I have started working on a project around the idea of routes and maps. The work is in the purely experimental stages and I may well abandon it altogether if the project chooses to take its own direction. It may coincide with the work of a newly-formed group I am part of here in Warwickshire (which will give it legs I am sure) or I might work it in parallel.
I began with a plant of beautiful patterns and textures which has always struck me with its tracery of veins and stems, the rhubarb. Examined closely the leaves can be seen in all their delicate intricacy, a web where one line or route moves on to many others in enormous variety and complexity. Paper maps reveal much about the inter-relationship of elements of a landscape which are unseen and unseeable where we stand. Likewise, a rhubarb plant, so easy to dismiss or ignore, shows a fascinating web of elements – lines, curves, rises and hollows – inviting one to travel through them on an imaginary journey. Webs have an innate beauty and for me are the perfect example of a whole being so much greater than the sum of its parts. Maps and leaves feel very akin in their construction and appearance and both give me an exhilarating sense possibility and wonder when examined closely.
I am not physically strong enough at the moment to undertake my planned Summer walk to the sea but funnily enough this very intense looking feels almost as exciting as the scrutinising of maps and relating them to the wider landscape that takes place on an actual walk. I have always thought that the sense of possibility is what makes travel so alluring and, in fact, I am finding that the enthusiasm to discover and open up wells up almost as strongly in this type of mental movement without any physical displacement as it does when setting out with boots and backpack.
A good day’s walk makes you feel like your heart has overflowed, that it cannot be contained by the physical confines of the body. It spills out into the trees and hills, it is carried in the wind, winds its way through the air-blown grass like a serpent, runs at your heels like a happy dog. Joy is impossible to describe, for what lifts me may not have any kind of effect on you. But when I walk I feel a part of the world and not apart from it. This sense mixes with everything, I mix with it and, quite literally, en-joy.
Walking, when done in the right spirit, is creative, or at least fills me with the same ineffable sense that something essential, something visceral is happening. It is a feeling that anyone who has created something satisfying will recognise. Moving across the world slowly – from a distance little appears to change, just as an artist’s pencil second by second alters the paper insignificantly – it feels like the landscape and the walker have at the day’s end become a manifestation of more than the sum of themselves.
Travelling on foot gives so much time for mental release thanks to its basic slowness. It creates a psychic momentum which carries one’s thoughts and emotions onward long after the stepping out is finished. It gives a mental space, an openness, which is ripe for fledging ideas and firming up reflections. There is so much in its inherent, rhythmical slowness which is essential to the emotive understanding of all kinds of issues, problems and inspirations. Much of this is also down to the being there, wind on face, earth under foot, straining, feeling muscle and sinew as they negotiate a passage through the elements. The physical engagement transforms everything, makes our sometimes leaden lives golden once more – the philosopher’s stone for those of us who by necessity live our modern lives once removed from the elemental.
Working creatively, too, exercises the same attraction and endows what we do with identity and dynamism. In the hours of engagement with the work we make, our thoughts and actions have mixed so thoroughly with the physical elements of our day, whether they be rocks and air or paper and chemicals, that the result is not just something we have done or produced, it is part of us; full of heart, mistakes, retracing of steps, thrilling views and realisations, emotions, disappointments, challenges, and, with effort and luck, completeness and consummation.
Perhaps, this is why purely electronic media, whilst brilliant, can feel unsatisfying. They lack physicality. Unless their images are printed out, there is no molecular reality to the medium, no tangibility to the product. Like the sibilance of music on CD compared to the tonal richness of live music, it is impossible not to be aware that this is not ‘real’ but is manufactured from ones and zeros. I am strongly pro-digital (in music and in art) because it makes getting 99% of the desired result so wonderfully quick and possible. However, that final one percentage point is increasingly significant to me. In fact it is huge, impossible to ignore and explains why I am willing to spend days and months learning and labouring to get a version of an image which is right not just in its appearance but also in its execution.
The viewer does not care of course. This is the prerogative solely of the creator for only he or she handles the film holder, or winds the crank, and then at a later time with a head full of emotions and remembrances, sees the beauty of the negative held for the first time against the light of a window, later to convert that upside-down and back-to-front transparency into something physical for the world to see. When I have made a print, whether analogue or digital, I like to touch it, smell it, hold it aslant to the daylight to see its texture and appreciate the way that it seems alive as the light deepens the blacks, raises the whites to brilliance. I often take a print and sit with it in my hands, eyes closed, to appreciate its weight and texture in my hands. Without this sensuous appreciation I feel a gnawing sense of lack in what I make and do. Perhaps this love of the physical is misguided nostalgia but I feel rather that it is an acknowledgement of the real, the legitimate and the durable. The pursuit of these three qualities is what I think draws us into galleries when we can more easily view art online.
I for one want to be there as part of the experience not separated from it by signals up and down a phone line or round and round a whirring hard drive. In the just the same way, I want the walk up the mountain with its rain and wind, its sun and stars and not the simply the partial view of some vicarious armchair journey on my screen. The reality and the beauty we desire is not in the ‘elsewhere’ of which we dream. When we get out and place ourselves bodily amongst the sometimes uninspiring stuff of the everyday, it reveals itself everywhere and we can’t help but meet it at every turn. If we are wise enough to take the physicality of the world on its own terms, to watch it, smell it, touch it, describe it in the way that it feels most real – whether that is by walking it, photographing it, sketching it, sculpting it – this physical life and art become fused, indistinguishable and intoxicating.
Just like anybody else, I am always dying to see the results of an exposure particularly when I have that intuitive feeling that the recently closed shutter has sealed something good or, dare I say, potentially perfect. And just like everybody, I have had my share of disappointing results.
My recently yoyoing health has virtually prevented me from producing anything photographic, and I have had ample time to think about what motivates me to work photographically and to consider what value I feel lies in an image or passage of text once its making is complete. It has been an uncomfortable experience to discover that some of my images seem to be pure peacockery, passingly elegant, sometimes eye-catching, often curious but ultimately irritating and only fleetingly worthwhile.
I have found it fascinating to observe that, thanks to my imposed inactivity, my productive cycle (if indeed anything so close to a flat line can be called a cycle!) has seen a progressively longer gap between the making and the processing, and an even longer one between the processing and the publishing. Now this is enormously detrimental to one’s momentum but strangely it has proved to be excellent for ripening and improving my critical self-view and more importantly allowing me to savour what is good about an image before it goes on display to the rest of the world. It has provided a slowness and a breathing space which the race to publish something often squeezes out. Not that slowness benefits anybody but myself of course but these fallow interludes really do seem to improve the experience of making and understanding the results. They successfully keep at bay external pressures and allow one to savour – and sometimes discard – what has been made in a beautifully meditative way.
The photo shown here is one which, if it had taken the usual rapid route from darkroom to screen, might not have pleased me. I almost certainly would not have understood it or enjoyed its making. In fact the negative was so uninspiring that I very nearly threw it away without printing it at all. But the enforced delay, the occasional reviews of the negative, the playing with the print, the very looking at it and periodically ignoring it brought me to the point where instead of seeing triviality and pointlessness I saw dignity and worth. I think this is intensified by the low number of negatives I have had to work with recently which has allowed an intimacy with each exposure which high-volume production simply cannot create.
So it seems to me now that having lots of images to work with and finding too much ease in their production, with the resulting visual and critical indigestion that this entails can be tremendously damaging to the enjoyment of making. Part of the fun for me in using pinhole cameras is the enforced discipline of slow looking and slow action. But until now I had not realised how much benefit slowing right down might bring. In addition to this, as one’s satisfaction increases so does one’s ability to discern. As in so many other life-enhancing activities such as cooking good food or drinking pot-brewed tea from a china cup, what starts out as merely good is elevated to the heavenly by the right approach.
It has been a slow and somewhat barren winter for me photographically. The snow which buried the early flowers in these parts was bleak but beautiful with its shades and textures. Paper negatives frequently handle subtle textures with difficulty but I was pleased with this quick (and very cold) experiment with my newest wooden camera. As ever, the best of scene proved to be in the subtle and delicate detail rather than the open vista.
The announcement that Cumbria council has rejected plans for a massive nuclear waste dump at Ennerdale in the Lake District brought to mind a week I spent there last summer. What wonderful news to know that Wordsworth’s “still, sad music of humanity” will still be audible where humans meet the melancholy beauty of the wild.
My family and I recently scattered the ashes of my parents on the slopes of Blencathra in the Lake District. Under beautiful skies, it was a poignant, but not sad day, full of chat and reflections and simple happiness at just being there. As my brother and I stood in contemplation in the breeze, my sister-in-law was astonished to see two ravens circling over our heads whilst we stood completely unaware.
As I stepped through the boulders I began to wonder how much I actually see and feel of the landscape as I cross it. We hear great stories of bold treks across continents and jungles but very little of smaller more modest walks. Twinges in my knees had already planted the seed of a question in my mind: never mind big journeys, what if a walk to the shops was a physical challenge? What if to walk across a room was an impossibility? How differently would I see things then? And how lucky I am not to be incapacitated physically! Then the thought: what if here, now I could walk only ten steps? What would I see? How differently would I use my eyes? How much more significant would all this rock, heather and water appear if this were to be the limit of my walk today? I had been toying with the idea of short excursions of very concentrated image making for some days and now seemed an ideal time to make a first attempt. Ten steps and ten photographs. What would I see? It felt quite daunting. How could I possibly make ten photographs in such a small area? The only choice I gave myself was the direction in which to travel so setting off to the North, where the most variety seemed to be, I set out.
Walking through the bleak stones and peat in this way was as if to undertake a small parallel journey to the larger one which brought me here.