaming so we can drown in our own misgivings. Our dream changes from 'I can do that' to 'I wish I could do that'. We wait desperately for our Flickr graph to rise or the blog counter to tick over. When it doesn't we have failed, when it does, other's have failed. 'Nice colour' the comment reads. Is that it? Is that all they can see? 'What lens did you use?' Do they also chase the bait? Is it me they emulate, or it it my photograph they want to copy? I really do need to smell the roses. But where do I find them?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheXrvDZh1oJuMfrdW3EcW3lMB4vMAheyWCJ1gIjmfpGBsafNh9SVfnSAy4JnLT3PtQgntkbra5AGlcgw5Ji9cfMNHUBTOd0VWPD5tJ0CzcpSbBSUtoCSVDJzNG6tH7n93_33PwpXJaWJXy/s1600/_DSC9457.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheXrvDZh1oJuMfrdW3EcW3lMB4vMAheyWCJ1gIjmfpGBsafNh9SVfnSAy4JnLT3PtQgntkbra5AGlcgw5Ji9cfMNHUBTOd0VWPD5tJ0CzcpSbBSUtoCSVDJzNG6tH7n93_33PwpXJaWJXy/s400/_DSC9457.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Each day I spend a few moments with the photographers and their work; just staring. I dream of places I have never been. I meet people I do not know, I look at cherished objects and battles fought and lost, a shed in a field, a car crash, a well worn path, a new born baby and a grieving wife at a funeral. I also look at my own images and remind myself of why I do this thing called photography. Above my favourite chair is a framed photograph of some flowers. It holds no special place except to exist for its own sake. It is the answer to all things, the god I seek, the tranquility I need, the space in the chaos, the dream, the 'rose' in my garden. As I look down at the book I am reading I am reminded of what its all about. Its not about the photograph or the winning or the ego that sometimes replaces my common sense, or lack of it. Its about the struggle, the lack of understanding, the inadequacy, the guilt, the search. That's what we do from the moment we eagerly take the first breathe to that fateful and inevitable time we gasp the last; photographers no less than others.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDw-iQ5TKtyUE1OcOvFyQNFmKoVvoFhh_D5pHgEdaxYHP2g6rPUS4o4uyWhHO19B2MpOeRkfz-h0VkL4VZnhE97D-Y4sFHwztdVTMQQx8GSGKjSXR7p1xxf7M6HrLgTYeWtHE9uybc3h8l/s1600/sonata.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDw-iQ5TKtyUE1OcOvFyQNFmKoVvoFhh_D5pHgEdaxYHP2g6rPUS4o4uyWhHO19B2MpOeRkfz-h0VkL4VZnhE97D-Y4sFHwztdVTMQQx8GSGKjSXR7p1xxf7M6HrLgTYeWtHE9uybc3h8l/s400/sonata.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<br />
As T.S. Eliot pointed out to us all:<br />
<br />
"... Each venture<br />
Is the new beginning...<br />
...what there is to conquer<br />
By strength and submission, has already been discovered<br />
Once or twice, or several times, by men whom one cannot hope<br />
To emulate - but there is no competition -<br />
There is only the fight to recover what has been lost <br />
And found and lost again and again ......<br />
For us there is only the trying. The rest is not our business"<br />
<br />
I still keep trying to see; for myself and for others.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVj8QDNDcsvvUzlhr5RU3_rKarKI5ahatP75JvRiCA6kO9GS_fAo3oElABsWC9IPvMVcG_ovd-o3vW7TdcKoFLmYUlEHNYnpUpwS7QoimINPllRXiqotfmhEHfy7S1qDUR6hjEt0TAln5N/s1600/beach-access.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVj8QDNDcsvvUzlhr5RU3_rKarKI5ahatP75JvRiCA6kO9GS_fAo3oElABsWC9IPvMVcG_ovd-o3vW7TdcKoFLmYUlEHNYnpUpwS7QoimINPllRXiqotfmhEHfy7S1qDUR6hjEt0TAln5N/s400/beach-access.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8831982870416887759.post-16546951694610204862011-10-24T09:31:00.000+09:302011-10-24T09:31:38.556+09:30Learning to See (Part 3)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5hS7OwFzdWhj1XCYsD4GCIcA2uYihs65uSLRGaLFEJcZziwb0hWcWU2R3_Q55o1nhlsC1zCAHWuGaGzGdpPdDSWVGOukGAOFZfPp-L0X1cuH-7zlSi9QHvh2hjKY2hNa__Wi9ofna-xWf/s1600/DSC_1138.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5hS7OwFzdWhj1XCYsD4GCIcA2uYihs65uSLRGaLFEJcZziwb0hWcWU2R3_Q55o1nhlsC1zCAHWuGaGzGdpPdDSWVGOukGAOFZfPp-L0X1cuH-7zlSi9QHvh2hjKY2hNa__Wi9ofna-xWf/s400/DSC_1138.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<br />
By the time I'd reached my late 30's I knew it all, at least I thought I did. I was secure in a good job, my photography was being well received and keeping me busy, I had a family, living in a comfortable cottage in the Australian Bush which I had built with my own bare hands (and a few of my friends' bare hands as well), and there was a future in sight, dim and clouded as it was.<br />
The euphoria that accompanied this apparent state of well being and contentment was also supplemented by a strange emptiness that filled my waking hours and a few of my sleeping ones as well. It was nothing I could put my finger on but it seemed I had a need to complete some unfinished business that was yet to be identified; maybe even commenced.<br />
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In an effort to resolve this inner struggle, I read. Anything from 'Zen and the Art of Motor Cycle Maintenance to the Bible, all of which were ploys at explaining someone else's problems; certainly not mine. I didn't need a road trip or a God, I needed a simple answer. Two hundred pages of Buddhist ideology while standing on my head in some exotic yoga position wasn't giving it to me; just a head ache and a bad back.<br />
While all this deep and meaningful stuff was transpiring, I had not seen my Old Man for some time so I called him up, and on the pretence of building something from wood which I knew he would be quite happy to interfere with, I asked him to come and stay awhile.<br />
He turned up on the next train with his usual attire; dressed like he was going fishing and carrying only a small tartan bag from which the smell of week-old prawns emanated and the tip of a telescopic fishing rod protruded.<br />
It's an Ugly Stik. You could tie a knot in it. I assumed he meant the rod.<br />
He travelled light, my Old Man, but not fast.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2HeUn92LTijhkzSAyQ9Eik0FamUdHxGKAk9iiGx04bW7l5ReBJD_iekCXA6rPHGSe6DfeC9vNnOQ0FunA3I9R5Emrtef5F8z8lOKQeNhLoPJ3v8ybhzha0pvmAuEnL5n4nnGGAdXGdY01/s1600/_DSC0762.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2HeUn92LTijhkzSAyQ9Eik0FamUdHxGKAk9iiGx04bW7l5ReBJD_iekCXA6rPHGSe6DfeC9vNnOQ0FunA3I9R5Emrtef5F8z8lOKQeNhLoPJ3v8ybhzha0pvmAuEnL5n4nnGGAdXGdY01/s640/_DSC0762.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
After he had inspected my craftsmanship on the cottage and the new project, a large barn adjacent to the house which would be my studio and workshop, he settled into a shady spot on the verandah where, I imagined, he would stay until I took him to the train to return him home at some undetermined point in the future. He would muster enough energy during this dormancy bordering on hibernation to assist with the technical aspects on the building site - and fish. Occasionally he would break into conversation when he was reminded of something in his past. An old joke (which I had usually heard before), a place or person he recalled (who was more likely dead or missing), a song that came to mind (often something obscure he had heard on his favourite radio station: Triple J). <br />
Do you remember so-and-so? I wonder what he's doing now? Looking up from yesterday's paper.<br />
I invariably couldn't help him in his eager search for knowledge. He would return to his paper and scratch his balding head as if to find the answer in among the newsprint, possibly the obituaries.<br />
Not many of the blokes are left. He would mumble. He might add as a recourse for his own persistence.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2gyuC9xIcgLKQoS9vP4cVnO-RBseTgxC7oZrBha4HHG6k_0YbrXwLqMgXJvnG6qsESKsN22pK6j1jxN2xzdVFtYbXjeBVLRZCsFoPRURIY3suyJjz4JtNsq5ROsUPQjIVbtFbp1vwBy9n/s1600/_DSC2169.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2gyuC9xIcgLKQoS9vP4cVnO-RBseTgxC7oZrBha4HHG6k_0YbrXwLqMgXJvnG6qsESKsN22pK6j1jxN2xzdVFtYbXjeBVLRZCsFoPRURIY3suyJjz4JtNsq5ROsUPQjIVbtFbp1vwBy9n/s400/_DSC2169.jpg" width="262" /></a></div><br />
Towards the end of his stay, although I still wasn't aware of any use-by date at that stage, I borrowed a small row boat so we could venture out into the river early in the morning to catch the changing tide and, hopefully, a few flathead for which the Macley River was famous. As we rattled around with the trailer in the pre-dawn darkness, he took note that I had loaded my camera.<br />
You fishing with that thing? He asked.<br />
Thought I might catch a few shots while we fish.<br />
Not while I'm fishing, you won't.<br />
I knew the directness of my Old Man was harmless but none-the-less to be heeded if I was not to be reminded in the future (possibly for the rest of my life) of my forthcoming transgressions if I ignored him. The camera, much to my vexation, was returned to the house. As far as I recall it was the first time in twenty years I had been without it on such an occasion. It just didn't seem right. It felt as unsettling as failing to wear jocks with woollen trousers.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmljX197nLOMGCTSd4fK3MKygjLma69yZ6b613kezV0wQfJZDU_KI7qdVNzWLQukhLkTQAd9Lyk_6sNeKjWPK_eu1ArU8sKv83xT-xOLjbHFQ87kkNixy7U6AfwgcviG6ZZ8j987P0otW8/s1600/_DSC2253.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmljX197nLOMGCTSd4fK3MKygjLma69yZ6b613kezV0wQfJZDU_KI7qdVNzWLQukhLkTQAd9Lyk_6sNeKjWPK_eu1ArU8sKv83xT-xOLjbHFQ87kkNixy7U6AfwgcviG6ZZ8j987P0otW8/s320/_DSC2253.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
When we hit the river it was still dark. The silence was only broken by the smooth running of the tide, the splash of an occasional tailor feeding on bate fish and the rattling of the trailer chain. We slid into the water with a swoosh and paddled out into the blue-green darkness. The sky overhead appeared like black satin, brilliant with an infinity of stars. Something black passed a shadow across the void; a bat on its way home most likely. The air was warm and humid. A light flickered on the water, then vanished. Neither of us spoke.<br />
We found a place to anchor and strung our lines out into the tide to wait for it to turn. We waited in silence, still as a tombstone in a churchyard he sat, humped over slightly, arms pushed forward with the line in his hand, staring into the blackness. I could well have been alone.<br />
First light appeared. A yellow streak pushed its way into the sky above us like a finger pointing at our past and the arm to which it was attached would drag our future into the new day. I automatically reached for my camera before I remembered that it didn't have a place on this boat.<br />
Lost something? He said<br />
I wish I had my camera with me.<br />
He remained silent.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsNRhydDSAeY3ULj74sxlG00w9dAp6z-gdULT7OK7pZwJS8xSEQYLy5d5NgnMhI3AsHoyML7zcmMJyXy1ssdT7fXk67Yixa4UfMt2dy88IFuqa35KKIUHX1gmxGSSNwbeLGdn-QL7AXG3u/s1600/20110729_1261.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsNRhydDSAeY3ULj74sxlG00w9dAp6z-gdULT7OK7pZwJS8xSEQYLy5d5NgnMhI3AsHoyML7zcmMJyXy1ssdT7fXk67Yixa4UfMt2dy88IFuqa35KKIUHX1gmxGSSNwbeLGdn-QL7AXG3u/s400/20110729_1261.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
As the morning progressed and the light got stronger, the panorama of the river unfolded. This was by far one of the most picturesque places along the river, with its fleet of fishing vessels nestled into the shelter of a tight meander and the bridge dividing the sky from the water. In the background was the silhouette of Smokey Cape and Yarahapini and through the next thicket of mangroves the Pacific Ocean could be heard, roaring at the coastline before the yawning mouth of the Macley. I had photographed this place many times over the past years and it never failed to present a new, fresh and breathtaking vista. I itched for a viewfinder through which to look.<br />
The Old Man pulled his line from the water. As I recall, it was the first time he had dried his line since we anchored.<br />
I bet you wish you had your camera now. A wry smile sprung from his face and he winked slowly just to let me know who was in control.<br />
Now all you can do is look at it. He added.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Mr2_pLff16vaySvf_t4d0itp5VjVY5g4v_IbZNBSjePsBiKpyMz5Nlu5VQ3WykwI2HdJJzmmgWJZc4M1XDvbn23uVWU_99DtfK9kLgm4qJ_VYA7e2WCP5t8ZAbSb9BA3MXfnAfVfh9W0/s1600/_D3S4587.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Mr2_pLff16vaySvf_t4d0itp5VjVY5g4v_IbZNBSjePsBiKpyMz5Nlu5VQ3WykwI2HdJJzmmgWJZc4M1XDvbn23uVWU_99DtfK9kLgm4qJ_VYA7e2WCP5t8ZAbSb9BA3MXfnAfVfh9W0/s640/_D3S4587.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
It always takes me a while to understand the implications of his veracity for briefness. Reading between the lines was something I grew up with in any conversation with my Old Man. He was the most understated overstatement I knew. It was like having a ten metre sign at the front door that simply said 'Enter' (in small print). It was like a driving test without the manual, a dictionary without all the letters, a play with the middle act missing, a song without a chorus, a 'Dear John' letter without the 'goodbye'.<br />
Yet, in a single moment on that river, in the early hours of a November day, my Old Man provided me with all the answers I ever needed. Up to that point, I had viewed the world as if I was photographing it; recalling it later in a two dimensional flatness that I believed was everything. I had missed the point again. I had missed the real thing all along. My emptiness was beginning to fill. Once again I could begin to see why I was here on this river. Not to photograph it but to take it in, to enjoy it, to live it now, to sense it with everything I had. No distractions, no philosophies, no sales pitch for the customer, no display for the office wall. Just be here and take it all in. To share the experience as it happened.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0tkh0VWaz1Uefu7Ba55zKvBd76eflhNtYj2jLutyecuafe4rESGPnjrxJjImCSLYtpeTlCa0OTwjNdG-w1hKUFhxa4xu_JbLE8KgFYtAux40H8hDm68QwSncEhTFrQtbH_P1i40d-vH1C/s1600/20110731_2850.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0tkh0VWaz1Uefu7Ba55zKvBd76eflhNtYj2jLutyecuafe4rESGPnjrxJjImCSLYtpeTlCa0OTwjNdG-w1hKUFhxa4xu_JbLE8KgFYtAux40H8hDm68QwSncEhTFrQtbH_P1i40d-vH1C/s640/20110731_2850.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
And I did. We both did. Together we sat for an hour or so and watched. I don't remember everything I saw that day while sitting there in that small boat with my Old Man but I do know I was there, in every sense of the word, with every sense of my body, taking in what I could. Once again I was learning to see and it was so fulfilling it was almost painful. I don't remember if I had a tear in my eye but I should have.<br />
Had enough? He interjected, after what seemed to be an eternity in an instant.<br />
He dropped his line into the water once more.<br />
You didn't bait up. I enquired<br />
I'm fishing, not catching. As if one might interfere with the other.<br />
Er, Dad. Thanks for that.<br />
I don't talk when I fish. That controlled smirk returned briefly. He returned to his distant gaze at the scene before us. I don't believe I had ever seen the river in such a way before.<br />
And I'm still learning to see it.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XT0ggQwJ9Pg/TqSq0LV_hlI/AAAAAAAACPU/vbFuFRIUeoA/s1600/20110731_2865.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="396" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XT0ggQwJ9Pg/TqSq0LV_hlI/AAAAAAAACPU/vbFuFRIUeoA/s640/20110731_2865.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8831982870416887759.post-59851700639919142562011-10-17T14:31:00.000+09:302011-10-17T14:31:43.971+09:30Window shopping<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-upLZB6HWrRU/TptufkWQsUI/AAAAAAAACMI/zuv1v55akmE/s1600/20110808_4011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-upLZB6HWrRU/TptufkWQsUI/AAAAAAAACMI/zuv1v55akmE/s640/20110808_4011.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
Yesterday it's Cartier, Hugo Boss or Tiffany's. Today it's Myer or Bett's. Tomorrow it will be K-Mart and Target.<br />
A window display provides an opportunistic glance at another world; usually one we cannot afford. We are tempted by our own greed, manipulated by our own self-interest, coerced by our personal desire to be what we are not, to climb the social ladder, look different, be different, be respected and loved for what we want, have and give; to endow ourselves with status in an effort to put ourselves above the statistics of the ordinary person in the street. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VOyK3KurlCY/TptvzWqyoFI/AAAAAAAACMY/dAS7Q45WUzE/s1600/_D3S6184.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VOyK3KurlCY/TptvzWqyoFI/AAAAAAAACMY/dAS7Q45WUzE/s400/_D3S6184.jpg" width="265" /></a></div>The 5mm of glass that separates our world from that of the land of commerce gives a false transparency. It shows nothing of the smokey cloud of delusion that misleads us. Well polished articles with minuscule price tags turned down, glimmering under the purity of a halogen glow, resting in a silken nest or on an outreached hand who's stony sole is hidden by a satin glove. All this cosmetic camouflage provides no clue to the penance we must pay if we enter.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bZ9Di78OuLA/TptslLorL2I/AAAAAAAACLI/nKwiaslw6XI/s1600/_DSC8388.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bZ9Di78OuLA/TptslLorL2I/AAAAAAAACLI/nKwiaslw6XI/s320/_DSC8388.jpg" width="211" /></a></div>How we are tempted. 'Sale' is the burgeoning catch word, in bold white letters against a blood red background. The Sale is perpetual, feeding its ever hungry bowels with last years stock. A bargain is always in store for those who dare to enter. <br />
But such proportional reduction would only bring the prize within glancing reach. The smiling assistant reaches for her chain of keys and unlocks the lacy fortress. Her movements are slow and purposeful to ensure maximum suspense. The buyer is unaware of the temptress who feeds from the serpent's tree, extending her hand like a viper, sniffing the air for prey. He is dazzled by his own avarice.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2KxhiZsrZSQ/TptstrvJueI/AAAAAAAACLQ/5ZRRGWECrzk/s1600/_DSC8393.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="313" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2KxhiZsrZSQ/TptstrvJueI/AAAAAAAACLQ/5ZRRGWECrzk/s400/_DSC8393.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>I believe this was the item you were interested in, sir.<br />
More than interested, he thinks. Intensely impressed. What rewards he could reap with such a gift? What opportunities await when he wears such apparel? How irresistible he will be? <br />
How better life will be when it is mine? This gem, this jewel buried in gold, this technological perfection, this piece of fine craftsmanship must be mine. I cannot live without it. It is the air I breathe, the water running over my tempered brow, the sustenance that keeps me from the grave, the God that will keep my sole. It is Me.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XyLAnoz8BQk/TptuMZfifNI/AAAAAAAACL4/o-g8gyFzsb0/s1600/20110805_3552.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XyLAnoz8BQk/TptuMZfifNI/AAAAAAAACL4/o-g8gyFzsb0/s320/20110805_3552.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>He reaches out, feeling the alluring pull like a meteor trapped in a spiralling orbit. The treasure touches his skin and he feels the flames within him kindle into life. Little does he realise, the very oxygen that keeps him alive now surges through those flames as the spiral turns to a steep decent, heading for an explosive grave.<br />
The moment of truth has come.<br />
How much is it?<br />
It almost seems crass to have asked. He knows his limits but not his own limitations.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-T3mc9kH6Qyg/Tpttx4tHyMI/AAAAAAAACLw/eSjF4fythGc/s1600/DSC_1458.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-T3mc9kH6Qyg/Tpttx4tHyMI/AAAAAAAACLw/eSjF4fythGc/s320/DSC_1458.jpg" width="214" /></a></div>His heart sinks. His dreams are shattered. He pulls his hand back, turning his palm downwards in a gesture that is understood by any aggressive reptile. Submission is his. He has no will. His life has ended. He stands before his demons, lashing out with all his will. There is a final blow from the serpent.<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2HIf2urLJ_Y/TpttUoV3C7I/AAAAAAAACLo/BWzZ_blZxAQ/s1600/20110808_3967.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2HIf2urLJ_Y/TpttUoV3C7I/AAAAAAAACLo/BWzZ_blZxAQ/s640/20110808_3967.jpg" width="640" /></a>Master Card, perhaps?<br />
She'll know, he thinks. There's no deceit in a receipt. He finds inner strength, spurred on by past experiences. He searches for the words that will end all this. A final blow. A formidable surge of determination that will return him to safe ground. The street awaits his return. He is ready.<br />
I'll give it some thought. Can you hold it for me?<br />
A brusque smile is her reply. She knows him well, this suitor, this charlatan this fraudulent impostor.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dnsaQ6t2Vm8/Tpts4yVoBYI/AAAAAAAACLY/OlF-Mwwi-ZE/s1600/movement-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="218" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dnsaQ6t2Vm8/Tpts4yVoBYI/AAAAAAAACLY/OlF-Mwwi-ZE/s320/movement-2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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Like a one night stand he is gone, tail between his legs and hand on his wallet. As she turns to return her prize to its nest, another face stairs back at her. She is momentarily mirrored in the smoothness and for that instant she is startled. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bRNPa8_TGF0/TptuWw_j-dI/AAAAAAAACMA/y946ksaESiI/s1600/20110807_3914.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="261" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bRNPa8_TGF0/TptuWw_j-dI/AAAAAAAACMA/y946ksaESiI/s400/20110807_3914.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Am I the prize? She asks. Am I Alice in the Wonderland of glitter. I don't belong here either. This world on the Other Side isn't mine. I too have greed and cannot fulfil it. The world of the window is of itself. There is nothing here but bling. It leaves us hollow and wanting. I am its servant and he is it's slave. <br />
She watches him vanish into the crowd and beckons him to return and take her instead. She offers no pretence and her price is small. Hope and promise is all she asks. He'll not find that in any window.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-skz_tOooQ_g/Tptuog6qNnI/AAAAAAAACMQ/eJirjl7AGsA/s1600/DSC_3276.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-skz_tOooQ_g/Tptuog6qNnI/AAAAAAAACMQ/eJirjl7AGsA/s400/DSC_3276.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8831982870416887759.post-32872303159410973872011-10-14T18:41:00.000+09:302015-02-09T18:45:13.682+09:30Learning to See (Part 2)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB-wH_xtvXPB1fyWhXME4KErXOeINcL4mfRqZuishQlAGtDDeSmUczra8NnWO_uVTswxs2Fpm2OMA8rmXSW_NcOkPeFxJo5kywhGymO_vK3jTfNFwQVWkhxwr3BLPFQ7thwOEwbTZ1tC_r/s1600/20110731_3011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" oda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB-wH_xtvXPB1fyWhXME4KErXOeINcL4mfRqZuishQlAGtDDeSmUczra8NnWO_uVTswxs2Fpm2OMA8rmXSW_NcOkPeFxJo5kywhGymO_vK3jTfNFwQVWkhxwr3BLPFQ7thwOEwbTZ1tC_r/s400/20110731_3011.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
My memories of growing up are always accompanied by the heat of a Sydney summer; stifling and submissive, covered with suburban blue sky tainted with a tincture of dust and an odour of freshly mowed grass and rubbish bins left in the street too long. My view of this world of cobbled streets and clattering carts was framed by a small, lace curtained, sash window above my bed. What entered through this rectangular aperture each day was a passing parade of life as I new it. Friends, family and neighbours came and went through the squeaky gate, my sisters played hopscotch and chattered with boys along the verge, Snowy barked at the postman, Bob the Bookie made his regular visits to Dot and Wally's place across the road, providing them with the latest odds for Rose Hill races. The camphor laurel tree shed it's leaves without ever becoming bare. The light through the rusty fly screen woke me in the morning and the street lights kept me awake at night. The sounds and sights of my childhood emanated from this orifice like a mysterious story told by The Oracle. Passing my days at that window was endless and effortless.<br />
What are you looking at? my Old Man would ask.<br />
Nothing really.<br />
Are you going out to play?<br />
No. I'll just sit here and ........ watch.<br />
My Old Man would leave me to my watching.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_zZM1p3L2F1f3Jypp_tcwUHy03_FjrWWSr5GyueJQtyYQorT6B-hn4QXJcrLpklTrHp2u5tJpzOXkggco9Kjjf7KfOl_-RaYEvCQyXG1zWCvDFgaaMDbHPDbMzmv_vHMtsfPzpwg8wl2S/s1600/_DSC4268.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" oda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_zZM1p3L2F1f3Jypp_tcwUHy03_FjrWWSr5GyueJQtyYQorT6B-hn4QXJcrLpklTrHp2u5tJpzOXkggco9Kjjf7KfOl_-RaYEvCQyXG1zWCvDFgaaMDbHPDbMzmv_vHMtsfPzpwg8wl2S/s640/_DSC4268.jpg" width="524" /></a></div><br />
I watched from my grandstand pretty much through my childhood and into my teens. Nothing changed, or so it seemed. Then an internal amendment was made to my homeland security. Mayhem reigned in our household. A baby arrived. I was fully aware, by the age of fifteen, how that happens and where they come from. Nevertheless, I was somewhat shocked and concerned that my parents still had it in them to do such a thing. After all, they were my parents. Even now I find the whole thing a bit distasteful. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg963sVQ_6KImKYGJUVnY84fPc23PCMY5rPi8jQeBi2fQzQi1xlTlEbYMKkB-yW_kWj-qI6A1ZH1HqFzO66MCGDUJNsF2Q_WjozWzPWqOrUSlOUBBc-ixfOhsIuXFNTyW1uM-5G9SUuQTQn/s1600/_D3S2182.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="381" oda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg963sVQ_6KImKYGJUVnY84fPc23PCMY5rPi8jQeBi2fQzQi1xlTlEbYMKkB-yW_kWj-qI6A1ZH1HqFzO66MCGDUJNsF2Q_WjozWzPWqOrUSlOUBBc-ixfOhsIuXFNTyW1uM-5G9SUuQTQn/s400/_D3S2182.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Understanding that space was at a premium at Number 17 New York Street, a complete reshuffle of personal space was inevitable. <br />
My old man placed his gnarled hand on my shoulder and looked me squarely in the eyes with that steel gray look that said volumes. His was the Rule of Law.<br />
The baby will need the spot by the window.<br />
I gave in reluctantly. After all, the Big Brother must do what he can to accommodate the cute and cuddly new sister. I think my life also depended on it.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxAIuAp2pELSbKhiYCJry9H3isqD9giFSRDy1scXpIGqPqm4EkoQtVCHzAFwnSlm5npIkN_-vX5RtLVK7NIGUFdKSuT3vpy11nP3gmMSlQV2LxhewL17gwRxXAWHinDQa_MVWQ3VoJU-un/s1600/_DSC4671.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" oda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxAIuAp2pELSbKhiYCJry9H3isqD9giFSRDy1scXpIGqPqm4EkoQtVCHzAFwnSlm5npIkN_-vX5RtLVK7NIGUFdKSuT3vpy11nP3gmMSlQV2LxhewL17gwRxXAWHinDQa_MVWQ3VoJU-un/s640/_DSC4671.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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Me, my bed and my meagre belongings were relegated to the back room while L'il Sister's bassinet was wheeled into place, fitting perfectly below the well worn sill. A cool breeze ruffled the curtains as if to greet her to my world. She would be happy here, I thought. I kind of liked the idea that I could share my vision with someone.<br />
Each day I would sit with her and explain to her what she might see if she could reach. As she grew and begun pulling herself to the window we would share our excitement as the new day passed us by. Her view seemed limited somewhat to only those things she could realise with her immediate attention. When the old man from Number 9 passed by, she had no concept of his existence beforehand or afterward. It was as though he only existed in the time it took to pass her view. When it rained the drops came from nowhere. When Dad came home at the end of his day he would call to her and she would look puzzlingly before bubbling with excitement at his magical appearance.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirTGGVEqc_rlDiD2609PINB_8-O5bZe_bCszYd_pMF51XpvndkKlH5NZbxjhFCVLujuPXLZ-4F9eeh1AoNuujtldlfWmmAU22EL_Us4YA4xh3gNNKMnyWxX-6ETRPgMpqSObCnh9J5zDVE/s1600/_D305543.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="276" oda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirTGGVEqc_rlDiD2609PINB_8-O5bZe_bCszYd_pMF51XpvndkKlH5NZbxjhFCVLujuPXLZ-4F9eeh1AoNuujtldlfWmmAU22EL_Us4YA4xh3gNNKMnyWxX-6ETRPgMpqSObCnh9J5zDVE/s400/_D305543.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>I would share with her my experiences as a child as well. My first sight of a car. The flowering of the frangipani. The day they tarred the road. Oh, how I remember the smell and the noise. She giggled at my expression. The night of the fire. I let her feel the fear and comforted her as if she had been there. I was back there again and she was with me, with the frame of our window shielding us.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik7qMZkX__uiSxzIafr1FM0AHtUuIEHhJlGVVvUll0HO44CMl3mBpLgqE2Gd4Svz67F-64hBjakx3_H2t557SvQaBWI5DMvmGAaM0_Xs2TtBZtD-eiqB3cKJ0LK1qXkq6ic25rh7RmkoRS/s1600/_DSC4681.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" oda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik7qMZkX__uiSxzIafr1FM0AHtUuIEHhJlGVVvUll0HO44CMl3mBpLgqE2Gd4Svz67F-64hBjakx3_H2t557SvQaBWI5DMvmGAaM0_Xs2TtBZtD-eiqB3cKJ0LK1qXkq6ic25rh7RmkoRS/s640/_DSC4681.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>Eventually she began to tell her own stories in her own bumbling way. I would stare out the window with her as she described the days events and be there in among the passing crowd. I began to see what she saw. She delighted in the understanding of object permanence. The window was now our common perception and we revelled in it.<br />
What are you two looking at? my Old Man would ask.<br />
Nothing much.<br />
Are you teaching her to see?<br />
I guess I am.<br />
After a long silence (my Old Man was filled with long silences) he would peer over my shoulder and stare through our window; the three of us like crows on a fence. How strange that must have seemed to passers-by.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7CUhpAY4aZu6hGkr_gF8B8YqB4lQMPLA2fP3ESNynRgChgSlLjylAEKwFBGadecHJxP0XG-5O5oKxYUQk6YASpEZwUkeIL063khFK3zPmwiJkov1ZQuzFWD7mSslrs1AZNl5c1JiRANwN/s1600/_DSC4654.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" oda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7CUhpAY4aZu6hGkr_gF8B8YqB4lQMPLA2fP3ESNynRgChgSlLjylAEKwFBGadecHJxP0XG-5O5oKxYUQk6YASpEZwUkeIL063khFK3zPmwiJkov1ZQuzFWD7mSslrs1AZNl5c1JiRANwN/s400/_DSC4654.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
How's the photography going?<br />
OK <br />
My Old Man always had the ability to add to a conversation, a question that left a void for me to fill. It was like reading a book with the last chapter missing and I would have to write it myself. <br />
Many years later, when my father was no longer around to ask me pointed questions, I came across a photographer by the name of Jane Bown. She said she photographed so that others could see what she saw. I think she must have known my Old Man. At least she must have looked through the same window. <br />
I still share that view through my window with my L'il Sister. I hope she sees what I see.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrU-7sC0ee8YfchdhLbc3v3tS9OyJngQkkiHL8pHcoycwbQfaZ27w5PHoQWh2lXpcX8zoaBCG3REXwNrHLC6cF25b56v3VBwoZJekD9-Az_FbOrhHCJ2TnyTWD8J8gRogwQ2qitPj5TOUz/s1600/_DSC4639.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" oda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrU-7sC0ee8YfchdhLbc3v3tS9OyJngQkkiHL8pHcoycwbQfaZ27w5PHoQWh2lXpcX8zoaBCG3REXwNrHLC6cF25b56v3VBwoZJekD9-Az_FbOrhHCJ2TnyTWD8J8gRogwQ2qitPj5TOUz/s640/_DSC4639.jpg" width="424" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8831982870416887759.post-78168037894113192502011-10-12T16:28:00.000+09:302011-10-12T16:28:34.883+09:30life as a tree<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cEOTmXdxrKk/TpUm9QEykzI/AAAAAAAACIk/Ov-W3Uc2-Uk/s1600/20111011_4082.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" kca="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cEOTmXdxrKk/TpUm9QEykzI/AAAAAAAACIk/Ov-W3Uc2-Uk/s640/20111011_4082.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">The difference between you and me is minimal. Yes, you, the bloke with the camera. Just for a moment, take your face away from that thing and pay attention. I don't know how long this bout of consciousness is going to last.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">As I was saying, if you think about it, we have a great deal in common, you and I. To start with, we're about the same height, although I can't really tell how much there is overhead. You seem to keep yourself in good nick as I do and I reckon we'd be about the same age. What's you're IQ by the way? I'd say there wouldn't be much in it by the look on your face. You can put the camera back up there now. I've seen enough.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">You look surprised that I would suggest such a thing. Let's consider the facts.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">We both spend most of our life trying to reproduce, right. Spreading the seed around, so to speak. Monogamy isn't really my thing. There's a few of my hermaphroditic floral decorators over there. They just hang around all day waiting for a bug to pass by. Not much fun really, but you take the good with the bad, being a tree. The good thing is there's no pretence. We all look pretty much the same and we don't have to fluff ourselves up like a bunch of orchids to get any attention. The action is a bit lean down here on the inter-tidal flat so you take what comes your way.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Pf4X2Y38uiE/TpUnZO4UlfI/AAAAAAAACI0/ukPAFCKqBuk/s1600/20111011_4107.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" kca="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Pf4X2Y38uiE/TpUnZO4UlfI/AAAAAAAACI0/ukPAFCKqBuk/s640/20111011_4107.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"> When I'm not chasing a bit of foliage, I spend most of the time just standing around looking useless, just like you. I know. You call it 'retired'. Whatever. However you look at it, you still don't get a whole lot done in a day, do you? I know you can move about. I saw you coming from here. Very impressive. Saw you fall on that rock as well. Very graceful. And where does all that mobility get you? Out here in the hot Sun where I have been all day. You had the choice and you still came out here. Very intelligent.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">There's a whole lot of other things we seem to indulge in. as well. It may not look the same but the outcome is consistent with staying alive. Food, for example. You eat, I 'eat'. Trouble is with you, you'll eat just about anything. I've seen some of your wrappings float by on the tide. Not very enticing I must say. Me. I cook for myself - always. Wouldn't put any trust in some teenager to brew me up a batch of carbohydrates. I've heard about their 10 second rule. </div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1conpphUqZE/TpUnfA2ZnPI/AAAAAAAACJE/VrkU1sxjRaU/s1600/20111011_4112.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="478" kca="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1conpphUqZE/TpUnfA2ZnPI/AAAAAAAACJE/VrkU1sxjRaU/s640/20111011_4112.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Water and a few spices come in handy for the protein build-up. Straight out of the ground. And the air I breathe. Ahhh! Fresh as. Just smell it. You won't get that coming out of any air conditioner.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">You're looking a bit hot out there. Come a bit closer and stand in the shade. I'm not here for your calling but I'm happy to share. In fact, I'm not quite sure why I'm here really. Ever since this self-awareness came over me I've had this strange urge to let others know about me. You know; tell them about myself, tap other trees on the branch and say: 'Hey. Look at me. See how good I am. Has anyone got a mirror?' I feel quite self-indulgent. I think I'm developing an ego, whatever that is. I keep looking at my own shadow to see if its the same as everyone else's. Is it too big? Has my trunk got a bit rough? Am I loosing my leaves?</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tb_IRK6AzRA/TpUncIQj19I/AAAAAAAACI8/2gsirdm6F0w/s1600/20111011_4111.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" kca="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tb_IRK6AzRA/TpUncIQj19I/AAAAAAAACI8/2gsirdm6F0w/s640/20111011_4111.jpg" width="408" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">That cluster of gossipers over there have got this thing going between them. I can hear them rustling from here. They're probably talking about me right now. They have formed a Grove who have this strange theory that they have some greater purpose and there's a meaning to all this standing in the Sun and lapping up the salt water. They even mentioned a Big Tree that controls everything and planted us here in the first place. Can you believe that? You put a couple of thinkers together and they immediately get carried away with their own self importance. As if my being here is serving any purpose at all, especially to the likes of you. Why, you come out here, take your pictures and piss off; no thanks, no payment, no gratitude. Then you go back and tell everyone what beautiful photo's you have taken of this great tree you found. Found! I've been here all the time just doing what trees do. Just remember who's keeping the Sun off your balding skull right now.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">I think this consciousness stuff is highly over-rated anyway. Its giving me a headache and I don't even have a head.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">I'll tell you what. I'll go back to being a tree and just 'doing' what trees do and I'll leave the philosophy tripe to you and your mates, who, I have noticed, have left you out here in the Sun talking to a tree. They're probably laughing themselves senseless right now.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Oh, and if you ever come to your senses and give up all this high and mighty, self-importance nonsense, arguing among yourselves and stuffing it up for the rest of us, come and see me. I'll save you a spot where you can paddle your feet.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">One last word. That stuff about Purpose. Forget it. I have it on good authority - and it goes back a way- that we're just in it for the ride. You know, hurtling through space at the rate of knots without a care in the world, occasionally bumping into something along the way just to stir things up a bit. You know, like a mangrove on a mud flat</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8831982870416887759.post-37349287372432399972011-10-08T17:16:00.000+09:302011-10-08T17:19:14.313+09:30The meeting place.Take any point on the planet and at any time of the day or night, something will be going on.<br />
Chances are, if there are people around, they will meet and greet, exchange something in their individual lives and move on.<br />
It may be a tentative and casual connection brought about by coincidence more than construct. An occasional glance, a stance that reflects a common interest, possibly in each other. Questions are raised and not spoken. A secret guessing game. The separation remains amiable but not <span style="background-color: black;">aloof. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;">Maybe she'll be here tomorrow. I'll speak to her then. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;">Why doesn't he say something. I'll come back tomorrow. Maybe he'll be here.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;">They shift their bodies without eye contact. They're not ready yet.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rnIXOk94Dfg/To7S_SoUi5I/AAAAAAAACHk/ECSP8LQL0No/s1600/_D3S3083.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" kca="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rnIXOk94Dfg/To7S_SoUi5I/AAAAAAAACHk/ECSP8LQL0No/s320/_D3S3083.jpg" width="214" /></a></div><br />
The space between men signifies the strength of their relationship. Little is casual but must appear so. Even the best of friends keep their personal space sacrosanct. There is a power struggle that remains restrained. Knowledge shared and compared. A boast and brag that stays until the next time. Same place, next week. A nod and no looking back. Move to the next place. Never speak of the last.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SYtjUrZDNO4/To7TNqjJMKI/AAAAAAAACHo/H13hs-Wai00/s1600/_D3S3161.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="248" kca="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SYtjUrZDNO4/To7TNqjJMKI/AAAAAAAACHo/H13hs-Wai00/s320/_D3S3161.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
In another time and place the same psychology applies. They know it all, about life and politics and the weather and the trouble with their wives and kids and bosses. Nothing escapes their scrutiny. Nothing is solved unless by brute force. It will be forgotten by lunch, some spirit and the heat of the Sun. Until next time when all will be rediscovered as new; with the same definitive solutions. The landmarks are institutional but hear nothing.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-h4FuzI1hc4c/To7TfGlyFQI/AAAAAAAACHs/Yc-0E1iBUPs/s1600/_DSC3950.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" kca="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-h4FuzI1hc4c/To7TfGlyFQI/AAAAAAAACHs/Yc-0E1iBUPs/s320/_DSC3950.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><br />
In a quieter moment others will accept their lot knowing that 'the good old days' are long gone. They will find shelter under a cloud of reminiscence. The past seems brighter under a winter Sun. Its all been for the better. Common friends and aquantances are mentioned in passing, to add a body of truth to the tale. A date defines a common point. The hours pass and they grow a little younger, a little stronger; ready to face tomorrow.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fgJLfVWAPsg/To7T0LiYEBI/AAAAAAAACHw/wopj9NTJn-4/s1600/_DSC4261.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" kca="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fgJLfVWAPsg/To7T0LiYEBI/AAAAAAAACHw/wopj9NTJn-4/s320/_DSC4261.jpg" width="199" /></a></div>In some meetings we search for explanation of common ground.<br />
We have met before. We have someone we can discuss and share. The conversation can only last as long as the view is familiar. It might become awkward and stuttered with irrelevance.<br />
It was nice seeing you again.<br />
What was her name?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UFZ5jw2Kx5Q/To7UcN4KIyI/AAAAAAAACH0/Qjx_2kSb2hs/s1600/20110805_3685.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" kca="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UFZ5jw2Kx5Q/To7UcN4KIyI/AAAAAAAACH0/Qjx_2kSb2hs/s320/20110805_3685.jpg" width="287" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">At what point does a meeting become tactical? Even with the best of friends there is some jossling for a place to begin. The hello's and reflections on the weather, family and work need to pass before either can settle into the raison d'être. Conversation is constructed cautiously as delicate subjects are broached. It is important to include but not to offend. There is a point at which something will be revealed that the other did not know. Some comforting and advice will be forthcoming. The friendship will deepen or divide. The outcome is unspecified.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-f0D1EELzh8g/To7Vv5aEagI/AAAAAAAACII/LND4lyee6cQ/s1600/20110808_4035.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" kca="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-f0D1EELzh8g/To7Vv5aEagI/AAAAAAAACII/LND4lyee6cQ/s320/20110808_4035.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> <br />
How easy it seems for some to gather in familiar places. Their chatter is chaotic and dialectic. The subject matter is theirs and theirs alone. No-one will ever understand as they move from childhood prattle to adult dialogue through adolescent banter. They cannot be heard or overheard. Their secrets are safe from the crowd that parts as they pass. They will linger for hours, moving from group to group in a well configured pattern and fixed with protocol and heirarchy. Meeting is as important an event as eating and sex.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-95N8uZmmP-M/To7U9BLUwFI/AAAAAAAACH4/Tu5HwDNXhyA/s1600/20110728_0894.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="162" kca="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-95N8uZmmP-M/To7U9BLUwFI/AAAAAAAACH4/Tu5HwDNXhyA/s320/20110728_0894.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
How convenient is it to meet again, as we did yesterday. Should I ask her for coffee? She faces him now, waiting for the question. Coffee would be nice. This is close enough. Tomorrow I'll bump into her, without knowing. How many meetings like this are appropriate? You work in the office across the road, yes? That's enough for today. The lights have changed. Their lives have changed.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dgoiRrfCF_c/To7VLNgAJ2I/AAAAAAAACH8/w5BjZa_hqOY/s1600/20110804_3443.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" kca="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dgoiRrfCF_c/To7VLNgAJ2I/AAAAAAAACH8/w5BjZa_hqOY/s320/20110804_3443.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> <br />
They wander through the streets. These people. From meeting to meeting. Intersecting lives, sharing fragments of information about themselves and others, about the world, their homes, their families, their aspirations, inspirations and sometimes just a moment of their time. They take each meeting with them to the next. <br />
Did you see such and such today?<br />
I ran into so and so yesterday.<br />
Tomorrow I'm meeting with her for lunch.<br />
I haven't seen him for ages. What's going on?<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2l7iFU2rM5M/To7VYHiDzEI/AAAAAAAACIA/I98L4ge0CzQ/s1600/20110804_3534.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" kca="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2l7iFU2rM5M/To7VYHiDzEI/AAAAAAAACIA/I98L4ge0CzQ/s320/20110804_3534.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>There's a comfort in meeting. Being in the same place at the same time has a universal expression of sharing. We may never meet again but I will take this with me into the future. In that you will live as long as I do. The place will be a monument to our existance. This bench is ours. The meeting place belongs to us, and to the next who spend their short moments here.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EDZ5_BGIJSk/To7VfHY7BkI/AAAAAAAACIE/WFkLpVIJfvA/s1600/20110805_3546.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="222" kca="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EDZ5_BGIJSk/To7VfHY7BkI/AAAAAAAACIE/WFkLpVIJfvA/s320/20110805_3546.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8831982870416887759.post-90629349093931808182011-10-08T15:11:00.000+09:302015-01-31T12:19:54.203+09:30Learning to See (Part 1)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgCLl1eSKxXek9dTshU7F70kNy_kfgeMqhHUMANMpsoWcV72KiA1bISse_9f3QCbOsfjSnLE7FoM0hmo0zcH-rAP4jDwUdQ_d_9SRty50Eebf3tNR0ItggAb_Ts7i8-6m0fJU2fqW_8UHQ/s1600/20110728_0846.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgCLl1eSKxXek9dTshU7F70kNy_kfgeMqhHUMANMpsoWcV72KiA1bISse_9f3QCbOsfjSnLE7FoM0hmo0zcH-rAP4jDwUdQ_d_9SRty50Eebf3tNR0ItggAb_Ts7i8-6m0fJU2fqW_8UHQ/s320/20110728_0846.jpg" height="320" kca="true" width="217" /></a></div>
<br />
On any Sunday I would find myself at my father's side, standing before a masterpiece in some gallery. There was a ritual to follow. Silence at first. I watched him from knee height, absorbed in his fascination for the image in the frame. A Constable, Manet or Titian, it mattered not. The stance was the same. Hands by his side, head tilted slightly upwards, a barely distinguishable smile that I had learnt to recognise and only a son could see. A tall. proud man, well dressed, creased and cuffed trousers, shiny brown shoes, a soft open necked shirt, hair well groomed and glimmering in the dimmed light of the gallery.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1lOthdNIlwcHC8CycUMELwVZGZUmlTbbNbyearF9AewX2RS5qahIP07DarcSknaan6lCiyusls2CGiL4vTP3mANEjefuSUOgKo3tnQaynnj4XpifxMAP25xqMb9RlkubTRApSBaYuVb6J/s1600/20110807_3931.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1lOthdNIlwcHC8CycUMELwVZGZUmlTbbNbyearF9AewX2RS5qahIP07DarcSknaan6lCiyusls2CGiL4vTP3mANEjefuSUOgKo3tnQaynnj4XpifxMAP25xqMb9RlkubTRApSBaYuVb6J/s320/20110807_3931.jpg" height="217" kca="true" width="320" /></a></div>
After the silence came the questions.<br />
What do you see?<br />
I would explain. Trees, people, a woman and a child, a man lighting a fire, leaves on the ground.<br />
Tell me what they are doing.<br />
Resting. Preparing lunch.<br />
Then a bit more silence.<br />
Now I want you to be the artist.<br />
I can't paint.<br />
You can see. See what time of day it is. See how close the woman is and how far away the man is. See the space between the trees, the colour of the leaves on the ground, the clothes they wear, the look on the faces. Here. Hold up your hand. Point to the child. Paint the eyes. I did as he suggested. Carefully I outlined the eye, then the other. I could see the sparkle. It blinked at me. There was always so much more to see.<br />
Now smell the smoke from the fire. It's gum smoke and it bites at the back of your throat and makes your eyes water. Smell the dust from the ground and the mould from the leaves. Smell the richness of the air with the odours of the Bush.<br />
Can you feel the leaves under your feet? The heat of the morning falling to the ground. No breeze. The weight of the child on the mother's lap. It's you. Now feel the weight of life on the father's shoulders. I never understood that bit for a long time.<br />
What's for breakfast? Can you taste it? Some milk, perhaps, for the baby. Porridge on the fire, honey from a hive. Tea. <br />
WeetBix and cold milk.<br />
He laughed quietly and nudged me affectionately.<br />
Yes. WeetBix.<br />
Now listen. Carefully. A whip bird calling. Something moves in the trees. The clatter of sticks as the man builds the fire, crackling into life. Can you hear their heart beat. I could hear mine.<br />
Silence. I could hear my father breathing. Other patrons pass by but don't stop. A woman stares at us as if we are lost. We are, in a wilderness of wonder.<br />
Its like a window, Dad.<br />
Its the artists window. He wants you to see what he sees. Every time you look through his window you will see something new, a little more of the artist and what his world looks like to him. That's a very special thing he does for you.<br />
I wish I could paint.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_ksbyYKP69c/To_gducOsDI/AAAAAAAACIY/26CSYM2-AKk/s1600/_DSC2660.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_ksbyYKP69c/To_gducOsDI/AAAAAAAACIY/26CSYM2-AKk/s320/_DSC2660.jpg" height="218" kca="true" width="320" /></a></div>
Use your camera instead. Show people your world through your window. I can hear him say it now.<br />
Will they see what I see?<br />
You'll have to show them how.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0kfPwOER4zuM91k-tsPMcHahIqaRtS6G3fBs4U4uBmN5w2BaRWzAYXBVrnaiGP82Vd4tFR7ybLxy6de9iHghVQ4Ge458I8tMiuix6nLqy3F_8r6I7DWn2O25Zqras3wT_1ZUwAnniEDEX/s1600/20110728_0802.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0kfPwOER4zuM91k-tsPMcHahIqaRtS6G3fBs4U4uBmN5w2BaRWzAYXBVrnaiGP82Vd4tFR7ybLxy6de9iHghVQ4Ge458I8tMiuix6nLqy3F_8r6I7DWn2O25Zqras3wT_1ZUwAnniEDEX/s320/20110728_0802.jpg" height="180" kca="true" width="320" /></a></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8831982870416887759.post-29016536340358405382011-10-04T20:08:00.000+09:302011-10-04T20:10:05.764+09:30Waiting<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The light is relentless and omnipitant. There is no Sun to set, not hues to warm or cool, no East or West to face and witness a new dawn or a lost day. The sky is white and close, the ground is quiet and subdued. The constant hum of recycled air dulls the senses and muffles communication. Not that there is much of that. People stroll zombie-like, avoiding eye contact, checking their credentials and comparing their destination to that of the overhead time keeper. Sydney: 13.24 boarding gate 34 drones the messanger. Please do not leave your luggage unattended, she warns monotonously, like a teacher reminding her students. No-one heeds or attends. He waits.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Was it his family he has visited? Has he been here before? There's not Duty Free in sight. He's dressed for a casual visit, comfortable for a long distance hall and a short stop-over in Bankok or Dubai. A father perhaps, seeing his children for the first time in a while, separated by distance and distain. His hope is now in the hands of a greater Being: Qantas perhaps, or Quatar. Their steely wings and softly spoken hostesses will usher him home with a blanket and synthetic nutrition, neither of which can feed or feather his anticipation. A storm brews and the floor beneath his tired feet rumbles deeply. There will be a delay. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">He waits.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZPjWl2S5dd4/Toq3GgmYbYI/AAAAAAAACGw/N39CwPb8LQw/s1600/_DSC4752.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" kca="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZPjWl2S5dd4/Toq3GgmYbYI/AAAAAAAACGw/N39CwPb8LQw/s640/_DSC4752.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Somewhere else there is sign of a new day. The journey is almost at an end. Yet another is about to begin. Nothing stands in their way. Love, expressed in a different way, in a different world, will keep them together. A journey's leg has ended while another boards. There is no anticipation in their actions, only a willingness to share, to comfort, to know and be known to each other. Brisbane flight 203 departing gate 5 at 6.33am has been delayed and will now board at 7.15am. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">They wait.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hMiPzTf5H8g/Toq3YNicWdI/AAAAAAAACG0/qa8knZI4M6U/s1600/_D3S0691.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="372" kca="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hMiPzTf5H8g/Toq3YNicWdI/AAAAAAAACG0/qa8knZI4M6U/s640/_D3S0691.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>Waiting is an eternal event. It is filled with anticipation, expectancy and hope. It also overflows with dread. We can see the past. We remember it. We photograph it. We write it in our diary. We record it in our history. As for the future, we have no knowledge. Our expectations are empty wishes. Our dreams are clouds, blown by the wind in a distant sky. Our future is somewhere else. A destination waiting for our arrival, permanently delayed by what we do now. <br />
We wait.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8831982870416887759.post-5038901996196421682011-10-02T16:54:00.000+09:302011-10-02T16:54:01.931+09:30The act of doing.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Zb5I7rTxGX0/TogRXQRfGFI/AAAAAAAACGk/Ol7LXBI6Hig/s1600/20110729_1277.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Zb5I7rTxGX0/TogRXQRfGFI/AAAAAAAACGk/Ol7LXBI6Hig/s640/20110729_1277.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We often hear that our body is a temple for our mind. We think therefore we are. Our brain is nurtured by the muscles, bones and blood that encase it. But what of the act of doing?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We train our body to act for us. We teach it to walk and talk, to reach and balance, ride and swim, climb and fall, then rise again. We take pride in our appearance, even naked, so that it may do our beckoning. We test ourselves mentally by carrying out acts of endurance and strength with our body. We fight and resist gravity as if it is the enemy. We set ourselves against nature at every turn. Today we climb a mountain or swim an ocean, tomorrow we will find another way to act out our thoughts, to move in unison with our emotions, to perform some seemingly impossible task to accomplish....... what?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">This passion for performance is a religion for us all. Even the very act of praying to our gods has the pre-emptive of motionless thinking. We wave our arms when we talk, we flutter our eyes when we listen, we shake when we greet and we nod when we agree. The compulsion to move is irresistible. We see movement as life-giving and proof of life. We travel great distances in the hope that it will ‘clear the mind’ or build on it. Even when we are asleep we wrestle with our thoughts and dream of distant places for which we crave to attend while thrashing about in the sheets and pounding our pillow.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We cannot be still. Even when we think we are, the endless and monotonous pounding of our heart and the persistent peristalsis of our intestines keeps us in a nether world of oscillations and pendulous persuasion. There is no escape.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There is the very real possibility that we have it all wrong, this concept we call ‘life’. Maybe it’s not about us, the thinking, knowing, intelligent person we assume we are. Maybe it’s about the rest, the body in motion, the actions, and the act of doing. It seems quite plausible that all that stuff about evolution and human development isn’t about the cerebrum but the motion we put in place as a result of it. It’s all there to keep the cerebellum going. The body is the ‘god’ and the brain is the mere capsule of connections that keeps it going. We are because we move. We think so we can move. The act of ‘action’ is proof of life.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And how do I know this? Because I surf.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">At the end of any single day you will find me, in my current form or that of another, walking towards the point on any coastline where the break wraps itself around the reef and spreads gently along the shore. As the last light reflects from glassy water and the first phosphor appears at my feet I will worship my gods and thank them for my ability to move. As I push my way through the surge and take the third of the next set there will be nothing left but the coordinated action of muscle and bone, blood and guts and a mind as clear and complete as a well spend battery, satisfied that there is nothing more to what I think than getting me to the next wave.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wEKqx_ztdVE/TogRfPaRZfI/AAAAAAAACGo/Gwfyy0rE_5c/s1600/20110729_1287.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="570" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wEKqx_ztdVE/TogRfPaRZfI/AAAAAAAACGo/Gwfyy0rE_5c/s640/20110729_1287.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8831982870416887759.post-21465846060745453342011-10-01T12:12:00.000+09:302011-10-01T12:12:59.387+09:30A minute of your time, if you please.<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">As I browse through the photographs on my computer, looking for something profound and interesting that will attract the attention of the passer-by, my eyes are drawn to the exif date at the bottom right hand corner of the screen and the date and time at which the image was recorded.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">16.54</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">2011-03-15</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UftSaZKpBE4/ToZ9pPQL7AI/AAAAAAAACGc/UEQEF1y2tqk/s1600/_D3S3008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="438" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UftSaZKpBE4/ToZ9pPQL7AI/AAAAAAAACGc/UEQEF1y2tqk/s640/_D3S3008.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I return my focus to the image displayed on the screen. I don’t remember that exact moment but I do recall the context of the image; one of a humid evening and a crowded esplanade.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I press the right arrow key and the next image is displayed.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">16.55</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">2011-03-15</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fzbNplR0oJ8/ToZ92tAocEI/AAAAAAAACGg/FnzXGqCTaZ4/s1600/_D3S3011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="438" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fzbNplR0oJ8/ToZ92tAocEI/AAAAAAAACGg/FnzXGqCTaZ4/s640/_D3S3011.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">One minute has passed and the next moment is held captive on my screen. I flick back and forth between the two and watch the passage of time in quantum leaps, like Scotty beaming up the latest exploration party to the Star Ship Enterprise. How simple it is to see such progression without the ‘in between’. The 2 photographs allow me to repeat this sequence over and over, unchanged, fixed forever, and lingering in my memory and in my ‘reality’. The images are the points in time and they designate a beginning and an end.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But what of the ‘in between’? What has happened to the 60 seconds that existed after and before these photographs? Did this time take place? I have no recall of it. There are no photos to remind me of any events. It’s as though I have the front and back covers of an empty book. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But where are the pages that are missing? They were written. They did contain a lifetime of images, of reflections, of wanting and waiting and greeting and goodbye of death and birth, of accident and incident, of love and hate. Somewhere in that minute a war raged and a soldier felt nothing as the bullet tore out his heart, a boat sank, a marriage was consolidated and another fractured, three children died and a mother wept, while a father welcomed his son into his life again. A house burnt down and a city was built. A seed planted and a forest decimated. An aunt came to visit and she drank tea with her nieces and nephews. A farmer slaughtered a cow to feed his family and shared it with his neighbour. A priest prayed for his flock and a drunk kicked a dog. The tide ebbed just a little as the Moon weaved its way through the cosmos and three atoms were misaligned in a string of DNA forming in a deep and briny slime. The Universe quivered under the strain.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I missed it all. The only thing I have to show is two photographs separated by what could have been the most poignant and profound sixty seconds that have ever taken place since the Big Bang decided to bang. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And where was I? Standing there like a fool adjusting my settings and waiting for ‘the next shot’ to come to me. It was there all the time. I just didn’t see it.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">From now on I’m going to take more notice of what goes on between each shot. It’s far more interesting than any photograph I could take.</span></div><br />
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</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8831982870416887759.post-38092307082913996072011-09-30T14:57:00.000+09:302011-09-30T14:59:20.439+09:30Simplicity in photography<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NHI04pG91nQ/ToVQPqINNAI/AAAAAAAACF4/Cq6bU4yZOUo/s1600/_DSC4330_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="257" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NHI04pG91nQ/ToVQPqINNAI/AAAAAAAACF4/Cq6bU4yZOUo/s640/_DSC4330_1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">In a complex world of action and vision it’s often difficult to separate the trees from the forest.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">In the early days of photography there was a tendency for photographers to emulate the painters or to use the photograph to assist the artist with his composition. The photograph was a means of recording the complexity of the world with all its detail. It was ‘real’.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KLe--lpX9vQ/ToVQg2ZM--I/AAAAAAAACF8/ZFfGYc7ejts/s1600/_D3S2898.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KLe--lpX9vQ/ToVQg2ZM--I/AAAAAAAACF8/ZFfGYc7ejts/s640/_D3S2898.jpg" width="640" /></a></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">As photographers experimented with their new tool, they discovered that the photograph was also a way of simplifying the sometimes chaotic view before them. They could choose what would be ‘in the frame’ or not, eliminating the unnecessary and focussing on the important detail.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qRd0_wyQrWA/ToVQuJiWcqI/AAAAAAAACGA/ibxHRMUXQjc/s1600/_DSC1575.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qRd0_wyQrWA/ToVQuJiWcqI/AAAAAAAACGA/ibxHRMUXQjc/s640/_DSC1575.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The photographers were finding another language; the language of photography.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But often there were no words to describe what they had achieved, so they drew on existing words to define their pictorial vocabulary.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">‘Simplicity’ is one such term. It was used to give a sense of ‘oneness’ in which the image could stand on its own and tell the story, that the contents contained nothing more in detail than was required by the photographer to achieve his purpose.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-g1HYoq36yn0/ToVRKLh2J0I/AAAAAAAACGE/lmPRhMuJq1g/s1600/_D3S3117.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-g1HYoq36yn0/ToVRKLh2J0I/AAAAAAAACGE/lmPRhMuJq1g/s640/_D3S3117.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Those that shone in this particular milieu were the new breed of street photographers who could seemingly extract from the confusion of everyday life a simple and direct element at which we could view, seemingly from a distance, the ‘moment in time’. And in that moment we could reflect on the inter-actions without distraction, then project our own perspective into the image.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3ttXtHziiA0/ToVRecoFJGI/AAAAAAAACGI/ihpdwBKT_lI/s1600/_DSC3950.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3ttXtHziiA0/ToVRecoFJGI/AAAAAAAACGI/ihpdwBKT_lI/s640/_DSC3950.jpg" width="424" /></a></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Doisneau, Cartier-Bresson, Brassai, Kertesz, Bown, Atget, Lewis, Croner, Frank, Evans, Klein, the list is long. Often their story was one of humour, tension, power, loneliness, connectedness, dissociation, fear and community. Contradictions and connections in a complex society. The simple step of a well heals woman in the busy street, the innocent kiss of lovers under the shade of a tree, the derelict sleeping on the park bench, the face in the window, the trappings of everyday life.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CWtxjjtg6HI/ToVRsBEZphI/AAAAAAAACGM/uZNX3GCkN-g/s1600/_DSC4124.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CWtxjjtg6HI/ToVRsBEZphI/AAAAAAAACGM/uZNX3GCkN-g/s640/_DSC4124.jpg" width="640" /></a></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">As these photographers developed their ‘style’ and found new ways of expressing themselves they discovered something incredibly significant in the way they saw the world. Fleeting glances of the street became their ‘reality’, as if each moment was a part of a continuum. What they captured was the beginning and not the end of a journey. We could project ourselves into the future and see what optimism the photographer displayed in each moment. The story was simple. This is how we are now. The future will be someone else’s image. Better, brighter, clearer. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ISifojLe8wY/ToVSR5tnbWI/AAAAAAAACGQ/-Dw7WBkOnD8/s1600/20110805_3753.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="282" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ISifojLe8wY/ToVSR5tnbWI/AAAAAAAACGQ/-Dw7WBkOnD8/s640/20110805_3753.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">For the photographer, ‘simplicity’ isn’t a physical attribute; it’s a concept. It’s when all those elements that a photographer uses (frame, perspective, focus, time) come together and the viewer feels the connection immediately with the image because they understand the meaning. The vocabulary of the photograph is unambiguous and clear. You, as the viewer, may not find the words to describe what you see. You don’t need to. It’s the language of the photograph that provides that for you. There may never be words to describe it. That’s why photography is such a powerful communicator when done well. It substitutes for what we cannot say.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8ubRHpAwLqs/ToVSu_NJgPI/AAAAAAAACGU/Nwn7W9LgZ-0/s1600/20110808_3964.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="432" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8ubRHpAwLqs/ToVSu_NJgPI/AAAAAAAACGU/Nwn7W9LgZ-0/s640/20110808_3964.jpg" width="640" /></a></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Stand on any corner of any boulevard with a camera and the simplicity of life will reveal itself. At that moment the simple action of seeing and recording a fragment of the world through the lens of a camera is as unique and profound as it comes.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9vvmpGUNRqo/ToVTQWLnZHI/AAAAAAAACGY/a_iTS2V1-84/s1600/20110807_3838.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="432" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9vvmpGUNRqo/ToVTQWLnZHI/AAAAAAAACGY/a_iTS2V1-84/s640/20110807_3838.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s that simple!</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8831982870416887759.post-13436538336924260062011-09-11T21:37:00.000+09:302011-09-11T21:37:27.763+09:30IN THE BEGINNING ..........I have been slack. I admit it. And in my process to avoid doing anything remotely creative here I have sought every opportunity to to anything else. Now its time. Not for you, the reader, but for me. To put down in words and photo's what I do. It may be of interest to some. If it is, feel free to say so. I need all the encouragement you can throw at me. If its not of any interest, throw something else. It may stir me into activities I don't know I have.<br />
<br />
So, where does one start? With a broom, of course. Sweep the old stuff under the rug and find a way through the mess to a reasonable conclusion. Or not!<br />
We'll start with this.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7AwDKCxYYCU/TmyiGRvMljI/AAAAAAAACEU/Y4g511C6lek/s1600/20110804_3471.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7AwDKCxYYCU/TmyiGRvMljI/AAAAAAAACEU/Y4g511C6lek/s640/20110804_3471.jpg" width="424" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My camera is an instrument of record. It remembers what I see, more in the clarity of detail than my personal memory. The camera has become an extention of my skills that include writing (poorly and desperately), speaking (somewhat coherently), listening (less so as I grow older). The camera holds no special powers. Nor does it maintains a unique place in my life. Photography isn't something I depend on or need for my existence. Sometimes it helps me concentrate on a particular object or scene, to find the elements that go together and complete the story. Other times photography gives my thoughts a place to go, to solve a problem or to translate what I think into something literal. Photography also provides me with something to do when I'm idle. Some people do cross words or run or read a book or paint. I take pictures.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But the story is never 'complete'. There is always more - or less. The photograph can be deceptive in its completeness. Not only do we exclude and include at will, we put our own emphasis on what we see.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Photography is a cultural expression. The photographer can only record what he sees while he is alive. The photrographs then carry that culture to the next generation. Modern cultural history is enhansed by the ability for us all to record as a photograph, what is happening to each of us right now.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">At this moment I was here, as seen in the photograph. So was the man in the rug. We met for a moment. He has become part of my life. It could be that he and I start from this point. This is our beginning.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The magical thing here is that I only exist in his memory, which diminishes with time. He exists in my photographic memory, that is, as a fading memory jogged and jolted by the visualness of the photograph.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I don't know if me taking the man's photo changed his life in any way. I do know it has changed mine.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Who knows where it will take me?</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1