Are you having a holly, jolly Christmas?

And the Grinch, with his Grinch-feet ice cold in the snow, stood puzzling and puzzling, how could it be so? It came without ribbons. It came without tags. It came without packages, boxes or bags. And he puzzled and puzzled 'till his puzzler was sore. Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before. What if Christmas, he thought, doesn't come from a store. What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more?

Dr. Seuss

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Christmas - Fluffytek style!

Today is our local town's Grand Switch-on of Ye Olde Christmas Lights. Our favourite coffee shop will be open (hurrah!) and all the stores are already twinkly, sparkly and advertising their latest festive goodies with which to tempt you into spending your mega-bucks (which you haven’t got) on garish-but-useless prezzies for your loved ones (which they don’t want.) As our dear Grinch said, “The avarice never ends! "I want golf clubs. I want diamonds. I want a pony so I can ride it twice, get bored and sell it to make glue. Look, I don't wanna make waves, but this whole Christmas season is stupid, stupid, stupid!”

Whoops! Did I let my distinctly unfestive cynicism get the better of me there? No, no, I assure you, here at Fluffytek, we really do love Christmas. Passionately! Yes I really promise we do. It’s just that…erm…well you’ll appreciate we’re sort of in a teensy little world recession and we’re experiencing…erm…a few small cash flow issues ourselves. Just a small spot of bother you understand…nothing serious, and let’s face it, we’re all in the same boat. So how are we going to prepare for this most momentous feast day of the year? How can we as a nation join together and spread the happy Yuletide message of worldwide joy and rebirth to our friends and loved ones?

OMG, the coffers are bare. We’re doomed. DOOMED, I TELL YOU!

Now, let’s be honest, it’s going to be a bit of a thrifty credit-crunched Christmas, but please don’t let that out you off. As the Grinch said, Christmas isn’t about stuff, it’s a feeling inside. Instead of a meaningless wallow in materiality and commercialisation, let’s break with tradition. Let’s engage our puzzlers and get inventive. Let’s do something that really means something. After all, you don’t need money to be happy, you don’t have to spend thousands on your credit card to pass on the festive spirit that you ought to be feeling but definitely aren’t. So what to do?

Behold!!! Let me present to you…

~~ The Anti-Christmas ~~

~ Christmas gifts for all, as designed by your talented loving children ~

No, no, hear me out. It will really work, I tell you!
Let’s open the Fluffy sweatshop and get cracking! Only four weeks to go. Gotta get movin’…

The kids were a bit disconcerted at first, then they refused point blank, but when tempted with the enticing thought of lumps of coal in their stockings, they’re now really getting into the swing of it! They’ve finished the painting-by-numbers Christmas cards already, so now it’s onto the gifts. For the kids’ friends we’ve got a plentiful supply of dazzling genu-ine collector’s moon rock from outer-space (aka aforementioned coal with a liberal sprinkling of glue and my daughter’s silver glitter.) A truly unique gift! As for the in-laws, I’m sure my Father-in-law will appreciate a 40inch glossy Chistmassy print of the luscious Claire Louisa on his bedroom wall (see above - although his wife might not be quite so keen) and my younger son (the budding chef, if you recall) has decided to bottle up his latest Hot Mango Chutney concoction and give that to his Granny (a surprisingly spicy vintage, it can also be used to strip wallpaper if you don’t fancy slapping it in your sandwiches and dissolving your tongue. I think Granny will love it. No really, she will.)

So…that’s Christmas sorted then?

Alas we have one unsolved dilemma: The Christmas Tree. I’m not like Dave…I have no desire to go chop down one of my own poor innocent pretty little fir trees and implant it in our lounge. Besides all the needles will fall off, and BTW did I forget to mention that I’m allergic to pine trees? So for folks like myself, cheap plastic imitations rule O.K. If we can’t do real, then let’s fake it all the way...

But what sort of tree should I get? What sort of tree is so unbelievably realistic that it reflects the true spirit of Christmas 2008? What tree can possibly reflect the unbelievable hardship, anguish and downright gloominess that we’ve all been subjected to in this annus horriblis?

Perfect! I have it! Let me present to all you devoted Christmas lovers out there…

The Anti-Christmas Tree, as sold by our very own upmarket John Lewis Department store.

This groovy little festive number really does it for me, although I can’t figure out if this “must have” item is a stroke of marketing genius or evil genius.

Not only is it black (thus reflecting our global mood of festive misery and gloom) but it is also clearly designed for posh, upmarket, devil-worshipping bankers everywhere because it is...wait for it...upside down!

Alas, only the British could dream up something as crazy as this.



Good Heavens, whatever next? Satan’s baubles?

Reasons to be Cheerful

It has come to my attention that some of our American readers are feeling (very understandably) a smidgen below par today. To be sure, many of us have had rather an annus horribilis and many of us have actually been to hell and back in some shape or form. Nevertheless we endure.

So to those of you who don’t feel you have much to be thankful for, let me wish you folks in particular a Happy Thanksgiving, and remind you that no matter how bad this year has been (caution…tacky cliché approaching) that 1) You are still alive 2) You are loved and 3) Through your love of photography you have learned the real meaning of the word “beauty.”

What else could you wish for?

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Iveta

For those who are still feeling cynical, please go back to Cliché No. 1. Repeat until you feel better.

Fiddling While Rome Burns

Yesterday our Government announced its pre-budget report. Basically we’re going to stave off the recession by borrowing and spending our way through it. UK National debt is going to double to £1 trillion, and taxes will inevitably have to rise to pay for it - not until 2010 though, so Uncle Gordon says not to worry, let’s spend, spend, spend while we can. It’s for the good of the economy you know. Borrow and spend for Christmas, happy in the knowledge that you’re supporting your fair nation! Your country needs you!



The British media isn’t buying this one jot, of course. It won’t make any difference what the Government does. People will refuse to spend because they simply have no money. In some ways the British people rather like recessions. It’s seen as good for the soul, a way to demonstrate that national fighting spirit and British stiff upper lip that you hear so much about. Magazines and newspapers are full of articles telling us that austerity is good for the soul, how to rediscover traditional family values, how to bake cookies to save your marriage, dig for victory (no, wait, that one was a while ago now.)

To be honest this saintly attitude is really starting to grate. I’m fed up to the back teeth of being told I should purge myself of consumerist cravings. I’m not allowed to enjoy shopping any more. Retail therapy is seen as a cardinal sin anywhere, even in yummy mummy circles. No-one is permitted to buy anything. Thrift is the new style. No more ladies who lunch; now it’s budget biscuits and the horrors of instant powdered cappuccino (bleh!) at each other’s houses, where we earnestly discuss the best ways to darn your kids’ school blazers and how great the school second-hand shop is (to be fair, I practically live there.)

Oh give me a small break. Men might be genetically predisposed to “hunt and kill” as part of their leisure activities (and for the Love of God, let’s not go there again) but we females are wired somewhat differently. Many anthropological studies of primitive societies (both in modern day and from studies of our ancestors) have shown that the female gender is predisposed to gathering of food and resources. Throughout history, families have depended on womens’ ability to supply food and clothing for the family’s sustenance…the latest delectable root, the tastiest berries on offer at the latest supermarket. Yes indeedy, we busty stone-age laydeez have a natural talent and predisposition towards sniffing out a quality bargain. For the last 10,000 years that is what we have been trained to do: Shop till we drop.

All this is building up to me going on a major blow-out Christmas shopping spree. You can tell, can’t you? I can justify anything if I put my mind to it (one of the benefits of legal training.) Truth be told, austerity might be good for the soul, but it’s as boring as hell. Squishing my inner consumerist is not making me a better person, it’s going against my very nature, not to mention upsetting our dear Uncle Gordon (who desperately needs my shopping addiction even more than I do.) Uncle Gordy knows that I am genetically hard-wired to go forth and gather valuable resources for my family. Preferably pretty, sparkly pink ones, wrapped in shiny Christmas paper.

I refuse to deny who I am. It’s a matter of survival. My family and my country depend on me to provide for and sustain them. Time to go wild! (with Rich’s credit card of course. I might be shallow, but I’m not totally stupid.)

Gone shopping…See ya later.

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Stone Age Mama hits the shopping malls in style. Scary, no?

Later: No good. Couldn’t do it. Damn and blast this conscience of mine! I blame Charles Hugh Smith, whose latest blog post I made the colossal mistake of reading over morning coffee just before I embarked on my shopping extravaganza. Nothing like reading about our impending world doom to dampen that festive shopping spirit! Methinks Uncle Gordy could learn a thing or two from Charles. He’s utterly brilliant (Charles, not Gordon.) Read him if you dare.

The Price of Notoriety

A gripe, and a long, rambling hormonal gripe too. Live with it.

Apologies for the absence. I’ve been thinking. This is always a bad sign incidentally. Over the years I’ve come to the conclusion that it is the process of thought which gets me into so much trouble. Writing these thoughts down and then publishing them on a public blog results in double trouble.

As I admitted in my comments to my last post, the problem is infamy. (And thank you Jimmy for spotting there was more to this than meets the eye. Your insight is valued, as ever.)

Bloggers write for an audience – we love it. The more readers the merrier! Indeed, over the last few years we have been fortunate in that this blog has gathered a loyal following (we love you all, no matter whether you come for boobies or the ramble, really we do) but it has also achieved a certain amount of erm…notoriety. For example, in the last year my articles have been plagiarised twice (that I actively know of) by UK national newspaper journalists and once by an economics magazine. Woo hoo! If I get talented folks like that reading this blog, then there’s hope for me yet. However the trouble is that because there are (gasp) naked people on this blog, real journalists apparently can’t quote it as a source. Major bummer. The nudes count against me in that regard. Still it’s nice to know that people visit at all, so I shouldn’t complain. Nevertheless I’m beginning to suspect that freelance journalists get their ideas from browsing round other (unconnected) blogs and nicking their ideas (sorry, I mean being inspired by fellow writers) and using this…ah…inspiration as a basis of writing about it themselves. Problem is…journalists get paid for the resulting article, bloggers don’t (growl.)

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Please note I’m not blowing my own trumpet here. This happens to most bloggers at some point. I’ve seen JimmyD-clone articles popping up over the place and also several times I could swear major similarities between Stephen Haynes’ writing and subsequent publications elsewhere (no surprise – these guys are two of the best out there.) There is no real way to prevent this, unfortunately. Writing is no different from photography in that respect. Quality begets copies, and very rarely are the original sources acknowledged. (Note to fellow bloggers/journalists/writers: please LINK to your fellow bloggers if you are referring to them or quoting them. It really is hugely impolite not to. Growl.)

The problem with notoriety is that it’s a surprisingly small world. If you publish stuff out on the www, it WILL get eventually read by someone you know. Your identity will get discovered. I can guarantee this 100%, no matter how well you try to hide your identity and minimise your internet exposure. And if you thought being outed as a model was bad, the outing of your personal and private thoughts is even worse.

To give you a small example, this blog is now read by several ex-boyfriends, my father-in-law, four day-job resellers that I know of, one ex-employee and two fathers of my sons’ friends. It’s immensely creepy knowing your customers, ex-employees and your kids’ parents have seen your nether regions, I can tell you that (it makes for interesting-but-rather-amusing conversations at school parents evenings) and I try not to think about my relatives at all. At no time did I tell any of these folks that I was blogging, and I use an abbreviated version of my full name, so they would have to at least work a little to find me on Google. In addition, several “yummy mummies” have stopped talking to me (it wasn’t anything I said, so it was undoubtedly something I published) and a couple of day-job customers have confessed to me their secret love of porn (not that I’m ungrateful guys…but seriously, will it make you buy more day-job software? If it will, then I’m all ears. Honestly.)

Yes, yes, this is all my own fault. I am stupid. I have only myself to blame. But now maybe you see why I’ve cut down on blogging about my love-life and showing photos of myself. Clothed shots we have no problem with, but even Rich -who is usually very open minded- is getting a bit twitchy about the customers seeing the Finance Director nekkid.

My point? I see new photographic nude blogs springing up all the time. I want to tell these people: Beware! Blogging is a double edged sword. Doesn’t matter who you are – you will be found. So be careful what you write. Revealing photos might get you into a whole load of trouble, but words are far worse in this respect.

Broadcasting your innermost thoughts to the world is a great way to get your writing out there, but it will invariably get you into a whole load of trouble, and as your blog grows, it gets increasingly difficult to hide your personal life from the rest of the world. Even the most careful and enlightened blogger will reveal more about himself than he intends to over the course of time. Even if you try to keep your personality and private life off your blog, this is not entirely possible. Personal stuff will creep in eventually. This what draws your regular readers back of course. The more they feel they know you, the more they want to come back for more. Readers follow bloggers as they experience their lives, they feel for them when they suffer, they share the blogger’s intimate moments. Over time, close friendships are built, and over time communities form. This community spirit is ultimately what makes blogging so worthwhile, so rewarding, and why I could never give it up, even if I wanted to. For better or worse I have become closer to some of the folks I have met online than some “friends” or relatives I meet in real life. Such is the modern internet way.

Not wanting to get overly gushy about this whole internet thingy, but you folks (you know who you are) whom I have corresponded with and related to so closely in cyberspace over the last three years, you have all become an integral part of this blog. You are not only my friends, but also a way of connecting, a way of learning about human nature as well as a source of photographic and personal knowledge. Human relationships in all their glory.

And it is this (and only this) which makes the price of notoriety worth paying.

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Images are of HoneyB. I really like this one.

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

.... --- .--. .

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