Say Cheese

Our four year old daughter is paralytically shy. At home she’s actually a bubbly talkative little kid, but outside the family circle she’s so frightened that she visibly shakes when someone talks to her, and she hides whenever a grown-up tries to engage her in conversation. We’ve tried her in therapy, we’ve been patient, cajoling, resorted to bribery, encouragement, cuddles, you name it. Poor little mite, she’s really tried, but it’s been an uphill battle for several years now. We’ve been at our wits end trying to help her, and we were beginning to despair.

A few weeks ago we finally had a breakthrough. We found a very old camera (135mm film) and we gave it to her, telling her that now she was a real photographer like her daddy. From that moment onwards, she carried it everywhere, and the change in her behaviour has been nothing short of a miracle.

A week ago I took her to an Open Gardens exhibition in a nearby village. There were lots of gardens to visit and hundreds of people, all of whom thought my daughter was incredibly cute (she is) and who wanted to talk to her. Normally she’d have been a basket case after five minutes, but not this time. She had her camera.

She took her role as photographer very seriously. It took hours to tour round the gardens because she had to stop at every interesting flower or garden gargoyle, and I had to wait patiently whilst she snapped away taking photographs. She ran out of film very quickly of course, but that didn’t matter at all. People talked to her, and she didn’t hide. O.K. I’ll admit that she didn’t talk much either, but at least she didn’t run away shrieking. It took her a full ten minutes to photograph a solitary cat, largely because she talked to the cat first, trying to persuade it to “say cheese” for the camera. (The cat purred – the next best thing, I guess.)

So why did photography help her paralysing shyness when all that endless expensive therapy had failed? My guess it was because she was shielded from reality by the camera. She hid behind it, psychologically as well as physically. Talking photographs enabled her to concentrate on something else besides her inability to communicate, plus it allowed her to take possession of the space in which she was insecure. The very activity of taking photographs was soothing to her, and because the camera was between her and the things she was afraid of (an unfamiliar location and strange people), her paralysing fears were appeased. It allowed her to experience a new situation whilst staying in control. She was the mistress of the unknown, and she felt that she was capturing and creating something wonderful.

I have a lot to thank photography for, but I’ve never been quite as grateful for its healing powers as I have been during these last few weeks. I'm sure that my daughter is going to make a very fine photographer one day.

other 1050

Pop Art and Tarts

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

other 902

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

It is a tart.

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

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

Who would you rather be?

Myths … are heroic struggles to comprehend the truth in the world.
Ansel Adams.

The latest in-game at my youngest son’s school is: Who would you rather be?

Now I thought that the obvious choices would be between football heroes such as David Beckham, and pop stars? But this is no ordinary school. This is Hogwarts. So these three little kids decided that they would set their sights a little higher. They decided to choose between God, Zeus and the Devil.

"How come you decided to be Zeus?" I asked my son?
“Because he’s the God of all Gods, he’s big and strong and he’s cool. And he can zap people with lightening.”

So there we have it. My nine-year old son’s ultimate icon is not only a Greek God, but THE Greek God. With that sort of ambition, I’m guessing that he’s gonna go far.
Damn it almost makes those humungous school fees worthwhile.

But it does beg the question, who is your photo-icon and why?

The word icon is derived from the Greek eikon, meaning an image. In the artistic context, icons are visual representations or symbols of sacred or complex concepts (often religious), but the word is also used in modern language to describe the image-makers, in other words, an artist who is so innovative he is practically a super-hero. The UK ex-New-Nude magazine, now dumbed down, de-nuded and rebranded to the absolutely dreadful Photo Icon, uses the term icon to describe “cutting edge photography produced by pioneering photographers.” (Aside: Do NOT buy this magazine. It has no naked women, it is entirely safe for work, and has now become so boring it reviews hiking boots. Honestly. I cancelled our subscription.)

As for me, I’m big on icons, though they are always real-life people as opposed to dead Gods. I favour artists who have pushed the boundaries, who think outside the box. Those photographers whose art moves me emotionally, whose images make me really think, who show me their version of truth and zap my world with an uncustomary lightening bolt.

Several of you fall into this category. I really look up to you, but I ain’t gonna tell you that personally. Lord, no. You’ll get an insufferably big head, or think I’m a bloggie stalker, or I’ll be called a suck-up. Heaven forbid I’d be labelled a “fan.” Ugh. How unbearably crass. We British middle-aged ladies retain a stiff upper lip at all times, whilst secretly nurturing adolescent adoration for your sheer balls and artistic talent.

Do you care? Good heavens no. The whole point of Zeus is to make us realise just how insignificant we mere mortals are. You’re a living icon. I don’t exist in your world, other than as a member of the unwashed masses. I am a mere plebeian to your Zeus.

As for my ultimate icon, why of course it must be my beloved Artiste en Residence. (I have to say that, otherwise he’ll sulk.) No really. He is my hero. He’s also so incredibly Zeus-like that apparently he has no icon. They are pointless in his opinion. He only aspires to be the best he can be. He’s his own super-hero. Pah! This is either very enlightened or the arrogance of a horrendously large ego. I’m not entirely sure which.

I never think of myself as an icon. What is in other people's minds is not in my mind. I just do my thing.
Audrey Hepburn.



Zeus and Hera, having a cuddle.

“I hate art….”

…announced my oldest son last week.

“Hmm…well how come you spend so much time doing it then?” I enquired innocently. It’s true. He spends most of his available spare time buried in some sort of drawing or CGI.

“Dunno really. I always seem to end up doing it,” he replied.

He got the scholarship of course. I would have been extremely surprised if he hadn’t, considering the sheer number of hours he has put in. And of course, we reserve the right to be VERY proud parents. To put this in context, Hogwarts is one of the top five rated schools in the U.K. for art. The scholarship awards are not just for school pupils, but are awarded for art exhibitions from all parts of the country. There were two, possibly three art scholarships awarded by Hogwarts this year. Thus, as I pointed out to him, this means that he is in an extremely small minority of some of the best young artists in the country.

Suddenly it appears he does not hate art quite so much after all.

He asked me to thank you all for your encouragement and support (I read him the bloggie comments you leave for him), in particular Mr Wood for his excellent lesson in how to impress the judges (which came in very handy) and to Mr Iksodas for assisting with the assignment of drawing an “ugly old naked black guy” (my son’s words, not those of his art professor’s nor Mr Iksodas.) Elijah is of course neither old nor ugly, and the judges were exceedingly impressed with my son’s rendition of Mr Iksodas’s photograph. Alas I can’t show the finished sketch here, because it appears to have been mysteriously retained by the judges, who are (by sheer coincidence) predominantly female.

Full reports on “Le Grande Hogwarts Robing Ceremony” in due course. No I wasn’t kidding about that, although I’m not sure if the robes are black or red. He‘s hoping for black robes (a.k.a. Batman) because red robes are apparently “naff.” We also get to meet the gasp…revered Hogwarts headmistress (long flowing blue robes) at whose feet we must apparently worship over a champagne, strawberries and cream tea in the summer. And he gets listed in the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen Scholars, and he gets to go on future art trips to New York/Paris/Barcelona/Venice, and he goes into Gryffindor House next year and……the last time I saw him in the art room at school, he was closely surrounded by at least eight very pretty and adoring girls who were drooling over his …um…artistic ability.…

Life never changes.

All art is about the chix.

But you know that already.



This is where Le Grande Robing Ceremony will take place. I’m gonna be a pathetic weepy and embarrassing mother, I know it.