Wednesday, March 29, 2017

the thickman of europe

The irony is that I  have never been a big fan of Europe.Under different circumstances: at a different time,I would probably have voted "out"too. But not at this time:with these people.
They are going to fuck us royally.
Maternity Right: Sickness Benefits .Pay  etal etc
You Stupid  Fuckers.........

Saturday, March 25, 2017

museum of childhood......

".....It means a fallow field in winter 
When frost is on the land
 when the fox is on the run down by the riverside 
where the furrow meets the sun 
where the furrow hugs the riverbank 
and nothing can be done...."

Another Jackie Leven song ."Museum of Childhood".Live: 

what me mam taught me (reprise)

 This is slightly redacted , replenished  &   republished version of a post I first published in July 2013. See the original [here:]

I dont know how my image for this week's Sepia Saturday. fits the Theme.......It's a group of people.They share a common purpose (unknown).It's not not prescriptive,you can imagine your own narrative around it.I find it hopeful in a strange sense.I also cant help thinking it compliments Mike Garry's words ......................
I dont know anything about the image itself, other than it was taken in 1967.In South Parade Halifax.
When his Mum died two months ago, Michael Garry's family asked him to write this poem for her funeral .He also read it on stage at The Hebden Bridge Picture House on Sunday 30th June.(which i recorded for you here). Michael is from Fallowfield in Manchester.

{In The Interest of Balance, here is some beautiful writing to celebrate a Father.}
 thanks again to Bob Piper for  your help.( he kindly donated free tickets for me & Cathy).
John Cooper Clarke was as funny as fuck! A grand night.
'above poetryis  by Robert Montgomery. See some of his other stuff [here:]

Friday, March 24, 2017

me mam

"Goodbyes are only for those who love with their eyes.
Because for those who love with heart and soul there is no such thing as separation."

Thursday, March 16, 2017

O-ku Nsu-kun No-ko

So!  It's 1946.And  Louis Armstrong is found looking  at himself in the  mirror ..............and this is   the  week's sepia saturday   prompt photo.........Say "Cheese"!

[Some of what follows  is a sort of  Open Letter to one of the main  protagonists in a rather messy ,current, personal drama.But it has universal truths too.........]
What i am saying  here  ( to quote a line from the movie "The Sixth Sense")  is that "I See   Dead People....."!
Which, sort of , of brings me onto what I will clumsily  attempt to explain in this post.
Namely , my rather particular relationship to the viewing of photographs.
Maybe i see photo differently to others ?
(remember!) I See Dead  People............
For me, snapshots can be a portel to The Other.( i know this must  read like a load of pretentous bollocks  ,but maybe you can get my drift  here ...?)
 I wasnt there, but to my way of thinking ,if someone took the trouble to point a camera in the first place, then they must have intended to share & communicate.Surely? I mean, why  photograph a secret?
I  find myself   "reading between the lines........" although the lines are in body ,not in text.......
I could never understand the idea of privacy in picture (let alone copyright) .It's a  THING , its not the actual event.
(Look   my  protagonist, I not saying  I'm 'right' :I'm just telling you the way  it is for me . This may not be the same thing!)
 Looking is sharing,right? It's not excluding? A photo is something you create   to try and make another person  understand?
Look.I share on this blog a photo of my dead Grandmother.I am happy to do this ( yes, I mean "happy").It makes her life still  real somehow.It make her Still Significant.Still Important.Still powerful How could this process possibly diminish her?
Exiled abroad and  never having  a British passport marked my dad down as a Soviet deserter . Simply, he was afraid to go home.
The  only photo he came to Scotland with was on his passport.
For 20+ years his only contact from home & family  came via letters .Sometimes these  contained  the odd photo.
Home was reduced to a series of these 2nd hand 'souvenirs'
Births ,Marriages and (increasingly) Deaths came his way  in snapshots.
He saw his mother's ( my grandmother) death -a month later-via this photo of her in her coffin, with his sister sat looking on, in the flesh.
He got did the  endless procession of a family trudging  through the snow into the cemetry.........
So.What I  try  to say here is that I come to your photographs differently.
My family didnt have any  luxury of notion of secrecy.
Photography ,albeit out of neccessity ,was inclusive.

At the same time,.my Mum's fractured family  revealed itself  mysteriously to me in similar fashion..........
.From afar,my maternal grandfather beggered -off to North America ( with a different family) at the turn of the century.
Gold Digging!Literally, it seems..a tad late ,the 'Rush'must have been over by then?
What little I know of him/them  was learned from such pictures...........A Rum Crew!Although not that disimilar in posture and bravado to any modern day British ex-pats in ,say,Benidorm
*One of many of my Aunty Brenda's North American photos :*
see others
Infact my maternal grandfather only left me himself in photographs.
He was a sailor.He learned of my birth in 1952 but never saw me in the flesh.
.He died that same year. 
This is a photo of his grave in Malta.
I have never visited.I never wished too.What would be the point? This photo is more than enough.

When a western man loses his best friend many days are spent in years 
And without belief he knows his empty grief is a name for his own fears 
Oh, the eyes are still.
 Oh, but even sleeping 
My dearest friend till we meet again and ever, we'll be blowing 
Maybe weep awhile for those below; until then I'll keep on going
 But oh, the heart, the hurt keeps on keepin' on, on and on 
 Let them alone for those down there speak our sorrow 
While we can't share the joke together, yeah, we keep on going 
My dearest friend till we meet again
 O-ku Nsu-kun No-ko The dead are weeping for the dead