Open the Shutters

It's a new year, a new cycle of movement around the sun. A fresh set of 365 shadows growing, tilting and then being swallowed by all their respective evenings.

The movement of sunlight and shadow is graceful, slow, gentle, and calm too.

Think on this: how would it help life to set a gentle pace that's manageable for weeks and months ahead? Nevermind going into a new year all guns blazing, radicalising everything we see and turning everything we touch to gold with a vain promise of overnight transformation. How about a commitment to flow with the sunlight and shadows as they come to us – one day at a time, with elegance and grace, and that as the small elements of our life take their place in the cycling shadows and light they will grow as naturally as they are meant?

Throwing open the shutters on a new year, does a flash of sunlight hurt the eyes? Difficult to adjust? Hard to locate new focal points in a fresh and unfamiliar view?

My view at the moment is difficult. Some lovely things have been happening and I have felt happy and at peace in a new relationship and with achievements in my work. With love in that relationship, I found courage to take brave steps and face things that have been concreted over for a very long time. It was just after Christmas when I visited my mother's grave for the first time in 25 years.

Grief is here. It is here, and not to be covered up with that concrete again, because being honest about loss and fear is the first step in moving beyond them to live more freely, able to relate and thrive. Sitting with this feels terribly sad though—so bleak and uncomfortable—and I'm not sure I can do it.

Not rushing out from a shadow is a difficult position to take, yet if I don't want to keep getting stuck behind old habits this has to be done.

However, there are no shadows without light. Whatever the challenge—and let's face it the world is a tricky place at the moment—there is hope, and there is love, and that equals life.

When there in the shadows this is what I tell myself: Breathe. Breathe again, and remember…

'Courage does not always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day, saying, "I will try again tomorrow." '  

Dear friends, whatever the new view from your open shutters looks like, a very happy new year to you. I hope you have a beautiful, peaceful and love-filled journey 'once around the sun' this year.


{Today's Soundtrack: Arvo Pärt - Spiegel Im Spiegel}

'E' for Elizabeth

There is a message filtering through a lot at the moment – BE YOURSELF.

Be yourself; stay true to yourself, and just do small things to help that flow out and life will be better. Be yourself and you'll be able to keep going strong through road blocks, relationships, triumph or challenge. Be yourself, and you will make it.

I heard it on Iggy Pop's Peel lecture, read it in Dave Tomlinson's book about how not to do religion, mused on it while watching Grayson Perry's series 'Who Are You' about identity, and I'm hearing it in conversation with friends, and I start to feel overwhelmed with this exhortation because why is it that it needs pointing out?

It's hard, isn't it. With the freedom created by technology the emphasis on individuality and unique personality seems to be more sharp than ever. The world seems noisier and noisier, but to keep being you, you need quiet and space. It's important to find time to think, and be still, and see what bubbles up to the surface.

I've been travelling around on trains this week, and with a new notebook, found myself drawing a simple picture on the left page, and writing about thoughts it represented on the right. Anything that came to mind really. It's been interesting to see what emerged about life past and present. Keeping it to a single page at a time is very manageable. No tomes here, but enough to get me appreciating what's true and constant.

It's alright for us artists and makers, who pick up sticks and carve shapes in the sand (or a glorified version of) every day. Our business is birth to expression, exploring ways of seeing and being, and so sometimes without realising it, we become very good at being ourselves. We know overtly what external things resonate or what jar with that inner life. My true admiration is for people who don't need to do all that soul searching and still stand tall with a strong sense of their own identity, unafraid to walk it out.

Everyone wants to belong, and everyone can find a sense of belonging in echoing the looks and behaviours and sounds of each other. But being truly ourselves is about bringing out the parts of you that are not like anyone else, and in confidence that no one else gets to decide which parts are allowed and which parts are not. The variety makes life richer, and much more interesting, even if it seems messy at times. (And it will seem messy.)

Be yourself; stay true to yourself, and just do small things to help that flow out. Go with positive motivation, like a little butterfly flapping its wings, oblivious to the possible amplified effects elsewhere, simply driven by the need to live and move honestly here and now and make connections good and real in the world*.

"Be yourself; everyone else is taken," the saying goes.


{Today's Soundtrack: New Build – Sunlight - Edit}

* Thanks Dave Tomlinson for your butterfly-style encouragements, which helped prompt my thoughts.

What's Your New Song?

Just lately, I've been pining for old-school blogging. I've hardly posted here in the last couple of years, and that feels like a massive shame.

So, I'm going to try and begin again. It's not for any other reason than the proper, old, original reason blogs began – as places to keep track of our days and the journeys through them. That's all. And I, for one, would like that back.

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You know, that picture up there, about old ways and new doors? Isn't it great? (Not my shot, by the way.) But let me tell you a secret – on the other side of the door, amidst everything being completely unfamiliar and new, you have to work at finding some new, and really deep anchor points or risk being swept adrift. 

I live in a new house. It is so unbelievably different to the gentle, crocheted and designed-by-candlelight world I've been living in on my own for so long, and yet it is a world I very much want to be in. It's proving an awful lot harder than I ever imagined, but what I'm trying to learn is how to find anchor points when everything looks and feels so alien.

There must be a way to shift from one side of a door to the other, without going completely insane, surely!!

Well, there's an old piano in this house, and after something like 25 years since last serious efforts I decided to play some chords on that piano. I found some sheet music with different, flowing Cole Porter chords on, and played those chords, and they sounded beautiful. Braver, I found a song book, and now some more beautiful Joni Mitchell chords are chiming in over my bluesy singing as I learn to play again. 

'Blue' is the song, and it talks about songs being like tattoos:

"songs are like tattoos - 
You know I've been to sea before.
Crown and anchor me,

Or let me sail away...

You've got to keep thinking
You can make it through these waves."

To sea, alright – yet words and music are rich, soulful and deep. Perhaps deep enough to become anchors? I hope so. 

I'll keep playing, and singing, and try to stop going mad (honestly, my poor partner - he's such a love) and hopefully get better at being the other side of the door. 

It's nice to be back at the Lightbox, although maybe let's hold the tattoo for another time. I hope this space can come to life again and be a place of really great anchor points, charting an adventurous journey – just the way it was always intended. 

{Today's Soundtrack: Joni Mitchell - Blue}

I'm a Loser Baby

Somehow, this weekend has turned into the bizarrest series of happenings. 

On a Sunday night, conventionally the moment we should all be tucked up with Horlicks and a little addictive drama on the BBC, especially when life does that tricky thing of presenting rather a lot all at once and you just need to quiet, here I am with an unruly group of parents-in-a-band listening to them hurl I'M A LOSER BABY into the walls of a family room with more volume than the neighbours probably appreciate. 

Thing is, yelling this with a lovely slide guitar woozing us along is incredibly cathartic just now.

The sun has shone today. We've made new friends and done nice things together. Winter-flowering pansies are in the tubs. I've emerged from the shadow of a big black dog who's been coming in and out of sleep for a couple of weeks. Wonderful old step-grandpa died today, and then later some people I'm just getting to know who don't know anything about me muck about with microphones and amps, we all called out Beck's lyric, and that picture on the wall behind Craig seems to sum it all up. 

Delightful losers. Whether good or bad things happen, or a confusing combination of the two, some songs sum up the wonderful incompetence and disbelief a lot of us feel as we trip through lots of life. 

Happy early autumn Sunday night folks. 

{Today's Soundtrack: Beck - Loser} 

Threshold

A beginning does not have to be aggressive.


{Today's Soundtrack: Emiliana Torrini - Serenade}

Sunflower Hopes

Thunder rumbles. This bright sunflower quivers just the other side of a wide open window, and the air feels calm, still - slightly warm. These are the contradictions of a summer storm.

[Flash!... Count one... two... three... four.... fi... It's okay, I'm safe.]

Let's talk about the sunflower for a moment. Maybe that yellow is as big a symbol of joy as we know, but for this plant, its early weeks were far from it. Blighted by over-watering and bug-infested leaves, at one point, resembling five inches of limp, pathetic green rag, it was nearly crushed and binned. Give me up, the sorry leaves whimpered.

Desperate; sad.

But as its buggy leaves were ripped off, and more gentle watering took over, it strengthened, and in a week when backs were turned (towards the sun in another country, oh sweet irony) the little plant, in solitude with no audience, quietly exploded.

Amazing statement of life.

But this was an insufficient explosion - as the original flower faded, four more have burst out of its wake. It seems almost violent, its little assault on death.

The storm rumbles on, and these small flowers sing on in the midst of it. Four, where there was one, where there was nearly nothing. Henri Nouwen suggests that we hope based on expectation bred by experience. Is it irrational to cling on to this picture as a signal for new joys, whatever the circumstance? The more humble the redemption story, the more accessible it is. Who does not want their life in its most painful moments to resemble that sunflower?


{Today's Soundtrack: Alberta Cross - Magnolia}

Lost in the Light

This is one of my all-time favourite views, of anything, but especially this thing; more accurately, especially this sort of thing. In a forest somewhere in Wales, friends and their menagerie of little people long gone up ahead but for one littlie, who hung back with me to make pictures and look for stories together.

"Come as little children..."

Our assumed size on the planet and the rigid viewpoints we cling to might be stopping us noticing something really good. That's why I like it when the light does this to things.

This favourite sort of view is about coming down really low, getting underneath things and letting the light shine through from the other side. That is about making an effort to see things in a way you don't normally see them. It possibly involves lying down – the ultimate demonstration of powerlessness? And that is about something else too:

It is about making an assumption that you can still be surprised, delighted, enchanted, and fascinated; entertaining the possibility that you may still be enlightened. (You remember how to be enlightened, don't you?) I think you can only experience these things if you are not in control. So much emphasis of modern life is about being in control.

What is it like having humility enough to thoroughly bathe in something that you do not breathe life into?

Even on the rotting floor of a dark wood, if you're prepared to come low and go in with an open mind, even there the beauty exists. Maybe even especially there, set ringing by its context. Quiet exhilaration.

I'm only looking at turning autumn leaves, but apply it to anything in life, the principle still works.

Make yourself small and get lost in the light.

{Today's Soundtrack: Idiot Wind - Lost in the Light}

Climbing My Staircase

 

Doing an illustration for someone this week, I was inspired by a quote from Martin Luther King Jr:

 

'You just need to make the first step even when you can't see the whole staircase....' or words to that effect, I don't have it to hand. You could look it up.

 

There are so many ways in which this resonates - work dreams, life dreams, people dreams - and the sentiment echoes many memories of courage gathering, being strong and brave, placing one crucial first foot on the staircase and trusting that the ascent will be obvious ahead. The operative word here is 'dreams', and there are a million quotes and counter quotes about those.

 

I'm reflecting back over these Lightbox posts remembering first steps, partly because a lot has changed in the six years I have been writing them, and also at the moment it's helpful and - readers, may I be presumptuous here? - actually, quite interesting storytelling in places.

 

Back in 2006 when I began Lightbox, 'blogs' (hate using that word, it's so ugly) were not ubiquitous. They were still just a place to play, and record. So I started recording, and exploring life a bit more, perhaps as a way of collecting interesting things to record.

 

When Lightbox began, I didn't know I could write anything that anyone cared to read. The Major Project Of My Life hadn't happened, I hadn't run a half marathon or been to Portland, New Zealand or Peru, or in a hot air balloon, or climbed an E1 route, and I was a few heartbreaking bloke encounters lighter back then too. I wasn't qualified as a teacher and certainly hadn't managed to create the street kids exhibition let alone place it anywhere. When this site began, I hadn't yet had all my photography kit stolen, sung My Funny Valentine and You've Got The Love solo to an audience, or led hymn singing with a guitar on a beach in Sweden. I hadn't listened to a sermon in french and understood it, and - can you believe this - hadn't found a single sequinned heart on the floor. I hadn't had my faith stretched to breaking point and reconstructed when I chose to give up my need to control everything, and I certainly hadn't realised that Lightbox would become the place where I would share that prayerful stance in the 11,097 times you have all visited and read along with me. And on top of all this, I hadn't had that crisis approaching my 40th birthday this year, which revolved around feeling I had nothing to show for being 40 because I'm still not married and don't have kids - isn't that perverse?

 

Not being married or having your own kids can attract a lot of pity from people, and this is nothing less than robbery of everything else you are. Come on people, if you don't have those things then you had better make sure you are not caught sitting around waiting for it to happen. That would just be a shameful waste of a life.

 

I had no clue when I put my foot on the first step that my staircase would turn out like this.

 

Here's the thing, Mister King, and I suspect you're way ahead here, but as I've discovered, the staircase isn't really very straight at all is it, and it doesn't seem to have an end point on the landing either.

 

(Perhaps an Escher drawing would fit right in at this point.)

 

Looking back over these posts is like seeing chinagraph pencil on contact sheets - picking out frames that have a clunky, disjointed, imperfect, curiously compelling quality about them. It may not be a perfect narrative, but this is my staircase. I'm glad it exists.

 

 

* Thanks to Robbie for the birthday photograph.

 

 

{Today's Soundtrack: Ricky Lee Jones - Rainbow Sleeves}

 

Thank You Rowan

It was about ten years ago that I stood a couple of feet in front of Rowan Williams to make this picture. He was about to take his position as Archbishop. He talked back then about the growing 'cult of celebrity' which really resonated with me as a young photographer, and since has helped inform the way I shoot portraits. 

This week I was invited to photograph the unfolding events at Lambeth Palace as Justin Welby is announced as the new Archibishop. I was pipped to the post by someone who was (as I am led to understand) not concerned with upholding industry standard copyright terms (as I am) - for the sake of what? He would have no right to use his own images under those terms, even in his own portfolio. And I really hope he didn't accept an inappropriately low fee either. 

My years working at Magnum photos really taught me a respect for our photographic pioneers who fought hard to ensure the skill and rights of the photographer are protected, which is why we have the laws we do. Perhaps this person has different views, but what he did this week is why it is so difficult to make a living out of photography now. This, and a common misconseption that anyone can take a decent photograph if they have an expensive-enough camera is eroding photography as a profession. 

As I sit at my desk in Bristol this morning rather than run around in Lambeth with the new Archbishop, I am obviously evaluating what I do this for, and how. So here it is:

As a photographer, I believe each of us has precious dignity that a good photographer knows how to capture. This involves having insight, wisdom, respect, kindness - travelling the journey together and caring to look after each other for the long haul. Approaching people with my camera with integrity and respect carries all the way through to how I run my business. I do experience David and Goliath moments in negotiations quite often, but I choose to stand firm and honour both my business and the people I work with. 

I lost this job, but I keep my integrity, which is what I'll still be shooting with in decades to come even if the photography industry has gone to pot.

So, back to Rowan.

Thinking on themes of enduring and wise love of our fellow humans, this man has been a role model for me. I treasure Archbishop Rowan for the careful measure he brought to serious debate, and his ability to thoroughly mix compassion and intelligent reasoning in the tough job of steering fiercely strong heads towards workable positions that involve all of us. He has an immense grasp on the fact that life is never a quick fix, and as a leader—for me at least—models beautiful courage, insisting on a long 'road to Emmaus' journey while we ponder our spiritual lives, rather than the blinding 'road to Damascus' hit that would only satisfy a superficial, short-term desire for good headline solutions.

Every time I look at this picture today I feel really sad that a very great and wise man has resigned his position at the table, and I feel we—as a church, nation, or society—are losing a dignified voice worthy of brave, compassionate comment on social and global issues. Archbishop Rowan stood with integrity for social justice (he was once arrested for demonstrating against nuclear armament by singing Psalms, and remember his criticism of the Coalition "for which no one voted"?). I wish I had listened to him far more than I did.

But I know for certain that I'm glad he did speak the way he did, and I'm thankful to have this photograph. If it should be any Archbishop, I'm glad it is him.

Thank you Rowan.

{Today's Soundtrack: Yo-Yo Ma and crew - Here and Heaven}

A Place to Sit

Lent; lenticular - a changing picture depending on which way you view it.

I'd forgotten about lent until a friend asked me last night what I was giving up. I replied with a question: do you give something up, put it down for a while, or rather take something up which naturally displaces the less healthy thing?

Last year I took up quiet space, and was enriched at the end of 40 days because of it. I committed to getting up a little earlier and having a contemplative quiet time at the start of each day, and wrote down my insights from during those times. I learnt things, and discerned the way to navigate problems and dilemmas that were current. I was steadied and stilled, and my breathing regulated again. I was able to identify choices I was making out of fear, and gently gather myself to stop being fearful and make choices from a calmer, more rounded, love-filled perspective. The important things—often the things that don't shout for attention—had my attention again.

I can't figure out what to give up for lent. There is too much else to figure out in life, and too many possible viewpoints to choose. Taking up a place to sit will do for now.


{Today's Soundtrack: Cashier No.9 - Make You Feel Better}

Seasons, Clearly

Just look at it exactly as it is. What might you appreciate about this encounter if you can stop wanting the rain to be over? Shape, colour, form, texture that is quite expressive, life-filled, moving constantly. Suddenly, rain is not so miserable.

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It's all about seasons. We have Hockney to thank for this reminder at the moment.

Sitting in a room at the RA with his large, tessellated film works of nature metamorphosing through the seasons, I gasped with a couple of hundred others as the same scenes were presented through jaw-dropping, theatrical changes: first, the autumn reds, fade to black; second, minimalist snow blanket, fade to black; third, spring green leaping off the screens, fade to black; and so on.

Moving through the galleries around repeat woodland scenes rendered in conflicting light through the seasons and times of day, I knew what he was saying. This time it leaps off and jumps on you, and that time it is totally flattened out and lifeless. Yes, I can feel both of those things in the same place.

Startling, large-scale canvas work pieced together on the biggest wall available and viewed from a distance moved me to tears - striking encouragement to keep going.

I have come to be enthralled by seasons and what they teach of patience through repeated cycles over years and years, and more years. Seasons take their time, and sometimes slow time. This is about the agony, serenity and exuberance of seasons passing, and how you can be moved and held in place all at once.

See it exactly the way it appears, and be held in place while it does the moving.

Seasons of yours. Ours.

Still moving. Still, but moving.

*
'hard times ain't gonna rule my mind'


{Today's Soundtrack: Gillian Welch - Hard Times}

Gifts : 2012

There will always be a horizon. A day set apart for making extravagant displays of love—St Valentine's—may appear to be a horizon in itself, but it's really only a vantage point from which to view the various glimmers and glistenings happening everywhere and everytime else and other. 

Looking out to horizons in the coming year, my slowly focusing lens keeps on with its fixation on scruffy glinting objects at my toes, distracting from the unwieldy temptation to skip today and grab tomorrow; or the temptation to forget about tomorrow and be restrained by what failed to happen yesterday. 

Forget about the horizon for a minute - what do we have in the frame today?

This year, I'm trying not to make goals so much as be glad of my gifts. If I treasure these little blessings everyday, then perhaps the goals will make—and realise—themselves.

"The heart bears indentations of yesterday's child"

Oh yes, the heart really does. These hearts really do. Hearts bear indentations, and they are all gifts. Dirty, messed up, grubby and flawed gifts, the lot of them.

A post-Valentine's post, because as I suggested this time last year here and there it's not all containable in one day, but rather all the small gestures in every other day of the year where love is really found.


*
I've been singing this song all night long.


{Today's Soundtrack: Lucy Rose - Scar}