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Coventry Cathedral

A few days ago my friend Sharon set me thinking about religion by using the word "momentum" on one of her Facebook comments, which put me in mind of how very little the dogma, tradition and ritual founded on ancient scriptures seem to have changed over time. By comparison, many of our secular societies and cultures have developed and evolved their belief systems, laws and other codes of conduct much more rapidly. I'd have used the word inertia, but that's merely semantic noise: I believe that she and I are both referring to resistance to change.

I am vehemently opposed to, and appalled by, the darker excesses of what some humans will do to each other in the names of their Gods. I had this very discussion with a bishop when I was aged fourteen. But I have also known some intensely shining lights whose unshakeable faith (which still mystifies me) has earned my absolute respect for their unquestionably positive achievements in some undeniably negative situations.

My visit to Coventry Cathedral today was spiritually uplifting for me, purely in the sense that it was an Artist's Date (a term used by Julia Cameron in her books on overcoming creative block).

The Luftwaffe wrought significant and rapid change to the pre-war architecture of Coventry Cathedral, clearing the way (quite literally) for the kind of visionary architectural rebirth which was to become the hallmark of Britain's post-war recovery. One such pleasing result was this most beautiful, yet intentionally flawed phoenix of a modern sanctuary. Its breath-taking interior spaces offer unbelievers like me at the very least a healing, temporal respite from the cares of the world. The faithful appear to experience and perceive far more (though presumably terms and conditions must apply).

On my gale-blown journey down from Lincoln this morning I saw a major vehicle fire. Moments later I arrived mere seconds after another motorway collision, which I phoned in to the emergency services once I was safely far enough past it, relieved that my First Aid skills had not been required. Half an hour later the peaceful, calm environment of Coventry Cathedral -- bolstered by a bowl of hot soup in its belowstairs café -- soon improved my mood.

When the rain stopped, I walked outside, strolling around the preserved, open shell of the 1940s' stone ruins. That iconic masonry has been dedicated as a monument to forgiveness, reconciliation and hope. I didn't photograph it, because the small screen on my phone camera could never have processed such infinitely large concepts.

[Alt text: my iPhone snapshot includes just about half the height of some of the world-famous stained glass windows, viewed from the inside, shown here completely dwarfing one of the robed clergymen who had just finished a short and simple public call to prayer.]

 

Street photography by Henry C Miller

I kept this little lo-res print tacked up on my office wall for many years until I had to move out. It comes from the extensive portfolio of a master of Fine Art photography, my late friend Henry C Miller. His father was an accomplished photographer who worked for Agfa. He taught his young son photography in New York City in the late '50s and early'60s.

The C in HCM is for Curtis. I was privileged to meet Curt in later life, when he was producing black and white work of the highest possible technical and artistic standards.. I'm talkng about Ansel Adams' print quality, Minor White's attention to detail, Annie Leibovitz's observation of people, Cartier-Bresson's timing. Really. Truly. I mean it. And I know masses about this stuff. Wealthy New Yorkers were buying his photographic art for their Manhatten lofts from summer-season galleries in The Berkshires. Silver Birch trees by the Housatonic River and the like, for example.

I use this picture when I am encouraging photographers to widen their skills in the genre called "Street Photography". I tell them to find someone who captures their interest, then to get in close, to quickly develop an honest, non-judgemental rapport, then make a picture of the subject in context. Oh, and promise them a print or an emailed copy (then deliver on that promise).

Much of this technique is what successful photojournalists practice daily. Those of you who already know this might take a moment to look carefully at how Curt included certain of the surrounding graphics to edit his story in his Leica 35mm camera, all the while knowing the limits of traditional film & paper and without employing any post-production digital trickery -- no mean feat on the busy and crowded pavements of a bustling city for a man with a pressured day job. Curt was streetwise for sure.

Not to be taken

Today I am a frustrated eco-warrior. The photo shows a pair of old-fashioned clinical thermometers, the kind that, if you were lucky, your mum put under your tongue when you were trying for a day off school. If you were unlucky, they're what the school nurse used to threaten to stick up your anus, just to make quite sure you were indeed 100% fit to play rugby on a frozen pitch scattered with iced goose shit on a bitter Saturday morning in February (a local farmer rented the land during the week).

I'm frustrated because "doing the right thing" failed. In a fit of decluttering, I took these unwanted thermometers out of my medicine cabinet and straight to my local pharmacy, to the counter where they accept unused medication for its safe disposal. Safety was my motivator: this old pair of home doctoring tools contain more than enough mercury to ruin a domestic ecosystem, so I really didn't want them to end up in a landfill site. It's bad enough that the thin glass tubes were within easy chomping distance of my teeth when I was a child, but hey, they were still putting lead in paint back then, so why should I have been worried about the risk of swallowing a little deadly poison? "DON'T BITE" was all I was ever told. The reason? "These things are expensive".

So my minor but sincere attempts at saving the planet this week, an activity not to be taken lightly, have, so far, failed.

De-escalation

Shopping: I'm very much a bloke about it. Target identified, fast sortie planned, take gift vouchers with me, dive in & out quickly, return to base with one new "Oxford" cotton shirt, button-down collar, mission accomplished.

I haven't blogged for a while. I find the simplicity and immediacy of using Instagram satisfies most of my need to share pictures and comments with others. There are still too many one-stop social media apps in my phone for my liking. Making choices about who sees what and where isn't what I want to be doing. But the 'Net will take care of this eventually, without any direct input for me.

More than mere tulips

There can be so much more to a simple photograph than is immediately obvious. The story behind this one is highly personal. It is about me, because the way these three tulips are arranged is a metaphor for my childhood.

I grew up in the shadow of my parent's true romance, a long and intense love story which had almost insurmountable obstacles right from the start. The long-stemmed flower on the left represents my father. The one on the right is my mother.

Dad was a tall, dark and very handsome man whose youthful appearance always belied his age. In this photograph, he and my mother are close, kissing tenderly. She -- as ever -- is leaving no room for me between them. I am sticking to my dad's side because my mum and I aren't hitting it off. We still don't. But nowadays I take full responsibility for seeing that her sunset years are the best she can have. She did, when all said and done, give me life. Precious, fragile, wonderful life, which I love. And she chose to do that at great risk to her own. She still introduces me to complete strangers as her "miracle baby".

I adore tulips above almost all other flowers. I see my photograph of these particular three pretty much every day, often several times a day. They hang in my home, framed, mounted and glazed, reminding me of my boyhood. They are a timeless testament to my journey through life as a photographer, both physically and spiritually.

To be continued

Last night saw the last in the current series of the six evening classes which introduced me to some of the basic techniques involved in painting with watercolours. I've learned so much -- and had such fun -- that I've already signed up for September's sessions.

I seem to be leaning towards developing a pen and wash style of my own, but it's early days and I don't yet know what I don't know. Judging from the very few books I've dipped into so far, watercolour is definitely one super-wide angle panorama of a subject.

Wet into wet, and horrid greens

It may seem ironic that on a crappy afternoon (weatherwise) of cold, pouring rain, I got my watercolours out, the better to practice what my teacher has been showing me. Thankfully there's a patch of metaphorical sunshine piercing the sodden, dishwater-grey skies, because my friend and talented artist Richard Sheppard has been helpful, as ever, with his supportive comment and advice. You'll find some of his captivating drawing style and inviting books at http://www.theartistontheroad.com/

For the technically minded, neither Richard nor I are enamoured of the greens available to us. I'm a novice. He's a master. But colour is colour, and we just don't like some of it. So you should be able to guess what I'll be asking teacher later this week.

The professional writers among you will have noticed sentences beginning with the conjunction "but". Historically this has been decided by some grammatical pedants as sinful. But who really cares? And if you do, you'll have liked my Oxford comma, won't you? Or Harvard comma, if you're American.

Mirrors

As a small boy, long before I bought my first camera, I already had a fascination with light. I played with magnifying glasses, torches (flashlights, not flambos: I was only five years old), mirrors and coloured cellophane sweet wrappers.

So I started looking at the world early, captivated by light and shade in all their infinite combinations. A rare treat for me was a visit to my uncle's fruit and vegetable shop. Quite apart from the deliciously mingled aromas, I was spellbound by the clever arrangement of angled mirrors behind the display shelves. Pyramids of vividly hued oranges were reflected into other shapes. Patterns and geometric designs delighted my eyes. I saw behind, below and above all once.

At age 9 I bought an old Kodak box camera for sixpence at a village jumble sale. I didn't know it at the time but that small step was the first I took on an exciting and rewarding journey into photography, eventually specialising in lighting for theatre, film and video at various stations along the track of a working life during which I got paid to have fun playing with expensive toys.

I'm semi-retired now, so I can indulge my passion for picture making purely for my own personal pleasure. My most recent success in terms of satisfaction and reward has been to teach some blind children to use digital photography. I am currently exploring the creative possibilities with the cameras and photo editing/sharing apps in mobile devices, where the Internet has fostered some very productive collaborations.

Photography has proved to be one of the most powerful tools we've invented in the last two centuries. I won't be lying on my death bed wishing I'd chosen anything else in life other than to be a photographer.

#hashtag focus

On dull days, both weatherwise and moodwise, holding a favourite hashtag in focus in my head usually opens up picture-making possibilities.

Red and black is one of my favourite colour schemes. #redandblack

Fully present

Walking through a graveyard can focus the mind on what a Cognitive Behaviour Therapist might call "being fully present". Or, as an Irish friend of mine often used to tell me: "We're a long time dead Peter".

This is life. It is not a rehearsal. We should make the most of it while we're here.