Thursday, 31 January 2013
Tuesday, 29 January 2013
Sunday, 27 January 2013
manipulated image
 |
| Another test of an image, should be able to do some more in a more focused way, especially of the current crop of British politicians, who are frankly either stupid , or deliberately screwing up the country due to a warped ideology. |
Manipulated image, first.
Not sure what to say about this , except that it is a useful technique. Satire , some visual violence, vaguely expressionist if you want to use that hackneyed phrase. Kind of cruel. Playing around with Photoshop. It is more to do with drawing and painting I feel, as it should be plain even to the most limited of intellects that I can barely wield a camera in any meaningful sense. Hard copies look pretty good. Got to get over to stbarnabaspress.com and get some big ones made.
Tuesday, 22 January 2013
Technique? What technique?
One of the joys of digital photography or indeed any art form is the capacity, as most creative people will tell you, of profiting from technical errors.
In my capacity as World's Crappiest Photographer I am having a whole lot more fun fiddling around with those black rectangles you get when you play with the knobs, dials and levers on a camera. Of course there are failures but I am quite happy recuperating digital information from the blackness in order to create, sometimes surprisingly beautiful images. I would not like to go out on assignment with such an attitude unless it was personal research. That as far as I can see is the real usefulness of Photoshop and RAW.
I would be the world's happiest man if I were able to take cool, commercial photographs like all the others. But no. All those years at art school and I am still technically an ignoramus. I think the next area will be building my own camera from scrap. Mind you, The Meatyard Blues are still in force. It is a rule in my house now. Never go out without the masks. But I am definitely thinking about building my own camera.
In my capacity as World's Crappiest Photographer I am having a whole lot more fun fiddling around with those black rectangles you get when you play with the knobs, dials and levers on a camera. Of course there are failures but I am quite happy recuperating digital information from the blackness in order to create, sometimes surprisingly beautiful images. I would not like to go out on assignment with such an attitude unless it was personal research. That as far as I can see is the real usefulness of Photoshop and RAW.
I would be the world's happiest man if I were able to take cool, commercial photographs like all the others. But no. All those years at art school and I am still technically an ignoramus. I think the next area will be building my own camera from scrap. Mind you, The Meatyard Blues are still in force. It is a rule in my house now. Never go out without the masks. But I am definitely thinking about building my own camera.
Monday, 21 January 2013
On Being an Old Codger.
Being an Old Codger, is I believe, a state of mind rather than a physical condition. There are members of my professional circles who are old codgers and they are at least 20 years younger than me.
However,lately I have begun to consider the signs of old codgerism in myself.
These may indeed include a certain grumpiness and an unwillingness to attend an AC/DC concert. A perpetual bad temperedness. A tendency to talk about the old days when younger people were not a threat to life and limb and wouldn't rob you blind in broad daylight.
Although I am a rather handsome devil, especially when viewed in a poor light, a strict and objective examination reveals one or two codgery traits. I appear, in the mirror, to be a person on the cusp of acquiring codgerism. It seems irrelevant to constantly append the word "old" in front of codger, as it should be plain to all that I am merely a step away from toppling into my own damp and open grave.
My beard is rather grey, rather than its rusty orange of yore, and believe it or not this unlikely facial addition attracted women faster than the Lynx advert would have you believe. My hair is a nexus of neglect. Professionals deal with it once every year or two. These are the two main indicators, but there are are others.
Sitting in the same seat in the same boozer for year after year is a good indicator. As is the wearing of a codgergown, or cardigan, as you probably call it. This garment should be grey, or a dirty russet brown. Real dyed in the wool codgers do not sit together in pubs . They sit separately. They occupy their own places in the public realm. But this is not to say that they do not communicate with each other.
The phrase "Spurs had a good weekend, then," may well float gruffly away from a corner table.
"Mmmmm....old whatisname played well, African fella," comes the reply from another darkened corner.
Then there is a chorus of Mmmmmms from all the other codgers and a rustling of daily papers.
Outside the snow continues to fall. In the carpark there is a man posing his children in order to take photographs. The children are wearing masks. Horror masks. From a local joke shop. He must be nuts.
However,lately I have begun to consider the signs of old codgerism in myself.
These may indeed include a certain grumpiness and an unwillingness to attend an AC/DC concert. A perpetual bad temperedness. A tendency to talk about the old days when younger people were not a threat to life and limb and wouldn't rob you blind in broad daylight.
Although I am a rather handsome devil, especially when viewed in a poor light, a strict and objective examination reveals one or two codgery traits. I appear, in the mirror, to be a person on the cusp of acquiring codgerism. It seems irrelevant to constantly append the word "old" in front of codger, as it should be plain to all that I am merely a step away from toppling into my own damp and open grave.
My beard is rather grey, rather than its rusty orange of yore, and believe it or not this unlikely facial addition attracted women faster than the Lynx advert would have you believe. My hair is a nexus of neglect. Professionals deal with it once every year or two. These are the two main indicators, but there are are others.
Sitting in the same seat in the same boozer for year after year is a good indicator. As is the wearing of a codgergown, or cardigan, as you probably call it. This garment should be grey, or a dirty russet brown. Real dyed in the wool codgers do not sit together in pubs . They sit separately. They occupy their own places in the public realm. But this is not to say that they do not communicate with each other.
The phrase "Spurs had a good weekend, then," may well float gruffly away from a corner table.
"Mmmmm....old whatisname played well, African fella," comes the reply from another darkened corner.
Then there is a chorus of Mmmmmms from all the other codgers and a rustling of daily papers.
Outside the snow continues to fall. In the carpark there is a man posing his children in order to take photographs. The children are wearing masks. Horror masks. From a local joke shop. He must be nuts.
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