gift from a stranger

 

Buddybox postcard

This postcard fell out of the book I was reading in bed this morning.  The book is called Love Anthony, by Lisa Genova – you may know her as the writer of the novel on which the film Still Alice was based.  I was having a duvet morning.  Sometimes I just feel inexplicably low and flat and tired and this morning was one of those days.  Sometimes I have to get up anyway because there are things that must be done and obligations and commitments that must be met, but this morning I was lucky and had the luxury of being able to snuggle up, stay put, and finish the book.

The book is a touching story about the bereaved mother of a young boy with autism who died at the age of ten, and another woman whose husband has just left her for someone else, and how their paths intermingle and cross, ultimately helping both of them to come to terms with their losses.  Although its subject would seem to be about autism, the story is really about love in its various forms, and most of all, about loving unconditionally.  It’s beautifully written and a compelling read, and I didn’t want to put it down.  I cried.  Much of it was to do with the story in the book, but some of it was because it linked to things in my own past that the story brought to mind, and some of it was simply because I was feeling a little low anyway.  And then the postcard fell out.

On the back is printed: WRITE SOMETHING NICE TO SOMEONE YOU’VE NEVER MET.  There’s an empty space for writing in, and then instructions to leave the postcard somewhere where someone will find it – a library book, a cafe table, a pigeon hole.  Inside the box, someone had written this:

Beauty begins the moment you decide to be yourself.

Don’t confuse your path with your destination.  Just because it’s stormy now doesn’t mean you aren’t headed for sunshine.

After reading it, I cried some more, because I believe that what you need comes to you at just the right time and because somebody, somewhere had cared enough to place the postcard in the book in the hope that it might help whoever read it.

There seems to be so much unkindness and anger in the world at the moment, so much tragedy and hatred and suffering and intolerance.  These things seem so huge that it’s hard to know what you can do that will make any difference.  I know I’m not the kind of person who’s ever going to do great things.  I’m not going to suffer for a cause, volunteer in war-torn countries, be a political agitator, generate thousands for charity, or anything like that.  But I do believe in kindness, and I do believe that small kindnesses can make a big difference.  I’m aware that I have many flaws, and I know that, like most of us, I’ve been unkind when I could have done better, or failed to be kind when it would have been easy for me.  But I do try, whenever I feel able, to carry out some small and unexpected kindnesses.  And I’ve been on the receiving end of many small kindnesses, and they have touched me deeply at the time and will live in my memory for always.

So I think it’s possible to make a difference in the world in very small ways.  We can’t all do ‘big’ stuff, but small gestures can mean a lot and are something everyone can manage.  The postcard was a small and lovely, unexpected gift from someone who would get nothing in return other than the hope that it cheered the person who found it.  Last week I was clearing out my desk drawers, and I found a number of photos that I had printed for various reasons but never used.  I thought it would be nice to adopt the postcard idea and do something similar with the prints. It’s a small thing to do – a very small thing – but I hope that it might make a difference to someone, somewhere, like this one did for me.

Constant kindness can accomplish much.  As the sun makes ice melt, kindness causes misunderstanding, mistrust, and hostility to evaporate.

Albert Schweitzer

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adventures with my phone

Car windscreen with tree reflection

I got my first smartphone at Christmas, and yes, I know I’m behind about 90% of the population but I got there in the end.  I have very little interest in phones themselves, but I was keen to have a go at using the camera function.  I’ve seen some interesting work done with phone cameras and I knew there were some fun apps you could use to process afterwards.

What I’m about to say is unlikely to be news to anyone but me, but I’ll say it anyway.  I was very pleasantly surprised by its performance in bright light, but its performance in low light is abysmal. And naturally, everything looks much better on the very small screen of the phone, so it’s hard to tell how good/bad they are until you see them on a full-size screen and it’s often disappointing when you do.  It’s true that the poor quality is almost a feature of phone images, and also true that when it’s bad it’s so bad it almost has a painterly quality which can sometimes be appealing.

There have been some frustrations apart from lack of quality.  I uploaded the Snapseed app as I’d heard it was one of the best all-round apps for editing, and it was wonderfully easy to use with lots of options.  However, when I came to upload the pictures to my computer the edited ones loaded in a format that Elements doesn’t recognise, and after a bit of Googling to find out why, it turns out that the only way to get them there is to email them to yourself or upload them to iCloud, which I haven’t set up yet. Grump.

In the end, the easiest thing to do was reprocess the originals using Photoshop on my desktop computer.  Obviously you can’t shoot in RAW formaton a phone, but you can open the jpegs in the RAW processor, which is quite useful at times.  One thing that impressed me was how the phone dealt with the very bright sun in the puddle reflection.  My normal camera would have turned this into a shapeless, burnt-out blob, but the camera phone has retained a nice clean circular shape for the sun.  Another thing is that sometimes colours don’t come out very well, so it often repays to convert these to black and white.

Despite the drawbacks, it’s been really, really fun having a half-decent camera on hand at all times and, better still, it’s got me taking photos again. I still seem to be on a tree theme, without really meaning to be.  To be honest, there’s not a lot else that appeals at the moment, although colour is coming back to the world again and hopefully I’ll find myself getting inspired by other things as well fairly soon.

I don’t think this is ever going to replace my usual camera, but I wanted to see what was possible using a phone.  In about six weeks time I’m going to be interviewed on local radio, and before then am trying to put together some workshops based on using photography as a tool to enhance well-being and develop mindfulness.  I want the workshops to be open to anyone, regardless of what sort of camera they have, so it’s been good to prove to myself that you can get some really nice images with phone cameras.

Car windscreen with tree reflection

Tree reflection in puddle, black and white

Car windscreen with tree reflection

Rainy window with tree, at dusk

Trees with blue sky

 

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Wicca

My old cat died last night, just a couple of weeks short of her twentieth birthday.  She stopped eating, and for the latter half of the day she lay there glassy-eyed and unmoving and I knew it was time. She was so thin it was hard to see how her body could support life, her fur was dry and matted, and she felt so fragile I thought she might shatter with a touch.  Her time had come.

I wanted to hold vigil with her on her last night, so I wrapped her in a blanket and laid her on a cushion beside my bed.  At 12:50am she began to twitch wildly, then took her last few ragged breaths as I gently stroked her.  I think it was a good death, with a minimum of suffering, in a familiar place, wrapped in all the love I have to give.

The kittens gathered round, unsure what was happening, but somehow knowing to keep a respectful distance.  Later, I placed her body on a table in my office and Fingal extended a gentle paw to touch hers.  I was lucky enough to have my camera in my hand at the time.

Fingal and Wicca

A little while ago, I wrote this poem after Wicca had made a rare visit to me when I was lying sleepless in bed one night.  We have a three-storey house and she hadn’t been to the top floor of the house in months.

Old cat

You came to me tonight,

easing your arthritic body up several steep flights

just to see me,

and allow me to stroke your dulled fur

and murmur your name into deaf ears.

I was having dark thoughts till you came,

but you led me back to a safe place

and my heart unfurled,

and the soft purr of a loved old cat was all I needed

to let me feel what there is of peace in this world.

Goodbye, my friend.

 

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heart art

Heart made from berries, leaves and stones

I discovered some great little online courses recently, run by the University of Tasmania.  They’re all centred around art, health and wellness, each on a different aspect of art and design.  So far I’ve signed up for The Art of Wellness: Visual Arts and Health; Inspired by Nature: Outdoor Therapeutic Environments; and Creative Expressions: Storywriting, Journalling and Poetry.  Each of them has a couple of practical assignments, which I must admit I’ve not been very conscientious about doing.

The Art of Wellness covers photography, sculpture and drawing and I haven’t done any of those yet, although I have good intentions.  At the moment I’m working on Inspired by Nature, which has two practical exercises.  One of them is to design a community eco-arts intervention, something that leaves me feeling somewhat confused and confounded.  I might come back to that.  The other, however, is a bit more up my street – wildcrafting.

You may already be familiar with Andy Goldsworthy, who has to be the poster boy for this kind of thing.  He makes the most amazing, ephemeral sculptures out of natural materials such as wood, ice, leaves, and so on, and then photographs them.  They’re stunningly beautiful and exquisitely crafted.  This isn’t the only way to go with this assignment and you can interpret it how you like, but I thought I’d give this approach a go.

It’s amazing how difficult I find it just to go out and play.  I went out to the garden, thinking I’d look for inspiration and the first thing I noticed was last year’s dead stems, foliage and other debris crowding the border and threatening to smother the new growth.  An hour later, I’d cleared and composted quite a bit of it and thought perhaps I’d just do something quickly, to satisfy myself that at least I’d tried.  It felt frivolous and time-wasting and I had to push myself to do it.

Since it’s Valentine’s day this week, making a heart out of the proliferation of red berries on a tree that I don’t know the name of, seemed like a reasonable way to go.  A stone bench in the garden, covered in moss and lichen, offered a rather nice background – I thought the greens would contrast nicely with the red of the berries.  I made my little heart and duly photographed it, but it looked a little bit lacking.  I had the idea to surround it in little pieces of gravel and it looked a lot better.  Then I noticed the bright yellow leaves on the hedge and began to play with placing them around the heart.  Finally, I finished off by placing more red berries at the tip of each leaf.  Andy Goldsworthy eat your heart out!

It really was great fun and I could have spent hours out there, trying out different ideas.  I’d love to do more, but my inner adult is trying hard not to allow that, and it brought it home to me how hard I find it just to play, without feeling guilty.  In truth, I might not have done it at all if I hadn’t thought that it would provide material for a blog post.  That’s a little sad.  The other thing I realised is that it’s very tricky positioning little bits of things just so, and my admiration for AG has soared to even greater heights.

If you’re interested in any of the courses, you can find details here.  The first one- Art of Wellness – is free, and after that they’re each a very reasonable 20 Australian dollars (about £12 in UK money).

Heart made of berries, stones and leaves

 

 

 

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the tower

The Tower, Aquatic TarotRider Waite Tarot - The TowerThe Aquatic Tarot                                                                                                                          The Rider-Waite Tarot

I’ve been going to a writer’s class, just a small group that meets monthly.  We try out different techniques, different inspirations, and we can write in any form we choose.  Mine is usually poetry, as I like the challenge of trying to distill what I say down to the least number of most effective words – since I’m usually rather a wordy person, it does me good.  And I think that poetry and pictures work in similar ways – they say things that can be felt but not always articulated in the usual ways, and they both involve a stripping down to what’s essential.  And of course a short poem is quick to write – an advantage that’s not to  be sniffed at.

At our last meeting we looked at unusual ways of using language, with examples from ee cummings (one of my favourite poets) and a poem by Rody Gorman (whom I’d never heard of) called Soldier’s Heart.  He uses a technique that lumps several words into one long word that somehow expresses more than the individual words would if used separately.  It reminded me of those endlessly long German words that are a combination of several shorter ones.  I can’t find a link to the poem, so I’ll reproduce a little of it here just to let you see the idea:

[He] was filled with war-goddessbattle-fury

And darkness and sudden violent madness

And flutterloitering and floathovering and fumblerestlessness

And double unsteadyrestlessness and strifemalice for every place

Where he used to be and belovedcharitylove for every place he was not.

Not the easiest to read, but very distinctive.

Our task was to do something similar, and we were given inspiration in the form of books on mythology and legends.  None of these got me going, and I pondered on what would, eventually coming up with the Tarot.  I’ve always loved Tarot cards, more for their visual appeal than anything else, although I did go and learn how to read them at one stage in my life.  The pictures on them can be regarded as Jungian archetypes and say a lot about the human experience.  The one that always got to me is The Tower.  The Tower represents a falling away of all the structures in your life, everything you hold true, the familiar, the dear, everything on which your life rests.  It feels catastrophic, but has a larger meaning of clearing away the dross, throwing everything up in the air and then allowing it to settle into a new and better pattern.  I feel as if I’ve been in the the Tower pattern many times in my life, so it resonates with me. You can see a couple of depictions of The Tower at the top of the post – the first is the Aquatic Tarot, and the second is the well-known Rider-Waite Tarot (both are copyright free).  The card pictured next to the poem is from Dancing Tarot, also copyright-free

A whole poem came to me and fell into place, inspired by this card.  I’m not sure I can really take credit for it – it just seemed to appear fully-formed.

The Tower

When the tower crumbleshattered

And felldived around her

And skyboltfire cracked and flamed

She felt a chaosmadfear in her heart

The world was full of fallingfear and shattersounds

And explodebricks crashed around her

Heavenfire flamed through her senses

And her body floatfell to the grasshard ground.

 

 

This was a lot of fun to do, although I’m not sure I’d want to make a habit of it!  The technique obviously lends itself to rather grand, gothic scenarios, and I wanted to try it on something quite different to see if I could get it to work, so I wrote a short poem about my kittens.  One is black and white and looks as if he’s wearing a tuxedo, and the other has wonderfully patterned fur that makes her look a lot like a snow leopard.  As they sat waiting for me to feed them, I had the idea that they were dressed up to go out to dinner, and wrote this:

Kitten Date

She wears leopardpawfurs, he a dinnerdatetux

Their rattlingrollpurrs are loud for such tinysmallperfects

Dinner is platepalemilk and meats braised in gravygel

Afterwards, tumbletussling padpawsoft play, then counter-curled sleep.

A final thought: if you had to depict the essence of The Tower photographically, how would you do it?  At the moment I have no idea, but it’s something interesting to think about.  Any ideas?

(Thank you to Fiona, for her writing course Kickstart, and for the prompt that led to this.)

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remembering autumn

Red and yellow trees, Winkworth Arboretum

Every so often I go through a spell of not being able to do any photography – something in me just dries up and doesn’t want to know.  It’s happened often enough now that I don’t worry (much) any more, as it usually leads (eventually) to a leap forward of some kind.  I’m in the midst of one of these dry spells at the moment, and finding it hard to know what to write about because of that.

Sometimes I find I’m quite happy processing or re-processing old images even if I don’t feel like taking new ones, but this time I’ve found I don’t even want to do that. I think it’s because that’s what’s actually the problem – no matter what I do, I’m not liking my processed images.  I’d be hard pushed to say exactly what it is that’s wrong, but I do know I’m not achieving the look that I want.  And worse, I don’t know what to do to make things better.  All I know is that when I see the finished work of other photographers that I admire, it looks so much better than mine.  And I don’t mean by this the composition or anything like that, just certain qualities that the image itself possesses.  It’s possible that this is due to the camera or lens that they’re using, but I think most of it is down to the processing.  Their images just look so much more polished and they have a look about them that mine don’t have..

For most images, I know I want a certain softness married to a degree of clarity, and some photos I’ve seen have a kind of glow about them that I’d like to emulate..  Sometimes I get close to this, but then I look and wonder if they’re actually a bit over-processed.  The problem is that the more I look at them, the less objective and discriminating I’m able to be, and then I begin to disappear up my own tutu (as a previous mother-in-law used to say).  It’s hellishly frustrating, so I end up not even wanting to try.

I thought perhaps I needed to expand my Photoshop skills so I subscribed to Scott Kelby’s training website.  It’s very good, and I did learn quite a few little bits and pieces that I didn’t know, but it still wasn’t giving me what I want.  Kelby himself has a certain processing style that’s totally at odds with my own desired result, so although it was very useful to see how he does what he does, and the techniques can obviously be applied in different ways, it didn’t really help me do what I want to do.  I’m thinking now that I need to start talking to some photographers whose work has the look that I want and ask them how they go about things.

It always strikes me as odd that the person in the street doesn’t realise how vitally important post-processing is, and how much you can change the outcome by using it.  I think until you’ve seen before and after shots of the same image, you don’t realise what a difference it can make.  And photography must be one of the only arts where a lot of people expect you to get it spot on without doing anything beyond the first pass.  A composer will go on tweaking or even drastically changing his original composition until it sounds right; a writer will do revision after revision until she gets what she wants; an actor wouldn’t expect to be ready for a finished performance after the first rehearsal.  The initial RAW file is really a first draft rather than a finished product.

Having said all this, in the midst of a grey winter I’m finding a set of photos I took in late autumn last year quite appealing, simply because they’re so colourful.  Some had already been processed and I’ve done some work on the rest.  These were taken at Winkworth Arboretum in late autumn last year, and the colours were incredible.  You’d think I’d bumped up the saturation, but in some cases I actually had to tone it down because it looked so unreal.  It’s energising and refreshing to see a bit of colour at a time of year when things are grey and bleak.

For a look at what a bit of processing can do – with lots of before and after shots – plus an argument for why professional photographers shouldn’t let people have their unedited photos, this article by Caleb Kerr is interesting and enlightening.

 

Red tree, Winkworth Arboretum

Autumn lake, Winkworth Arboretum

Autumn colours, Winkworth Arboretum

Red tree, Winkworth Arboretum

Autumn rust, Winkworth Arboretum

poetry is easier

Winter leaves with reflection

Why it’s easier to be a poet than a photographer:

  1.  It is not expected that you go somewhere exotic, grand, or far-flung in order to write a poem.  You can make one anywhere, about anything.  It will not be seen as a worse poem for being about your toddler looking at the moon (Ted Hughes), a fork in a woodland path (Robert Frost), a blade of grass (Brian Patten), or a haggis (Robert Burns). It is recognised that something big can be said by writing about something small.
  2. A poem is not thought to be better because you climbed a mountain and trekked through thigh-deep snow for hours in order to write it, nor because you had to get up before dawn or risk your life on the edge of a slippery precipice.  It is not thought better because you hefted several kilos of pens and notepads to the location where you wrote it.
  3. It is not necessary to keep upgrading your pen and paper to be any good.  Nobody will think any the less of you, nor judge your poems according to whether you write them with a biro or a Parker pen.
  4. Nobody ever asks what kind of poet you are and expects you to define yourself as a landscape poet, or a street poet, or to say you specialise in sonnets or villanelles.  It is enough to say that you write poetry.
  5.  A poem is not thought to be good because its grammar is exact and perfect, and its spelling exemplary.  A good poem breaks as many rules as it keeps and it needn’t be instantly clear and obvious.  It is recognised that there are many ways of creating a good poem and that all good poems do not have to conform to a single ideal, but are allowed to be good in their own way.
  6. A poem is not expected to describe exactly, but to distill its subject down to its essence and, by changing it, show it as it is.
  7. It is expected that a poem be edited and polished before it is released.  It is not regarded as some sort of cheating if you change the words of the first draft and crop out superfluous phrases.
  8. Finally, nobody ever says: ‘that’s a great poem, you must have a really good pen.  Oh, and what sort of notepad do you use?’

 

 

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winter blues

Lamplit window, Newark

The colour has gone from the world.

December drips and drabs along into the dark time,

grey rain drizzles from an oozing sky,

and the murky light glooms its way to nightfall.

Birds are silent; the world smells only of damp dead leaves.

In houses, in streets, squares of warm yellow – reminders of an absent sun.

Gilly Walker

I don’t mind the cold of winter, or even the rain as such – it’s the grey gloominess of it all that gets to me.  I would welcome snow and ice, sparkling frost, tumultuous skies full of stormy life, pale blue skies with a wintry sun, even rain that comes down in torrents – anything other than this drip and drizzle and monotonous greyness. It’s the one time of year when I regret our temperate climate and long for some ‘real’ weather.

I woke up one December morning – very early, I thought, but it was after 8.00am and the light was so dim and poor that it didn’t seem as if the day had got started yet.  My heart sank a bit on seeing how dreich it was (Scots: dreich: – a combination of dull, overcast, drizzly, cold, misty and miserable weather; at least 4 of the above adjectives must apply before the weather is truly dreich) .  I’ve been writing bits of poetry lately – usually in the middle of the night, and this certainly felt like the middle of the night – so I wrote a little word picture and got it out of my system.  I found this photo that I took a while ago, and it worked quite well with the words. Sometimes you just have to go with things as they are and make something of it, and by doing that you can rise above it.  The great thing about writing and photography is that everything is fuel for creating, even the bad and the dull.

Some of you may have seen the film of The Road, an adaptation of Cormac McCarthy’s post-apocalyptic novel of the same name.  A man and his son make their way through a grim world inhabited by survivors who are quite likely to kill you, or even eat you in order to ensure their further survival.  It’s a sombre film, made more so by the unrelenting rain that teems down on father and son, and the lack of any colour but greys and browns.  This alone is enough to make you wonder about your motivation to stay alive in such a world, even without the threats and danger from others, and the whole would have lost much of its power without the absence of colour and that endless soaking dull rain. No wonder the ancients worshipped the sun.


 

I have big changes in mind for this blog, although it may take me some time to implement them.  The first thing is to change hosts as Hostgator is getting ridiculously expensive for a simple blog that doesn’t make any money.  But changing hosts is the easy bit – I hope – as I’ll get someone to do that for me.  I also want to expand the scope of what I write about to more than just photography, and that will involve a new name for the blog and a new design, too.  I’ve found a theme I like, but it’s pricey and January has been full of unexpected expenses, so I may have to wait a couple of weeks for that.  I know that the theme I’m using has problems and I’m not tech savvy enough to know how to solve them.  I hope the new one will be a big improvement.

 

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hereby hangs a tail (or two)

Fingal, black and white kittenFingal

I have two kittens.  My early morning quiet is punctuated by the drumroll of eight tiny paws hurtling up and down stairs, on and off furniture, in and out of rooms.  Set free from the confines of their overnight room, all that energy demands release.  A thrown-away crumpled ball of paper becomes a delight – prey to be batted around, pounced on, chased.  Once, they found the ultimate prize under the sideboard – a dead bumblebee!  Pot plants rustle delightfully when playing tag through them, one at each side, and any object on a high surface is guaranteed to make a fascinating noise as it crash lands on the floor, if they can only get up there to knock it off.  Curtains are made for climbing on, and for having mock tussles with each other while both cling on with claws hooked into the fabric.

Fingal is a black and white ‘tuxedo’ kitten, with a white bib, paws and underbelly, and a smudged diagonal white mark across his nose.  His eyes are as round as the hole in a polo mint and full of kittenish wonder.  He’s a floppety sort of cat, constantly falling off things, utterly relaxed, toppling and rolling onto his back at every opportunity, softness personified.

He thinks everyone is his friend, and so far that’s the way it’s worked out.  He loves people, and will start up a deep rattling purr like the waves breaking on a pebble beach, at the slightest hint of attention from a human.  Sometimes it’s hard to believe such a sound can come from such a small creature.  He loves to cuddle, and his greeting to me is to come close to my face and very, very gently touch noses.  This makes him – and me – very happy.

Flora, tabby kittenFlora

Flora is a tabby who looks a lot like a snow leopard – she’s exquisitely beautiful (this photo doesn’t do her justice).  Her eyes are almond shaped and full of bright intelligence – while Fingal plays the clown, she is the brains of the outfit.  She’s fussy about who touches her.  When she first arrived I thought she was nervous, but then I realised she’s not scared of much at all, although she exercises a sensible caution in her interactions.

It took nearly a week before she’d let me stroke her, although she consented to play-fight my finger from the beginning.  She did this with grace and gentle politeness, claws immaculately sheathed, never hurting me, just the velvet bat of her pads against my hand.  It turns out she prefers men to women – she was all over Geoff the minute she saw him, eyes squinting shut in ecstasy as he rubbed behind her ears.  That made me happy as well, if a little jealous.  She adores Fingal, too, and tenderly puts an arm round his neck as she uses the other paw to wash his face.   There’s no doubt she prefers men, but she’s getting to quite like me anyway, despite my gender.  Last night she curled up on my lap and slept, and I’m now permitted to stroke and pet most areas although not, for some reason, her head and face.

They have brought such joy into my life.  I still have Wicca, my cat of almost twenty years old, but it was making me terribly sad to see her so frail and old.  She’s my first cat love and will always be very special to me, but I needed to bring some life and promise and joy into the house and the kittens have done just that.  Wicca is being coddled, with hot water bottles on a comfy chair and everything she needs in one room, and we’re doing our best to make her remaining time as comfortable and happy as possible.  I still feel sad to see her so reduced, but the fun and freshness of the kittens counteract that to a large extent, and promise a future where I won’t be left alone in a home empty of animals.

Photographing kittens is so difficult!  These shots aren’t great, as I had to use an ISO of 1600, and even that wasn’t enough to get a truly fast enough shutter speed that would totally avoid camera or subject movement.  Unfortunately my old camera only goes this far up the scale – I was using it because I think there are some focussing issues with the new one.  I hope to get some better shots soon – the kittens are changing and growing so fast and I want to capture the cuteness before I find they’ve grown into full-size cats without me noticing.  And it seems to me that sometimes it’s good enough for a photo’s to function as memory, and that a shot is worth having if it brings those to mind when you look at it, even if it’s sorely lacking in technical merit.

 

 

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good wishes to all

Yoko Ono, Tate Liverpool, 2012Yoko Ono, Tate Liverpool, 2012

I’m taking a break now, until early in the new year.  I’d like to wish everybody a wonderful Christmas – or whatever your festival or holiday is – and hope that 2017 brings you dreams come true, inner peace, and lots of love, laughter and abundance.

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