Living life on the wrong side of the lens

You don’t write because you want to say something, you write because you’ve got something to say.

F. Scott Fitgerald

A couple of weeks ago I had the immensely flattering pleasure of being contacted by a pretty phenomenal London photographer who wanted to arrange a shoot. As I am not a remotely passable model by any stretch of the imagination, you’ll appreciate this came as a bit of a shock. I was immensely flattered of course, and once upon a time not so long ago I would have bitten his hand off with my eagerness, but this time I took pause. Instead of an immediate “you-betcha-ass I wanna shoot,” I asked why?

Unsurprisingly I suppose, the reason was because he’d been a regular bloggie reader and he wanted to photograph and interview the blog author (he shoots for a magazine.) The desire to shoot me was based primarily on my writing rather than my appearance. Now don’t get me wrong, this is a very good thing. I’ve always put much more stock in “inner beauty” rather than the exterior packaging. I have no doubt that the shoot would have been fun, and I would have helped create some brilliant pictures too. And yet, I declined his kind offer immediately and without hesitation. At that moment I just knew it was time to go. I should point out that this was not for health reasons and not because I was flamed on Deviant Art last week either – sure that nincompoop was a dent to my ego, but let’s face it, my overly inflated ego really did need taking down a peg or two, so no real harm done.

I once heard the expression (on Iris’s blog, I think) “You don't model because you want to show something, you model because you have something to show." The problem is that the “something to show” for me isn’t physical, it’s mental. You don’t need to photograph me to know me. If you read this blog, then this is how you know me, the real me that I show through the words I write here. My body, nekkid or clothed, beautiful or ugly, is pretty darn irrelevant. It’s a shell, a husk, it’s not who I am. I’ve always believed that.

You’re reading the real me. This is the truth of who I am.

I’m a writer. It’s time I acted like one, rather than something I’m not. The greatest homage to truth is to use it.

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I'd rather be writing...

Where is Robin Hood when we need him?

What we need after all the turmoil and drama of last week is a nice, safe tax post. Yep, it's come to that. Rich reckons that readers will leave in droves (after last week, I guess that's not such a bad thing.) So here's one of my humungously boring articles that was originally published elsewhere. American readers might want to sit this one out. British readers too, probably.

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CGI Amy

“Withholding payment of taxes is one of the quickest methods of overthrowing a government.”

Mahatma Gandhi


One of the most unpopular U.K. taxes is the Council Tax. This tax isn’t anything to do with regular income tax. It is a tax on dwellings and must be paid by practically every household in the country. However, because each house is revalued every few years and placed within one of eight council tax bands, it is at the mercy of the general property market and housing boom. So if you spend on property improvements, such as an extension, then you pay more tax. If the value of your house rises significantly (as have most houses in the UK in the recent years of the property boom) then you pay more tax. This tax rises more than inflation every year, and most folks struggle to pay it. I can guarantee that the vast majority of British people resent this significant chunk of their income disappearing each month, largely because although the tax bills keep going up, the quality of council services declines in about equal proportion.

At both the local and governmental level we now have a political system where low, middle and even upper middle income level citizens receive far less in services than they pay in. Unless you count your quality service in terms of CCTV cameras of course; there sure are plenty of those. But besides funding Big Brother (as I’m sure every dutiful citizen recognizes is absolutely necessary for the safety of our fair nation) how can it possibly be fair that we get less back than we pay? I don’t know about you folks reading this, but in our own household, we are seriously strapped for cash. How can it be right that my council tax has risen nearly six percent last year and yet my rubbish collections will shortly be decreased to fortnightly? Why is it that the road outside my house now has so many potholes that when I drive down our lane I have to swerve desperately to avoid them, thus (wrongly) indicating to our local B.B. CCTV camera that I’ve been boozing rather than merely preserving my shock absorbers? (When phoning our council for the umpteenth time this week, I was informed that the potholes would stay because they had no money for road repairs.)

Why do we pay this tax? The obvious answer is “because they make us.”

The issue here is not “should we pay taxes?” but where is our money going, how is it being spent, and how are the spending decisions are made? Alas, the answers are that most of the money is going to either central government or the local bureaucrats, and precious little is given to those that need it. Robin Hood might have lived 700 years ago, but even now, it’s still the same old story.

But what would happen if we just stopped paying?

The precursor to the Council Tax was the Community Charge or Poll Tax. In 1990 what started as a peaceful protest against this unpopular and unfair tax resulted in the worst riots seen in London for a century. Forty-five police officers were among the 113 people injured. The fallout was so bad that the Government took action, and “modified” the tax. The fact that it mostly changed the name rather than the substance is a subject of much bitterness amongst the British population. The tax is now equally as unjust as it ever was.

Alas most folks are now too despondent to start a revolution. We are tired, worn out, we have simply become used to living this way. Can this ever change? Well, slowly and surely a few brave souls are simply refusing to pay. In increasing numbers, people are starting to say “no.” Of course the end result is jail, but they are making an important political and moral statement. These brave “tax resistors” are attempting to shame our Government into rethinking their position. As most of these courageous resisters are penniless old people, the Government is then forced into paying attention. It doesn’t look good for Gordon’s image when little old ladies are locked up in prison for their principles. No, not good at all.

It’s time we joined the little old ladies. It’s important to re-examine why we work and how we want our money spent. It’s right that we should have a say in how our Sheriff of Nottingham spends his billions and it’s up to us to complain and protest enough so that we make sure the gold goes to the people who need it. Sure there are risks in not paying your tax, and no-one should undertake such resistance lightly, but there’s also risks involved in passively co-operating with a Government who is fleecing us, who is spending on the bureaucrats rather than its own people.

What changes unjust laws? Publicity, and the power of the media and the people.

Robin Hood fought for change to the unfair taxes which the Sheriff of Nottingham demanded from the common people. He was the ultimate tax resister. He saw the corruption within his government and when diplomacy didn’t work, his conscience forced him to take the law into his own hands.

What we need nowadays is our very own version of a modern day Robin Hood.

Any offers?

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The Real Amy

Casper, the friendly dog

Like many young kids, when my oldest son was two he was terrified of dogs. He used to run away if one ever went near him, and if a dog barked at him, he cried for hours. There was only way to cure him of his phobia: we had to get a puppy.

So we ended up with an eleven week old bouncy golden Labrador who my son decided to call Casper, after the friendly ghost. From then on, boy and dog were inseparable. We went through months of boisterous slobbering and gruelling puppy training, and then just when we thought we were really getting somewhere, we hit The Chewy Stage.

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Oh boy, was that fun. Nothing was immune to this dog’s teeth. Someone really should have told me never to buy a Labrador when you’re moving into a new house, as our dear young puppy systematically and thoroughly munched his way through the shiny brand-new kitchen of my dreams. Every single cupboard was ruined, all the lino on the floor was eaten and he even had a go at chewing the aluminium hob. We tried everything…rewards, scolding, pleading, ranting…even chilli sauce, which we heard was a completely foolproof method of stopping a puppy from munching everything in sight. But alas…it appeared we had the first Lab in the history of the world who had a thing for extra-hot chilli. Despite being liberally painted over my kitchen cabinets, this appeared to further stimulate his voracious appetite, and he munched even more wood, not less. The bright red sauce stained the pristine white cabinets too...major bummer.

Then one morning we woke up to a loud splintering sound. He had literally chewed his way through the kitchen door. I was in despair and totally at the end of my tether. I didn’t care how much my son loved his dog. That wretched animal had completely destroyed a £20,000 designer kitchen. It had to go.

Fast forward 11 years and that beautiful young puppy is sleeping peacefully at my feet this evening. He is old, blind, deaf and he has end-stage cancer. Despite their best efforts to save him, the vets have said there is nothing more they can do. The cancer has spread to his brain and he can no longer breathe. Tomorrow we have to do what is right for him and say goodbye. It is time.

No-one could have asked for a more faithful and loyal companion all these years. Words cannot express how much we will miss him.

Kitchens are replaceable, but a dog’s love is forever.

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Photography: An Aggressive Sport

A few months ago Rich shot a model (not the one featured below) who seemed unusually apprehensive. He did everything he could to put her at ease, and when she finally relaxed and started to talk it turned out that she was indeed nervous about shooting, not because she was inexperienced or didn’t want to pose nude, but because she was completely fed up with photographers pushing her to reveal her personality in a shoot. Past photographers weren’t just interested in what she wanted to show them, they were interested in what she didn’t. They wanted to capture “the real her.” She felt that this was outside the scope of the shoot, off limits, PRIVATE. Experiences with past photographers had resulted in such psychological pressure to expose herself that she was disillusioned with them and could no longer relax in front of the camera.

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As a model I will admit to being able to identify with this. Whereas most photographers assume that their subjects will value the photographic skill and insight into their personality, this is not always the case. Sontag once observed that photographing a person can be seen as an act of violation. “By seeing them as they never see themselves, by having knowledge of them that they can never have, it turns people into objects that can be symbolically possessed.” And what if that photographic subject didn’t want to be photographed in that way? Consider a paparazzi photographer who spends his life trying to get the picture of the latest celeb. His livelihood depends on him catching a “killer shot” of the celeb in question. The more exposed and off-guard the shot of the subject, the more money he gets. He is actively stalking his prey in the same way that hunters hunt wild animals with their gun.

Think I’m exaggerating? Think that photography is forever a peaceful profession? Think again. You only have to look at the language used in photography to realise that photography is primarily the domain of men, and is consequently aggressive in nature. We talk about “loading” and “aiming” a camera, “shooting” a film (are we talking about cameras or guns here? See the parallel?) We “take” a photograph, “capture” a moment. Again, all hunting terms, all with the emphasis on taking rather than giving.

It has been suggested that photographing a subject unawares is akin to a fundamental violation, in the most violent sense possible. If you photograph someone in a certain way without their permission and when they are emotionally exposing their psyche, then you are capturing a moment where they are at their most vulnerable. This is not a gentle act. Although the photographer may only be seeking an exceptional shot of a person, unless that model has explicitly told you that she is happy for you to find that in her, then it is by default an act of unintentional aggression.

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To some photographers, such intrusions are acceptable providing they yield a strong image. Perhaps you photograph a model when she is undressing for a shoot (something which many models really hate, incidentally) or perhaps you photograph her in an outtake when she is feeling sad or pulling a goofy face. It might be an outstanding shot, but do you have the right to use that image? No, don’t quote model releases to me here. I’m not talking about legal issues, I’m talking about ethics. At what point does capturing such an unexpected moment, an unguarded expression, a moment where you discover “the real her” become an overstepping of the boundaries? When does it become a violation of privacy?

In every shoot there is an unspoken contract between photographer and subject. Whether or not you violate that contract in the name of pursuing truth or insight is a subjective judgement and depends on the personal integrity of the individual photographer. If you do not consider it your responsibility to preserve the model’s psychological privacy, if you are only concerned with the final image regardless as to whether or not the subject is emotionally comfortable with you penetrating her psyche in that way, then at what point does the selfish pursuit of a strong shot become offensive? At what point is it a violation of the power that she entrusted to you?

Ask yourself if your work is primarily about you, the photographer, and your relentless hunt for “the one shot” that defines a person? If your photography becomes no more than satisfying your quest for “truth” (whatever that is), or no more than proving to yourself what an outstandingly insightful photographer you are, then I put it to you that you are arguably no better that that paparazzi photographing the celeb, or the hunter with the gun stalking his prey.

My own conclusion is that the ethical photographer will maintain a friendliness, openness and flexibility with the subject. He will not stalk or pursue her, nor will he abuse his power. Rather, he will openly discuss what he is looking for at the start of the shoot, and obtain her approval and consent. He will always respect her boundaries, both physical and psychological. Such a friendly relationship goes a long way towards offsetting the aggressive nature of photography.

Unfortunately this giving rather than taking isn’t always as easy as it sounds. Sometimes your intentions might be entirely honourable and you think that your subject is perfectly happy with the way you work, but you may nevertheless violate invisible psychological boundaries because your subject is too trusting, too naïve, too polite or even because she simply misunderstands what you are looking for. So you might believe that you’re not being aggressive, you might think that your model is perfectly happy with the way you shoot and values your unique skill and insight into “the real her,” but are you absolutely sure?

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Images are of Ivory Flame

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It’s Remembrance Sunday, a day to pause and reflect on those who fought for our freedom. Although this is not a photographic post, I hope you’ll indulge me a little whilst I too remember those nearest and dearest to me.

My side of the family is a military family. Most of my cousins are in the British Army or Royal Air Force, as were their fathers and fathers’ fathers before them. Every generation of our family has lost someone who died fighting for their country, and I have heard many brave stories of relatives I have never met who were heroes of their time.

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My father in a officially commissioned portrait during WWII

My parents too fought in WWII. My mother was a spotter for the gunners who shot down German aircraft. She described her years in the WRAF (Women's Royal Air Force) as the best years of her life. The camaraderie, the fighting spirit, and the belief in survival against all odds…these were the making of her. Of course she said she had a wild time too…at one point she apparently dated six young men at once, although ultimately she only had eyes for my father who was a handsome young RAF officer. He wasn’t a pilot, he was a communications officer, and he travelled on many a bombing mission because of his expertise in Morse Code. In later years he would often try to teach Morse to me. Silly teenager that I was, I wasn’t that interested (boys and school taking up most of my time) but in retrospect, I wish I had learned the language.

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Dad, in Africa, indulging in a drink or two

Towards the end of the Second World War, my father was stationed in Africa. His plane was bombed and he was in the water for two days, clinging to a piece of wood to stay afloat. He was eventually picked up by another ship which was subsequently also bombed, and again he was in the water for another day and night before he was rescued. When he returned to England he was found to be suffering from diabetes. The doctors concluded that it was the shock of staying in the water for so long that caused his body to stop processing insulin. Yes he had survived an incredible ordeal, but the price was high, and it was to be paid in daily instalments for the rest of his life.

Shortly after his rescue, the War ended. In the post-war celebrations, everyone was ecstatic to be alive. There were celebrations, incredible street parties and a spirit of renewed hope the likes of which have not been repeated since. The War had not only re-written much of the World map, it had irrevocably changed the lives of every man, woman and child who experienced it. Realising that life was simply too short, my parents decided to get married and then proceeded to live happily ever after.

Not just today, but every day, I remember my parents with love and admiration. I look at their photographs and I remember the lessons they taught me, I remember their determination and their courage, and I remember to never, ever give up. No matter how bad life seems, there is always hope.

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My Dad on the left, Mum in the centre, her brother on the right

The above title is “hope” in Morse code.

Pillage and Plunder

As we all know, I’m married to a Viking. My very own hunky barbarian is a very typical Norseman warrior. He’s big, hairy (?) and loves to drink and fight (the latter refers to activities purely confined to the dojo of course) and most folks wisely tend to avoid arguing with him. He’s also a mite too fond of the laydeez, especially after a few sups of real ale… he’s hardwired that way. Oh yes, the wild Viking genes are particularly prominent in our dear Mr Fluffy.

But the latest historical research on Viking history by Cambridge University tells me that I’m being overly harsh with regard to my dear partner. The Vikings have been misrepresented, so they say. In fact all this rape, pillage and plundering was a tad overdone….a simple case of misunderstanding as a result of a smear campaign against our dear Norwegian brothers. The Vikings were actually a peaceful people, concerned largely with trade and colonization. Apparently they were not only stylish trend-setters who were highly fashion orientated (flared breeches and horned helmets being their contributions to the Viking Vogue magazines of the time) but they were also gifted artists. Illustration and creativity were very high on their agenda, and they produced some stunning art in their time.

In fact, the Cambridge researchers assure me that far from being illiterate warring thugs who were obsessed with fighting and dragging off pretty women, in actual fact Vikings were part of a highly advanced society who were deeply concerned with integrating into community life. Apparently even their womanizing ways were just a result of bad publicity, and in truth they were dedicated family men who rarely strayed away from their wives and never so much as looked at another woman.

Yeah right.

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Our resident barbarian and his adoring HoneyB

And in case you’re wondering, yes I’m afraid that I did indeed shoot this. Truly I am a numpty of biblical proportions, not to mention a terrible photographer.

Critical reviews of this astounding piece of high art from beloved friends and family range from “Mine eyes! Mine eyes!” to “That’s just nasty.”

It’s at this point when a woman must face the unvarnished truth and realize that photography is not her defining gift in life, and she should really just stick to writing about it instead.

Swathed in Blue

“Change has come to America.”

Barack Obama, President-Elect of the United States

I imagine ya’ll be too busy partying right now to read this, but I just wanted to congratulate all those of you who have been fighting so passionately for change. You did it! You have (literally) re-written the map.

If you want to see a fascinating blow-by-blow account of history being made, Stephen’s blog from last night makes for gripping reading.

Congrats to all, and to Obama too. The poor bloke has certainly inherited a mess. As Time magazine observed so accurately: “America is drowning in debt. Getting square again will be painful.”

Change is long overdue. As to whether Obama can rescue America from its watery depths, only time will tell.

In the meantime, here in the U.K. we have a little while to go yet before our own “new dawn.” Personally, I can’t wait for the day when we too re-write our own map. Blue ink, of course :-)

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Ivory flame, dancing for joy

Why Artists Should Rule The World

So we’re nearly at the finish line. The policies have been analysed to death, so much so that in these final End Of Days the only thing left that will sway the floating voter is sheer force of personality.

Now don't ask me to predict who will win on Tuesday. Originally I figured Hillary Clinton for president, but that was based purely on logical economic policies, and clearly I overestimated the American population (either that or I am the harbinger of doom) as the poor woman was kicked out shortly afterwards.

Now it seems clear that most floating sheep, sorry I mean undecided US voters, will vote on personality alone. Obama has operated a very slick marketing campaign, so I’m guessing that he will emerge the winner, especially since there are an alarmingly large number of blogs out there who are hailing him as The Next Messiah, the man who will save the world because he is "a man of resplendid vision with the wisdom of Solomon." Some impressively zealous religious admirers are even able to quote relevant parts of the bible as proof that Obama is indeed the second coming of Christ. As we often like to say here in the U.K…only in America…

So if you’re throwing common sense out of the window, who would you vote for?

Well, my dear late mother, had she still been alive and living in America, would have been a dead cert for McCain. Why? Because his favourite musician is Roy Orbison, so of course he is therefore by definition PERFECT because my mother worshipped dear Roy as devotedly as if it was he who would save the world from certain destruction.

As for me, I’d probably vote Obama (despite the fact that he has a few vaguely alarming hints towards totalitarian policies) simply because a) he’d make an excellent male art nude model and b) any man who lists his favourite musician as Miles Davis can’t be all bad and at least shows some degree of taste. But more than this, Obama also lists his main source of personal inspiration as none other than Pablo Picasso. I’m guessing this is not because of Picasso’s infamous womanizing, but rather because of his enlightened philosophies, not to mention his art.

If Obama has artistic leanings, then maybe all is not lost. Picasso represented a dynamic, radical new vision of the world, and let’s face it, we could all do with a new creative vision around about now. Let’s just hope he doesn’t follow our dear Pablo’s famous mantra of “every act of creation is first an act of destruction” hmm?

So if he does emerge victorious this week, it will be interesting to see what Barack does with his shiny new toy called America. Let’s hope he uses his creative vision to create a new and better world.

“I see little of more importance to the future of our country and of civilization than full recognition of the place of the artist. If art is to nourish the roots of our culture, society must set the artist free to follow his vision wherever it takes him.”

John F. Kennedy

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Iveta