I saw the video by Dylan Winter (appropriately enough) a few days ago and tried it today. My candle-power flowerpot heater is too hot to touch after 30 mins so the science holds good. I'm walking around in t-shirt and shorts, practically.
When I bought a camera recently it was probably the camera I would have preferred to be using for the last year - it has a lot of pixel power. It can do everything. It was the most expensive camera I'd ever bought. It is even marketed as semi-pro.
But being an amateur it seemed to come with unreasonable expectation and added responsibility built in - features that hadn't been discussed on any of the review sites. The casual and fun aspects had been completely engineered out, unless I've missed those in the complex set up menus.
So after this brief upgrading I only took a few photos and decided to downsize.
Interestingly, seeing the technically bad Disuke Yokota photos a few days ago made clear that I don't relate very well to doing things very well either. So, it's not just me - as well as it's just not me. There are a lot of serious art photographers with very high production values - which goes far beyond their equipment, extending to research, travel,…
From the train window last week I saw work had started on a site of former heavy industry just outside town. (A bloke I used to work with had previously been a foreman there and he had suggested that the contamination was so bad that it was unlikely that permission for homes to be built would ever be given. It seems it wasnt so bad after all....)
The factory itself had been pulled down a couple of years ago (I'd taken some photos before and after the event), the site cleared and so finally construction was under way. I cycled out there today (which took over an hour even though it's only five miles after I took the wrong turning, twice, like I think I did every other time I've been out there). It was worth the long ride and the cold fingers if only because the light was so pretty and the sky was brimming with crazy summer blueness. Almost stone buds, the first rocks and debris are appearing.
Three months ago I bought a few print credits which were on offer at Photobox, with the insanely optimistic expectation of requiring one or maybe even two prints when some recent images submitted to an open event were accepted.
As it turned out there was obviously some terrible mix up during the selection process and as a result no prints of mine were required. These things happen. So instead, and with just a couple of days till those credits expire I had to think of something to use them for... and resorted to images from, long, long ago and far, far away - gigs The digital noise is immense, as was the volume at times. Lots of memories of shabby venues, a diverse mix of promoters who perservered putting on unsigned (often astonishingly talented) teenage bands until bankruptcy shut them down - and Mr B; who set up the local music scene website and who gave endless encouragement to one and all (me included) and who made being part of it all seem so worthwhile.
"I consider the usual aids to self-definition—sex, age, talent, time and
space—as tyrannical limitations upon my freedom of choice." Her
multiple personae—or "selves"—are of different genders, races,
professions, historical contexts and geographic locations. This motley
group...are as diverse as their stories. Some were embodied by
Antin and captured in photographs and on video. Others had paper doll
surrogates; at times, their existence was known only through the
drawings, texts and films they had ostensibly left behind.
Aaron Schuster described the series thus:
In ‘The King of Solana Beach’ (1974–5), Antin becomes the
self-appointed ruler of Solana Beach in Southern California, a guise
that allows her to construct an idealized male self while also involving
herself in the travails of community life. The black and white
photographs document some of the King’s daily adventures, listening to
his subjects’ conce…