Saturday, 27 February 2010

The Troubadour


Friday nights are the pre-cursor to the success of your weekend, and after a weeklong crusade of working, the release can be incredibly liberating. So what exactly does one do on a Friday night? In my case the decision came with lubricating ease, a trip to the Troubadour on Old Brompton Road in London to see a friend play a gig at the downstairs club. During the 60’s the club hosted a plethora of musical legends like Jimi Hendrix, Joni Mitchell, Bob Dylan and Paul Simon. With a grainy wooden brothel-like exterior, and a carved front door worthy of something you’d imagine in Mr Tumnus’s forest abode, the restaurant and/or club pride themselves in having ‘low temperature centre of courtesy, peace and artistic energy.’ The gig itself was surprisingly quite good, and the authentic 50’s tribute band with a leopard print bass that came on after provided a much needed refreshment from the usual ‘sexy bitch’ that’s become the elevator music in clubs these days.
Showing up, me, Connie, Jess, Flo, Will and Ali all shared a cigarette and bought an array of vodka shots, dancing to old-school tunes and laughing in hysterics and the hefty-looking group of Irish colleagues who tried to pick us ladies up. Two of them had an arm in a sling, due to an accident we later learned that involved them ‘falling off the same camel.’
Let’s just say, we left it at that.

www.troubadour.co.uk
263 Old Brompton Road
London SW5 9JA
020 7370 1434



Friday, 26 February 2010

Who Killed the Dog?

A woman walks into the street clutching a collection of shopping bags in both hands. She wears a red beret and a purple coat, which she believes makes her look sophisticated. Tonight she’s making baked salmon for her family who consist of two teenagers (one self-oppressed, the other pining from a recent heartbreak,) a husband who drives a taxi and chain-smokes Marlboro reds in the back garden, and a dog Miffy, a West Highland Terrier. The dog is the woman’s closest companion next to her daily recreational listen to BBC Radio 4 during which she finds immense solace in knitting Miffy brightly-coloured jumpers to wear for winter when its cold. There is a whole cupboard in her wardrobe dedicated to such apparel.
As she crosses the road, avoiding a puddle harbouring a half-broken Smirnoff ice, she only has two things on her mind; what time to start cooking dinner since Bill gets home usually round about half-past seven and expects his food steaming from the oven the moment his key twists in the lock, and that Miffy needs to be taken out for a walk. This woman, who shall not be named, briskly walks down her local street, heels clapping on the pavement with a steady, yet firm and purposeful rhythm, and finds her way to her front door. As she pushes open the peeling wooden framework she is met by a feeling of uncertainty. Miffy is not waiting at the door as she always does, Miffy is not barking as she always does (to much annoyance, I may add). Miffy is not lying in her bed in the kitchen, paws outstretched and placed together in a quizzical act of prayer.
The woman walks through the eerie silence out into the conservatory they had installed last spring. She drops her shopping bags, cracking a bottle of balsamic vinegar, which at present leaks out onto the hardwood floor, staining her shoes.
She puts her hand to her mouth in shock, and we turn to see Miffy lying outside in the grass, underneath the rapidly darkening sky, dead.

We see death everywhere. Squishing a bug under your shoe is comparable to murder. At least, to me it seems so.
Although that doesn’t mean I don’t kill bugs. I fucking hate them.
Why is everybody so afraid of dying? We pray to save our souls, mass congregations lapping in the ignorance of human fear, feverently questioning what lies beyond death, hoping to God someone will provide the answer. Women today feel the need to frantically reverse the natural order of things, flatten out those creases, buff out the dents of their faces as though they were cars simply needing a bit of ‘pimp my ride’ to get them back into shape.
We’re all going to die. It’s inevitable. For all you know it could happen tomorrow, at work, at home. You could die in a really fucking stupid way, like being electrocuted by the toaster. Trust me, its happened.
In my opinion death is quite beautiful, mesmerising, transfixing. But don’t be afraid, the dog in the picture didn’t die until a few months after the photo was taken. It was put down, by old age, I must stress.


Thursday, 25 February 2010

Titanium Flash





I dug up these images from a stay last summer at a friend's house in East Hampton. It was my virgin trip to the Hamptons so my experience was somewhat a muddle of new people, places and of course, things to photograph.
My three days consisted of a trip to the beach, where the water was freezing cold and looked the colour of sewage (I was later informed 'that this aint like the Mediterranean honey,') a dinner party where the host passed around packs of Marlboros and marijuana joints, and a drive through the main town where I spotted a rather disgruntled, unshaven Steven Spielberg waiting at a red light in a baseball cap. The house itself was beautiful, and the couple who invited us were gallantly hospitable enough to let me totter about the property playing with their garden sculptures, which I later discovered (thank god) floated in the pool and with their and dog, a British bulldog quizzically named 'Fat Al'. They failed to mention, however, that underneath all that fat, Al happens to be incredibly strong, thus I spent most mornings sprinting across the lawn, camera in hand, away from a charging, slobbering, heavily panting beast biting at my feet trying to run me into the pool. Fun Fact: it's apparently very common for owners to name this type of dog, Churchill.

Tuesday, 23 February 2010

Projection Shoot

My newest photography idea...











Sunday, 7 February 2010

tattoo haven


I've always loved tattoos. Whenever I'm out I like to scout out people's tats; over the years I've seen some really interesting stuff. A salesperson in Bendels New York had an artist combine all her favourite famous paintings, music and interests into one piece that she had tattooed all over her arm and across her chest. She had Van Gogh and Picasso plastered over torso, it was incredible. In Miami I met a guy who had a massive, glowing green Venus flytrap on his forearm, and another guy who had a collection of assorted 'skulls' in all different designs and formats on his legs and arms. Some of my favourite tattoos I've seen have to include the lady in Portobello with a beautiful, bright mermaid on her arm, contrasting against her pale porcelain skin, or the guy in brick lane with a swallow on his neck. I think tattoos are an intimate form of memory, something you have recorded on your body to always remind you of that person, place, or time in your life.