Leroy And The Lube

Readers, you will appreciate that we are normally highly conservative parents and whereas we encourage frank and open discussion with our offspring about life, the universe and everything, this precise topic of conversation has never before arisen between parents and teenagers, and is bewilderingly new to us.

Picture if you will our sitting room on a quiet Friday evening, around 9.30 p.m. My daughter had gone to bed a lot earlier and Rich, the two boys and I were having a quiet, cosy catch-up chat in front of a crackling log fire. I’d had a nice long bubble bath and we were all cuddled up in our dressing gowns and slippers. My younger son (aged 11) was wrapped in a fleece throw and had dozed off on the sofa. Yep, it was a really warm, fuzzy, family moment. Life was good.

“How was school today?” I asked my 14-year-old son, sleepily.

“You know, it wasn’t bad at all,” he commented. “We had PSHE today – I normally go to sleep during the lesson, but today it was different. It was about Advanced Sex.”

I sat up a bit straighter. “Advanced Sex? What the hell is that? How can they teach you about advanced sex? Not even I know what that is.”

“That’s because you’re both too old to have sex any more,” commented my balshy teenager with a big grin on his face.

"Oy!" said his father.

“What is Advanced Sex?” I interrupted hastily. “What exactly are they teaching you at that school?”

“Well, it all began with Leroy,” said my son, pulling up his blanket and snuggling down in his chair.

“Who is Leroy?” asked his Dad.

“Leroy is my PSHE teacher’s knobbly dildo,” he announced, totally unfazed.

I sat bolt upright, rigid with shock.

“What the hell is your PSHE teacher doing demonstrating knobbly dildos?” I gasped, a tone of hysteria creeping into my voice.

“And what the hell are we spending all that school-fee money on?” added his father.

My son continued, unpeturbed. “Mrs M has been showing us about how to put a condom on Leroy, and where to put the lube.”

“What’s l-oob?” asked my younger son, sleepily.

“Hey, you’re supposed to be asleep,” said his Dad.

“Lube is what you put over the condom to make it juicy,” lectured my older son in an authoritative voice. “You know about condoms, right?”

“Yep....we put them on bananas in PSHE last term,” said his younger brother, now completely awake.

“Oh dear God,” I muttered faintly. (It had suddenly become clear to me why the household banana consumption had dropped dramatically in the last couple of months. I worry about potassium deficiency, you know.)

“We are not having this conversation,” said their father, firmly.

They ignored him. “What does l-oob feel like?” asked my younger son.

“I don’t know,” said my older son. “Mrs M wouldn’t let us try it until next lesson. She had strawberry and peach flavour though.”

“WE ARE NOT HAVING THIS CONVERSATION!” thundered their father.

“Why do you need different flavours?” queried my younger son, thoughtfully. “I just don’t understand. Why would anyone need different flavours for condoms? They don’t go anywhere near...unless...”

There was a long silent pause. My older son, suddenly realising just how much trouble he was in, looked at the ceiling and said nothing. We, their parents, were speechless.

“Unless...unless....OH MY GOD!!!! THAT’S COMPETELY DISGUSTING!!! I NEVER WANT TO GROW UP! NEVER! NEVER! NEVER!”

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The morals of the story?

1.Your kids may seem like they are fast asleep, but really they are wide awake and their little ears are listening intently to every word you say.

2. The syllabus of modern British education apparently includes advanced sex lessons involving dildos called Leroy and a treatise on the ten different flavours of vaginal lubricant.

3. Kids really DO know more than their parents.

4. My son was right. We really ARE too old for advanced sex.

The Dark Ages

Woo hoo! A real genu-INE internet connection again! Ah, heavenly!

As you will all have figured by now, my couple of days away from the net for the purpose of moving our day-job servers turned into nearly two weeks of being cut off from practically everything cyber-related. Not only did our main firewall go up in smoke, but so did the back-up firewall. Yeesh...that’s what happens when you live in ye olde rural Englande with flaky power and the worst winter for twenty-five years. Running off generator power for ages didn’t do our computer network much good either. There was smoke, there was sizzling, there were wires everywhere, there was a great deal of swearing. Needless to say, I stayed out of the way as much as possible, other than to supply endless caffeine and occasional cheesecake (was on Yuletide cheesecake binge – don’t ask!)

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View from my office window

I apologise for not leaving comments on all your blogs. I managed to keep up with most of you through my trusty Blackberry (my sole link to cyberspace) but Blackberry servers really do not like Blogger very much and for some unidentified reason I could not view several of my favourite blogs, most notably Dr L's and Mr Swanson's. (V. frustrating!)

Being cut-off from one’s cyber-community was actually harder than I figured it would be. That’s not a gripe, incidentally, merely a comment on how completely dependent on the internet modern man (or this modern yummy mummy in particular) has become. My kids took it harder than I did. “It’s like living in the ruddy Dark Ages!” grumbled my oldest son. “I can’t take it any more!” howled my younger son. “I want my Boogie-Beebies back!” moaned my five year old daughter.

Locked up in a snow-bound house with no computers and three exceedingly tetchy children who couldn’t play with their (online based) Christmas pressies – well, it hasn’t exactly been a picnic, I can tell you that much. I suggested board games as entertainment – which earned me derisive snorts. I threw them outside to play in the snow, but you can only do that for so long before their blue-ish complexion and incessant scraping at the windows to come in really wears you down. In the end the boys played ye olde Warhammer game which resulted in loud arguments and fighting for days on end, so I wore ear plugs and huddled under a furry blanket with my daughter, my Blackberry (my sole connection to the outside world – sorry TV doesn’t count as it’s all reality shows and Government propaganda) and a box of chocolate brazils, and we browsed Boogie Beebies together on a very tiny screen. I have no idea where Rich went but I didn’t see him for several weeks other than to periodically shove coffee/cheesecake under the office door. But he has performed his customary miracle and it all seems to be fixed now, so fingers crossed that it stays that way!

Lessons learned during long cyber-exile:

This family is far too addicted to the internet for socialising/information/news/games/shopping/life as we know it. Clearly we must give up our reliance on cyberspace to fulfill all our needs, eschew all things technological and go live on a remote hill in Sardinia and herd goats. I read a book on it once (really) and was assured by many long-lived Sardinian goat-herders that such a simple way of life, free from the trappings of modern technology, really IS the key to longevity, happiness and ultimate enlightenment. AND they have cheesecake in Sardinia! Hey, this could actually work!

(Just as long as I can take along my Blackberry, though. After all, we modern yummy mummies need our daily dose of fruity goodness.)

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Yr. Author avec aforementioned furry blankie

Happy Longest Night!

Tonight is The Winter Solstice, the day when most pagans celebrate the beginning of winter. And why on earth not celebrate tonight? Let’s face it folks, there is a genuine reason that Christians celebrate their own winter festival this week, and it has very little to do with Baby Jesus and everything to do with our pagan history. So for those few (non-Christian) readers who are curious, my Yuletide post this year is to do with the ever-fabulous God, Odin.

Santa = Odin in party mode.

Here he is – what a hunk, eh? Bet you didn’t know that our everyday modern day Santa is in fact, Odin himself. Sure he’s projected over two thousand years into the future and given a wee bit of a makeover, but it’s still Odin.

Still don’t believe me? Well, to trace the metamorphosis of Odin-into-Santa let’s go way back to the 8th century, when Britain was conquered by the Vikings (of which both Rich and our luscious Mr S are descendents – oh I do love Vikings –so truthful, so strong, so sexy and then there’s the whole beard thingy! Mmm...) Anyhoo, the Saxons had a tradition of welcoming King Frost (otherwise known as Father Time) every winter. When the Vikings invaded they brought their god Odin, father of the Gods and terribly old (thought to be born around 90BC although the exact date is slightly hazy) who had twelve characters which eventually evolved to become our twelve months of the year. The character for December was called Jul (from which we get “Yuletide.”) On longest night the Vikings believed that Odin would come to earth on his eight-legged horse Sleipnir. He was disguised in a long blue cloak and he would secretly join groups around their fire, listening in to see if they were happy. Then he would leave a gift of food (usually bread) at the home of the poor people.

With the Norman invasion came the well-known story of St Nicolas (who wore the red robes of a bishop and was also famous for his kindness to children and generosity to the poor), which provided a much-needed shot of Christianity to merge with the Viking and Saxon religions. Thus Odin was Christian-ized and, with a spot of great marketing from our friends the Americans, eventually evolved into the happy, plump Santa-Claus (“Claus” is diminutive for Nicolas) that we know and love today.

So how did the Christmas festival get moved to the 25th December? Well –Christians please look away now - the 25th December was not, in fact Jesus’ birthday but was adopted as such as a politically neat way to unify all the religions and create harmony. This particular date was “natalis solis invicti” (the Roman "birth of the unconquered sun") plus Dionysus the Greek God’s birthday and also that of the Egyptian God Osiris and Mithra (the Iranian "Sun of Righteousness") and since the 21st and 25th December were only a few days apart, it was thought to be politically and religiously advantageous to move Jesus’ birthday to the 25th, thus merging several religions into one.

So the real Christmas story is essentially about the unification of all religion over the last few thousand years into two predominantly mythical Gods: Jesus (Christian) and Santa (pagan.)

And that was the highly-condensed story of how the mighty Odin-the-Allfather became a jolly, rosy-cheeked modern icon, synonymous with Christmas. His legacy lives on after thousands of years and his purpose is essentially the same now as it was then. He keeps people happy at the darkest, most miserable time of year.

So raise a glass to Odin tonight – this Longest Night- and remember the true origins of Christmas.

Happy Yuletide to each and every one of you!

Worshipping False Idols

I was chatting to the local vicar recently (she’s loud, round and totally nuts – you’d like her) and she was waxing lyrical about meeting the Archbishop of Canterbury who had graced this remote little English marsh with a visit. The vicar confessed to having a totally inappropriate and passionate crush on His Grace for years, so meeting her icon was her dream come true.

"So how did it feel?" I asked her? She replied that actually she was astounded as to how utterly normal he was. Underneath the glamour and pomp of the English Anglican High Church, when she finally met him she discovered that he was surprisingly a very humble man, ordinary in every way and as flawed as everyone else.

She’s right of course. Rich and I have come across a fair few “celebs” over the years, as no doubt you all have too. The “icons” we have met are hot-stuff in their fields: mainly finance, law and nutrition, I’m afraid, so you probably won’t know them anyway. A few were numpties because their egos had run away with them (reality t.v. stars and Gordon Brown being obvious examples – Rich met him at a local business pow-wow years ago and confirmed that he really is as much a total prat in person as he is on t.v.) but the majority were just regular people, as normal and screwed up as you or I. Most were mildly embarrassed by their infamy and saw it as a sort of necessary evil, and pretty much all of them disliked sycophancy and preferred normal conversations on an equal footing. They shunned the general public where possible because they felt that they were always expected to be something that they were not.

So when I come across a model who is hungry for fame and celebrity, or when I talk to the teenage girls at my teenage son’s school who are completely and utterly obsessed with the celebrity culture, I always sigh in silent sympathy for these “icons” they worship.

I’m not a big fan of icon’s, I’m afraid. A “celeb” pumped up to icon-status is nothing more than a false idol who has been created and harassed by a fame-obsessed modern media which is itself hungry for money and notoriety. If you talk to many of these “stars” yourself, without all the fawning and hero worship, then you’ll find that there is nothing particularly magical or glamorous about them. They are just regular people who have a job to do and who make mistakes like the rest of us. They are also very often lonely people who guard their private lives as zealously as the Beefeaters guard the Crown Jewels. Much of their precious free time is spent hiding from the outside world, although in actual fact they’d probably like nothing better than a cuppa and a chat, just as long as you treat them like real people.

If you don’t believe me then you should try emailing or tweeting your icon one day. You’d be surprised at how often they reply. And if you ever get to meet them in person, please don’t fawn and slobber (unless it’s Uncle Gordy – he likes it.) Talk to them as normally as you would if you were talking to me. Then you might possibly catch a glimpse of the real person under the public persona and you’ll realise that like the media, we too have a responsibility not to put these poor people on a pedestal.

We have a duty to these celebs (whether actors, scientists, models, politicians or archbishops) to remember our humanity and respect them as the ordinary human beings they are, instead of expecting them to be something which exists only in our imagination.

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Image is of local church. Not a nude - sorry. Can't put archbishops, vicars and nekkid laydeez in the same post. I do have a conscience, you know...

The Needs Of The Many

This is the second part of my essay on Photography, Fantasy and the Modern Woman. The first part of this post can be read here

“It is logical. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few."

Spock (on entering a deadly radiation chamber which killed him)
Star Trek: The Wrath of Khan

It won’t surprise any of you to learn that in the late 80’s and early 90’s I was a stark raving feminist of the most extreme kind. Feminism was mandatory for university students in those days. We eschewed women’s magazines (I never recovered from this – I still hate them) and I used to have long, passionate highbrow debates on why pornography was degrading to women. To university feminists any pictures of naked women depicted in the modern media classified as porn, so I loathed all forms of nude and especially glamour photography in those days. Both me and my group of eco-friendly, vegetarian, bra-burning friends were all convinced that pornography should be censored (and preferably banned outright) because it led to social and economic subordination of females.

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In the early nineties many twenty-somethings like myself steadfastly believed the propaganda published by the women’s movement. It was because of all those girlie magazines and the pervading culture of porn that women were always perceived to be secondary to men. It was tremendously difficult in our western patriarchal society for women to achieve genuine political power (Mrs Thatcher being the rare exception) because they were usually perceived by men to be fantasy objects. Pornography perpetuated the institutionalisation of male supremacy because it encouraged men to see women as sexual fantasies. Men treated women according to the way they imagined them as being, and because this was accepted as normal behaviour in society, it followed that indirectly pornography defined who women should be.

On the basis of this argument, pornography didn’t free women, it took away their liberty. It denied them the right to achieve freedom in economic and social circles because it recreated them in men’s minds in the shape of male fantasies. Worst of all, women bought these fantasies and took them to their hearts, aided and abetted by the modern media. Pictures of airbrushed gorgeous models in glossy magazine adverts simply made matters worse, because they reinforced the idea of “the perfect woman” in women’s minds. Women’s magazines were thus an extension of the pornographic fantasy-land, cleaned up and sanitized to appeal to the female gender, but no less of a corrupting influence on women’s identities. We all strive to look as sexy and attractive as possible in order to compete with each other, as well as for the purpose of appealing to men. We all fall for the myth of perfection.

Now this was a theory which was mooted in 1992, and it is no less relevant today. In the photographic world we depend on perpetuating these fantasies for our very livelihood. Glossy photographs of beautiful women put bread on our table, or at least they used to before the government started censoring them and regulating what we could do. And so we rail bitterly against the removal of our own fundamental liberties and against our photographic art being censored. We all wonder if our photography will survive? In both Britain and America these new laws are an insult, an oppression, a fundamental violation of everything we stand for.

“It’s an outrage! What about our rights? Our freedom of expression?”

Well now, hang on a minute. What about the liberties of women?

Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe that it is well established in first amendment case law that some speech has the effect of silencing others. Our governments therefore have a duty to balance the rights to freedom of speech with speech designed to stop others from being heard. However those feminists in 1992 theorised that a woman’s free speech can be silenced indirectly by images that change the viewer’s perceptions of her fundamental character, her desires and even how she sees herself. Anything that does result in shaping who she is as a woman and how others see her is therefore fundamentally wrong because it effectively takes away or changes her free will and silences her.

So is it possible that in some ways nude and glamour photography does silence women because it changes how they see and value themselves, as well as how society as a whole sees them? Is pornography (however artistic) partially responsible for women’s inability to achieve absolute equality in society? If so then our governments have a powerful justification for censoring images of women (although granted that sneaking legislation through under the guise of protection of children isn’t the most ethical way of achieving such equality.)

If we are a society which protects free speech at all costs, then doesn’t it follow that some types of censorship are justified, particularly those that promote absolute equality and justice? Should some freedoms (for example, the right of a small sector of male photographers to create nude photographs of women) be sacrificed in order to protect the rights and freedoms of all women? How do governments find the right balance?

Should the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few?

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Images are of Iveta

You'll all be unsurprised to hear that Rich described this post as "well written but flawed." I told him that he'd missed my point that these arguments were around in 1992, some seventeen years ago. What goes around, comes around. These very same feminist theories were once again resurrected a couple of years ago as an justification for supporting increased censorship of the plethora of nude and pornographic photographs on the internet, although this is actually the first time that members of our governments tried to enshrine them in legislation.

Redemption

Unlike some states in the U.S, the U.K. doesn’t have the death penalty. Instead the more dangerous offenders are sentenced to life, usually 15 years (but out on 8 for good behaviour) or for the very worst offences, life with a recommendation that a minimum number of years be served (usually over 20.) What happens to these lifers once they are locked up? To be honest, I doubt whether very many of you give a rat’s ass. The opinion of the general public is that these offenders are evil and should be made to suffer for the pain they have inflicted. Enough said! Out of sight, out of mind, right?

In my idealistic twenties, I worked on a voluntary basis as part of a prisoner support group for male prisoners. These were the days of innovative penal reform and prison psychiatrists realised that giving prisoners a link to the outside world resulted in much better behaviour and a lesser likelihood of reoffending. Volunteers like myself were allocated up to five prisoners to write to, the idea being that because some prisoners had no friends or relatives, they would be provided with someone on the outside to talk to. Correspondence was via P.O. boxes, and either side could opt out at any time. It was as simple as that.

For about a five year period I used to write regularly to several male lifers in British prisons. All of them were convicted murderers so they were (at least for the early stages of their sentences) in maximum security prisons where the cells were small and the inmates were all very hardcore. Many of these men were involved in beatings and worse, with the guards mostly turning a blind eye to the goings on. Drugs were rife of course and an atmosphere of danger and oppression was present at all times.

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For these men, life in prison was a very small world: a mixture of violence, loneliness, concrete and darkness. There was little or no grass, and sometimes not even a glimpse of sky. Maximum security prisons aren’t known as “living hell” for nothing. Mostly I wrote to these guys, but on a few occasions I was granted special permission to visit them. These visits always left me shaken – I practically kissed the ground after I reached the outside world again. (On a personal note, IMO if potential offenders knew what these places were really like, there’d be a heck of a lot fewer crimes committed, that’s for sure.)

The lifers I wrote to were usually scrupulously polite. Many simply wanted contact with the outside world, and they had no-one else to turn to. The fact that I was a young female was doubtless an added bonus, but other than the occasional emotional outburst, no-one overstepped the mark at any point. These guys were just interested in talking about anything and everything other than the crime for which they had been convicted. I would write to them about all sorts of things, but especially about literature and art. When permitted I would send them books, usually my favourite classics as the authorities didn’t mind them reading the likes of Tolstoy, Thomas Hardy or Dickens. Photographs of the outside weren’t allowed, but I would send them articles about art and I spent much of my time encouraging these convicts to draw or paint (pencils were sometimes permitted if the inmate wasn’t considered a risk to himself or others) with the principle that it gave them something to focus on during the many hours they were alone. Sometimes they were allowed to send me the results of their efforts, which were usually beautiful, as you’d expect, as Lord knows they had enough time to practice. Over the years a couple of them actually became excellent artists and I’ve actually kept some of their work.

There has been a great deal of criticism about prisons not working, of conditions being too cushy and of inmates re-offending when they are released, but in my experience prison is a very effective punishment for lifers. They get to spend all day, every day with nothing other than their own thoughts, obsessing about what they did wrong. For these men, the majority of whom do have a conscience, the mental self-torture is far worse than anything that happens to them physically. I know this because I used to read their long, agonised letters and I can’t even begin to describe to you just how dark a place these men were in, day-in-day-out with no change, no hope, no joy. But let’s face it, this is the precise objective of prison. The system works.

Now I’m not excusing what these men did in any shape or form. They were all there for a very good reason. I guess what I’m saying is that IMO this experience worked both ways. I’d like to think I provided these guys with some sort of outlet, a reassurance that they were not completely forgotten and that there was a real world waiting for them if or when they ever got out. Through encouraging them towards literature and art, I also hoped to remind them that there was beauty in this world if only they could reach out and make the effort to try to see it.

In return, these men taught me not to judge others. I learned that although some people are capable of committing acts of unspeakable evil, they are also capable of creating works of great passion and artistry.

No-one is beyond redemption. Every sane person has some inner beauty in him or her, providing someone cares enough to look for it. Call me naïve, but I really do believe that.

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Images are of Althaia

The Girls Night Out

Feelin' blue on this rather dreary and depressing Monday morning? Well do let the Fluffies cheer you up with a rather R-Rated post. Don't say I didn't warn you...

When I used to work in public practice, as part of the social calendar the females in the office often organised sex parties. No not those sort of sex parties (swinging British accountants are decidedly rare) – I’m talking about the Ann Summers type parties where the girls try on lingerie and play silly games like hunt the dick (blindfold female accountant, spin round three times, then stick a pin in the penis - I always won these – call it a natural gift for anatomy.) A goodly proportion of the evening was taken up with getting totally rat-arsed and trying to figure out what to do with a vast cornucopia of bizarre sex toys (which, being accountants, no-one had the remotest idea what half of them were for – we lead sheltered lives, you know.) I must admit that these parties were highly educational and a lot of fun, although most of them resulted in very red faces at the office the following day (usually mine.)

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Rich always found my tales of these parties endlessly fascinating. For some strange reason, British males don’t do that sort of thing. Having a few beers and watching the footy (“soccer” in US speak) apparently doesn’t come remotely close. There’s no stripping off and trying on lingerie for one thing, and no silly girlie bonding games for another. When dudes get together for a good leer at women, it’s usually in a lap dancing club or live sex show (the latter being few and far between, and never, ever advertised.) Rich has been to a few lap-dancing clubs in his time, of course, the most notable being the Reaper Barn in Hamburg a few years ago now, whilst on a (clearly highly demanding) business trip.

It was always interesting to compare notes. Both scenarios (girls' sex parties and men’s strip clubs) were sexually charged, but that’s really where the similarity ends. The atmospheres in both couldn’t be more different. At the womens’ parties, everyone laughed and chatted their heads off and generally acted like an exaggerated older version of girlies playing dress-up. Rich tells me a strip club is very different. There is no laughter, chatting or silly games, but instead an air of furtiveness and sexual tension prevails, and Rich describes a general feeling of seriousness and edginess, of being somewhere slightly dangerous and forbidden.

So why the difference? Well, author William Leith reckons the answer lies in anthropology.

Women don’t display sexual desire unless they feel very secure. Being impregnated by the wrong kind of man (the “fuck and chuck” kind, as we used to call them in accountant-speak) is a huge genetic risk. So a woman looks for a safe mate before she shows she is sexually attracted to him, one who will provide for her and look after her offspring. So she will therefore only relax and display sexual desire when she feels safe, namely with her trusted friends. Together a group of girls can then indulge in their inner sexuality without fear of reprisal or danger.

In total contrast to this, men are genetically hard-wired to pass on their genes very easily by impregnating lots of women. They are psychologically programmed to be predators and to seek out multiple mates, so guys generally won’t sit around together, talk and share stories about their favourite women. Instead they will browse porn online (usually alone) or sometimes seek out strip clubs where there is a more predatory air and a different type of sexually charged atmosphere, where there are many girls and men can openly lust after them because that is the precise purpose of being there. Men view sexuality from a more isolationist perspective. It’s less about bonding and more of a solitary activity. Most men don’t trend to chat to each other about their sexuality or about women – they tend to keep their lustful thoughts to themselves.

I find Leith’s theory interesting. It has all sorts of implications for the reasons why guys spend so much time indulging their sexual side online.

I know that the readers of this blog are predominantly male. I’m not naïve enough to believe guys come here purely for artistic discussion – I’m well aware that non-photographic guys browse nude blogs primarily for boobies and more (unless they are seasoned nude photographers of course, in which case they’ve seen so many T&A that one booby’s the same as the next and they’re just interested in how said boobies are lit.) So it makes me wonder just what type of sexual atmosphere exists when (non-pro-photographic) men browse round this type of blog? Silliness or seriousness? Fun or furtiveness? Do they tell their spouses that they visit nude blogs? And if not, why not?

To me at least, the male isolationist attitude to sexuality sounds rather reclusive. Browsing boobies online seems a pretty lonely activity, and sex clubs sound rather…well…they seem rather pointless to me. Wouldn’t it be more fun to have a boys sex party where lads can try on different outfits, chat about their mutual love of boobies and play with vibrators?

It’s more fun, I promise.

(Edit: Rich says that male sex parties sounds like his personal version of living hell. Oh well, there goes my idea for our next lowbrow dinner party I guess...)

Photography, Fantasy and the Modern Woman

(George: you wanted to see an example of "the posts that never made it" - here's one. It's a bit lengthy though!)

Forget world recession and the dawn of a new age, the most important global news item on the planet last month was what frock Michelle Obama was wearing. The entire future reputation of the United States of America hung on this single fact. Oh yes indeed, let’s ignore the fact that the new First Lady graduated from Princeton and has had a dazzling career…I mean, like…who cares!?! But did you see those fantastic Jimmy Choo’s? Which new designer was she wearing? And how often does she work out so she can stay so slender? It seems that although we are happy to judge Mr Obama by his intelligence and wisdom, we are still unable to drag ourselves out of the middle ages and judge a woman by anything other than her appearance.

Throughout history, women have always been judged by their looks. Nowadays, thanks to the modern media, this has become increasingly the case. Needless to day, this patriarchal-driven discrimination does not apply to men. Guys can get away with scruffiness on the basis of genius. For example, consider computer geeks, engineers or scientists: for them, personal appearance is irrelevant because they are judged by their brains not brawn. Even Obama himself has looked decidedly tired and worn on occasion, but it doesn’t matter because his exceptional intelligence excuses any occasional lapse in appearance. Alas the same could never be allowed to apply to his poor wife. From now onwards, if she ever steps outside the White House in jeans and a pair of slippers, sans make-up, her future would be permanently in ruins. So much for cultural evolution. Despite the numerous women’s rights movements, brilliant academic females like Michelle are still judged according to their appearance.

Those jeans didn't go down too well last time (Photographer: Emmanuel Dunand)

I sympathise. The truth is that if you want to be taken seriously in your profession, then you have to look the part. People judge women according to how they see them. For example if I go into a city business meeting in jeans and trainers (yes I’ve actually done this) then other people look through me as if I’m not there. I’m judged sloppy, unattractive, less intelligent, and I’m dismissed and ignored (the same does not apply to guys, incidentally.) However if I go to the meeting in a smart suit with high heels (I hate heels) then people take notice. I fit the mould – I am accepted as an intelligent female, and I am included. Elegance and style matter in the boardroom, they matter absolutely everywhere.

Nowhere is this emphasis on appearance more visible than in our photographic world. It is a central tenet of the entertainment industry. When was the last time you saw a female celeb in jeans at an industry knees-up? Heck, the poor souls get slammed by the press if they pop out to the corner shop looking anything less than perfect, and yet the male equivalent gets away with it all the time. The ports of the best photographers on MM are crammed full of beautiful people dressed up to the nines, each worthy of appearing in many thousands of stylish magazines. In fact, this is their very goal – these models are elegant illustrations of our obsession with appearance, with our mantra of “image is all.”

As I have blogged before, IMO photographers perpetuate this philosophy – overwhelmingly they choose to photograph women who conform to the modern industry standard of what “look” is judged to be beautiful. Modern people photography is therefore less about the individual subject but more a record of our culture, our emphasis on style, our obsession with judging the female of the species by her appearance. As this is a patriarchal society, this is somewhat inevitable, I guess. Most photographers in the entertainment industry are men, and let’s face it, this is what guys are hard-wired to do. And anyway, this dogma is part of the shoot specification – this is what the shooter is hired for. The MUA and stylist use their years of professional training and the photographer must tailor his best lighting skills to create the appearance of perfection and modern beauty. Even though the model might look rather plain and ordinary away from the camera, this is totally irrelevant, because for the purposes of the shoot, she must be transformed.

It is the photographer’s job to sell the fantasy that every woman could and should try to look equally physically perfect and well groomed. In every magazine feature or advert you look at, the model will always look flawless, because how else can they sell the end product?

"Don’t you want to part with a week’s salary for this fabulous perfume ----daaaahling ? And if you do my dear, then you too will look as gorgeous as Nicole Kidman…and you too will find happiness, self-worth and be the perfect woman. You CAN be the Barbie doll you’ve always wanted to be, if only you buy this perfume. Go ahead, live the dream…"

So when you look at a photograph of a beautiful woman in a magazine advertisement or feature, you see a fragment of how we ordinary folk would like to see the world. Because the photograph is so crisp and detailed, it is like glimpsing a slice of real life, but the trouble is that like any art-form, such constructed photographs are not real. They are created in a studio by a photographic team purely for the purpose of perpetuating a myth…the myth that appearance is a better way of valuing a woman rather than what’s inside her head.

Because our modern society defines itself via photographs, we are increasingly moving towards believing our true identities should be like these constructed images. The fantasies have been absorbed into our psyches, and they are corrupting our ability to think as individuals, not to mention the potential damage to our self-worth. We are perpetuating the practice of judging women by their appearance because we are copying the imaginations of the original photographers and stylists who invented the thousands of glossy photographs we see every week. We see the world through rose-tinted-glasses and we think it is real. We want it to be real. The more photographs which are produced over the years, the more society depends on them to define its reality, the more appearance matters, and the more we women are expected to identify with and adhere to these glossy fabrications that we see every day in the media.

Because of our entertainment “biz”, these fantasies, these unreal, superficial constructed identities have permeated who we think we should be as women. The fantasy has become reality. Photographs in the media dictate how we are expected to look and behave, and they strongly influence the way we think. Like millions of other women, my smart-suited successful day-job persona, my constructed identity, “who I am seen to be” and even how I feel about myself are all reflections of the ever-evolving photographic landscape. Photographs are way more than mere recording devices. They shape our past, present and future on both a cultural and individual level.

Never underestimate the power of the photographers. It is they who will decide who we will become.

And as for your dear First Lady, those photographs of her in her pretty Isabel Toledo dress and Jimmy Choo pumps will be remembered long after her lofty career achievements are forgotten.

Some Things Are Better Than Cameras

I've always considered "giving" a car or refrigerator or washing machine to one's wife to be mysogenistic.

Stephen Haynes, Magic Flute Nudes

Thanks to Dr L and Mr Wood for their birthday wishes for last week. Like Dave, I’m not normally a fan of birthdays, but some are better than others. This one definitely classified as “better.” Rich bought me a mega-cheap-but-cute little 5 megapixel tiny-handbag-sized-camera in a feminine shade of SCREAMING PINK. Note: this was not for the purposes of “real photography” (whatever that is) but simply so I can have a camera to stick in the glove-compartment of my car, so I can snap pretty piccies of landscapes and so forth whilst travelling. No I’m not carrying my proper camera (Rich’s old 350D) in the car – it would get nicked, for one thing, and I don’t have time to pause and set up a good landscape-with-tripod shot with yelling kids in the car, for another.

So after unwrapping my pressie and fending off my daughter (a lover of all things pink, and especially cameras, as you know) I did get round to snapping a piccie or two, and I was actually surprised with it’s picture quality. It’s no Canon 5D Mark 2 of course, but it’s not bad at all considering it cost less than bottle of wine. And before you ask, no I’m not showing the results, largely because I suffer from an inferiority complex regarding my photographic abilities – guys, I really suck. You try being married to a really good photographer – we ordinary mortals could never compare.

Anyway, I will admit to being slightly miffed because my beloved husband had only bought me a twenty quid pressie – however, I know times are hard, day-job wise, so I tried to be spiritual about the whole thing, but nevertheless, as I’m usually both shallow and extremely spoilt (I’m an accountant after all, as well as being a yummy mummy, so materialism is part of my nature) I was trying to overcome a totally unreasonable and ungrateful irritation (he hadn’t even bought me chocolates – jeez…there ARE standards, you know?!) when he suddenly handed me a set of strange keys, along with a big hug and a “Happy Birthday, Lin!”

I looked at the keys in confusion. There were two, both with a characteristic “BMW” logo in the middle. A light bulb in my head went on. My heart in my throat, I rushed to the window and sure enough there was a shiny, black BMW 1 series parked on the drive. “I know it’s not new,” he said, “but it IS a BMW… ”

I didn’t know whether to be mad at him for spending the money we don’t have, or delighted for my truly awesome pressies. Methinks I’ll err on the side of delighted.

It might be several years old, the seat might occasionally jam and the doors might not always shut as easily as they should, but wow, it drives like a dream! They don’t call it "the ultimate driving machine" for nothing. Misogyny be damned! What an awesome car!

Note: the husband’s not bad either.

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Time for a slobbery photo, methinks. Syd and A.J. of course.

The Lost Art

As you all know by now, unlike Rich, I’m a terrible photographer, and I can’t paint for toffee either. But somewhere lurking deep in my body is a single lonely crafty gene, one of which has been expressing itself very nicely thank-you from the age of ten on a regular basis.

Why have I not mentioned this before now? Well, this particular type of art is deeply naff. In fact it’s so spectacularly uncool that if this post ever sees the light of day, then my street-cred is in ruins. Permanently, I suspect.

What is this deep, dark, dirty secret art, you ask? Well, at the risk of forever exploding my sooper-cool-fast-track-hotshot-accountant-come-lawyer-come-ex-model image, and exposing myself as a sad old woman who has no life…I will admit that I’m rather devoted to the art of tapestry.

Yea Gods! I can feel you all screaming in horror and deserting this blog in droves, never to return! But for those three or four loyal readers who have absolutely nothing better to do with their time and want to waste it reading about the-podgy-old-ladies-who-sew-set, let us continue, with our needles proudly held high betwixt our calloused fingers!

Far from The Madding Crowd by Julie Verhoeven

First, a brief language clarification if you please. “Tapestry” means different things in different countries. The classic type of “true tapestry” that Americans know is a form of weft-faced weaving that is woven by hand on a vertical loom. This can be distinguished from the British form of tapestry, which you Americans will know as “needlepoint,” where yarn is hand-stitched through canvas or linen. I practice needlepoint, specialising in "petit-point", which is a type of tiny stitch worked on very high-count canvas. I was taught this craft by my mother, and she by her mother, and so on. I will teach it to my daughter, from when she is safely able to hold a needle. It is our female family tradition, and should any of you wonderful people ever visit us in ye merry olde Englande, you’ll see our walls adorned not with photos of hot sexy nekkid chix (largely because we’d be stoned alive by visitors) but instead with rather too many family tapestries, which hang on practically every spare space in the house.

Hmm…I can see I’ve just scuppered my chances of anyone ever visiting…oh well...

For those few who haven't yet dozed off, you’ll doubtless be thinking that I shouldn’t classify what I do as an “art.” It’s a “craft,” surely? Actually tapestries have been a recognized art-form since around 3 B.C. and have continued to be highly popular until very modern times. Truth be told, both artists and craftsmen are needed to produce tapestries. Each depends on the other. Artists design and produce the original blueprint (also known as a “tapestry cartoon” or “pattern”) and then the craftsmen (or craftswomen) produce the actual tapestries.

Alas, true tapestries and needlepoint are now seen as deeply uncool – they are thought to be the domain of little old ladies who sew to pass the time. The craft is rarely taught nowadays, which makes me immensely sad because it really is extraordinarily difficult to do well, but tremendously rewarding when you do. And it’s not all about mass-produced, pre-printed pictures of twee little country scenes or cutsy teddy bears either. When designed by a talented artist, the results can be as stunning and captivating as any beautiful photograph or painting. More-so in fact, because tapestry techniques can be adapted and layered to produce some astonishing results.

Don’t believe me? Still think it’s naff?

Well, take a look at this wool and silk contemporary tapestry by artist Paul Noble, called Villa Joe, which was recently exhibited in both London and Miami.

Villa Joe, by Paul Noble

At nearly five square metres, it is truly colossal, but as with a painting or photograph, the devil is in the detail. Although you can’t see it here, the tapestry is composed of millions of tiny grey stitches, which are layered and overlapped to create the finished effect. As someone who has produced altogether too many tapestries in her time, I can’t explain how much this image moves me, not least because I know how many hundreds (probably thousands) of hours it took to create the finished piece. Such care, emotion and creative vision went into this image, that I am rendered speechless. I could look at it for hours. Now, I fully appreciate that it won’t rock your world, but quite honestly art works such as this and the equally amazing Trump by Francesca Lowe (below) have the capacity to sock me in the gut way more than any nude photograph. Sorry and all that, but I guess in the end we identify most with our own type of art because it inspires within us remote (and usually unrealistic) possibilities of our own potential…the feeling of "oh, if only I could do something like that!"

So much for my dreams. In the meantime, I remain but a lowly craftswoman.

Trump By Francesca Lowe

In between the many tapestries I have sewn over the years, for nearly twenty-five years now I have been labouring over a single tapestry, a recreation of Leonardo Da Vinci’s The Last Supper, stitched in petit point. It is a large piece, with tens of thousands of stitches, and I work from varying patterns (blueprints) completing different sections one after the other, in minute detail. If I make a mistake, I always unpick it and start again. I want nothing less than perfection. This has got to be exactly right, the way I imagine it to be.

After twenty-five years, I reckon it’s just over half completed. I’ve sewn so much of myself into the darn thing (pun intended) that it’s become my life’s work. My family often joke that by the time I finish it, I’ll have achieved everything I wanted to achieve in this life, and I’ll promptly drop dead.

The trouble is, I think they’re probably right.

A Year of Perpetual Drama

Writing is not about words. Painting is not about pigment. Music is not about tones. As long as photographers insist that photography is about photographs, the art is limited and self-containing.

Brooks Jensen

It’s about this time of year that we all look back over the last twelve months. We count our blessings, scrutinise our mistakes (and then write them off as experience) and savour the fact that we made it to the end of the year with our sanity intact.

It’s certainly been interesting watching the adventures of the nude bloggie community. Because of The Golden Fluffies (later this week, if anyone is remotely interested) we’ve been reading huge numbers of photographic blogs every single day. It’s amazing how immersed you get in the lives of bloggers, and it’s certainly been fun watching these artists grow and develop. The number of photographers and models who blog has grown exponentially during this year, and for that reason (as well as all the prohibitive regulations next year) we’ll shortly be calling it quits on the annual awards and significantly shrinking our daily blog roll. Sorry folks, but that much reading can seriously interfere with one's sanity. We need our lives back!

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Anyhoo, what has this year been like for us, blogs aside?

Rich:

Well, this has been the year that Rich temporarily gave up photography (or at least took a serious break) due to a phase of arty existential angst because of the exponential rise in identical nude photographs on Deviant Art. Not a growthful experience. He describes D.A. as the McDonalds of the art world: fast food art without culture, ultimately bland and tasteless when eaten to excess. Our Rich is not one for following the herd. He likes to stand out from the crowd (or at least as individual as is possible nowadays) so finding endless copies resulted in him pulling out of photography to get his mojo back (and yes, I’m still waiting, although I deeply suspect that the delay in mojo-return is now mainly financially induced.)

He’s also erm…expanding into shooting deeply uncool short horror movies, which I am apparently required to write scripts for. So far this has resulted in much disaster and great hilarity. I am terrible at script-writing. TERRIBLE! But it is a humungous amount of fun trying to produce anything at all, so no doubt we will attempt to create scary zombie shorts (mini-movies) with deeply naff* scripts and peculiar CGI special effects next year some time. Mind you, a single short five minute zombie movie takes absolutely ages to develop and shoot, so we're not expecting the final results any time soon. (And before you ask, Fluffytek is supposed to be about beauty, light and form, so it's unlikely that I'll be blogging about it here.)

(*Our resident artiste deeply objects to the term “naff” so please substitute the world “artistic” where appropriate.)

Lin:

This is the year I was nuked, of course, which in turn means it was the year that Brooks Jensen saved my (photographic) soul, and inspired me to study photography in depth. It was the year I quit modelling (no I don’t miss it) and the year I discovered that I should be writing rather than being an accountant (I’m working on it.) I also lost my memory (twenty years snuffed out) and yet still found happiness and freedom because of the love and help of my family, as well as through the support of a great community and a growing passion for photography.

So this year, our annus horriblis, our year of hardship, where we nearly lost both our day-job business and were subjected to more stress than ever before, has nevertheless been an enlightening year. At the very least, we have learned the value of taking one day at a time as well as discovering a deeper appreciation of photographic art. Photography is about so much more than photographs. If we have realised nothing else this year, then that is a fundamental truism.

It has been a good year. We could not ask for more.

If you think back, and replay your year - if it doesn't bring you tears of joy or sadness, consider the year wasted.

John "The Biscuit" Cage, from Ally McBeal

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Images are of Iveta

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.

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

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.

A Tale of the Fluffy Undead

Hurrah! It’s Halloween! Apparently this is a huge event for Americans (I’ve no idea why) but I’m afraid that the UK’s version of Halloween is fairly low-key in comparison. We’d rather pull out all the stops for Guy Fawkes night on 5th November instead. Nothing like a good torching of a famous terrorist to liven up those dull winter nights.

Anyhoo, since it’s supposed to be a spooky week, I thought I’d share a suitably creepy story. Now y’all please remember that I’m no storyteller so please make allowances:

When I was a young lass, I used to live in the south of England in a seventeenth century Grade II listed New Forest townhouse which had a thatched roof, low ceilings and wonky whitewashed walls that were stuffed with straw for insulation purposes. Of course the house was haunted - all the best British houses are, you know.

The resident ghost was a male Quaker, about 5 ft 10 inches in height with big pale eyes and a solemn face. He was stylishly attired in a black suit with a wide brimmed hat, although he displayed a slightly transparent appearance at times. I was six years old when I first saw him. He used to visit me in the middle of the night and stand by the side of my bed, just looking at me. Of course, you had the usual paranormal scenario – the room turned deathly cold and there was a strange damp smell in the air. Alas no ectoplasm though. (I guess we ghostbusters can't have everything.)

The first time I saw Mr Q I was pretty freaked out. I remember calling out to my mother: “Mummy, Mummy, there’s a strange man in my room!”

My mother was unpeturbed. She just called back, “Don’t worry dear! Go back to sleep. He’ll go away soon.”

No she didn’t get out of bed and come check on me. It was no big deal. Mr Q the Ghost was a regular visitor in our house, so much so that he was accepted as normal. After a while I just learned to go back to sleep after his visits. Mind you he only appeared to women, and for quite a while my father and brother thought all the ladies in the house had gone totally wacko. My mother saw him quite often, as did my sister-in-law who was dating my brother at the time. The poor girl was so freaked out that she refused to visit again after a couple of months of nightly visitations. Clearly she didn’t have a very strong constitution.

When I was a bit older I nagged my parents to investigate Mr Q. I figured there must be a reason why he was still around. After researching the history of the house, it turned out that these particular Quakers had buried their dead under the floorboards because that was the done thing in those days. The ghostly Quaker dude in question had lost his wife and daughter to cholera, and we concluded that he only appeared to women because he missed them so much and was looking for them. Poor guy had never recovered from their loss.

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Poor old Mr Q was feeling a bit below par actually

So the answer to your burning questions are: (1) Yes, it’s a true story (2) No I’m not crazy, or rather, I probably AM crazy but at least I’m crazy with a strong constitution, and (3) Yes, I’ve either stayed in or lived in several haunted houses in my lifetime, and thus have many more dubious stories to tell over the next few years. You have been suitably warned.

Happy Halloween!

Photographers are forever, not just for Christmas

A couple of nights ago my four year old daughter and I were browsing Vogue together in our lilac scented bubble bath (because girls just wanna smell yummy) and we decided that we would ask her father for a nice big diamond each for Christmas (couriered via Father-Christmas-Express, naturally.) After all, girls love sparkly things, and what better way to demonstrate a guy’s lurve for his favourite laydeez than by buying them the ultimate symbol of love and devotion?

Rich was surprisingly vocal regarding the reasons why Father Christmas would not be supplying our present of choice. As I recall the words “money,” “broke” and “unrealistic” were used a lot. The Fluffy laydeez went to bed mightily disappointed that night.

Because I’ve always been spoilt and I invariably get what I want (even if I have to wait for it) I did not give up so easily. I really wanted that diamond, and it had to be real and pretty sizeable too because only anything over two carats would signify “forever.” I mean there’s just no point if it’s not genuinely hewn from real diamond rock by impoverished and exploited slaves in Sierra Leone, smuggled via the illegal black market and purchased lovingly off Ebay for $999. Only the bottomless corruption of the conflict diamond trade can equate to true love as your stunning jewel sparkles merrily on your finger. You are wearing not only a symbol of ultimate devotion, but a slice of suffering and exploitation. What girl could possibly resist?

Hmm. After reading about the horrors of the diamond trade, I don’t think that even I could ask for real diamonds, which is really saying something considering I’m a accountant/ex-lawyer and thus by definition I have no discernable morals at all.

Not one to admit defeat so easily, after much internet research I’ve subsequently hatched a cunning plan.

The solution?

Artificial diamonds.

Yes, yes I know what you’re thinking. Tacky, tacky, tacky.

Not so my dear friends because...behold…the latest artificial diamond technology will tenderly gather up the sacred ashes of your dearly departed and transform them into a rock the size of your choice.

Ooh, what a fabulous idea! And as we all know when you’re talking about men, size is everything. The bigger the size of your dearly departed, the bigger the rock. Portly men clearly offer the greatest potential when considering your future art-piece. Worried about ethical issues ladies? No problem I assure you. It’s merely the recycling of your loved one into a unique work of art. Surely the ultimate in green ethics? Preserve your husband, save the planet.

And think of the potential to honour your beloved hubby. Imagine how your best yummy mummy friend will congratulate you on your latest stunning rock which you are proudly showing off at the Saturday night dinner party. “Where did you get that fantastic ring, Meryl? It’s huge!”

“Well, funny you should ask that, Alice. Actually it’s Bert. You know he died recently. Very sad. He looks more beautiful than ever in the afterlife, don’t you think? And just look at his size! He’s at least two and a half carats now, you know. Jeez, I really loved that man ‘o’ mine and now we’re together again for all eternity. Guess that’s what marriage is all about.”

The moral of this story? Watch what you eat, and whatever you do, don’t upset the wife. You never know, she might decide that you’re worth more dead than alive and realise that diamonds can indeed be forever.

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A tempting Christmas pressie for all you laydeez out there? (Click to enlarge)

The Friday Fluffy And Her Flying Familiar

(Try saying that after two pints of pear cider)

Dear Fluffy Reader,

We interrupt your relaxing and peaceful week of browsing high-art piccies of luscious nekkid fluffies with an important life-enriching, furry-feline-update.

As you all know I’m a cat-a-holic. My moggies are my muses. If I had a penny for the number of times I’ve been called “mad old cat lady” I’d be a rich woman (actually I suppose I am Rich’s woman, but that’s not what I meant and you know it.) Obnoxious local kids used to call me “an evil twisted witch who lives in that big creepy house with hundreds of cats” so at least I’ve graduated to old and mad nowadays. Personally I feel that’s progress.

Currently I’m reduced to a single feline familiar, due to one recent road tragedy and three age-related declines (my last three beloved kittens were all supposed to only last 3 weeks and ended up living 18 years – not a bad lifespan for kittens that were dumped in a bin liner at the back of a supermarket. Some people don't deserve animals, you know?) Anyway, where was I? Well, I’m really missing my furry friends, so I’m looking for a new cat, or more correctly, I’m waiting for one or more to find me, because as we all know, clever cats choose their owners not the other way around.

My future felines will be ideally suited to me; they will be unique, of superior intelligence, probably unwanted, definitely unusual, obviously special. So I was truly delighted to read in the news yesterday about the sudden phenomenon of The Winged Cat. I always thought they were a hoax, but apparently not. These incredible creatures have been labelled freaks of nature in their native China, but apparently there are increasing occurrences of them, caused by a combination of the weather, genetic abnormalities and extreme stress caused by too much sex with too many females (and let that be a lesson to all you studly guys out there – too much sex with fluffies gives you wings.)

Cool Photoshop job, nifty superglue or the genuine article?

Wooo-eee! I jus’ gotta get me one o’ those!

That cat is living art I tell you. Just think of the infinite photo-shoots you could have with that little beauty…I can see it now…The New Fluffytek Photographic Series: Nekkid Chix And My Flying Cat…now that’s my type of photography…cool…

Now who was it who that said blogs about cats couldn’t be interesting, hmm?

Please note that no cats were harmed during the making of this post. Fluffytek fully endorses responsible cat-ownership and we abide by the over-riding principle that cats are for life, not just for cheap photo-opportunities. Thank you for your attention. Do enjoy the rest of your weekend.

Yours sincerely,

The Mad Old Cat Lady.

Meow

(Sorry about the light post folks –it’s my week off. More serious photographic stuff next week I promise.)

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Yes, I know what you’re thinking. Wow! It’s…it’s…it’s…a grain silo.

Soooo...is this Rich’s new artistic direction? Is this, in fact, photographic perfection? Is the true meaning of photographic fine art located within its stylish yet minimalist walls? (O.K. so only regular Lenswork Readers will get that joke.) I dunno. Somehow I feel this fabulous photograph lacks a certain something. Like, maybe, a nekkid chick…I’m jus’ sayin’…

Anyhoo, you’ll no doubt be pleased to know we have recovered both our common sense and good humour today. Thanks to those who took the trouble to contact me on and off blog. Supportive friends are always appreciated, and JimmyD's magnificent comment in particular is worth an entire post in itself.

Back to normal nude ‘n’ rude blogging shortly. In the meantime I’m recovering from the perpetual drama of the last few days by indulging in a bit of retail therapy, by treating myself to a new winter outfit, with Rich’s credit card, of course. So, here’s my online shopping basket of my favourite Italian Designer (for US readers remember £1= $1.8646 USD.) Please note we’re on a very tight budget here, so I was exceedingly restrained…very considerate of me, don’t you think?

1. Italian Soft Cotton Shirt £65. Add to basket.
2. Weekend Tweed Cropped Trousers in soft aubergine £85. Add to basket.
3. Silk and Cashmere Blend V-neck Sweater £195. Add to basket.
4. Suede Round Toe Long Boots (also in soft aubergine) £189. Add to basket.
5. Pair Carina Pearl Drop Earrings £45 x 2 (I have 2 holes in each ear, floozy that I am.) Add to basket.
6. Lucia Bangle £59. Add to basket.
And finally…the finishing touch…
7.Toscane Shearling Coat £1350. You betcha ass I'll Add to basket.

Finished!
Click on Checkout.
Grand Total £2033 (USD $3790.73) (Cough.)
Shipping: Free! (Woo hoo! Now that makes it a bargain in my book)…
Enter Credit card Details…Click.
Finger hovers over “Click to Finish Transaction” button.

Rich: Would you like a cup of tea my dear? Yes? Ah, I see you’re online again. So what photographs are you browsing now?

Me: Oh nothing darling. Just doing a bit of shopping...

Him (very suspiciously): What sort of shopping?

Me: Oh a new weekend outfit to dazzle you with dearest. You’ll like it, I promise…

Him: Let’s see then….HOLY CRAP!!! Don’t you bloody DARE buy that! Do you REALISE just how MUCH studio equipment that would buy???! No bloody way, Lady!

Me: Aha! So you’re not quite finished with studio stuff yet then? Gotcha!

Him: Humph!

Me: Click…

Me: Oops.

Anyone know a good divorce lawyer? Anyone? Anyone at all?

Six Random Things Game

Yes, yes I know this seems horribly familiar, and you’re quite correct. I’ve blogged on this before. However Saintz tagged me, and since Lela’s brave enough to do it twice, I guess that means I have to.

Being a narcissist, I’ve been waffling on about myself for so many years now that you really know practically everything about my sordid little life already, but I’ve been racking my brains and come up with a few things you really didn’t want to know:

1. When I write, I try to subscribe to The 24 Hour Rule. Basically this means I normally wait at least 24 hours before I actually publish a post. I’ve found this to be a valuable safeguard over the last couple of years, usually because I mostly write total garbage (usually after too much Chardonnay, it has to be said) and when I look at my draft the following day, I often change it completely or delete it altogether, depending on its quality control levels (unfortunately the quality is inversely proportional to the volume of alcohol consumed!) Please note I did not subscribe to this rule in either this post or my last (with hindsight I really regret posting yesterday. See, the rule works.)

2. I have twenty-two clocks (not including computer clocks) in my house (thanks to my younger son for counting them all.) Guess I have time issues, huh?

3. My cat left me three mouse skulls and various unidentified bloody entrails on the carpet when I got up, bleary-eyed, to make tea first thing this morning. Yes I know it’s a sign of undying love for one’s mistress (we all have our own unique ways of expressing our feelings after all), but it’s actually quite scary. You never quite know what you’re going to find of a morning.

4. Unfortunately I never ever stay in bed, naked, until noon (you’ve no idea how much I’d like to though.) I get up with raging insomnia at 3.30 and usually blog or talk to whomsoever of you folks is around also with raging insomnia at 3.30, or who is on U.S. time and hasn’t gone to bed yet. Do email me at 3.30. I’m usually around, watching the clock mostly.

5. When I was a kid I had webbed toes on my right foot. Of course I was teased mercilessly at school. Fish feet, freak, mutant, just what you’d expect from kids I guess. So I got a pair of scissors and cut out the webbing. A miracle I didn’t get blood poisoning really. It was at that point in my life that I realized I had a high pain threshold.

6. I also collect slutty purple underpants. Strange, gross and more than you needed to know...

I can guess what you’re thinking now. TOO MUCH DETAIL (believe me you don’t wanna see the other two I didn’t post.)

Still, looking on the bright side, hopefully that’s the last time I’ll get tagged for a while. And no, I’m not tagging anyone, except possibly my cat (she deserves it.)

The question I do want to ask, however, is Why Did The Rule Shrink From Ten to Six?

Where did the other four rules go???

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Iveta

The White Chicken

A non-photographic, irrational contemplation of the meaning of life as we really don’t know it.

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Messages From The Great Beyond

As I was brought up at a strict catholic school, I was always taught that the Giant Marshmallow Man in the Sky (GMMITS) always answered your questions/wishes/ prayers/whatever, but not necessarily in the way you thought He would. To any question you put out to the Cosmos, you would always get a reply in the form of a message, an occurrence or a practical sign if you like, because GMMITS is a practical kinda guy.

Of course I’ve grown out of Catholicism, thank Heavens, but the old habit of watching for messages from the Cosmos still remains, despite my newfound religion of cynicism and cold hard logic. I just can’t help looking. Years of catholic indoctrination and programming don’t just vanish you know. I do try to ignore it, but occasionally there are a series of coincidences so ridiculous that I do start to wonder if there is really Something Out There which is trying to talk to me.

Mathematicians and physicists are adept at finding patterns behind seemingly random events, and research has found that there are many connections between apparently random coincidences befalling mice, men, and other mammals. Of course the beauty of statistics is that you can prove a correlation between anything if you try hard enough, so the jury is still out as to whether there is such a thing as co-incidence, or if instead the universe is all connected and there is something more metaphysical at work.

So where is this pointless ramble going? Well, about two months ago a white chicken suddenly appeared in our garden, seemingly out of nowhere. We often get visiting pheasants, pigeons, moles and the odd hedgehog, but never chickens. I didn’t encourage our new visitor (I didn’t want a new pet) but she came back day after day, suddenly appearing in the drive outside the office. She would stand outside our office window, staring inwards and fixing me with an penetrating, unwavering gaze. It was really creepy.

I started to have nightmares about being chased by mutant killer chickens, and our kids, telepathically sensing a rare chink in the parental armour, exploited this moment of weakness to the full, and started leaving plastic white chickens in my bed, pinning white chicken pictures on my fridge and putting white chicken backdrops on my computer. They called it The Cosmic White Chicken, Harbinger of Doom. Kids can be really mean.

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See what I have to put up with?

Anyway, I refused to crack under all the fowl pressure (sorry) and ignored the sodding thing. It gave up eventually and left. But then the strangest things started happening. White chickens started popping up everywhere, on the news, in magazine adverts, stuffed in our local museum, on a white chicken carousel ride, on the internet whilst browsing real estate and sausages (not together, although living in a sausage town would be kinda cool.)

The final straw came when I dropped into the local cathedral (purely for coffee and bread pudding you understand, which I have to say were awesome…these Christians really know how to lure the punters) and there was a new religious tableau of a giant everlasting Torture Candle (very strange candle covered in barbed wire, in memory of world torture victims apparently) surrounded by…you guessed it…white chickens. They were everywhere, painted on either side of the altar, plus embroidered on tapestries all over the chapel. What did it mean? The Dean was unsurprisingly unavailable to explain White Chicken Religious Art to a middle-aged loon with small kids in tow, so I asked the next best authority, the coffee shop ladies, who were more forthcoming as it was they who had fed coffee and bread pudding to the artist whilst he painted them. They thought that the chickens might be a coat of arms, but the message was supposed to symbolise hope for the future, the triumph of good over evil. Or maybe the guy just had a thing about bread pudding and chickens, who knows?

So I went home boggled, confused and more than a little freaked out. Was this a manifestation of my subconscious or was Something Out There trying to send me a profound message? Were all these coincidences just random cosmic garbage? Had I been drinking too much hallucinogenic cathedral coffee? Or was I myself The Cosmic White Chicken, Harbinger Of Doom? What did it all MEAN???

The very next morning, after three weeks absence, my white chicken came back to visit. She strutted up the drive, and tottering behind her were six little newborn baby chicks, frail, tiny, and wobbling unsteadily after their mother. She stopped outside the office window, puffed out her chest proudly and fixed me with her beady stare. I could swear she winked at me.

I got the message.

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Photograph by Rich of course. Scary Cosmic White Chicken graphics courtesy of oldest son, using Gary's Mod.

The Grass is Always Greener

The UK sucks. We wanna emigrate. The credit crunch is making the British population miserable, the taxes are humungous and there is one surveillance camera for every fourteen people. Did you know that there is currently draft legislation that will result in the recording of every email, phone call and internet search in Britain? The information will be stored on giant server farms at an as-yet-undisclosed location. It may have taken a little longer than he predicted, but Orwell’s vision of a future where cameras and computers spy on every person’s movements is finally here.

So Canada it is then. Free healthcare and the land is cheap (note that everywhere is cheap compared to the UK) and Canadians are recruiting skilled workers, unfortunately only about 50,000 of them though. My guess is there are about 5 million of us who would like to go. The only problem with Canada, or in fact the US or Australia, is the healthcare issue. In order to qualify for entry, you have to be free of disease, and of course there’s the whole health-insurance issue in the US. What are the chances of me getting a job or health insurance anywhere? A snowball's chance in hell, I suspect. But even assuming we could get past the paperwork and get into the US (our preferred choice), then there is the thorny issue of what would happen to Rich’s photography.

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Some of you may well have noticed that there is a big difference between American and British nude photography. It’s primarily a difference in style, not dissimilar to the difference between American and English interior design. Contemporary American nude photography is…how do I put it?...more arty, more fashion orientated. It features more unique angles, trendy cropping techniques and it is more dramatic and emotional. I would moot that British nude photography is less hip and is actually more traditional in style (fellow British nude photographers, please feel free to send me hate-mail now.) American boobies have a whole different culture than British boobies. I’m not sure our own boobies would comfortably make the leap.

There’s also the effect that emigration has on the photographer’s psyche. Remember my thing about Paul Strand? Well, Strand loved America to distraction. His “Time In New England” reflected his passion for his country and the people he loved. He was compelled to record everything he saw in terms of light, and the resulting portraits and landscapes were masterpieces of illumination. His American photography was the best work he’d ever done, it was his life’s achievement. But in 1950, when he was approaching old-age, the country he loved had changed so much that he could no longer bear to stay, and so he left and emigrated to France. The problem was that his photography never recovered from the move. Because he hadn’t grown up in France he didn’t intimately understand the people, their culture or how they thought and felt, so he always felt excluded, no matter how friendly the locals were. This distance, and the inevitable culture gap, meant that his French work was perceived as being disjointed, sentimental, idealised and lacked the intimacy and insight of the original photographs from his homeland.

So even if by some miracle we bypassed the paperwork and health issues and we finally managed to emigrate, it is my deep suspicion that Rich’s photography would suffer irreparable damage. As Robert Adams observed, photographers are especially vulnerable to dislocation. It is not possible for them to transfer to a new country the fundamental ingredient of their art – their love for their people, culture and way of life.

Rich and I are both British through and through. We love our people and their foibles, their stubborn and repressed intellectual snobbery, their inability to admit when they are wrong. And we are probably rather too fond of the British stiff-upper-lip culture and our class ridden system with all its eccentricities and flaws. It’s the way we think, it’s who we are. Despite the injustices inflicted by the current oppressive regime, how can we bear to leave? And even if we did go, what would happen to our art?

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Images are of American model Clayre McKinnen, photographed in a very British style of course.