Oh, you could’ve told me. Really, you could have.
Since I discovered it, people have told me that they saw a photograph of mine in a BBC website snow gallery, assuming that by not mentioning it myself, and leaving other people to find it themselves, I was being humble and classy.
Not a bit of it. I entered the photograph by means of Twitter, but nobody told me it had been included. Just setting the record straight. You ought to know that I remain the same classless tart, as ever.
Have a look, everybody - last photograph in the gallery:
BBC Gallery
Thursday, 4 March 2010
Wednesday, 3 March 2010
Thought I’d bring you up to speed with things a little…
As some of you will know, over the last two or three weeks I have been doing my fair share of traipsing, across the towns and countryside of Norfolk. Acts of idiocy this winter, I fear. I made the trip to Cromer first of all, looking out of my skylight and seeing glistening ice and snow on a cloudless, bright morning. The idea was to try out one or two new photographic techniques around Cromer pier, making the most of the morning light, then to spend the afternoon sipping tea and writing letters to a few friends, before returning to my work in the early evening, to capture some more scenes with the additional glow of street lights.
You’d think that a plan so simple wouldn’t fail. Not a bit of it.
Even with a pair of thermal gloves over the fingerless gloves that are so necessary to outdoor winter photography, my hands began to freeze the moment I stepped off the bus. As I walked, a chilling wind froze the blood in my cheeks, and the sunshine that had convinced me to get out and enjoy the day had not, shall we say, travelled well. All in all, I found myself battling frostbite and Arctic winds, and my immediate thought upon my arrival was that if I really wanted to photograph Cromer on a cloudy day, there would be plenty of opportunities in the summer, when the temperatures wouldn’t be so – I’m going to say it - dangerous.
I walked straight to a café, reminding myself as I did so that even in this biting coastal cold, eleven o’clock on a Monday morning would be no time for whisky, however medicinal. I walked to a café and I stayed in it. Letters were written, tea intake was profuse, and, at length, I managed to pluck up some courage to venture outside for some tentative shooting. So much for the morning sunshine, although I was eventually happy to get some work done!
Things were a trifle more pleasant in and around Horsey Mere, the following Sunday afternoon – though, mind, only a trifle. To say nothing of the temperature in the wintry Norfolk Broads, the footpath leading to the derelict 18th century Brograve Mill was… well, it was, er, not a footpath at all, but a messy hodge-podge of grass, mud, reeds, puddles and marshland. Not such an easy afternoon as Cromer was, clearly. Stomping around with a good friend, I spent two hours testing our friendship with a barrage of half-humorous moans and groans, about things like the water entering my walking boots, the cold, the wrong turns we took. At the end of the afternoon I began to realise precisely why nobody likes me – although we did find tremendous solace in a nearby pub, decorated throughout with paraphernalia from the British Empire. Amongst scythes, knives and guns galore, on one wall hung a shrunken, preserved crocodile skin, just at the size and level you might expect of a timetable in a bus stop. Surreal as you like. Robin and I repaired our friendship over a Wherry, and pootled back to Norwich.
My most recent expedition took me to Thetford Forest late last month. The previous day had been gleamingly sunny; the day following the trip was only a trifle more cloudy. What came in between was nothing short of cruel. The bus journey took us out of a rather foggy Norwich, and into a thickly foggy Norfolk countryside, which lifted by around midday, giving way to heavy sleet and, eventually, snow. Utterly miserable, though, I do agree, the foulest of days spent in the countryside is often better than a good day in the office, and in spite of the blasted weather, my cohort John and I managed to make a fun walk of it, getting gloriously lost in the forest, before finding our way up to the village of Brandon, where, we discovered, you can have your hair restyled and get a tattoo, but you cannot get a cup of tea on a miserable, wet, freezing cold February afternoon. Glad to return home – although, of course, I’ll be even more glad to get back out there IN BETTER WEATHER!
As some of you will know, over the last two or three weeks I have been doing my fair share of traipsing, across the towns and countryside of Norfolk. Acts of idiocy this winter, I fear. I made the trip to Cromer first of all, looking out of my skylight and seeing glistening ice and snow on a cloudless, bright morning. The idea was to try out one or two new photographic techniques around Cromer pier, making the most of the morning light, then to spend the afternoon sipping tea and writing letters to a few friends, before returning to my work in the early evening, to capture some more scenes with the additional glow of street lights.
You’d think that a plan so simple wouldn’t fail. Not a bit of it.
Even with a pair of thermal gloves over the fingerless gloves that are so necessary to outdoor winter photography, my hands began to freeze the moment I stepped off the bus. As I walked, a chilling wind froze the blood in my cheeks, and the sunshine that had convinced me to get out and enjoy the day had not, shall we say, travelled well. All in all, I found myself battling frostbite and Arctic winds, and my immediate thought upon my arrival was that if I really wanted to photograph Cromer on a cloudy day, there would be plenty of opportunities in the summer, when the temperatures wouldn’t be so – I’m going to say it - dangerous.
I walked straight to a café, reminding myself as I did so that even in this biting coastal cold, eleven o’clock on a Monday morning would be no time for whisky, however medicinal. I walked to a café and I stayed in it. Letters were written, tea intake was profuse, and, at length, I managed to pluck up some courage to venture outside for some tentative shooting. So much for the morning sunshine, although I was eventually happy to get some work done!
Things were a trifle more pleasant in and around Horsey Mere, the following Sunday afternoon – though, mind, only a trifle. To say nothing of the temperature in the wintry Norfolk Broads, the footpath leading to the derelict 18th century Brograve Mill was… well, it was, er, not a footpath at all, but a messy hodge-podge of grass, mud, reeds, puddles and marshland. Not such an easy afternoon as Cromer was, clearly. Stomping around with a good friend, I spent two hours testing our friendship with a barrage of half-humorous moans and groans, about things like the water entering my walking boots, the cold, the wrong turns we took. At the end of the afternoon I began to realise precisely why nobody likes me – although we did find tremendous solace in a nearby pub, decorated throughout with paraphernalia from the British Empire. Amongst scythes, knives and guns galore, on one wall hung a shrunken, preserved crocodile skin, just at the size and level you might expect of a timetable in a bus stop. Surreal as you like. Robin and I repaired our friendship over a Wherry, and pootled back to Norwich.
My most recent expedition took me to Thetford Forest late last month. The previous day had been gleamingly sunny; the day following the trip was only a trifle more cloudy. What came in between was nothing short of cruel. The bus journey took us out of a rather foggy Norwich, and into a thickly foggy Norfolk countryside, which lifted by around midday, giving way to heavy sleet and, eventually, snow. Utterly miserable, though, I do agree, the foulest of days spent in the countryside is often better than a good day in the office, and in spite of the blasted weather, my cohort John and I managed to make a fun walk of it, getting gloriously lost in the forest, before finding our way up to the village of Brandon, where, we discovered, you can have your hair restyled and get a tattoo, but you cannot get a cup of tea on a miserable, wet, freezing cold February afternoon. Glad to return home – although, of course, I’ll be even more glad to get back out there IN BETTER WEATHER!
Monday, 8 February 2010
Day One
Just wished to give a brief report of what I shall call Day One of being a photographer. Well. Day One of being able to call it my day job, at any rate. Having given up my position in the newsagent I worked in, my daytimes are now entirely free, free to make arrangements, unfettered in accepting commissions, and finally – finally – able to focus my attention upon furthering my career.
I am going to picture the feeling right now, if you will indulge me. There is no other reason for these paragraphs than to remind myself, should I ever become bored of having a little more time to call my own, what a wondrous feeling it is to have that time, and to remind myself how… how… claustrophobic my working week used to be. The majority of 2009 was, necessary as it was, a contradictory mish-mash of absurd commitments and little pockets of availability, joyless, and infused throughout with a sense of slight dread as another twelve hours loomed ever larger, dishing out unspeakable newspapers to Norwich’s finest unwashed. Only twelve hours, mind, but good Gollum, did they last a long time. More irritating, though, was the inexplicable ability of that small dealing of hours to render an entire day a write-off. Rather than make phone calls, send emails and arrange meetings, the morning before a newsagent shift was always a blend of sleeping in and watching (old) football; even days off would be spent in this way, as a reward for the twelve slow hours just gone by, and an odd sort of denial of the twelve slow hours coming up.
Spending most of one’s time at work standing just beside the shop’s owner would test the character of anybody; perhaps the worst thing about it was the necessity of being polite. To everyone. Once or twice, that involved assenting to meet customers for tea; to stay in the owner’s good books I agreed to enrol on a mind-numbingly inane retail skills course, involving a mathematics project that I could have done at the age of ten. For a job in a newsagent, it definitely had a way of spreading its tentacles to take up more space in one’s diary.
Yet, I am being a little unfair. The shop’s owners were – are – a lovely couple, generous, flexible and helpful. In a different environment, they would be far more of a pleasure to be around; I’m quite sure they’d admit that themselves. The point is that it is a little unhealthy in any job, or even in any relationship, to spend so much time in the immediate vicinity of the same person. One can only tolerate that to a point.
It says a great deal, though, that I spend a good deal more time working in the Fat Cat than I did there, and consider it a thousand times less of a burden than the newsagent. I have three evenings coming up this week there, and am actually quite looking forward to them. Space in the job, and the freedom to forget about it afterwards, you see. Those things become a treat after you’ve been deprived of them in another job.
…and I’m done. Without the faint but persistent distraction of newsagent dread coming up, I have arisen earlier in the day, made far better use of the time and – just today, on Day One – achieved just as much as I did in the preceding few weeks. If you’re still reading this, God alone can help you, but would you like to know the best thing about turning my daytimes into a blank canvas for my photography career? I’m looking forward to tomorrow…
I am going to picture the feeling right now, if you will indulge me. There is no other reason for these paragraphs than to remind myself, should I ever become bored of having a little more time to call my own, what a wondrous feeling it is to have that time, and to remind myself how… how… claustrophobic my working week used to be. The majority of 2009 was, necessary as it was, a contradictory mish-mash of absurd commitments and little pockets of availability, joyless, and infused throughout with a sense of slight dread as another twelve hours loomed ever larger, dishing out unspeakable newspapers to Norwich’s finest unwashed. Only twelve hours, mind, but good Gollum, did they last a long time. More irritating, though, was the inexplicable ability of that small dealing of hours to render an entire day a write-off. Rather than make phone calls, send emails and arrange meetings, the morning before a newsagent shift was always a blend of sleeping in and watching (old) football; even days off would be spent in this way, as a reward for the twelve slow hours just gone by, and an odd sort of denial of the twelve slow hours coming up.
Spending most of one’s time at work standing just beside the shop’s owner would test the character of anybody; perhaps the worst thing about it was the necessity of being polite. To everyone. Once or twice, that involved assenting to meet customers for tea; to stay in the owner’s good books I agreed to enrol on a mind-numbingly inane retail skills course, involving a mathematics project that I could have done at the age of ten. For a job in a newsagent, it definitely had a way of spreading its tentacles to take up more space in one’s diary.
Yet, I am being a little unfair. The shop’s owners were – are – a lovely couple, generous, flexible and helpful. In a different environment, they would be far more of a pleasure to be around; I’m quite sure they’d admit that themselves. The point is that it is a little unhealthy in any job, or even in any relationship, to spend so much time in the immediate vicinity of the same person. One can only tolerate that to a point.
It says a great deal, though, that I spend a good deal more time working in the Fat Cat than I did there, and consider it a thousand times less of a burden than the newsagent. I have three evenings coming up this week there, and am actually quite looking forward to them. Space in the job, and the freedom to forget about it afterwards, you see. Those things become a treat after you’ve been deprived of them in another job.
…and I’m done. Without the faint but persistent distraction of newsagent dread coming up, I have arisen earlier in the day, made far better use of the time and – just today, on Day One – achieved just as much as I did in the preceding few weeks. If you’re still reading this, God alone can help you, but would you like to know the best thing about turning my daytimes into a blank canvas for my photography career? I’m looking forward to tomorrow…
Thursday, 4 February 2010
Looks Like a Brown Trouser Job
Gentlemen. Ladies.
I have been given quite a task over the next few weeks. This morning I rolled out of bed, shovelled a sandwich together and traipsed through a foggy, muddy and icy Mousehold Heath. On my way to a meeting, the prospect of getting lost amongst the branching pathways and missing out on something exciting had me fearing the worst. Why do I leave my preparations until the last minute?
Those fears, though, are as nothing compared to what I now face up to, in the wake of the meeting. I’ve just been to discuss a photography competition being held across Heartsease Primary School, Angel Road Junior School and Sewell Park College, at which I managed to offer a little bit of support and input – you know, helping out with mounting the prints…
Not a bit of it. No sooner did the teachers get a sniff of the fact that I am a photographer, than they drafted me in to actually help judge the thing. Innocuous stuff, you might think, although they are of course leaving the self-esteem of hundreds of vulnerable children in my hands, my faux-pas ridden, gaffe-ridden hands, and my dear things, it gets worse.
They have also asked me to speak to a school assembly or two, to provide a drop of inspiration and a dash of advice to the children entering the competition.
Those of you who know me will already have gasped with fright at such a prospect. Ask yourself this: would you trust me with a speech at your dinner table? Of course you wouldn’t. Oh, this is the worst kind of nightmare for everybody concerned. Do dry cleaners do underwear…?
Only too pleased to help out though. I shall let you know how it goes. I wouldn’t come too near me until the end of March if you’ve a keen sense of smell, though…
I have been given quite a task over the next few weeks. This morning I rolled out of bed, shovelled a sandwich together and traipsed through a foggy, muddy and icy Mousehold Heath. On my way to a meeting, the prospect of getting lost amongst the branching pathways and missing out on something exciting had me fearing the worst. Why do I leave my preparations until the last minute?
Those fears, though, are as nothing compared to what I now face up to, in the wake of the meeting. I’ve just been to discuss a photography competition being held across Heartsease Primary School, Angel Road Junior School and Sewell Park College, at which I managed to offer a little bit of support and input – you know, helping out with mounting the prints…
Not a bit of it. No sooner did the teachers get a sniff of the fact that I am a photographer, than they drafted me in to actually help judge the thing. Innocuous stuff, you might think, although they are of course leaving the self-esteem of hundreds of vulnerable children in my hands, my faux-pas ridden, gaffe-ridden hands, and my dear things, it gets worse.
They have also asked me to speak to a school assembly or two, to provide a drop of inspiration and a dash of advice to the children entering the competition.
Those of you who know me will already have gasped with fright at such a prospect. Ask yourself this: would you trust me with a speech at your dinner table? Of course you wouldn’t. Oh, this is the worst kind of nightmare for everybody concerned. Do dry cleaners do underwear…?
Only too pleased to help out though. I shall let you know how it goes. I wouldn’t come too near me until the end of March if you’ve a keen sense of smell, though…
Sunday, 17 January 2010
This week, I bring with me good news: I have signed up to the Norfolk Network. For those of you who are unenlightened as to what I am blathering about, the Norfolk Network is a marvellously well-connected hub of businesses from around East Anglia and the Irish Sea (click here, zoom out on the map and all will become clear), all threaded neatly together by the tremendous Lucy Marks. This fact means nothing to you, but a great deal to me, as it gives me a far healthier chance of taking on commercial photography on a full-time basis in the coming months (and years). It was only a pleasure to hand over the old hard-earned; I genuinely would recommend a chat with Lucy to any budding creatives out there who might have stumbled on to this page. (Halloa!)
I know why you’re really here, though. Somewhere in the depths of your character lurks a decadent, sadistic and wholesome trait, oddly termed ‘schadenfreude’, which causes you to take pleasure in reading my blog when I’ve got something to moan about. Lord, are you in for a treat this week.
I wish to step into gender criticism, you see.
Reading Bill Bryson’s Notes From a Small Island yesterday afternoon, an undeniable truism struck me. You’ll indulge me a moment while I quote our hero, won’t you:
‘I hate thinking about cars and I hate talking about cars. I especially hate it when you get a new car and go in the pub because somebody will always start quizzing you about it, which I dread because I don’t even understand the questions.
‘What sort of mileage you get? How many litres? What’s the torque? Got twin overhead cams or double-barrelled alternator-cum-carburettor with a full pike and a double-twist dismount?’ I can’t for the life of me understand why anyone would want to know all this shit… I always want to say: ‘Hey, I hear you’ve got a new refrigerator. How many gallons of Freon does that baby hold? What’s its BTU rating?’
Now. A word, please. Before I continue, I wish you to know that photography gives me all kinds of pleasure. Other photographers will attest that in our profession (and hobby too), something so small as one good photograph from a gig can make your fortnight. Getting up at silly a.m. to catch a train to the Norfolk countryside on a sunny January morning is nothing short of a glorious experience, before the thought even occurs that you have a camera with you. Capturing a moody seascape just the way you wanted it, at the thirty-ninth attempt, can be almost as satisfying as anything else being alive has to offer. I love photography, and I love the thought of doing it for a living. Understood? Right.
I quoted Bill Bryson there because photography, unfortunately, is cursed in precisely the same way as other activities involving complex technology: there is always someone in the pub ready to chunter on about it – in this case, cameras. Not photography, you understand - just cameras. ‘I’m running two SLRs at the moment, got the old Nikon fifty-five thou’ two ton’ running with a new twelve mil’, auto-folk and everything (beg pardon, sir?) with a pretty snappy polariser, you know, but of course, the battery life’s getting quite poor now so I’ll have to replace that soon. In the meantime I’m running a…’
By this time, you’re reading the pub’s licensing details nailed on the wall and reconsidering whether you truly want that last dram. I have this conversation at least twice a month, and it is enough to make me want to declare that my ambitions really go no higher than the newsagent I work in. Though I have no wish to alienate these people – if it weren’t for them, and their practically-minded ilk, there would be no photography, I actually would be stuck in the newsagent for good, and would have been denied something to moan about in this blog – I do sometimes wish that I didn’t attract that kind of conversation so darned often. Photography, like any other art, is about life, and life exists perfectly plentifully outside of Jessops cabinets.
I bring gender into this whole shambles because I have noticed that this terrible blandness is almost entirely exclusive to men. I have never had the displeasure of talking about cameras I may never touch with a woman; they know that the secret of photography is in the photographer’s personality, in the same way that most creative industry professionals value individuality and character as much as the technicalities of the equipment. This is a point about which I become morbidly self-conscious sometimes. I actually recall apologising to a friend of mine, after buying a 300mm zoom lens a little over a year ago. Chuntering on about its features, I knew exactly the sort of pub bore I was becoming. Furthermore, at its full extension, the lens takes on an unfortunate phallic symbolism reflecting the male photographer. But here I go again. I really must stop talking about the size of my zoom lens. Very off-putting. As you were…
I know why you’re really here, though. Somewhere in the depths of your character lurks a decadent, sadistic and wholesome trait, oddly termed ‘schadenfreude’, which causes you to take pleasure in reading my blog when I’ve got something to moan about. Lord, are you in for a treat this week.
I wish to step into gender criticism, you see.
Reading Bill Bryson’s Notes From a Small Island yesterday afternoon, an undeniable truism struck me. You’ll indulge me a moment while I quote our hero, won’t you:
‘I hate thinking about cars and I hate talking about cars. I especially hate it when you get a new car and go in the pub because somebody will always start quizzing you about it, which I dread because I don’t even understand the questions.
‘What sort of mileage you get? How many litres? What’s the torque? Got twin overhead cams or double-barrelled alternator-cum-carburettor with a full pike and a double-twist dismount?’ I can’t for the life of me understand why anyone would want to know all this shit… I always want to say: ‘Hey, I hear you’ve got a new refrigerator. How many gallons of Freon does that baby hold? What’s its BTU rating?’
Now. A word, please. Before I continue, I wish you to know that photography gives me all kinds of pleasure. Other photographers will attest that in our profession (and hobby too), something so small as one good photograph from a gig can make your fortnight. Getting up at silly a.m. to catch a train to the Norfolk countryside on a sunny January morning is nothing short of a glorious experience, before the thought even occurs that you have a camera with you. Capturing a moody seascape just the way you wanted it, at the thirty-ninth attempt, can be almost as satisfying as anything else being alive has to offer. I love photography, and I love the thought of doing it for a living. Understood? Right.
I quoted Bill Bryson there because photography, unfortunately, is cursed in precisely the same way as other activities involving complex technology: there is always someone in the pub ready to chunter on about it – in this case, cameras. Not photography, you understand - just cameras. ‘I’m running two SLRs at the moment, got the old Nikon fifty-five thou’ two ton’ running with a new twelve mil’, auto-folk and everything (beg pardon, sir?) with a pretty snappy polariser, you know, but of course, the battery life’s getting quite poor now so I’ll have to replace that soon. In the meantime I’m running a…’
By this time, you’re reading the pub’s licensing details nailed on the wall and reconsidering whether you truly want that last dram. I have this conversation at least twice a month, and it is enough to make me want to declare that my ambitions really go no higher than the newsagent I work in. Though I have no wish to alienate these people – if it weren’t for them, and their practically-minded ilk, there would be no photography, I actually would be stuck in the newsagent for good, and would have been denied something to moan about in this blog – I do sometimes wish that I didn’t attract that kind of conversation so darned often. Photography, like any other art, is about life, and life exists perfectly plentifully outside of Jessops cabinets.
I bring gender into this whole shambles because I have noticed that this terrible blandness is almost entirely exclusive to men. I have never had the displeasure of talking about cameras I may never touch with a woman; they know that the secret of photography is in the photographer’s personality, in the same way that most creative industry professionals value individuality and character as much as the technicalities of the equipment. This is a point about which I become morbidly self-conscious sometimes. I actually recall apologising to a friend of mine, after buying a 300mm zoom lens a little over a year ago. Chuntering on about its features, I knew exactly the sort of pub bore I was becoming. Furthermore, at its full extension, the lens takes on an unfortunate phallic symbolism reflecting the male photographer. But here I go again. I really must stop talking about the size of my zoom lens. Very off-putting. As you were…
Tuesday, 12 January 2010
Hopeful New Year...
Well, my dears, it’s fair to say that 2009 was quite a year, and will take some beating. As the early days of 2010 rattle by, my intentions have a sense of focus that was wholly lacking twelve months ago.
Events photography is quickly becoming a field of immense enjoyment for me. In recent months I have photographed a host of bands, both local and internationally renowned artists, and even received some kind praise from artists, bands and even their record labels. I am becoming adept at capturing moments from long practise in this respect; in recognition of this, various companies have commissioned me to photograph their own events in the past few months, including the Norfolk Network, Norwich Cathedral and Hethel Engineering Centre, while my voluntary work with the Green Party has helped to cement me as their regular events photographer. In return for this, they will soon be displaying prints of mine for sale in their shop in the centre of Norwich. All very kind. Now go and buy one.
Alongside this success, you might remember that last summer I photographed various acts performing at the Norfolk and Norwich Festival. This year I am angling to actually work for the Festival; I shall keep you posted. Some of the successful images from last summer’s flurry of activity remain favourites of mine, displayed proudly on my website.
Speaking of my website, all of the aforementioned successes encouraged me to overhaul it during the Christmas break; in addition to showcasing my photographs more effectively than its predecessor ever could, it now acts as a hub for my communications, providing easy access to this blog and also to my Twitter feed (which carries just the occasional moment of insight, in amongst the commentary on darts tournaments!) The site also represents a statement of intent – a glitzy and good-looking new medium (so I have been told) requires a special effort to provide glitzy and good-looking new photographs to occupy its space! I am working as hard as I can to keep them flowing – in the meantime, do take a couple of moments to amble around the website and flick through the images, lovingly displayed in high quality against a delightfully unintrusive background, for a change (strictly during your lunch break, please, I don’t want you fired – do I?).
As for the rest of this year, my aims are to take on further events photography, working towards taking the career path on full-time, and also to begin working in the field of commercial photography; to gain as much experience as I can in this respect, I am currently looking to join forces with creative folk across Norfolk to help portray their work with a bit of the old Watts panache. If you have a friend, or know a friend of a friend, or a friend of a friend’s dog’s friend’s owner, who could benefit from a spot of co-operation, give them my email address or phone number – easily found on my website homepage. I’d love to help, and I can come very cheaply as required.
Wishing you all the best for this year, then, strictly on condition that you return the favour,
Ryan
Events photography is quickly becoming a field of immense enjoyment for me. In recent months I have photographed a host of bands, both local and internationally renowned artists, and even received some kind praise from artists, bands and even their record labels. I am becoming adept at capturing moments from long practise in this respect; in recognition of this, various companies have commissioned me to photograph their own events in the past few months, including the Norfolk Network, Norwich Cathedral and Hethel Engineering Centre, while my voluntary work with the Green Party has helped to cement me as their regular events photographer. In return for this, they will soon be displaying prints of mine for sale in their shop in the centre of Norwich. All very kind. Now go and buy one.
Alongside this success, you might remember that last summer I photographed various acts performing at the Norfolk and Norwich Festival. This year I am angling to actually work for the Festival; I shall keep you posted. Some of the successful images from last summer’s flurry of activity remain favourites of mine, displayed proudly on my website.
Speaking of my website, all of the aforementioned successes encouraged me to overhaul it during the Christmas break; in addition to showcasing my photographs more effectively than its predecessor ever could, it now acts as a hub for my communications, providing easy access to this blog and also to my Twitter feed (which carries just the occasional moment of insight, in amongst the commentary on darts tournaments!) The site also represents a statement of intent – a glitzy and good-looking new medium (so I have been told) requires a special effort to provide glitzy and good-looking new photographs to occupy its space! I am working as hard as I can to keep them flowing – in the meantime, do take a couple of moments to amble around the website and flick through the images, lovingly displayed in high quality against a delightfully unintrusive background, for a change (strictly during your lunch break, please, I don’t want you fired – do I?).
As for the rest of this year, my aims are to take on further events photography, working towards taking the career path on full-time, and also to begin working in the field of commercial photography; to gain as much experience as I can in this respect, I am currently looking to join forces with creative folk across Norfolk to help portray their work with a bit of the old Watts panache. If you have a friend, or know a friend of a friend, or a friend of a friend’s dog’s friend’s owner, who could benefit from a spot of co-operation, give them my email address or phone number – easily found on my website homepage. I’d love to help, and I can come very cheaply as required.
Wishing you all the best for this year, then, strictly on condition that you return the favour,
Ryan
Sunday, 10 January 2010
Snow, snow, snow
Over the last fortnight, I have been considering that snow is the environment’s answer to beer: its influence reveals elements of truth about people’s characters. In my functional, rent-paying jobs (in a newspaper and pub) I have experienced people gassing on about cancelled bus services (would you drive eighteen tons of living beings and metal over black ice?), and overheard people who appear to do little but drink complaining about ‘lazy’ gritters not gritting the pavements. This irks me.
‘You shovel grit onto the pavements, then.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Well, why not?’
‘I’m drinking. And I might scratch my car.’
I have spoken to parents in throes of disappointment because they have to play in the snow with their children, instead of dropping them into school. Never mind the memories you’ll take from making that effort with them… I have spoken to people complaining about the lack of grit on the pavements, and I have (genuinely) heard the same people complain about the grit being trodden in to their carpet, when the pavements are gritted.
I have come across stories of panic-buying. In local shops, milk currently comes at a premium, as people buy more than they need, whilst suppliers deliver less than normal in such extreme weather. In Waitrose, there are reports of silly people panic-buying herbs.
It pleases me to be able to tell you, then, that none of these complaints (so far as I can tell) have come from my lips. Snow can be inconvenient, yes. It is an issue to have clumps of snow in your hallway as you step into your house, yes. I cannot remember ever feeling colder, no. But surely – surely – a little bit of snow once or twice a year is worth appreciating for the fun to be had, and the glistening beauty it provides? I have had a fine time indulging in late-night snowball fights with UEA students, and building snow-women with my girlfriend. It is never necessary to sit there, moan and slowly allow yourself to cease functioning when it snows, just so that you have something new to moan about. If you want to enjoy snowy weather, there are countless ways to do so.
Photography is just one of them:
www.ryanwattsphotos.com
‘You shovel grit onto the pavements, then.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Well, why not?’
‘I’m drinking. And I might scratch my car.’
I have spoken to parents in throes of disappointment because they have to play in the snow with their children, instead of dropping them into school. Never mind the memories you’ll take from making that effort with them… I have spoken to people complaining about the lack of grit on the pavements, and I have (genuinely) heard the same people complain about the grit being trodden in to their carpet, when the pavements are gritted.
I have come across stories of panic-buying. In local shops, milk currently comes at a premium, as people buy more than they need, whilst suppliers deliver less than normal in such extreme weather. In Waitrose, there are reports of silly people panic-buying herbs.
It pleases me to be able to tell you, then, that none of these complaints (so far as I can tell) have come from my lips. Snow can be inconvenient, yes. It is an issue to have clumps of snow in your hallway as you step into your house, yes. I cannot remember ever feeling colder, no. But surely – surely – a little bit of snow once or twice a year is worth appreciating for the fun to be had, and the glistening beauty it provides? I have had a fine time indulging in late-night snowball fights with UEA students, and building snow-women with my girlfriend. It is never necessary to sit there, moan and slowly allow yourself to cease functioning when it snows, just so that you have something new to moan about. If you want to enjoy snowy weather, there are countless ways to do so.
Photography is just one of them:
www.ryanwattsphotos.com
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