Snow and Fog on the Cotswolds

Despite the cold and occasional challenges for travellers, snow and fog have always been amongst my favourite weather conditions. During the week of sub-zero temperatures before the end of 2022, a journey over the Cotswolds yielded some exceptional photographic opportunities. Amongst them was this very ordinary fence in a very ordinary field.

A snowy morning on the Cotswolds - what to leave in and what to leave out?

The thing that most intrigues me about both snow and fog - ideally together but also separately - is the way in which these conditions so often completely transform a landscape.

I must have driven past this field at least a hundred times as I have travelled along the ridge of the Cotswolds above Cheltenham on my way to visit my mother. But on this particular morning the thick covering of snow, and the wall of fog that now obscured the Severn valley below, pared the scene back to create a picture that is both obvious and mysterious.

It is an old adage that painters must decide what to include in their pictures while photographers have to choose what to leave out. This leads to the concept of ‘negative space’ that has become something of a holy grail for many landscape photographers. Too often, I think that the desire to capture negative space can lead to a sense that a composition is forced, leaving the viewer confused or even mystified by what the image is seeking to communicate.

This image is far from perfect. Should I have included more of the gate on the left - or less? Should I have included the animal tracks or searched for more pristine snow? Is there too much fence or too little? All these are the kinds of questions that passed through my mind while I kept my eye on the clock - my sister was preparing lunch - and tried not to mind that I had not dressed as well for the cold and ice as perhaps I should have done!

Nevertheless, I think this image is still a reasonable example of the transformative impact of snow and fog. I hope it leaves the viewer feeling that they were with me that magical morning; peering over my shoulder and wondering how the weather had changed a very ordinary field into a romantic tale of mystery - and perhaps even foreboding.

I always think that it is part of the excitement of photography that the ordinary can be transformed into the extraordinary through the isolation of simple composition. What to leave out is always the challenge I face as a photographer. This December morning, the snow and fog made it very easy for me. I think that is why I get so excited when I hear snow or fog in the weather forecast. It always the prelude to excitement and photographic exploration.

In the Offing

I love the sea. I particularly love the way the sky and the sea meet. It is a place you can never go. It is the edge of the world in that moment.

It always reminds me of the moment when a long night at sea is finally rewarded by the first glimmers of dawn and the early promise of the day ahead. I associate it with those moments of arrival in new ports, and fresh discoveries and adventures ahead. ‘The Offing’ is often the moment of dawn and dusk which so many photographers, me included, find so inspirational.

Formally, the stretch of sea from just beyond the shoreline to the horizon is termed ‘the offing’. It is a nautical term and the phrase ‘in the offing’ was used in the past to describe the imminent arrival of ships at the ends of voyages because they had been sighted and would be expected reach the safety of harbour before the next tide.

I made this ‘Offing’ image in the early hours of a Mediterranean morning from a quiet terrace in southern France. For me, it captures the delicate palette of colours that so often attend sunrise in this part of the world. It is hardly surprising that a host of Impressionist painters headed this way; embracing the light, the warmth and the informal lifestyle.

I find images of ‘The Offing’ endlessly intriguing, whether in the warmth of southern Europe or the colder light of more northern climes. These photographs are always simple, because they embrace just two elements, but the interaction between the two - and not just at the ends of the day but at any time - is almost always thrilling.

It is why I spend much time making images of these endlessly changing phenomena, and why I call them ‘Sea Interludes’ in the Gallery on this site. The light from the sky shines down and the sea answers back. A simple but delightful interaction that seems to catch the essence of why almost all of us enjoy being by the sea.

Form in the Foam

Sometimes the most unlikely subjects make for intriguing images.

I recently made this photograph near a tidal sluice in the waters of the Gulf of Morbihan in southern Brittany. Although it looks like pollution, this sea foam is the naturally occurring result of the agitation of seawater that contains high concentrations of dissolved organic matter, notably algae.

I am a great admirer of the early 20th century American photographer, Edward Weston. And I love his observation: “Anything that excites me for any reason, I will photograph; not searching for unusual subject matter, but making the commonplace unusual.”

Weston is most frequently categorised as a ‘Modernist’. He was certainly a key figure in the global movement in society and culture that, from the early decades of the last century, sought a new alignment with the experience and values of industrial life. This meant a move away from the pictorialist traditions that had dominated 19th century art and towards the embrace of the everyday - not least in terms of line, form and movement.

I like this image of sea foam because I think it can been seen on several levels: perhaps just an image of sea foam surrounding a mooring buoy, or perhaps a whole landscape of hills and valleys with a single path heading for a mountainous summit, or even the evocation of the view from an aeroplane window at 38,000 feet.

I do not claim this to be an ‘Edward Weston’! But I do feel that his hand was on my shoulder the morning I made this image. I have now printed it and propped it up in front of my desk. It continues to draw me in - I think a study in simplicity that I find personally satisfying.

The Community Launderette

One of the attractions of pounding city streets with a camera in hand are moments that lead to fresh understanding and pause for thought.

The Community Launderette, Spitalfields - August 2022

In August this year, I was making one of my periodic visits to Brick Lane in East London. Like so many other photographers, I am endlessly attracted by the riot of colour, the mix of people and the layers of history that make up this vibrant neighbourhood.

I had spent much of the day admiring the street artists at work (see my previous blog about my brief encounter with one artist) and just enjoying the bustle and crowds on a warm Saturday afternoon. But later in the day, my meandering took me back towards Spitalfields, mainly in the hope of finding something of interest as the market stall-holders started to close up for the day.

Glancing into the doorway of a small launderette, my eye was immediately caught by the sight of a pair of feet alone amongst the washing machines and driers. Inadvertently, I had stumbled across the Spitalfields Community Laundrette: one of a number of community enterprises run by the residents of the nearby Boundary Estate. Opened in 1992 as part of efforts to encourage and stimulate renewal in what was then a run down corner of London caught on the “wrong side” of Bishopsgate, the Spitalfields Launderette has been at the heart of efforts to rebuild the communities that now thrive in Spitalfields, around Brick Lane and out into Shoreditch.

I only found this out because a pair of feet, presumably belonging to an unseen local resident, had attracted my gaze and prompted me to make this picture. I think it is one of many examples in my photographic life where having a camera in hand has led me to a deeper appreciation of my subject - even when it seems so superficially ordinary as a quiet moment waiting for the wash cycle to finish.

As I learned a little more about the role this community project has played in the renewal of what is now one of London’s most exciting visitor destinations, it led me to thinking that some of our current crop of politicians should follow my example and get out in the streets more, armed with a camera. They too might see things and discover ideas that, in our all too-rushed lives, mostly pass us by.

On Mediterranean Shores

After two years of constraints on travelling abroad, it was a particular pleasure to be able to spend three weeks in France this summer.

There is always a moment as you travel south through France, either hurtling along ever more expensive Autoroutes or a little more slowly (and cheaply) on Routes Nationale, when the light changes. The grey or blue of the sky lightens, clouds change shape and the architecture announces that you are getting close to the shores of the Mediterranean.

It is always a heady moment for a photographer schooled in the hard northern light of Britain to savour the colours, the deep black shadows and the riotous patterns that seem innate to so many parts of southern Europe. It is different - and welcomely so - even if the intensity of the light presents a host of challenges for making photographs that are not full of blocked shadows or blown highlights!

For one of our weeks, we returned to Collioure, a charming town in the far south-west corner of France that almost feels as though you have already arrived in Spain. It is famous for attracting Fauvist painters in the early part of the last century; notably Salvador Dali, Georges Braque and André Derain. They were drawn, not only by the luminous light that floods the narrow streets of Collioure’s old town, but also by the blocky shapes and strong lines of its buildings.

Today, Collioure is very much a tourist town - but not so much as to lose its inherent attraction. Everyone is snapping away, and with good reason. Who can resist the palette of pastel colours and the warm Mediterranean water lapping at the very foot of the dramatic Chateau Royal?

This trip wasn’t really about photography. It was a holiday. But I too could not resist the challenge of trying to capture the light, the luminosity, the colour, and the warmth of Collioure’s streets. And so to this quiet corner complete with its plastic bird silently trying to keep the local pigeons at bay.

It works for me mainly, I think, because it feels as though it is an image which has literally been unfolded in front of me. It also gives me a sense of what attracted those Fauvist painters, with their strong eye for geometry and colour.

I am as much a sucker for images of colourful Mediterranean streets as the next person, but I believe this particular picture gets closer to understanding why the Catalan denizens of Collioure haven’t simply painted their houses white. There is an artist in every one of us and these harmonious blocks of colour say this so simply and elegantly.

I am always trying to convey the emotion of the moment and to suggest, not only how a scene looked at the moment an image was made, but also how it felt to be there, how it sounded, even how it smelt.

This is no cold, damp afternoon on an English street. It is a warm, quiet moment that overwhelms my visual senses. As autumn draws upon us, I know it is an image I will return to with pleasure for the happy memories it evokes and the promise it holds of a future return to the pleasures of Mediterranean shores.

Brief Encounter

I greatly enjoy street photography. I have spent some time this summer reflecting on why it is a genre of photography I have always found intriguing and to which I find myself increasingly drawn - even as I continue to pursue my work on the coast and in the landscape.

Brick Lane, London - 2022

Part of the answer may lie in this image, made close to London’s famous Brick Lane on a very warm Sunday afternoon in August.

Like many photographers, I was drawn to the many street artists busily adding to the myriad of murals that adorn this unique corner of London and amplify its sense of edge and otherness. After a little time making images of the remarkably talented works that adorn the walls and railway bridge to the east of Brick Lane, I found myself on a narrower path that runs below the embankment of the bridge.

Instead of my usual approach of quiet observation and discreet picture making, on this occasion I decided to get out of my comfort zone and ask this artist whether I could take her photograph. She was happy for me to do so and this in turn led to a brief conversation about our respective street endeavours - and for me in particular to understand the pleasure of the sheer ephemera of making wall art; an ever rolling flow of new work that is constantly painted over so that further creativity can flow.

Over recent months, I have found myself increasingly engaging with strangers on the street. My small, unthreatening camera seems to send a message that I am serious about my work and I can be trusted not to abuse the kindness of strangers. By not trying to disguise what I am about, I have found new connections and even respect for what I am trying to achieve.

I know that some fellow street photographers may question the very idea of engaging with their subjects, most likely arguing that street photography is more or less defined by its observational nature and absence of interaction. Other photographers set out deliberately to provoke a response - to demand eye contact. I find this approach is invariably too assertive for the images I am seeking to make - the story I am trying to tell.

However, as this image of a happy street artist enjoyably immersed in her work shows, I increasingly find that a few words, a smile and some admiration for whatever attracted me to them in the first place, almost always pay dividends. This example may not be a true ‘street photograph’. It may not be amongst my best either technically or as a piece of art, but I am confident that it captures the pleasure of a brief encounter, shared enjoyment of ‘the street’ and tells a story of passion, joy and creativity amidst this summer’s heat and searing light.

Street Art, London - 2022

Fog on the Forth

Returning from a week in the far north-west of Scotland in late March, I decided to travel via Edinburgh, both to visit some old friends and to try to make some long exposure images of the Forth bridges.

After a happy evening I woke in Strathearn just south of Perth to find my anticipated view of the Ochil Hills completely obliterated by thick fog - but one of my favourite conditions for photography. As I drove south, the sun strengthened so that by the time I was passing the splendidly misleading turn-off to ‘Crook of Devon’, the sky was clear and my heart sank at the thought that I had probably missed the moment.

But fortune was on my side. While the fog had lifted from the hills, the temperature inversion over the Forth Valley was still holding and I was amazed to see just the upper bastions of the bridges peeping through pure white fog.

Turning off to North Queensferry, I descended through the fog, parked at the old pier and eventually succeeded in making this image of the 130 year-old rail bridge.

Mounting my Lee Superstopper, which gives a 15-stop reduction to the normal exposure, I was able to expose this image for 30 seconds allowing not only the water to be smoothed but also catching the drifting fog as it started to lift off the river.

As you can imagine, I tried lots of different compositions over the couple of hours the fog held in. I also think that other people who had stopped to take in this wonderful scene were bemused as they watched me frantically running from one side of the pier to the other trying to catch the fast changing scene before me.

I especially like this image because the combination of atmospheric fog and the use of long exposure seems to capture the sense of the eerie calm that I felt so strongly. The long exposure also adds the dimension of time passing while the fog blocks out the southern riverbank, so that this iconic structure - now a UNESCO World Heritage Site - becomes a ghostly form above the fast flowing waters of the Forth, emphasising its history and the triumph of Victorian engineering it represents

For me, most importantly, the image captures the sheer excitement of just being there that remarkable day.

Impressions and Reflections

Reflections are a popular subject for many photographers. I am one of them. I find reflections from whatever surface interesting, even arresting, because of the way in which they so often offer an altered reality - at once recognisable but at the same time different. This immediately creates a puzzle for the viewer which hopefully leads to closer engagement with the image thus triggering new thoughts and ideas.

I made this photograph during my recent visit to Brittany and to the island of Belle Ile. It is an image that uses the reflections of two houses that overlook the main harbour in La Palais; the island’s main town. Evening was coming on and the light was slowly changing from the harshness of the day to the softer sunshine of late afternoon. This is a time of day I love because colours become more vibrant but without the distorting oranges and pinks that are so popular with many photographers seizing the ‘golden hour’ before sunset.

I enjoy this particular image because, for me, it is not immediately obvious what the subject is. And unlike images that use the technique of longer exposures and Intentional Camera Movement (ICM), this image captures a moment of light and line which, when combined with lovely, subtle colours, reduces the subject to its essentials.

If you had been standing beside me that lovely evening on Belle Ile, I am in no doubt that you too would have been admiring the loveliness of the pretty white houses that ring the harbour, offering a solid counterpoint to the constant bustle on the water, and the ebb and flow of people - similarly enjoying the pleasures of just being there.

As most photographers will understand, the defining difference between painting and photography is that, while the painter starts with a blank canvas and decides what to include in their work - and how - their photographic opposite numbers must start with the scene in their viewfinder and then choose what to exclude and how to arrange the remaining elements to create an image that conveys the essence of the scene, and the ideas or emotions the photographer seeks to communicate at that particular moment.

Harbour scenes are necessarily cluttered and messy. Sometimes a straight image is enough to convey the mood or uniqueness of the moment: boats, nets, rigging, lobster pots, etc. However, that evening in Belle Ile, I was confronted by lots of people socialising outside the many bars and cafes along the harbour’s edge. These elements would have distracted from the simplicity of the image I wanted to make.

By using the reflection of the houses in the water I hope I have managed both to make an image that emphasises their simplicity of design and evokes a stronger emotional response in terms of time and place.

I find it intriguing that the emergence of Impressionism in the latter half of the 19th century is often seen as painting’s response to the challenges posed by the emergence of photography at the time. Previously, accurate and detailed portrayals of people and landscapes had been the sole preserve of painters. The emergence of the photograph, and its relatively easy and inexpensive accessibility, for the first time gave people the opportunity to have their own image or places they liked captured on film.

Today, I therefore find it intriguing that photographers like me, are increasingly drawn to making images that are ‘Impressionist’ in style because we too are attracted to depictions of light and its changing qualities, ordinary subjects, unusual angles, and the inclusion of movement as a key elements of human perception and experience.

Echoes of War

Last month I visited Lorient, a city on the south coast of Brittany in France. As you step off the train, at first glance you find a seemingly unremarkable town. But a brief rummage on Google quickly reveals that Lorient has a dark past and was very much the victim of World War 2. For it was here the Nazi regime chose to base part of its U-Boat submarine fleet. And it was from here that Admiral Doenitz’s so-called ‘Wolf Packs’ sailed to fight the Allied convoys in what is now known as the ‘Battle of the Atlantic’.

The heavily reinforced concrete structures of the U-Boat pens remain a prominent and brooding presence in the heart of Lorient’s vast harbour. From the water it is impossible to miss these monoliths of war and, as a photographer who is constantly intrigued by the echoes of past conflict, I immediately wanted to make an image that said something about former strife and new beginnings.

I also wanted to capture the feel of a place that the citizens of Lorient have done their best to repurpose - the concrete poured in 1941 may be too strong to demolish easily or cheaply - but today it is an international centre for yachting.

As this image (left) of the first of the three ‘pens’ in Lorient harbour shows, a broad sweep of these dark, unadorned and amorphous hulks of reinforced concrete seemed to offer little prospect of delivering the kind of narrative I was keen to communicate - particularly on a warm and sunny afternoon and in the time I had available.

But getting close-up to the walls of these vast constructions immediately changed my perspective. The very feel of the hastily poured concrete, now with signs of the protruding iron and gradual decay, gave me not only a sense of its grim past but also a feeling that this was a visible reminder that wars will always come to an end.

So how to make an image that communicates these powerful ideas about political violence and redemption?

As my portfolio reflects, I have always been drawn to making images of surfaces. I find intrigue and often beauty in the most mundane of places. The Lorient submarine pens may be far from ordinary but this approach seemed to offer the opportunity to try to tell a story of conflict, forced labour, heavy attacks, and the stiff resistance that the occupiers maintained right up until the moment the Allies reconquered Europe in May 1945.

Even on the bright day I was in Lorient, the tactile feel of rough concrete and rusting rivets felt cold - reflecting the grimness of their wartime origins. I hope the viewer may even sense the dark story they contain without knowing the broader history.

Like many places of battles past, I found myself imagining the sights and sounds these walls once contained: the heavy engineering involved in keeping the submarines ready to go to sea; the shouted orders as torpedoes and rations were loaded; the clang of a dropped hammer; the deadly percussion of frequent bombing raids; and then the sounds of silence, as war ended and the battered people of France started to accept that the fighting and constant threat of death were finally over.

Am I freighting these images with too much meaning? I hope not. For 75 years, we Europeans seemed to heed the lessons of history. But at a moment when the hideous realities of war have returned to our continent, I hope people seeing these images may reflect briefly on the rawness and bitterness that is too often the legacy of war. I also hope people will recognise that while these remnants of war still stand, they can also serve as both a warning for the future, and a celebration that brighter and happier days will always lie ahead.

Flea Marketing in Brussels

Brussels is an under-rated city. Too often visitors get no further than the Grand Place; wonderful in its mediaeval, cobbled self but giving little sense of the vibrant, multi-cultural city that awaits the more intrepid - perhaps akin to judging London on a single visit to Trafalgar Square!

I had the good fortune to live and work in Brussels for a year: 2019 - which I will now forever think of as the year before we were struck down by Covid, and the world shifted on its axis. While work was busy and I became well-acquainted with the Eurostar, my extended stay also offered time for exploration - and to pursue photography.

Jeu de Balle Flea Market, Brussels

The Jeu de Balle in the Marolles district of Brussels claims to be the only flea market in the world that is open every day. It is certainly there every morning, with Thursdays and Fridays seeming to attract the most interesting range of market sellers and things for sale.

Like many photographers, I am drawn to markets. Traders themselves always seem to be intriguing characters, particularly as they interact with their customers. Although I have also sensed in recent years, that some stall-holders have become less tolerant of us snappers and it is best to try to remain as unobtrusive as possible.

In the case of the Jeu de Balle, over the course of a number of visits, I found people to be generally accepting of me wandering around, enjoying and appreciating the atmosphere while trying to capture the essence of this unique market. The occasional purchase also did not come amiss.

Many of my images capture the people who come to the market: the traders, the buyers, the occasional musicians and the ever-busy café staff. But of all the images I made during my time in Brussels, it is this ‘still life’ image of a stall selling antique silver that I find amongst the handful with which I am satisfied.

I feel that it works because, like many of my favourite images, it is not immediately obvious what it is. The viewer will quickly see that the image comprises a jumble of old cutlery. But after that, questions arise. Why is the cutlery arranged as it is? How did it come to be like that? Where is it? Whose was it? And so on.

I also enjoy this image because it speaks of my enjoyment and response to the Jeu de Balle market. I remember the antique silver scattered casually but enticingly across an old, dark rug. I can hear and see the woman who ran the stall closing a sale a few feet from where I was standing.

But then I also think the image intrigues more deeply because it not only captures that moment in time, but also suggests times past when meals were eaten more formally and punctuated the day. It was a world that seemed to have more time to enjoy socialising around a dinner table and pride was taken in the ownership of even the most mundane household items. This was not a fast-moving, disposable world but a more considered time. And then I find myself wondering about the people who originally owned this cutlery and the houses where it was used.

So I hope it is ultimately this sense of intrigue, and the thoughts this might lead to, that satisfies in this image. It is a story of a place and of times past - and perhaps offers a thought on who we are today.