Frozen

Stuck in the middle, but at least on an upward trend

I think this photo kind of describes the way I feel towards photography of late. During office hours, I have so many ideas popping up in my head but on the weekends, they all vanish. The long hours spent in the office makes almost every moment out of it inspirational, yet I don't take as many photos as I would like to. And since we are talking about inspiration, I was recently inspired (last night) by a short piece from Gueorgui Pinkhassov, describing his photos in my all time favourite photo book, Magnum Magnum.

It is foolish to change the vector of chaos. You shouldn't try to control it but fall into it.

An artist cannot be nourished by self will. Curiosity melts you down to the size of the lens' opening, so you can slip into the unknown. 'No one has gone that far before' - this is the only compliment for the insatiable imagination. Its not a sin to get lost. You should lose your way. Just be sure to find the way back.

The return after all is the most touching - like Brueghel's hunters coming back to the hearth or Rembrandt's prodigal son returning home. This is the heart of it all - at the end. But it starts, of course, with the feet.

Chez

"Chez Mondrian", pour psn

The scene sets itself but is never set.

Morning

Chilling on a Saturday morning

A non black and white photo to mark the weekend. It is a conscious choice, not using the word "colour" to describe the photo; Black and White are colours too. I love Saturday mornings, one can wake up late, have a nice big breakfast, read the papers and then head off to accomplish all the errands that you have put off during the week.

Rain Fog

What is lost to journalism is won to poetry

Il pleut doucement sur la ville.
Arthur Rimbaud

Il pleure dans mon coeur
Comme il pleut sur la ville;
Quelle est cette langueur
Qui pénètre mon coeur?

Ô bruit doux de la pluie
Par terre et sur les toits!
Pour un coeur qui s'ennuie
Ô le chant de la pluie!

Il pleure sans raison
Dans ce coeur qui s'écoeure.
Quoi! nulle trahison?
Ce deuil est sans raison.

C'est bien la pire peine
De ne savoir pourquoi
Sans amour et sans haine
Mon coeur a tant de peine!

~ Paul Verlaine, Il pleure dans mon coeur...

Pilgrims

Not quite Bathers by the Seine

Iranian Pilgrims in Sanliurfa Turkey, by the sacred pool of the prophet Abraham. All covered up even on vacation. The only feature that separate them from mere shadows in this photo are the hands. Even the only face is partially obscured. Hands outstretched, palms up, in submission. This vaguely reminds me of one of Cartier-Bresson's India photos albeit in a less powerful form. The hands are not covered because they need to be exploited; taken for granted.

"People reside inside their bodies for decades, but they rarely examine these vessels and all their intricate, dutiful parts. A house is more easily remembered than a body. One can describe the number of rooms, the glass in the windows, the colour of the walls, the tiles in the bathroom."
~ Dalia Sofer, The Septembers of Shiraz

Alone

On the sunny side of the street.

Sitting by the roadside, with her back bent by age or circumstances, perhaps both. I like the voyeuristic view of this photo, almost as if I was peering over a bush to capture this shot. And that viewpoint resonates deeper than just a mere photo composition. I am indeed no more than a voyeur, the only parallels I can draw are as superficial as the lines marking the side of the street; barely penetrating the surface. When I took this shot, I contemplated crossing the road so that I could capture it with a face but I eventually decided against it. Why a face? Would it make any difference? Almost everyone who reads this will not be able to identify her or with her. Even if you did, what would you do about it? Probably nothing. On the contrary, a faceless image becomes a symbol; if not at least a reminder.

Telephone

I hear you, but you're not getting through. Operator?

The image echoes the sentiment. The man in the foreground is echoed by the man in the background but in a converse manner. One converses whilst the other is silent. One watches while the other avoids. And the gap in between speaks volumes; a sense of isolation. Is this deliberate? Or yet another facet of modern living? Modernity isolates yet it also provides the means to bridge the gaps. But you can't fax a handshake or dial a hug, can you?

Bell

The older I get, the further back I look.

I remember my aunt bringing me to a provision shop, just like this one, when I was still not tall enough to see over the counter. I don't remember much about the provision shop itself, other than the fact that it was just round the corner and that it smelt of dried produce. But I remember the routine, two grown ups, sometimes three discussing, talking in dialect and then the money bucket would be lowered and the bell would ring, and we would be on our way home. Life was simple then, a bell's ring and you're on your way.

Coffee

Coffee Lovers Only

Nothing beats waking up late to a nice frothy cuppa soy latte, with the sun making its way across the blue morning sky, birds chirping, the sound of the sprinklers spurting. Absolutely nothing. Especially after a hectic week. Even a throbbing head and a leaky nose can not subtract from such a pleasurable sensation. Simple pleasures.

Library

Library of Celsius; Ephesus, Turkey.

Goethe said "the beginning and the end of all literary activity is the reproduction of the world that surrounds me, by means of the world that is in me, all things being grasped, related, re-created, molded and reconstructed in a personal form and original manner." Edward Hopper carried this quote in his wallet throughout his mature life. To him, this sentiment applied to artistic as well as literary production. For him the paramount phrase was "the world that is in me", and by this he means his experiences that give rise to his individuality. And I agree, we are no more than the sum of our experiences. All that we know, we have accumulated through experiences. Books, allow us to learn through the experiences of others, be it fictional or not; almost like a short cut in experience accumulation. It is a short cut and not a substitute. It shortens the journey but the road must still be traveled.

"Do not under any circumstances belittle a work of fiction by trying to turn it into a carbon copy of real life; what we search for in fiction is not so much our reality but the epiphany of truth"
~Azar Nafisi, Reading Lolita in Tehran

Malmo

Sympathy without Sentimentality

The weekend has just whizzed by like clouds overhead. It feels like a lifetime since I last looked up at the heavens. I know its somewhat of an idle hobby but I really relish the moments spent staring into infinity. Or maybe its the idleness that I enjoy. Cloistered and yet determined, the windows in this photo look on my behalf. The sky reflected in their gaze, clouds the view into their souls.

遇见

向左走·向右走

I heard a phone with this ring tone yesterday in the office. For some inexplicable reason, it reminded me of a street scene in Aarhus. Maybe its because I've walked many a street in Aarhus with this song on my mp3 player. Maybe its just an excuse for me to take yet another mental vacation. Left or Right? I choose a direction and yet I always find myself glancing over my shoulder. Looking back isn't always bad. Sometimes the street looks different from the other end.

Light

Low Light
Bright Backlight
Cigarette, in need of a light.

Reflections

Glass Elevator in the Glass Tower; Going Up.

The weekend just whizzed by and in a couple of hours it will be back to the daily grind. The irony is that for everyday of the weekend I was back in Raffles Place. It seems my entire life now revolves around that little city block. I don't want to make too much out of this objective observation and it remains a mere reflection. Today's homily was all about finding a meaning in life and death. Its ironic that we all live to die yet not all of us are dying to live. I suppose that sounds a tad flippant given the events of the past week but there is an element of truth in it. I know its easy for me to talk about life and death because I'm comfortably distanced from both, for now at least. Nevertheless, the intrinsic nature of both means that that distance can be covered in a split second. I wonder how I will react when faced with either. In the meanwhile, there's the daily grind.

Clive St

Waiting at the crossroads

Street corners are always interesting places. You can either go, come or just wait. The man sitting on the brick ledge is dwarfed by the mountain of cardboard boxes that have been collected for recycling. And in a way it is indicative of the way we live today, where our excesses create waste that threaten to engulf us. At least the waste here is being recycled; given a new life. And that is what street corners are about. It is a crossroad where we can choose to go in a different direction, bringing about a new beginning, sometimes good, sometimes bad. Or we can turn back or we can simply wait; but hopefully not for Godot.