“…fool’s errand.”

Source: “…fool’s errand.”

There is so much in this piece which resonates with me. I hadn’t reached the -to me at least – lofty heights of the author before deciding it was not entirely for me.
I don’t really publish anywhere except in social media so my decisions aren’t going to make any significant ripples in the pool. It’s just self-editing. So be it.

I too am sick of the whole Street photo walk, Gear talk scene and I shudder when I hear people describe themselves as “togs”. And I cringe when people show their images with a whole list of technical data as if knowing that would make me like the image more or less. I even eschew captioning.Surely if you have to do that you have lost? Apart from occasionally having a place name and date my pictures travel naked.

I think it was Groucho Marx who said he “wouldn’t want to join a club which would accept him as a member”. So it has become with me. And if that means I die an unknown ( as is more than likely)… It’s been worth it. I traveled, met people and made the images. That’s enough. I didn’t and don’t do it to make friends. If that were the case I’d join a photographic club. Another shudder.

So that’s at least 2 who have quit. And in my case; I’m not expecting anyone to care.


Mugged by old age.


Self portrait in my 70th year

In the new year I was wandering amiably through life when I turned a corner.  And, around that corner, I was mugged. Mugged  by old age.

I didn’t see it coming though I should have. I began to feel it’s impending presence. But, I chose to ignore it. And yes, I had seen my father, even grandfather, in the mirror from time to time. That should have given me a clue but you know how it is.

So it was that I stepped into my 70th year and the full impact of old age  hit me. Nearly 70! Where the hell did that come from?

It hit me  like a runaway mobility scooter. And, as it passed, running over my legs,  it threw me a walking stick to help out until the full  geriatric chariot is needed.

Recently I was asked for a picture for an upcoming, retrospective, exhibition of my photography. So, this morning, I decided to let the old age have its way. Here’s the result.

I missed the shot!

Every photographer must say this at some time in their working life. If not to others, then inwardly, to themselves.

It happened to me recently. I had a visually boring and flat morning in Lincoln when I walked out of a coffee house straight into a wonderful picture. It was transient. It passed, dissolving as fast as it had occurred. I inwardly cursed by bad luck, or more accurately my lack of preparedness.
And then I remember a conversation I had with  a classically trained photographer back in the early 70’s. I had been bemoaning my bad luck missing a particular shot when the photographer I’m talking about, Tony Kubiak, a Yorkshireman of Polish descent, said

“it doesn’t matter. You saw it. It’ll stay with you without your having captured it. You saw it and others with less vision would have walked by oblivious”

Photographed only with my mind’s eye; I suppose this time I failed.

Must fail better next time. And the next time and so on, until…

Better still; follow the Boy Scout motto of “Be prepared”.

It’s architecture Jim; but not as we know it.

Recently I was discussing architectural photography with fellow F50Collective member John Meehan. In so doing I realised calling our images of the built environment “architectural photography” is wrong. Yes, the images are created in or around manmade structures but they are not necessarily pictures “of” the structures per se.



Museum, Marina Bay, Singapore.

Yes, sometimes the structure itself is such that an image of it draws my interest, like the picture here of a museum in Singapore for example. With its strong, sculptural shapes on the skyline. But, more often it’s some detail in the building, or the way the light hits certain elements, that takes the building to another, elevated more abstract level. This is what I and others are searching for.





Whether it’s the extraordinary detail seen up close like in the image below of a building in Liverpool by Tony Harrat. Or the beguiling shape of a building’s interior as in the shot bottom of the page by John Meehan, what man constructs is fascinating as a whole or in detail and seen by some, including me, as a sculptural art form.
Tony and John’s images are posted here are from the f50 Collective site.



Liverpool architecture by Tony Harrat



Museum, Liverpool by John Meehan

A story of strife, and yet…

Whilst in India last year I took this picture of a lady, a doll maker, up in Dharamsala in the foothills of the Himalayas.

The picture has haunted me ever since. It’s a portrait of an elderly lady taken whilst she was at work. I was considering using it as the image on the poster for an upcoming exhibition. Subsequently, I chose another, less personal, image.

In conversation with Mona,the owner of the doll workshop, Dolls4Tibet, I discovered a little about the lady. Subsequently my friend, film-maker and photographer, Abhishek Madhukar, interviewed Brahmo Didi, that is the lady’s name. Here is her life in her own words.
These words are moving and inspiring. In the developed world we really don’t understand the hardships endured by those in the developing world. And we should.

“I am not sure of my exact year of birth but I think I should be around 66 or 67 years old.
I was born around here near Dharamsala and lost my mother as a child, I was raised by my stepmother.
Later I was married at the age of 15. I lost my husband at the age of 24, to some unknown sickness due to stomach pain. 
I moved back to Dharamsala from my in-laws place after the death of my husband as I faced a lot of problems and was not wanted there. I sold off whatever little farmland I had and I bought a small piece of land and built a mud hut in Gamru village (close to the dollmakers studio). I was 24 so I could work on the farm but after my husband’s death it became difficult to farm, tend to cattle and take care of the girls – I had my three daughters to look after alone.
I now have two cemented rooms added to the mud  house which I rent to Tibetan refugees for a monthly rent of 2,000 Rs a month each (20 Pounds). Over that I make money from working at Dolls for Tibet and knitting clothes for dolls which provides me enough money to survive and live a peaceful life. 
Earlier I used to work part time at other people’s houses as a cleaner and a maid,  but now I am unable to do heavy work so I quit that.
My life so far has been all right (her eyes tear up when she begins speaking about her life’s experience). I earned some on my own and God gave me the rest. I managed to educate my three daughters, the eldest one I could only educate till 5th grade, the middle one till 12th grade and the youngest till her graduation. I got all of them married they all live in other towns and cities and we meet sometimes.

I tell them and all others to…

Do well, don’t lie, work with honesty and courage. Don’t bad mouth others.

There are always tough and trying times and we must overcome them. No one can be there for you at all times, when there is trouble then only you yourself have to live through it.  And we must have faith in god.
When things are good family, friends and everyone’s around. When things go wrong no one wishes to be around.  I have seen this in my own life. 
By keeping myself busy knitting for Dolls for Tibet and earning money I pass my time, I feel better doing this rather than sitting at home and doing nothing. Sometimes I think that I find life difficult now, whereas earlier I had no time to think. I woke up before sunrise, I tended to cattle, I cooked for my children, sent them to school, worked on the farm. Milked the cows, sold the milk to earn money, take the cows out to graze, cut firewood before dark to cook the meals on, Take care of my daughters. 

Now I am alone and my mind wanders, as I don’t have much to do, so I think a lot.”

I am told “Grandma Didi” is always cheerful. She sings and dances to keep the others working there entertained and happy.

All the troubles of the world and sitting in a coffee shop.

Coffee shops have long been the place where issues are sorted. London had many coffee shops in the 1700 / 1800’s,  many of which were where shares were traded, deals were done and politicians held court.

Today, happenings in coffee shops are not quite as deep. Just coffee, a chat with friends, maybe a glance at the local or national papers, or perhaps just  plugging into the wifi to communicate with the world.

Thus it was I found myself in a coffee house in Lincoln recently, head stuck in my iPad. I happened to glance up to see a tiny young girl, perhaps  15 or so , and an older chap, maybe her brother of about 18 /20. They were sitting in front of me.

Let me explain the layout of this place. It has a large semi circular bay around which people sit looking into a couple of tables in the centre of the room.

I occupied one such table around the edge of the bay looking into the middle, as I’ve said. The couple sat there. She with hunched shoulders, elbows close to her body, pulling one hand through the other repeatedly. Occasionally she would take one hand and rub her thin leg slowly by pushing the hand down from thigh to knee with her thumb on one side of her leg and the fingers on the other. All the while weeping gently.

The tears came from eyes that were not contorted, running down her cheek to be mopped up with the tissue she had in her hand, scrunched, ragged and wet.

She was a picture of misery. Absolute misery. Her partner talked to her constantly; occasionally reaching over to her to rub her shoulder and upper arm in a conciliatory manner. All to no avail.

I was not the only one aware of the private drama being played out so publicly in front of us. Two elderly ladies cast glances from the window seats. Their brows knitted with concern; muttering to each other and looking. The Barista flicked glances at the couple as he exaggeratedly dried some cups with a tea town near by. He too was concerned.

I felt I wanted to say something. I resisted. It would have been interfering.

I sat there for perhaps 30 minutes. I could stand it no longer. I left.

It was like watching a puppy drown.  Unable to do anything but watch.