Gaza Sphinx
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Because the premise is a lie … was always. Because family feuds are worse, civil wars not and because antisemitism is not exclusive when it comes to who the semites are … because Trump is, Netanyahu is … not …

And so people die. And live without hope … and now less … if that’s possible.

And not to aesthetisise anyone else’s pain, and not to ignore the ancient greek’s misogyny … why is this shit still going on … I’m not naive, just sad and angry.

A Wet (and very White) Weekend in Whitby

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The Doomstone, York Minster.

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Whitby Abbey.

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sheer drop
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No shit …

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18th century three-decker pulpit in St Mary’s.

Stopped off at the Yorkshire Sculpture Park on the way home.

cragg 1
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Tony Cragg’s pieces from A Rare Category of Objects are almost designed to be photo­graphed rather than engaged with.

cragg 2
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See what I mean?

burger 2
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A pair of burgers from Matthew Day Jackson’s eerily abject Magni­ficent Desol­ation.

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A crowd of graphite ware figures, all look the same to me, don’t shoot …

don't shoot
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… part of Zak Ové’s 80 strong crowd — Black and Blue: The Invisible Men and the Masque of Blackness.

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And on the way out through Jaume Plensa’s Wonderland — on the threshold of nowhere.

Cornwall Boogie Woogie

cornwall boogie
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The work I’m doing at the moment starts with a grid … well, no: it starts with an image which is then trans­lated into a grid … well, no: several independent grids … aye aye aye, whatever — I need my grid. It’s where I start.
And it’s not just a pretext — the grid has to work on its own, to dance and to tell tales, even if I’m the only one to hear them.

But this one tickled me more than most — getting better at this. Two days ago I was convinced I’d bitten off more than I could chew … and then …

I’m sure I’m a bit weird but I find this strangely rewarding and the making of it as much like a dance as I am comfortable with — so here’s my Cornwall Boogie Woogie, Piet.

Bodmin’s House of Pain

house of pain
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Lanhydrock … hmmm … carceral monstrosity that it is.

National Trust Central for Cornwall … Busy with people (heaving in the season) entranced, seduced and deluded by the Downton Abbey life of the previous owners … let’s be honest: the weird, sickly, devout and yet totally bent Agar-Robartes. Creepy bunch of fuckers.

The Jacobean home of the Earls of Radnor, acquired in the dissol­ution, was razed by righteous fire in 1881 and rebuilt as an insane asylum for their feeble bug-eyed children.

But, if you avoid the grim house they built, the gardens and estate the NT have created are actually quite beautiful … and quite free just at the moment, if you sneak around the proscribed routes — pay and display soon to demonise, crimin­alise and fuck up that particular bit of sharing with the community.

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And perfect in the spring with rhodo­den­drons, camellias and magnolias, daffs and crocus, views softened by the haze …

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But there’s no getting away from the devil’s spawn who built this bastion of privilege …

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A lovely wander in fact … ho hum.

So, What’s going on then?

Real photo­graphs, real film, mechanical camera thingy. Ay? Why?

OK, I’ve been thinking about this: it seems there are at least three things going on here. Three scams. Three cons. Three lies.

There’s the illusion of choice, there’s “democrat­isation” and there’s the delusion of perfect­ib­ility.

Consumer capit­alism is predicated on the pivot of choice: you CAN buy this (can’t you? — look at this ad, this promo, this review) … or not. If you don’t buy; that’s your choice. Whether you can actually afford it is neither relevant nor irrel­evant it is simply not acknow­ledged, accepted or even recog­nised … no other altern­ative exists.
So — I cannot afford a better camera but I can afford A camera and a lot of people can’t. End of.

To make images as memorable, meaningful and powerful; as engaging, exciting and charming; as art-histor­ically engaged, culturally hip and polit­ically pointed; as nuanced, as subtle and as emotionally engaged, as THEY do, all you need to do is: be true to yourself and buy our best kit.
You must not listen to the old fogies who tell you that there are technical camera skills you need to acquire, art history you need to study, people skills you need to hone and a socio-envir­on­mental-political stance you need to at least start to define. Not to mention the practice you need to put in, practice and show and listen (and sometimes reject or ignore what they say) and then listen again and do it again and loop round and round and round and so on and on and so on.
And who is this self we are supposed to be true to — do you know? I don’t. And I really don’t care.
But we can do this shit without buying anything at all. Bastards we are and we can learn and get better.
And sometimes just take a picture with a “different” camera in exactly the same way way we might with our bloody phone.

Then there is the perfect prime: the lens that can …
The perfect camera that could … or at least a better one …
There is always the plastic surgery that might …
The mind-fullness that … the wellness … the fitness … the will … ah, the will. The will to get x, to take y, to claim my birth­right as a Randian Übermensch … or to just be a slave to a system that drip feeds us answers and solutions to our dreams and fears and cravings … or is it Soma.
When you send a film away, as we always used to, unlike the profes­sional who always kept control, other people make all the decisions that are left and they don’t edit, they don’t choose but do choose how to print, how to maximise the inform­ation, how to present the “idea” — we’re left with a fait accompli — and does that leave us any less autonomous, empowered or embodied? Like we’re caring about this?
They are so focused on the con and the take and the rewards that they don’t have the time to worry about this shit, never mind the consequences. Would you, would I?

So we can say no.
We will use the tools we have at our disposal. And we will learn their limit­a­tions and their joys. This camera was really quite good when I was a kid and it still is. Ansel Adams couldn’t dream of … oh yes he could … and digital is just beginning to … and is this really what matters when we start to contex­tu­alise with Instagram and Flickr and Facebook and whatever … Whatever. If you speak with an accent is what you say any less valid?

Oh, and there’s something else too, alluded to in the way I scanned the photo­graphs: they’re things, in the world, in our world, touchy feely lovely things we can hold in our hands, inter­rogate and, if we want: put on the wall — they are ours.

And we will tell our friends and our families our own stories.
And we will tell you to fuck off.