I’m dedicating this post to anyone who has ever been floored by criticism of their work – here’s proof that you shouldn’t take what anyone says too seriously even if they are qualified and experienced.
The tutor I started out with on the course I’m currently studying is not known for his tact or empathy. He didn’t like my first assignment one little bit and criticised it so harshly that it took me the best part of a year to get my confidence back. I asked for a change of tutor at the time and so the same assignment was marked a second time. What you see in this post are a few of the images with both tutor’s comments added to them. I don’t think I need to say any more……except, don’t take anything too much to heart!
I’m so happy to have discovered the Introvert’s Corner section on the Psychology Today website; it makes me feel a lot less like an oddball than I usually do. I once filled in a questionnaire on introversion and I was practically off the scale on some of the parameters. My introvert traits often perplex and puzzle the extravert people in my life, who mostly don’t understand that I’m just wired differently. For every three extraverts in the world, there’s just one introvert, so we’re seriously outnumbered and usually more than a little bit misunderstood.
In case you’re an extravert yourself, let me just clear up a few misconceptions. We’re not people haters – we often love people but only in small doses and in ones, twos or threes rather than large numbers. We prefer peace and quiet, because loudness simply overwhelms our more delicate nervous systems and we can’t think straight. And we love to talk, but only about things that really interest us and when we feel we’ve got something to say – you can’t shut us up when that happens. We’re not shy people (well we can be, but it doesn’t go with the territory) and we’re often very friendly and sociable (just not 24/7).
The big, big difference between us and extraverts is that even when we have the kind of people contact we enjoy, our energy is drained by it, but extraverts actually gain energy from being around others. For that reason we need to spend much more time alone to recharge our batteries.
Parties are not our idea of fun
Because of all this, our idea of fun is a lot different from an extravert’s notion of the same thing. We loathe parties. We understand that extravert people have a lot of fun that way, but we just don’t. We’d rather have root canal work than have to go a party (especially as you don’t have to make small talk when your mouth’s full of dental instruments). Parties are noisy, you can’t have any sort of in-depth conversation at them (which is the kind we like), and even worse, you have to try and look as if you’re having a good time even when you’re very definitely not. On top of that, we find parties and most social things involving large groups of people, well…… quite boring, really. We tend to have a low tolerance for small talk, and we’d much rather be doing something other than standing around, struggling to have banal conversations over wincingly loud music. And when we say doing something, that could just be thinking – we usually have a lot going on in our heads.
So what does this have to do with photography?
I’ve found that being a photographer helps a lot when it comes to finding a way of surviving these things. A camera – particularly the serious DSLR kind – makes me look as if I have a purpose and gives me something to do. It means I can talk as little or as much as I want to, wander around or sit on the edges if I like, and when it’s all over I can present the host with some nice images of their ‘do’, which usually goes down very well. And not least, it gives me something absorbing and interesting to do that doesn’t make me look rude. Result!
Once I got over the initial stages of learning how to take photos – when I used to feel that people were looking at me and my DSLR and imagining I actually knew what I was doing, when I was all too aware that I didn’t – the camera became a great tool both to hide behind and to make connections with. I attract attention because of it, but it gives me a role to play and I find that reassuring. It gives people something to ask you about, and a reason to speak to you. (I may not be big on small talk but a little bit of it does make the world a nicer place.)
It’s probably not the same for all introverts. Most introverts hate being the centre of attention or indeed attracting attention to themselves in any way whatsoever. For myself, I don’t mind as long as I have a role to play. I’m happy and comfortable being a photographer, or a tutor, or a hander-round of canapés, but without being able to wear the role like a protective cloak I quickly feel exposed and lost in large gatherings. That kind of social interaction is deeply unsatisfying to me and it takes huge amounts of energy for me to try to fit in, but if I don’t make the effort I look and feel like a spare part. Having a role to play takes that kind of pressure off.
For me, at least, photography hasn’t just given me the creative outlet I always yearned for, it’s also stopped me feeling like quite such a party pooper (although I’d still much rather not go!)
I was having a bad day; I felt tense, antsy, mildly depressed. So I went for a walk in the woods, followed a small track away from the main pathways, and discovered this plaque high up in the trees: Love. Just what I needed. Thank you to whoever put it there.
Love, with little hands, comes and touches you with a thousand memories, and asks you beautiful, unanswerable questions …
This week, Kat Sloma is blogging on Reflections in glass
I’m a bit obsessive about photographing reflections, although when I started trawling through my archives it turned out I have far more photos of reflections in water, mirror, metal, or other substances, than I do in glass.
The word ‘reflection’ comes from the Latin ‘reflex’, which means to bend back – in the case of glass it’s the light rays that are bending back but this also gives it its other meaning of considered thought – ie, you turn back on your thoughts and give them more consideration. I’m pretty keen on that kind of reflection as well and have eagerly engaged in lots of it – some might say to the point of over-indulgence but I don’t listen to them. Studying philosophy just egged me on as far as this went and I was actually encouraged to write whole essays about this sort of thing –
Do you ever wonder if the guy in the puddle is real, and you’re just a reflection of him? — Calvin and Hobbes
Kind of makes you want to disappear up your own tutu, doesn’t it?
Staying true to my nature, I’ve been giving a bit of thought as to why many of us are so fascinated with photographing reflections. Speaking for myself – which is all I can do here – I’m drawn towards abstraction in art and reflections can turn something quite ordinary into a fascinating abstract. They distort the subject, sometimes making it semi-transparent, and giving it a less substantial, dream-like look. You often get a double-exposure effect as well, which adds to this. I like the sense of ambiguity and the little bit of effort that’s needed to figure out what’s going on. You can’t usually take in a reflection picture in one casual glance – you have to really look at it. If you look at the image at the end of this post, it can take a while before you realise that the leaves are painted onto the glass and the building is reflected in it.
I also don’t like straight lines much and find it fascinating to see buildings and other straight-edged objects take on wavy, curvy shapes. I’ve always loved Gaudi‘s architecture because of its lack of hard edges and straight lines – a reflected building can turn into an instant Gaudi.
Someone else who likes distorting buildings is Cole Thompson. In his project The Fountainhead, he photographs skyscrapers reflected in some kind of curved metal board (I can’t remember what it’s made of). I think he’s had a mixed reaction to these, but I like them.
I’d love to know what it is that other folk like about reflections. Nearly everyone is fascinated by them so if you have any thoughts on why, I’d welcome a comment below.
I’ve just finished working on the second assignment for my landscape course. The brief was that we had to choose an area of approximately one acre of ‘countryside’ and take a large variety of photos that gave a sense of the place. ‘Countryside’ can be interpreted fairly liberally, so I chose a small garden within a ruined church, right in the centre of The City of London.
I’ve never been a religious person; I find plenty of meaning in life, but it comes to me in other ways. When I was a child my mother used to drag me along to church and I’d sit there longing with all my heart to be outside in the sunshine. It seemed to me even at the age of eight, that if there was indeed a god, he would be better served by getting out and appreciating this fantastic world that he’d made. I imagined him looking down, banging his forehead against a brick wall (or perhaps an unusually solid cloud) and saying (and UK readers can imagine a kind of Richard Wilson voice here): “I don’t believe it! I make this amazing place for you to use any way you want to, and I really hoped you were going to have a good time there, and what do you do? You sit in a dim, man-made environment, singing mournfully and shutting yourselves away from the sun – which I also created and which took a lot of damned hard work, let me tell you – and you moan on about your sins and how you’re not deserving of what I’ve given you. Well, let me be the judge of that – your job is to rejoice in it, for god’s sake! ” You get the picture.
So when I came across this little gem of a place in London, it symbolised something for me. It’s a mediaeval church with a Tower designed by Christopher Wren (who also designed St Paul’s Cathedral). It was bombed heavily during the Blitz of WWII and all that remained of it was the tower, which was still intact, and the walls of the church. It was decided not to rebuild the main church, but to turn the ruins into a garden. It’s now a beautiful, peaceful place with trees and a fountain, and benches where office workers come to eat lunch and sit quietly. To me it represents that feeling I had as a child: the lush green of the plants growing inside the building and the roof open to the light and the sky brings the natural world inside a sacred space, and that just feels right somehow.
Despite the fact that large numbers of people are using it on any weekday lunchtime, the atmosphere is unusually quiet and serene. Most people read or eat packed lunches; there aren’t usually many people talking and although the occasional person is engaged in conversation on their mobile, the sound doesn’t carry – I guess the trees and shrubs soak it up. It has all the good qualities of a church – the peace, the meditative feeling, the beautiful stonework – while essentially being a place of nature.
The following are a selection of photos I took there, some to be used in the assignment, some not. And you’ll find another one here.
Today I’m 55 years old. That’s beginning to sound quite old to me – I’ve already outlived my parents by several years and that’s a strange feeling, I can tell you. Depending on which one I compare with, I’ve already had three or four years longer on this planet than they did.
55 seems like a significant sort of age even if it doesn’t end in a zero – I’m now definitely closer to sixty than I am to fifty and the likely time left to me can sometimes seem alarmingly short. I don’t feel this old, but then most people would say that. I don’t think I look too bad for my age, but then most people would probably say that too. And I think my attitudes, tastes, and outlook on life are all younger than many people of my age, but then they’d all probably say the same thing. The truth is you can never see yourself the way others see you and self-delusion is all too easy. The only thing I know for sure is that I wouldn’t go back to being twenty again even if you did restore my waist to its former glory.
It’s been an interesting life so far. Bad things have happened – a damaging relationship with my mother, parents dying in a road accident, two divorces, one terrible marriage to someone who I now think had sociopathic tendencies, the ensuing loss of most of my confidence and belief in myself, an illness (M.E.) that took ten years of my life, and many other, smaller, things. But that’s just one way of telling the story. I can also tell the story of a father who loved me dearly and with whom I had a close relationship, the time and space my illness gave me to explore and think about my world, the stronger sense of self I ended up with after escaping my second marriage, the most wonderful dog companion I ever had who saw me through a lot of unhappy times, and the lovely, lovely man who’s been in my life for the last eleven years and to whom I’m now married. It’s the same life, just two different ways of seeing it.
I’m a lot wiser – I think – than I used to be, although the extra wisdom has made me realise just how much I don’t know and don’t understand. In many ways I don’t mind ageing and actually find it quite interesting. As a child I used to wonder what I’d look like when I was old and now I’m beginning to see.
I’m quite happy with how it’s gone so far but there is just one thing that bothers me. I used to be someone who had adventures and I don’t any more. Some were big and often ill-advised adventures: leaving Scotland and everything I knew to be with a man I’d only known for a couple of months, going a little wild while studying for my MA and effectively making up for an adolescence I never had, and – more recently – making a decision under stress to sell up and go back to Scotland to live and then being so miserable I was back again within six months, considerably poorer and somewhat wiser.
Some were much smaller and more enjoyable adventures: a night out with three Franciscan monks, who invited me to their study centre the next day, where I found the only other women were nuns and I was wearing a mini skirt; a motorbike trip through France where loads of things went wrong but somehow it was all still good; applying for – and getting – a job teaching IT when I knew a lot less than I – and they – realised about how to work a computer; crawling through a field on a summer’s evening to watch badgers; taking part in a river race where you had to launch yourself into a fast flowing river with only an inflatable mattress and a crash helmet, and then, partway along, jumping thirty feet into the base of a waterfall; a Thelma-and-Louise type holiday in a red sports car with two university friends who were ten years younger and considerably more gorgeous than I was, and who spent the whole time experimenting with intoxicating substances, except for when we were having sound healing and being regressed into past lives in Glastonbury – I felt a bit like the maiden aunt acting as chaperone, but I enjoyed it anyway.
I used to meet strange and interesting people, too. At university – which I went to late in life – there were people of all nationalities and some very eccentric academics with unconventional lives, one of whom lived with three women (not all at once; they took turns). Another, whom I went out with for a year, would only wear red socks and later took up unicycling and playing the didgeridoo. A third used to cook exquisite five course dinners for fifteen members of the philosophy society every week, and was said to be the only person who’d acquired a PhD purely on the strength of his wizardry in the kitchen.
My academic phase was followed by my ‘alternative’ phase, where I got to know people who dressed entirely in shamrock green, claimed to communicate with extra-terrestrial beings, built labyrinths, lived over converging ley lines, read tarot cards, modelled penises out of clay (I couldn’t make this stuff up), cleared ghosts out of houses, and many other weird and wonderful things. Now, I wouldn’t want to be around these people all the time – that would get quite tiring I think – but knowing them made my life richer and a whole lot funnier. (And a quick note to my more conventional friends – I want to reassure you I love you all dearly and wouldn’t swap you for anything– just so you know)
In the last few years there hasn’t been much of this kind of thing at all. My last real adventure was to go to art college, having only been drawing and painting for three months (before that, the last time I picked up a pencil or a brush was when I was thirteen so there was a bit of a steep learning curve). That led to my passion for photography, for which I’ll be ever grateful.
But since then? Zilch, nothing, nada. I’m living like the middle-aged person I undoubtedly am. I’m playing it safe and it needs to change. I used to be much more spontaneous – truly, it did get me into trouble on numerous occasions but I regret the things I haven’t done more than the things I have. I need a change or a challenge. And not the kind of everyday challenge like earning money and finding work, but something completely new and exciting and possibly scary, that will stretch me out of the complacent, contented shape I’ve recently grown into, even if it’s only for a few hours. I don’t know what it’ll be yet, but watch this space……..
Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well-preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, chocolate in one hand, martini in the other, body thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and screaming “WooHoo, what a ride!”
It’s my birthday tomorrow, and we’ve got a table booked at our absolutely most favourite restaurant ever (Jojo’s, in Tankerton, if you want to know). The last time we went there I meant to photograph each dish but managed to forget until we’d eaten most of them. As it’s a tapas restaurant and we have lots of dishes, and they come out bit by bit, it’s going some to forget to photograph any of them before we started eating. But, hey, they still look good even when almost finished.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll remember to get my camera out before I start eating!
Geoff found an amazing field of poppies on his way to work one day, and we went out there yesterday to take some photos. A fifteen-foot strip at the edge of the wheat field has been turned over to the poppies and other wildflowers and it makes a heart-lifting display of colour.
What I find so difficult in these situations is thinking of a fresh way of photographing something that’s very definitely a cliche. On OCA*’s forum the words ‘pretty pictures’ are only usually mentioned in a sneering, dismissive way; if a photo doesn’t have an idea or a message behind it, or at the very least look a bit grungy, it’s not thought to be worth the taking. It’s hard not to be affected by this attitude, and to feel that you’re somehow doing something wrong if you just want to celebrate how lovely the world can look.
I think the truth of the matter is that it’s really only the tutors and a very small number of students who are vocal in rejecting something on the grounds of it being simply a beautiful scene, no more, no less. The rest of us – I believe – take pleasure in looking at and photographing a wide variety of images even if what we’re ultimately aiming at is to produce work with some greater meaning and a bit of depth behind it.
I went to the Cult of Beauty exhibition at the V&A in London recently. The Aesthetic Movement was concerned only with beauty and they aimed to make everything around them a delight to the eye. They painted, of course, but they also designed furniture and rooms and clothes and clocks and books – everything around them was made lovely. It was a refreshing change to see something like this after overdosing on art that is often pretentious, frequently gives no visual satisfaction, and usually dwells on ugliness and angst.
I wouldn’t want all art to be of the kind the Aesthetes created – it would get boring if this was all there was. There was nothing to discuss or ruminate over after seeing the exhibition; no new ideas, nothing to make you think. But there must be a place in life somewhere for ‘art for art’s sake’ and making things of beauty and offering them to the world is surely a worthy enough thing. There’s plenty of misery in the world, but a field of poppies can still make you feel it’s good to be alive.
I once read an account of a holocaust survivor, who came into possession of a tomato at one point during his incarceration. Despite being desperately hungry, he didn’t eat the tomato immediately because he was overwhelmed by its rich, orange-red colour. In the world of grey in which he was living, his soul was as hungry for colour as his body was for food, and he spent some time simply looking at it and drinking in its colour. We need beauty that badly.
*Open College of the Arts, where I’m studying a distance learning course.
Kat Sloma is blogging on thresholds today – http://www.kateyeview.com/ – and it’s an appropriate topic for me right now. Our lives are about to change and the change may be a big one or a small one – we hope to find out later today when Geoff gets news about his redundancy (or otherwise). For the last few months we’ve felt as if we’re both in limbo and in flux, and when you’re in the midst of change and uncertainty life can seem like a scary sort of place.
In this kind of situation the best we can do is to hold on to a belief that whatever the changes are they will ultimately be for the best, and to hope that the life change we’re approaching is going to be like moving through the photo above – passing the threshold into a sunlit, lush, and lovely new place.
Which would you choose?
In reality, it’s probably going to be more like the photo above – two or more thresholds and choices to make. But both of those thresholds look enticing, both would lead to adventures of different kinds, and both of them lead us out of the uncertain darkness into sunlight.
This uncertainty we’ve been living with for so long has made it hard to remember that this could be the start of something good. I’ve always loved entrances and half-open doors, fantasising about what might lie behind them. The reality might be banal or even unpleasant, but the excitement of discovery remains, and sometimes what you find is even better than you hoped for.
Getting down and dirty in a London photography workshop. The people who take the best pictures are usually the ones who're prepared to do whatever it takes!
It’s not the easiest of times right now. The Walker household income needs to be considerably bigger (we’re running at a loss each month) and I’m not contributing much at all to it – cue feelings of guilt, worry, and shame. I should be pushing forward with expanding my photography classes but I find myself strangely reluctant to do it. And the other day I began to wonder if trying to make money out of teaching photography is a good idea.
I love to teach. I like the interaction with people I haven’t met before, many of them interesting and fun. I like the look on their faces when they suddenly understand something they’ve struggled with up to now. I like the thank you emails I often get afterwards. I enjoy the process of constructing a course and the creativity needed to come up with interesting ways of getting something across that’s basically very dull. I love to learn new information, distil it, simplify it, and pass it on to others. I like to help. I like all of this.
What I don’t like is that, towards the end of last year I was doing so much teaching that I didn’t have time to think about my own photography and wasn’t taking many photos at all. I’ll admit that I’m a bit of a perfectionist and I do make work for myself that isn’t strictly necessary. I research everyone’s cameras before I do a class, because trying to figure out how eight different cameras do the same thing is both time-consuming and sometimes quite alarmingly worrying. I regularly tweak or re-write handouts because I think of a better way of doing them. I spend time looking for new materials that will better illustrate what I want to teach. And then there’s the printing out of booklets and handouts for everyone and the organising of folders and materials. And the admin, let’s not forget the admin. All this takes time, energy and effort but if I’m going to do it at all then I want to do it well.
I also don’t like the fact that I’m struggling to earn an income that will do more than feed the cats. It’s true that money’s never been much of a motivating factor for me, but the less you have of it the more important it becomes, and at the moment I’m pretty well stony broke.
Last year I did a lot of work for a friend who runs a photographic tour company in London. I devised a workshop, wrote a 24-page booklet to give to students who came on it, helped recruit new tutors and talked through the structure and format of the workshop with them, wrote another 12-page booklet for a different course and re-typed and reformatted a booklet that was written by someone else but needed to look better when printed out. I gave photographic advice, brainstormed ways of moving forward, spent time answering emails from students asking for advice, devised another course – which never ran – and taught a large number of workshops. What did I earn for all of this? Just over £1600. Not only is it nowhere near enough in terms of the hours I contributed, I then had to watch new tutors coming in and earning money using my course and my materials. I’m not usually a grudging sort of person, but I feel that stinging just a bit. I love to help out, my friend was extremely appreciative and I don’t regret doing all this as it’s been good experience, but there comes a time when you have to start looking after your own interests.
I thought the answer would be to expand my own workshops in my local area and it’s clear that there’s a much better return for effort if I do this. However, to earn anything like the amount I need I’d have to do huge amounts of marketing and promotion and I’m really not very good at that and, even worse, I don’t enjoy it at all. For me, the advantage of working with my London friend was that she would take care of the promotion side of things and I could get on with what I do best.
So I find myself procrastinating. There are many other workshops and courses I could put together, and I have more ideas than you can shake a stick at, but I have a deep feeling of reluctance inside to get moving on these. At the beginning of this year, after a spell when I was often working both days of each weekend in London, I contracted one virus after another. I’d no sooner get over one bout of flu or cold than I’d go down with the next. And when spring came and the threat of viruses diminished, I developed problems with my back and my knees. Illness, for me, is often a message that I’m not living my life in a way that’s good for me and this endless run of ill-health seems to be telling me that I’m off-track somewhere.
I’ve had a lot of time to think, and realised that when I do large amounts of teaching it takes my attention away from what I really want to do – work on my own personal photographic projects, study towards a photography degree, and write about photography. I do love to teach, but not at the expense of everything else. So recently I’ve been wondering if I should do something entirely different to earn money – a part-time job (assuming I can find one) that I don’t bring home with me and that leaves me time to play, to experiment, and to think. I’m wondering if trying to make your passion into a living is maybe a bad idea and that it’s better to separate the two. I’ve always thought you should follow your heart and your passion and earn money doing what you love to do, but did I get that wrong? Or is it that I simply need to find a new way of doing things?