Love Venice, Hate Being A Tourist..

I hesitate to attempt writing about Venice, and as a photographer, it’s a challenge to produce images that are vaguely original. So many people have done it, and probably in a more competent and informative way than I can muster. Looking around for meaningful quotes led me to several which express a similar sentiment. American writer Henry James, writing in 1882, probably sums this up best ; “….I am not sure there is not a certain impudence in pretending to add anything….There is notoriously nothing more to be said on the subject. Every one has been there, and every one has brought back a collection of photographs.”

So, that’s that then.

Well, no. I may not be overly good with words, and I sometimes struggle to create the images I want to, but I feel the need to express….something…. I suppose that’s one of the things Venice does to you.

Photographically, I knew I’d be faced with endless opportunities. I tried to avoid the usual and the clichéd, but it turns out to be almost impossible. There’s something striking, but slightly familiar around every corner – The sun reaching down through the high, narrow spaces at various angles, lighting up the cracked and crumbling buildings on it’s way to illuminating the greeny-blue water below, which ripples and sparkles as the bow of a Gondola, almost silently, cuts through the waterway. See what I mean – cliché! Don’t get me wrong, I love it. It’s all gorgeous and textured, captivating and evocative, and a lot of the time I found myself just standing, staring with a daft smile on my face. However, as much as I find the sunlit city a feast for the senses, for me, there is just as much magic in the hours of darkness.

” In the glare of the day there is little poetry about Venice, but under the charitable moon her stained palaces are white again…” Mark Twain.

Wandering the alleyways and bridges in the dead of night is an absolute pleasure. It becomes a different place entirely. The crowds disperse. You still see people, mostly with map in hand, looking for street names, but it’s so relaxed, so quiet. There is no constant drone of distant traffic because, of course, there are no cars. Occasionally the silence is broken by a lone late water taxi, or even some local lads cruising with bass booming sound systems. But the sound is soon dulled by walls and water as the boat disappears off into the labyrinth, leaving just the liquid lapping noises along the edge of the canal. Even the crazy crowd hotspots of Rialto and San Marco can be almost deserted, allowing a leisurely look at some of the architectural wonders without having to dodge the backpacks and selfie-sticks.

The belltower of St.Giocomo del Orio,looming over the building in which we stayed. Yes, it was noisy at times.

You can even find space for a a dance at San marco at midnight!

Light spilling out of doorways and windows creates soft, coloured mozaics in the dark waters with their reflections.

I love photographing people. Like most cities, Venice provides plenty of opportunity to capture some of the local faces, especially around Rialto Market. After around 9 a.m. the place begins to heave with shoppers and sightseers alike. I saw guided tours coming through there, groups of up to 20 or 30, possibly from one of the giant cruise ships docked out near Tronchetto at the western end of the city. They’re all baseball caps and Nikon DSLRs, which are as ubiquitous now as the old Box Brownie was in Edwardian times.

Most locals get their shopping done early, in an attempt to avoid the mass of onlookers parading along the market stalls.

The loading and unloading of fruit, vegetables, mushrooms, and fish goes on most of the morning.

It seems that at markets all over the world, there is always at least one old chap who comes to watch. This man stood for almost an hour in the same spot, every now and then he would survey the stalls of fish with owl-like movements of his head. Eventually he moved in to buy a handful of shrimp from one of the fishmongers. He then stood back in the same spot and devoured them there and then.

At one point a group of guided tourists flowed past him as though he were a permanent fixture of some sort, like one of the pillars of the building itself. They seemed oblivious to his presence, and he to theirs. It was almost as if they passed straight through him, like a ghost.

” Though there are some disagreeable things in Venice there is nothing so disagreeable as the visitors.” -Henry James, 1882.

Venice gets in the region of 20 million visitors a year. This is a city of just 55,000 residents. The authorities are trying to minimise the impact with their “Respect Venice” campaign with, it seems to me, limited success. I still saw plenty of people doing exactly what the posters ask them not to. If the number of residents continues to drop, there is a danger that the city, as a living, breathing, working city will just die long before it’s in danger of sinking far below the waves.

Don’t block jetty’s or steps where access is needed…

Of course, the numbers have been swelled in recent years with the arrival of more and more huge cruise ships. In the high season the city can registers upwards of 20,000 passengers coming ashore per day! There have been some changes in the routes taken and in the maximum size of ships allowed, but the debates over environmental and economic issues still rumble on.

I so wanted to see this place. It’s one of those places on the ‘must see’ list, and I absolutely love it – the architecture and the art, it’s people and it’s history,….But I kind of hate being a tourist! I am well aware of the strain the city is under, the sheer numbers of people and the effect that has on the residents and the functioning of the city, so I feel slightly schizoid about this. On one hand I don’t see why I shouldn’t experience the place, but on the other there’s the slight creeping guilt at being a part of the problem. In the end I think you just have to go, treat the place and its people with respect, be humbled by it all and soak up as much as you can of it’s utterly unique atmosphere.

More photo’s HERE

Early One Madeiran Morning

The warm, humid, flower scented air greeted me as I stepped out of the cool, conditioned atmosphere of the hotel around 7am. I was still feeling a little groggy and bleary eyed, but I wanted to wander through Funchal in the quiet of the morning and head for the fish market with the camera, before it filled up with too many tourists.

As I headed down Avenue Sa Carneiro, there was a group of local youngsters, late teens, early twenties perhaps, all gathered around a Renault Cleo parked up on the wide promenade. There was dance music thumping out of the car stereo and they seem to be still buzzing from partying all night. They were a little raucous but good natured enough. They went quiet, throwing wide eyed looks at each other as the group parted to let me pass. There were stifled giggles from some of the girls as I strode through in my rather obviously touristy attire. Across the road there was a burger van, there to cater for the late night/early morning partygoers in need of breakfast.

Every weekend in June there are concerts, street performances and a huge fireworks display out over the harbour, all part of the Atlantic Festival. There were little groups of activity all along the otherwise empty promenade in preparation for the first night of festivities. As with any kind of activity like this, there is always an audience. Older folk, usually, take a seat or just stand and watch as chattering workmen go about their tasks. Maybe I noticed it more, being in a different place, but there seemed to be a lot of just observing – people sitting and letting the world unfold around them. Some sit alone looking out to sea or watching boats come and go in the harbour. Some sit in pairs, occasionally making an exchange of comments.

As I approached Mercado dos Lavradores – The Farmers Market, I paused across the road and just did what several locals were doing around me. I watched.

There were the flower sellers, just setting up on the wide pavement. The two women were dressed for the tourists, in traditional costume. The younger of the two was talking with a passer by, an acquaintance it seems, who appeared to make fun of the traditional hat, carapuca, that her friend had to wear.

All along the streets there are little espresso bars where people stop, briefly, to sip down the morning caffeine. Here, outside the market, people were a little more leisurely, some sitting at tables perusing the newspaper, and some simply staring into their coffee, not quite ready to take in the activity around them.

On entering the building, I passed by the aromatic flower stalls, the colourful mounds of fruit and veg, and headed straight to the fish market. The locals had already gathered on the steps overlooking the hall below, and I paused for a while to observe with them, while acclimatising to the rising fishy smells.

The people buying fish here seemed to be mostly women.The housewives and restaurant owners, I presume, seem to spend a long time discussing the cuts and prices. One pair of ladies were with one vendor for about an hour and watched like hawks as the vendor carefully cut up his wares. Whatever the language, you can always understand the gestures and sounds for “no way!”, “Too much”, “smaller”, “bigger” followed by the final smiles of agreement and exchange of cash.

Some seen to cut more carefully than others, or maybe its a matter of different techniques and cuts. Some hack more than cut, quickly making chunks. Others are almost like surgeons, slowly deliberating and assessing before making precision incisions into the flesh.

I descended the steps and hovered around the periphery of the rows of stone slabs, steel sinks and chopping boards. Doing my best to stay out of the way as crates of Scabbard Fish were dragged around the floor, I started looking for pictures.

I’d been shooting for while, wandering from place to place. A couple of times I got a prolonged stare from the some of the women going about their shopping. I knew I stood out, white legged in my shorts and wearing my creatively decorated “summer” hat! There were still no other sightseers around at this point, so I carried on wandering and snapping. At one point, I stopped to change lens, and as I looked up, someone beckoned me from across the room.

“Hey camera man!” he called with an insistent wave. I walked over to where he stood, behind a stone slab where he was working on what looked like Tuna.

“Americano?” he asked

“No..err…”, I grappled for the Portuguese for Welsh, only to come up with the French!

“Inglés?” He continued. Then I remembered.

“Galés!” I blurted out, and for a second he looked thoughtful.

“Ah, Galés,” he nodded, then picking up the cleaver, looks more like a machete really, in one hand, and giving the thumbs up with the other, he struck a pose.

“You take my picture camera man Galés!”

He laughed, and the couple of people who had gathered to watch ( yes, even in that short time an attentive audience had formed! ) joined in as they dispersed.

I noticed a few people taking snaps with their phones, selfies with the ugly Scabbard Fish, as a the trickle of sightseers increased. Very soon the fishermen, fishmongers, their everyday customers, and not forgetting their regular, early morning audience members, would be outnumbered by visitors. Just as I started my way out, I had to struggle against the incoming flow of a torrent of Japanese tourists being led by a tour guide. Once they had passed I climbed the steps, and almost immediately, the distinctive, cold, sharp odour of fish and their entrails was replaced by a warm mixture of floral, fruity, earthy and spicy aromas. I’m getting a bit peckish by this time and buy a few bananas, then it’s back out onto the street. There was a little more traffic now, and I followed a man carrying a large sack of potatoes on his shoulder across the road and away from the busier streets.

Sitting down under a tree to eat my purchases, I noticed the thermometer outside a nearby shop. 21 degrees, at 9am. Nice. Its going to be another good day.

More Photo’s from Madeira HERE

On London Transport

I don’t often venture into The Metropolis. Being a country boy, I’ve always found it all a bit overwhelming. There’s so much going on, it’s too, well, busy. But, of course, despite it’s down sides (and for me, there are a lot of those) the city has many marvels to behold. When The Lovely suggested that we take The Small One (not quite so small any more) into London to visit the museums, various landmarks, and to see a show, I was happy to go along.

We were travelling in from Broxbourne where The Lovely’s parents live, some twenty minutes by train from the central London. Apart from my general discomfort with the crowds and the searing summer temperatures, everything went very smoothly. I’ve often heard tales of rail chaos, delays, cancellations and angry commuters, but, even on previous work related expeditions, I’d seen no evidence of this. We’d travelled all over the city centre, hopping on and off the tube with relatively little stress. I was actually becoming quietly impressed by how well it all worked, as well as enjoying taking photos of my fellow passengers.

Later in the week, when the rainy weather set in, The Lovely and I decided to take a look at The William Morris Gallery in Walthamstow. A simple, short journey from where we were. Catch the train at Broxbourne, grab the Victoria line tube at Tottenham Hale and on to Walthamstow Central. Easy. We got there without a hitch and after an enjoyable afternoon, began our journey back.

Our timing was slightly out. It was around 5pm, so I was preparing myself for a fairly hectic, but thankfully short trip back. The station at Walthamstow didn’t seem too busy. So far so good. Then, as the tube train lurched forward, an announcement rattled out of the speakers. It seemed all trains from our connecting station at Tottenham had been suspended. Signal failure. This kind of thing is not, so I gather, a particularly rare occurrence, so, apprehensive, but still quite calm at this point, we disembarked in an attempt to get more information.

All trains had been diverted to the Seven Sisters station, and by the time we reached there, the confused crowds were already accumulating on the platform. A couple of officials were being swamped with questions, and I could see people turning away from them in disgust, amid much muttering and head shaking. When we got closer, we could hear the reason for their despair. It seems we had been misinformed. We had to go back to the station we had come from. So, back on the tube.

The main platform was heaving. Across the tracks, only a handful of people sat, occasionally glancing dispassionately at the ever growing, frustrated hoards of travellers. We waited. We waited a little more, and the whole time more and more people arrived. The P.A. system squawked into life and we were informed, very apologetically, that we had to go back to Seven Sisters. Again. Now, my stress levels were rising.

As we stormed back to the tube once more, I passed a large American man, dripping with sweat, hauling a massive suitcase. He was shouting loudly at an official about how “Unbelievable” this was and what the hell was he was supposed to do, he had a plane to catch, and so on. Further on I passed another official manning the gates as we all tried to pile through, she was nearly in tears as she tried to explain and appologise to the more irate amoungst us.

So, off the tube at Seven Sisters, again. Up the stairs to the platform which by now was uncomfortably congested. The usually loud, piercing announcements seemed like whispers, lost in the constant mumble of the anxious crowd, but we learned that all the diverted trains would soon start arriving. Sure enough within a few minutes a train squealed to a halt and the doors opened to reveal the already packed carriages. It was plain to see that just a tiny fraction of those waiting stood any chance of actually getting on. Despite the obvious futility, we all lurched forwards. I found myself muttering, “No way….No way…”, and my stress levels peaked. I felt the beginnings of sheer panic rising in me, and I rapidly backed away, fighting my way out of the densest concentration of desperate would-be travellers.

I found myself in a corner, some way back from the platforms edge. There was a small space around me. I could breathe. The Lovely had stayed in the crowd, trying to make sense of the announcements which may give some clues as to the next train we might catch. I watched as people approached up the stairs, many blissfully unaware of what was ahead of them. They would round the corner and their faces would drop. There was a difference between the local, regular commuters and those, like me, who had never experienced anything like it. The regulars were pretty stoic. The despair flashed across their face and was gone. They would just sigh or roll their eyes and get on the phone to calmly inform their loved ones that they would be delayed. Foreign travellers or those unfamiliar with London retained the look of despair, constantly looking around for someone or something to inform them what to do next. Then there were people like me, who just wanted to hide in a corner until it was all over!

Finally, a train turned up into which we could actually fit, just. We were all pressed in tight with hardly an air gap between us, standing as still as one can as the train jogs and lurches about. It was hot, uncomfortable and claustrophobic. About as far from my comfort zone as I could get! When we eventually disembarked, what should have been a 20 minute hop had taken about 2 hours.

I thought the daily rush hour could be bad! Having seen what happens when it all goes pear shaped, and knowing that it does so quite regularly, I don’t know how anyone copes. Through my eyes it seems like a kind of hell, torture, and I wouldn’t last very long at all if I had to live like that on a daily basis.

So, you commuting Londoners, and the ever suffering Underground staff, I salute you!

Tunick Memories

Today, in the news, I see that artist Spencer Tunick has been at it again, this time in Hull. I took part in his Installations in Newcastle, back in 2005, and seeing this latest event brought back the memories of a rather interesting experience…and almost longing to do it again!
At the time, I wrote an account of the day, but no Blog back then so, for the record, here it is.

Naked In Newcastle

A normal Sunday for me, as with many others, I suspect, involves a bit of a lie in followed by a leisurely day at home, visiting family or maybe going for a walk. Sunday 17 July, 2005 was a bit different.

It all started a couple of months before when a friend sent me a link to page on the internet; it was all about American artist Spencer Tunick. Using mostly urban settings, he changes the landscape by arranging large numbers of naked people into various forms and documents it all with photographs and video. I had long been a fan of his work, fascinated by the images themselves and by the technical and logistical skills needed to make such a thing happen.

The web page was announcing that Tunick had been commissioned to work in Newcastle, and that they were calling for volunteers to take part. An insane resolve took hold of me. I found myself filling in the online form and clicking ‘send’. It was easy.

Time flew by. Having never been to Newcastle before, the drive alone was a bit of an adventure. I got lost and spent almost an hour going round the city in circles as I tried to find the hotel. By the time I fell into bed it was 10 pm. I set the alarm for 2 am. The information I had received stated that we were to meet, no later than 3.30 am, in Mill Road car park near the Baltic Centre – an early start is essential, so as to minimise disruption and to catch the dawn light. As I had very little idea about how to get to this location, I thought I’d better get going in plenty of time

I confidently drove into the darkness, and was almost instantly lost. I knew I was in roughly the right area, as I could see the Tyne, awash with the rippling reflections of the lights that illuminate the Quayside. The fear grew in me that I might not make it. To come all this way and not get there was unthinkable, and yet the geography of the place seemed to conspire against me. By now it was approaching 3 am. Finally, I decided that the only thing left to do was to try approaching one of the many people staggering around the streets. This could be a bad idea, but I just pulled the car into the first space I saw and got out. As I looked around, trying to decide which one the somewhat drunk locals I was going to approach, a car pulled up a little way from me. Two women in their fifties got out. One was quite tall, very thin, as in ‘as a beanpole’, the other was much shorter and rounder. Seeing as they seemed sober, I thought they might be able to help me.

“Uh, excuse me….” I ventured, ” I wonder if you can help me, I’m….”

“Going to the Spencer Tunick shoot?” interjected the tall, thin woman.

“Err, yes. Do you know how to get there?”

” Oh yes, no problem,” said the shorter one,” You come with us.”

We proceeded to introduce ourselves and, as we walked briskly along, chatted about where we were all from and how we’d come to be there. It turned out they lived locally, though neither of them had the local accent. The tall one spoke with a diluted American accent, and the other more of Southern England. At one point, the smaller woman fell behind a little and complained that people with long legs are always bounding off ahead of her. We slowed the pace just a little.

Suddenly, as we rounded a corner, there were people everywhere. A young couple ran in front of us and were ushered by two policemen toward the long queue forming up ahead. Soon, the queue stretched behind us by at least another hundred people. It looked like there had been quite a turnout. Mr. Tunick might well have got the numbers he was hoping for, somewhere in the region of 2,000.

In front of me was a group of people all in their late teens or early twenties. There was lively chatter and joking about what we’d be expected to do. There were two men, both in dressing gowns, seemingly unaffected by the chilly, pre-dawn temperature. Most people had come dressed warmly in loose, easy-to-remove clothing. One of the three girls in the group, a dark haired, plump girl was wearing a fairly skimpy top and was already complaining that she was a bit cold. Another, slumped on the grassy bank nearby, muttering that she was really tired and couldn’t she just have a nap!

The queue started to move quite steadily along. We all had to fill out model release forms. I, like most others, had done this in advance by getting the forms from the internet. It made things a lot quicker. We all handed over our forms at the entrance to the car park and were given bags in which to put our clothes when the time came. There were security personnel all over the place so everything would be safe. It was still quite dark at this point and it wasn’t really possible to see how many people there were altogether. The two I had walked there with disappeared in the chaos and I wondered if I’d be able to find my way back to the car later. But that would be later, and it was soon out of my mind as I watched the crowd grow and grow around me.

I was chatting with some people from Leeds when an amplified American voice cut across the loud mumble of the crowd. One of the artist’s assistants bid us all good morning and introduced the man himself, Spencer Tunick. The New Yorker welcomed us and thanked us profusely for making the effort to be there. He explained that we’d be doing four different pieces. A slightly nervous laugh rippled through the crowd as we were told that after we’d undressed we’d be leaving the car park and crossing the Millennium Bridge for the first set up. There would be another set up in Dean Street and then back across the river, do a shot by the Sage Centre (an amazing domed building of steel and glass) and then one final shot in the car park. He was going to be shooting the first shot from the Tyne Bridge and he’d be about ready in 10 minutes or so. The time for us all to shed our clothes was almost upon us.

As I waited, I looked around at the waiting crowd. People from all walks of life, all shapes and sizes, from the petite to the enormous. The youngest were probably the minimum age of 18, and the oldest I saw must have been in their 70s! I heard local accents, there were some speaking French, and I chatted for a while with a German chap. It was truly cosmopolitan.

“OK, ” the assistant announced, ” I’m being told that Spencer is just about ready……So…”

There was a brief moment of silence.

“As I’m now quite fond of saying,” he continued, ” Get your kit off!! “

There was instant activity all around. For a few brief seconds, as garments came off, I felt a trace of panic. People started chatting and laughing in those nervous first moments of nakedness. There were cries of “What AM I doing?!?”, as the cold morning air made its presence felt and the goose-bumps rose. The panic went, swept aside by a light headed elation. I, like many, just stood for a few seconds to take in the sudden transformation, looking around at each other with sheer, child-like joy. There seemed to be an instant familiarity with those I spoke to around me. Intense eye contact and smiles said it all. I joined several others in a jubilant cheer as we started to move en mass. We were each now ready to become a brush stroke in a surreal artwork.

The crowd burst from the car park – poured, in a glorious stream, no, a torrent, of varied flesh tones down the steps, over the grassy banks and converged on the magnificent Millennium Bridge. As the procession reached the other side, the turbulent stream formed into an ordered line, three people wide, as we had been instructed to do, and moved slowly toward the Tyne Bridge. It was an amazing sight. I found myself nodding my head and smiling. I seem to recall uttering the words “Wow”, “Amazing” and “I can’t believe this!”, just like so many around me.

When I got to the end of the Bridge, I tried to fit in to the 3 across pattern and walked along the line until I found a spot.

“Oh, hello!” said the dark haired man in his twenties as I stood in line next to him. We shook hands and he introduced himself and his girlfriend, a slim dark haired, dark eyed girl.

“Hi!” she said, and reaching across to shake hands, she added, with a beaming smile, “This is mad isn’t it?!”

They were just telling me that they’d come down from Scotland, when the loudspeaker system crackled into life and the voice of Spencer Tunick echoed along the Quayside.

“OK, you’re looking good!”, he enthused, ” Now, arms at your sides, look straight ahead. Don’t smile! I’m going to take some shots now, stay as you are, you look beautiful!”

It was almost silent for a minute or so.

“OK, great! Now I want you to lie down. Heads towards the river…heads back looking straight up. Knees down, you have to be totally flat!”

With a sharp intake of breath and a slight groan I lay down on the cool paving stones. There was some giggling as we tried to fit together in the required pattern. Somewhere, a clock chimed four o’clock.

“I don’t believe it!’, chuckled the Scot next to me,” It’s four in the morning and I’m lying, stark naked with hundreds of complete strangers, in the middle of Newcastle!!”

My sentiments exactly!

We were told that we looked great and that the shot was about to be taken. The crowd fell silent once more. One thing about lying down was that at least I was out of the wind, and I lay there, staring at the vaguely blue sky streaked with thin cloud feeling surprisingly relaxed. It seemed quite a while before we got the OK, and there was cheering and clapping as we rose. Using the dark, plate glass of a building nearby, a group of women in their thirties were trying to see the lines and dimples they’d acquired from the texture of the pavement. Others just laughed as they caught a glimpse of their own reflections in the glass as we slowly moved forward and on to our next location. I noticed a figure moving against the flow; it was the young plump girl who had been standing in front of me in the queue earlier. She seemed very cold and headed back across the Millennium Bridge. It was a strange image in itself; that lone, naked figure, separated from the rest of us, on that huge structure.

We made our way along the Quayside. There were police scattered along the route with bewildered expressions. A woman in front of me pointed out there was someone in the doorway of a closed cafe, taking a photograph with his mobile phone.

“Quick, get him! ” someone said jokingly.

“Yeah,” came another voice, “He’ll never forget being attacked by hundreds of naked people!”

The crowd ahead was disappearing around a corner near to where the impressive span of the Tyne Bridge meets the ground. A few moments after rounding the bend I was confronted by an awesome sight. The shop-lined road curved sharply upward, under and beyond a massive brick arch. People filled the road as far as I could see, and they were all facing down at us, I was among the last few hundred to arrive. It was as though the whole street had been draped in a massive, flesh-toned patchwork quilt! Stunning.

Looking back down the street, I could see, just above the rooftops, a section of the Bridge, and it was from here that Spencer Tunick addressed us. His slightly distorted voice echoed up and down, bouncing off the tall stone buildings. We were to stand in rows across the street, about an arm’s length apart. We dutifully shuffled into position. It was cold here. Every now and then the wind picked up causing a wave of low moans to issue from the crowd. As if in defiance of this, several people near the front started slapping their backsides and thighs. This was soon repeated, and a ripple of slapping sounds travelled up the street. I’ve never heard anything quite like it, and I’ve certainly never seen so many rosy, red cheeks.

We were instructed to take about ten steps forward, only I don’t think the message got through to the whole crowd and some disorder ensued. This is obviously one of the problems with managing such large numbers of people. The equal distances between us broke down and took a while to re-establish. Back and forth, from side to side, slight giggles as people bumped into one another. Eventually we were told to turn to our right, kneel down and put our heads right down, making ourselves into human boulders. The pavement was very cold and, where I was, it was also wet, having not long been washed down. It was a bit frustrating not knowing how this was going to look. Though now, I think it may well be my favourite shot. Another wave of shivering attacked me and I was glad to get moving again.

Down the road a little there were assistants handing out water and white plastic poncho-like things. We had to cross back over the river again, and the organisers had thought it best if we had a bit of a warm up. We all struggled into the thin plastic garments, and they did indeed offer a little warmth. Though they were not flattering in any way.

“Oh, sexy,” said a local lass sarcastically, ” I’d rather stay naked!” But she put one on anyway. Further down the street there were boxes and boxes of flip-flops and sandals. I rummaged around until I found a pair that fitted and carried on towards the other side of the river.

The plastic ponchos and sandals were removed and left in a big pile on the pavement near to the Sage building, and we were told to wait in the road there. During our quite chilly wait, some of the staff of The Sage who were watching from above sang a rendition of “You’re too Sexy” which we applauded enthusiastically! Finally, a couple of shots were taken of us standing in the road. Then there was a pause and I couldn’t hear what was being said up at the front. The next thing I know everyone is suddenly climbing the steep, stepped embankment, on top of which is the Sage building. Another magnificent sight! The contrast of all those bodies against the green of the bank was marvellous. We did two shots here. One where we all turned our backs to the camera, and another where we faced the front but turned our heads towards the Baltic Centre. It was about now that the sun came out. Oh joy! Never have I been so pleased to feel that warmth. All around, I could hear relieved sighs.

Our work wasn’t quite finished. One more set-up to go, so it was back to the car park where we had started. Unfortunately, this location was hidden from the sun and I began to feel colder than ever. The sun peeped around the edge of a building, creating a pool of warmth in the middle of the car park and people huddled in that one spot, determined to stay warm. We waited for our instructions. And we waited. Nearby there was a truck with a lift on the back. Assistants jumped to the commands of the artist, but were unable to get a satisfactory position for the truck and, in the end, they were told to forget it. He’d use his trusty ladder instead. Anyone with large tattoos or tan lines was removed from the front rows for this one, so too were the two girls who had dyed their hair very bright colours. We were then herded between two ropes, held by more assistants, to form a triangle. After this had been documented, we were told to split down the middle and each half was to lie half on the person next to us, with our heads to the outside. This must have looked good from the camera’s viewpoint. That was it. We cheered and clapped as we were thanked profusely once more. There was a call for volunteers to do one more special installation later that night, live on TV. It sounded great, but I really had to get back that day.

So, with a mixture of relief and a little sadness that it was all over, I joined the long queue down the steps to where our clothes had been left some three and a half hours earlier. As I searched the piles of plastic bags, a tall stocky man with ebony black skin and short dreadlocks joined me in the search.

“Unbelievable!” he said shaking his head and smiling, “Cannot believe I just did that! No one’s ever going to believe me!”

“Not something we’re going to forget in a hurry!” I said with a smile as I found my bag of clothes.

“Unbelievable!”, he uttered again, pulling on a t-shirt, “Unbelievable…”

Despite the cold, most people didn’t seem in as much of hurry to dress as they were to strip. Slowly, all around, the extraordinary crowd became a ‘normal’ crowd again. Dressed, I felt odd for a while. The clothing seemed restrictive, but oh, SO warm! I walked down the slope from the car park and onto the road I’d arrived on. I turned, walking backwards for a moment, to take a last look at the scene. People were still coming down the steps naked, and as they disappeared more people left the site clothed. It looked like a big machine taking in nudes at one end, and delivering dressed people at the other!

I turned back to concentrate on my route back to the car. To my surprise, I saw, a little way ahead of me, the two ladies I had met on the way in. I’d be able to find my car again now. I ran a little to catch up with them and, after a brief ‘hello’ not much was said for most of the short walk. We were all tired, stunned into silence, but very, very happy!

It had been a surreal, bewildering experience. I hadn’t once felt embarrassed, or self-conscious about being without clothes. For those few hours, reality had been pushed fairly and squarely to one side. It was extremely sensuous, liberating, slightly erotic, but somehow never overtly sexual. Once the markers of social status had been discarded, we were simply Human Beings. All basically the same, just in a variety of shapes, sizes and colours, and there was a feeling that, as a group, we had helped achieve something out of the ordinary.

Why? Well, as far as I could tell, there were many, varied reasons for being there. Some were extremely serious about Art, some used it as a way to boost self-confidence: “If I can do this, I can do anything” mentality. Some were there for the sheer joy of new experience, and some had come for a laugh. I think with me, it’s a mixture of all these things. There are some who’ve just smiled at me, in a patronising way, and muttered something about a “mid-life crisis”. It may be some ‘mid-life thing’, but ‘crisis’? How can it be a crisis when I’m having so much fun?! Whatever the reasons, everyone will take something special away with them. The images created will live on to be loved or hated, discussed or dismissed, but for those who took part, the images will hold the reminder of a unique and wonderful experience.

https://www.artsy.net/artist/spencer-tunick

Lurking Around The Station

I’ve been lurking around the train station in Aberystwyth a lot lately. I’ve always liked the atmosphere in train stations. Airports and bus terminals too, have a similar feel. Its humanity on the move.

With Aber being a University town, its population fluctuates in accordance with term times, and the beaches bring the seasonal migrations of holidaymakers. Compared to main line stations in the cities, this one is tiny, but the single remaining platform of the Victorian station is often a busy place.

Sometimes there’s the quiet chatting of the local, regular travellers, or the boisterous banter of students, clustered together as they set out on some new adventure together. Next to them, in stark contrast, could be the silent couple, staring into each others eyes, contemplating a reluctant, painful farewell. The angst hanging, tangibly over them.

Mothers and fathers struggle with the family baggage while attempting to rein in excited children or placate exhausted, crying babes. A lone traveller sits apart from the crowd, staring at their feet, and there’s often a bright eyed young woman, fidgeting and throwing desperate glances down the track, impatiently awaiting the train that will bring her lover home. Some bury their heads in a newspaper or book, while others, the youngsters in particular, stand, thumbs a blur over the screens of smart phones, texting wildly as music buzzes in their earphones.

“The train now arriving….”, rattles out of speakers overhead, and the train rumbles up to the platform. The crowd shifts and takes on a new shape. Those embarking, position themselves for boarding, the others hold back, trying to peer in through the windows to catch sight of their returning friends or family. The doors open with an hydraulic hiss allowing a torrent of weary passengers, luggage in hand, to tumble out. For a few minutes those embarking mix and mingle with those arriving in a chaotic exchange of position, punctuated with hugs, kisses, handshakes and the occasional joyous shouts.

The general murmur of voices is replaced by the monotone drone of the idling diesel engine. The few people left, scattered along the platform, are waiting to deliver their final farewells through the grime blurred windows. Some silently mouthing words, and some, communicating by phone, like a scene from some prison drama. A few latecomers wearing vexed expressions jog up to the train hoping they might still be in time to secure a seat, and then the platform is all but empty.

The platform is rarely completely devoid of people, many come to snack under the shelter it provides and it’s often used as a short cut on the route to shops and car parks, but even when empty the station holds a certain fascination. There is still a feeling of anticipation there, as though the old walls have somehow been infused with the amalgam of emotions emitted by the constant flow of people over the last 150 years or so. I’m no believer in ghosts, but I do think that places somehow acquire what almost amounts to personality.

Despite the various alterations and additions to the building, it’s retained enough of its original features to remain fairly inoffensive to the eye. The sunlight can create some pleasing shadows as it plays around the wrought iron structure, and at night, the electric lights make their own patterns.

Next time you’re sitting in a train, or waiting at the track’s edge, and you spot that strange chap with a camera, it’s probably me. I mean no offence. I often wonder, as I bring the camera to my eye, if there’s someone observing me. Someone else “people watching”. We all do it. I try to record just a little of what I see.

AberStation on Flickr

The Puddle

With the arrival of the first significant rain in quite some time, the railway station puddle has returned. It’s perfectly placed to cause maximum inconvenience to travellers making their way to and from the platform, and, it seems there are many different ways of dealing with it.

The most common technique amoung the young and sprightly, is of course The Leaping Clear. This generally leaves feet dry and avoids splashing, and is usually only attempted by those under thirty.

Another common sight is The Stomping Straight Through Because I’m Late For My Train move. This tends to occur due to panic often leading to a failure to observe the obstacle at all.

2. Stomping Straight Through Because I’m Late For My Train

Frequently used by people with common sense is of course, The Circumventing. A quick assessment easily reveals that The Puddle is somewhat shallower on one side, and with care, can be avoided quite easily. A completely different approach is the Sudden Stretch. This entails walking up at normal pace, giving all the appearances of being completely unaware, then, at the last second suddenly elongating the length of stride. This can sometimes be quite successful, though it relies on good timing. I managed to catch the two techniques in one shot.

Some of the more unusual moves include The Crouch. This is an odd one. There seems to be a belief that if one reduces ones height, and then execute a move not dissimilar to The Sudden Stretch, that it somehow gives one an advantage of some sort. However, this is not always the case. In the incident shown below, splashing occurred and some discomfort was caused. Then the subject caught sight of the weirdo taking photos and gave him a look as though it was all his fault.

Another unusual aspect I observed was the occasional Glance Backward. This can occur after any of the other moves, and involves a quick look back to make sure that The Puddle isn’t following you.

I had observed several reactions to the obstacle presented by The Puddle. Some people were indifferent, some a little irate, some downright furious. Some would stop briefly, tutting, as they looked up to determine the source, others threw suspicious glances at the water as they made their evasive manoeuvres. Soon the business of embarking and disembarking was all done, and the platform was pretty much empty. I was about to leave when I observed one more technique. It is almost exclusively used by very small children. It’s known as Enjoy, and involves deliberately taking as much time as possible to traverse the pool, whether in appropriate footwear or not, while simultaneously deeply pondering the sheer wonderful weirdness of water.

Fun And Bewilderment At Disneyland

As I opened the window to hand over the 15 euro parking fee, the warm air rushed into the nicely air conditioned car. It was going to be a hot day. The queues of cars stretched out behind us and various cartoon characters smiled down from the brightly coloured portal to Disneyland Paris.

You know when you always tell people that you’ll never be found dead in certain places? When you’re adamant that there are some things you just won’t do? Well, going to Disneyland was one of those things for me. When my Firstborn and Girlchild were small, I was quite relieved that we couldn’t afford it, and anyway, I was young and very much wrapped up in “counter culture”. Disney was all corporate, sickly sweet nonsense to me. In fact, I was possibly more cynical then than I am now.
With my children all grown up and their mother and I no longer an item, I didn’t think it was something I would ever again have to consider. However, you never know what changes life will bring. The Lovely, my partner of some 4 years now, came with The Small One as part of the deal. She is 8 years old this year, and thanks to the generosity of her grandparents, we all got to spend a week in France with Disney being the main attraction.

We were directed to our parking space, by smiling attendants, in the car park that seemed to disappear over the horizon. The Small One was beside herself with excitement and we set off, soon absorbed into the unstoppable flow of eager fun seekers. As we approached the canopied walkway, there were three fully armed French soldiers scrutinising the crowds. The tones of their military outfits stood out against the glaring colours all around, and a jolly Disney tune incongruously trickled from the loudspeakers overhead. I reached for my camera. Too slow. I was washed along with the crowd which soon became denser as we approached the barriers and turnstiles.

The Disney site, the parks, the hotels, car parks and campsites, covers nearly 5,000 acres. More than 15 million people from all over the globe visit every year and I couldn’t help but be impressed by certain aspects of the place. The technology, engineering, and sheer scale of some of the rides and installations. But there was something unnerving, almost oppressive about it all. There was the feeling of being processed, manipulated and herded. Maybe it was just the heat getting to me (it was around 35 degrees) and the sheer number of people, I’ve never been good with either.

All the world was represented in the thronging crowds. A never ending stream of Disney character clones of all different age and race. There were princesses, princes, pirates, and stormtroopers, big and small. A whole plethora of bizarre headgear was on show, though mostly the ubiquitous Mickey Mouse ears. Some children smiling, some wide eyed – silent and bewildered, some red faced and bawling. Some have collapsed into slumber exhausted by heat and excitement, being carried by equally withered adults, who snap at each other ( and often the kids too ) in stressed tones as they join another long, shuffling queue. There were times when I had to wonder if this was actually a place people brought their children to torture them, especially the very young, who seemed incapable of truly appreciating, or indeed, comprehending what they were experiencing.

Waiting Patiently in a sea of pushchairs..

Twice a day, a voice booms out from every loudspeaker in the place, announcing the imminent start of the parade. The music is cranked up and the slow moving floats, brimming with iconic characters, creep into view. Time for everyone to indulge in some serious hero worship. As the last float passed, people joined the procession, following in a plodding, zombie-like pace, to it’s end, which was conveniently enough, where all the shops are.

I have to say that there were several rides I actually enjoyed. Even with the interminable waiting, I entered into the spirit of it all. The Tower of Terror – creepy concept with a gut wrenching 200ft accelerated drop; Star Tours – Star Wars fun in a pretty authentic simulator; Ratatouille – brilliant use of 3D graphics, and who couldn’t like zapping aliens with Buzz Lightyear? Although, those queues really did take their toll on my feet. On many of the rides the wait time was upwards of 45 minutes, with a running time just over a minute!

The last leg of the queue for “Pirates Of The Carribbean”..

As darkness fell, lights flicked on all over the site, and I thought the mood changed a little. There seemed to be an ever so slight calming, somehow less frantic. Maybe it was just that I felt a little calmer.

While the others queued with The Small One for one last ride, I, weary, aching and foot-sore, sat in a dark, almost cool spot on a fake stone bridge. I watched as other fatigued folk shuffled by, or sat for a while and stared at their phones, or stopped for a cigarette. Many were drifting off to find a good vantage point – there were still the pyrotechnics to come.

The soundscape now was a murmur, an almost constant hum, loud but with far fewer peaks and troughs than during the day. People sat staring towards the iconic castle at the heart of the park in anticipation of the sparkling show to come. Mesmerised before it even started. Up goes the music, lights flash, fireworks crackle, and out come cameras, phones and tablets.

So many seemed determined to see this entire spectacle through the confines of a small screen. Not just taking the occasional photograph, but actually watching the whole thing on a screen in front of them. Trying to suck in the experience so it can be owned, rather than simply living that moment to the full.

So how would I sum up? I have mixed feelings. It’s a bit like when I explore big old churches and cathedrals. While I may admire their architectural brilliance, and the craftsmanship involved, I don’t have to subscribe to the ideological dogma which inspired them.

Disney brings a lot of enjoyment to a lot of people, and in the end, I can’t be that cynical about it. We all enjoy novelty. Whether it’s big screen entertainment at the local cinema, or the gravity defying thrills of high speed rollercoasters.

It can’t be denied that what Disney does, it does very well.

Video Here (5 min)

The Oldest Cyclist In Town?

I see a lot of cyclists around Aber these days. Perhaps it’s always been that way, and I’ve just started noticing them more. Darting through my line of sight, meandering towards me on the pavement, careering around corners or looming suddenly out of the darkness on winter evenings.

You have the serious, lycra-clad enthusiasts, peddling frantically on their hi-tech, lightweight bikes that cost as much as a small car. There are the parents and kids, often trying to cross busy roads, which can be a bit like watching a mother duck leading her ducklings to safe waters. Then there are the people who seem to spend a lot of time stopped, or pushing the bike along while having a good chat.

Youngsters are often seen parked up on what seem, to me at least, like rather undersized BMX’s, usually engrossed in a mobile phone.

Some time ago I had spotted an old chap, on a mountain bike, carrier bags full of shopping hanging from the handlebars. I had thought about trying to get a shot of him, but he stopped to chat with another chap whom he clearly knew. As I passed, I thought I heard the cyclist say that he was, “..Over 80 now, so I’m slowing down a bit..”. Yesterday, I spotted the octogenarian again and tried to get myself placed for a good shot. But it was a busy day, difficult to get a clear, candid shot. I stood in front of the station and tried to get a shot as he crossed the road towards me, but it was no good. I turned to walk on ahead, but then thought that maybe I should just go for a direct approach, and turned back to face him.
“Excuse me,” I started, ” but did I once overhear you telling someone that you were 80?”
“83,” he smiled
“And you still ride all the time?”
“Well, do you know, ” he began, speaking in a crisp, clear English accent, ” It’s the only thing that keeps me moving. Keeps me alive. Gets me out and about. You see, I don’t have any friends now really, they’re all dead – all my peer group,”
“That must be difficult, a bit strange…”
“No,” he said, smiling with his eyebrows,” Not really.” He seems a happy man.
I reached for my camera and asked if I could take his photo.
“With the greatest of pleasure,” he said.

“So, how do you rate these modern bikes then?” I asked, as I took a couple of shots.
“Oh marvelous! Look at these tyres, ” he waved his hand at the wheels of his sturdy mountain bike, “I can crash up and down kerbs with these. Chunky, look at them. Not like those thin, flimsy old things. I still end up buying a new one every couple of years though. Well, I do 20 or 30 miles a day”
“Really?”
“Oh, it’s all on the flat though…”

If I’m just half what this man is when I’m 83, I’ll be very happy indeed.

A Boxing Day Encounter

Boxing day dawned a lovely bright frosty day. We were spending the holiday in Broxbourne, at The Lovely’s parents place, and there had been much consuming of food and drink. I needed a good wander to stretch my legs and take some pics. I was admiring the reflections in a pond along which a boardwalk ran. There was an old man, around 70 or so, walking a Golden Retriever, chatting to it as he went. I later found out that his name was Mr. Bufton, a retired secondary school teacher. Hearing him chatting, I looked up, caught his eye and he approached. “Are you admiring our nice little lake?” He asked with an emphasis on the word ” nice” which hinted to me that he didn’t actually find it that nice at all.

“Just looking at the reflections here, ” I said, waving my hand in the general direction.

” Ah, not from the council then?”

” No,” says I, ” From Wales.”

“Well, you have lots of water there too then.”

” Oh yes, plenty of that!”

” Well, this used to be a fine meadow, full of flowers you know.” I sensed a little anger and frustration in his tone, ” And look at these trees, here, and over there,” he continued, waving his walking stick in various directions, ” they’re all dead or dying now.”

Looking closer at the scene around me, I could see that many of the trees have their roots in the waterlogged ground and they are indeed dying.

“So, how do you think this happened then? ” he quizzed.

I was trying to formulate an answer, speculating that maybe this was the natural way of things, after all the place is in a river valley, next to a river, lots of water. However, just as I uttered my first syllables, he began to answer for me, pausing occasionally for the clattering trains to pass.

The story was a complex tale of accident and incompetence involving all the authorities of the area – Lee Valley Park, the local council, the Railway the Rivers Authorities. It seemed that Mr. Bufton was not overly fond of the local council,or the Lee Valley Park Authorities. As the affected area filled up, it was referred to as the creation of “diverse habitat”. But, the fact is that there are acres and acres of wetland habitat all through the Lee Valley, and what had once been on this site was probably far more important. Also, because this has just been allowed to happen, uncontrolled, every year the water encroaches more and more on the car park nearby.

As he talked, I prepared to take a photo, and when he paused I asked if that was ok.

“You should take a photo of this dog of mine.” he said, and I stood back a little trying to frame the shot.

” If you make a noise like biscuits, he’ll smile for you,” I was told, but was a little stumped as to what noise to make – what is the difference between the sound of a Digestive and a Custard Cream?! I made a vague clicking noise and the dog did seem to pose nicely.

“Of course I normally charge for that you know.”

I laughed, but was answered with an almost stern expression, “No, really,” he said, ” this is the cleverest dog in Hertfordshire, been tested against five year olds.”

Now it was getting interesting.

“Oh?” says I, “….really?”

“Oh yes, he can do mathematics.”

“Ah…..” I muttered, wondering if this was all about to get rather embarrassing.

Mr. Bufton looked around, and spotting another dog approaching told me that it might be distracting so we had to wait a moment, then the old man addressed the dog. “Mitch, find your voice” he said and the dog barked.

Then, with the dog watching him intently he held up three fingers and the dog barked three times. This was repeated with various numbers, then he asked me to just say a number between one and five and every time Mitch barked out the correct number. Then he did sums, addition and subtraction, but always ending up with an answer of no more than five. I was told that he could do a lot more when he has his “equipment”, which, I gather consists of various cards that can be laid out on the ground in front of him.

“Oh yes, we’ve done television, and they put him on the Internet and everything.” Mr. Bufton said with a great deal of pride. ” He can do some square roots too.”

He asked Mitch a question to which the answer was evidently three, but I have to say that I have no idea about square roots. In fact my mathematical prowess probably only just exceeds that of the dog!

Suitably impressed, and with a couple of nice photos, I thought it was time to move on, I was expected back for lunch. As it turned out we were going the same way, so I we walked together a while.

“Of course, you see this walking stick, I don’t need it you know. Why do you think I carry it?” Mr. Bufton asked, but he answered for me again, “Well, vets bills are expensive you know and some dogs are so aggressive, Staffordshire Bull Terriers, they’re the worst, and I use this stick to fend them off, damn things.”

I nodded in agreement as we approached the spot where we part ways.

“And you’ll notice I have a very long lead here,” Indeed, I had noticed that he had one of those extendable, retractable leads, “Well, you see, Mitch is learning to fly….”

“Ah….I see…” I said scanning Mr. Bufton’s expression for a clue as to whether he was having a laugh – seemed perfectly serious.

“This lead will stop him getting too high and getting caught in the trees. But there are quite a few people and other dogs around, ” he said and then, addressing the dog, ” so no flying for you today!”

Now I wondered – loon or master of deadpan humour? There was a glint in his eye that made me think the latter.

“Yes,” I said, ” a bit cold up there for flying today, and it’ll only make all the other dogs jealous…”

At that point we said our goodbyes, but I was rather glad I’d taken the time to chat with Mr. Bufton and Mitch the Mathematical Mutt.