One evening I found myself trying to explain a picture I had taken (incidentally I say this in the context that these things are often quite emotive, particularly with this particular one having been the (sole) result of many hours wandering and a sizable chunk of time editing), until it occurred to that the picture really needed no explanation: it was never intended to tell a story as such, just to reflect a moment that I found pleasing and having the additional benefit of having been framed in the viewfinder to the degree it was also, technically, a decent image. It certainly did not need defending, so then why was I so at pains to do so? This lead me to thinking of an exhibition I visited a year ago, where the photographs were beautiful (in my opinion) yet a lengthy text accompanying each one somehow managed to distract from the beauty I saw.

This lead me to something Ansel Admas said: “We all write too much, speak too much, preach too much. It would be better if we just said what we have to say in photography. After all, we are all photographers; if our work has “what it takes” it will not need the embalming of words to perpetuate it. ..I believe that we do not need any justification in type for our adventures in silver. Presumably we are all afraid of something. I am probably afraid that some spectator will not understand my photography–therefore I proceed to make it really less understandable by writing defensively about it.” Ansel Adams

Apart from rare examples to the contrary, photography is a form of communication. But why do we assume that with this communicative power there is necessarily a story to be told? Why indeed do we spend so much time concluding (and in the case of several famous photographs–wrongly concluding) what that story may be? Of course there is no doubt that photographs are used to support a written message in a way that few other expressions could. A photograph is great at communicating reality, much more so than communicating a story. So I say to you here, let your work speak for itself and me, I’m going to ease off with the explanations.

If you’re looking at this and thinking that a little bit of Photoshopping took place, you are correct. There was only a little bit. The day really was that ugly. However my slight abuse of self-imposed creative counsel led me to an article in The Daily Telegraph, about how a group of French MPs want health warnings on airbrushed photographs.

A group of 50 politicians want a new law stating published images must have a bold printed notice announcing that they have been digitally enhanced. Campaigning MP Valerie Boyer, of President Nicolas Sarkozy’s UMP party, said the wording should read, “Retouched photograph aimed at changing a person’s physical appearance”.

Mrs Boyer said, “We want to combat the stereotypical image that all women are young and slim”, adding, “Billboard photos and those on product packaging, as well as photos used in political campaigns or artistic photos, should also be included.” President Sarkozy was himself airbrushed two years ago, when Paris Match magazine ‘rubbed out’ his love-handles in a photo of him canoeing.

Me, I’m happy living my delusional little existence in the thought that these beauties really do exist, but clearly I am also not a prime target for pathological eating disorders.

However, other than someone happy to corrupt his images and believing that others have an equal right, be it in the public domain or not,  I do question this proposal.  I firmly believe that the power of an image leaves a far stronger imprint in a youthful mind than any written warning that will accompany it. So while of good intention, I also see this initiative as futile. Just see the effect of  the warnings on cigarette packets; even without a strong image attached to them, they do little to dissuade otherwise intelligent creatures from knowingly, slowly killing themselves.

On a practical level, as our world gently globalises, even France is not able to avoid the the tsunami of foreign media that bombards its shores; perhaps Mme Boyer has ideals greater than just the French media campaigns?

And I do have some faith in our self-regulation, as witnessed first-hand by Ralph Lauren, who famously suffered a barrage of abuse for images of a heavily over-touched model who appeared to be disappearing at the waist.

Maybe there needs to be more done to help sufferers of eating disorders, I am just not convinced that this is it.

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The 2007 movie Blood Diamond must have been tough on DeBeers, right? Well I did some digging of my own…

In the diamond valleys of Angola’s remote north-east, guerrillas control many of the richest diamond deposits. There, illegal diamond diggers and army officers, buccaneers and foreign fortune-hunters compete for a patch, scraping at the ground with tin cans and fingernails, or plunging underwater from wooden canoes to dig out the gems from the gravel beds of the Cuango River. There are no rules here. Guns are rife, and for hire. Murders, ambushes and kidnappings are common. “It’s like the Wild West…”

This is not a tale of the Kimberley diamond rush of the 1870’s, but an extract from an Economist piece dated 1997. The year previously, De Beers spent some $15m each week mopping up Angolan diamonds, mostly in Antwerp, no questions asked.

The diamond industry has seen more activity in 100 years than most of those little stones have in a couple of billion. But to recount this tale without mention of De Beers would be more than remiss. Read the rest of this entry »

Not much to add here other than to say a friend in need is not always a friend in deed. Some day’s you just gotta take ‘em as you find ‘em. This was surely one of those days.

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OK, OK, I have a sweet spot for these.  The singularly most delightful vehicle that exists.

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Ah, a Parisian Saturday morning on the market: nothing like it. The welcome smell of a fresh dough and all that. Still, some plotting going on here. Photographers not necessarily welcome.

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They move among us like shadows in the night: silent, cold and dark. Forever present yet forever hidden. These my friends, are the secret police. Beware their presence, for you know not when they may strike.

Actually, you know, bugger me if not a person on that crowded street took a jot of notice. Apart, of course, from the odd chump with a lens. Crazy days my friends, crazy days.

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