I’ve recently been going out and taking shots just to work my 85mm in. The extra distance has afforded me the ability to take time with my shots (especially because the manual focus ring is so much nicer than on the 50mm) so hopefully people will see cooler compositions.
This shot works for me on many levels; the placement of the subjects, the rain splatted glass beside the idyllic advertisement shot of St Austell bay, and the symmetry of the stop itself.
The camera lies. Photographers can create beauty or controversy where there is none, which is part of the reason why I like street photography. For most of us it isn’t staged or posed, and for most of us it is about capturing an honest emotive moment. I feel that this is one of those moments.
She tells me that she has this thing where even after she has let go of an object she can still feel it on her fingertips as if it were still pressed within her palms,
she tells me that it’s not very common asks if I know what she’s talking about and if it happens to me. ‘Can you roll your tongue,’ I ask her 'because damn, I can’t even roll my tongue so what hope do I have in being uncommon?’
She looks at me and rolls her tongue. 'I can lick my nose,’ I tell her trying to compete, 'but who wants to in a British summer when all you get is colds?’
That night we held each other close our hands hovering over the ravines of each others spine a place we had never ventured before, all I could think about was that the moment she left, for me she was gone but for her, even if it was just on her skin, I had made an impression.
I picked up the book of short stories and took it to the counter, interrupting the two sales assistants who turned their attentions to my purchase.
‘Oh, this is a good book’ one of them said.
'Yes, I’ve heard this author is spectacular. If I read male authors, I’m sure he would be one of those I’d love’, the other cut in, and at this point I challenged myself to be more than an idle spectator to this conversation.
'Why don’t you read male authors?’ I asked, and both their eyes rose from the book, now cradled in a plain white plastic, to my face, my eyes, scorching a pinhole into me.
'Feminism’, they both said bluntly, simultaneously as if this response had been rehearsed well in advance.
I smiled and a hint of silent laughter seeped from between my lips.
'What’s so funny?’ one demanded, staring aggressively into me until I became convinced that my skin would peel off from the power of her anger.
We all stopped for a moment, silently taking in the situation. It was me who broke the putrid atmosphere.
'It’s just… if I only read male authors, I’d be accused a sexist. But you, you’re considered an idealist. It’s a funny world isn’t it?’
I paid for the book and left. When I got home I read the first short story. It was incredible just as they had been suggested it would be. For a brief moment I felt sorry for them, that they would never experience this, but then I kept reading.
Every time I go out shooting at night I often see people at work, looking stressed or fed up, still in their work place at beyond 8pm. I wonder, is this the world we live in now, do live to work or work to live?