The Halo

In which our intrepid model spends waaay too much time in bed with a certain Mr Brooks Jensen

I had a sneaking suspicion that it was all going to go horribly wrong from the moment I stepped off the Tube at my new (supposedly) state-of-the-art London hospital. I expected a beacon of shining light. I expected it to positively glow with hope, promise and millions of taxpayers hard-earned pounds. I expected the road to said- hospital to be paved with gold. What I did not expect was armed police (yes this might be normal in the US, but this is the UK, remember?), BIG signs saying “Caution, muggings operate in this area. Do not carry bags. Do not go out unescorted after dark. Park your car at your own peril. If in doubt, run for your life” and so forth. At that point I was VERY glad I had strongly insisted Rich had stayed at home to look after the kids. (With hindsight this was probably not one of the wisest decisions I ever made.)

The hospital is situated in an area of London known as Tower Hamlets. Once upon a time this used to be a quaint ol’ cockney area, not dissimilar to the London you see in Charles Dickens movies. Today it looks like an overpopulated version of an American Gangsta movie. I’m not kidding. Now I normally live somewhere so rural that the highlight of the day is a tractor going past, so you will appreciate that being deposited in the middle of one of the roughest parts of London was a bit of a culture shock, not only for me, but also for the scores of would-be muggers who took one look at my Italian designer wool-and-cashmere-blend coat, and moved in for the kill.

I fled, in a rather undignified manner, to the hospital, whereupon I was instructed in no uncertain terms that I should NEVER go out on my own. Apparently I could go out to get food (hospital food not supplied the night before treatment), but only with a security escort. Of course, me being me, I took absolutely no notice at all, and sneaked out to mingle with the evening crowd (in which I blended in perfectly, one designer-clad white woman amongst 20,000 Muslims, no I did not stick out at all) and I managed to take some perfectly awful photos with my little instant-camera (why don’t the magnificent images I saw in my viewfinder look the same as those that came back from the developers? Why? Why? So don’t blame me for the photos accompanying this post. I’m blaming the equipment.)



Anyhoo, talented as I am in the ways of sniffing out the highest quality restaurant in the area, I was grateful to the above salubrious establishment for my quality evening meal of some very strange and unidentifiable vegetables. In the interests of worldly research, I was rather tempted by the advertisements on the wall to remain for the evening Pole-dancing Show, but instead fled back to my bed and curled up with Brooks Jensen for the night, figuratively speaking of course.

And there I spent the next two days. With Brooks. Just him ‘n’ me. Despite all the horror and crap going on around me, I lost myself in his photographic and artistic world. I listened to his arguments, thought him sometimes a genius, sometimes flawed, always honest. I smiled, I laughed, I learned a heck of a lot. Photography as therapy. Instant calm. I carried that book everywhere, and read it continually.



Brooks was there the next morning when they bolted a metal frame (a.k.a “The Halo”) to my skull. He was there when I was transported to a second hospital (nicer than the first, methinks) and waited for four hours with the weight of the metal pressing into my skull, whilst they mapped my brain. Brooks was there when I couldn’t eat, drink, blow my nose or wipe the tears from my eyes for nine very long hours. He was there when the docs came and told me that they couldn’t get all of the tumour after all, only most of it, and I would probably need to go through additional radiation in a year’s time to get the rest of it. He was there when they came and told me the machine had broken and they couldn’t treat me. And I even returned to those (by now) very tear-stained and soggy pages when I finally came out from that dratted machine in the evening, after they had finally hot-wired a temporary solution so they could nuke me.

The sheer fact that I held it together for that length of time, was largely down to the persuasive writing skills of Mr Jensen, and if he were here now, I would hurl myself upon him and give him the biggest hug imaginable. I don’t always “get” his photos, but by God, that guy can write. I owe that man my sanity.



It’s now a week later.

I am recovering, very slowly. The radiation sickness is going. I no longer resemble the Elephant Man, and I am eating again. And hello weight loss! Hurrah! I can report that my colossal ass has now reduced to the scrawny butt it used to be! Not the best dieting-programme I would recommend, but very effective.

And as for photography? It saved me. No exaggeration.

I’m reading my second Brooks Jensen book at the moment.
So much, MUCH more about photography to come.

Now, let’s get back to business of talking about art, shall we?