On Photography

Thinking back, I can still feel my dad’s camera in my hands. It’s weight, the workings. With dust and dirt discolouring the edges of the dials. Letters and numbers, some of which were blue. Why? What did they mean? How did it work? It was so much more than point and shoot. It was an object of mystery and photography felt like magic. I was as besotted as I was amused. 

At this point I wasn’t a young boy, like Lartique but a young man, readjusting to civilian life, having recently been medically discharged from the army. An accident had left long-lasting and permanent damage to my eyes and sight. The accident, a breach explosion.

Through a night class I found out about the fundamentals of photography, the camera and the chemistry. The magic was magnified by the mystery that lay behind the curtain, the deep glow of the red light permeating the darkness.

The room felt cool, as my senses adjusted to the gloom. The sound of extraction whirred in my ears, as the acrid smell of fresh dev, fix and stop filled my nose.

My passion for photography was ignited. I built a darkroom at home, moved to medium format, and focused on my practice. Inspired by the classics, I was enthralled by Weston, and Adams, and mesmerized by McCullin.

This was the beginning a new century. After nearly a decade of practice a question began to form, brought on by a six-month surf trip into Europe. I embarked on the trip with a curious mind. I had aimed to photograph whatever drew my eye. I was in search of waves but more than this, I was in search of a visual identity, although I did not necessarily understand this at the time but looking back, The Grand Tour, a pilgrimage in the footsteps of those who walk on water, was my genesis moment.

Inspired by the beauty of B&W, the beauty of the ocean, the wave, and the landscape, a dichotomy was beginning to form. There was the beauty but there were also the bits of rubbish collecting on the coast. Wanting to discover more, I enrolled on a degree and with it the true world of photography began to open up but it was rubbish, particularly plastic which turned out to be my punctum. The tear in the fabric of society.