……if I’m on the right track.
……if I’m on the right track.
The electric light in our house, like most people’s nowadays, has been supplied up till now by energy-saving, eco-friendly lightbulbs. This has placed me squarely in the middle of a dilemma – I’m all in favour of cutting down energy consumption and helping save the planet, but I’d really like to be able to see. The strongest lightbulbs we could get would glow dimly, throwing out about as much light as a guttering candle – my mobile phone gives out more light. There have been times when I’d go to switch the lamp on in order to see better, only to find it was already on.
It’s OK, I guess, if all you want to do is sit and chat or watch TV (although it has to be said the general gloom can be quite depressing), but I rarely watch TV and I like to read or do other things instead. My compromise till now has been to hoard old-fashioned energy-guzzling lightbulbs bought in bulk from the corner shop (which is the only place that still stocks these things), and use just one of them to illuminate my book or whatever else I need to look at. I’ve felt mildly guilty about this, but it really has been necessary if I wanted to avoid living like a troglodyte.
One day, trapped by a mixture of guilt and desperation, it occurred to me that perhaps we could find a different kind of lighting – maybe halogen, for example. Geoff went on a mission to hunt something down and came back with a clutch of wonderful halogen lightbulbs that give out something approximating 150 watts. Suddenly, the whole house looks brighter and lighter and, yes, happier! And they’re still economical on energy so we don’t need to feel too guilty about them. It’s completely transformed the way the place feels and makes me dread the winter dark a little less than I usually do.
An unexpected side effect of all this is that when we added one to our dining room lampshade, which is made of criss-crossing rough string, the shadows it cast round the room were quite astonishing. It felt a bit like being in the middle of a dancefloor that has one of those glitterball things. I simply had to run for my camera.
Geoff’s been in Northern Ireland for nearly a week. His mum’s very ill and not expected to live much longer. I feel for him. It’s hard, watching someone you love fade away, not able to do much but hold their hand and hope they feel your love. He has to be there, he has to stay for as long as it takes, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. And at first it was fine – a bit of a change, no cooking to do, free to structure my day however I want – but now, well, now – I miss him, and I really want him home again. Feeling lonely tonight.
“Absence diminishes small loves and increases great ones, as the wind blows out the candle and blows up the bonfire.”
Francois de la Rouchefoucauld
On a funnier note (because you can’t keep me down for long): one of my cats is sound asleep, curled up and lying right on top of the phone. If it rings she’s going to get such a shock.
I have written before, in many and various places, how confined I feel living where I do. My home is dark, partly because it just is, and partly because there are so many houses here, efficiently stashed together into terraces to take up minimal space, and between the houses are mean, narrow little streets where the light struggles to make its way in. A small slice of sky is all there is.
Often I long for sky, wide open expanses of it. When I drive to Thanet, where the land is flat and the sky goes on forever, my heart begins to lift and flutter, my breathing slows, and something in me unwinds. And I don’t even like the place that much – it just has a lot of sky.
Where I grew up, in Scotland, we have a lot more space than we do here in south-east England and a lot of it’s pretty empty if you don’t count the sheep. I lived in a highly populated part of it but I spent a lot of time in the mountains and on the moors and coasts, feeling as if it was just me and the sky and endless, wonderful space. I’ve never regretted leaving Scotland, but I do miss that sky.
The sky is this planet’s negative space – mostly empty, isn’t used for much in itself, but absolutely essential to make everything else feel right.
Linking to Mortal Muses, on negative space.
This photo of a couple with an umbrella was taken through a fountain – the abstract, painterly result was an unexpected, and welcome, surprise.
Uncertainty is the name of the game right now. We’ve had seven months of being uncertain whether or not Geoff would be made redundant, and now that he has there’s even more uncertainty. Will he get a job? Where will it be? Will we have to move house? Will it pay as much as he gets now? How will we survive if it doesn’t? Will I be able to supplement our income doing what I love to do? Will I have to get a ‘normal’ job? What happens if he doesn’t find a job? If we move will I find friends as good as the ones I have here? Will I be lonely? Will I miss this place? And on and on.
It’s the middle of the night, and I’ve been lying awake pondering these and other questions. And then it struck me that uncertainty is what makes photography so rewarding and so much fun. When I go out with my camera I have no idea what I’m going to find, or if I’ll come back with any decent shots, and that’s exciting. I set out with an open mind, a large dose of curiosity, and the assumption that I’m going to have a good time finding out. Sometimes I’m disappointed with what I shoot and delete most of it, but I’ve still gained a lot from the process, and I simply allow myself to feel the disappointment for a moment and then move on.
More often, I find something unexpected – a shot that turned out far better than I could have hoped, or something that looks completely different – and better – in the photograph than it did in reality. I come back with treasures. Going out on a photography session is an adventure – I don’t know what will happen and that’s exactly what I like. Imagine if you knew beforehand what shots you’d take, what they’d be of, how they’d turn out. Dull, isn’t it?
I want to approach the rest of my life like this. I want to treat it as an exciting adventure instead of a worrying unknown. I want to approach it with curiosity and an open mind. I want to discard the bad bits without regret and move on to what’s next. I want to get excited over the unexpected. I want to find treasures I didn’t anticipate.
“Faith means living with uncertainty – feeling your way through life, letting your heart guide you like a lantern in the dark.”
We’re not good at showers, here in the UK. Visit a lot of our bed and breakfast places and you’ll find yourself having to soap up and rinse off under a pathetic trickle of water that emerges from a very small shower-head with an array of tiny pinhead-sized holes. Usually quite a few of these are blocked up with limescale and it’s often more like standing in heavy mist than it is like being showered.
You’ll have gathered from this that I like a good powerful shower, and usually I get one, but last week the tube that runs inside the metal shower hose split, and most of the water wasn’t making it more than an inch or so upwards. But it’s an easy thing to fix so we got a new hose from Wilkinson and Geoff put it on. Two days later the tube in that one split, even worse this time, and for the last few days we’ve been trying to shower under the equivalent of a small leak in the plumbing.
This morning involved a trip to somewhere that sells shower hoses of a quality that lasts longer than a couple of days (never buy one of these from Wilkinsons!), and you’ve no idea how wonderful it was to get a decent shower at last. I stood there, water cascading steamily over me, and thought how the hot shower is one of life’s great, under-appreciated pleasures.
Some of you may know that I’ve recently become a Mortal Muse. One of my Muse-ly duties is to choose a photo from each of the three Mortal Muse Flickr groups once a fortnight. This is a lot harder than you’d think and has involved much chewing of lower lip, releasing of troubled sighs, and eating of chocolate. I should have known this wasn’t the job for someone who suffers from terminal indecision on a regular basis. (And I’m going to have to do it once a fortnight!)
It did make me start thinking about what it was that made me look closer at something and what kind of images were making it onto my shortlist. This is all personal stuff of course, and I’m not claiming my criteria are the right ones, or that anyone should try to fit in with them. Nonetheless, they are mine and I thought it might be interesting to figure out exactly what they are, because I’m not sure I know myself. Here are some thoughts:
That ruled out loads, but still left me with a lot more to choose from. It’s much harder to say what it was about a picture that made me take a better look than it is to say what made me pass on by. I’ve just tried making a list but that didn’t work at all, because the shots that spoke to me did so because it wasn’t easy to lump them together in any kind of way. They might have a certain mood or atmosphere or gorgeously beautiful light, might be funny or quirky (I do favour things that make me smile), could be unusual takes on usual things or interestingly composed, or they might show a wonderful appreciation of colour. And of course, so much of it depended on what I brought to the picture myself – my own associations and feelings and memories.
When I was choosing from the pool that has a fortnightly theme, I did like it a lot when people interpreted that theme in a way you might not immediately think of. And then sometimes I liked something quite ordinary simply because it was so beautifully done. I think, on the whole, I’m drawn to things that are a little different, but the difference can manifest in all sorts of ways.
The hardest bit came when I did have a shortlist, because sometimes there was something I loved that I couldn’t choose because that person had been featured too recently, or it belonged to another Muse (I can choose these, but it doesn’t seem right somehow), or it was too similar to another Muse’s choice. And then I felt sad for the ones that got away.
It feels strange and a little disquieting to be One Who Decides. I want everyone to feel huge pleasure in their own photography and creativity, even if the result isn’t always something I’d make my personal choice – I’d like everyone to have that gold star feeling. (I know how chuffed I was when one of mine got picked many months ago.) And there are all these pictures I’d like to choose but can’t, because I only get to do this once a fortnight and I can only pick three. I want to leave messages saying, ‘I nearly chose yours!’
All I can say is, thank heavens there are nine of us, with a wide variety of tastes and interests that lead to an interesting mix of styles and subject matter – otherwise I think the responsibility would be just too much!
We recently had our second wedding anniversary and, as is our custom (although obviously not a very long-established one), we booked a table for lunch at the restaurant where we held our reception. So there we were, all dressed up and ready to go, and out the front door and heading for the car…….or so I thought. We don’t have a driveway so the car can sometimes be parked a bit of a distance away. Still, some way down the road I began to think that this was much further than usual and I said to Geoff, ‘Where is the car?’ ‘Opposite the house’, he replied. ‘So why are we walking this way?’, I asked. ‘You’ll see’, he said, with a small smile and a glint of something in his eye.
I kept going with the questions but obviously wasn’t going to get an answer. Eventually we ended up at the main road and crossed it, then he stopped. I looked at him. ‘We’re waiting for a car’, he said. I started mentally flipping through the options of who might be giving us a lift – there weren’t many and none seemed likely. I looked at him again. ‘Just watch the road. You’ll know which car it is when you see it’, he said.
And suddenly, there it was. A 1958 Chevrolet Bel Air looking very out of place among the usual Friday lunchtime traffic. And what a car! I don’t get at all excited about cars usually, but I do love old ones – they have so much character and quality about them. And this was a beauty – roughly the same age as me, but in considerably better nick, inside and out. It was driven by Geoff’s friend Stuart, who provides classic cars for weddings when he’s not being a driving instructor – a group of them had been out drinking a week or so before and Geoff had hatched this plan to surprise me.
As you can see, he was mightily pleased with himself, and I do think he had every reason to be – even if we did have to come home on the bus!
Check out the fluffy dice hanging from the rear-view mirror!
Stuart – our chauffeur for the day
And if you want proof that using a wide-angle lens makes things further away look smaller than they really are, here it is. Sorry, Stuart – if I’d had longer I’d have stretched you to normal height in Photoshop.
My ebook is nearly ready to go, and I’ve been giving the sales page a lot of thought recently. I want to write it in a way that’s true to myself but might still entice somebody (maybe even more than one somebody) to actually buy it. I really hate these hugely-long, yellow-highlighted, online sales letters full of sensational promises that no product could ever fulfil, but in the back of my mind a little voice has been saying ‘but that’s what you have to do if you want to sell your book’.
So I was absolutely delighted this morning to get a subscription reminder notice from Philosophy Now magazine, in which the first paragraph goes like this:
Your subscription to Philosophy Now ran out with Issue 83, and ever since then we’ve been inconsolable. “What”, we ask ourselves rhetorically, “is the point of continuing? Issue 85 is really good, but the achievement seems hollow, futile, if you aren’t going to read it…” Bring meaning back to our lives: if you send us a cheque for £15.50 we’ll send you the next six issues and I’ll be able to wean my colleagues off their anti-depressants….
…..Rick Lewis, Editor
I only let the subscription lapse because I’m very, very broke at the moment, but this letter means that I’ll be renewing the moment I have some spare cash. It not only made my day – I laughed out loud when I read it – it taught me a few things too about how connecting with people gets far better results than an in-your-face sales letter ever could.
Those of you who know anything about Spike Milligan might also know that before he died, and with his typical brand of humour, he asked that his gravestone bear the inscription “I told you I was ill”. He now lies buried in the graveyard of Winchelsea Church, and he almost got his way with the inscription, but it’s in Irish Gaelic instead of English. The Chichester Diocese got a bit uppity about having the English version on the stone, and after two years of wrangling they finally said the equivalent of ‘oh, alright then, but only if you do it in Irish’. (Milligan held an Irish passport)
A couple of weekends ago we went to Winchelsea to see it. The excuse – and it was purely an excuse for a day out – was that Geoff had completed a cryptic crossword that was themed around the quote and he thought it would be fun to be photographed beside the headstone holding the completed crossword.
When we got there we couldn’t find it and it turned out that, in a trick of fate and timing that I’m sure would have pleased Spike enormously, the gravestone had been removed just a few days beforehand. His wife had just died and it had been taken away to have her name engraved on the stone, so all that was left to us was a mound of unmarked earth – but we took the photo anyway and we managed to buy a postcard of how it ought to have looked.
That was the only disappointment of the day, and there were lots of compensations. Before we started looking for the grave, we had some lunch in a beautiful little beer garden belonging to the pub in Winchelsea, and I found this bench quietly being taken over by nature.
Winchelsea Church had the most amazing stained glass windows. The photographs don’t do them justice – the colours were softer, lighter and more pastel than stained glass usually is, but I had trouble getting that to show in the images.
And we found the grave of someone called Seddon Wildeblood, which sounds like something out of an eighteenth century romantic novel. Wonderful!
Then we went to Winchelsea Beach, which is a huge expanse of sand, sea and pebbles, stretching for miles and only broken up by the wooden groynes that criss-cross it.
There was a powerful wind that seemed ideal for a bit of kite flying. Unfortunately it was so strong that, after a while, the lines of the kite got tangled up into a tight, Gordian knot that was impossible to undo with the wind whipping everything around, including my hair over my face. In the end we bundled it all up and threw it in the back of the car, to be slowly unpicked later at home.
I played around with some abstract water and sand photos too.
Then we finished up with tea and cakes in Rye, and staying true to my inability to remember to photograph things before I eat them, I ate them and forgot to photograph them – but I will tell you it was one of the nicest slices of coffee and walnut cake I’ve ever had.