Mark Weeks Photojournal

This writing is one that I wrote a number of years ago, long before the concept of a blog crossed my mind. Hopefully it has managed the test of time.

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When Michael moved out in 1999, he took with him two lamps that elegantly filled dark spaces. We met years earlier while singing with the local men’s chorus, and our friendship had been built largely around the notes and bars of that institution. We reveled in each other’s companionship and soon found ourselves laughing and chatting on a daily basis.  Both of us were transitioning from being post-college Midwestern boys into single career men of the city. We had an A-B relationship, Almost Boyfriends—all the comforts of a being boyfriends without the sex or the need for fidelity.  When Michael’s apartment lease expired, it was only natural that he moved in with me to build a home together. Though we were traveling a similar path, our roads where markedly different; I was seeking a life of international jet-setting, and Michael was providing basic social services to prostitutes and I.V. drug users in suburban Seattle. Our careers and goals could not be more dissimilar, yet when put together they created a rare and beautiful light.

Michael’s moving in transformed my large apartment into a cozy pad. Our furniture fit well together. A sleek pink couch beside an overstuffed chair, a mahogany bookcase and a garage sale pineapple lamp, a touch of Paris, a splash of Cleveland, a hint of Mexico, and a knowing glance from Minnesota all tossed together creating our home. Michael and I became firmly entrenched in adulthood. We abandoned the futons and particle board furniture of our puppy litter days, scaled back our parties, gardened and cooked, added a cat and realized the importance of good lighting. We dispersed lamps, candles, strands of Christmas lights and wall sconces throughout the apartment to warmly illuminate our home and our friendship. “At last, you have made a real home,” our friend Fred proclaimed. (This from the same man who had condemned one of my parties as “cheap and Spartan.”)

The lighting worked well at first, but when we decided to paint the dining room, controversy ensued. I consulted an interior decorator friend of mine from New York, and he suggested the color pink. I’d seen pink dining rooms done before and agreed it was just the touch our apartment needed to create an ambience suitable for intimate dinner parties. I could picture the gentle pink of the walls reflecting candlelight onto our guests, bathing them in warm elegance and encouraging them to linger late into the night drinking fine wine, eating exotic cheeses and engrossed in meaningful conversation.

Our implementation failed. We created a cotton candy nightmare, with a hint of wet bubble gum sheen. After a couple of days, we resolved to fix it. We toned down the pink by applying a wash to it and then painted salmon-colored vertical stripes for visual texture. The result was dramatic and did light well by night; a single candle transformed the room to a shimmering candy fantasy. By day, however, it looked like a piece of cinnamon taffy on steroids. The moment the last coat dried, my temperature shot up, my throat closed and four days later I remained in bed fighting the cold of the season. Each morning I woke and squinted past the Pepto Bismo palace, seeking refuge in the quieter rooms. I coped with the color for a month and a half, hoping it would grow on me, but ultimately resolved that it had to go. Michael, on the other hand, remained a steadfast supporter of the vibrant space,

“It’s fun,” he insisted.

“Sure it’s fun, Michael. It’s as fun as an ice cream parlor. But we have to live here.”

“It was your decision to paint it pink in the first place,” he countered.

“Yes, it was. I’m also happy to admit when I’m wrong. I was wrong. The pink is bad. Really bad. It gives me headaches.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“Yes, Michael, it is that bad. I can’t even eat in there. The only thing I can think of when I’m in there is when we can get rid of it.”

“It took us a week and a half to finish,” his voice glowered. “I’m not painting the room again.”

I sensed a slight concession on his part and seized the opportunity to bypass further interior design landmines by offering to paint the room myself; all he would have to do is help choose the color. After we agreed on “Sandy Saddle,” I spent the next day transforming the space. Within hours I muted the loud walls to a subtle shade of suede. Michael returned to the apartment and nodded reluctantly.

“It’s too dark,” he grumbled.

“We can light it. How about with the floor lamp from the living room.”

This was Michael’s floor lamp. While he was not keen on disturbing the lighting in the living room, he agreed to move his lamp. Both rooms would be tolerable until I could resolve the situation by adding a new lamp to the pad. “I want to put this back soon, but it will do for now.”

We had reached temporary accommodation. Before I could buy a lamp and finish the project, I became distracted by a different beam. I started dating Deg  a guy who had great lighting—modern lights that cut the darkness, black was black and light was light. Soon I was the focal point of Deg’s halogen spotlights. They were hot and bright and completely captured my attention. I helped Deg pick out a couple of lamps that gently warmed his otherwise crisp apartment, and the two of us created a space that was very well lit.

Back at home though, I slacked off and Michael’s lamp remained in its temporary place. As weeks passed, Michael’s frustration grew. Our home had been disturbed, and I hadn’t fulfilled my promise of completing the space and returning his light to the proper place. We argued, we yelled. We resolved. The next day I found a pair of sleek chrome lamps, but they were missing shades. Shades, mind you, are what complete a room. Certain the lamps were right, I bought them in full faith I’d find suitable shades. Just steps outside the shop in a heap of garbage on the sidewalk were two rusted hanging lanterns—one red, one green that provided the exact contrast I had been seeking to compliment the bases—polished chrome with rusted texture. I picked them up, brought them home, set them in place, and returned Michael’s lamp to the living room. He finally beamed, “I love the room. It really works.” Once again our home became a friendly haven.

Though Michael and my home offered warm peace, I remained enamored with the heat of Deg’s spotlight until the day I stepped out of it to find Deg no longer turned on the lamps he and I had bought together. The room beyond his halogen was cold and lonely. I picked up a sweater, my toothbrush and a few personal pieces, and returned home to gently warm my frostbite.

Shortly thereafter, I developed a fear for hot lights. Too hot. Unsettling. Unnerving. I even ended my time with the chorus to get out of the spotlight. The heat of the stage lights kept Michael’s attention and he continued singing happily. I directed my energy to my career, and soon was a sprouting businessman hopping the globe working to grow a small software company. Airplane lights, hotel lights, desk lamps, glowing computer screens and the lights of cities far away replaced the cozy lighting of home. Michael’s job kept him close to home, and with me away so frequently, he’d tweak the lighting to suit his needs. I would return from a business trip, to my dusty bed lamp and altered illumination throughout the apartment. There was no longer mutual agreement over lighting, as the place was clearly lit in Michael’s favor. He’d tell me about his recent dinner party with Richard, Neal, and David and I’d only notice some wax on the wall. He’d mention the movie night he’d had with Scott and Kevin, and I’d become agitated by the blue light bulbs he’d installed in his bedroom. Blinded by the corporate ladder, I had no time for dinner parties and casual entertaining. I developed a festering jealousy towards mood lighting and the people who had the time for them. Michael and I soon found ourselves arguing over voltage. I needed searing-wake-up bathroom lights; Michael needed gentle-wake-up bathroom light. Dim lights were just that, dim. Candles were too messy, light bulbs couldn’t be bright enough; morning lights had to be bright, go, go, go. At evening, lights just had to be off. Darkness. Michael, on the other hand, simply wanted to enjoy the nest we’d created and adjust it accordingly.

When I took a break from work, I spent time seeking external light sources, frequently through dating. Though I met a number of guys, none had the lighting I was seeking. Evan’s rooms always glowed, but they remained cool and crisp lacking the warmth of candles. Robert opted for firelight and firelight alone. Popping wood, scented candles and smoldering cigarettes illuminated his home. The smoke got in my eyes. Ming opted for basic light, functionally sound but stylistically unattractive. Jonathan was a designer by trade, and his home glowed perfectly. I couldn’t imagine it lit any other way. But perfection holds little interest for me. A quirk, no matter how small, adds depth and resonates with my style and ultimately we couldn’t find middle ground so we pulled the plug on our relationship both leaving slightly frustrated, but not angry.

Michael dated too, though the men he met never seemed interested in lighting. Each was a bit austere and unacquainted with the hues of good lighting. Stephen was the only guy Michael dated that recognized good lighting when he saw it. He was afraid, however, to properly exercise his skill. His apartment was a perfect canvas for illumination, yet through scholarly neglect, a single desk lamp was the only focal point. Some nights, after our respective dates, Michael and I would find ourselves alone together in the apartment. We’d light a candle, turn on a lamp or two, put a soft CD on, and pour a glass of wine. We’d climb out his bedroom window to the fire escape to smoke cigarettes and watch the traffic below. We’d remember that our friendship was more than just cohabitation. After a tender hug and a giggle, we’d wish each other a “Sleep well” and close our bedroom doors.

When the Fourth of July came, Michael and I watched the fireworks together. Bright plumes cascaded over Elliot Bay. The Space Needle stood firmly planted while pinks, greens, reds, blues and yellows filled the sky above it. The sparks trailed into the water reaching a quiet end. Michael told me that night he’d found a house that he wanted to buy. He’d been looking for a few weeks, but now the reality of him moving was no longer a dream, it was an unstoppable reality. Each Fourth of July a local AM radio station plays patriotic music to accompany the fireworks. One of our neighbors brought a transistor radio to the rooftop and tried in vain to find the right station. After several crackles and a few bars of America the Beautiful, the batteries died. “They’ll be finished shortly, anyhow,” our downstairs neighbor Carol said. We watched the rest of the display in near silence; an occasional “Ooo” or “Ahh” broke in. After the grand finale, an over-zealous display of red, white and blue stars and stripes, petered out into the water, the crowd dispersed leaving Michael and me alone on the roof.

“I’ll miss you, Michael.”

“I’ll miss you too, but I am ready to make a home of my own. Christ, I’d always thought I’d do this with a partner, but I’m thirty-one now, if I wait for ‘him’ to come along, I’ll never do it.”

“I know what you mean,” was all I could muster up. I gave his hand a squeeze and we went inside. Two weeks later while I was off on a business trip Michael called to tell me he’d closed on his house. His move-in date was set for August 15, so he assured me he’d cover his part of the rent for the first two weeks of the month. Within weeks what had been our home once again became a large apartment, but this time, I was alone.

The first night a couple of friends stopped by to have a look and assure me it was a great canvass to fill. I spent the next few weeks steaming the rugs, scrubbing the wood floors on my hands and knees, and moving furniture around to fill the place, I was still left with stark walls and dark spaces throughout the place. I threw myself into my career even further. More work. More travel. More quiet returns to an echoing pad. I separated my chrome lamps to try and make sense of the space. I shifted the furniture around again to create the right environment, but no matter what I did, something remained off. When I visited Michael’s home, the first thing I noticed was how the rooms of his house glowed invitingly with vibrant colors inspired by his Mexican adventures. Crisp, warm lights filled the rooms. All corners were touched and loved.

My career took flight. Dashing between meetings in New York and Los Angeles. , London and Amsterdam, Hong Kong and Tokyo, I met with potential investors, introduced software to future customers and spoke at length with journalists about how our software was the next “killer app.” When I was back in Seattle, I spent hours at the office managing a team and deciding our next product features. But I rarely stepped foot in my apartment. I ate out virtually every night. I had my shirts dry cleaned. I even hired a cleaning lady to simply wipe the dust and water the plants, A night of nesting at home never crossed my mind.

On a cool cloudy morning back in Seattle, I took a day off from work to do errands. I stepped into a shop off Pine Street. A simple antique floor lamp with a thin striped shade greeted me at the door. I tested the lamp, but the bulb did not work. I asked the shopkeeper for another bulb. We tried that, but it didn’t work either. “Hmm,” she commented from behind her modern, cat eye glasses, “My lamp guy said it was fixed, I can send it back and have him work on it again.”

“No problem, I can wait.”

“Next week okay? Try Thursday or Friday.”

“Sounds good.” I left her my number in case she got it back sooner. I took her card and carefully wrote “Call Thursday” on the back, and ducked out with a quick wave.

Over the course of the next two months I phoned and dropped by weekly and each time was assured it should be back any day. The lamp arrived when it was ready. To welcome it, I repainted the whole apartment. It fit in immediately, gently warming my chilled bedroom. I reunited the chrome lamps and realized that there was only one more space to light.

Ever since I was a child, morning has been my best time of day. One of my earliest memories was waking early one frosty Minnesota morning to help my grandpa milk his cows. It was dark when we started. Walking from the house to the pump house to feed the cats and then onto the barn to milk, the  darkness of the morning was strangely comforting. When we finished milking, the sun rising over thee barnyard and we returned to the house where grandma had breakfast waiting for us.
In my teens, when my  alarm went off, I was straight out of bed, and after a quick shower, was usually was the first kid at school. It was when I was  at university that I really came to terms with being a  morning person. If I needed to finish a paper or get to the heart of a difficult assignment, pulling an all-nighter was the worst thing I could do. I consistently lost focus around 6:00 pm and would just get frustrated. I found that putting my crayons away at dinner time and then  getting up with the crows the next morning was the key to getting a project done  properly.

Over the years, having a productive morning has become an integral part of my life. During my early-twenties, I taught a morning aerobics class three days a week. It was surprisingly fun. There was a core group of students who regularly came to my classes, leaping and jumping until sunup.  I still love morning work outs, but mostly just go running now. The fresh air is great in the mornings and it also preempts chance of finding any  excuses not to work out.

Since moving to London, part of my morning routine is taking care of the household chores. I’m generally up between 6 and 6:30 and have about an hour of time by myself. I spend the time in our kitchen preparing breakfasts and lunches, feeding Oberon (our cat), tidying up and the general household tasks. The Today Programme on Radio4 provides a running commentary on the news and events of the day (for Americans, it’s similar to Morning Edition on NPR).

One of the things I really enjoy about the Today Programme is that the presenters don’t shy away from controversy and frequently have guests with opposing views on a subject to debate. If two sides are not readily available, the presenters themselves play devil’s advocate. Politicians, activists, business leaders and random newsworthy folks are all subject to varying degrees of scrutiny.

It is this persistence of the British media to get real answers that sets the Today Programme apart from the US’s Morning Edition. In the UK, when a politician or business leader side-steps a reporter’s question, the reporter points out that the question was side-stepped, and the presenter asks the question again until it’s answered, or admonishes their guest for not being straight with the public. The interview style practiced in Britain is markedly different than the more touchy-feely American style. Remember Katie Couric interviewing Sarah Palin about her choice of reading material. When Palin became elusive and didn’t answer, Couric gently re-posed the question, but when Palin waffled again, Couric let it slide, leaving the Palin interview on  ambiguous ground. For Palin supporters, she answered evasively because she was being unfairly questioned; for  Palin critics, she just looked like an illiterate idiot.  Truly, no offense to Katie Couric or her interviewing style–it’s part of the American system. British presenters, on the other hand, generally call a spade a spade, and are more than willing to press guests to admit the same. Presenters in Britain  don’t shy away from offending their guests and don’t appear to kowtow for fear of losing future interview opportunities or corporate sponsorships. The world could be a very different place if the US media actually took off their kid gloves and asked genuine questions,rather than purporting to “keep them honest,” and I would be delighted to hear Mrs. Palin be interviewed by  John Humphrys.

Though Radio4 is generally very good about countering each argument presented, the other day, I was sorely let down. Whilst doing my ritual morning chores; making ab pot of coffee, boiling an egg,  folding a pair of socks, one of the guests began touting the need for legislation that would require images which have been digitally retouched to be labeled accordingly. The guest’s argument was that today’s media is filled with images of impossibly beautiful people, and that the psychological effects of these images on society, particularly on women and girls, warranted the proposed labeling.

The guest was unchallenged, and as far as I can remember, the presenters adopted a more American-style approach. They listened politely, didn’t present a counter-point, and then moved onto the next topic of the day. Though I have tried repeatedly to find the actual interview on Play it Again, I haven’t been able to hunt it down. That said, I have since found that the guest is not alone in her effort to legislate commercial imagery.  Recently in Parliament, a similar debate took place and in France last December, a politician there introduced  legislation concerning the disclosure of photo retouching, It appears the anti-Photoshop is alive and well in Europe.

While listening to the guest on Radio4, I couldn’t help but think that though she was raising a genuine concern, what she didn’t acknowledge and what the presenters failed to point out, is that a significant portion of the population want  commercial images (and frequently even personal ones) to be digitally enhanced. Having spent years now photographing people for portraits, adverts and magazines,  I have a good understanding of people’s expectations for a commercial shot–people want look how they feel they look, and generally speaking, true-to-form reality isn’t important.

People who commission a professional photographer expect beautiful lighting, attentive styling and of equal importance–artful retouching of the final product before it goes public. The resulting  image  will be used to promote a product or campaign or in the case of portraits, the personal brand of the subject. People want all the bells and whistles of a retouched photo, but they simply do not want others to know the full truth.  In fact, I would even put my neck out to say that the subjects themselves don’t want the truth. They want an image that makes them look younger, fresher, and more in command than what they see in the mirror.

I believe I’m safe to say that people’s desire to look better than they really do  goes as far back as  Egyptian hieroglyphics, Greek Kouros, or Michelangelo paintings. Can you imagine Mona Lisa with a zit on her forehead? True, these examples are works of art, but the argument that photography should always depict reality is complete nonsense. Commercial photography, by its very nature, is the business of creating an image or brand through photography, and tinkering with photos has been part photography since the beginning of the genre itself.

The camera, film or digits, light and shadows create the image foundation. Developing, post-production and printing are instrumental to creating the final image. Manipulating photographic reality has been integral to creating many of the most beautiful photographs. Starting with the right aperture and shutter speed to  cropping an image to using the  most advanced Photoshop techniques, commercial images are altered.

One of my photography instructors, Karlan Tapp, worked as  Ansel Adams’ assistant. Karlan  shared with our class that Adam’s development process  was like painting a picture. He would spend hours tweaking the process to achieve the precise results he wanted. Perhaps clouds needed to be a bit stronger in a landscape photograph , he would burn in the detail. Maybe the portions of the image needed to be lightened–so  a bit of dodging. Each of the final images was carefully crafted to achieve the final, glorious results.

When I first started hand-processing  black and white photos in the dark room, I too learned to rely upon these key steps in the printing process. As I’m a people photographer, however, I was intent on learning ways to flatter my subjects. Good lighting and proper positioning may form the foundation of a powerful image,  but these are not enough. People demand more from a commercial photographer. Whether it’s smoother skin, getting rid of eye bags or diminishing wrinkles, people want the full treatment from the commerial pro.

I first became aware of photo retouching  when I was seventeen. I’d had my senior portrait done and after selecting the final image from the set of proofs, the photographer Phil Revoir asked me if there was anything I wanted done to the final image. Did I want whiter teeth, brighter eyes or better skin? I was dismayed! I had no clue that this was possible. Without hesitation, I asked if he could make the scar that is  smack-dab in the middle of my forehead less pronounced. He offered to get rid of it completely, but that was a bit beyond reality for my tastes; lessening it was enough for me. When the final photos were delivered,  my scar was less in tact, and I was delighted.

Portrait photography became one of my forte’s during photo school. Using my 4×5 camera, I’d burn through sheets of Polaroids and black and white negatives to get the exact shot. Once taken, I would then set out to create the perfect print. Dodging and burning were of course very handy tricks in the printing process, but advanced retouching techniques to smooth skin or reducing bags under eyes eluded me.

One of the first techniques I tried was using cellophane during the printing process. Typically from a pack of cigarettes and  affixed to a long wire, the cellophane  helped blur the light hitting the photographic paper when waved under the enlarger.  The result was smoother skin in the areas of concern, but it was a very time consuming process, for each print had to be made the same way, each time. I had to write down how many seconds each area needed work on and needed to execute the same precision with for every print made. I found this a time-consuming process, particularly when more than one print was required. I asked one of my teachers,  a skilled portrait photographer  Gary Jentoft,  for his retouching tips. Gary had worked in Seattle and LA for many years, and had even assisted one of my heroes George Hurrell. Hurrell was one of Hollywood’s photographic giants. He was the head photographer at MGM in the 1930′s and remains the  father of  glamour photography. Hurrel’s techniques  both behind the camera and within the darkroom were instrumental in  creating the look of many of Hollywood’s most lasting stars.

Hurrell’s retouching skills were far beyond my rudimentary cigarette wrapper. Negatives were frequently painted with lead paint, he had a special machine to pin prick certain areas of negatives, and endless hours were spent to produce the gods and goddesses of Hollywood. I came across this fantastic example of a portrait Hurrell did of Joan Crawford (of course) from the 1930′s.  All of this done without the help of Photoshop. Simply amazing.

The concept of creating an image through retouching became a hot topic amongst my photo school classmates. There was one camp that was completely against retouching images. “Keep them natural” was their mantra. Though there is a  definite time and place for photos au naturale, I recognized quite quickly that a large segment of the population wanted their photos enhanced, and  I became confident with retouching final images. Yes, a commercial image needs a rock solid foundation that should be present at the click of the shutter, but it is post-production work that transforms a viable image into a commercial product meeting the needs of the client and their visual brand.

In the mid-1990′s I worked for Adobe Systems in Seattle, and it was there where I first came across Photoshop. While chatting with Tina Carter, one of Adobe’s tech support specialists, I learned some Photoshop basics and even more importantly, how the tool was used across the globe.  Photoshop brought the techniques of Hurrell and Ansel Adams to the masses by way of the personal computer–sort of a great photo equalizer. An expert in digital imagery, Tina had even been called in as an expert witness to testify about the veracity of an image during a court case. Working for Adobe, though I had the  opportunity to learn the software, it wasn’t until photo school years later that I really learned how to use it.

Between my first and second year of photo school,  I spent a month learning the basics of  Photoshop. I picked up a book by Scott Kelby and set to work editing the faces and bodies of my friends and family. It brought me back to my childhood when I saw an episode of Fantasy Island and first learned about plastic surgery. A blind plastic surgeon came to the island to regain his sight in order to see the woman of his dreams once more. The woman, probably played by Barbi Benton or Audrey Landers,  had been created by the surgeon to meet his specifications, and for a brief time, I wanted to become a plastic surgeon. That dream became scuppered when I realized I get sick to my stomach at the sight of blood, so becoming skilled in Photoshop was a very viable alternative.

Retouching photos is  a regular part of my routine and varies based upon client expectations. Usually it is to reduce bags and wrinkles, remove spots, and whiten teeth. At times I’ve had to remove chins (that’s tough!), shed some weight, enhance boobs and fix hair. I’ve made people younger, older, lighter and darker. At first I thought it might just be a gender thing, but quickly learned that clients–irrespective of gender–want varying degrees of the Hollywood touch, and most importantly, they don’t want to know about it, nor do they want others to know its been done. About two months ago, the Conservative party here in Britain launched a campaign with David Cameron’s face emblazoned across billboards everywhere. In looking at the photograph, it’s fairly clear that it has had  some work on it. Cameron received quite a bit of ribbing about the photo, but was perfectly happy to deny any knowledge of image tampering.

So what is the alternative? Clearly I am a proponent of retouching. It is integral to commercially viable photos for adverts and magazines. We are a society that places a great deal of emphasis upon image, but this is not new to our modern society. History is filled with people seeking perfection, we  just happen to have more people who have a great deal more  access to image-tweaking tools. Photoshop has given image editing capabilities to the masses, and while the proponents of retouching disclaimers do have a genuine concern, is their concern on par with society’s need for a bit of denial. There is a certain comfort in ignoring the cutting truth that none of us is perfect, all of us are flawed and each of us is getting older. A commercial image–whether of a beautiful woman, a sexy man or a great shot of ourselves–that has been retouched well, can inspire and make us smile. Do people really want a disclaimer to burst that bubble?

It’s been a few weeks since my last posting, and I fear I’ve already broken my resolution to have one posting a week. That said, I never realized that moving house would be such an adventure. Lee and I bought a place in south London and moved into it on Wednesday the 24th of February and have been settling in since. It’s a sweet house in Tooting, south London.

The type of home was our first priority. We knew we wanted a house and we wanted it to have three bedrooms. We preferred a Victorian place over a new build, and the property had to fit within a set budget. We poured over web sites and television programs about buying a house. I became addicted to findaproperty.com and rightmove.co.uk, and we spent many nights watching Location, Location, Location and sympathizing with the buyers. While shooting the Women in the City event back in November, I got to commiserate with Location’s presenter Kirsty Allsop on the plight of finding a home in London.

Once the house-style was set, we then went about finding the right area—and we cast a very wide net to be sure. London or elsewhere? Brighton was at the top of Lee’s list (Hove, actually). Bristol and Rye-East Sussex also entered into discussion. Utrecht in the Netherlands came up once or twice too. When Lee took a job in London, however, it became pretty clear that we would remain in London, at least for a while longer.

We then began whittling down which neighborhood we wanted to live in.  If you’re not familiar with  London, it’s a series of villages and towns that over the years have melded into seemingly endless Victorian suburban sprawl broken up by a common here or a  park there. The neighborhoods each have their own local flavor. There exists a north-south divide in London (separated by the Thames). Those that live in the north, rarely venture south and vice versa. I once spoke with a guy who lived in Islington and claimed to have only been south of the river twice in his life. There also exists an east-west divide, largely dictated by postcode. My friend Fiona spelled it out most clearly—she would never consider moving somewhere that didn’t have a “W” in the postcode, and preferrably only with a “SW.”

While Lee and I wouldn’t go that far,  our comfort zone is in the SW zones. In an odd sort of way, London reminds me a bit of Los Angeles. So many neighborhoods all blending into one major city. If you visit London or LA, chances are you only visit certain places and rarely venture beyond the usual tourist haunts. London, like LA, just just keeps on going and going. It has taken me a few years living here to see which neighborhoods I’d most like to live, and which of those are affordable to live in.

We looked in Clapham, in Balham, in Streatham, in Brixton. We checked out Gipsy Hill and Crystal Palace. We visited Sydenham and West Norwood, Herne Hill and Tulse Hill. We even ventured out of south London into Mile End and Stepney Green, but back to south London we went. Peckham, Dulwich, Walworth, and we were nearly sold on a place in Camberwell but we didn’t gel with the neighborhood. Though the house was fantastic, we wanted more in terms of amenities—pub within walking distance, better transportation links and a sense of community.

One evening after looking endlessly at a variety of places, we stopped for a pint at the Antelope Pub in Tooting, not far from our flat in Furzedown.   What was this? A lovely pub at our own front door? Just minutes from Tooting Broadway tube station? A couple nights later we we ventured into another place, the Tram Shed. Could this be true—two cool places to hang out in Tooting?

After a few of the pints at these fine establishments, we added Tooting to our list of possible neighborhoods and tossed out a number of others. Some were too far out, others too expensive. Some had great transportation links, while others were congested bus rides into town. Some were just dire and others just boring. Our aspirations paired with our budget landed us smack dab in Tooting—Broadway, not Bec. While moving from Furzedown to Tooting may not seem like such a big move, it actually had the potential to make life much easier based solely upon proximity to the Tube.

After establishing our neighborhood, we then narrowed our search even further, restricting our search to about seven roads in Tooting, close to the Tooting Broadway Tube station. Lee and I stumbled across a place one night while surfing the property web sites. It appeared to meet several of our criteria: walking distance to Tube—Check! Easy commute into city—Check! South London—Check! Neighborhood that we would want to go out in—Check! Easy access to a park—Check! Fixer-upper—Check! Three bedrooms and a loft—Check! Good-size garden—Um, well we had to give up something. Still, we do have a bit of outdoor space, so that seems to have been balanced out by the rest of it.

We arranged a viewing and instantly felt it was right. After some advice from our mortgage broker, we put in an offer. It was rejected. Back and forth we went. We were up against another couple, but they were  in “a chain,” meaning they had to sell their place before they could buy the new property. Because Lee and I were keeping our flat and renting it out, we were considered a better option for the sellers.

The sellers accepted our offer, thereby beginning the seemingly endless process known as exchanging and completing a sale. Though I have never bought a property before, I found the English system of buying/selling property a very  drawn out process. We had our offer accepted at the end of October/beginning of November, yet it still took until 24 February for us to move in.

Our property lawyer was very persistent and helped move the process forward. We got to see the pithy emails flying between the lawyers from both sides and were amused and slightly concerned about how things were going. Still, we remained optimistic and finally gave an ultimatum—either we move on the 24th of February, or we explore other options. That got the ball rolling. Within a few hours, we got a call from our lawyer saying the date had been agreed and that we could move ahead with our planning.

The move itself was relatively painless. Lee’s sister Sue, her husband David, and Lee’s dad Lynn were instrumental in helping make it go so smoothly. Sue should really be canonized, as she’s a saint with an attitude (if you read this Sue, I mean it in all flattering terms). David is our own action man—give him a heavy box to lift, and he’s already out the door with it. Lynn was our voice of reason, keeping us grounded when it seemed overwhelming. Lee and I were really fortunate to have them provide their no-nonsense approach to the move.

The movers came bang on time. There was a team of about four guys who quickly set to work getting everything into the vans. Within an hour of their arrival, one van was already fully loaded, and they were onto the second. Our solicitor gave us a call around 11 am letting us know that we had completed, and we could get the keys from the agent.

Lee and his dad popped over and picked up the keys. We met at the house and it was ours! It’s now been a couple of weeks since we moved in, but even the first night it felt like home. The place has a really good feel to it. Yes, we have our work cut out for us. The décor definitely needs updating, and some of the rooms need to be reconfigured to make them more functional, but all in all, it’s a great first house for the two of us.

This year over the Christmas holiday I turned forty. It’s an awkward time to have a birthday actually, not because of joint Christmas/birthday presents, but it’s the time of year that people are unavailable. Either friends or family are traveling for the holidays, or they are simply seeking refuge from Christmas pudding and saving up for New Year’s festivities. Whatever the reason, the 27^th of December is generally a very quiet day.

Lee and I initially started with some grand plans for my fortieth, but when decided to buy a house, a trip to the Cook Islands became a trip to Fulbrook in the Cotswolds, where we celebrated with our friends Will & Sean. They have a house called the Rough House just outside Burford, in a village called Fulbrook. Lee and I spent Thanksgiving there with our friend Kwong, and the Rough House is a perfect country escape.

With vacation planning, I’m typically a big picture person. I know where I’ll be, have a general idea of what I’d like to do, but frequently defer the details of the trip to Lee. He is excellent at researching the details, setting an agenda and planning out an excursion. For my birthday trip, however, he wanted to ensure it was truly MY day and tasked me with the actual agenda. I kept it simple: a country walk, a pub lunch complete with a local pint, and ample free time to shoot with my large format camera.

I bought my Sinar large format camera when I started photography school. For those unfamiliar with cameras beyond the world of point and shoot digital cameras or the more coveted SLRs, a large format camera is engineered simplicity. It is constructed of four basic parts: the bellows—the large part in the center resembling an accordion, a metal plate at the front with the lens mounted on it, and a plate of ground glass at the rear of the camera. Holding  this all together is a long rod at the bottom that you use to adjust the front and rear plates to focus the camera.

While in photo school, I spent the greatest part of my first year shooting solely with this camera. My instructors’ rationale was simple—shooting with a 4×5 forces you to work slowly and deliberately to create an image. Nothing is automatic. First off, you put a dark cloth over your head to see what you are going to shoot. Looking into the ground glass, you see the image, but it is upside down. To ensure a crisp focus, you use a focusing loupe and adjust the focusing knobs on the side. If you want to achieve selective focus, you can swing or tilt both the front and back plates of the camera (hence the accordion flexibility) to achieve your desired results.

To expose a shot using a large format camera, you use a light meter. This measures the light and is adjusted based upon the ISO of the film you are exposing. Once you have determined proper exposure, you then manually adjust the lens aperture and set the desired shutter speed. You then manually shut the lens, cock the shutter and are then ready to load the film. (Tired yet?)

Up until recently, when using film for a large format camera, you would shoot a test shot using a Polaroid to confirm exposure and composition before switching to the “final” shot using film. Both Polaroids and film require a special “container” that is put into the camera. Film goes into black plastic things called film holders, and a large format Polaroid is housed in a light protecting paper sleeve (of sorts) with a metal bar across one side. The Polaroid is put into a special device called a Polaroid Back which is then loaded into the back into the camera between the bellows and the ground glass.

Once the back is in place, you then confirm that the lens is shut, aperture and time settings are correct and then you pull up the paper sleeve. The Polaroid back holds the metal bar in place, which is attached to the Polaroid film. This is then left facing the lens waiting to be exposed. You press the shutter release cable, it triggers the shutter and light passes from the lens onto the Polaroid negative. The shutter closes and your films is exposed. You push the paper sleeve back into the Polaroid back, and once it is firmly back in place, you remove the entire back from the camera, flip the sturdy lever on the device from Load to Process and pull the entire Polaroid (sleeve and all) out of the back. It passes through a roller that starts the development process. After about a minute, you manually split the casement and there before your eyes is the developed Polaroid. You then pull out a tube of fixer aka “goop” and smear it all over the photo. The goop is rather pungent and it was our joke during photo school that it was a photographer’s drug of choice due to its powerful huffing properties. Without fixing the photo, it can fade or smear with time.

P55 was my Polaroid film of choice. A black and white film that included a delicate negative from which a full size print or scan could be made. Once the right exposure has been achieved, and you have gooped the resulting Polaroid image, you could neatly rip the negative away from the sleeve and put it in a Tupperware container of water to protect it. Once back at the lab, you then wash with salt water, rinse and then hang to dry.

Once the Polaroid steps have been completed and you’re happy with the results, you then switch to the film holders and expose the actual film. Need to follow pretty much the same steps as above, except you don’t have to pull the film out—you do that in a dark room to avoid ruining the film.

As I’m an early riser, I was up at dawn on the 27th and took my 4×5 out into the field next to the Rough House. It was a damp and chilly morning with a light rain spitting down, but I was prepared with my toasty boots, stocking hat and gloves. Hoisting the large camera and tripod onto my shoulder, I walked up the muddy lane to the small wooden ladder at the edge of the field. The Brits have fantastic public right of ways. Ancient paths have remained working paths to this day. If someone owns a swatch of land and there is a public right of way through it, then people have the right to use it. An interesting note is that the UK’s rural retreat for the Prime Minister is called Chequers, and it too has a public path running through it. Hard to imagine Camp David in the US allowing random walkers. paths are typically trails through the countryside.

While walking along the path, if you encounter a barrier or gate, there is invariably either little ladder to step over or my favorite, a kissing gate . At the rough house, there is a small ladder. I stepped carefully over it and into the field where there is a copse of ancient oak trees, surrounded by a smattering of lone oaks on the periphery.

The oak trees of Fulbrook area a fantastic subject to shoot, anytime of year. Back in November Lee and our friend Kwong visited here and I photographed them then too, still with leaves at that point. Now, however, in the heart of winter, they were perfect skeletons against the cloudy sky. The first shot here is of a cottage framed by the oaks. The picture is smeared because I waited until I was back in the house to goop the shot, and it didn’t set properly. That said, the benefit of the Polaroid 55 is that it has a negative included with it. I’ve saved that and am going to be processing that in the next few days. Stay tuned for the final product. That said, I really like the beaten look that this whole process has given me.

FulbrookAfter shooting through the cluster of trees, I decided to hop the fence and shoot one of my favorite trees. This tree is so slender and stark. the lower right branch follows the curve of the bush in the background. I shot using an extreme tile with this, ensuring that only a small portion of the tree is in focus, with the rest of the shot falling into a soft blur.

I set up my camera and the first shot. I pulled out my first Polaroid. On Boxing Day the night before, I had given a lesson in large format photography to Will’s nephew Archie and counted seven remaining Polaroid 55s. While digital photography has made it so easy for everyone to share photos seamlessly, it has been devastating for the Polaroid company. In 2008 they filed for bankruptcy and sold off their assets. They also discontinued the entire production of their films. The remaining Polaroids that I had in my case were probably out of date, but I figured they would still do the trick.

Finding my way around the camera again proved to be a bit trickier than I had hoped. It’s been about five years since I have consistently shot with it, so I was rusty to say the least. I’d left my light meter back in London, so using my small digital camera, I took a meter reading. Rather than calculating in my head the exposure I’d need for my Polaroid film, I turned to a cool iPhone application called Exposure Assistant. This app allows you to enter the meter reading from one source and it automatically translates it to the desired settings. Quite handy, actually. Once the exposure was determined, I placed the Polaroid back into the camera, made my adjustments and shot. Click, flip, pull and wait. The Polaroid sleeve indicates that a shot takes 30 seconds to develop in 70 degree temperatures. It was significantly colder than that. I slipped the sleeve into my jacket to warm it, all the while enjoying the sounds of the field. Only a gentle breeze and the occasional hum of distant traffic broke the silence.

I split the sleeve and found my first shot was over-exposed. Shot two. Same process. Remetered, recalculated, put second Polaroid in, checked all settings and click. I removed the back from the camera, pulled the sleeve and immediately realized I hadn’t flipped the lever. The film was exposed and another Polaroid wasted. Must be the cold going to my head. Third time a charm–successfully exposed and framed result. Switched to film for a few backups.

By the time I’d finished this second shot, my fingers were numb and I decided it was a good time to call it a day. Lee came out to meet me and helped me schlep the gear back into the house. We warmed up with a cup of coffee by the fire and then made our way to the Swan in Swinbrook for lunch. Mmmmmm…nothing like a pint and some scrummy food for my birthday.

On the morning of the 28th, I took the camera out once more. I had one Polaroid left and had saved it for the Gibbet Tree.

The Gibbet Tree is a legendary tree in England, for it was here that the infamous Tom and Harry Dunsdon were hanged in 1784 for robbery. Their brother Dick died during the actual heist because legend has it he got his hand caught  in a door shutter and his brothers cut off his arm help free him. Dick bled to death. Yes, they are the original Tom, Dick & Harry. The Gibbet tree bears their initial carved in its ancient bark.

Upon finishing my shot, I return to the Rough House and washed my negatives. They are beautiful pieces of art in their own right. In February 2008 Polaroid announced they were discontinuing their film. It’s such a shame. I looked online and a box of 20 can be bought, but it’s $300! Apparently an Austrian photographer and Ilford have teamed up to relaunch Polaroid film for enthusiasts. I never considered myself an enthusiast, but if that’s the case, I’ll become enthused when they sell for a reasonable price.

The first time I saw a horse chestnut tree was when I moved to Seattle in July 1992. I had been beating the pavement tirelessly looking for an apartment on Capitol Hill and decided to cut down a street I hadn’t tried. It was one of those rare Seattle summers where it was actually hot. At the bottom of the slope, on the northeast corner of the street was a little park with a giant tree. It was quite apparent that the tree was the reason for the park, as though there were smaller trees around the perimeter of the park, at the very center was this majestic, perfect tree. It’s leaves were broad and deep green and it reminded me of the Family Tree House toy that I had as a child (complete with pop-up canopy, exposing the various room).

I sat under the tree and was in awe of the beauty of it all. Capitol Hill was this incredibly built up part of the city with tall apartment buildings lining the streets, and smack dab in the middle of it was this tiny oasis, a well placed reminder of the city’s greener past. There was a beautiful building across from the park, so after a quiet sit, I popped by to check it out. No for rent sign and no sign of a building manager. I moved on.

About two years after that, my boyfriend at the time (James) and I were looking for an apartment together. It was all so very grown up. You know, first love–first apartment together–it really was quite sweet. We came across the same park and the same building. This time, there was a for rent sign out front. We found the apartment and moved in.

It was the end of October when I picked up the keys from the manager. The late afternoon sun was blasting on the rust colored leaves. When you rent an apartment in Seattle, one of the key things property managers boast is whether the place has “a view.” This typically means a view of the Puget Sound and the Space Needle. We couldn’t see either from our apartment, but we had the best view of all, the tree. From the dining room, we saw the tree. From our kitchen, we looked out onto the tree. From both bedrooms, we saw the tree and from the fire escape out front, we could nearly smell the tree. It welcomed us each day we cam home and provided a constant change of scenery.

I lived in that apartment for nearly ten years, during which time countless days were spent hanging out underneath the tree. Thomas Street Park was a place where locals met. It wasn’t a destination park, just a neighborhood hangout. James moved out and a string of roommates moved in. John, Doug, Kevin, Mark, Michael, Bill, and Jordan all shared the space, and each of us found comfort in the shade it provided. Once for Alex Moreno’s birthday, we hung a piñata on its lowest branch and used a broomstick to whack it. Mid-whack (I believe it was Andy Common’s at the stick), the broom handle broke into two pieces. Gay Gilmore was next up and with a bit of swagger, took the two stick ends and wielded them like two samurai swords. Whack! Whack! On the third hit, the handle came down onto her leg. The broomstick was metal and the sharp edge cut deeply into her leg. Eric Rockey took her off to the emergency room and that pretty much ended our time with the piñata. Gay returned a fallen hero. The doctors had given her something like twenty-seven stitches. We poured her another drink and the party carried on.

On a trip to Vancouver one year, I came across a street vendor selling roasted chestnuts. Smoky and nutty, I loved them. They’d been roasted over coals and the cup they were in even warmed my eternally frozen fingers. I was certain that I could recreate them in Seattle, as the nuts from “my tree” looked just the same. (“Look the same” and “are the same” are two distinctly different animals).

After collecting a good quantity of nuts, I popped them into the oven and roasted away. Once they split, I eagerly picked one off the cooking tray, peeled it, and took a bite. It was horribly bitter. It was then I learned that this beautiful tree across the way was not a chestnut tree, but a horse chestnut tree. Horse chestnuts (buckeyes to some, conkers to others) look like chestnuts, but are toxic. They are used by some people to treat varicose veins, hemorrhoids, and enlarged prostate, but they are not eaten for pure enjoyment. I disappointedly emptied the tray into the garbage.

In the summer of 2000, my friend Broc Dobervich moved to Seattle for an intership. He and I were hanging in the apartment out one Sunday afternoon when there was an enormous crack followed by a crash.  “OH MY GOD! The tree fell down,” was all he yelled. Sure enough, the tree had split down the middle and half of it now covered the park. We darted out the building. A crowd began to form. Police came. Yellow tape went up. “Can’t believe no one got hurt,” on person exclaimed. “It just fell,” said another. “Is it really dead?” someone asked. That night, Broc and I sat on the fire escape, looking with sadness upon our fallen friend.

Over the course of the next few days the cleanup took place. First the fallen part was cut up and taken away; then amidst protest, the rest of the tree was chopped down. It was then that I knew my time in that apartment, and in Seattle needed to come to a close. I needed a new path and a new direction. That’s when I moved to Europe.

Lee and I live in south London in a neighborhood called Furzedown. It’s a small suburban area between Tooting and Streatham. Most Londoners have never heard of it. Close to our house is Tooting Common. (For the Americans there, a “common” is sort of like a park. It was once the common land for the people to bring their cattle to graze and all that. South London has three large commons: Clapham, Tooting & Wandsworth Commons. As Tooting Common is our closest common, it’s my running route of choice. From our place, around the common and back is 4.8 miles. Perfect distance for a lunchtime run. One of the best parts of the run is that Tooting Common is full of horse chestnut trees. The Brits call them “conker” trees, because the fruit is used to conk people on the heads. There are several conker-lined paths in the park and it is a great place to run.

A couple of summers back now (July 2007), I was out for a run and I noticed that several of the trees were turning color. I thought it was odd that fall was already descending on us. As the weeks passed, I began noticing that it was only the conker trees that were affected and upon closer inspection found that they had signs of disease. The leaves had blotches of infection and the bark was oozing a reddish sap.

Two years on, I’ve learned a great deal more. The conker trees in Britain (and through much of the EU) are under threat of disease and pests. Bleeding Canker is killing them from within, and the horse chestnut leaf miner is attacking the leaves. http://www.guardian.co.uk/environment/2008/apr/02/conservation.wildlife and http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-438490/Tiny-conker-tree-moth-biggest-garden-pest.html sum up the problems facing the trees.

One morning in July this year I counted 110 affect trees on the common and then in August I took out my camera and captured them. It’s so sad.