Low Light and Black and White

Walking into the Don McCullin retrospective at the Imperial War Museum, London, is to enter into a space of black and white, slanting walls, low light and a whole host of film rolls, letters, passes, cameras, passports and boots documenting Don McCullin’s life in the field and beyond. Don is widely recognised as one the greatest living war photographers, he has seen conflict all over the globe, shooting on commission for the Sunday Telegraph, Observer and more until Murdoch took over The Times and all editorial control and freedom of style and coverage seems to have been clipped… (no comment, ed.).  Don kick-started his career with shots of his mates, gang members in Finsbury Park, and you can see right from day one, his ability to shoot a story with just one image will be what continues to set his work apart, and remains (although it sounds a cliche) an inspiration to so many photojournalists in so many fields of photography.

The Theatre of War

It’s brilliantly curated, and takes you on an emotive journey from Cyprus to Africa, from Finsbury Park to Vietnam. You feel compelled to tread softly through the human debris and black and white filmic emotional pleas Don captures in his photography. For decades Don has bore witness to some of the most atrocious deeds man can inflict on another.

There is an interactive map showing the world; when you touch the screen large black and white rectangles filled with Don’s images sending documentary and human shrapnel scattering through your imagination.

Interview

In a small room, with hard seats, is an interview with Don on loop. He talks about his earliest days and experiences in London, through Cyprus, Vietnam and then into Africa and his passion and release in his landscapes of the dark satanic, but ravishingly beautiful, Somerset Levels. The reflections, the spectral trees, the hills. It is noticable that in these his personal work, there are no people. Just landscape, and you feel solitude, calmness, safety.

To edit or not

I used to want to be a war photographer, I think being a woman I would be leaving myself open to a lot of heartache and physical risk, which in turn would affect my parents (who are close to me) and I think this was one of the reasons I didn’t pursue it. So I’ve turned my hand now to the theatre of entertainment. You know, I thought it was odd, as I was going round the exhibition there was something that was hammering away at me. It’s the, and I use the term descriptively not tritely, theatricality of war which Don captures. It’s his ability to story board an event, a seige, an attack, the wounded, the air lift, the bombing. While I’m not able to go into the field, I have always admired Don’s work: the ability to make a difference with one image, to story tell through 2D, to inspire, to lead and stand by journalistic principles. If I could live my life again, I would probably do the same again, but there’s always something nagging at me to use my skill as a photographer to make a difference. This year I’m addressing that, and thanks to this exhibition, it has helped give me that push to make sure I keep my eye on the target.

Paris Photo expo, Grand Palais

So here I am in Paris. I’m staying in a little apartment in Montmartre which has a view of the Sacre-Coeur and is close to a marvelous little Jazz club, so I’m very happy. But why am I here? Ah, yes, the Paris Photo. If you don’t know of it, it’s a “must see” on nearly every photographers calendar, it’s the place to hang out with other professionals and gallery owners. It’s incredibly useful to collectors and artists to see what are the selling trends and what rates are.

The aisles are full of creative people, many eccentrics and individuality oozes down the aisles. I more or less fit in, bundled as I am in Jigsaw jacket and multiple scarves…

So where to start this review? The aisles are not alphabetical, and the layout lends itself to mooching and there’s plenty of space within each gallery booth to wander in and spend time in front of the images (unlike the Affordable Art Fair, which seems to shrink the galleries into shoeboxes), mind you the prints here at ParisExpo range from £2,000 to £1million… so I suppose if you’re a gallery exhibiting here, you can afford to pay for the extra square footage!

What I’ve come away with, is that there is such an optimism and creative activity in the photography world. And I mean this not just in terms of subject matter but also in camera format (there are many young and up and coming photographers using large format and film cameras) and printing materials. Silver Gelatin prints are many, also C-type and some real innovation on glass and a resurrection of early techniques of capturing images directly onto plates and selling these as one offs (see Matthias Olmeta at Galerie du Jour Agnes B, Paris).

I’ll run down some highlights of the show, which if you manage to go, or view any of it online, you might want to google and track them down.

Asymetria Gallery, based in Poland was displaying work by Tomek Sikora who had a series of 6 imaginary pieces on Alice in Wonderland (1978-1979); these were creative staged works in which actors took the part of the individual characters and then hand finished and painted in rainbow colours, becoming a dream-like riot of a haze of fantasy. In contrast Zofia Rydet’s black and whites of four children created a more quiet tone or yearning and innocence. But both to me, conjured memories and an association.

Bailey Seippel’s gallery is one I shall be “watching”. His is the first gallery in South Africa to specialise solely in Afrian photography. Bailey had an amazing print of Miriam Makeba, the singer whom I’m a big fan of. She is sitting on a bench seat with two other women engaged in conversation; it celebrates her ordinariness and engagement with people. She was so magnetic a personality and the simple conversation captured by Ranjith Kally is worth the Euro2,400 ticket as it also documents history. Bob Gosani’s work is there too, sampled brilliantly by a black couple at a bus stop, the man is on the kerb stone and the woman stands off it on the road, he is facing her and it is a moment of intimacy. As your eyes look up you see they are standing at a “Native Bustop”. Segregation cuts colour but not love. It’s also touching as you can see Bob’s shadow at the bottom of the photo as he is taking it.

There were some classic images which I could have just rolled up and took home, such as Jan C Schlegel’s “Biwa with Crocodile”, a silver gelain print, hand toned (Bernheimer Fine Art Photography, based Munich).

One image which completely blew me away was Edward Burtynsky’s black and white image of a shipyard (Bryce Wolkowitz, New York). Big black monoliths of ships loom like metallic cliff faces, while sea-water seeps into the foreground of the photo; silhouetted peak-capped men stand around enshrouded in steam in the distance, overshadowed by the massive metal floating machines.

Beauty vs Personality is celebrated in Steve Schapiro’s portraits of Beckett and Streisand, whose hair cascades down her face like a riverflow. William Klein’s iconic image of a Woman in Veil was good to see “close up”, the mesh sweeps up across her face like scaffolding through which she blows smoke like some industrial siren. (Camera Work Gallery)

For an ‘experience’ go to the Corkin Gallery’s installation, where you can sit among trees on a park bench made out of branches. Sit there and let the black and white ashen forest of slender tree-shafts march around you, shedding their rough reptilian skin to expose their smooth underflesh.

Forma (Milan) celebrates the black and whites of Delgado and Giorgia Fiorio with huge prints. The latter are soft pitch black and seem to have a patina of brushed charcoal.

For those wanting to see a bit of history, have a look at Daniel Blau’s (Munich and London) collection of Moon and space prints, I hovered a bit too long by Saturn’s Rings and Jupiter’s Red Spot, but the moon close ups were just stunning. It also highlights the importance of photography as a medium for capturing history for generations. An image can speak a thousand words and convey in a second what words take longer to do. You can see some vintage Nan Goldings at Gitterman (New York), but she still doesn’t do it for me.

Hamiltons (London) entices you into its black roofed booth, to lure you towards dramatic landscapes and lightning strikes of Murray Fredericks. Hamiltons also deal with Penn, Leibovitz, Avedon and others, so this Australian photographer is one to collect (if you can afford it!).

I’m by nature attracted to people photography, but there was a series of images by Peter Wegner (m Bochum, Germany) of what looked like ice blue towerblocks surrounded by creamy grey skies, but in fact were upside down images: the blue building was in fact the sky and the cream atmosphere were the buildings. Stunning when seen en masse, almost like a city scape on its own.

Randomly there was an ink on paper Jackson Pollock at Pace/Macgill Galery (New York) but it wasn’t for sale (I asked…., like I have the money!)

The Tower of Babel builds itself on the side of the RX gallery (Paris) booth in a huge CType print, DU Zhenjun has created a cake of babbling chaos that is Old Europe 2010, casting questions on democracy, society and communication.

One of the greatest number of prints already sold was for the lucky Esther Woerdehoff gallery (Paris) and the arrestingly beautiful image by Christian Tagliavini (Portrait of a Young Woman, 2010). Sold out in fact. Just goes to show that the traditional still is the best generalist seller in the market.

There were many others, but if I have to just mention a couple more, then swing by Leica Gallery Prague, which has these series of shots taken by Vaclav Jirasek, taken in an old castle where the “mentally ill” just go to be. What’s fascinating, and was obviously the thing which “got” Vaclav is that these people collected all sorts of things, piles and piles and piles of it: books, cases, masks, paper, all in huge mountains. You have to track his work down to see it. It’s quite something. The second is by an Iranian photographer Shadi Ghadrian, which I saw soooo tempted to buy at Euros 3,500… (ouch!). It’s of a woman sitting in the arch of a window threading a spiders web. It’s part of her Miss Butterfly series, based on an Iranian myth which tells the story of a butterfly getting caught in a spider’s web. The spider releases her into a cave where she is supposed to find insects for him to eat instead of her. But she can’t bring herself to sacrifice them, so she says there’s nothing. He lets her go in the end, so these staged theatrical photographs convey all sorts of things to whoever sees them. Whether you have eyes of a feminist or a brickie you’ll see constriction, protection, family, control as well as freedom. Amazing images, such stark black and white almost silhouetted imagery. The palette is similar to mine, which is why I’m drawn to these, but I can see Shadi being one to watch.

There were some real cute gallery owners too, but I haven’t named names….! I’ll let you find your own!

Poster for the Tate Watercolour Exhibition

Tate watercolour preview

Preview 15 Feb

From the velveteen gouache purple explosion of Arthur Church’s detailed botanical study of an orchid to the blood red scars on the bleached white canvas of Sandra Blow’s “Vivace”, the “Watercolour” exhibition at Tate Britain is revelatory and drips with inspiration and tears away preconception.

So enough of the arty phraseology…

Room 1: Starting at the beginning and painted in the 17^th century John Dunstall’s “Pollard Oak” looks set in a Magritte-coloured landscape, I’m not sure what it was about it, but I half-expected Edward Scissorhands to emerge stage right. Have a look at it, and see what you think. The beautiful etching by Gabriel Smith of Sydney Parkinson’s “Honeysuckle” was a study of observation and homage to the skill of etching (yeh, yeh, I know I was more intrigued by the engraving than the watercolour original on this one, but it just proves the curatorial skill of the gallery, as it put the painting in context by relating it to printed reproduction).

Room 2: I love John Ruskin. I’ve recently been dipping into his writings again and have been spouting forth to anyone who will listen, on the value he placed on observation. He thought that everyone, in any walk of life, would do well and profit from drawing. The idea being that drawing teaches you to observe and process what you see, not just take it as read, not just make it up, but to really examine and plan, note balance and structure, perspective and composition. Cerebral skills that some would argue a lot of politicians and people in business would be good to try sometime. Anyway, I digress. Featured in the exhibition is his study of a parched autumnal leaf, curling and spotted on an intense sea of blue velvet (painted after the main leaf study by the way). The orange tint of the leaf seems to make the leaf dance on the azure blue. Before you leave this room, make sure you take in Rachel Pedder-Smith’s study of legumes and seeds. Born in 1975, it made me feel a little humble, that someone younger than me, albeit by just a bit (I’m hanging in there!), could have such mastery, dexterity and visual confidence. The whole white paper looks strewn with, but each is carefully spaced, little seed heads, every one an accurate examination but together they form a cohesive composition. With my licensing head on, I can see this image reproduced on tea-towels, melamine and mugs! John Lewis, the Eden project and the National Trust would go bonkers for it as a starter for ten! Anyway, enough of the money making, Ness…

Room 3:  My eye was drawn to John Piper’s rock in the corner of the room. The black sketchiness of the skin of the boulder stretches its inked architectural netting across the surface of the cold hard rock, while an almost volcanic splattering of earth explodes behind. To the right of it, a few paintings along, is a Mackintosh. Ok, this is where art deco meets nature. Just look at the smooth, almost iced glacial rocks in the foreground to the left and the chain-mailesque of the green fields. The palette is so light and a yellowy green, the shadows so sharp, the early morning obviously conducive to his crispness of style.

Room 4: Edward Dayes’ “The Fall of Rebel Angels” had my memory tumbling into what I thought was an early Blake painting. There is a Blake in this room, and some other amazing examples, but my eye was caught by a rather engaging gentleman wearing an amazing red velvet(?) suit. He sat cross legged on the central bench seat, relaxed among the many visitors moving around him like a current. He was flicking through the catalogue on the seat next to him. Was he wearing a hat? I don’t know, but in my memory he looks like he should have been. Funny, isn’t it, how you’re drawn to some people and you have no idea. I so wanted to go over and make conversation. Probably for the first time in my life I didn’t. I was waiting for my fashion designer friend from Hong Kong who was joining me later, and I think I didn’t want to look like I was on the pick up! Anyway, if somehow, you are that gentleman wearing red at the Preview, and are randomly reading this, I just want to say “hello,” and that I would have loved to have had a conversation about the exhibition with you, as you looked as though you would have had an opinion and some kind of insight. Maybe he was a painter himself? Hey ho, I might never know! Anyway, moving on..

Room 5: I didn’t have much time in this room, well apart from sitting writing on the bench seat myself. There’s an interesting collection of watercolour implements(!): from brushes to little square watercolour pans. As you look back to the left of the arch you’ve just come in through, you’re teased with the sexual intensity of Anish Kapoor’s helpfully entitled “Untitled 1990”. A deep black clitoris slits through strokes of crimson paint and to me is a romp in colour and sexual arousal. Earth is engulfed in the redness surrounding the vertical dark void, which a friend said later when I showed him the preview booklet, was like a dancing bear… Go see for yourself. And talking of interpretation, the stark black Rorschach-like paintings of Alexander Cozens in the final room would have a psychologist dancing with glee or heart tremors if they learnt what I saw in each of the three!

Room 6: It was nice to be reminded of Edward Burra, his work reminds me, rightly or wrongly, of comic book outlines like a sketchbook for theatrical stage design. Such was my opinion again when I saw his work, but the next night I was in a café chatting to a friend and really looking at “Soldiers at Rye” and was amazed at the surreal level of detail and almost abstraction in the physical composition of the bodies, the political statement of the futility and facelessness of war and aggression, where the main protagonists, indeed all the protagonists are masked characters, like grotesque venetian birds picking each other over with bloodletting intensity. The fabric of the crimson gore in the foreground seems to get wound up in the feet of the soldiers. I really must go back and look at it for some length.

Room 7: OK, who knew that Victor Hugo painted? I confess, that I did not, or if I did, I had completely forgotten. Now I love his novels, and his paintings reflect his gothic darkness. I stood and stared at the example the Tate has chosen to include. Lots of people quickly scanned the images, and waltzed past. I took notes, and then noticed something. I jogged the arm of the woman who unfortunately for her maybe was lurking next to me, and said, “look, he’s painted the frame”. He had signed his name rather naively to the right of the wooden frame, curly letters chasing the next around the corner of the dark oak, emerging in the snaked stem of a flower whose head graced to the top of the frame. In its honesty, it reminded me of a child’s fridge painting, I think it was the naïve writing style. Kind of ‘look it’s me, I did this’. Needless to say, there was an echo for at least ten minutes after I went away as one person overheard the next person saying, “Ooh, look, Victor Hugo painted the frame.”

To the right of this, is another Blake, the distinctive oil-rig elongated arms of Hekate, holding the old dear up in the centre of the painting. Also Edmund Dulac’s oceanic dream-like setting of his “Entomologist’s Dream” just HAS to be seen.

Room 8 (or is this still Room 7?): just before you enter the final room (room 9) are three Tracey Emins, which left me unusually empty and unthought-provoked, so don’t linger too long there, but instead, wander over to the comedic series of David Austen. A fun ephemeral transparent quadruplet of Lowry-esque (I know, I’m into my “esques” in this review!) physiques, which includes a man in a pink top hat. ANY painting in a national gallery which depicts a man in a pink top hat gets my vote. They are as fun as they are interesting studies in the lightness of watercolour too.

Room 9: (or the final one, I’ve lost my numbers!): Go see go see Sandra Blow’s “Vivace” which I kick started this piece with. A bright pillar-box red V tips itself to the side and into the centre of the canvas, while a rainbow of torn strips stagger off to the right, like multi-coloured pastel teeth, grinning at the abstract lips. I’m getting more and more into abstract, I think, because it lets your mind enter into itself and encourages interpretation. The best piece in this room though is Ian McKever’s ghostlike seedheads, which huddle like enshrouded nuns. White globulous space pustules float across a charcoal canvas. Spacedust spits and punctuates the black void behind. An algae of green watercolour verdigrises across the virginal white balletic movement of the pendulous moving bubbles, conjuring an imagined safari into “2001: A Space Odyssey”. I wonder why I seem to be alone in my fascination of this piece, everyone else moves past. Take some time, and let yourself float in front of it for a while, step close, then back, you’ll see it move and come alive.

So that’s it, well, apart from the other hundred or more paintings, which really are an amazing collection when experienced all together. You really can appreciate the adaptability of watercolour, the strength of the medium. Just look at the purple dilation of Patrick Heron’s “January 9” which explodes with musical reality and then compare it to the electric luminescent vibrancy of William Hunt. Same medium, different artist. Go see the exhibition, then go home, and for ever you will consign to the trash all preconception of what a watercolour is.

Watercolour, it’s not all about flowers and landscapes, it’s about expression and creation.  Enjoy.

Sax Player

The mellow sounds echoed around the belly of the tunnel, sweeping their way along the path and the bricks and entwinned themselves with tourist footsteps and rhubarb conversation.

He stood in jean jacket, loose trousers, trilby and was lost in the rhythm of music, shuffling to and fro between the shafts of light streaming through the crumbling bridge.
I love London, I love its vibe, the contrast. This Saturday morning by the Thames, was full of bright sunshine, warm and optimistic. We had just walked through the engulfing aromatic bounty of the cheese stalls at Borough Market and were heading towards the wattle and daub resurrection, that is The Globe when this Sax guy just seemed to suddenly appear at the end of the tunnel.
If you get a chance, take the tube to London Bridge, then just stroll around, past Southwark Cathedral towards Borough Market, then towards the Thames. The pubs round there are great too (and there’s nothing like munching a piece of rich Alpine cheese as you over look the Thames, taking in the Gherkin and St Pauls). Go try it!

Yep, he looks a bit different in this doesn’t he? This is a shot of John Hegley, the poet and comedian doing his stuff at the Bloomsbury Theatre in London. I love this shot, he looks like a rock star!
I love John’s humour. I shot him (quite!) a while back, he was promoting his book of poetry “Can I come Down Now Dad?” and we did a bit of a ‘thing’ with the flash. He signed a copy of his book for me, and added “The Phlash worked well” it’s pride of place among my signed books.. I know I’m such a collector. But hey, don;t knock it, they’re lovely memories! And I’ve been lucky enough to meet some great people from Tom Baker to Paul Daniels, every one a nice’un!John was and is such a nice guy, and phenomenally quick witted comedian. Definitely someone I’d love to invite for a drink!

Well that was a surprise! I went along to assist a film shoot recently in London and took the old photo snapping machine with me, and Rick himself got up onto the stage! He looked quite cool with his new look, and he’s quite a mover on the dancefloor!

I love shooting live performance. The lighting..the atmosphere…

What makes me tick the way I do, or you take the path you did, may all be pre-ordained by the fates, or it may be shaped by our social landscape… there are many possible answers and I’m not really wanting to debate that here!

What I am fascinated by, is how our life’s experience throws its patina across our faces, across our physique, how we stand, how we dress, what we chose to dance to, all makes us who we are and it’s these million permutations which gives our appearance it’s own unique finger-print. Do you not think?
Being able to capture something of this in just a single image, the early Magnum photographers revolutionised this reportage style and remains an inspiration to me.

My grandmother’s brother lived in this area of Paris and strode the boards over there (he hung out with Marie Lloyd and I like to think he knew Josephine Baker too, I would have thought he would have had a ball with her! his personality was larger than life too!), so I feel as though I too belong there and feel embraced by it, like another home.   I took this photo as my mother strode up the gazillion steps in front of me (love her heart, she didn’t moan at all when the funicular broke down!).
January is a great time to go to Paris, there are not many tourists and the Parisians are therefore at their most chilled.
Each time I go to Paris, there’s a moment which lives with me for ever after. During one of my recent visits, again in January, I was walking along the Quai de Gesvres, shops were spilling out onto the street. Parisian legs, feet and shoes were pounding their way through the green mire. I say, green, because the produce for sale was plants, trees, bushes etc. Just on the other side of the 6 foot high metal trollies which staggered and teetered on the edge of the kerb, hurtled the Citroens, Peugeots and Renaults (all in various states of rust, taxation and pace…!).

I had just battled across the main road, seeking a bar for my usual espresso rush, so mentally I was unprepared for what I heard. It was January, as I said, it was actually quite cold, you know those days when your face goes all pink, and your nose runs…but the sun beats down through the cloudless sky and gives you sunburn (just to confuse your body clock), I heard, or I thought I heard birdsong. I turned to my companion and said “Blimey, it’s like one of those chain-store Garden Centres in Britain, which sell mass-produced melamine trays and resin figurines, where they pipe music to fool you into believing that any purchase from there will result in a tropical paradise and make mockery of our native climate…”
It was with that blazé attitude that I continued wafting past bushes and branches… All at once I was confronted with a flurry of movement…. 30 or so sparrows were dashing between legs, plants, feet, heads, hats, scarves, and human impatience: an impromtu haven for nature in the city. Their song was so uplifting and positive, that it quite took my breath away. Do you have moments where you wish you could bottle it and share it round? Paris for me always gives me something: it’s what makes me fall in love with Paris everytime I go.
Apparently there’s now a Philippe Starck Hotel in the 20th district of Paris, created for Mama Shelter (Google it – looks cool, although their website is SO slow)… hmm, note to self, must remember to look for it next time I’m staying over… *sigh*…oh, yes, and watch out for the sparrows…