Back in April, I emailed Rankin Live in the hope of being included in the exhibition. I wanted to find out if the people in the example shots on the website were very glamorous looking because Rankin's magic lens made them that way, or if they really did all look like they belonged in a Sunday supplement. I don't know if capturing each person's "distinctive style, sense of British eccentricity and enthusiasm" is part of Rankin's project, or simply a selection criteria to ensure he got 1,000 interesting people who will make his, admittedly very interesting, task a lot easier. I wasn't chosen so I couldn't find out first hand, but was excited to see an article on the Rankin Live process pop up on the BBC news website. Sadly, with no 'ordinary' photo of Caroline Briggs to compare Rankin's to, I am still none the wiser.
UPDATE: I've received an email inviting me along for a photoshoot on 18th August! Stay tuned for further news.
I am not a feminist
Earlier today, I read an interesting article in the Guardian by Ellie Levenson, author of The Noughtie Girl's Guide to Feminism, where she states that,
This afternoon I read another older article, courtesy of a link on Twitter, on a website charmingly entitled I Blame the Patriarchy where the author sarcastically picks apart the idea of feminism that Levenson puts forward.
The feminism I believe in has at its core two beliefs: equality and choice. It demands that women have equal access to work opportunities, money and property, and that they are judged on behaviour – sexual or otherwise – by the same standards as men; and it demands choice over the many day-to-day decisions in our lives. What it doesn't do is tell you what choice you must make.I agree with much of what she says in this article, written to defend criticism directed at her for 'diluting' feminism, and so posted a link to this article on Twitter. It wasn't long before I had a response, from almost witty: "The feminist debate, huh? Even in feminism, women are trying to tell other women what to do, think, look and feel. ;)" I was a little taken aback by this at first, as Levenson wasn't attacking, but then I started to realise the full truth... this is what feminism has become. Well, I say become but it's actually been like this for years and I've just been hiding from the truth. The activists think that you can't be a feminist without being radical and those who, like me, are interested in the issues affecting women's lives and who long for a more balanced society (not one without men, incidentally) are then left being attacked by the very women they are defending to others on a daily basis.
This afternoon I read another older article, courtesy of a link on Twitter, on a website charmingly entitled I Blame the Patriarchy where the author sarcastically picks apart the idea of feminism that Levenson puts forward.
Scratch a "new" feminist, and you’ll find an empowerful girl whose lipstickin’, shoe-buyin’ ideology springs fully-formed from her immaculate, politically-neutral, sexyfun, patriarchy-free choice-lobes. Her "choices" are her very own brilliant ideas. Her behavior proceeds from her own empowerful personal desires. Her rights, including the right not to call herself a feminist because it’s too embarrasing, revolve chiefly around her right to resemble a male fuckfantasy to whatever degree she "chooses". The "new" feminist weltanshauung seems a little light on political theory, a little insouciant about the global ramifications of femininity, but you know what? Us old radfem prunes should just respect that and quit being so judgmental already.The truth is that we need both sorts of feminist. Not everyone who would call themselves political is or wants to be an MP. Not everyone who has a love of sport plays any. But, apparently, to be a feminist you have to be radical and, do you know what? I'm fucking sick of it and I don't want to play this stupid game of shouting any more. I would say to the 'real' feminists that they should perhaps save their anger for people/causes who actually deserve it, rather than other feminists. However, I'm going to take a step back and simply refrain from calling myself a feminist... not because it's too embarrassing, but because I've been told one too many times that I'm not, so I'm actually starting to believe it. Who needs labels anyway?
Superficial? Moi?
Many years ago, before my age had reached double figures, I got a Fashion Wheel for Christmas. I spent many hours producing 'drawings' of different outfits using all of the combinations available on the wheel and promptly decided that I wanted to be a fashion designer when I grew up. Years passed and, aged 16, I completed my GCSE textiles course and realised that I wasn't quite practical enough to be a fashion designer. The dress I made from a shop-bought pattern was a beautiful full-skirted early 90s summer dress (shame I don't have it as I could perhaps flog it as vintage soon), but the nightie I made for my little sister without a pattern was rather ill-fitting to say the least. Drawing outfits was one thing, but designing something that could actually be made to wear was perhaps not for me after all.
After having huge amounts of fun during my art foundation course, I'd been steered in the direction of textile design and so headed for Manchester to study for my degree. The course was fascinating and quite industry orientated so I partly returned to my earlier fashion obsession and was, for those three years at least, totally aware of all trends and what each high street store stocked. However, by the time I graduated, I knew that the one thing I did not want to do was become a designer! A while later I realised that I also didn't want to be another faceless twenty-something on a large retailer's graduate training scheme in order to become a buyer.
Then I started to fall out with my perennial love: women's glossy magazines. They bossed me around, told me what I could and couldn't wear, recycled awful looks and then attacked women who looked bad for trying them, so I ditched the fashion mags and ran off with any others of interest that I could find. (After much searching, Empire and the British Journal of Photography are now my preferred options at the newsstand.) By this point, an interest in fashion was just a distant memory for me.
Recently, however, I have rekindled my love affair with clothes. A few things have helped along the way - my love of rummaging for a good garment rather than an overall look has been helped by the increase in vintage stores; my quirky mish-mash of a style doesn't look out of place now I live in London; and now I have discovered fashion blogs. From high-street to designer to vintage, they all love clothes but never patronise the reader or endlessly recycle content. And, best of all, you don't have to wade through pages and pages of adverts just to get to the content. I shall no longer be ashamed to admit I am interested in clothing. To paraphrase Mademoiselle Robot, it fulfills all my most superficial needs.
After having huge amounts of fun during my art foundation course, I'd been steered in the direction of textile design and so headed for Manchester to study for my degree. The course was fascinating and quite industry orientated so I partly returned to my earlier fashion obsession and was, for those three years at least, totally aware of all trends and what each high street store stocked. However, by the time I graduated, I knew that the one thing I did not want to do was become a designer! A while later I realised that I also didn't want to be another faceless twenty-something on a large retailer's graduate training scheme in order to become a buyer.
Then I started to fall out with my perennial love: women's glossy magazines. They bossed me around, told me what I could and couldn't wear, recycled awful looks and then attacked women who looked bad for trying them, so I ditched the fashion mags and ran off with any others of interest that I could find. (After much searching, Empire and the British Journal of Photography are now my preferred options at the newsstand.) By this point, an interest in fashion was just a distant memory for me.
Recently, however, I have rekindled my love affair with clothes. A few things have helped along the way - my love of rummaging for a good garment rather than an overall look has been helped by the increase in vintage stores; my quirky mish-mash of a style doesn't look out of place now I live in London; and now I have discovered fashion blogs. From high-street to designer to vintage, they all love clothes but never patronise the reader or endlessly recycle content. And, best of all, you don't have to wade through pages and pages of adverts just to get to the content. I shall no longer be ashamed to admit I am interested in clothing. To paraphrase Mademoiselle Robot, it fulfills all my most superficial needs.
Still waiting...
Twenty days ago I blogged about waiting for photos, taken on good old fashioned film. I now have the prints and have sorted out the ones I want to scan, but still haven't got round to doing it because the magic smoke escaped from the Windows machine which has the scanner connected to it. Why didn't I just spend a few extra pounds and get CDs? Ah well. They'll get done at some point this year but, in the meantime, you'll just have to make do with this rather pleasant LC-A shot taken at Stratford tube station. Which reminds me... if you haven't ever visited the London Transport Museum and have even a passing interest in that sort of thing, you really ought to check it out. I went last week and it was really rather good. I even got to pretend to drive a Jubilee Line train. A weekend simulation, I'm guessing, as we didn't actually go anywhere.
The archives are no more
I hastily cobbled together (using iWeb, but not really sure why I bothered) a new home page for my vanity domain. All it has is the site name plus links to my blog, photos and incessant tweeting. That's it. Four words of text and three hyperlinks. Yet somehow I still managed to mess it up. Will have to stay there for now though, until I sort out something better. Let's just hope no one I'm trying to impress ends up there, eh?
Thinking things through
Somebody told me recently that I need to take responsibility for my own actions. In the context of the conversation we were having at the time, I was quite confused by this so have been pondering it long and hard over the last few days and have come to realise a number of things. Firstly, the inability to accept responsibility for actions and behaviour is often a result of insecurity and these days I am the first to admit to being insecure. I realised this a number of years ago and it made a big difference in my life, but doing something about it is a very slow process. I have mostly overcome my insecurities about my body so now it’s the rest of me that is getting some attention… the more difficult aspects. I tried to overcome my fear of taking on more responsibility at work, but it was more difficult than I first thought and I fell at the first attempt. Still, I’ve picked myself up and, eighteen months down the line, am ready to think about trying again. Slow I know but one step at a time, right?
In my primary relationship, I have had a lot of help over the last decade with admitting to things, accepting responsibility and generally not avoiding anything. This has been amazingly useful and I am still learning every day. It’s quite difficult for this old dog to learn new tricks you see, but it may just be possible in time. Frustrating though it is for all involved, rest assured it is very much appreciated!
However, the main aspect of insecure-me that I still have a lot of difficulty with, is using words to explain how I am feeling. I had always kept things bottled up in the past and worked through emotional trauma pretty much on my own, which doesn’t usually require words. Now that I have willingly entered into an open and honest version of non-monogamy, I have a need to explain myself to others and it’s proving to be far more difficult than I thought it would be when times are rough. I have always appeared to most people as having a reasonably good grasp of the English language but I find it really rather difficult to understand my own feelings sometimes, let alone explain them to other people, so I think this is where this particular problem has occurred. Rather than referring to the conversation we were having, I realised that the comment I mentioned at the start of this post was referring to the email that, in part, sparked the conversation. In trying to explain something that I still don’t entirely understand myself, and trying to explain in a matter-of-fact way, I had made it appear that I was blaming someone else for my feelings and actions. As a result of that, plus a whole string of badly worded and misjudged emails and tweets, I have ended up causing even more hurt than I was trying to avoid.
For someone who is quite sensitive, to appear to be insensitive involves quite a spectacular fuck up and I'm still not entirely sure how I managed it. Sadly, there is no way to explain now as I will no doubt continue to make things worse if I try. Therefore, I plan to use my time wisely and think. Everything would work out a lot better if I'd just think a bit more before letting it out. Let's hope time heals.
In my primary relationship, I have had a lot of help over the last decade with admitting to things, accepting responsibility and generally not avoiding anything. This has been amazingly useful and I am still learning every day. It’s quite difficult for this old dog to learn new tricks you see, but it may just be possible in time. Frustrating though it is for all involved, rest assured it is very much appreciated!
However, the main aspect of insecure-me that I still have a lot of difficulty with, is using words to explain how I am feeling. I had always kept things bottled up in the past and worked through emotional trauma pretty much on my own, which doesn’t usually require words. Now that I have willingly entered into an open and honest version of non-monogamy, I have a need to explain myself to others and it’s proving to be far more difficult than I thought it would be when times are rough. I have always appeared to most people as having a reasonably good grasp of the English language but I find it really rather difficult to understand my own feelings sometimes, let alone explain them to other people, so I think this is where this particular problem has occurred. Rather than referring to the conversation we were having, I realised that the comment I mentioned at the start of this post was referring to the email that, in part, sparked the conversation. In trying to explain something that I still don’t entirely understand myself, and trying to explain in a matter-of-fact way, I had made it appear that I was blaming someone else for my feelings and actions. As a result of that, plus a whole string of badly worded and misjudged emails and tweets, I have ended up causing even more hurt than I was trying to avoid.
For someone who is quite sensitive, to appear to be insensitive involves quite a spectacular fuck up and I'm still not entirely sure how I managed it. Sadly, there is no way to explain now as I will no doubt continue to make things worse if I try. Therefore, I plan to use my time wisely and think. Everything would work out a lot better if I'd just think a bit more before letting it out. Let's hope time heals.
Patronising, fake and pointless
Former Editor of Marie Claire magazine, Liz Jones, says today in the Daily Fail that she's given up on glossy magazines. It's nice to know I'm not the only one (although I realised this at least six years ago), but I am amazed that this particular newspaper has chosen to print the article. Jones says that, "All these images have a drip, drip, drip effect, making us feel dissatisfied with ourselves", yet a quick browse around the Femail web pages reveals that The Mail is not exactly helping either...
Generation XXL - why ARE we all fatter than our mothers?
I've got the body of a 16-year-old! says Ulrika Jonsson... after £11,000 of surgery
The day I dyed: Linda Kelsey has a confession to make in her diary of going grey
So we'll all be happy if we're slim and young-looking, with perfect boobs? Nothing at all patronising, fake and pointless about that, eh?
Generation XXL - why ARE we all fatter than our mothers?
I've got the body of a 16-year-old! says Ulrika Jonsson... after £11,000 of surgery
The day I dyed: Linda Kelsey has a confession to make in her diary of going grey
So we'll all be happy if we're slim and young-looking, with perfect boobs? Nothing at all patronising, fake and pointless about that, eh?
Shortlist and Stylist
One of the things I've grown to love about commuting is being given an interesting magazine totally free every Thursday, by a smiley guy outside Goodge Street tube station. Shortlist is apparently a men's magazine, but I have always found much more in it to amuse and educate me than inside the majority of women's titles I've ever had the misfortune to pay cash for. OK, so have hardly any interest in sport but the cars, gadgets, architecture, many many lists, Danny Wallace and even the men's fashion have drawn me in every week.
Now they've announced that the team behind Shortlist are going to launch a women's title, called Stylist, and it looks like it might also be rather good. No celebrity gossip, relationship blah and paparazzi shots? Now this I've got to see! Will review it later in the year, once I've got my hands on a copy.
Now they've announced that the team behind Shortlist are going to launch a women's title, called Stylist, and it looks like it might also be rather good. No celebrity gossip, relationship blah and paparazzi shots? Now this I've got to see! Will review it later in the year, once I've got my hands on a copy.
Easily annoyed
A colleague has done something today that has really annoyed me for no apparent reason. It's a small thing that shouldn't matter to anyone else at all, but I am practically grinding my teeth it's irritated me so much. Inexplicably and pointlessly seething with rage though I am, I've got nothing on the idiots who are busily adding their comments to an article over at the Guardian's website.
As I type this, there are 121 comments on Bobbie Johnson's visit to Twitter HQ and most of them appear to be from people who think Twitter is "crap" and "pointless" and who think The Guardian should shut up about it. I was stunned by this as, well, if you don't like something on the internet, in many cases it's easy enough to simply avoid it. Why spend some of your valuable time even reading an article on Twitter if you hate it so much, let alone comment on it? I could go on but I think that sevitzdotcom's comment says it best, ending with...
As I type this, there are 121 comments on Bobbie Johnson's visit to Twitter HQ and most of them appear to be from people who think Twitter is "crap" and "pointless" and who think The Guardian should shut up about it. I was stunned by this as, well, if you don't like something on the internet, in many cases it's easy enough to simply avoid it. Why spend some of your valuable time even reading an article on Twitter if you hate it so much, let alone comment on it? I could go on but I think that sevitzdotcom's comment says it best, ending with...
I find value in Twitter, I use it.
I enjoy the Guardian, I read it.
I don't enjoy golf, i don't play it.
See how easy it is ... just make choices that suit you. Or you could rant on about how crap something you don't use is. You could do that too. You could rant on about how "who would care about the inane rantings of people" ... oh yeah right ... that would be a bit hypocritical wouldn't it.
Melancholy
When I was a child, I used to be scared of death. I'd sometimes (somehow) end up thinking about the fact that the world as I know it only exists through my eyes, and that will be lost when I'm no longer here. Then I'd think about that... not being here. The thought of everything fading to black terrified the hell out of me and I had many sleepless nights thinking about it. Pretty heavy stuff, for a kid.
But which is worse, that, or a fear of life? What I occasionally have now is an overwhelming feeling that I'm quite unimportant and nothing really matters. At times like these I get very upset about, well, everything and just can't face another 40 or so years of life. It's not a constant thing, and I do feel much better after a while, but I don't know if this is usual or if I really do need some help.
But which is worse, that, or a fear of life? What I occasionally have now is an overwhelming feeling that I'm quite unimportant and nothing really matters. At times like these I get very upset about, well, everything and just can't face another 40 or so years of life. It's not a constant thing, and I do feel much better after a while, but I don't know if this is usual or if I really do need some help.
Waiting...
I returned from holiday and promptly spent two evenings sorting through my digital photos and getting them uploaded, tagged and labelled. I felt a nice wave of satisfaction after having been so organised but then, later in the week, remembered something. I now had three exposed films, waiting patiently to be developed. Yes, film... the 35mm stuff with sprocket holes, all curled up asleep in those little tactile canisters. One mostly contains images of Brighton, while the other two hold snippets from my time in Sweden and I don't really have much of a clue what any of it will look like.
I actually rather like that about film. The main reason I continue to use it is that the resulting photographs are just so beautiful (especially when shot using my Lomo LC-A), but there is also the thrill of capturing something and not being able to review it straight away to see if it was worth it. Surely, if I wanted to shoot and felt the urge to press the shutter release, at that moment it was worth it? As rules 8 and 9 on the Lomographic Society's website state, "You don’t have to know beforehand what you captured on film [...] Afterwards either." and I mostly agree with that. OK, there are times when I get a whole roll developed to find that only one shot is any good, but there are also times when I find myself scanning all 36 prints... and I do still get prints because there is something really quite lovely about them.
In a funny way though, the best thing is the delay. One day this week I will have three packets of holiday memories arrive from the lovely people at Peak Imaging, and will get to relive those happy relaxed days all over again.
I actually rather like that about film. The main reason I continue to use it is that the resulting photographs are just so beautiful (especially when shot using my Lomo LC-A), but there is also the thrill of capturing something and not being able to review it straight away to see if it was worth it. Surely, if I wanted to shoot and felt the urge to press the shutter release, at that moment it was worth it? As rules 8 and 9 on the Lomographic Society's website state, "You don’t have to know beforehand what you captured on film [...] Afterwards either." and I mostly agree with that. OK, there are times when I get a whole roll developed to find that only one shot is any good, but there are also times when I find myself scanning all 36 prints... and I do still get prints because there is something really quite lovely about them.
In a funny way though, the best thing is the delay. One day this week I will have three packets of holiday memories arrive from the lovely people at Peak Imaging, and will get to relive those happy relaxed days all over again.
Introducing the concept
Accidentally introduced the concept of polyamory to my parents the other day, when discussing friends with my mum over the phone.
Mum: So who was there?
Me: Me, Topper, C and A.
[Pause]
Mum: Is A C's partner?
Me: Erm... yes.
Mum: I thought his name was J.
Me: Well, J is C's husband and A is her boyfriend. They both know about the other and all get on really well though.
[Pause]
Mum: Oh... that's weird.
[Pause]
Mum: Don't you think that's weird?
Me: I did at first, but not any more because I've seen it works really well for them.
Mum: That's weird.
Mum: So who was there?
Me: Me, Topper, C and A.
[Pause]
Mum: Is A C's partner?
Me: Erm... yes.
Mum: I thought his name was J.
Me: Well, J is C's husband and A is her boyfriend. They both know about the other and all get on really well though.
[Pause]
Mum: Oh... that's weird.
[Pause]
Mum: Don't you think that's weird?
Me: I did at first, but not any more because I've seen it works really well for them.
Mum: That's weird.
Holidays are over once more
I'm back from ten days in Sweden, where it was my perfect summer temperature and there was lots of daylight. We spent five days in a friend's summer house in the north, getting away from it all and enjoying the gorgeous views, plus celebrating midsummer the traditional way. The only bad thing was the mosquitos... yes, I could even put up with the lack of proper bathroom facilities if there weren't as many biting insects!
After that, it was five days back in civilisation, as we pottered around Stockholm. It's a beautiful city but, strangely, the most photos I have are of the animals in the zoo! I guess I must have been to relaxed to snap too many shots of buildings. Too busy thinking about our next fika stop, perhaps?
After that, it was five days back in civilisation, as we pottered around Stockholm. It's a beautiful city but, strangely, the most photos I have are of the animals in the zoo! I guess I must have been to relaxed to snap too many shots of buildings. Too busy thinking about our next fika stop, perhaps?
