Such ponderings and pontifications as these indubitably hatch from a mind as deranged as a cracked kernel of rye, whose medieval lustre dimmed by feudal ergotine infestation betrays a imminent blotch on the consciousness that will with ease match the blackness of that bread that would erstwhile be consumed in anticipation of safe and hearty nourishment (historically by medieval folk and the less well off or by contemporary Scandinavians and Teutons, in place of its bleached and nutritionally supplemented glutenous counterpart so ubituitous nowadays).
When the bread be it even ever, ever so dark, ceases to nourish but instead shall inflict a condition that might both feed and harm the soul then solace must, if not in emergency, finally be sought; for though there may be feeding there will also, at certain times and as surely as eggs is eggs, be harm.
Tis the nature of harm to scurry in trenches already dug, its rivulets deepening its draught and widening its bore in a scurrilous way; though inconsiderate and ostensibly inanimate, its effect denotes purpose, though that may through echo have belonged to another from long ago, an even forgotten owner.
Whomsoever takes this affliction unknowingly into himself, be he of indomitable constitutiuon, stouter in mind, body and soul than Peter upon whom a church was built, or be he a waxen faced and feeble limbed fellow cloaked in a shroud of timorous naivity, it will avail him no reprieve nor devine regard once his subsconcious is rained upon by the heavens and hells in equal measure.
Thus it is that such meanderings and effusions spew forth, as the mind wanders the internal terrain, constructing follies whither he will with little or no regard for territory. A few of these constructs may if nothing else, be deemed through some convoluted mechanism (and after a bribe or two) to be of some small artistic worth ( that'll do pig ), others no doubt attract the opinion that they constitute little more than psychological graffitti; but what else is one to do with ones assortment of mental spray cans?
It is play, a waffle, a gibber, nothing more, perhaps as whilst in a dream. This has been mooted many times and by many deep thinkers (or confused persons): 'are we not all in a dream?' As Tilk would say, 'Indeed'. I would ask "are we not all veritably players in a divine play?" (as has also often been asked, strangely by the little old lady that runs the corner shop ). If we are neither one nor t'other what then are we and of what are our thoughts made; what in fact do we ultimately make other than dust when we leave?
Imagine if you will a hundred thousand years or more from now , when it's all over and our Dear Earth, or what's left of it, finds itself visited by Alien travellers looking for a perch for the night. What might be their considered verdict as they sup their Alein cup of tea and glance nonchalently about? I for one bet it will be along the lines of.. "Dusty place this, innit?'
That aside, whether for the benefit of our future Alien pit stoppers or for our more immediate delectation, the echoes of Dante & Lucifer on the one hand and Gabriel & St Peter on the other would surely add interest, a little spice, an eternal condiment if you will, to what might otherwise be considered (even to Aliens) a little insipid, a little dry repercussion of existance: the legacy of dust.
Rather, then, than 'Secale Au Secours' perhaps this should be titled 'Secale, an Ode'? For whilst I have skirted around its virtues and only fleetingly mentioned it's place in history this lesser known cousin (in terms of psychedelic pharmacopoeia) of psilocybin and mescaline, fly agaric et al, has made it's indelible mark on as many psyches as the all the aforementioned put together, for sure, in conjunction with those eddies that sculpt history, the technological, the astrological, the social; the synchronicity of it is difficult to divorce from the DNA of divine will (Higgs boson?), but that has perhaps more to do with the state of awareness than the state of science, and though the two draw ever closer and may one day make their peace, I doubt marriage will ever be on the cards.
I digress, and why not? For digression is the keynote is it not, of the effects on the mind of those under the influence of one of the distillates of Secale (also known as Ergot, a fungus that grows on Rye)? Whilst ergotin or ergometrin and it's synthetic collaterals, syntometrin and oxytocin, are used in physical medicine, it is the renowned psychological changes that made the use of the ergot alkaloid Lysergic acid diethylamide (LSD) so promising in psychiatry. However it was the recreational use of LSD that lead to its widespread use and effects on awareness and hence society.
Thus without the ability of those in droves under the influence of LSD to go beyond the restrictions of time, the imprint of the few (that managed it) on the DNA of dust, would be so insignificant that unless our thoretical Alien friends were actually searching for it (who knows they may be psychically vampiric) such rare nectars from the artists of consciousness would remain literally buried in the sands of time.
What harm there may be in the travelling, (and there are those that do fall badly on the journey) if the desination merits supporting such dangers, what harm is there is that?
So to save us from being dust and instead for raising us to the level of 'stardust' I raise my cup and cry " Secale Au Secours!"
Monday, 26 March 2007
Tuesday, 20 March 2007
What is to be discovered cannot yet be found
Like all photographers I am aware of the influence of Bresson and Frank etc., (i.e. the better known masters), but for me, Baltz, Bullock, Callahan, Egglestone, Friedlander (especially), Kertesz , Metzler, Meatyard, Siskind and Shore are stronger influences. I have a greater resonance with their less conventional and innovative approaches to photography, although they still seem well grounded as far as my understanding of reality goes; that is to say there are those whose images which whilst unconventional, do nothing for me; it is not the experimental per se that interests me, rather that it requires a less conventional approach to photography to avail myself of a language through which I can both (re)discover and communicate my personal perception.
There is a dichotomy produced within me between the disparate demands of mundane awareness and artistic mood; they exist at opposite ends of the perceptual spectrum as far as I'm concerned (though why this tension should exist is another discussion). Although an imperative to resolve these polarities exists, in the attempt it may produce little but a messy reflection of itself, so it's unreliable as a motivator. Hopefully however it is persistence that provides an arterial route to creative blood. Providing it does indeed exist, perhaps it is to be mined from that snaking vein somewhere in the winding corridors of subterranean existential oppression, of whose existence there is sadly, no doubt.
I do often enjoy the wrestling within me between the the deliberate formal portrayal of concepts and the spontaneous unreasoned gut reaction. I find myself demanding 'why on earth am I taking a picture of that?' whilst another internal voice presses me on, to dispense with analysis and formality, to relegate the reasoning of form and charting of significance to a later time; not out of procrastination but to maintain this fleeting marginal state of mind as long as possible which like that place between sleep and waking, is usually beyond conscious control and harder to focus on than a star with the naked eye.
That's not to dismiss the infrequent but fortuituos happenstance, which may be in its effect as a small child that adds its puny tug to one side in this tug of war where the two sides are too evenly matched - although not normally significant, it can be just enough to tip the scales and provoke a sudden falling to one side into a less ordered awareness; a momentary hiatus to take advantage of as far as possible before the demands of mundanity reimpose themselves and 'normal service' resumes.
Occasionally peace is to be had when either of the internal protagonists prevails momentarily, or their impasse may even itself present the gateway sought; to an inspiration that is not born of puerile suppression, parental meaning or adult reconciliation. Provided that is where one's heart is set when there is a 'time out' - if the lull is sufficient a contrast to the ongoing melee, this brief interlude gives a temporary platform from which one can try to lauch off with filled sail unnoticed in the leeward direction.
Sometimes I feel I have a clarity of vision and intellect which at other times feels like it must have belonged to a different person altogether, as somedays, irrespective of the weather or light, I feel I am straining to catch a glimpse of anything at all through a dank mist, a fog that clouds any artistic direction or judgement or vision. Yet on another occasion it may find me crystal clear in purpose but blind in execution, it is here that I seek the example of those masters mentioned, and take them as mentors.
I observe a progression in my dominating influences from the intellectual to the visceral. I want to build on this. I have taken to wearing an iPod when walking with camera and of listening to such artists as Captain Beefheart, whose driving renderings, (nonsensical and cacophonous to many ears), elicit more subconcious representations in my photography and an increasingly satisfying experience and result for me, than those planned with logic and which give conceptually literal representations.
I am hunting, I know I am, but for what I am unlikely to know until I stumble upon it and with luck, recognise it. Then I will have found what I have not yet discovered.
There is a dichotomy produced within me between the disparate demands of mundane awareness and artistic mood; they exist at opposite ends of the perceptual spectrum as far as I'm concerned (though why this tension should exist is another discussion). Although an imperative to resolve these polarities exists, in the attempt it may produce little but a messy reflection of itself, so it's unreliable as a motivator. Hopefully however it is persistence that provides an arterial route to creative blood. Providing it does indeed exist, perhaps it is to be mined from that snaking vein somewhere in the winding corridors of subterranean existential oppression, of whose existence there is sadly, no doubt.
I do often enjoy the wrestling within me between the the deliberate formal portrayal of concepts and the spontaneous unreasoned gut reaction. I find myself demanding 'why on earth am I taking a picture of that?' whilst another internal voice presses me on, to dispense with analysis and formality, to relegate the reasoning of form and charting of significance to a later time; not out of procrastination but to maintain this fleeting marginal state of mind as long as possible which like that place between sleep and waking, is usually beyond conscious control and harder to focus on than a star with the naked eye.
That's not to dismiss the infrequent but fortuituos happenstance, which may be in its effect as a small child that adds its puny tug to one side in this tug of war where the two sides are too evenly matched - although not normally significant, it can be just enough to tip the scales and provoke a sudden falling to one side into a less ordered awareness; a momentary hiatus to take advantage of as far as possible before the demands of mundanity reimpose themselves and 'normal service' resumes.
Occasionally peace is to be had when either of the internal protagonists prevails momentarily, or their impasse may even itself present the gateway sought; to an inspiration that is not born of puerile suppression, parental meaning or adult reconciliation. Provided that is where one's heart is set when there is a 'time out' - if the lull is sufficient a contrast to the ongoing melee, this brief interlude gives a temporary platform from which one can try to lauch off with filled sail unnoticed in the leeward direction.
Sometimes I feel I have a clarity of vision and intellect which at other times feels like it must have belonged to a different person altogether, as somedays, irrespective of the weather or light, I feel I am straining to catch a glimpse of anything at all through a dank mist, a fog that clouds any artistic direction or judgement or vision. Yet on another occasion it may find me crystal clear in purpose but blind in execution, it is here that I seek the example of those masters mentioned, and take them as mentors.
I observe a progression in my dominating influences from the intellectual to the visceral. I want to build on this. I have taken to wearing an iPod when walking with camera and of listening to such artists as Captain Beefheart, whose driving renderings, (nonsensical and cacophonous to many ears), elicit more subconcious representations in my photography and an increasingly satisfying experience and result for me, than those planned with logic and which give conceptually literal representations.
I am hunting, I know I am, but for what I am unlikely to know until I stumble upon it and with luck, recognise it. Then I will have found what I have not yet discovered.
The uncanny lure of Black and White
Colour is a language of its own. In theory we could produce photographs that were virtually formless and textureless and still have an interesting image. We all have an emotional response to colour, whether we like it or not, so we will always have an emotional response to a greater or lesser degree to any colour picture ( don't believe me? Look at the "Luscher colour test" This is a test where Dr Max Luscher demonstrated that the order of preference that you choose given colours in categorically illustrates your current emotional and psychological profile). This isn't to say that we don't have an emotional response to black and white, but that the colour in a picture can be emotionally distracting, lowering the quality and effect that the composition and tone have on you, thus depleting the appreciation of those elements. Of course colour can be used deliberately in those ways: some of the greatest colour shooters do that either intentionally or intuitively.
However black and white is a language if its own too. When you see in black and white, you are less concerned with the weighting of the colour and more with the balance of the whole picture. Therefore you automatically concentrate more on composition. The easiest way to illustrate this is to compose an image first, and then choose a small aperture e.g.f11, 16 or 22 and stop down*. NOW look at at the composition - we will usually want to reframe; why? Because the colour is mostly stripped from the scene and we are unencumbered with an excess of information, the meaning and intellectual content is removed, we see through to what is behind the composition, more aware now of the shadows and highlights, the tonal weighting of the scene as a whole, and the basic building blocks of the shot.
The analogy that springs to mind is the Tarot cards (basic medieval version). They all have colour and are imbued with meaning. Yet if you strip them down to their individual geometry, so they are purely a square below a triangle, or a sphere above a square etc. the shapes alone contain significance and influence, and they become more interesting for reasons of what is behind the design, not less interesting. How often do we appreciate this with colour images ( beyond the rule of thirds)? yet it is intrinsic to black and white composition.
I think the psychological counterpart of this is that we, as human beings, have the potential to appreciate our world with a wide range of senses, yet much of the time we are caught up in the process of intellectual signification or superficial and fleeting emotions. Black and white photography invites us to become less civilised, more intuitive, giving us the opportunity to respond with our instincts, to contemplate and perfect the tone and texture, light and shadow; the basic echoes of our psyche.
This is why we feel an automatic affiliation with black and white imagery; it speaks to us on a more primitive level and therefore a more common language.
Even though black and white shots may contain meaning in the context of society, culture or emotion, in addition they are more likely to have a depth that captures us in fascination; that resonates at a level we may not at first consciously understand because of its subconscious symbolism. This medium encourages us to communicate FROM that deeper primitive part of us because we intuitively feel it talks TO us in that language.
For this reason, black and white imagery tends to be more satisfying than colour. It reaches into us at a level where satisfaction is very fundamental and essential. Therefore, our motive behind taking black and white is not always conscious, but it explains the uncanny lure it holds over us
However black and white is a language if its own too. When you see in black and white, you are less concerned with the weighting of the colour and more with the balance of the whole picture. Therefore you automatically concentrate more on composition. The easiest way to illustrate this is to compose an image first, and then choose a small aperture e.g.f11, 16 or 22 and stop down*. NOW look at at the composition - we will usually want to reframe; why? Because the colour is mostly stripped from the scene and we are unencumbered with an excess of information, the meaning and intellectual content is removed, we see through to what is behind the composition, more aware now of the shadows and highlights, the tonal weighting of the scene as a whole, and the basic building blocks of the shot.
The analogy that springs to mind is the Tarot cards (basic medieval version). They all have colour and are imbued with meaning. Yet if you strip them down to their individual geometry, so they are purely a square below a triangle, or a sphere above a square etc. the shapes alone contain significance and influence, and they become more interesting for reasons of what is behind the design, not less interesting. How often do we appreciate this with colour images ( beyond the rule of thirds)? yet it is intrinsic to black and white composition.
I think the psychological counterpart of this is that we, as human beings, have the potential to appreciate our world with a wide range of senses, yet much of the time we are caught up in the process of intellectual signification or superficial and fleeting emotions. Black and white photography invites us to become less civilised, more intuitive, giving us the opportunity to respond with our instincts, to contemplate and perfect the tone and texture, light and shadow; the basic echoes of our psyche.
This is why we feel an automatic affiliation with black and white imagery; it speaks to us on a more primitive level and therefore a more common language.
Even though black and white shots may contain meaning in the context of society, culture or emotion, in addition they are more likely to have a depth that captures us in fascination; that resonates at a level we may not at first consciously understand because of its subconscious symbolism. This medium encourages us to communicate FROM that deeper primitive part of us because we intuitively feel it talks TO us in that language.
For this reason, black and white imagery tends to be more satisfying than colour. It reaches into us at a level where satisfaction is very fundamental and essential. Therefore, our motive behind taking black and white is not always conscious, but it explains the uncanny lure it holds over us
Woe, Woe and thrice woe!
Aquarian with both Moon in Virgo and Virgo rising; a strenuous aspect that inclines one to search for too pinpoint a focus in a too wide a vision; although a boon in local application (ask any eagle) - it is otherwise a gymnastic conundrum that teaches considerable flexibility but little else! Such a natal incongruity set my dichotomous perspective in astrological stone and hence the unremitting hunt for chaos in method, for the price of passion, for cause in shadow.
Grace a dieu, the attenuation by some other quixotic aspect fortunately imbues my character with the sense of humour essential to buffer such affliction, to bolster such burdens; as though driven on a Transilvanian pitch night, being chased by invisible hooves with nought but the most choreographed glimpse from the full moon's sudden glare of a panic striken passengers's stroboscopic lit bleak visage staring at the escaping trees, the resignation of a soul that is beyond impugning its imprisonment and the driver's hoarse exhortations for impossible pace drowned by the wind's preternatural screams, behind which the sounds of the carriage's jostling chains, its complaining structure and the pounding hooves dissonantly echoe in asynchronous cadence.
Whereupon the flailing mantle of ambition and the whip of duty are duly rendered in the twinkle of a mad eye under moonlight, to a frame of broken black and white film wrenching itself from the projectors trap, split but not incinerated, ripped from those parellell possibilities of time's myriad confluences, its flickering image slowed on the screen in stop motion stocatto, the rampant coachman and all his entrails snatched out from Chronos's very bowel
Perhaps Janus will adopt me in sympathy for my position, faced as I am by a mirror with a mirror behind me, as duplicitous infinity curves away from me fore and aft. It escapes my clutches as surely as I am inextricably clutched by it, bound by an illusory temporal effusion that spreads me thinner than butter on each fading slice of reflected vitality, woe is me, woe and thrice woe!
My image making can only reflect what and where I am, whether I know it or not and whether I like it or not. If I can capture but one of those multifacted miscreant moments, perhaps I can demand a ransom; hold it hostage for my soul's keep?
Grace a dieu, the attenuation by some other quixotic aspect fortunately imbues my character with the sense of humour essential to buffer such affliction, to bolster such burdens; as though driven on a Transilvanian pitch night, being chased by invisible hooves with nought but the most choreographed glimpse from the full moon's sudden glare of a panic striken passengers's stroboscopic lit bleak visage staring at the escaping trees, the resignation of a soul that is beyond impugning its imprisonment and the driver's hoarse exhortations for impossible pace drowned by the wind's preternatural screams, behind which the sounds of the carriage's jostling chains, its complaining structure and the pounding hooves dissonantly echoe in asynchronous cadence.
Whereupon the flailing mantle of ambition and the whip of duty are duly rendered in the twinkle of a mad eye under moonlight, to a frame of broken black and white film wrenching itself from the projectors trap, split but not incinerated, ripped from those parellell possibilities of time's myriad confluences, its flickering image slowed on the screen in stop motion stocatto, the rampant coachman and all his entrails snatched out from Chronos's very bowel
Perhaps Janus will adopt me in sympathy for my position, faced as I am by a mirror with a mirror behind me, as duplicitous infinity curves away from me fore and aft. It escapes my clutches as surely as I am inextricably clutched by it, bound by an illusory temporal effusion that spreads me thinner than butter on each fading slice of reflected vitality, woe is me, woe and thrice woe!
My image making can only reflect what and where I am, whether I know it or not and whether I like it or not. If I can capture but one of those multifacted miscreant moments, perhaps I can demand a ransom; hold it hostage for my soul's keep?
Monday, 19 March 2007
Here's one I made earlier
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6EEOsiJF1X0
Yup took me ages to make ages ago.
At last modern technology allows it to float like an infinite-loop hot air balloon in the calm blue skies of the internet.
Yup took me ages to make ages ago.
At last modern technology allows it to float like an infinite-loop hot air balloon in the calm blue skies of the internet.
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