Another week off blogging

More parentheses abuse. (Poor little brackets.)

Yet another week when I didn’t write anything profound or useful. Oh don’t get me wrong, I’ve been writing aplenty. It’s been half term here, and my sons have been at home. The oldest is revising for his entrance exams to senior school, and my other son has been given an exceedingly long and torturous English project on the topic of his choice, which I am apparently required to assist with.

My younger son chose the topic of Mario for his project, comprising the history of Mario, the origins of Mario, life’s profound meaning of Mario, the symbolism in Mario, the inside leg measurement of Mario and so forth. I don't play computer games at all, but I sure know a lot about Mario now. (I really despise the little critter - he ruined my week.)

When I’ve not been engaged in teaching English to a rebellious, stressed-out nine year old or doing tax (zzzz...) I’ve been (in no particular order) : baking birthday cakes for the boys whose birthdays are within 4 days of each other (I only conceive at one time of year, but let’s not go there), wrapping presents, cleaning up decapitated furless mice skulls (my cats have been on a mammoth hunting bender this week), lamenting my loss of hair (it’s falling out bigtime - at this rate I will be doing an Orixx shortly, only I’m twenty years older and thus I won’t look remotely as pretty) and generally trying to stay upright (vertigo rules - not alcohol induced unfortunately.)

Am staying away from the camera, due to very strong resemblance to aforesaid decapitated furless mouse skull (I fear I may crack the lens) and the only thing Rich can photograph that won’t make you (or him) throw up, is my ass.

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So here it is, my ass, I mean. That’s my peony too. Pretty flower, huh? I had to literally glue it to my ass to make it stick. All in the name of Art, of course. Double sided sticky tape really chafes when you rip it off, let me tell you that. Still, it saves money on a Brazilian wax I guess. Yes this photograph is HIGH ART. No I don’t care if you think it is cheap, trite, tacky porn. I really, truly DO NOT care. My ass is my Art. Live with it. (Did I mention that I’ve also metamorphasized into a raving loon this week?)

Anyhoo, if you haven’t left the blog in complete disgust yet, I promise I’ll be back to writing more interesting and profound stuff next week.

(BTW, I have a crush on Paul Strand, notwithstanding the fact that he has shuttled off the mortal coil. Cool photography…way cool. He'd hate my peony, I just know it.)

The Gig Photographer

The stage is set. The rock band are waiting in the wings. The lights come up and the band come on. Now its the job of the photographer to catch the ambience of the scene, the mood of the crowd, and the excitement of the moment.

And so I did my first gig shoot. It was not quite as described above!

The location was a small village hall. Stage lighting was either almost black or lit like a stadium in mid play. The band didn't have any lighting of their own and so opted for the almost black look. The base player opted for it even more with black hair, dark grey shirt, blue jeans and standing in the shadows.

So I set my camera to 1600ISO, lens at f2.8, shutter at 1/60 and prayed that it would work.

Two hours and 209 shots later I was done. The next day I loaded the images into Bridge and took a look. Not too bad at all. A bit dark though. So I opened them up in Camera Raw and increased the exposure and contrast a bit and the results are pretty good I think. It made me very glad to be shooting with a 5D as even at 1600ISO the noise was very low (apart from the Bass players shots that had to be pushed to the limit).

So here is a selection of the shots, any comments on what to do better next time would be greatly appreciated.

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The Venue with stage lights ON

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Lead Guitar

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Vocal

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Drums

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Bass - Pulled from the dark

A Winogrand Whine

This mess is so big
And so deep and so tall,
We can not pick it up.
There is no way at all!

You know that feeling of when you have fifty rolls of film to develop, and yet you can’t seem to find the time? Doesn’t that film just sit there in the corner, pointedly waiting to be developed, day after day, just weighing down on you? That niggling, unsatisfied feeling that you ought to make time and just get on with it, is constantly in the back of your mind. You don’t feel free, and you resent the day-job for getting in the way of valuable hours you could be spending developing and scanning your photographs. And yet, when you do get the time, you’re just too damned exhausted to get on with the process of creation.

So your unfinished art just sits there, in the corner, nagging at you. And it grows. The pile just keeps getting bigger and bigger, until finally it becomes so huge that suddenly you’re Garry Winogrand, who was so behind in finishing his work, that when he died he left 2,400 rolls of undeveloped film, plus another 6,500 rolls of developed film which had not been proofed. He left personal and photographic chaos as his legacy. Whatever he was looking for in his work, he never found it because he never finished anything. That sweet, elated feeling of release you get when a photographic project is completed and printed, always eluded poor Garry because he never followed anything through.

I exaggerate of course, but you take my meaning. And writers have the same problem as Garry, believe me.

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Just as photographers constantly see pictures everywhere, I see stories in everything around me. All the time. On the plus side, I’m never short of inspiration. On the negative side, I’m drowning in words. Literally. My house is filling up with hundreds of magazine clippings, articles printed out from the web, groovy quotations that might come in handy one day and arty musings that have caught my fancy. They usually end up clogging up my in-tray or clipped into vast reams of bright pink Playboy files (no idea why I chose pink. Maybe pink = fluffy? Who knows. I hate pink, although I will admit that Playboy has its arty moments.) Anyway, I fully intend to write a separate article about each and every one of these inspirational topics one day. Each thought, each note stored, is the idea for an article or story. And some of it might actually result in some decent work, if I ever get off my pudgy ass and just write the damn stuff. I want to do it, I really do, so much it hurts. If I don’t write, I’m bloody foul to live with. It’s a compulsion, a passion and an obsession.

If only……if only I was better organised, better disciplined, had more time, more willpower, if only that pile of half-created writing wasn’t so damn big. The problem is there’s so much of it. Where do I start? If I wrote for seven hours a day, every day, then I might just clear the pile after…oh, say a year or so…

Writing is like sex. When you finish a cracking article, it’s like a rush, then a release and you can finally bask in the warm and satisfied afterglow. (No I’m not a sex-obsessed nutter, well not today anyway. I’m betting some of you feel the same way after a successful shoot and you’ve nailed the shot.)

So, if writing is like sex, and knowing that I love good sex, I really do…the question I have to ask myself is why don’t I do it more often?

Anyhoo, why are you reading this? You should be developing…go on, get thee hence! There’s only one way that you’re gonna get to that warm 'n' fuzzy satiated-afterglow-vibe, and that’s if you actually reach for your artistic climax.

I’ll see you in the dark room.

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Images are from last week's shoot with Alexis Summers, who is stylishly modelling my favourite new italian designer belt. I don't look remotely like this when I wear it, oddly enough (although I'm sure Rich rather wishes I did!)

Art, Attire And Austerity

An economic fashion post. No nudes either. Yikes! Grim stuff.

In case you’ve been wondering what on earth has happened to the blog this past week, I’ve been celebrating a week of economic and artistic doom and gloom. Yes indeedy, recession fever is hitting the UK pretty bad at the moment. Economic statistics are miserable, our Prime Minister is miserable, the unwashed masses are broke and miserable, and most importantly, fellow photographers and artists are universally and extremely broke and miserable.

This nationwide aura of gloom will undoubtedly be reflected in all areas of society and art. Despite the fact that photographers and artists tend to go for the Te audire no possum, musa sapientum fixa est in aure approach (I can't hear you. I have a banana in my ear,) nevertheless it’s inevitable that wider economic worries affect artists’ moods. The tendency at the moment is towards dark art (hurrah! My favourite!) and I suspect this sombre trend will be reflected in most areas of art, including writing, painting, photography and even in the world of high fashion and couture. So you might well be feeling colourful and summery now, but having had a peek at the winter fashion collections in Vogue, I can honestly say that doom rules. Severe cocktail dresses, tailored suits, sharp conservative attire, all in varying shades of black (with a teensy bit of white ruffles.) It’s like the catwalks have been taken over by the cast of Ally McBeal. Everyone looks like lawyers or accountants.

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Rowena acting all prim and proper for the Winter Collections

Art reflects not just current styles, but also how we feel and what is going on in society. Leatrice Eiseman of the Pantone Color Institute has noticed that when folks become more concerned about the state of the world, they become more conservative in their tastes. She thinks that wearing sharp and stylish black clothing makes people feel more in control, more empowered. This makes sense. As a colour, wearing black shows you are taking life (and your planet) seriously. Black is sober, practical and makes the wearer feel more intellectual. It shows society that you are sensitive to the problems in the world and that you dress accordingly.

The old adage is that if you want to know the imminent economic fate of the world, then look at fashion. Like other artists, fashion designers are the ultimate psychics. It has always been thus. Coco Chanel designed the iconic little black dress just before the 1929 economic crash, the drab punk look evolved just before the 1970’s oil crisis, and the Goth movement (ah, fond memories!) developed just before the 1980’s UK recession and property market crash.

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Genuine bona fide Goth model from the Scott Church workshop. No idea who she is, but we call her Elvira

When times get tough, people want clothes which are austere. They want dark colours and classically cut clothes that are going to last several seasons because they won’t have much dosh to throw at their wardrobe. I could be wrong, but I also think this could be a moral reaction to the last ten years of spend, spend, spend. The winter fashion this year may well precede a full-blown consumer backlash due to the proles’ growing revulsion against excess, waste, consumerism and cheap 'n' tacky Chinese imports.

Fashion design, an art-form in itself, is getting sombre on us all. It is a psychological mirror for the masses. Expect both your art and your wardrobe to be very dark indeed this Christmas.

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Hip fashion goddess, misery guts, and doom merchant to the nude blogging world

Looking on the bright side: For a boring old accountant like myself, after a lifetime of having the fashion sense and style of a hairy warthog, for the first and only time in my life this winter, I can at last realise my dreams and be a trendy fashion icon!

Hurrah! Bean counters rule the world!

On Why I Make A Terrible Model

My humblest apologies if I upset anyone with this post, but this has been eating at me for months now and it just had to come out. Think of it as me taking a large sink plunger to my seriously blocked pipes. Cleans out the crap so they flow properly again.

As an art model, when I pose for a shot, I am often required to act. I put on a mask, I put aside my own reality and slip into role. I am trying, to the best of my ability, to interpret the photographer’s instructions, to bring alive his creative vision at that particular moment in time. I think most art models would agree with me that it is this collaboration between artist and muse which produces a great picture.

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However, more often than not, when such acting is required, the emotions depicted in the story are not real, they are contrived. The model has to put her own personality aside to wear a mask, and temporarily trade her own reality for a role. It is not who she actually is in real life. It is a fantasy.

Now please don’t get me wrong, I think that this process can produce some absolutely fabulous images, and it can sure be immense fun to create, but this topic has been slowly fermenting in my mind for the last couple of months, and the trouble is that I just don’t enjoy it any more. The question for me personally, is why?

The short answer is that I’m almost certainly not very good at this modeling/acting combination (I’m not fishing for compliments, I’m just being honest here.) That’s not a result of lack of practice because anyone can become excellent at something if they love doing it and they try hard enough, even me. I wondered if it’s because I just can’t be bothered, but no, that’s not me either. I’m actually quite dedicated to trying my hardest for a shoot when required. But after much rumination, I’ve realised that this is my (hopefully temporary) reaction against producing fantasies. I just don’t like acting for a photograph. It’s that simple. I don’t like wearing a mask, no not even for the higher purpose of realising a photographer’s vision.

If I’m trading in my own reality in order to play a role, then to paraphrase Jim Morrison, I’m trading in my own senses for an act. I’m putting aside myself to be what someone else (the photographer) wants me to be. And although subjugating my own freedom for another person’s reality for a few hours is no big deal for most models (after all, what’s a few hours of your life to create art?), I personally just don’t like doing it any more. Why? Maybe it’s the latent feminist in me, or maybe I’m just a conceited and cantankerous old cow who doesn’t like being bossed around. But I think that the real reason is that because I’ve been exposed over the last few years to many different photographic styles, this process of study has actually produced some sort of personal psychological evolution about of how art should be created.

I’ve realised that I’m happy to be photographed as I am, for a photographer to capture my character, bring out my beauty or my flaws - either will do as long as the emotions reflected are real. I don’t even mind shooting erotica (it’s rather fun, as you can imagine!) just as long as the feelings generated in me are genuine. I just don’t want to pretend any more. I’m tired of putting on a mask, of doing as I’m told and faking emotion for the sake of supposed “art.” Yes it really matters to me if the photograph is produced from real emotion rather than faked. You, the viewer, might not know or care, but I helped create the image, and I really DO care.

The reason I choose to model for a particular photographer is because I believe that he can teach me something new about my psyche which I had not previously realised. I do this because I want to learn more. I’m not a posable Barbie doll. I’m a real woman with a mind of my own and if a photographer is only interested in what is in his own head, and just needs a slab of meat or someone to stroke his ego, then for me that is unacceptable and I’m not interested in shooting with him.

I guess I am making some sort of personal judgment here, because IMO some of the photographs which are quite obviously derived from contrived emotions are (to me) just fake drama. They might well be telling a story, and very successfully too, but such “art” has no more truth than the faked orgasm of a porn star.

And that, to me, is not what photography is about.

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Mushy images are of Syd and A.J. Real emotion guaranteed.

(It's also worth pointing out that Rich disagrees with most of this waffle. He reckons it's a phase and that I'll get over it soon!)

The Law of the Jungle

Can freedom ever exist in the world of creative art?

This is not as stupid a question as it sounds. As artists, photographers and writers, we try to produce art because we love it, because something inside us compels us to create a fragment of beauty or meaning that we can give to the world. However conceited it sounds, we want to make our mark, leave part of ourselves out there, create our own legacies. This process of creation is, IMO, a vital act of freedom. We are free to interpret anything and everything from our imagination. If a photographer or writer loses that psychological sense that he is free, then his ego is injured, his work is below standard, and his creativity dries up because he cannot dream. Effectively he has lost his power, not just his mojo.

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Freedom is synonymous with power. When you want to produce a piece of art, you crave the ability, the choice and the freedom to do it. Whether or not you actually have that freedom depends on if you exercise your power over others, or let others have power over you. There’s truth in the old adage that no-one can make you feel inferior without your consent.

I know a gifted glamour and nude photographer (let’s call him Luca) who prevents himself from producing the best work he can possibly do because he lets others tell them that he isn’t very good. Luca’s photographs are beautiful, but he won’t show his work and even though his friends try to bolster his self-esteem all the time, he still remains convinced that he is a crappy photographer and unworthy of recognition as an artist.

So as a result of listening to the opinion of other rival photographers (who have their own self-interests at heart), then those rivals have taken power over Luca’s self-esteem, resulting in loss of freedom. Luca’s mind is racked by insecurity and self-doubt and he has effectively built his own mental prison driven by his damaged ego. Trapped within his self-made cage, he has practically stopped producing new photographs because he thinks he is useless.

Luca needs to turn the tables on his opponents. He needs to take the power back and exploit the insecurities of his rivals. He should harden his heart, push back, exert his will over others instead of himself being coerced. In the glamour photography jungle, Luca’s potential success is produced not only by self-confidence, but also by toughness, by manipulating other people’s dreams and dictating to them what they should think of him. If Luca learns how to become good at power games, then it won't matter if his current rival is a better photographer than him (which he’s not), because Luca can still be more successful than his rival if he learns how to pimp himself, how to bullshit, how to schmooze and bend others to his will.

If this sounds incredibly cynical of me, then I do apologise. I’m simply calling it the way I see it after spending much too long (obviously) in this entertainment business. The glamour and nude photography world is not a pretty place. It’s a narcissistic cesspool of artistic egos and Luca needs to exploit that to his advantage. He needs to learn to play the Game, because at the moment he is losing. He has to harden his heart and learn to be the predator, not the prey.

The problem is that Luca is too nice. He is a gentleman, a professional, and he believes in mutual respect and freedom. For these reasons, he’s probably much less likely to ever be the outstandingly successful photographer he dreams of being. The Jungle does not care about Luca’s freedom or his dreams. It prefers to eat him.

The most important kind of freedom is to be what you really are. You make your own rules, you define your own reality, and you can be free but only if you give yourself permission to do so. You have to choose not to be enslaved by others. Take back your own power, believe in yourself, know that you can produce some really great art if you practice long and hard enough, trust your dreams and don’t let other people push you around.

Freedom and dreams are not a natural God-given right. You have to fight for them, every single minute of your life, or the Jungle will chew you up and spit you out.

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All images are of Pirate Maiden

Two Worlds

My new printer has arrived. I broke the last one, an Epson R2400, through overuse. It started to make grinding noises and the prints came out stripy. So I decided that I should upgrade to an Epson Pro 4880. It a big printer, state of the art, A2, weighs 55kg! It's about the size of an old-style photocopier. I can print to canvas and on just about any paper known to man.

I'm really eager to give it a run. I've profiled my paper and the test prints match the monitor display perfectly. I've printed some images and it is awesome. The quality of the prints at A2 is breathtaking.

Its funny, but for some reason, holding an actual print of an image makes it seem much more real than looking at it on a monitor. Lin disagrees, but then, I'm the photographer so I guess it means more to me to have the print.

But, I now have the frustrating problem of selecting which images to print.

I have loads of great images that you've seen here, and some you haven't seen yet, pretty much all of them nudes. However, I can't put them on the walls! We have a constant stream of kids round and it's not appropriate to have nudes (even tasteful and relatively modest ones) on the walls with other people's children around. Our kids would not be fazed, but the others would. Plus we have several friends, some of them devout Christians, who would certainly be horrified if there were naked people on the walls (this is rural middle-class England, remember.)

So I'm printing lots of pictures of my kids, pictures that you can't see because we don't show them here as a matter of policy. At least I have lots of good studio kiddie pics! But there is only one place that I can safely hang my nude prints and that's in our bedroom, so that's where they are going at the moment. Unfortunately it means that only Lin and I can see them.

Two Worlds that can't overlap.

What would you do?
Do any of you with kids display your nude art on the walls, and if so, how do you cope with the underage or more morally-upright visitors who would object?



Here a picture of me (shock and horror), next to my really big machine, and with the first 3 framed prints from the printer. Technically you're getting 3 nudes for the price of 1, except for the reflections and small size, and of course having me in it. It was taken with the self timer on the 350D as the battery wasn't charged on the 5D.

Post No. 300

Well the weekend issue was partially resolved. It seems that the Hogwarts father concerned didn’t tell his wife about our photographic leanings for some strange reason I can’t quite fathom (but I’m guessing we have gained another viewer – welcome dear bloggie reader!) Plus we appear to have been forgiven as my son has now been invited to a party there next weekend.

Rich is going to put our real names on the Fluffytek site, but will embed them in a graphic so Google can’t index them. Of course this doesn’t solve the problem completely, as we're certainly traceable if you try, but nevertheless it solves the problem temporarily, and all’s well that ends well.

End of drama for this month.

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Here's Lou-Lou.

Great heavens, I've just realised this is our 300th post.

Secret Pornographers

Well, it’s finally happened.

After saying we never would, after declaring we were immensely proud of our artistic work, we’ve now called it quits and removed our names from our web site.

From now on Rich will be known by his online nickname Mr Fluffy, and I’ll just be Lin. There goes my potential aspirations as an art writer/critic of nude photographic art, and bye bye Rich making a name for himself in serious figure study photography. Farewell to him ever being featured in the prestigious Photographer’s Gallery in London, or ever getting any sort of exhibition. All that goodwill and reputation built up over the last few years? It’s gone. Erased from our web site and online profiles, just like that.

To all you other models and photographers who use pseudonyms out there, rather than your real names: you were right, we were wrong. Clearly we were just being hopelessly naïve.

Now we’ve sacrificed our artistic pride and our honesty and we’ve gone to ground. Reality bites. Nude photography, no matter how artistic we try to make it, will be our dirty little secret. Sod creative art, from now on we’ll just be dirty photographic pornographers, guy (and girl) with camera, hiding our true nature by day and shooting thrill-seeking-dirty-piccies by night.

The reason?

The latest trend amongst the Hogwarts mummies and daddies, before they let their beloved little darlings come around to play with our sons, is to Google the name of the parents. We are being checked out to make sure we are “suitable” before other kids are being allowed to be friends with ours. Apparently we are very "unsuitable."

Shit.

How do you choose between your kids and your artistic identity?

If we sound bitter, it’s because we are.

Neurogenesis

This is a mind-expanding post. Literally.

I’ve been feeling a bit blue recently, I admit. However I’m not one to pop happy-pills at the first sign of trouble, largely because in every single person I’ve known who has taken them, even after a couple of weeks, they still don’t seem to do any good.

Anti-depressants have become increasingly popular in the west in recent years. Prozac is one of the most popular of the new drugs and is estimated to be used by one million people in the UK alone. It is perceived to be a miracle cure for depression, but it has also been heavily criticised as being ineffective.

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Depression has always been thought to be due to a lack of the brain chemical serotonin. Up until recently, I also thought this was the case. Anti-depressants are supposed to work because they flood the brain with serotonin, and yet doctors will readily admit that often nothing happens and the patient remains depressed. Weeks pass by drearily, the patient remains miserable, and eventually, after several months, the Prozac finally works and he starts to feel better.

What I haven’t been able to understand is: Why the delay? Why don’t you feel instantly better when you take happy pills? It’s what they’re supposed to do, after all. So depression can’t be caused by something as simple as a serotonin imbalance can it?

Well after many of my scientific-reading sessions in various scented bubble-baths, it turns out that my instincts were right. It’s not as simple as that.

Ronald Duman, a leading Yale psychiatrist, has discovered that antidepressants work not because of the serotonin (which has nothing to do with it) but instead because Prozac triggers an increase in production of a class of proteins known as trophic factors. These trophic factors make your brain neurons grow. Depression, on the other hand, is like a drought for neurons. In short, if you suffer from clinical depression, your brain neurons have probably stopped growing. Duman found that prolonged bouts of stress, or damage like radiation (yay! That’s me!) caused neurons to stop reproducing. After many years of research, he also discovered that Prozac (and other similar anti-depressants) increased neurogenesis over time in the hippocampus by up to 75%.

The truly interesting thing about this new field of neurogenesis is that finally there is hope for people suffering from brain disorders caused by the death of dopamine-producing neurons such as Parkinson’s disease. Early-stage research in this area has produced spectacular results, although it will doubtless be many years before diseases such as Parkinson’s and dementia actually have a cure. But it’s a start.

If I sound slightly obsessed with this subject, it’s because neurogenesis is fascinating. It explains who we are, and why we act and think the way we do. Our life character, our personalities are directly determined by the number of neurons we had as kids, and our long-term ability to create new ones.

Professor Elizabeth Gould has found that our brain structure is directly influenced by our surroundings. If you expose an animal (or person) to stressful conditions or a deprived environment, then the brain stops producing new neurons and begins to starve. If a child was exposed to stressful situations when he was in the womb, or even as a baby (such as poverty, deprivation, being apart from his mother) then this early trauma has life-long implications. When he grows up he will produce less new brain neurons because his brain is trained to concentrate on survival, rather than creating new cells for the future. He never had a chance. Because of his rough life when he was a kid, his brain will literally be limited for the rest of his life.

As Gould says, “Poverty and stress aren’t just a sociological idea. They are an anatomy.” She concludes that despair is caused by the early loss of the brain’s plasticity and it’s inability to constantly repair itself.

The good news for me is that it’s not going to be too hard for me to kick-start my poor little radiated neurons into action again. If you think about it, the brain is just a muscle. The more you feed and exercise it, the more it grows. Gould’s work has demonstrated just how easy it is to train the brain to heal itself, to get those stressed-out neurons stimulated again. You can grow new brain cells, but you need to work at it in the same way as when you go down the gym. If you give your brain good nutrition, vitamins, an enriched environment, puzzles, intellectual stimulation, studying and learning, then those little neurons will be kick-started into repairing themselves in no time.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to suck some algae and pump some logic puzzles.

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If you're still awake after all of this, then congrats! You are the proud owner of one shiny new neuron. Now who says that cruising nekkid chix online isn't good for you?!

All images are of Claire-Louisa.

The Grain Principle

“Today I want a grainy picture,” I demanded Rich in true prima-donna style, this morning over breakfast.

He shot me an alarmed “Oh God, Lin’s acting psycho” look.

“I don’t do grain,” he said. “You know that. I don’t shoot film anyway.”

“Well, can’t you add it afterwards?” I retorted.

He looked both horrified and rather offended. The very same look which he gave me yesterday when I asked him to scrape up something smelly and unsavoury from the carpet.

I should perhaps now explain that we’re rather opposed on The Grain Principle.

Rich really dislikes grain. Many moons ago, I remember he used a very low grain film and still used to complain bitterly about the lack of detail in the print. When digital came along he was over the moon. He likes pictures to look incredibly smooth and ultra-sharp. He doesn't like noise and grain, and he's passionate about pixels, the more the merrier. He wants the captured image to look the way he sees it with his eyes and he prefers complete control over the photograph. I can understand this. After all, he’s a scientist so naturally he likes exactness, precision and perfection. He says that if you need grain to make the photograph work, then it’s a waste of time. “Grain is not a mood-enhancer. It is an artefact of the chemical process.”

In complete contrast, over time I’ve learned to love grain, and I disagree with Rich in that I really do think it adds mood. A certain look, a certain style. It has a sexy, arty flavour which is unique and rather cool. Rich understands this, but he says it’s just not to his personal taste. He also thinks that the reason the general public like grainy or noisy photos nowadays is because they think the images were shot on film, and somehow this is perceived as being more professional and artistic. With the growth of digital, he believes grain is being marginalized, which is why it is doubly trendy for art and fashion photography (UK Vogue often has so much grain that you can hardly see the clothes, but the images sure look uber-cool.)

With the cessation of Polaroid, Rich now reckons that in five years time, film will only be used by hobbyists and those that have a dedicated interest in shooting film. He tells me that nowadays nearly all the high-end professional photographers shoot digitally. Digital photography is the future. Film and grain are ancient history. You can fight it all you want, but that’s the truth. So why cling to the past?

All this makes for a very persuasive argument over morning coffee of course, but it doesn’t solve my desire for a grainy portrait, no matter how prehistoric the concept may be.

So I look a leaf out of my four year old daughter’s book, and decided to be a diva. “I don't care. I wanna look grainy. I want a photograph, as is, no photoshop at all, just the real me, but grainy.

He gave me a slightly despairing look. “You won’t like it, you know. You’re feeling tired, radiated, really ill. It’s not going to make you look as sexy as you'd like, and then you'll blame me.”

“I don’t care. I don’t want to look sexy, I just want a portrait of me as I really am. A snapshot in time, a record of this point in my life. I know it’s going to be un-pretty. And I don’t care if I don’t like it. I’ve just got to do it.”

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So here it is.

He was wrong. I love it.

Yes I know it’s not real grain. It’s post-processed digitally added noise, and it will make all you purist film photographers out there shudder. Nevertheless, I don’t think it came out too badly at all. No fancy studio posing, no sexiness, no Photoshop. Just me on my favourite sofa. It’s who I am. And it’s probably the only photograph you’re ever going to see of my floppy old boobs, so make the most of it.

Subject Before Technique

Thanks to all of you for your encouragement regarding my picking up a camera. The verdict is unanimous. I should go for it!

It sounds so simple doesn’t it? Pick up a camera and just start shooting. But I’m not the type of person to do that willy-nilly. I read extensively about photography of course, and the more I read, the more complicated it seems to be. Not the nuts and bolts of taking a shot of course. Any person with any moderate degree of intelligence can learn basic composition, exposure and how to work a camera. But there’s a heck of a difference between learning how to do that, and actually being a real photographer.

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To a complete novice like me, it seems that the first thing you need, before you even contemplate picking up a camera, is to have some idea of what you want to photograph. You can’t go round just photographing random places, objects or people and call yourself an artist. O.K. so many people do, but I’m talking about real photographers. You know, the ones that create photographs that actually mean something.

So my initial opinion is that I have to choose my subject matter first. And according to most learned photographic philosophy books I’ve read, it has to be something that I am both highly interested in and feel passionately about. Bland records of anything and everything don’t produce meaningful images. As photographer David Hurn said, "The photographer must have intense curiosity, not just a passing visual interest, in the theme of the pictures."

Technique, the how of producing a photograph, must come second to the subject matter. Your fascination, enthusiasm and passion for the subject of your choice are what makes a good photograph. O.K. technique is important too, but I propose it is not as important as the way you feel about what you are photographing. If you photograph a random image, which does not at least capture your basic curiosity, then there’s no way you are ever going to produce a meaningful image that will move either you or your viewers. The most vital component of the image is missing. Why is more important than how.

I’d rather look at a poorly composed snapshot taken by a mother of her kids, than a sterile expressionless “arty” Vogue fashion shot any day. The first reflects an intense emotional connection, a visual response to the world, the second is empty.

But that’s just me. And I might be way off track here, so please correct me if you think I’m talking complete nonsense.

Sadly for you lot, I don’t feel remotely curious or passionate about photographing naked women. However I do have an obsession with cats. I’d love to be able to take a decent portrait of my pussies. Not a snapshot. No, I mean a truly meaningful, good kitty portrait. One which pleases me at least, even if it leaves you reaching for the puke bag. (Brooks Jensen thinks cat photos are universally trite. To that I say: Art is subjective. Clearly you are not a cat lover. And BTW your cat probably hates you.)

Thus, due to my passion for all things feline, combined with a reasonable level of intelligence, extensive study of the craft of photography, and then after twenty years hard slog, I can therefore logically conclude with reasonable certainty that if I am still alive in 2028, I will probably be a moderately competent cat photographer.

Yay! Genu-Ine photographic ambition! As Bill Bradley once said, “Ambition is the path of success. Persistence is the vehicle you arrive in.”

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Images are of Clayre McKinnen.

From this discussion we therefore conclude that Rich’s photographic curiosity is aroused by pretty women, preferably nekkid pretty women. Nothing wrong with that. In fact we both share a passion for pussies. The only difference is that mine is furry. (Not mine personally, you understand, the subject pussy, I mean. Although in the interests of political correctness I should state categorically for the record that both bald and furry pussies of both genres are equally welcome, as are partially waxed felines and kitties with landing strips. Don’t wanna offend the photographic subjects, now do we?)

Pop Art and Tarts

My oldest son, our very own budding Salvador Dali, has just completed a highly detailed portrait of Vincent Van Gogh. He was originally instructed to reproduce a B+W sketch of the above image. Now personally I think portraits are really difficult stuff, especially for a kid. It took three weeks solid to complete and I think it is pretty darn good, although everyone reckons it looks like his Dad, rather than ol’ Vince. (Does this mean Rich looks like Van Gogh? Scary.)

Anyway, it’s a great piece of art for a kid, but his Hogwarts Art Professor has now told him that she intends to heavily crop it, and has also instructed him to haphazardly colour it in very vibrant colours a-la-Pop-Art. Kind of Vincent Van Gogh becomes Andy Warhol.

My son (who loathes Pop Art) is utterly horrified. “She can’t crop it. It’s not meant to be cropped. I didn’t draw it that way. And she can’t make me convert it to colour. That wouldn’t be art. It’s meant to be Black and White. It’s my art. She can‘t ruin it. I refuse!”

Oh dear. More art politics. That’s all I need.

Modifying a piece of art might be normal in a teaching context, but is it fair, bearing in mind how many hours (about fifty) it took to complete this portrait? Is it acceptable for an artist (even a young one) to have his creative vision cropped and the style completely changed according to the ever-changing whim of the person who commissioned the art-piece? Damned if I know the answer. All I know is that the topic of art has become horribly complicated in our house nowadays.

My son also casually mentioned tonight that one of his paintings has been exhibited in the city cathedral for the last week or so.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” I squeaked excitedly. “WOW! This is HUGE!”
He shot me that slightly embarrassed “Oh God you’re being impossible Mother” look that only teenage sons can give and said impassively, “I knew you’d react like that.”

“How am I supposed to react?” I said, confused.

“I dunno. But it’s no big deal. Really it‘s not. Anyway, I forgot.”

Hmm. I honestly wonder how overly proud mothers are supposed to cope with moody hormonal teenage sons. Jumping up and down like an over-excited rabbit on wacky-backy apparently is not acceptable behaviour for a Hogwarts mother. I must be quiet, dignified, a Lady Who Lunches. I must remain casual and cool at all times. Above all, I MUST NOT BE EMBARRESSING. Oh dear. Clearly I have blown it big-time.

Teenagers are aliens. If anyone knows how to handle them can they please let me know?

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This is not Rich-a-la-Vince (who is stashed at school, awaiting death-by-cropping.)

It is a tart.

It was baked by my remarkably extrovert nine-year-old son (a complete polar opposite of his older brother) who wants to be a VERY FAMOUS T.V. CHEF when he grows up. This little lemon meringue tart took him 3 hours to prepare. Perfectionism runs in the family.

(BTW, I'm not going to eat it. It’s so darn pretty that I'm just gonna look at it.)