Chucky Egg

Tuesday: not so much an update as just a rant today. I've tried to refrain from ranting.. it comes too easily to be of much value, like collecting dogshit on Hackney pavements or (to borrow from the Guardian with as much grace as they borrowed from me) the free litter masquerading as news that gets handed out around tube stations. I'm not irate really, so much as just a bit fed up. I've spent this week feeling like I've been wrestling with a giant snake, and now look down at my vanquished foe to discover all I managed was to tie my shoelaces. Of late I've met some people who have made far more success of their careers than I'm ever likely to, and yet they're some of the most retarded people I've met for a while (and yes I mean you, Vianney). I've been working hard, really really really hard, but now it seems the key to success is to smile nicely, talk with the right accent, suck up to your boss and blind him with your enthusiasm for whatever he likes, and bang you're in there (and no I don't mean you this time Vianney). It all comes back to what we're told good journalism is: so often, the voice of authority and genuine expertise is learnt without the expertise and authority to back it up; look at the food and restaurant writers who fill the broadsheets. Giles Coren, A.A. Gill, Jay Rayner - none of them have any food training at all; all are the sons of well-known journalists. Which is to say, they do not know what they're writing about, but they have some idea of how to write it, and daddy was always going to make sure that they'd find somewhere to open their mouths and somewhere to fill their mouths. I completely fail to see how any of them are qualified for their jobs; you might say "but they sell the papers" but they've all been writing their columns for more than a decade, so who can really tell? All the broadsheets are sinking faster than fast at the moment, so perhaps the great intellectual fallacy of college before content, style over substance and quips before IQ will finally come home to roost. Journalism is dying, here and now, and there will no headlines, especially not in the freesheets - unless the Times cares to take out one of those disgraceful front-page adverts.
Why do I care? It's a sort-of revolution of argument in my head? Why do I care? Do I care? What can I do? To start with:
Why do I care? I care PASSIONATELY about writing, about creative endevours, about doing things properly, whether it's a limerick or a heart biopsy I think it should take one's full attention - not in fun, but as work. I care about Art, the concept and the act, as something that is one of the few things we produce (we - Humanity) along with philosophy and science that persists above and beyond us as individuals. I think journalism involves a certain artistic bent - but in the content, rather than the form. And here is where the cracks begin to appear: to be a journalist now requires many things - the right connections, the right school friends, the right education, the right university club membership, the right parents - but above all, the ability to produce one-liner quips in conversation or text. The one-liner is now king above all else in journalism. Even front-page articles incorporate "clever" kiss-offs at the bottom of the pyramid that would never have got past the subbing room even 15 years ago. Why is this bad? Well, for a start, it's not so much the dumbing down as the retarding of the evolution of intellectual argument in this country - there is no intellectual argument in this country any more. The fools who sit on the Friday night review show on TV cottoned on long ago to the fact that people watch them for their arguments; anything they actually say about what they've seen or read is secondary to the veracity of their comments, or how red their faces goes. When was the last time there was any sort of public discussion of artistic movement or ideology, in newspapers or on television? What are the cultural movements in the world today? Who are the experts who can inform us, give us some room for debate, or solid points of reference - and surely the point of any cultural review is to provide points of reference for our own experience? Where might I see anyone, in a regular newspaper, on a regular television show, who is doing more than just showing off their latest snappy comebacks?

Space Invaders

Thursday: A full day of work on the book with Mat; we go to some crazy places - I get to have the Grill Rooms to myself and then take pictures of cheese in Borough and a gallery on Brick Lane with the storm raging down all around. I think I did 8 different locations, and in my head it's all coming together. There's a sort of risk-taking involved in any creative work, in a way every time you do something, you're backing yourself to be able to solve a problem pretty-much on the spot. It is slightly terrifying and also exhilarating when it comes off; I'm starting to develop a sort of confidence or trust in my ability to be more than adequate in a tight situation.

Friday: early morning start, which got a little late because I overslept, noises at about 5 am meaning I got about 5 hours sleep in two shifts. Then off to take pictures of a japanese hotel in Camden, where the proprietor was a little irate at my delay - she said something along the lines of "if you don't apologise I'll pull your ears" which was hot. Then some rushing around for a lunchtime meeting; then arranged for a photopass for Andrew Bird at Koko that evening, where I met the PR who arranged it for me and she turned out to be far nicer than a lot of the PRs I've met before (who tend to be the sort who can talk for half an hour without saying anything at all). Mr. Bird played an interesting gig, different stuff again to when I've seen him before. He retains the ability to completely take my breath away as a musician. I've been told to approach a bunch of people about doing some music writing, and I've been practicing a fair bit; I think it would be a good string to my bow, as I'm feeling pretty confident with my writing at the moment, and I've spent a lot of time slagging off other writers so perhaps it's only fair that I put my head on the chopping board now. Anyway, I'll write more about that when I've done it, but suffice to say that the magazines I'm in touch with are shit-hot and would make a few people I know literally boil themselves down into jam with jealousy.

Saturday: I'd been looking forward to Saturday all week; every day something else came up that would make it revelleous to the max, yo. To begin: went to Tammy's to prep, and had a few drinks, and then we walked down to Bethnal Green Working Men's Club where I was to take pictures of the dancers at Grind-A-GoGo; the promotors were very lovely, and I got some fantastic shots, Tammy helping me with the flash light. I have a head chock full of ideas about what to do for each part of town, technically and stylistically (which is one and the same with photography, coming to think of it). Getting just the picture I was after gave me a real buzz (aided by the beer the people at Grind-A-Gogo kindly donated) and then we went to Tammy's friend's birthday party, an interesting man called Andrew who is a sculptor, and lives near to Bethnal Green. The people there mostly seemed to be in the fetish scene, and I had a good time talking to people about computers, sci-fi, genetics and other such cerebral matters. Then Tammy and myself got a lift with a nice chap called Andrew who looks like he was born to be a circus showman and two lovely ladies names Valeria and Pigalle went to White Mischief, which was a steampunk night; it was pretty good and some people had clearly made a big effort with their outfits, but I thought having British Sea Power play there was a little pointless, as it seemed that a lot of people had turned up for the band and not the evening. I bumped into three friends of mine there, and was told others were about, but we stayed for about an hour or two before going back to Andrew's party, where I stayed until about 6am, at first chatty, and then just curious to watch these people I didn't know, who all seemed so disparate in some ways, but shared a bond so that as I left there were about 8 or 9 of them slumped or curled around a sofa; one of those pictures I won't take but will remember.

Sunday: a nice long lie-in and then almost immediately upon waking heading down to Legion for Dice Club, where I am now one of two official photographers. I maintain that it's the best place in London to see a bunch of live indie bands (for £3!!!) and tonight again were good. When I like a band I end up taking better pictures of them, and the first band that was on was Burning Idiot Noise, who were pretty good, and I got some pretty good pictures of them, and they liked them pretty well, and asked if they could use some on their website - with a credit for me of course. Which was fantastic. Hatcham Social also played a good set; I didn't like the middle band so much, but after the live stuff Joe from the Horrors plays an outstanding dj set, and people went silly over the singer from the Arctic Monkeys standing at the middle of the bar, and Heidi was on good form. I went home well satisfied with my weekend, which combined having a fantastic time with getting some good work done.

Overlord

Monday: Started work on a book I'm doing photos (and some writing) for. Went to a guy's flat; he's built an airliner wing through his flat. It was large, it was shiny, it was a messy flat - I've been in tidier squats. The book fills me with both massive excitement and no small measure of anxiety - what if I'm not as good as I can be, what if they bring along another photographer who takes clearly better pictures of everything than me, what if what if what if.

Thursday: further book work today. First, a jukebox shop in West London, then ukeleles in Brick Lane, then a manga library via the guy who runs the futurist dining society. Was with Mat for the day, he was taking pictures too. He took some really good ones, close-ups of things around the place, which made me realise there's a part of my job that I can learn a lot more about. I've been thinking about work a lot recently. I'm at the point where I know I'm good at it, but more than that, I know I could be exceptionally good at it, if I can keep doing it, and get more equipment somehow. Taking nice pictures fills me with immense satisfaction, but more and more, things around photography please me. I can spend hours looking at other people's pictures, trying to figure out how they were lit, how they were shot, and I think doing that gives me a greater appreciation of what other people have done - although, every time I look through a book of artistic photography, there's loads that I just can't understand why they're highly regarded.. a lot of art is like that for me though. I would love to have my own camera and lights and I think I could spend a lot of time just working on still life pictures. I do believe though that the best way to take pictures of people is not to treat them as momentary still life (i.e. a sequence of possible images) but rather better to think of the subject as being on a river, and at any point you may freeze the river, which is filled with random chance and possibility rather than the certainty of a carefully composed still life, but intuition comes into play. Intuition being - knowledge that we hold subconsciously, and with photography that involves being fully in command of your camera, knowing how the light will show through the lens and aperture, knowing how the motion will be blurred or the camera will shake from the shutter speed, and on top of that, command of your own imagination (my personal belief being that all human intelligence is based in imagination) so as to somehow predict when the best picture will be there, when you might freeze the river with the salmon half-leapt from the surface. More and more things in my life fall away, even as new things come into it. Far more than moving house, or getting more work, the satisfaction of work has made me feel independent. I really have no doubt that I could do this for a job, and do it very well, even though if I sit down and think about it for a while, I'm still right at the beginning of possibility that that might happen.

Friday: wrote a poem, it doesn't have a very good title.

Domesticity

The snap crack of the chiding leather
like two old hands coming together,
and whimpers to the father-figure
between each jolt and juddering shiver
the only sounds of this theatre,
this private play for two.

Beneath the balm of stern composure
a smile born bashful, its shy exposure
like a rug rucked to reveal a stain
of old black blood. The terse refrain:
"Again. Again. Again."

Then I took pictures of a lady who edits a magazine called Sup, for a lecool mailout interview. Then over take pictures of a journalist called Sarah V., who is applying to be a tv presenter; we did the pictures at Brett Anderson's house, which was a bit weird, I think it always is when you meet someone you've seen in pictures and heard recorded and seen on stage even. Then I went home to get ready for the club in the evening. On the bus I wondered about the nature of Love, how it's come to mean "someone I'm in a relationship with that I wouldn't mind lasting for more than a couple of months" rather than "someone I'm in a relationship with that I'd die for, do anything for". I often think about how advances in the technology of communication have changed the way our minds work. Once it was fairly common for husbands and wives to spend a year apart, if one had to go abroad on business, and communication by mail would have taken months rather than days. However, people still seemed to love, and stay faithful. Reading through Pepys' diary still, he cheated and had mistresses, but his wife gave him immense pleasure, and although I don't think I've read the word "love" once in the book, it is clear that he loves her dearly. Perhaps the biggest problem with love is that it doesn't seem to mean the same thing to two people. I know that to me, it means a sort of devotion, a consciously-formed bond.. I find myself slightly disgusted by the concept of "getting over it"; it cheapens it terribly, to consider that such a massive endevour could be forgotten in a month or two. Then again, perhaps what I know I'm capable of feeling is wrong.. people don't want dedication, devotion.. other words beginning with d? They want someone who fits in with their crowd, who speaks with the same accents they do, and perhaps above all reassures them that they are not ugly inside or out, and can make them laugh privately. So, I was a bit sad by the time I got home (considering that what I would put into love means that I would lose far more than whoever I was with (or have been with) because of it - I also considered that, when all other options fail, there is no choice but to take the harder route, as when you're on a bike and know you'll fall or run into something and so bunnyhop over a wall or ride too fast across tussocks.. here I am now, riding my emotional tussocks); the goth child in me decided that the only thing to do was to have to tears of blood running from my eyes as my entire costume (aside from wearing all black) for Lucha Brittania that evening, which my friend had got me on the guest list for. On the way there and back, a total of five people asked if I knew my eyes were bleeding, and one man fell of his bike as he cycled past, his double-take causing him to ride into a bin. The club itself was fun, an oddly mixed crowd. My highlight was the faces of the people standing next to the wrestling ring (city boys, I'd presume) as the lady who'd just been tied up on stage fired whatever liquid she had up her backside at them in a long, muddy jet.