INDIA: Around Odisha in 15 days…Day 3, Tribal Fest & first visit to the City

Stallholders at the fair

This morning I intended to get up nice and early so Ashis could teach me proper Indian yoga. He had explained it all to me the night before, but we had yet to have a physical run through. Yoga is best in the early morning, and Ashis is an earlier riser than me – it seems the country is, actually! In the UK it’s usual to sleep until a time the Indians would consider late (7.30/8am), perhaps due to the cold, grey weather making it far less attractive to get out of bed. 8am is usually considered a reasonable time to get up, but 9 or even 10 is perfectly acceptable. Over here the bustle of life outside begins permeating my windows at around 6.30am, but this morning I had to go back to sleep, a situation I blame entirely on the mosquitos who had kept me awake half the night buzzing my ear. I have been bitten alive by mosquitos since I arrived. I knew it would happen, the gnats at home cover me in bites each summer. I must have tasty blood. The mosquitos have delighted in a fresh blood bank to drink from and have taken a liking to my forehead of all places. Around 10 bites now cover my face, with more on my feet, arms etc. I’ve become paranoid about getting bitten even more, so during the night when I heard that ominous bzzzzz in my ear, I awoke ready for battle. But they are extremely crafty, and being small and almost transparent, camouflage against almost everything. I spent an hour trying to catch it, then gave up and went back to bed. As soon as I turned the light off and laid down my head – bzzzzzz in my ear. They’re trying to drive me mad, I thought – and succeeding. I imagined I could see them smirking as they teased me incessantly, knowing they had the advantage against my comparatively sluggish attempts to quash them.

Sunset light through the trees

So, tired and grumpy, I postponed yoga until tomorrow. Ashis went out and brought back breakfast from a local street stall – a thin red liquid curry sauce, with steamed white dumplings called Idli. They are fluffy and fairly bland, so you dip them in the curry sauce. The sauce (Ghuguni) is packed with flavour and perfect with the Idli, but almost surpassed my meagre spice limit! I had to eat it very slowly in between gulps of water and hope that my stomach didn’t complain later…

After breakfast I went to get dressed, deciding to up my game a bit after visiting the slums and seeing how beautifully dressed the women are, with their jewellery and brightly coloured saris. My plain face and clothes looked drab in comparison, so on went some jewellery and a little make up to hide my spotty face.

As I went to open the window and let some of the beautiful warm Indian breeze into the room, I came face to face with a lizard. Now, not being a regular traveller, this was somewhat of a shock to my system. A mini dinosaur…in my room…with me…all night… I told Ashis, who replied oh yes, we call them Laxmi. They eat the bugs and spiders, they won’t come near you. Also, if you are saying something and you hear them make their clicking noise, it means you are speaking the truth. Hmm, OK, I replied, smiling hesitantly. After returning to my room and re-introducing myself to what appeared to be my unexpected new roommate, I decided I would call him Brian. My dad was called Brian and passed away 3 years ago. I have felt a strong sense of him with me on this trip, particularly as he was from the west indies, and many of the cultural elements cross over with his and my uncle’s colloquialisms from growing up there. So, me and Brian are now on great terms, I chat to him and say hi when I come in and he is less inclined to run away from me now he realises I’m friend not foe.

I spent my day making some paintings, editing my photos and writing the blog. I also managed to get in some meditating and reading, what bliss! I will do a post specifically on the art I have made here after the diary entries, but if you visit my Instagram page / kate.withstandley you can see most of the work on there in the meantime.

At about 5pm we ventured out in a cab to the Tribal Festival, my first visit to the city! What craziness. I cannot imagine what the bigger cities are like – Mumbai, Delhi etc. I am struggling to envisage anything crazier than Bhubaneswar, although I know this is in fact tame in comparison to cities like Mumbai, with their populations of 30million+. I was skittish as we crossed the road, hesitating, then jumping back as vehicles of all kinds rushed past. Ashis just stepped out and crossed, with the vehicles swerving round him or slowing to let him go. They beeped, but then everyone beeps, for every reason, so it’s hard to know if he was doing something wrong, or not. When I found it impossible to follow – all my instincts telling me not to walk out in front of fast-moving vehicles – he came back and took my hand to lead me over. I felt a bit silly but reminded myself this is only my 3^rd day in India – I need some time to adapt!

Street traders outside the Tribal Fair

The Tribal Festival was fascinating – there are 63 active tribes in Odisha alone. These tribes still follow the same lifestyle and traditions which they have done for thousands of years. There are modern additions, obviously, but the generations pass down the skills and cultural structures of each tribe and these continue to be preserved in the younger generation. Some are more advanced than others, while some still subscribe to a wonderfully simple lifestyle, relying on agriculture and growing their own crops. Almost all still make their own clothes, jewellery, and various living implements, from bamboo and other materials which grow nearby. At the fair each tribe has created a mock up of their style of house and there are clearly significant differences in culture, architecture and style depending on the tribe and the region in which they are based.

Mock up of a tribal house

A large stage sat in the centre of the festival, on which groups of dancers from each tribe performed their ritual dances in stunning outfits and with delight. The dances were spectacular and hypnotic, their drums and chants causing time to slip away as you become absorbed. Watching is difficult though, as the urge to dance is infectious; the rhythm is universal and primal, speaking to something deep inside you which was lost a long time ago. A connection to the earth and to each other which we in the West abandoned generations before now.

Children from the biggest Tribal School (20,000 pupils)

We dragged ourselves away from the dancing and went to explore the stalls. I hadn’t intended on buying much, this trip was mainly about art and experience, not shopping, but with the products on offer so beautiful and handmade (and of course cheap) I just couldn’t resist. I stopped looking at the jewellery stalls after a while, or I would have bought far too much! We happened upon a stall where they were selling tribal flutes. Being a (very amateur) flautist myself, I was drawn to these and Ashis asked the man to demonstrate. The construction of the flute was at once simple and complex, a piece of wood with holes, connected to a round wooden bung at the end with a piece of string around the metal mouthpiece. It seemed as though the bung had to be wet, and the string perfectly placed in proximity to the mouth and the metal, to be able to produce a sound. The sound itself was halfway between flute and trumpet, piercing in volume and epitomising the sound of the East. Ashis tried numerous times and finally succeeded in producing a sound, but his attempts to bargain with the man on price were in vain – mainly because of my presence, but also because it was clear he really liked it and being a local, he wasn’t prepared to pay over the odds, as I would have been. Next came a stall with stunning reed mats of all types, sizes, colours and shapes.  I spotted a yoga mat with matching carry bag, but when they said 600 rupees I baulked. Until now everything had been 100/200, and I politely said no. It wasn’t until later when I got home and worked out the conversion that I realised this was about £6.50, and I kicked myself for not buying that beautiful mat.

If I had room in my case, I would have brought back one of the these lovely sweeper brushes…

So much cinnamon!

On the way back, we stopped at a kiosk to try some freshly made juice. As we waited, I became distracted by what appeared to be an Indian soap opera. At first it seemed completely over the top, similar to American soap operas, with long dramatic pauses focusing on someone’s stricken face, then as I continued to watch it became increasingly dramatic, concluding with a woman drenching herself in cold water in some sort of penance for something, while her daughter watched and sobbed. I became completely absorbed in trying to decipher what was going on and interestingly was still able to be drawn by the TV show, despite the vast gap in language and culture. Along came my pineapple juice, which was delicious, but I was then asked if I wanted ‘salt’. I instinctively said no, but Ashis thought I should try it as it is generally what Indians add to their sweet drinks such as juice and Lassi (yohgurt drink). What he added was not normal salt, but some very strange addition which did not work for me at all. Next time, no salt.

Tomorrow we are off to see the Jaina Khandagiri Caves…

INDIA; Around Odisha in 15 days… Day 2, meeting the community

My second day in India began with a beautiful breakfast of pasta, potato and cumin soup, with cucumber and tomato on the side. It was at once delicate and packed with flavour, and testament to Ashis’s cooking prowess. It was also exactly what I needed, having just about seen the jetlag off and suddenly very ready for some food in my belly.

After breakfast we sat in the studio/communal area and had an interesting discussion where we shared our thoughts on what makes an artist and the nature of art. Ashis shared with me some of his background and experience in art, he is exceptionally knowledgeable and has spent years cultivating a wide-ranging artistic background in fields ranging from animation (where he ran his own studio) to setting up the first art gallery in Hydrabad, teaching art and much more. He is currently working on developing the Bhubaneswar residency into a gallery/art centre and has big plans in the pipeline. His goal, he explained, is to make India a global leader in art. The irony being that there is so much art already being produced in India, however until now it has not yet been coherently linked to create a recognisable movement. Ashis wants to change this and believes strongly that art can create a common bond not only within India but internationally. Through art and culture, sharing and experiencing, we can all grow and build a community of artists. He is clearly a determined, passionate person with knowledge, talent and drive – if anyone can do it, I believe he can! His philosophy resonated with me, as it encompasses the same vision with which I and others set up the Dartford Arts Network (DAN). Our goal was smaller, with focus on the local area and bringing artists together to create a community which can work together to drive creativity and artistic progression, but the principle is the same. Another commonality we share is the resolve to enlighten people to the fact that everyone is an artist and has a creative soul. It is inherent in our very being, no matter who you are. One of my primary objectives for DAN is to find a way to draw the artist out of non-artistic people, particularly adults. Children have no problem being artists, they have not yet lost their self-belief, a wonderful by-product of their innocent state. Adults on the other hand, regularly claim ‘I can’t do art’. Their fear of being ‘bad’ at it overwhelming any instinct to try. This is something I feel strongly needs to change in society and is a battle I personally intend to try to fight in my own way with DAN.

Following this stimulating discussion, we were visited by a local art student, Laxminarayan, who brought some of his work to show Ashis. Beautiful watercolours depicting the local caves included some delicate figures silhouetted against the sky, and clever, gentle highlighting gave the setting sun’s rays a voice of their own in the works. There were also some evocative pencil sketches, and an intriguing abstract work, which he explained was inspired by what it must be like to be a blind person, in a life without colour. He was motivated to paint this following a visit to a local blind school, where he met with students and felt moved by their experience. His work was very interesting, and Ashis gave him some pointers on colour technique, which I found thought-provoking too. Laxminarayan explained how Ashis is very well respected in his field – he is a great artist, he said, to which I agreed.

Laxminarayan showing Ashis his work.

Laxminarayan’s artwork

After this, we headed off to a community picnic for the residents of the local area – GA Colony. We got a lift with a neighbour and friend of Ashis’s family, and I had to remind myself of the freedom in India, as I instinctively reached for my seatbelt in vain. 3km or so down the road, we arrived at a large farmhouse with beautiful grounds. I got many double takes and was clearly a local novelty, but everyone was extremely friendly and hospitable, asking where I come from and even inviting me to the city’s rotary club meeting! Sadly, as I am not a rotary member I had to decline. The ‘picnic’ was being held in the gardens, with the food being prepared in huge outdoor pots on stoves for about 40 guests. As we waited for the food to be cooked, Ashis took me around the garden and pointed out the many different types of tree growing there. A stark contrast to our gardens, of course, there were lemon, guava and cinnamon, and many more of which I have forgotten most (forgive my poor brain, it is rather in a state of information overload). A group of women arrived and formed a beautiful sight, meandering through the fruit trees in their striking, vividly coloured saris. Food was served – a variety of dishes on one plate, including daal, rice, a selection of curries, chutney, and a mutton curry in a separate pot. Being my first experience of mutton, I was intrigued and apprehensive, but after one taste, it was all I could do to give a quick thumbs up before I shovelled more into my mouth. It was genuinely one of the best dishes I have ever tasted, with the meat so tender it fell apart gracefully as it hit my tongue, while the rich sauce awoke every single one of my tastebuds. After the main meal came a small pot of sweet dessert which tasted much like rice pudding and was utterly delicious. The leftover food and paper plates were tossed in a pile for the dogs to finish off and with my stomach still being a bit unsettled after the jetlag, the dogs were delighted with my decent offerings!

Outdoor kitchen at the farmhouse

Community picnic

Ashis’ friends and family

After meeting some of Ashis’s friends and family, we set off back to the house on the scooter. I was nervous, as this was my first time on a scooter and no helmets in India, obviously (although I have seen a few signs since then saying ‘better safe than sorry, wear a helmet’ – which made me laugh as I may have seen 1 person wearing a helmet in nearly 2 weeks) but didn’t have time to worry as we were off, me riding a gracefully 19^th century side-saddle style, due to wearing a dress. My worries soon faded though as we set off, the warm wind flowing over my face and head, smells of every kind ebbing and flowing as we passed street stalls, cows, groups of dogs and houses. I felt at that moment that I would probably feel I had lived more in India in 2 weeks than a lifetime in England. The whole place just feels like LIFE. It’s a cliché and a simplistic explanation, but it truly cannot be expressed in words. It is a combination of sight, smell, sound, every sense you can feel. India opens them all up, like the lotus flower, you suddenly feel as if you are awake. Oh, so this is life. While many places in the West supress the experience of living, for various socio-political reasons developed over generations, India expresses it with vivacity.

Cooking en mass on outdoor stoves

On our return to the house I had a little nap to indulge the jetlag before a 40minute meditation, which reached deeply enough to make me feel almost asleep, but not quite. I felt extremely relaxed afterwards and instantly made an abstract sketch, which looked very different to my previous work. Day 2 and my work is being influenced by India already, I thought.

Dinner was Chapati and vegetable curry made by Ashis’ mum. It was astounding and is so far beyond the Indian food I have had from takeaway restaurants at home, that I fear I may never enjoy UK curries again! After dinner we set my programme for the week, a packed schedule full of culture and exciting trips, before a final few days working on my art using my experiences as inspiration. Tomorrow is the Tribal Museum and my first trip into the City proper…very exciting…

Me with Ashis’ family and friends

INDIA; Around Odisha in 15 days… Day 1 – Arrival by tuk tuk, the sacred cows, tea in the slum & monkeys overhead

My first experience of Asia begins with India; a place I have always felt a spiritual connection with, and for which I have harboured a desire to visit for as long as I can remember. Unsurprisingly, I have not been disappointed. I feel a slight envy of those people who travelled here in the 60s and 70s, people like my Uncle, who must have been unprepared and overwhelmed in every way, by the stark contrast in culture between India and the UK, which would also have been an even greater gap than today. For my generation, we already have an idea of what awaits us on a visit to this astounding country – social media, photography, film, books, all of these have painted a picture of the way that India impacts on the senses.

However, no book or film can ever prepare you for your first experience of India – mine was riding in a tuk tuk from the city to the suburbs. An onslaught of horns filled my ears, instinctively making me glance around to see the problem. There is no problem – every single car, bike, tuk tuk, beeps its horn as a matter of course. They use the horn in the way we would use indicators – to alert other traffic you are coming up behind, are about to overtake etc. They also use it in the same way we do, to express annoyance, to tell someone to move, to go faster, etc. The multipurpose use of the horn means that there is never a point at which someone is not beeping theirs. Add to this the Indian rules of the road… there are no rules! No seatbelts, no indicating, no hesitating. You drive and others move out of the way, this seems to be the basic concept. With what appeared to be a near miss every split second, I struggled to stop myself from incessant wincing and soon accepted my lack of control and went with it.

Freedom, said my host, you have a lot of freedom here. In the UK there are too many rules. To a degree, I agree with this – the West has almost achieved full evolution of the nanny state. You have to concentrate very hard in the UK not to break the law every 5 minutes. Rules abound: rules, rules, rules. When you come to another country such as this, you realise the joy of freedom from everyday rules. It’s intoxicating not merely because of the novelty, but also because of the simplicity, the weight of fear lifted. It is something we do not see because it is so ingrained in our society, yet I think it contributes significantly to our high levels of anxiety and depression. To live in a constant state of fear as we do, always watched, with someone waiting for us to break the rules. It’s stifling to say the least. You feel that in India, a lifting of the spirit – not merely because it is a spiritual centre (which you instantly feel to your core, too) but from the sense of freedom the society affords its people. The argument against this is obvious, with more rules comes less accidents etc. but the weight of the fear impact on our generation and the next is already beginning to show, with higher levels of depression, anxiety and suicide than ever before as young people feel trapped and overwhelmed by the burden of fear society places on them.

Anyway, I digress. But I digressed because freedom from incessant public restriction is a significantly noticeable aspect of life here. Another is cows. Cows everywhere. EVERYWHERE. You cannot walk for 100 metres without seeing at least one cow wandering around. They don’t belong to anyone, nor do they seem to get looked after by anyone in particular. They fend for themselves and no one takes any notice of them. They are as much a part of life here as rain in England. As a foreigner, this charms me no end, a fact which the Indians find hilarious. Sitting in a house, a cow walks past the door. Walking along, a cow trundles past. I turn in amazement and delight as these noble animals are treated as equals, in stark contrast to our brutal farming and consumption of them in the UK. Although they are mostly ignored here, they would never mistreat them. The Hindu cow is sacred, and it is clear that all animals are respected in this mostly vegetarian country.

So, I arrived – my host Ashis took me by tuk tuk back to his home and art residence in Bharatpur on the outskirts of the city of Bhubaneswar. The traffic and the cows were my first major introduction to the contrast of life in India to that of where I had arrived from, just outside London. The residency, at Kalanirvana, is held at a beautiful house in a fairly rural area, quiet except for the ongoing sounds of building during the day. Construction here is in full swing, every other house is being built and workers (men, and women in full sari) trek up and down stairs all day long carrying 8 bricks on their heads at a time, or bags full of sand in 28-degree heat. I am in awe. They grin at me as they pass, and I grin back. Namaste I say, and they nod with a grin. I am a novelty here; being particularly fair skinned I stick out like a sore thumb and have had a taste of celebrity status as I am often asked to pose for photos with locals, or encounter those who ask me to take photos of them, and who beam in delight at me as if I am an alien species. I have had very little animosity, perhaps a handful of looks, but these could probably be construed more as a confused frown than hostility. Interestingly, more than a few children, particularly the very young, toddlers, have squirmed away from me in fear. The fear of the other, which they do not yet understand, being too young to have learnt of other cultures by TV and schooling. I found this fascinating, as in the UK, with our now very multicultural society, the vast majority of children will come across other skin colours and facial types regularly from a young age. I do not remember my son ever reacting like that, as he has seen a variety of faces since he could first make out a face at all.  

The day I arrived, the previous resident artist Paula, a musical performance artist from New York, was leaving. Luckily, I got to meet her, and even more fortunately, was able to join them on a visit to the local ‘slum’ village to distribute solar lamps she had been given by a company as part of her project whilst here. Before we left, she gifted me a number of beautiful treasures from her trip – a red dupatta, for which she gave me a lesson on the many ways to wear, a pile of collected local handmade paper and a US sci-fi book of short stories to help if the jetlag kept me awake. I was bowled over by this show of generosity for someone she had met only moments before. Her husband Richard, another New Yorker and a high-profile pianist, joined us, despite being rather seriously unwell after some suspect food in Calcutta.

The four of us walked to the village, guided by Ashis, who, being a local, is well known in the area. His father was the first person to build a house in this community and, employed at the time in the power department of the government, had the connections to ensure that roads were built, and electricity installed. More people in turn followed, and the neighbourhood is now busy and thriving. The high-profile nature and longevity of his father in the area means he knows the local people well, which makes for useful security and access to all areas in the local vicinity. On arriving at the ‘slum’, we were greeted by children playing with monkeys in the street. Monkeys which took off sharply when we arrived, aware perhaps of our foreignness, as they took to the high walls to observe us from above. Monkeys in the wild is a sight I have never seen, and a thrill which infuses the soul with happiness.

We were invited into the house of Laxmi and took off our shoes to enter – this is standard practice here, in houses always, and often in shops too, shoes off and left outside. It is a seemingly small thing, but yet another practice which stops me short in my own automatic behaviour, to challenge my views of how society works. Although a respectful and cordial social norm, an equivalent in England is not at all practical due to the weather – in minus 5-degrees who wants to be removing shoes and socks outside every time they go in and out of somewhere?!

Entering Laxmi’s house, we were greeted with delighted smiles from the adults and suspicious frowns from the beautiful wide-eyed children, which made me grin at them even more. Paula presented them with her gift of the solar lamp and explained to me that when the electricity goes off in the area (which is a regular occurrence) the slum is without power. When it is dark, that means the teenagers cannot study their schoolwork, no one can cook or do work around the house, and any job which needs to be seen to be completed, is unachievable. The solar lamp will make a huge difference to the practicality of their household. We were offered beautifully small, delicate cups of delicious sweet tea, which I managed to drink despite feeling rather sick from jetlag, having only arrived that morning. We then visited a neighbouring house and were offered more tea and snacks. I ate as much as I could, so as not to offend, and enjoyed the exquisite tastiness of a local banana – a third of the size of the ones we get in the UK, packed with ten times the flavour.

As we left, the sound of drums and chanting filled the air. That’s the Bajan, Ashis said, come, I’ll show you. We walked through the streets to a small temple, where a machinated drum played a fast, repetitive beat as offerings were made to Shiva. Ashis pointed out that every house has a small altar at the front, no matter the status of its owner, where a candle is lit at dusk each night and communal thanks and prayers are given to Shiva and other Hindu gods. The beat of the drum was intoxicating and hypnotic, and I learnt that the Bajan is a daily occurrence, a form of public call to prayer.

After an overwhelming first day, my first impressions of India are nothing but positive. As I always expected, this place speaks to my soul and feels as natural to me as if it were home. It is a place of acceptance, of freedom; of simplicity but enthusiasm and drive, of overpowering colour and sound and smell. It’s everything you think it will be and much, much, more. I can’t wait for tomorrow….

Underground Vienna

Camera at the ready, eyeballs on the lookout – yet my first day in the city of Vienna yielded no palpably exciting images, despite an abundance of beauty and grandeur of aesthetic spectacle on every corner thanks to the legacy of the dominating Habsburg Empire.

There was plenty there for everyone, with unending streams of tourists lining up to snap the top tourist attractions, and photographers such as my sister (whose speciality is in photographing people) lapping up the melee of crowds surrounding said tourist spots.

As for me, I felt somewhat at sea photography-wise. My mood wasn’t brilliant, my stress levels were high, and I struggled to find that sweet spot when you just know a shot is working.

Until, that is, me and the family embarked upon an unexpected post-dinner walk down to the beautiful Danube (well, a tributary – a damn big tributary actually). The riverbank hit my sweet spot. Street art and graffiti as far as the eye could see lit by low, coloured lights and punctuated by stark streetlamps in places. This was a bit of me.

Childhood magic and the search for the Heffalump

A walk in the woods for me always brings back memories of days spent with my dad exploring the local woodland and heath. Being an actor, a creative, imaginative soul and of a Peter Pan nature, he would crouch wide-eyed, cocking his head to the side and pretending to hear the stomp of Christopher Robin’s Heffalumps in the distance. Thrilled, and in that wonderfully childish state of overwhelming excitement, I would follow his racing trail through the trees, squealing with delight as we crunched over the bracken underfoot in high anticipation. In those moments and in those memories we entered another world. Removed from the everyday industrialism for a brief period, we chased into a shadowy world of tone; of light and dark, pared back sounds, silence and crackles, birdsong and sun on bark. Coming across a steep dip in the ground he would inform me conspiratorially and in hushed tones that this was the Heffalump nest and it must be nearby. We were lost in a world of myth and story, letting reality as we knew it fade away to reveal the spine-tingling hidden parts of perception.

A recent trip to Lesnes Abbey Woods resulted in the photographs in this blog, and encapsulate this sense of mystical storytelling which I now pass on to my 3 year old; pointing out to him faerie doors in the trees and drinking in his delighted astonishment like the elixir of life connecting me to the most cherished experiences of my own childhood.

I used Photoshop liberally with these images, to create and enhance the sense of uncovering the hidden reality below that which is first seen. For myself at least I have managed to capture the sense of magic and story which speaks to the deepest parts of me.

All photos copyright Kate Withstandley Photography. Taken on Nikon D5100 with 18 – 140mm lens.

Kent Winter: colour, light & texture – recent photographs

I recently went to Sevenoaks Nature Reserve on an exploratory trip with my 2 year old. Miraculously I actually managed to get some nice shots, as my attention was drawn from following his ever-running footsteps, to some of the striking aesthetics born of the natural oasis I was travelling through.

Being November, the three elements which were on my side with regards to getting some great images were colour, light and texture. Sounds obvious, but winter in Kent produces remarkable conditions in which to appreciate the beauty of the situation around us.

The colour of the leaves as the season takes hold is of course a wonderful sight. Living in Kent, the Garden of England as they say, I see this every year and have done for 33 years. It never gets dull. It’s never assumed. It is always, without fail, an open-mouthed moment of delicious shock, at how a tree so recently full and green, can so quickly become a riot of flame and opulence.

Winter light is by far my favourite of all the seasons. Low and hazy, it casts a glow over the scene. In contrast to summer shadows, which are often crisp and glaring, winter shadows are long and inventive; invoking a new aspect of reflection upon their subject.

And of course, texture. Mud. Water. Wet. Crisp. Crunch. Slop. Slide. Squelch. Burn. Bite. Smooth. Wash. Mix. The tangibility of this seasonal effect is almost as extreme as it’s tonal effect. Every aspect evokes a dramatic physical reaction. The modern instinct tells you to avoid the slop, the squelch, the burn. But once engaged, the elements draw you in deeply, in a way saccharine summer cannot.

Rarely is such a thing more beautifully satisfying than a winter walk in the Kent country.

SHOWING NOW and for sale as part of a Dartford Arts Network exhibition at the Mick Jagger Centre in Dartford until 4th January

Images taken on a Nikon D5100 with 50mm lens

Golden

Collision

Nature’s Sculpture

Reflection

Ramsgate Snaps

I’ve been to Ramsgate many times, but as with all places, I see something new every time I visit. To see beyond the obvious facade of everyday life, its structures and its seeming banalities, to see the potential for beauty and impact, is, for me, the thrill of photography.

I snap, yes, to catch the moment of light, shadow, tone, or form. No set-up or pre-planning for me. But through considered editing and the push and pull of my limited knowledge of the tools at my disposal, I draw out what I knew was there before I could technically ‘see’ it. I hope you enjoy them!

These photos were taken with a Nikon D5100 / 18-140mm Nikon lens and edited with Adobe Photoshop

 

Today

It’s so easy to lose track of yourself. To find yourself morphing into a different type of person with whom you have little in common. Someone who doesn’t look – who doesn’t see the beautiful shapes in a ripped piece of wallpaper, or notice the startling effect of light and shadow cast on a busy pavement. You can very quickly become part of the melee who walk over them, heavy footsteps smashing the composition blindly. But that’s part of what I love about myself. Part of what makes me proud to be me. I notice these things. I find them more beautiful and interesting than most artworks in a gallery. The beauty of man-made nature. The stuff which is so natural to us it may as well be placed in the same category as trees and plants; concrete, tarmac, trains, windows, pavements and doors, shopfront reflections, burnt edges, peeling paint. They’re everywhere. The fact that others don’t notice them gives me a little rush, it makes me feel as if I’ve been treated to a personal glimpse of something. Like the children in the Narnia stories who see the portal to the other world, while others around them see nothing but a wall. My experience isn’t that dramatic of course but it has that same special feeling. It brings me joy. Sometimes I can stand at the edge of the tube platform and see so much beauty and art in form and shape that it makes my heart full. The other side of this coin is when I don’t see it. When my heart is sad and my eyes are down. When I look at the wall and see only degradation and the need for a paint job. I’ve been feeling like that recently and stopped seeing the beauty. But today I saw it again and it’s as stunning as ever.

Preserving the past by removing the public connection

The animals. That’s how they spot me, the locals I mean. Stroking a feral cat which I am fully aware could riddle me with rabies in a blurred second of diseased saliva on teeth tips; they know I’m English and spot me a mile off, how could they not? But their sad, neglected little faces (the animals, I mean). Their mangy forms hobbling along towards an inadequate patch of ground shaded from the burning sun. It is a familiar and enduring sight of the which I will I never get used to seeing in other countries. But despite my very British show of pet empathy, on my first  trip to the Greek ‘Athens Riviera’ in June of this year the fate of these multitudinous weary strays managed to distract me only momentarily from those extraordinary Athenian ruins of classical antiquity which tower over the city, abiding endlessly as lives begin, are lived and end all around them.

The Acropolis remains are overwhelmingly huge, dominating the city skyline in a way that I felt was more powerful than seeing them at close range. In some cases the sculpture is powerfully enigmatic, the guarding Caryatids evoking in me a childhood memory from the Neverending Story of those two stone oracles, their power and character fascinating me then at six as these beautiful, frightening forms do now at thirty. I inherited an interest in history from my mother, although my thirst for knowledge does not extend to the same reaches nor inhabit the same form as her – ie. sitting up late at night head buried in 3000 page epic overviews of Russian revolutions. My own curiosity takes far more of an immediate form; suffice it to say lengthy summaries of fact spattered with anomalous pellets of prose do not engage me for long, but I would still consider myself a history fan, shall we say. I chose my holidays mostly according to whether there are sites to visit nearby. I sketch the ruins and read the leaflets. So why do I always find myself questioning our obsession with preservation?

I suppose I’m playing devil’s advocate to an extent, but do find it disturbing how we actively remove significant objects and artefacts from the public reach, particularly those which were created with the proletariat in mind. It embodies the modern edict of look, but don’t touch. It’s a relatively new phenomenon (in the scale of the lives of these buildings) and one whose aspects I do understand in principle; vast increases in visitor numbers and so the inevitability of damage, the fact that to save these artifacts we have to stop direct visitor engagement at some point so why not now, the advances in technology meaning we can now see in more clarity the damage being inflicted etc. Ergo, we have to preserve these artefacts for the future. But do we? Is modern society a bit over obsessed with preservation and conservation, to the point at which we have almost become hoarders on a mass ideological scale?

Ironically of course our consumer culture evidences quite the opposite, most of us are hesitantly complicit in the growth of plastic mountains and new landfill land masses. On the whole we generally attribute little value to objects. Not in the case of historical value though, this attribution transforming something from disposable to preservable. Uniqueness is often the main factor, or its rarity, but our desperation to ensure that the originals of these objects are not lost have led us to sometimes devalue them through corrupting their original public purpose and right to be used. Walking around the Acropolis was a perfect example of this; barred at every corner from experiencing the structures as they were meant to be experienced, I admit I felt cheated. Public structures built as open areas for the people, for the masses to participate in community gathering, now reduced to purely an externally aesthetic pursuit for all except a privileged few specialists. This restriction tarnishes it, sullies the beauty and purity of the architecture and essentially just isn’t fair. But far from this behaviour being unique to what is now ancient construction, we regularly apply it to new, modern creations. ‘Do not touch’ goes without saying in virtually every instance. In artistic terms it does in fact now seem to psychologically add value to something. To be told we can touch instinctively means so can everyone else and the thing is reduced to consumable as opposed to preservable.

I freely admit I do not have an opposing solution to the issues of why we do preserve and am here merely provoking consideration of a concept we all take very much for granted. You could indeed say that if we gave free reign access to works of art or historical artefacts they would be smashed and graffiti covered, but consider that many have been standing there for over 2000 years, significantly damaged primarily due to brutal wars and not local hoodlums, with do not touch rules only being implemented in the last 50 or so. Speculate on why we feel we need to preserve them in their perfected original form at all. Does not time decay and weather all things? With modern technology we persist in working against natural evolution, to stultify it and challenge its process of degeneration. In this case, to what end? Our ability to further our knowledge through them is limited and can be recorded with a variety of techniques, so why not allow the structures to become communal, as a vast amount of them were intended to be? Laying them open to potential damage is a worrying prospect, but to leave them as they are, alien and untouchable, may be even worse. Perhaps it’s time to allow the public to experience the key to why these structures are so amazing and despite what the brochures may want you to think, the answer isn’t in the gift shop.

Climate change? What climate change?

Flood: Former footpath between Dartford Park and Brooklands Lake on the left. Original path of river on the right.

Living in a town adjacent to the Thames and with a river running through its centre, people quite understandably keep asking me if I’ve been affected by the recent floods. Have I been plunged into watery despair? Am I wading despondently knee deep in sewage, being accosted by politicians on crucial PR pity visits? No, I answer. Thankfully, that is the truth (Farage and Cameron grinning at me in wellies would no doubt push me over the proverbial water’s edge). As the result of a simple principle which appears inexplicably not to apply to other parts of the country, it was spotted back in the 70’s that we were at risk of flooding and so precautions were put in place. Dartford hasn’t flooded seriously since the late 60’s, a happy statistic our current environment minister seems intent on disproving.

What I carefully neglected to point out to my concerned inquisitors was that last weekend, whilst wandering around Dartford taking the photographs you can see below, it happened that the floods were a momentary blessing to me, bestowing upon my camera some unique shots I do not get to see every day. Passing the much-needed tunnel between our local park and the beautiful yet underrated Brooklands Lakes, I discovered it is currently no longer a tunnel for pedestrians (unless going for a rather cold and boisterous swim) but more of a secondary river with decisively white-water tendencies, the original river spilling over onto the footpath in the manner of a makeshift weir. We can but stand back and concede defeat as nature spits her contempt upon our concrete interventions. It’s a striking sight, and an interestingly microcosmic glimpse into a future decimated by climate change. At the time of writing I believe Owen Paterson, our illustrious Environment Minister, is still in a job. I doubt for very long if the population disagree with his comments implying that climate change is an ’emotional’ response rather than a reality. A news report I read recently hit the nail on the head when it stated that appointing an environment minister who doesn’t believe in climate change is much like appointing a health minister who thinks cigarette risks are exaggerated.

Scientific climate change experts almost overwhelmingly concur that we have been gradually killing our unique ball of gas, with quantifiable evidence in the bag and more to come.  I assumed it was a given nowadays. I thought we all pretty much accepted that we are highly likely to be the victims of nature’s wrathful death-throes unless we begin to accelerate very hard in reverse gear (excepting the US bible belt who are all busy polishing their arks, having been significantly forewarned).  Sadly, even if Mr Paterson realises his potentially catastrophic error of judgment in the next, say, day or so, we are still 10, 20 or even 30 years too late to put the brakes on the destructive weather changes we see battering the planet and which we were first warned about in 1957. Mitigation is the key at this point; damage limitation. If we act immediately, we might just save the planet from complete destruction. If it turns out that even this is now up for debate, I might just start building an ark myself. 2 cats – check. Now where did I put those spare fence panels…?