dreams and nightmares - no. 114

three stripes

a moebius loop

turned up in my morning dreams

and then it was gone

dreams and nightmares - no. 113

the cornfield dawn

the air burnt hot rows of corn

bleeding through the crevasse

there was no rain

no air

no sound

the cloud hung still

a humid brooding mass

bruised

and purple streaked

to the ground

in which tiny scurrying insects

danced

among the weeds

and

scorched grass

this was the cornfield dawn

dreams and nightmares - no. 111

broken light

They came across the border,
wreathed in tape
and bearing strange tickets 
cast into wizened grass.

Ghosts from the past,
flooding the broken barrier
between our worlds.

Listen to their voice.

Clear light 
spilled
over stone and metal.
It reclaims love from hate.

They fall,
one by one,
to the ground.
Cemented in time.

Strange faces etched in blue.
A death's head silhouette across scorched earth
which pins us to the ground
in shards of falling light.

The sleeper has fled
and in the end
all that remains
is
this.

dreams and nightmares - no. 110

finding my voice

Dear Sheddists,

my last post was a memorial to my sister, Hilary. This post is about the impact of her death and three other crucial events in my life - the subsequent death of my father aged 48, the birth of our learning disabled son and the birth of our physically and learning disabled grandson.

This post is not intended to be maudlin. I am not feeling sorry for myself, I just wanted to express in photographs something I have long felt to be inexpressible.

Men do not find it easy to talk about difficult things. Our culture tells us men are expected to be the strong ones. So we don't talk about what really matters.  To compound the problem, we are all so busy we fail to stop and listen when someone needs to speak.

So these photographs are about how I have felt over the years. I want to say a very big thank you to those who have helped me find my voice. First and always is my dear wife who has listened, encouraged, challenged and affirmed for so many years. She loves me as I am.

Second are my children (and their partners) who I absolutely adore.

And then there is Zoe, my cousin and sister (figure that one out!), Debbie, my wife's best friend and Kate Green, my photography tutor who has helped me discover so much about how to communicate in pictures.

I could explain the meaning behind the photos that follow, but I won't. I will leave it to you to find your own interpretation.

dreams and nightmares - no. 109

remembering hilary

The homework for my Photo Group this week is still life. I've been thinking about this particular photo for some time and I should explain a little about it.

My sister Hilary died when she was eight. She was knocked down on her bicycle. Our family Doctor (and Hilary's Godfather) was on the opposite side of the road and he waved to her. Hilary peddled out behind a bus and that was it. The end of a short but beautiful life.

I first became aware of Hilary as a very small boy, I think about three. I went into my parent's bedroom and tugged at the door of a tall walnut wardrobe. It opened and two things fell out, a doll and a bath-toy. I took them down to show my mother. Another door opened in my life that day.

My mother threw out most of our family memories seven years later when my father died of a heart attack in a Hertfordshire lay-by. However, a few precious black and white photos survived the cull. One of the them shows a cute, curly-haired blond girl clutching a crop of rhubarb. In the few remaining photos of her life Hilary always seems to be dancing in a rich summer light.

I never wanted to let go of Hilary after I opened the cupboard. She, and my late father, often visited me in my dreams. Two silhouettes in the sunlight looking down on me. And then, slowly, our hands parted and they drifted away.

What if? It's a question that has no answer. In the photo above a doll holds Hilary's picture, a small bunch of dead roses partially obscuring her from sight. At Hilary's feet lie the remains of two dragonflies, insects that have a rich mythological history. Dragonflies are associated with change and the passing of life.

I took some other still life studies for my homework, this time adding in a collection of dead flies. In the ying and yang of photographic symbolism they represent the black side of the mountain, redolent of death and decay. Both have a place in remembering Hilary.