Exhibitions

The Wave and Bill Viola – Yorkshire Sculpture Park

The Wave, Yorkshire Sculpture Park

I so wanted to see the poppy installation when it was at the Tower of London, but never managed to get there.  A part of it, though – the Wave – is now at the Yorkshire Sculpture Park and we made a visit there last week.  It’s small in comparison – around 5,000 poppies compared to 888,246 at the Tower – but still impressive.  The poppies pour down from a small stone bridge, spilling into the water at the bottom, and the setting works well.

Unfortunately it was a dull grey day with uninteresting light, plus a lot of other people on site, so getting decent photos of it wasn’t easy.  To be honest, I felt a little bit flat on seeing it.  From a distance it looked fantastic – a flow of bright red in the greyish landscape- but close up it lacked something.  The coach parties of visitors didn’t help – I would have liked to spend time with it alone, tuning in to its real meaning.  I took some photos nonetheless, and quite like some of the close-up details.

The Wave, poppies, Yorkshire Sculpture Park

The Wave, poppies, Yorkshire Sculpture Park

The Wave, poppies, Yorkshire Sculpture Park

The Wave, poppies, Yorkshire Sculpture Park

I think perhaps the poppies paled into insignificance for me after viewing the Bill Viola exhibition first (also on at the YSP).  Bill Viola is a video artist – or as he prefers it, an artist who happens to use video.  Now, I usually find video art very unappealing, but there are a few exceptions – Tacita Dean’s installation in the Tate Turbine Hall, for example, and something I once saw in an art gallery in Reykjavik although I can’t remember what it was.  Even then, they don’t touch my soul in the way that a lot of other art does.  Bill Viola, though, is my new art crush.

I can only tell you about it here, because although there are plenty of videos on Youtube showing his major works, they’re badly-recorded phone camera jobs that aren’t even a pale imitation of seeing the real thing and would probably make you think he’s not worth bothering about.  A lot of this is because Viola’s films are exceptionally and beautifully sharp and detailed, and shown very, very big.  Much of their impact lies in the clear, sharp, detail, coupled with the extreme slowing down of the ‘action’ which is his trademark.

I first came across Viola years ago, when I was taken along to what I think was his Quintet Series 2000 exhibition.  I wasn’t as into art then as I am now, and I didn’t have much understanding of it either, but I knew quality when I saw it.  However, I found this work quite hard to take as it involved huge close-up videos of five actor’s faces in exquisite – and sometimes excruciating – slow motion as they experienced a variety of mostly negative emotions.  I often feel very uncomfortable looking at faces this closely, and I found it difficult to watch the minute nuances of anguish on someone’s face over a period of what felt like hours, although it was actually minutes.  It was very, very good, but I simply couldn’t watch it for long.

However, much of Viola’s work is centred around water and fire, and these were the pieces that did it for me at the YSP.  Two of them were created to act as backdrops for a production of the opera Tristan and Isolde.  One of these, Ascension, starts with a pale, draped figure lying prone on a white plinth.  Gently at first, a column of water begins to pour upwards from the figure, getting ‘heavier’ and ‘heavier’, till there are water drops bouncing off the plinth and waves developing in the water around it.  Then slowly the figure begins to ascend towards the source of the deluge, finally disappearing, and the water slowly decreases again till it’s nothing more than mist.  Its accompanying film, Fire Woman, begins with the silhouette of a woman against a huge wall of flame.  Eventually she begins to move, slowly, until she dives into a pool of water in front of her and the water splash rises up in front of the flames, to fall back into the fire-reflecting ripples of the water.  Both videos had soundtracks, of the pouring water or the crackling fire, and were shown several times larger than lifesize.  Everything happens in slow motion, and is meditative, stunningly beautiful, and awe-inspiring.

There were many more of Viola’s works to see, all of them quite amazing and many of them somewhat more complex than the two I’ve described.  The whole point about them, though, is that like the best art they manage to express ideas and feelings that can’t be put into words, and so to attempt to describe them rather misses the point.  There’s a meditative quality to all his work that draws you into it and won’t let go, and it’s difficult to get across something so intangible.  All I can say is, if you’re in the vicinity, go and see it!

Resources: I eventually found a half decent video of Fire Woman on Vimeo.  Just bear in mind, if you watch it, that when shown as intended the screen is twice as high as an average interior wall and a small video loses most of the impact, as you can’t see the subtle detail.  The woman doesn’t begin to move until three minutes in, and doesn’t dive until nearly four minutes in, but this doesn’t matter when you see it really big – it’s enthralling enough to hold you even though not much is happening.

Fire Woman by Bill Viola

And if you’d prefer something shorter, here’s a 45 second trailer for the YSP exhibition, which shows a few of the works very briefly, including Ascension:

Bill Viola at the Yorkshire Sculpture Park

 

Edward Burtynsky’s ‘Water’

Gallery view, Flowers Gallery, Cork St, LondonEdward Burtynsky, ‘Water’, at the Flowers Gallery, Cork St, London

Two days in London, and three wonderful exhibitions – bliss! Although I thoroughly enjoyed all three, I’m only going to talk about one of them here.  I’ve been interested in seeing Edward Burtynsky’s work in the flesh, so to speak, for quite a while and was annoyed that I managed to miss his ‘Oil’ exhibition a little while ago.  This was made up for in spades when I met with Eileen at the weekend and we went to see his new body of work called ‘Water’ at the Flowers Gallery in Cork Street in London.  I’m going to try very hard not to sound like a Burtynsky groupie, mouthing ‘wow!’ and ‘awesome!’ to everything I saw, but it’s going to be tough.  These images were gobsmackingly gorgeous.

Normally photography is prohibited in galleries like this one but this was an exception, so I managed to take a few shots of some of the images.  As photos of the photos, these pale in comparison to the real thing – huge canvases, beautifully printed, with extraordinary colour and detail – but they do at least give an idea of the work.  The theme, as you might have guessed, is water.  Sometimes it’s the absence of water, sometimes the ways in which we use and harness water, and sometimes the natural source of our water, hidden in the mountains and glaciers.

Many of the images are taken from an aerial perspective, and seen from a height, turn into very beautiful abstract patterns.  However, the beauty of the colour and pattern often hides the toll we’re taking on the natural environment.  In the image below, for instance, the shot is of the Almira Peninsula in Spain and what you’re looking at is greenhouses – mile upon mile of greenhouses that have effectively turned this area into a no-man’s land.  I’ll be giving some thought to that next time I eat a winter tomato.

Almira Peninsula by Edward BurtynskyGreenhouses, Almira Peninsula, Spain, 2010, Edward Burtynsky

These rice fields, taken from above, look more hospitable to human life but also portray intensive farming practices.

Rice fields by Edward BurtynskyRice terraces #2, Western Yunnan Province, China, 2012, Edward Burtynsky

One of the things I found most interesting is the way in which the images were both extremely detailed – if you peered in close you could see every bush, tree or bird – but also took on a very painterly appearance when viewed further back.  Somehow Burtynsky manages to preserve detail and create something that has the amorphous feel of an abstract painting, both at the same time.  In the following images, it’s very hard to see what these are in reality, but not because there’s any lack of detail.

Glacial runoff by Edward BurtynskyGlacial runoff #1, Skeidararsandur, Iceland, 2012, Edward Burtynsky

Olfusa river by Edward BurtynskyOlfusa River #1, Iceland, 2012, Edward Burtynsky

In some of the other images the content is more obvious and easier to pin down, but even these manage to express both a feeling of softness and sharp detail in the same shot.

Dam, Xiaolangdi Dam, by Edward BurtynskyXiaolangdi Dam #1, Yellow River, Henan Province, China, 2011, Edward Burtynsky

In these two shots of the Xiaolangdi Dam on the Yellow River, water billows and roils and at first glance there’s nothing man-made here.  In reality, the movement of the water is the effect of a constructed dam and there is a small, delicate metal walkway whose sharp detail contrasts with the force and expansion of the natural element of the water – you can just about make it out on the left, a little over halfway down.  These two images were possibly my favourites – they reminded me of Turner’s paintings, and those of some other artist whose name I can’t quite remember.   To me they epitomise the idea of the sublime in art where beauty, and fear, and awe at the power of nature all combine.  The sheer softness and subtle tones of the colours had to be seen to be believed – they’re somewhat lost here.  It’s impossible to show just how amazing these images were seen at full size, and I can only suggest that if you’re anywhere near London you should get yourself along to see them for real.

Yellow River 2 by Edward BurtynskyXiaolangdi Dam #2, Yellow River, Henan Province, China, 2011, Edward Burtynsky

Yellow River 3 by Edward BurtynskyXiaolangdi Dam #3, Yellow River, Henan Province, China, 2011, Edward Burtynsky

Seeing pictures as good as these is a double-edged sword – there was a part of me that felt they were so far beyond anything I could hope to produce myself that it made me feel like sticking my camera on ebay and giving up the game.  Of course I’m being a little tongue-in-cheek here, but not entirely.  Eileen, who is always full of wisdom and good advice, took another view – she suggested that if they spoke to me as strongly as they do, then there must be something in what I like to do myself that connects with them.  Perhaps I should read my own blog posts a bit more often, because I just found this quote in my archives.

I feel a little presumptuous comparing my own work with Burtynsky’s, but I have begun to see that there are links.  One of the things that Burtynsky does to great effect is to play with the scale.  In his case he shoots on a grand scale which often appears small; in my own case my subject matter often consists of close-ups that appear larger.  The obvious example would be my ‘oil spill’ images, where tiny areas of oil floating on ditch water look as if they might be grand landscapes – here and here.  The image right at the end of this post is a particularly lovely example of Burtynsky’s large-to-small effect, with a river delta appearing like a tree or a piece of seaweed lying on the sand.

Two of the other things I love about the Burtynsky images are their colours and their softness, particularly the way the softness contrasts with sharp detail.  I wish I could achieve this feeling of deep, layered softness without loss of detail, and the rich range of tones that he produces.  Some of the colours in his images are spectacular; in others they’re very subtle but rich and satisfying.  I love strong colour, but recently I’ve found myself drawn to this greater subtlety of colour and this is something I’d like to explore a bit more.  The abstract nature of the pictures appeals to me greatly as well – all the more so because the abstraction arises out of something real without feeling overly contrived.  A lot of these qualities are nascent in my own work and on making the comparison I can see why Burtynsky’s work draws me so strongly.  Perhaps, somehow, I can take some of this and use it to come just a tiny step closer to what he has achieved here.

River delta, Edward BurtynskyColorado River delta #2, Near San Felipe, Baja, Mexico, 2011, Edward Burtynsky

 


If a thing’s worth doing……

Eric Kessels, 24 Hours in Photos,

Image copyright Eileen Rafferty and used with photographer’s permission

I’ve been thinking, recently, about an exhibition by Eric Kessels called 24 Hours in Photos. (Eileen has written about it, here). It’s a simple idea – Kessels printed out every photograph uploaded to Flickr in 24 hours and put them in a great big pile, in an even bigger room. I haven’t seen the exhibition, but just looking at the images of it is shocking – the sheer excess and superfluity quickly leads to a feeling that adding to the numbers of pictures already out there is a bit pointless. What’s it all for?

It started me thinking about the value, or lack of it, in the plethora of mediocre and sometimes downright terrible photographs that surround us online. The ability to take and share photographs easily and effortlessly has led to a situation where everyone is a photographer. This often gives rise to some disparagement, and even on occasion sneering, from those who think of themselves as ‘real’ photographers. There’s a sense that they’d prefer a situation where only those who’d taken time to acquire the requisite skills could produce photographic images.

It’s easy to feel that there’s just too much photography taking place – or perhaps more accurately, being ‘shared’ – and that we’re being so overwhelmed by images that it becomes harder and harder to sift through them to find something above the mediocre, something worth looking at. And there’s some truth in that, for sure. But actually I’m glad that photography has become something that just about everyone participates in, even if the result is too much sharing of too many poor photos.

Before the advent of largely passive entertainment in the form of TV, video, internet, and so on, people used to do stuff. They sang or played an instrument, they took part in sport, they danced, drew, wrote, crafted and made things. They did it because there wasn’t much ready-made entertainment to hand, but also because there’s a satisfaction to be found in the doing even if the result isn’t that great.

Things have changed. Now, if you’re heavily into music it most often means you listen to it rather than play an instrument or sing; many sports enthusiasts sit and watch rather than play; people who love art go and look at it in galleries but don’t produce any themselves; film buffs have never had a go at actually making a short film. People go shopping to buy hand-made crafts but don’t try learning a craft themselves. Entertainment has become something that’s done to us and for us and not something we create for ourselves.

If you ask a room full of adults if they can sing, dance, or draw, very few hands will go up – there’s an assumption that in order to qualify you have to be able to do these things well. Young children, on the other hand, know they can do all these things and they do do them with a total absence of self-censorship and no assumption that they have to be good at it. Somewhere along the line we absorb the idea that if we can’t do something well we shouldn’t be doing it at all, and the easy solution is to opt out and become a consumer rather than a producer.

When did it get to the point where we feel ashamed to sing or dance or paint unless we’re good at it? Some of my fondest memories of my dad were listening to him play the clarinet. He was a really poor player, but the pride and pleasure on his face when he was giving us his rendition of ‘Stranger on the Shore’ means that that particular song can still bring tears to my eyes. I loved to watch him play, not for the music, but for the joy it gave him to perform it. I’m glad he played anyway even if he played badly, and it was part of what made him the person he was.

My dad also painted. He never did anything original, just made very accurate copies of anything he liked the look of that was contained within a book-sized catalogue of art prints called The Homelover’s Companion. He was good at copying, and he enjoyed it, and many people got pleasure from the resulting pictures. I still have one of them – an oil painting copy of Constable’s Salisbury Cathedral. You could never say my dad was an accomplished artist, but I don’t think the time he spent painting was in any way wasted.

Photography is the one area where people haven’t yet lost their joy in participation, or given up because they’re ‘no good’. One of our removal men took ten minutes to show me every single photo of his two cats that he had on his phone. They were technically awful photos – blurred, focus in the wrong place, all of that and more – but I liked that he’d taken them himself and wanted to show them off. They really meant something to him and I was touched by that.

So when I find myself cringing a bit at some of the stuff I see on online photo sharing sites, I choose instead to be pleased that there’s still one art form that everyone takes part in without embarrassment. Yes, I get tired of the endless, dull, and usually meaningless (to me) photos that we’re surrounded by, and I do think there are too many of them – perhaps we don’t need to share quite as many photographs as we do. But I don’t want to hear someone say, someday, ‘oh no, I can’t take photos – I’m really bad at it – I’d rather just look at other people’s.’

 

 

Sculpture in the Sanctuary

Geoff, framedGeoff, framed by a sculpture

There doesn’t seem to be much happening in the way of art round here, so when we saw that a local wildfowl sanctuary was holding a sculpture exhibition, we had to go. We’d been to the sanctuary before, and it’s a lovely peaceful place with some very unusual varieties of birds. We have a notion that some day we might keep chickens, and if we do, I think I want at least one like this black and white fellow – he’s very handsome. Some of the chickens in the sanctuary are really unusual and even highly amusing at times (feathery feet, anyone?), but even the more usual ones have wonderfully glossy colourful feathers.

Black and white chicken

I always feel that photographing sculpture is a bit of a cheat, since the artist is the one who’s done all the work and deserves the credit, but I end up doing it anyway.  Before we entered the sanctuary itself, there was a huge greenhouse full of smaller sculptures to see.  I loved the shape of this one and the curvy, cave-like interior.

Sculpture in the Sanctuary

In the Sanctuary proper, this lady was having a very Bad Hair Day.  I’m about to try out a new hairdressers and I hope I don’t feel like this when I come out.

Bad Hair Day

There were two scupltures that I longed to take home with me for the garden.  I adored this pig, with its floppy ears and lovely solid feel – there’s just something so very pig-like about it.

Piggywig

The second one was a wolf.  We came across him in a small wooded area, gazing at a hare.  Isn’t he wonderful?

Wolf and hare

Wolf

And we bought something! One of the artists had created what she called a Syrian Tree. Hanging from its branches were a flight of white ceramic doves and for each one that was sold the money was given to help aid for the Syrian people.  We were told that she’d made £6,000 so far.  Ours is now out in the garden and I love its simple shape and gracefulness.

Syrian Tree, Sculpture in the Sanctuary

Syrian Tree 2, Sculpture in the Sanctuary

 

Yoko Ono’s pyramids of light

Yoko Ono artwork

The Tate Gallery at Liverpool has an exhibition on at the moment consisting of art chosen by Marianne Faithfull.  It was all chosen because it was meaningful to her in some way, and the collection was a fascinating mixture of artists, media and styles.  One of my favourites was this little sculpture by Yoko Ono – a cluster of pyramidal prisms with a light shining through from underneath.  It produced a wonderful pattern of refracted light on the studio walls, but unfortunately the effect didn’t come out at all well in my photos – the close-ups you see here worked a whole lot better.  They remind me of the crystals on the inside of a geode.

Yoko Ono artwork 2

It would be a boring old world if we all thought the same…..

Mosse, Colonel Soleil's boysColonel Soleil’s boys, Richard Mosse

This rather startling magenta pink is the result of using infrared surveillance film to take ordinary photos. It’s the work of someone called Richard Mosse, and yesterday I was at a study day in which we saw two exhibitions that concerned themselves with the subject of war and genocide. This isn’t my usual cup of tea when it comes to photography; I don’t really need it pointed out to me that there’s a lot of misery out there in the world and I’d prefer to be reminded about the better qualities of humankind – it’s easy to forget about those.

But anyway, that’s what we went to see. Thing is, these images left me untouched and decidedly bored, which is not (I’m fairly sure) the effect they were supposed to have. Other people seemed to be getting a lot out of them, but after five minutes I was standing there wondering when the coffee was coming. We had a little discussion over the coffee when we eventually got some, and after some mild internal panic about whether or not I could think of anything sensible to say, I managed to pull something out of the hat. In case you’re interested, it went like this: the predominant pink colour is Barbie pink and reminds you of girls, and dolls, and toys and Walt Disney, and as this is so very opposite to the masculine world of war depicted in the images, it sets up a certain visual tension. I knew my philosophy degree would come in useful some day.

But you know, I don’t really think this; I don’t think these photos worked. Certainly not for me. I felt nothing looking at them, nothing at all, except a desire to move on to something more interesting. Janet made a good point over the coffee table – ‘why’, she said, ‘is this pink colour not just a gimmick? If we submitted something like this for an assignment, we’d get hammered and accused of just that.’ Gareth looked thoughtful. ‘Well’, he said carefully, ‘Richard Mosse is an established and famous photographer and doesn’t have to explain himself; you’re just a student.’ Those weren’t his words, you understand, and he’s considerably better at being tactful than this would suggest, but that was the gist. ‘And it’s not really a gimmick’, he went on, ‘because he’s making a point by using film that played a role in the conflict itself’. Ok, there’s a bit of cleverness there, I guess – but only a bit.

Upstairs was another exhibition by Simon Norfolk, called For Most of It I Have No Words – brilliant title. He was looking at various sites throughout the world where genocide had taken place, and photographing the traces left there. These images were stunning in themselves, but more than that, they made me feel something. One that touched me was a simple image of some stone steps, with the light coming down from above and highlighting the indentations in the steps made by thousands of feet over time. So what, you might think, until you read the caption and understood that these were prison steps at Auschwitz. Photographically, you’re at the bottom of the steps looking up; standing in darkness and seeing light above, but the tragedy is that you may move up into that light never to come down again. The history of the place is held in the stone of the steps, and it’s very moving.

Simon Norfolk, prison steps, AuschwitzAuschwitz: staircase in a prison block by Simon Norfolk

I’m hopelessly biased, I know. I’ve said before that I need an image to be visually satisfying in order to pull me in. This is something so fundamental to me that I know I’m never going to change in this respect, no matter how much art education I’m subjected to. I loved Simon Norfolk’s photos, loved them. I thought they were beautiful in themselves, and profoundly moving when read in conjunction with the captions. They’re quite old now, in art terms, and are much ‘safer’ than the Mosse images. I’m aware of this, and I like to be challenged, and I’ll do my best to appreciate something that doesn’t have immediate appeal. But Norfolk’s photos are what I relate to; they make me feel something while Mosse’s left me unmoved. Mosse’s had shock value and I sometimes think that a lot of modern art relies on this for any effect it has. Norfolk’s were quieter, subtler, and to my mind all the more powerful for that.  ‘Ah well’, said Fiona as we walked out, ‘it’d be a boring world if we all thought the same.’  And so it would.

Both Richard Mosse and Simon Norfolk are on exhibition at the Open Eye Gallery in Liverpool, until 10th June.

Tacita Dean at the Tate Modern

Tacita Dean 1

Still catching up on my backlog of images. These ones are of the Tacita Dean film in the Turbine Hall at the Tate Modern in London.  For non-UK (and perhaps non-London people too), Tate Modern is housed in what used to be an old power station and it has changing art installations in what was the turbine hall.

I don’t know much about Tacita Dean; I knew the name before I went but not a great deal about what sort of things she’d done.  This film is projected onto the  back wall of the turbine hall, which is a huge area and the film is equally huge and therefore has quite an impact when you see it.  Dean refers to it as a visual poem and that seems like a good description to me; I wouldn’t really know what else to make of it, although I did enjoy it and watched it through several times.  The images and colours are constantly changing and very compelling.  I’m not sure I have a great deal to say about it – certainly nothing very erudite or knowledgeable – but if you’re interested, there’s a Guardian article here that’s quite interesting.  And if you’d like a look at the film itself, youtube has several versions of which this is one – complete with playful children.

I took loads of photos, but of course I had my usual problem of hand-holding in a very dark space so many of them were too blurred to use.  You could go and sit  – or walk round if you liked – in the hall itself and there were lots of children racing around and having fun interacting with the film.  These were the ones that made for the most interesting pictures; partly because of the interaction, but also because they bring home the sheer size of the projected film.

Tacita Dean 3

Tacita Dean 4

Tacita Dean

Tacita Dean 2

And finally, this man was just sitting at the side of the hall in the darkness, totally absorbed in his ipad.  This photo is hopelessly blurred  because of the slow shutter speed I was forced to use, but I kind of like it anyway.

Ipad man

Rainy days are great for photography – honest!

Las Iguanas

I’m always telling the people who come on my workshops that rain offers wonderful opportunities for great photos, but what I do when it rains?  I stay in, of course.  Well, you know – it’s wet out there.

But sometimes you get caught in it without meaning to, and last week was one of those times.  My friend Eileen and I had gone to see the Tracy Emin exhibition at the South Bank Centre in London.  I still don’t know what I think about Ms Emin so maybe I’ll come back to that bit of it later.  Anyway, the South Bank Centre is celebrating the 60th anniversary of the Festival of Britain at the moment, and there are artworks of various kinds all around the area.  Before we went in, when it was still dry – just – we explored a few of these.

One of them is the Urban Fox, a giant structure made out of straw applied to a wooden framework.  He’s rather good, isn’t he?

Urban Fox

And this is a photo of a photo of him being transported there.  You can see just how big he is – look at the size of his head compared to the size of the truck transporting him.

Urban Fox transporter

There was also this themed, outdoor, cafe sort of place; not sure what it was meant to be about, but the colours were wonderful.

Indian cafeFlowers and stripes

 

Dishoom

I also loved the bright pink of this Banksy-style mural, especially in among the rather nasty grey concrete that dominates this area.

Pink

As we came out, we headed for an amazing rooftop garden (of which more in another post).  We started exploring, but the clouds had darkened and the rain began to come down in huge, fat drops, so we headed for cover.  Beneath us as we came down the steps there was a fountain installation by Jeppe Hein called Appearing Rooms.  Jets of water create ‘rooms’ inside the fountain, and these rooms keep changing.  A group of teenagers had stripped off and were having huge fun trying to predict where the next ‘room’ would appear.

Appearing Rooms

They left shortly after we reached shelter but this little boy wandered up, looked at the fountain for a moment, and then jumped right into it fully clothed.  A few minutes later his mother appeared, looking absolutely horrified.  There are times when I wish I wasn’t so old and sensible; part of me was wanting to run right into it myself and dance in the centre.

Fountain dancer

I also took this shot, looking up through the fountain towards the steps we had just come down.  The couple with the umbrella appeared at the top of the steps and I suddenly saw what a great shot it would make, taken through the water jets.  I zoomed right in and grabbed the shot – they only stayed there for a moment – not knowing if it would work, but it did!

Umbrella

The rain was torrential, with some thunder and lightning.  I liked this guy’s solution to staying dry.

Orange cape

Chairs in the rain

Central Bar

Green reflection

And I’m going to include this shot (because I like it), even though I got it badly wrong and the shoes are very out of focus – I’m so annoyed with myself.

Shoes

Finally, some tips that might be helpful if you fancy trying some photography in the rain.

  • Sounds obvious, but unless your camera has weather-sealing, keep it as dry as possible. Light rain probably won’t harm it for a short while, but it should definitely be protected against heavy rain. Hold an umbrella over it; pop it inside a ziplock plastic bag (with hole cut out for lens); buy a pack of Rainsleeves (very cheap); or splash out on a well-designed rain cover. At the very least, tuck it inside your jacket while you’re not using it.
  • Two more cheap ways of keeping your camera dry: use one of those clear plastic shower caps you get in hotel rooms – place the elasticated end over the lens. Or use an old waterproof jacket or trousers (try charity shops) and cut off an arm or a leg. These are often elasticated, which helps fit the end round your lens.
  • Don’t ignore the obvious: find a doorway or tree to shelter under while you shoot.
  • Wipe your camera – lens, LCD screen, camera body – down frequently with a microfibre cloth.
  • To keep your lens as dry as possible, keep the lens cap on until you’re ready to shoot. Have some soft lint-free cloths available to wipe your lens with.
  • Using a lens hood will also help keep the raindrops off.
  • Here’s another idea: put your camera on a monopod and use a superclamp to fix an umbrella to it. It’s portable and because the camera isn’t inside anything it makes it easier to operate.
  • Keep your camera pointed down when you’re not using it to keep most of the raindrops off the lens.
  • Keep yourself dry too. Good waterproofs will have you singing in the rain.
  • If you’ve been out in the cold and are coming back into the warm, avoid condensation forming on your camera by placing it inside a sealable plastic bag (while you’re still outside) and squashing out most of the air. Then let it come back to room temperature. Humidity generally isn’t good for your camera if it persists for a long time. Make sure that it spends most of its time in a warm, light, dry place to discourage moulds and other nasties.
  • If the worst does happen and your camera gets a dowsing, there’s a great article on Shutterbug telling you what you need to do.  Print out a copy of it and keep it inside your camera bag. Use waterproof ink, of course 🙂

 

The Turner Centre, Margate

A friend and I went to the new Turner Centre in Margate last week.  From the outside the building is veering towards the ugly – rather blank, cube-like shapes with one edge elongated into a pointed roof – but inside is much better.  What immediately grabs your eye is the huge window overlooking the sea.  Everyone is drawn to it and I spent some time photographing people as they looked out.  The image above is taken on the second floor and I’m really happy with the way I’ve caught this elderly couple standing just to the side of the open circle.

In the picture below, I liked the huge wall of mirror that extends to each side of the window and the way it distorts everything.  The woman in the wheelchair was an added bonus that adds a sense of scale.

I enjoyed most of the exhibits and I particularly liked the kinetic sculpture with lights, although I don’t have a picture of that.  I also liked the work shown below; it reminds me of a flock of birds wheeling through the sky.  What look like shadows falling beneath each point are actually marks drawn on the wall in pencil.

What’s really great is that, for the moment at least, they’re allowing you to take photos inside the centre.  It’s a refreshing change from the usual prohibitions.  A friend told me he once tried to photograph the artist’s statement that was fixed on the wall next to the work it referred to and was stopped by a security guard.  When he asked if he could copy it by writing down what was said instead, the guard said yes, that would be fine!  I sometimes think the world is crazy.

Most of my shots were of the window and people:

When I posted this one on Flickr, someone suggested that it could be cropped to a square shape to emphasise the window circle, and that the figures would be better turned into silhouettes.  Although I feel it loses the sense of space I was aiming to capture, I think it really works like this (and also loses the person who’s crept in on the right side – I didn’t notice them till after I’d edited the picture).  It’s always interesting to see what variations you can get out of one image by cropping it in different ways.

When I went over to look out of the window myself, my eye was caught by a row of brightly coloured flags on the harbour.  I just had to walk down there afterwards and take a picture.  I do love these colours; they’re so cheerful.

Before we left, we had some fun browsing in the gift shop.  We decided to leave behind the ‘I’d rather be in Margate’ mugs but my friend did buy a rather stylish giant egg-timer filled with lime green sand.