6 months since my last post, oh dear. I had promised not to be one of those bloggers. I am still here. Nice to see I’m still getting traffic, so that deserves some content. I will get back to it soon.
Just thought I’d post some pictures I like from my 100 Strangers set on Flickr. I’m sitting at 86 pictures (at time of this post), so it’s a work in progress.
Greenwich Village, NYC
East Village, NYC
Somewhere between Glasgow and Gourock
Belfast
Glasgow
Edinburgh
Brooklyn, NYC
There’s not very many people I’d undertake a minimum 14 mile walk to visit – with no guarantee of finding them – but Frank Conway is definitely one of them.
In 2005 I visited Knoydart for the first time. It was a trip that involved my first experience of climbing two munros in a day (from sea level) – I recall not being able to walk properly for about 4 days. It was also the first time I met the inimitable Frank.
photo by stusmith_uk (cc)
The day after our epic ascent of Meall Buidhe and Luinne Bheinn (pictured above), a few of us got a boat from Inverie to Tarbet on the south side of Loch Nevis. We were heading for a short walk over to Loch Morar. Not reachable by any roads, Tarbet contains little more than octogenarian Frank’s converted church which is now a bunkhouse, one or two other buildings and a small slipway.
We popped our heads into the church whilst awaiting the return of our boat and found Frank with a rather well-to-do and amiable English fella. Perched with his rollie and endless stories, Frank’s wicked sense of humour and welcoming attitude were instantly captivating.
As it turned out, in a rather incongruous manner, the other bloke was Duncan Kenworthy (co-creator of Fraggle Rock, Four Weddings producer, Chair of BAFTA and all round nice guy) who had been in the area scouting for locations for The Eagle.
Sharing a boat back to Inverie we were treated to lots of Frank’s banter and a pint in the Old Forge Inn. Since then I’d always vowed to go back and visit.
photo by dsearls (cc)
It wasn’t until this year that I had the chance. A rainy weekend meant no climbing, so what better to do than hike along Morar to seek Frank. Given that he’s now 86, I had no guarantees that he’d still be there or even be in the mood for visitors.
Enticing Alan with the promise of meeting an exceedingly cool old dude, we worked our way along a well-defined path at Loch Morar. As it turns out the idea that Frank wouldn’t be in the mood for company is an oxymoron, or should that be paradox…you know what I mean. It had started to rain just as we reached Tarbet, giving us the perfect excuse to knock on his door. We entered to find Frank surrounded by five young Spaniards enjoying the warmth of his tiny living room and Frank’s now softly spoken, but none-the-less engaging stories.
If anyone ever embodied the description, inimitable, it’s Frank. He immediately beckoned us in to sit down and eat our packed lunch. He insisted we put the kettle on and encouraged us to dry our shoes in front of his stove. It’s not very often in life I’ve encountered anyone quite so welcoming of complete strangers.
A raconteur extraordinaire, Frank’s stories are made brilliant by the fact that you never quite know whether they’re true and the generous amount of foul language with which he peppers them. An ex-coal miner from Fife, he’ll happily regale you with tales for as long as you’ll listen.
A few of my favourites from that day include: his wartime recount of working down the pits in England, telling us how the miners wore only women’s knickers as it was so hot. This story even included details of how he ordered the pants through his landlady and the time his friend slashed them cause they’d been gathering so much gas. He told us the elaborate adventures of his mate’s wig, his shagging escapades in Barrisdale bothy, the 80th birthday party Cameron Mackintosh threw for him (that’s definitely true, since he’s the land owner) and the utterly sublime account of rural folks in Ireland trying to offer Frank one of their “girls” for the night. Frank was sure they were going to try and palm him off with the “big one”, so he concocted some story that he required blackcurrant jam to, you know…do the business. The locals found him some jam, but he insisted it had to be Robinson’s; they managed to find some Robinsons and now faced with an audience of Irish folks waiting for his ‘bits’ to spring into life, Frank surmised that it just wasn’t enough. The kicker being that it turned out it wasn’t the big lassie they were firing his way.
I kinda feel bad giving away a couple of these, but given the remoteness of his location, I suspect very few of you will make the trek. If on the other hand you fancy meeting a legend and aren’t afraid of a bit of walking (or boat trips), go visit Frank. I guarantee that if he’s there, he’ll welcome you in. To stay, he only charges £2 a night per person and is insistent that he won’t take anymore. You can’t book. Part of his welcoming policy is that the bunkhouse must remain open to all. “When people book, they think they own the place” and turn their noses up at any additional travellers in need. That’s not Frank’s style.
We weren’t able to stay that night. You could see the disappointment in his eyes. The Spaniards were also leaving that day. He thrives on company and what great company he provides.
We took his excellent recommendation of walking back the long way, traversing the side of Loch Nevis, past Tom McLean‘s Moby, before cutting up and over, back to Bracora on Loch Morar.
No doubt Frank’s mischievous spirit will endure through the travellers who have sought refuge from him over the years. He has been at Tarbet for the last 21 years and for me this provides inspiration that life doesn’t need to stop as you get older. You just need to seek new adventures that suit your place in life.
Let’s all be a bit more welcoming, a bit more playful and seriously if you can walk – go visit this wonderful man.
[His wee living room is very dark so short of setting up a tripod and instructing him to stop moving, my pictures are all somewhat fuzzy. Though I'm chuffed to have any shots of him.]
Last year I re-started an activity that I thought had been lost to me.
My friend Fi, asked me to go to a Dr Sketchy’s drawing session at the Arches. Having not picked up a pencil to draw since I was in 5th year at school, I just couldn’t bring myself to go. The idea of sitting in a room with, I imagined, lots of decent artists filled me fear. I couldn’t bear the thought of them looking over my shoulder and seeing how utterly crap my depiction would be. The idea of paying for the privilege of being humiliated also didn’t appeal.
I felt really bad for letting Fi down and disappointed with myself for not having more balls.
As a reaction to this, and in response to subsequent conversations with friends, a few of us decided to bite the bullet and have a drawing night at my flat.
Taking turns to pose for 5mins (clothed), we gathered in a bohemian fashion to eat, drink, sketch and be merry. What an alien feeling it was to sit quietly and have your friends scrutinize you. As the model, the constant, intent flicking of eyes from subject to page was quite unnerving. There was inevitable hilarity at the unintentional Picasso’s, but since there were only six of us, no one felt too exposed or ridiculed. As the evening progressed we each got more comfortable both with the idea of posing and drawing. I believe only Fi had drawn in recent years, so it was quite a big challenge for the rest of us.
After a satisfying night, I think it was Karen suggested we try All The Young Nudes at the Flying Duck. This life drawing club runs weekly, has 2-3 models per night and has an awesome soundtrack to keep you inspired.
Sitting fully-clothed in a room with five mates must be nothing to sitting in a club full of people completely naked. I find with this kind of nudity that any potential thrill or titillation is gone in the split second that any flesh appears. There’s something quite reassuring about simply observing a human body; irrelevant of its perfection or beauty (as deemed by society).
It must be something to do with its smoothness and the relative ease of translating this onto a page, but for me, skin is far more appealing to draw than any other texture. I have no desire to sit and sketch inanimate objects, landscapes or even clothed people. The lines created by a body are just brilliant.
My representation of these lines is another matter entirely.
I recently described my drawings of hands and feet to a friend as amoeba. There are a few, and I mean only a few of my drawings where I’m happy with the hand-feet outcome. Anything north of the neck (assuming the model is upright) I find seriously difficult.
But despite this and the apparent roulette-based luck with which my drawings either work or don’t, I love it. I feel like I’ve reawakened a part of my brain that must’ve assumed it was dead and gone.
I also feel in some small way, that I’m paying tribute to my mum, who loved drawing. I guess the thing I get most out of it, is a challenge. I don’t find it easy, most often I’m dissatisfied with what I produce, but at least I bloody tried.
At All the Young Nudes, there is no pressure to let anyone see your work, it’s just a practice night, not a class for instruction – which I like. As soon as the session commences, each person is so focused on their own work that you don’t feel overlooked.
I love how wildly styles vary from person to person. We definitely all have a style within us; a mode of expression that we may not have allowed out to play. I’d love to not be so bogged down with detail, I covet the impressionistic style of some friends, but what the hell, at least I’m expressing myself at all.
Drawing isn’t my favourite pastime, it’s just one of the things that makes me, me. If there’s something you think you might like, something you used to do, something you’ve never done, but always wanted to – stop procrastinating, just do it. You might surprise yourself and get a lot out of it.
[BTW I’ve posted a few of my drawings here. These are clearly ones I’m pleased with, but I can assure you, there are sketchbooks full that would really make you laugh, but I’m not quite ready to be that exposed]
See more drawings in the All the Young Nudes Flickr Pool.
I’m a big fan of Creative Commons licensing – does that make me sound too geeky?
So I was very pleased to receive a comment today under one of my Flickr pictures – someone known only (so far) as Niffles1 announced that they’d remixed my photo of an egg with “the planet”.
The results are brilliant, but what I like more than anything is that Creative Commons made this possible. Not that I don’t recognise that anyone could have just stolen my image anyway and remixed it; but because I had opted for a commons license, this person was not only free to remix, but confident that they could share it with me.
In case you don’t know, or don’t yet do it with your online content, there are loads of different licenses that can be applied. You can find out more here. Unless you actively apply a commons license, I believe your content defaults as “All rights reserved”. In the case of this egg, I applied an “Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike Creative Commons”, which means that I should be credited if the image is used anywhere, it should not be used to make money and whatever is produced must also be available under Creative Commons.
I totally get that those who make a living through photography won’t be into this, but if it’s not how you earn a living and you like the idea of spreading creative opportunities, sort out your licenses!
Here are a few random pics of chicks I don’t know. Actually I dunno if I’d call them all chicks, but you know what I mean.
Brick Lane, London
Connect Festival, Inverary
The Mauerpark, Berlin
Royal Mile, Edinburgh
Boat Trip, New York
Royal Mile, Edinburgh
Royal Mile, Edinburgh
Berlin
Just came across this photo I took of my sister Jill during a recent trip to Stobo Castle (she’s the one in the foreground).
Made me think I should post some pictures of us as we’ans. I reckon I’m pretty lucky to have had a sister, I mean a sibling of any kind. Looking back, I definitely now appreciate the ready-made playmate I had for holidays, and I suppose just life in general. Jill is three years older than me, so made a great buddy and confidante over the years. Despite a few years of distance, we’re best mates and spookily similar in many ways.
I’m gonna have to sort out this overly sentimental slant to the blog, apologies. I’ll post pictures of guns and explosions next…?
Here’s a few of my favourites:
She poked my lenses out.
Our gypsy years.
Smile.
My birthday at the caravan.
Love this.
Their “red shoes suggest that they are lively”. If you’ve seen this, you’ll understand.
On gran’s scratchy sofa.
I’m going to try to make more of an effort with the photography this year. For various reasons, I’ve been otherwise engaged in the last year or so and I need to sort this out. Anyway there’s another New York trip to look forward to in May, so I’ll probably bore you with pictures from that.
That is all.
Oot.
Today saw the demolition of one of the two remaining high-rises in the Laurieston area of the Gorbals. The Norfolk Court flats are imposing 23 storey blocks, built in the early 1970s. Having parked reasonably close, but out of sight of the tower, there was a palpable excitement as we made our way to find a vantage point.
With no specific demolition time given, there was a real worry that they’d come down before we got there. I’ve been told the reason they don’t promote the date and time, is that they don’t want too many people knowing when a huge amount of explosives will be on site.
As I work in the Citizens Theatre, which is precariously close, we were able to find out the date in advance and made plans to attend, hangover or no hangover.
A reasonable sized crowd gathered in various locations outwith the extensive exclusion zone. A death at a previous local demolition has extended the zone somewhat.
About 40 mins of waiting, built a wonderfully theatrical excitement. Sporadic sirens made us all leap to attention for false starts on filming and photography, before the final boom that signals the real deal. As far as I know, this final noise is designed to scare out any birds or animals that may have taken sanctuary in the windowless structure…and it works, as just before the demolition you could see a large flock of birds getting the hell out of Dodge.
I attended the double-demolition of the nearby Stirlingfaulds flats two years ago and on that occasion photographed the event. I had decided this time to simply soak it up and create a memory with my eyes. However modern technology got the better of me and I opted to film it on my iPhone, making sure to just hold the phone low and watch the flats directly.
There was barely a spectator there without recording equipment of some kind, so I’m quite sure this is the least unique blog post in Glasgow today. Anyway, here’s my wee clip – there are plenty more on YouTube with better views or equipment:
Since it’s relevant, I’ve also posted a wee slideshow of some of my pictures from the Stirlingfaulds demolition. These continuous shots allow you get a much better look at the anatomy of the explosion.
If you ever get the chance to go to a demolition, I recommend it. It’s over so quickly when it finally comes but is well worth it to feel the vibrations through the ground and the pounding of your heart afterwards.
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What will survive of us won’t necessarily be the buildings we’ve lived in, but the memories. So share those experiences, document what you can or relive events through posts like this.
So, I’ve been thinking about posting something here, but keep finding other things to do. A combination of over-thinking it, feeling uninspired, being too busy and not wanting to follow the last post with something frivolous. Anyway time to move on.
So in lieu of anything more interesting, here’s some recent random pics from my phone…
As Keith and I wondered up to our life drawing night (All the Young Nudes), I noticed that the light was really great and snapped a wee pic of him in the middle of the road.
Bert was a green grocer on Victoria Road, Glasgow. I’ve only lived back on the Southside these last few years, but very quickly spotted him as a “character” on the road. He was decidedly old, one of those old men you’d love to cuddle (if that doesn’t sound too weird). The great thing was that come rain or shine you’d see him in his open-fronted shop working away.
Anyway, I can’t claim to know him any more than simply as a periodic customer, but I was really sad to hear when he’d passed away. I spotted this lovely wee note pinned outside the shop and thought it deserved to be commemorated. I think it’d be nice to be a character. I wonder if he knew just how many of us noted him as we passed, and that we’re genuinely sorry he’s gone.
As with most folk who take pictures – I imagine – I have frequent fears that I’m being exploitative. I think more often than not, I don’t snap the things that interest me. I guess this is good, I must have a reasonable conscience…but it does leave so many oddities undocumented. Actually, come to think of it, I’m pretty sure the internet is rammed with people documenting oddities.
So when I saw this character, who some of you may recognise, I was keen to take his picture without making it look to others that I was laughing at him. I wasn’t. I think it’s bold as hell to set yourself up in such an exposed way in a busy part of town. I wouldn’t have the balls to do this. Much as he stands out for his shape and fantastic trolly, I love this most cause he’s got a “thing”.
As far as I know he spots buses. Interests are so important, they shape who we are, so fair play to this dude. Let’s all try harder to worry less about public opinion and just get out to do what we love.
