The neglect of my Bronica brings tears to my eyes as yet another week of househunting becomes my full time job title. However... instead of spieling defeat I chose to nip down on my grown up wheels to 4corners and collect a batch of rolls I found under my bed that I admittedly knew were unprocessed rolls of crud...
But perhaps even if an image is 'unsuccessful' it is still valid as a record of memory and growth. These are from one my first ever trips with my dear friend Mr. Chau. The images serve a great purpose in reminding me of his wisdom.
Consoling me after I re emerged from a camp site deflated and disappointed mummering the simple phrase:
"Nah...nothing.. really didn't work",
Hin responded with an oracle and all knowing tone of:
"Ahhh the British campsite... the mirage of photography. A beautiful scene from afar but impossible to capture"
So I dedicate this post to him, and to all of the unprocessed and unloved rolls that remind me I shot out of love , a reminder of the journey to that elated feeling of really 'capturing' the unknown.
This image is from the feature last week in The Sunday Telegraph Magazine. Jemima was an incredible subject. Owen and I found ourselves stranded in a land of isolation holding only 1 train every few hours. Spending ample time with Jemima meant we really got to hear her story of her battle with her crack and herion addictions and her immense talent. As we strolled the chilled and fresh grounds of the countryside and tasted the country space she lightly told of memories of her audition for the Royal philharmonic orchestra (she nailed 3 crack pipes... and then got in.. the girl has skills on the harp!)
Her honest, open and strong approach to discussing her life was both inspiring and interesting and to hear it in such a beautiful but isolated and lonely place felt all the more powerful.
My thanks to Jemima for her unrequested rectitude, her mum for the taxi rides and Owen for his patience and hard work.