With the title of this blog post in mind, a montage of poetry analysis flashbacks flashed.. back.. through my head (it's late) and so I figured what better fit for an intro than a shakespearean sonnet. I may have 10 syllables per line, but my iambic pentameter IS not QUITE right. Those troublesome trochees.
betweenst yon struts of telegraph pole high
doth formeth enclosed swathes of open skies
beneath its branches thy dost stand nigh
with thy lens up, one closed, one open- eyes
hark be, think now of these colliding lines
observe, how intersections conjure shape
now thinketh of one’s photos in still time
together, memories linked of one’s day
a moment cast into eternity
alas, the film roll dost not quite tell all
speaketh the parts between the certainty
tell groundlings, galleries, the true tale tall
thy give the ticks, events of thine lifetime
reveal the tocks, betweenst thine life’s lines
Wandering around, camera in hand, spending a day shooting leaves me with three things:
- Photos
- Stories
- Bruises and grazes
I've talked before about how enjoyable the process of taking a picture with a film camera is, but what pieces these moments together are the events in-between(st). And yes, I just wanted to try out the numbered lists. So. A Wednesday, doctor's appointment done and my car perched in one of Exminster's free parking spaces, the day properly begins.
The roll's (Fuji Superia 200) test shot above was taking by a Sam with intact knees. Climbing out of the car I figured it'd be a good idea to practice skating down the hill, putting an emphasis on stopping. Foot dragging on the tarmac, feeling cool, I successfully came to a halt multiple times. 3. Like an experiment. 100% accurate results. I skate off happily, a car turns the corner a considerable distance in front of me, I'm like 'I've got this.' and proceed to use my new found stopping skills only to flail like a starfish with.. human limbs, that has only just realised its limbs are human-y and is understandably freaking out. I laugh, my jeans gasp and my knees cry beneath as the car crawls past sputtering and chuckling as its passengers do the same. The camera's fine and I hobble away down the hill until I come to a bridge over a railway line.
'The Grass Is Greener' - 2017. An apt name perhaps for the railway's bordering marshlands. After watching the stones chatter amongst themselves as a few trains thundered past, I found myself by an open gate, leading into the marshes. The mud was deep and wide. I couldn't go over it, under it, or even around it. I had to go... and grab loads of rocks and make stepping stones as I did in the estuary. Now feeling as though I should be hosting a show taking celebrities into the wilderness to take shelter in camels(.../badgers?), I snapped the telegraph pole frometh beneath, and a following shot of it playing an incredibly complex game of skipping ropes with its neighbour.
Plowing on through the marshlands I came to an impasse in the form of a not-so-raging-but-wide-enough-to-make-the-required-jump-olympic-in-standard-plus-have-those-games-be-hosted-on-the-moon-for-its-low-gravitational-qualities river. I had to backtrack to a thin slippery log, which seemed to get thinner and slipperier as I sidled over it, lying across the water. This opened up access to a new field full of Canadian geese that, on making my way toward the gaggle, filled the sky with wings and honking, making their way off towards the sun. It was quite stunning. A reedy river marked my next Herculean labour- well.. thing that I had to.. get across.
This time a wooden structure of some sort presented itself quite quickly. Scrambling over it and through the reeds lead me to the path between The Turf Hotel and The Double Locks. I was to meet my friend at the latter, skating under a motorway on the path..way.
The wooden self-repurposed bridge was handy, but far more impressive stood the grand, brutalist pillars of the elevated roadway. I couldn't decide which direction to take a photo, so I opted for both. Greedy. On developing them, a) I was rather shocked (*gasp!*) by how vivid the greens were in the second photo, and b) I decided the water in the first detracted from the weight of the concrete monoliths, so figured I would go back there to try the photo again.
"Half a pint of Hammer, a coke, and one or two plasters, please." I was still bleeding, and so my combined order at the bar might have been described as thirst aid. My mate had brought his Rollei 35 something- it had a bunch of dials on the front and was very pretty.
With a bachelor's in Geology and a master's in Geological Engineering, his hold on the camera was rock steady- stop now. It was nice though, to have a bit of an insight into how he spotted shots, heavily nature based, organic forms whereas I found/find myself drawn more often than not to the human element or, perhaps, human influence in a natural surrounding. E to the G, this sage looking anorak-ed figure sitting on a log by his pocket sized campfire (..never put a campfire in your pocket).
Solitary Marshland Wizard of North Face behind us, we headed on towards the Quay, stopping by this rail-side factory. I liked the clean lines of its roof and chimney. My following approach to photo taking was similarly minimalist, that is to say I didn't take many photos between here and Exeter, and instead just had fun chatting to my mate. We go back about 15 years now. It's nice that with all the life that has happened since, the two of us having worked in various parts of the world, him, the Middle East, and myself in Asia, when we're both in Devon it occasionally still feels like we're getting the bus to school together.
When is a door not a door? An alley on the Quay presented a door I had never noticed before- it being ajar, and with not a soul in sight, I was feeling mischievous, sneaking into what appeared to be a building site. Friend: "Sam, f'god's sake." He didn't approve and remained outside while I nosed around for a shot. The sky's low sun poured a smooth golden light in through the window and over the room's higgledy piggledy collage of construction. Voices echoed from the hallway to my left and on following them, à la the pan pipe sounds of the Lost Woods, I came across what, to me, seemed like a portable stadium floodlight, concrete and wood dust swirling around its beams. Blinded, and with the voices now coming to me, I made my way back to the jar.
I've always enjoyed telling stories, and what are we if not a sum of them. Going out to take photos writes chapters around illustrations, and these words glue it all together. Part of me wants to stop with my daring(?) escape above. However.
Round the front of the building my wanderings took a turn for the less adventurous when the builders in fact didn't seem to mind me coming in to take a picture at all. Following this with a hot chocolate in a cosy little café on the riverfront drained any video-game-style rogue-class cool points I'd managed to fill my life-experience bar with.
The marshmallows were very tasty though.