Shine on... Stan and Ollie

Our household was blessed with good fortune last Christmas, when Santa Claus delivered a boxed set of Laurel and Hardy DVDs. My husband was already familiar with a lot of their work, but I must admit that I - to my shame -  knew very little about them. This stain on my character has now been well and truly erased, and how grateful I am.

The breadth and versatility of their comedy is brilliant. Much of it is pure slapstick, but watch closely and you realise how well-planned each move was - everything looks like an accident, obviously, but it must have been carefully choreographed to have achieved this effect.

And there is a cartoon feel to much it, too. It comes as no surprise when, for instance, Stan tries to light a fire in Ollie's fireplace with a can of petrol and a match, that, rather than being blown to smitherenes he emerges with a few patches of smoke on his face. Like Tom and Jerry, the pair are indestructible.   

Even if some of the devices they use become familiar - the car/boat/piano which we know will be reduced to a mangled wreck before the end of the scene; the bar of soap/chunk of ice/carpet sweeper on the floor which we know someone will step on and be thrown across the room or down the stairs - they remain funny. In fact, being able to anticipate what is about to befall the hapless but well-meaning pair, just adds to the enjoyment.

But what has touched me most in learning more about them, is the depth of their friendship. According to Stan's daughter Lois, the pair were closer than brothers, and would even celebrate Christmas twice - once with their own families and then together! Every action, and reaction, every expression and every look to camera, is so well-timed it could only have been achieved by two people who knew, respected and loved each other thoroughly.

Stan and Ollie have been a pretty constant presence in our lives for the past two months - it's a big box of DVDs! - and so what better way to spend my birthday last week than to visit the Laurel and Hardy Museum in Ulverston, Cumbria?

The Museum started life as the private collection of Bill Cubin, and was originally housed in one small room. The collection was occasionally opened for private viewings, and the Museum first opened to the public in 1983. As the collection grew and grew, it was decided that larger premises would be needed. And so the Museum opened at its new home - on the stage of Ulverston's Roxy Cinema - in 2009.

Now the Museum is run by Mark Greenhow, Bill Cubin's grandson, one of whose earliest memories is of watching 'The Flying Elephants' on his grandad's old cine projector.

Mark offers a very warm welcome to what he describes as 'the family business', and the first thing he invited us to do when we arrived was to watch a film! He led us to a cosy, 15-seat cinema and we happily settled down to watch 'Towed in the Hole'.
 

 

In the cosy cinema

The Museum is an absolute treasure trove of Laurel and Hardy memorabilia. Through information panels, photographs, letters, and even furniture rescued from Stan Laurel's birthplace when it was renovated, we can follow the lives of the pair, from childhood right through their careers.

Posters, letters and a wealth of memorabilia

This gem of a museum has been beautifully and lovingly put together, and if ever you're near Ulverston, do consider a visit. I think there is a strong possibility that you'll come away with a smile on your face.

And while you're in Ulverston, there is also a Stan Laurel Trail, a short walk around Ulverston, which takes in, amongst other sites, Stan Laurel's birthplace at 3 Argyle Street, and Graham Ibbeson's beautiful bronze statue of the pair - complete with Laughing Gravy the dog - outside the Coronation Hall. A trail leaflet is available from the Museum.

 

Graham Ibbeson's statue of 'The Boys'...

... complete with dog!  

There is lots more information about Laurel and Hardy on the official Laurel and Hardy Website. It pretty much goes without saying that this site is well worth a visit. Letters from Stan is a fascinating and touching site, too.

Before I go, I'll leave you with this YouTube clip. It features the impromptu dance sequence from 'Way Out West', to the music of The Avalon Boys.

I think this is exquisite. I like the improvised yet precise nature of the choreography, and the casual expressions on The Boys' faces - they seem to be dancing for their own carefree enjoyment, not for our entertainment.

But most of all, there is an unmistakeable affection that shines out here, a palpable sense of contentedness, of two close friends enjoying the simple pleasure of each others company. This, for me, is the essence of Laurel and Hardy's timeless appeal.

Septimus Appleby's Lesson in Flight

Well, we're rapidly drawing to the end of another year, and I have achieved my customary level of controlled chaos in preparing for the festivities. The Christmas tree (this year we're calling him Fred. What do you mean, you never give your Christmas tree a name?) is sitting in a bucket of water on the patio waiting to come indoors.

Incidentally, I had an interesting chat with the man at our lovely, family-owned garden centre yesterday. I asked him whether he was sure the tree would be happy outside until we were ready to put it up, before realising that trees usually live outdoors, rather than in centrally-heated houses, and that bringing trees indoors is actually quite a bizarre thing to do, if you stop and think about it. So, let's not stop and think about it.

There is snow falling as I type this, and I have a Ted Heath album of Christmas carols playing on iTunes - talk about Nostalgia - so I'm starting to feel a bit Christmassy now. I would like to take this opportunity to thank you for visiting my blog during its first year, and to say that I hope you'll return in the New Year, when I hope to be able to post more frequently.

Wherever you are, and whatever you're doing this Christmas, I hope you'll be safe and happy. And may 2012 bring with it a host of good things for you and yours.

Now, in a spirit of looking forward to a new year, and new beginnings, here is a short story, which I hope you'll enjoy.

Merry Christmas!  

Septimus Appleby's Lesson in Flight

That New Year's Eve, over his customary glass of sherry, Septimus Appleby made two resolutions. Firstly, he would build the first pair of truly functioning wings in the history of human endeavour, and then attempt flight in its purest form. Secondly, he would teach himself Spanish. He was painfully aware that one of these projects would be much more challenging than the other: he had never had a natural aptitude for languages.
    The next morning, he pinned an invitation to witness his maiden flight, to the parish notice board at the edge of the village green. It was a bright, frosty morning, and his slender fingers prickled with cold as he pushed in the drawing pins, one at each corner of the neat piece of card.
    'Good morning, Mr Septimus Appleby. Happy New Year.'
    Septimus Appleby looked down at the familiar, earnest face, with its big brown eyes framed by thick lashes.
    'Happy New Year, Kevin.'
    They shook hands, and he noticed that the little boy had fastened his duffle coat unevenly, so that there was a spare toggle at the top, without a loop to accommodate it.
    Kevin stood on tip-toe to read the notice on the board, his lips lightly shaping the words he found there. His breath hung on the cold air in a visible cloud, and Septimus Appleby pictured a happy dragon, full of youthful curiosity.
    'Where are you going to fly to, Mr Septimus Appleby?'
    'Spain, I think. Eventually. I shall buy a little house and live out the rest of my days there.'
    'Couldn't you go in an aeroplane?'
    'Yes, I could do. But where would be the challenge in that?'
    The smile on Kevin's face seemed to say that he could appreciate that point of view entirely, and his eyes were bright with imagination.
    'May I help you build your wings?'
    'It will be a pleasure to have your company.'


As he walked home, Septimus Appleby pondered on how people would react to his announcement. They would think he was mad. Of course they would. Some of the villagers might even worry about him. Mrs Robinson, Kevin's mother, for instance. It couldn't be done, could it? The scientists said so. If it could be done, someone would have done it by now.
    But 'the scientists', some of them, had claimed that the bumblebee should be incapable of flight, hadn't they? And look how wrong they had been on that one. He would ignore what everyone else might think. All it would take was imagination, hard work and a little faith. 'Where there's a will, there's a way.' That's what Molly had always said, and Septimus Appleby was determined to prove her right.


Septimus Appleby's shed, always a hive of industry, was especially lively on the following afternoon. The walls of the shed, usually bare, were now crammed with postcards of mythical birds, and pictures of old flying machines; the air was sweet with the scent of sawdust. Kevin was perched on one end of the workbench, swinging his feet to and fro, and watching attentively as Septimus Appleby sawed thin pieces of wood into precise lengths.
    'My mum says you won't be able to do it. She says if Icarus couldn't do it, why should you be able to.'
    'And what does your mother know about Icarus?'
    Kevin explained that they had 'done' Icarus at school, and that he had told the story to his mum when she got home that evening. She had found that story odd enough, but when Kevin had told her of Septimus Appleby's plans, she had just shaken her head and muttered something.
    'What do you think, Kevin?' asked Septimus Appleby. 'Do you think your mother's right?'
    'No. I don't think she has much imagination. I think you need imagination for something like this.'
    'Good lad,' said Septimus Appleby, smiling to himself. 'After all, it wasn't that Icarus was unsuccessful, was it? On the contrary, he was a victim of his own success. His wings were so effective, they enabled him to fly too close to the sun. That was his downfall - heat. Heat and hubris. Do you know what 'hubris' means, Kevin?'
    'Yes, Mr Septimus Appleby.'
    'You're a bright young chap.'
    Kevin frowned for a moment, and hesitated.
    'I think my mum's worried about you. She says maybe you're not expecting to be able to fly at all, that you'll just jump off the cliff and... well... She thinks... She thinks you never really got over... you know...'
    'It's alright, Kevin. Your mother is a wonderful woman. But you must tell her not to be concerned about me. I shall be alright. This is going to be the finest time of my life. Don't you think?'
    Kevin nodded, reassured.
    'Will you be using wax and feathers, Mr Septimus Appleby?'
    'No, Kevin.'


That evening, Septimus Appleby balanced himself on a chair against the wardrobe and pulled down a box with a faded design of antique roses on it. He was ready for the aching sense of emptiness it would bring with it, and tried to suppress it, but without success. He jumped nimbly down from the chair.
    He put the box on the floor, pulled off the lid, and removed the layers of crisp tissue paper protecting its precious contents.
    And there it was. Molly's wedding dress. The scent which rose from the fabric struck him like a physical blow, and a wave of loss and loneliness washed over him.
    He remembered Molly telling him the story of the dress. How it had been her mother's, carefully crafted from the parachute which had glided her father into occupied France in 1944. And it suddenly struck him that perhaps he should preserve the garment just as it was, as a piece of history.
    He hesitated a moment, pushing the tissue layers home again. He started chewing on his thumbnail, something he did when he was undecided. Then he realised what he was doing and gently admonished himself, just as Molly would have done.
    And the realisation struck him: his life had become like that wedding dress - preserved in layers of tissue paper, unchanging, suspended in time. Suspended. Yes. He pulled off the layers of tissue paper again, more urgently this time, hoping that a sense of purpose might extinguish his doubts.  
    'You don't mind, do you love?' he asked the face in the photograph on the bedside table. 'You do think I'm doing the right thing?'
    The face in the photograph smiled at him, the smile it had smiled forty-five years ago, across an airport departure lounge - the smile he had fallen in love with.
    'This way, you see,' he said to the smile, 'we'll be together again. And I can't do it without you, Molly. I don't want to do it without you.'
    The smile seemed to say 'You should always follow your dreams, Septimus Appleby,' and he felt the same sense of reassurance he had always felt from her.
    He pulled Molly's old sewing box from its retirement space under the bed, and took out a large pair of dress-making scissors. He had the strangest feeling that they had been waiting for him.


That weekend, Kevin watched as Septimus Appleby cut pieces of silk into the shapes he needed for his wings, adjusting his measurements from time to time, and trimming pieces of the fabric as he went along.
    Kevin was in charge of the glue pot, and had risen to this responsibility with an easy assurance surprising in a child of his tender years. As each piece of silk was cut precisely to its finished size, Kevin would carefully run the glue brush along the edges, his lips pursed in concentration. Then he would watch intently as Septimus Appleby eased the silk into place on the wooden frames.


And so, four months later, Septimus Appleby stood on the edge of a cliff, with a small group of people from the village assembled nearby. His white, silken wings were dazzling in the sunlight. He didn't look worried at all, Mrs Robinson was to remark a day or so later. No, quite serene, in fact.
    He looked up into the sky at one point, and his lips moved. Could it have been a prayer? they asked. But they agreed that no, it probably wasn't. He didn't believe in God, did he? They had seen him in the church occasionally, just recently, but he usually seemed to be studying the stained glass window of the Annunciation, and jotting down notes in a little book.
    So there he stood, looking up into the sky, and moving his lips. Nobody would ever know what he was thinking; nobody would ever know what he was saying, or to whom. Perhaps he was just talking to himself.
    After a moment, he closed his eyes and nodded, as if something had been settled, once and for all. He stared ahead of him, smiling softly. Smiling, why? Out of pure happiness? Out of a recognition of something suddenly understood? Out of resignation, perhaps?
    When he shifted a little in his harness, adjusting the straps ever so slightly, and slowly raised his wings, it was obvious to the villagers what would happen next. And they watched, not wanting to, transfixed in their unwilling comprehension of the disaster which lay only moments ahead.
    He would plunge to his death on the uncompromising rocks below, and they would have to wait until low tide before they could recover his poor, broken body. The retreating water would solemnly lap its last around the ragged remains of his improvised wings, the splintered wood, the silken tatters: Mr Septimus Appleby, and his wife, Molly, finally reunited - in death.
    Septimus Appleby appeared to brace himself for a moment, and take a deep breath. He flapped his suddenly flimsy-looking wings - once, twice, three times -
    and launched himself decisively off the ledge, to a sharp gasp from the crowd.
    Mrs Robinson turned her face away and screwed her eyes shut, as Septimus Appleby plummeted downwards, gravity scorning his unnatural wings. The villagers murmured, horrified, as he and the rocks came into rapidly closer proximity.


Kevin saw everything from a little further along the cliff, away from the adults, where he had been calmly feeding twenty-pence pieces into the viewing telescope.
    And it came as no surprise to him when Septimus Appleby suddenly soared away from the rocks, just in time, and up into the cloudless sky; or when, a few seconds later, he had established his wings into an assured, steady rhythm, and seemed suspended on the fresh, blue morning.
    Kevin imagined this was how an angel might look in flight, but he had never seen one, so he couldn't really know for sure. What he did know was that those silk panels seemed transformed into feathers now, softly embracing the air with each broad stroke, and that with the sun on his wings, Septimus Appleby shimmered like some mythic creature from a story book.
    The little boy watched as his friend grew smaller and smaller, flapping and gliding his way across the sparkling water, strong, free and invincible. Kevin put his hand into the pocket of his duffle coat, and pulled out a perfect square of silk, a gift from Septimus Appleby. He smiled to himself as he caressed it with his fingers.
    'Goodbye, Mr Septimus Appleby,' he whispered, not in a sad way, but with an overwhelming sense of pride. 
    He had known all along that everything would be alright. Because nothing was impossible to Kevin, just as nothing was impossible to Septimus Appleby. It never had been.
    And after today, it never would be.

All things must pass...

Well, it's that time of year again. There is a nip in the air, and there is a haunting quality to the light which I know is there but which I find difficult to describe, a sort of mellow clarity unique to autumn.

This is my favourite time of year, and has been for as long as I can remember. Autumn at its best can deliver bright, crisp, sunny days, times when you feel a need to be outdoors, kicking up golden leaves, breathing in, and simply being. 

And in more recent years, autumn has sometimes brought with it another treat for me and my husband: a trip to Inversnaid, or, more specifically, the Inversnaid Photography Centre.

If you type 'Inversnaid' into Google Maps, you will see that this tiny hamlet is in the middle of nowhere, about half-way up the eastern shore of Loch Lomond. It is actually at the end of a 15-mile cul-de-sac, which begins in Aberfoyle and then travels along a narrow, winding, undulating road, along the banks of several lochs and through stunning areas of woodland. 

 View from the eastern end of Loch Arklet, looking west towards Inversnaid

For nearly 25 years, André Goulancourt and Linda Middleton, ably assisted by Ian King, ran residential photography workshops with some of the country's best photographers, from their home, Inversnaid Lodge, a beautifully-restored, 18th century hunting lodge. My husband participated in several of these workshops, before becoming a tutor there himself. And - luckily for me - non-participating partners were made very welcome...!

My memories of Inversnaid are pretty unusual, as they're from the perspective of someone who hasn't participated in the workshops themselves. But this gave me a wonderful opportunity to explore the area in depth, and to come to know and love it.

Whichever way you walk from the Lodge, you end up in beautiful walking country. Head down to Loch Lomond, and you can walk a section of the West Highland Way. My favourite stretch of this walk takes me south, into a dense area of woodland which allows for only limited, dappled light, and where many of the trees are covered in delicate lichens. There is a stillness and a quiet here which is absolutely magical.

 Looking west across Loch Lomond from Inversnaid

At my most energetic, I love the walk along Loch Arklet, up and around Loch Katrine, where the plaintive cry of the buzzard provides a haunting soundtrack. Whenever I've done this walk, I've always had to keep my eye on the time: I've covered as much as 14 miles in a day, pausing frequently to watch the birds or to enjoy my packed lunch. And my greatest fear has always been that I won't be back at the Lodge in time for dinner: ask anyone who has experienced Inversnaid, and they're bound to mention Linda's delicious home-cooking!

Loch Katrine at sunrise: not my favourite time of day, but very pretty.

And what of the Lodge itself? It is beautiful and cosy, and many of the rooms look straight over towards Loch Lomond. But I suppose the real measure of any home is the people living in it. For that reason, you couldn't hope for a warmer atmosphere than you find here. It really is one of those places where you arrive as a stranger and leave as a friend.

For so many reasons, the arrival of autumn always makes me yearn to be back in Inversnaid. And that feeling is given an increased intensity this year, because sadly it seems very likely that the days of photography workshops there are over now, after an impressive 24 years. (This, incidentally, gives my husband the rather melancholy distinction of having run the last one ever!)

All good things must come to an end, of course, and nobody who knows how much energy and effort has gone into the running of the Photography Centre will blame Linda or André for deciding to slow down a little. 

Of course, my beloved path through the woods on the edge of Loch Lomond will still be there, and the fieldfares will return, to strip the rowan bushes of their berries and to set the sky alive in their chack-chack-ing, silvered flocks. These things will remain. But the atmosphere and warmth of the Inversnaid experience itself, the laughter and the friendship we all shared, can never be recreated. That will have to live in memory alone. But what memories..!

If you've been a fairly regular reader of this blog, you'll realise that music is a fundamental part of my existence. And if there is one piece of music which is guaranteed to bring the sensation of Inversnaid flooding back in all its loveliness, it is 'Soltarlo' by Claudia Gomez. I can picture myself in front of the fire in the sitting room, with a book and a pre-dinner drink, refreshed and happy after a long walk along country lanes in glorious, chilly sunshine. This is where I was when I first heard this song, and it never fails to transport me straight back to that blissful moment.

 Silver birch at Inversnaid - handsome in its autumn livery!

I would like to dedicate this post, with much love, to Lin, André and Ian for the unfailing warmth of their welcome and their friendship over the years, for their tireless attention to detail, and for the magic they created for everyone privileged enough to have walked through the door of Inversnaid Lodge.




All photography copyright David Taylor Photography 

How Dave Lee Travis helped make the world complete

I was at the 60th birthday party of a dear family friend recently. A terrific party, with lots of lovely people and a wonderfully warm atmosphere. Our friend made a moving speech, in which she mentioned that she was an only child, and that this meant that her friends had always been extremely important to her.

I'm an only child too, and it's a strange, somewhat unnatural state in which to grow up. It inevitably puts you at a bit of a disadvantage when it comes to developing socially. I am fiercely loyal to my friends, but also fiercely independent and self-sufficient. This has meant being largely resistant to the joy other people, outside my close circle of friends, can bring to life.

It has only been in recent years that I've begun to recognise, and embrace, the warmth, pleasure and sunshine which other people have to offer. It may sound odd, but this has been a revelation to me. I think the following traditional African Xhosa proverb expresses it very well:

'Ubuntu ungamntu ngabanye abantu' 

'People are people through other people'

This is something which really struck home this morning when I read an online article about this year's Reith Lectures on BBC Radio 4. The Reith Lectures were founded in 1948 by Sir John Reith, the BBC's first Director-General, with the aim of 'advancing public understanding and debate about significant issues of contemporary interest'.

Two of this year's five lectures will be given by the Burmese pro-democracy leader and Nobel Peace Prize recipient Aung San Suu Kyi. The recording of her two lectures had to be undertaken in great secrecy, with the BBC even referring to her by the code name 'Maggie Philbin', a radio and television presenter, to ensure secrecy was maintained.

In an interview with Eddie Mair ahead of the broadcast of her lectures, Ms Suu Kyi spoke about her years under house arrest. She made special mention of Dave Lee Travis's requests programme - 'A Jolly Good Show' - on the BBC World Service, and spoke of how it had provided a particular lifeline for her. She said it had made her world 'much more complete'.

One thing she said touched me particularly:

'I would listen to that quite happily because the listeners would write in and I had a chance to hear other people's words.'

'... other people's words'. I was stunned when I read that. It made me realise that the one thing we really need in order to exist is other people.

To Ms Suu Kyi, cut off from humanity, this radio programme, with its listeners' requests, created an important sense of contact with the outside world. People's musical tastes, their hopes and dreams, their concerns and priorities, were reflected in the requests they sent in, and this helped satisfy Ms Suu Kyi's yearning for human contact and interaction.

I hope I'm beginning to appreciate how precious other people can be, how crucial they are to living a happy and fulfilled life, and losing my original default position of, well, vague suspicion! There are few things I love more than the smile on the face of a friend - and I'm learning that the smile on the face of a stranger may yet become the smile on the face of a friend.

One man and his dog

I was having a leisurely cup of coffee with an artist friend the other day, and our conversation turned to the subject of her children, a daughter of 15 and a son of 13. She was telling me how different they are. 

Her daughter is very systematic and self-disciplined. She has drawn up a colour-coded timetable, taking in her school work, revision and hobbies. But, as diligent as she is, she really can't motivate herself to do her art coursework. This is very disconcerting for my friend, for whom art coursework is the stuff of dreams.

Her son, on the other hand, is of a much more creative bent. He recently had to write a story for school, and didn't know where to start. But once he got going, he created an impressively mature piece of work, rich in descriptive narrative and tension.

Two parents, one household, one environment, and two very different children. One of them seems to take after his artistic mother, while the other clearly shares more character traits with her (scientist) father.

Our conversation left me to reflect on how we end up the way we do, and how certain tastes and talents are passed on from one generation to the next. And I began to think about my own heritage. 

Let me introduce Henry Keates Gazey.

I love this photograph - the only one we have of him. Henry Keates Gazey was my great grandfather. He grew up in Birmingham, the tenth of twelve children, and was at art college before World War I so cruelly intervened. He served in the 3rd Battalion Worcestershire Regiment, and was killed in Flanders on 8th April, 1915, at the age of only 21.

I always think that Henry looks haunted and melancholy here. Of course, people rarely smiled in photographs at that time. But I am doubtless also projecting my own knowledge of his fate onto the image, a fate of which he was probably unaware when the photograph was made.

I like to believe that my own creative drive, or any talent I may have, came down through the generations from Henry. Every generation on that side of the family has included individuals with a strong interest in literature, art, the theatre and dance, and there seems to be too strong a connection for this to be mere coincidence.

Sometimes I muse on the idea that, had Henry not gone to war, I might have met him. I might have known and loved him. He might even have shaped and guided my own creativity, an idea I find awe-inspiring. 

But it's nonsense, of course. Had Henry lived, life for his immediate family would have taken a completely different course, different decisions would have been made, different opportunities would have presented themselves. And, ultimately, it's unlikely I would be here at all!

I may never have met him. But I can use his talent to inspire and motivate me. I can strive to make the most of my own creativity. And I can hope that, one day, I might even do him proud. What a tribute that would be.

Magic moments: Your table awaits...

I’ve been thinking about magic moments this week, those times, often unplanned or unexpected, which instantly become treasured memories. And I started thinking about a trip to Cuba my husband and I shared a few years ago, a (very well) organised small group tour.

It pains me to admit this, but at that time I was hardly writing at all, and didn’t even keep a diary of the trip. Tsk. So many wonderful memories lost for ever. But one very special one does still stand out.

We had been told one afternoon that dinner that evening would be a 'memorable occasion'. So it was that later in the day we found ourselves sitting in our mini-bus at the side of the road, ‘waiting for a signal’. This eventually arrived: two motor cycles swept past our bus, and our attentive driver immediately set off in hot pursuit.

I should explain at this point that Cuba is a Socialist state, where, supposedly, everyone is provided for, and free enterprise is both unnecessary and non-existent. 

I’m not here to talk about politics, which is a tricky business and could get me into all sorts of trouble. So, for the sake of balance I will just say this: Cuba has a lot of problems, along with an exemplary education system, and excellent health care provision.

It also has a thriving and imaginative culture of free enterprise.

We drove for roughly half an hour, the rear lamps of the motorbikes glowing just ahead of us in the growing darkness. The bus eventually pulled over to the side of a remote country road where the motorcyclists were dismounting, and our intrigued little group piled out.

I’d love to be able to describe the scenery to you, but the fact is that the sky was pitch black by now, and in the absence of houses or street lamps, we could hardly see a thing. We were in the middle of nowhere. Perhaps it looked like this, in the day time - I honestly don't know:

Tobacco-drying hut in Pinar del Rio province.

Photograph by David Taylor Photography

 
There followed a ten minute walk along an uneven dirt track, lit only by the flash light of one of the motorcyclists. I must admit that it did occur to me at one point that perhaps we were being kidnapped and were about to meet our collective deaths in a nearby field, but I wasn't being serious.

Making our way gradually uphill, our dusty walk was eventually rewarded with the appearance of some farm buildings, and then one of the most magical sights I have ever seen. In a field, nestled in a little grove of trees, a long table was laid for dinner. A delicate table cloth flapped gently in the balmy evening air, and the whole scene was illuminated by candle light.

We dined on lobster that evening, not for the first time that trip. We ate from pretty, mismatched china, and chatted happily, our laughter drifting away into the night on a warm, gentle breeze as congenial as the company itself.

At the end of the meal, our friendly hostess presented our tour guide with a hand-written bill for our meal, watched as he checked it, and then... set fire to it with a cigarette lighter, to destroy the evidence of the transaction.

The atmospheric setting, the amiable company of new friends, and the creativity of our hosts, combined to create an unforgettable experience. And this spell could never be re-cast, even if the circumstances could be replicated. Because the magic of that night lay, in large part, in the element of surprise, of the gradual revelation of the delight that awaited us.

For your delectation, here is the Buena Vista Social Club performing 'Chan Chan'. Goodness me, but this sound brings those memories flooding back!

Elliott Erwitt - The Writer's Photographer?

A writer has always to be on the lookout for the unusual, the quirky, and the subject ripe with possibility for development.

I find inspiration coming at me from all sorts of angles – a face in a crowd, a piece of music, a chance remark overheard (or eaves-dropped upon – there, I admit it: I listen to other people’s conversations in cafés and restaurants, and on the bus and the train, and in the queue at the supermarket, and have been known to edge just a little closer to be able to hear more clearly).

Over the past few days, I have been mining some of my husband's photography books for ideas, and I've gravitated particularly to the work of Elliott Erwitt, a favourite documentary photographer. Erwitt is the master of the candid image, and loves to celebrate the bizarre and the absurd. I’m only just beginning to recognise what a gold-mine his photographs might prove to be in the search for inspiration, and the development of character, situation and plot.

For instance, in his book Museum Watching, a wonderfully entertaining collection of images of people visiting or working in museums, there is a photograph of an elegant bronze statue of Eros, aiming an arrow from his bow. Our viewpoint is from behind the statue; further ahead, walking towards us down a corridor, is a man, almost silhouetted against the pale walls and parquet flooring.

The fact that the man exists in the photograph, perhaps as the target for Eros' arrow, gives it a whole rich new layer of meaning. As soon as I saw it, my imagination started reeling. My first thought was, how can I use this? This was followed closely by, how would this story be different if the man had been walking away, rather than towards us?

Something I'm only just beginning to realise is what a lot of patience, determination and sheer hard work must go into these images, which look so natural and effortless. That has made me feel so much better. I'll explain.

I often find that I feel really deflated having seen a brilliantly-scripted film or read a really well-crafted book. The reason? It's because it has been done so well that it's been made to look as if it came simply to the writer, probably instantaneously and fully-formed. I come away believing I could never achieve anything approaching what I've just seen; I assume the writer is a true genius and that he probably threw the whole thing together before breakfast and still had time to walk the dog. This is ludicrous, of course.

Elliott Erwitt's images are deceptively simple, but how long did he have to stand in one spot to capture one image, and how often did he return home after a day’s work with nothing he was satisfied with? How many hours has he practised, over his life-time as a photographer, to achieve such stunning results? A lesson to anyone trying to do anything in a creative field, then: the greatest results will only ever be achieved as a result of hard work and determination.

But patience, practice and sheer hard work aside, Erwitt's real gift is for seeing the world around him in a certain way and being open to its limitless possibilities.

As writers, particularly if we are to be original, this is something we must nurture in our own lives too. We must constantly watch and listen; we must question what we see and hear. And most of all we must be open to the direction, often unpredictable and surprising, in which our observations lead us.