The sea just makes everything better, doesn’t it?
The sea just makes everything better, doesn’t it?
There’s something I haven’t mentioned but which happened quietly behind the scenes this summer. Something I was too upset about to get into at the time.
When my mum was here in July, I was showing her around Holland Park when the shutter on my camera suddenly stopped working. The first few minutes I was hoping it was just a small mechanical fault I could fix myself by pressing some buttons and releasing some tension but I had an ominous feeling straight away like I knew already that my camera, my dad’s old camera, had broken for good.
The next day I took it to a camera repair shop and they were very kind and very knowledgeable and they told me that even though they could fix it, it was definitely broken and that fixing it wouldn’t be worth the cost. “The lens is good,” they told me, “get yourself a Pentax instead and use it on that”.
My mum flew back to Denmark and I took the train back home to Kent. I tried to tell myself that it was just a camera, a thing, an object that, unlike people, can be easily replaced. But because that camera had been my dad’s, so painstakingly saved up for in the 80s when him and my mum were students and because it was the camera that truly got me into film photography, I was quietly heartbroken about it even if I tried not to show it.
After a while though I was less upset about that camera and more upset about no longer having a film camera to use at all. I started looking at other cameras but nothing felt quite right. Should I get the same camera type from somewhere else even though it wouldn’t be the same? Or should I upgrade and choose a completely different camera that might have some advantages over my old one? Either way it didn’t really matter because I couldn’t afford to replace it.
But there are photographs in this post, I hear you say, where do they come from?
Yes, there are and they haven’t been taken with my old Ricoh. They are from a test roll, the very first photographs taken with my “new” Pentax K1000 that Daniel recently surprised me by buying in an online auction for me.
It feels different in my hands than my old one and I’m not going to lie, I need to get used to it, even if it technically does the same and pretty much in the same way. The one advantage it has over my old camera though is a sharper image quality that I’m almost afraid to admit was holding me back sometimes, so I’m excited about that. I’m also excited about the three rolls of film that are waiting for the new personal project I’m going to begin when I go home to Denmark next week.
And maybe this time, the camera can be just mine.
P.S. These photos were all taken around my flat and the neighbourhood where I live, on a roll of Kentmere 400.
The South Stairs leading up from the entrance
As you might have seen in one of my latest posts, I decided to spend my birthday this year in my favourite bookshops and at the British Museum. That’s my new thing now, photographing museums. While I spend most of last year trying to freeze fleeting everyday moments with my film camera, my new obsession this year has been to not only wander through museum galleries but to photograph them as well.
If you had asked me a few years ago if I liked the British Museum I would have said that I liked it as much as the next person. If you had asked me if I was interested in history, I would probably have given the same answer. As much as I would like to claim to be an independently minded woman, it has taken my boyfriend’s interest in history to realise how interesting both can be and it’s become a place we visit together.
Even though they always tend to be overcrowded, my favourite rooms are the galleries with the Greek sculptures. Daniel on the other hand tends to seek out the Middle Eastern galleries, particularly the ones with the huge Assyrian gates, Lamassu and friezes. Because the weather was unseasonably bad the day we went, it wasn’t as busy as normal and it was nice to be able to walk around more freely.
It’s been a few months since my birthday in March but last week I got the prints back from the film rolls I shot that weekend and I thought I’d write a little post to share some of the pictures I took. I have already mentioned in another post that my birthday didn’t exactly go like I had planned because of the snowstorm that decided to take over the country but looking through the photos of everything covered in snow made me realise that the memories I have of those two days have been made quite special because of the whole snowstorm affair.
Canterbury looking very Dickensian in the snow
The snow falling down over the riverbank that runs next to our flat, after we got back from Canterbury
I woke up this morning to a flurry of snowflakes falling from the sky, so I thought it was the right day to publish a short piece of writing I wrote earlier this month on how I feel about winter. I was inspired to write it after I got prints back from the photo lab with photographs from my first ever roll of Foma Retropan black and white film. I took them in January when I went home to see my family and most of the roll I shot around our cabin in Sweden and on a walk in the surrounding landscape down by Järnavik, a beautiful stretch of Swedish archipelago that I’m very fond of.
I had just finished reading Kazuo Ishiguro’s An Artist of the Floating World, so I had been thinking a lot about Japan and Japanese art, which, as you might be able to tell, ended up influencing the way I took some of the landscape shots. Anyway, here is what I wrote.
I might have come from the North. From the cold and the long, dark months in November, December, January. Maybe it is true that I feel most like myself, wrapped in my long, dark-red woolcoat and a big scarf, gloves covering my fingers.
But winter, like summer, is not where I’m at home. I do not like to be cold, and I am easily cold. I am more tired, more hungry and more grumpy. And even if I like the cosiness, the flickering candles reflected in the window and to sit under a duvet or the soft blankets, the surrender there is in that, to let go and say “okay, we will go into hibernation” then, it still isn’t my time.
For those months I can never really get warm and I long for the coming days of Spring with their fresh winds and a sun you can actually warm yourself on. Or I long back to the autumn and the same kind of days we had then, tempered.
But when all of that has been said, I am still fond of the way the trees stand naked in the winter, the patterns they make against the heavy, grey clouds; that you can see what they really look like without all of those leaves, without all the embellishment, everything stripped back to its essentials. Nothing taken for granted.
I live in the silence and the stillness, and in the mornings, when I withdraw the curtains from the windows to find another curtain outside in the fog that presses itself against the cold glass and in the dark silhouets of the trees that appear nearly obscured on the riverbank behind it, a receding hairline of tangled branches. The way a dried orange leaf left over from the autumn lights up over everything else.
Then I live, not just in it but for it. The winter, I mean.
Shot on my Ricoh KR5 with my 50mm lens on Foma Retropan 320 film, set at box speed.