A few weeks ago I ran into an old colleague of mine on LinkedIn. I knew that he’d gone off to work for Google after we both left LizardTech, so it was good to catch up. I shared my photos and he shared the project he’d been working on, Google Street View. I was really impressed. I’d kept tabs on him over the course of years, and I was delighted to see someone I respect a great deal doing something so cool. He asked if I ever shot interiors. While I haven’t really done a big push on interior photography, I have worked with a number of companies over the years photographing interiors. He told me that his team was moving ahead with a project called Google Business Photos, and asked if I would be interested in working with them on this. He got me in contact with his associate in Bulgaria and within a few weeks I was ramping up to become a trusted Google Photographer.

After a number of weeks studying, taking the trusted photographer test and now doing my preliminary shoots, I’m on my way to become a Certified Trusted Google Business Photographer. It’s pretty cool. Effectively what I’m doing is taking panoramic walk-through photos of businesses and then integrating them into their Google Place Pages and within  Google Street View. This allows anyone to go to a business online and explore it from the comfort of their own computer. Google started this out in the US, but London was one of the first places outside the US that they ventured into.

While it is clearly a really cool opportunity, as I’ve spent the greater part of the last decade building up Mark Weeks Photography, I certainly don’t want to lose the momentum there. Because of this, I’ve launched Weeks360, a sector of my main business, but solely focused on doing Google Business Photos.  The service offered is simple and straight-forward: photograph the business, stitch the images together, post them on Google and job done.

About a week ago, Lee and I spent the weekend working on the name, the service offering and then of course the logo, the branding and the marketing materials. We are both really happy with how far we’ve come to reach this point, now just are looking to get more businesses up on the map. That should be the fun part!

Christmas Cracker

The simplest place to start would have to be the Christmas Crackers. No British Christmas dinner is complete without these snappy little packages. Placed at each guest’s dinner setting, a cracker is sort of a cross between a fortune cookie and a piñata and contains a minimum of four key ingredients: 1) a bad joke; 2) a useless prize; 3) a paper crown; and 4) an element within the cracker that produces a cracking sound that cracks when the package is torn apart. Tradition as to when the crackers are cracked apparently varies from the north of Britain to the south of Britain–some people crack them at the beginning of the meal, while others crack them just before pudding (dessert). The tradition of the cracker is quite communal. Everyone crosses their arms across their chest while gasping firmly on one end of the cracker. The person seated next to them takes the other end, and this position continues around the table. With a one, two, three countdown, the crackers are all pulled resulting in a resounding “POP!” From there, you dive into your cracker. Paper crowns are donned, prizes are compared  and much like the fortune from Chinese fortune cookies, the jokes are all read aloud–each followed by an audible groan from the crowd.

Lee and his folks Wendy & Lynn wearing their cracker crowns

When I first moved to Britain, I lived in an expat bubble. My friends were mostly other Americans, and as I hosted guests at my place during  my first Christmas in Britain, we completely missed the cracker course. It was only when I started dating Lee and began having a real English Christmas, that I learned about Christmas Crackers. Although all crackers carry all the basic ingredients, it wasn’t until this past Christmas that I realised the degrees in cracker quality. Not all crackers are created equal. Pretty much every retailer wants to cash in on the cracker action. From Tesco to Harrods, you can find the cracker that is right for your budget. What does remain the same, regardless what strata of society you happen to fall in, everyone at the table invariably wears their paper crown for all or part of the meal. It’s all terribly British.

Bonfire Night

Guy Fawkes Day or Bonfire Night is another tradition that seems to elude most non-Brits. Started in 1605, the evening commemorates the foiling of a plot by the Catholic Guy Fawkes and his band of rebels to blow up the Houses of Parliament. Fireworks are launched throughout the land, and bonfires with effigies of the Pope, Guy Fawkes or the unpopular politician of the day (Sarah Palin, George W. Bush, etc) are tossed onto the fire. No one seems to bat an eye at the holiday’s anti-Catholic sentiment. But again, for newcomers to Britain, if someone doesn’t explain Bonfire Night, it just seems like an ordinary night that happens to have fireworks. In fact, back in 2006, one London neighbourhood decided that they had so many immigrants for whom the celebration meant nothing, that they scrapped Guy Fawkes and replaced him with a Bengal tiger. While this created an uproar in the press, other councils dominated by politically correct mandarins seemed to think it was a good idea too. In 2011 the Southwark council proposed to rename the age-old tradition “The Colour Thief: A Winter Extravaganza Celebrating The Changing Of The Seasons”. While I understand the desire councillors have to creating cohesion within a community, can’t this also be done by educating people on why the holiday came into existence in the first place?

Apart from silly Christmas traditions or controversial Pope-burning ceremonies, the Brits also have a whole slew of pop culture that never made it to the States (or at least not to Minnesota). The Carry On films stand out as quintesentially local humor . Made from the late 1950′s through the late 1970′s, the films hold a unique place in the hearts of many a Brit–or dare I say, the English. Camp, bawdy, silly and profoundly slapstick, they were full of innuendo, double-entendre and titty jokes. Think Benny Hill, but on the big screen. The names of each film gave viewers a pretty good idea what they could expect to see: Carry On Sergeant, Carry on Doctor, Carry on Spying, Carry on Cowboy…you get the picture.

Typical Carry On poster

Produced on a shoestring, the films typically featured an ensemble cast with a number of well known regulars including Kenneth Williams, Hattie Jacques and Barbara Windsor. Last spring Lee and I were perusing in a shop in Brighton called England at Home where we came across a collection of plastic plates and cups, each emblazoned with scenes from Carry On Camping.  Knowing his sister Sue is both an avid camper and more importantly a self-respecting Carry On fan, we snatched the last complete set up. Birthday present, sorted. While the actual jokes and plots of each film have all but  faded into the nation’s collective memory, the series has had a lasting impact on modern Britain, particularly when it comes to headlines. When the Conservative party failed to secure a clear majority and was forced to forge a relationship with the Liberal Democrats, one newspaper’s headlines declared, “Carry On Coalition!” To the untrained reader, it might appear the newspaper was cheering the politicians on, but a seasoned Brit would see through the words and understand that the editors were not only mocking the politicians, but challenging them to get their act together. I suppose the closest thing I can think of as an American would be to call something a “three-hour tour...”

The Two Ronnies

While in today’s market where media conglomoerates may only do a show if it has huge international appeal, it seems quaint that there was a time when British television didn’t cross the pond. When Lee and I  make it back to the States, we invariably get caught in a conversation with some  American just who just adores Mrs. Bucket. Most everyone we meet knows AbFab, AliG, and the impregnable Downton Abbey. But what about the Two Ronnies? A sketch comedy show from the 1970s catapulted two already well known talented comedians,  Ronnie Barker and Ronnie Corbett, into true British legends. But while their sketches have become iconic here in the UK–how  many times have I heard or even now uttered the phrase “Four Candles” with a knowing smile–I’d wager a bet there are few of my tribe that would know who they are. About the closest reference for Americans would be Harvey Corman and Tim Conway.

As I write this, I am acutely aware that in our über-connected global community where we can access practically everything in just a few keystrokes, it is easy to become smug about what we know. History, commentary, films, pictures–you name it–are all at our fingertips. Everything we could possibly want to know about a culture is instantly accessible, but most likely only if you have heard about it in the first place. Tea, the Queen, black cabs are all done to death, but the other day I stumbled in a shop in my own neighbourhood that truly transported me into another era, the pie and mash shop.

Harrington's on Selkirk Road

A pie and mash shop sells exactly what it says on the tin (another British expression): meat pies and mashed potatoes. Some sell jellied eels or stewed eels, but pies, mash and licker are the mainstays. (While reading up a bit more since then, I’ve seen licker written as liquor; perhaps that is the correct spelling, but as it is a tasty treat that makes you want to lick your plate, I’ll use Harrington’s spelling.) When I first moved to London back in 2003, there was a shop on Tower Bridge Road that had a sign out front advertising eels. I didn’t dare enter in. Then about a year ago, I spotted Harrington’s pie house on my way to get my hair cut. Tucked in between a Halal butcher and an opticians is one of a handful remaining pie and mash shops. I asked the girl hanging outside what the place was and she told me they sold pies. Being on the go, I didn’t stop. Then the other day, Lee and I were out in Tooting doing some errands when we got a bit peckish. He suggested we try the pies. Stepping into the shop, I was amazed at its simplicity. A counter on one side. Tables with wooden benches on the other side. People walked in briskly, ordered their food and then sat down and ate it, or dashed off with the hot meal in hand.

Lee ordered first. “I’ll have a pie with mash, please.” You want “licker?” the woman asked. “Yes, please,” Lee replied. “You want just a bit of licker or as it  comes?” “I’ll take it as it comes.” She picked up the pie, plopped it onto the plate, then using an ice cream scoop, wiped two dollops of potato onto the rim of the plate. With the flick of a wrist, she proceeded to pour a healthy portion of green gravy (licker) on top of it all. “You?” she asked. “I’ll have the same, but easy on the licker.”

We found an empty table and sat down to enjoy our meal. I have to say, I felt really foreign. It wasn’t the food, that was tasty. It was the complete package. It was as if I had ventured into a world where only the English ventured. As we sat and ate, a steady stream of customers popped in. “One pie, two mash and licker.” “One pie, one masher and licker.” “Two pies, two mash and licker.” The woman at the counter greeted them all with a smile and within about a minute, the customer was off.

As we finished our meal and paid our bill, I asked if I could come back and take some pictures. “We’re closed on Mondays, but if you come back on Tuesday, Bev will be here. She owns the place. It’s been in her family for over a hundred years, and I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

I stopped in the next Tuesday and sure enough, Bev was there. She had heard I was coming. I’d left my camera at home, as I didn’t want to presume I could just start snapping. “Come back around three,” she said. “It’ll be a bit quieter then.” “I can take pictures, right?” I asked. “Sure.”

Fourth Generation Owner of Harrington's

I returned at three and Bev greeted me with a smile. The line was still long and though I felt a bit obtrusive, once the customer was served, Bev made me feel right at home. We sat down at one of the tables and she told me a bit about her shop. Her granddad had opened the place back in 1908. When he died, her grand nan took over. She passed it onto her son. When he died, his wife took the place over. Bev’s father took it over from her and after thirty-seven years in the business, he then passed it onto Bev when he retired at sixty-five, and she herself had started working in the shop when she was thirteen.

Pretty, well-spoken, no-nonsense and clearly a good businesswoman, Bev has all the ingredients for a strong business. Now…I’m a photographer and I happen to write. I don’t consider myself as an investigative journalist, but I did get to ask Bev a few questions about her shop and the place it holds within the community. Her customers are largely English. While Tooting is quite a multicultural neighbourhood, when someone indicates their customers are mainly English, it’s safe to assume their families have been in England for generations, and that there are not that many newbies like me popping in for lunch.

Pie, Mash, Licker...but no Eels

Harrington’s menu hasn’t changed since it opened, and even more importantly, the recipe has remained the same as well. Passed on from one generation to the next, the pie is made with minced beef and two types of pastry–one type for the base and one for the top. The mash is just mashed potatoes–no milk, no cream, no salt, just potatoes. “And the licker?” I asked. “Oh, it’s just a parsley sauce,” Bev answered slightly evasively. I could sense she didn’t want to share her secret licker recipe. My friend Will is a caterer, and he told me that he once had to make it. The licker is just stock with parsley and cornstarch. Bev let me know there is a wee bit of green colouring added to give its hue.

Another couple of guys walked in. Bev darted behind the counter. “Double-pie, double-mash & licker.” She served them up and returned to our conversation. “What’s the plan for the business, then,” I asked. “Will you pass it along to your children?” Bev took a slight pause and said that was the unknown question. She has two girls and two sons, three of whom had worked in the shop and the youngest was ten, but he too would join the ranks at some point. Another customer stepped in. “Is it ok if I take some pics?” I asked as she made her way to the counter. “Sure.”

One of Harrington's regulars

A few of the customers were camera shy when this strange American asking a lot of questions pulled out a camera. One woman, Miss Bush was quite happy to help out. “I’ve been coming here for years,” she told me. “My mum took me here when I was a girl, and I’ve been coming here since.” She then told Bev she remembered Bev’s father and that her own mum and Bev’s dad had been in hospital at the same time. “Was that when he was in for cancer?” Bev asked. Miss Bush nodded.

Bev sat down again, and we continued our conversation. “Have you been in Tooting all your life?” I asked. “I don’t live in Tooting,” she replied, “but I’ve been here all my life.” “Has the neighbourhood changed?” “Oh yes. Most definitely.”  Once a largely white working-class neighbourhood, Tooting became a destination for many Indian and South Asian immigrants when Idi Amin expelled them from Uganda in 1972.  Since then, the Asian population in Tooting has grown from a handful of families to now over 20% of the population. But walking down the high street in Tooting, you get a sense that it is much more than 20%. While there are a handful of national chains–Sainsbury’s, Boots, all the big banks, and even a Caffe Nero, a fair bulk of the shops are Asian-owned, underscoring the unique nature of Bev’s shop.

Regardless of colour or creed, the cool thing about Tooting has to be its working-class roots. When the riots hit London last  August, I was  impressed that our neighbourhood didn’t suffer the same fate as some of the neighbourhoods around us. While Tooting has a number of shops that were at the top of the looter’s list, we weren’t hit. In deconstructing the (lack of) impact of the riots on Tooting afterwards with our friend Charlie at our local pub, we concluded that it was the common shared value of working hard to make a better community crossed ethnic boundaries and helped keep Tooting out of looters way.

Bev and her daughter

As an island of Englishness in a neighbourhood of chain stores and ethnic shops, my thoughts returned to the future of the pie shop. Could a shop that only serves minced beef pies and jellied eels survive another hundred years? Clearly from the unending stream of customers, the market is there. Was she concerned that the shop would be squeezed out by a sanitized chain restaurant or transformed into a Curry house.  ”Not at all,” Bev said. Her biggest fear, however, was that when everything was said and done, would one of her kids have the drive and vision to take the helm. Her youngest daughter was sitting behind the counter. Bev nodded in her direction, “She’s off to uni next year,” Bev said. “My other daughter, maybe. The boys, not sure. It’s just not the same as when we were kids. Well, I can’t speak for you,” she said, “but I know it wasn’t the same for me.”

Steely Resolve

I took my last shots and shook Bev’s hand. As I stepped out the door onto the street, I felt less foreign than when I first stepped in and dare I say it, I felt a sense of pride, British pride. Bev’s steely resolve and pragmatic approach reminded me of how Britain has remained a global power for centuries. Though I personally cannot trace my ancestors back for generations here in the UK,  I took comfort in the thought that if her children have half the resolve of their mother, they should have have no trouble seeing the business into the next century too.

Take the successful architect. He showed up an hour and a half late and chain smoked through the entire shoot. Gruntingly boorish in his manner, I was certain to capture his greasy hair, big belly and booze-pocked nose. Returning to the office to process the images, there was no retouching required. I uploaded the files from my camera, had a quick look to pick out the best ones, exported the RAW files to TIFFS and sent them off to my editor.

Conversely, there was the portrait of managing director from Cyprus. Though incredibly successful at the helm of his company, he didn’t seem to fare too well when it came to his diet. “Can you make me look slimmer?” he asked in a polite and childlike manner. “No problem,” was all I said as I positioned his body in a way to diminish his size and eliminate one of his chins. Afterwards in Photoshop, I gave him a bit of a tummy tuck, whitened his teeth and brightened his eyes. He never looked better.

These two shoots exemplify just a couple of things I learn from my subjects on a daily basis. If you want to look like a surly and bloated bohemian, be a jerk to the photographer. If you want to look the best you possibly can, a cordial conversation goes a long way.

There are shoots, however, where the impact that my subject has on me goes deeper than simply affecting my mood that day. When I shot a series of images for a youth charity in Seattle, I asked one of the subjects to sit alone with her backpack on a quiet staircase and look as if the bag was the only thing she had in the world. She shared with me that when she first came to the charity, it was all she had. I had to breathe deeply so as not to cry. Having come from a stable family with loving parents, it’s easy for me to take for granted all of the many opportunities this has afforded me and forget that many people don’t share that experience.

When I had the opportunity to photograph Rachel Elnaugh, a successful entrepreneur and former Dragon from the BBC’s Dragon’s Den, I didn’t have an assistant that day and had a bit more kit than I could comfortably manage myself. Without batting an eye, she asked what she could carry, picked it up and off we went. A simple gesture, and one I gleaned typified her chief cook and bottle washer approach to life. Clearly she didn’t get where she is today by sitting back and expecting others to take care of everything. If a task was at hand, she’d roll up her sleeves to get the job done.

While simple interactions like this are great anecdotes for dinner party conversations, occasionally, however, what I take from a shoot hits a bit closer to home, leaving me reflecting on the issues well beyond the tube journey home. Earlier this summer I was commissioned to photograph a series of images that would be used for the launch of a fitness studio in London called Bootcamp Pilates. A high-end exercise facility targeting urban professionals and yummy mummies, Bootcamp has four studios across the city and a large pool of fitness instructors to keep their clients in shape.

The photo brief was to capture three distinct shots of each instructor for use on the company’s web site and in its promotional literature: a portrait on a white background, a shot of each trainer giving instruction, and a photo of each instructor demonstrating one of the Pilates positions used in class.

On the surface it was a very straightforward shoot that went completely to plan. The instructors were chipper and cheerful, and very easy to work with. We experimented with a number of different positions and lightings to ensure that each one was shot in a way that best represented Bootcamp’s brand. I’m not completely sure when it happened, but perhaps while photographing the third or fourth instructor, I began to feel a bit, how best to phrase this, old and fat. Granted, most of the instructors were somewhere between twenty-five and thirty-two (whipper-snappers), and as they were fitness instructors, their bodies were active all day long—so of course they were in great shape. But my brain had no room for logic. As I took a sip of my cappuccino, the lyrics to Paul Simon’s song Call Me Al, “Why am I soft in the middle…” raced through my brain.

I finished the shoot on schedule and made my way back home, all the while pondering when I had transformed into this older, flabbier version of me. At home, I put away my gear and hopped into the shower. While drying off I looked down at my belly, my middle-age trophy, and pondered, how? This was what Bette Midler would probably refer to as the moment my sautéed chickens had come home to roost.

OK, admittedly I wasn’t obese, but I had to ponder where the body of my youth had gone. I was an aerobics instructor for years in my twenties. I’ve run a couple of marathons, but when—or better yet—how, did I allow myself to reach this point. I stepped onto the scale and realized I was the heaviest I’d ever been. I tucked that away into my brain and went about my day. The truth is, I’ve always struggled with the demons of flab—more precisely, my lack of self-control and my whole-hearted willingness to overindulge myself have been two guiding forces in my life, constituting the two little devils sitting on my left shoulder. Opposing these demons is the angel of determination who steps in when necessary to counteract their evil ways. Somewhere along the line, however, that angel fell asleep on my right shoulder, and as a result, I was now carrying an extra twenty extra pounds.

As I write this, I’m acutely aware that this posting has the potential to sound self-righteous, fattist or just raise the hackles of people I know and love, but my intention is to be quite candid about a problem that affects the bulk of Americans and many others in the developed world including me, over-nutrition. According to WebMD, 63.1% of adults in the US are either overweight or obese. SIXTY-THREE POINT ONE PERCENT! That’s huge. And the UK is not far behind, with just this week the government predicting that by 2030 over 40% of the population will be overweight here. The US Department of Health estimates that 300,000 deaths per year are the result of obesity and the cost to the taxpayers to deal with issues related to obesity run to about $117 million per year.

Stepping off the scale, I found myself at very upper limits of the target weight guidelines for men of my height, and that was disturbing. I’ve been close to this before, but each time before I’ve simply donned my running shoes and lost the weight. But somehow, this time it felt different. The word diet dashed through my brain. Diet? What? Me? How? I heard the voice of the cook from movie The Women whisper, “That Adonis figure won’t last forever without a little help from the kitchen,” and knew what I needed to do.

I’ve never been on a diet before. In my teens I drank Diet Coke because it was the rage, but at some point concluded I hated the aftertaste of any artificial sweetener, and went back to the real thing. I’ve never counted calories nor denied myself when tempted by a cookie or piece of cake. The truth of the matter is that I like to eat too much, drink too much and when given the option between a going for run or going for a sausage roll and a pint with Lee, I’d probably choose the pub. Something had to change.

While back in Seattle in June, Lee and I met up with our friends Gay and Troy for dinner, and they looked amazing—fit, fresh and genuinely youthful. We’d seen them a couple of years before and at that point they had gotten into shape after years of toiling behind their computers. Over a wonderful dinner of steak and salad, we grilled them on what they’d done to get so trim and stay that way. They shared that they’d incorporated exercise into their daily routine and when asked about their diet, they candidly said they’d not gone on a diet, but rather changed their diet by dramatically reducing the amount of carbohydrates they consumed each day. Hmmm, exercise and watching what you eat, you mean it actually works? Say it isn’t so. Armed with that sage advice, Lee and I left Seattle to complete the rest of our eating/drinking festival across the US.

Returning to London after our travels, I felt like a bloated pig. My intentions to keep fit while in the US had been quashed by late night catch-ups with friends and eating out every meal. But I had no fear, Lee and I had mentally embraced the challenge to slim down and redefine our bodies. While that may sound extreme, it was a very active decision to take charge of our bodies, get in shape now, and create a foundation for keeping fit moving forward.

Whenever I think of friends who are in shape, my friend Rod is one of the first to pop into my mind. We were roommates in the early 1990′s and once I lamented to him about how slowly the fat was burning off, he simply asked, “How long did it take to get there?” Touché. What sets Rod apart from many people is how he has incorporated exercise and a balanced diet into his daily routine. Keeping healthy and fit is his norm rather than the exception to the rule. He enjoys eating and drinking as much as the rest of us, but has a managed approach to his consumption, sort of like paying off a credit card at the end of every month. If you don’t, you simply carry too big of a balance over and incur unwanted interest.

For the first couple of weeks of the changed diet, Lee and I grappled with our decision. No bread, no crackers, no nuts, no fruit. No sodas, no milk, no beer, no wine. As we bemoaned what we were missing, and our cravings just seemed to increase. It was hell when attending our niece Hollie’s fifth birthday party were we had to forgo not only the cake, but also the homemade chocolate chip cookies. I’m not one wired for denying myself. You know when you walk into a Starbucks and see a sign that reads, “Indulge Yourself” or “You Deserve It,” I’m certain those copywriters have me specifically in mind. The truth is, however, that though the words desire and deserve may start with the same three letters, they are not interchangeable. I may desire a double-choccie-mocha-fappie-latte, but I wouldn’t deserve one any more than an eighteen-year-old looter in Croydon deserved that color TV or pair of sneakers he stole during the London riots.

As the weeks passed, however, adhering to the new routine became pretty easy. We had eggs and bacon for breakfast, snacked on cheese cubes and avocados, and ended the day with suppers of meat and vegetables. At the same time, both Lee and I re-established our exercise routines, knowing we needed to strike a balance between good eating and consistent exercise. The weight began to go away, not at a stupid-fast pace, but a couple pounds a week, and by the end of week seven, I’d dropped fourteen pounds. Not bad. While my objective was to drop the full twenty pounds, I was pleased with the initial results, and following the general guidelines of the new diet, began to introduce things back into my diet.

This is where the all the good work has the potential to go to hell in a hand basket. One piece of toast in the morning easily becomes two slices with a little bit of jam thrown in for good measure. Go on, indulge yourself. One pint of beer leads to a second pint of beer leads to the third pint of beer. You deserve it! Don’t even get me started on the bag of cinnamon saltwater taffy our friend Will brought back from the US—it was gone in a matter of hours. These “special treats” that are meant to be my exceptions have the potential to become the norm.

Over the years, I’ve had a number of wake-up calls to address my gluttonous behaviors. When I was in fifth grade, I remember telling my teacher that I typically ate ice cream once a day. He kindly replied, “A kid your size shouldn’t be doing that.” When I returned from living in Taipei, my friend’s dad poked my belly and said it was time to get into shape. And in my early thirties, while on holiday in Sitges with my uber-fit friend Alan, he pointed out I needed a serious fitness regime.

Previously, however, losing weight wasn’t a problem. When I was ten, I didn’t need to pay heed to my teacher’s wise words. I hit puberty soon after and got taller, dispersing the fat while keeping the ice cream. Problem solved. When I was in my twenties, I just picked up my running shoes and lost the weight. No change necessary. When I was in my thirties, I resorted to the gym in order to lose the weight so I could land a boyfriend. But now that I’ve hit the forties, am a bit more settled in my ways. I have a partner, own a house and run my own business. I know that my metabolism has changed a bit, and more importantly, my lifestyle has changed a great deal. The question at hand, what would motivate me to do something to prevent slipping even further. Vanity? Perhaps. A lot of gay men I know tend to have the Barbie complex—you can never be too rich or too thin (or in this case, too fit)! But Lee and I have never really subscribed to that mentality. Sure, I’m probably just as vain as any other guy I know, but vanity only goes so far, there has to be a motivating factor that is deeper than what I see in the mirror. Some motivating factor to transform my Pilsbury Doughboy self-image into one a bit more along the lines of a maturing Ken doll. And that something was found at the Bootcamp shoot. People who had embraced fitness as part of their life and reminded me of that lifelong commitment to themselves.

Practically every summer over the last six years, I have photographed an annual forum in Seattle called the Pacific Health Summit. Here healthcare leaders from across the globe come together to discuss the major health issues confronting society across the globe. Two years ago the topic was nutrition. The forum focused on the problems of malnutrition in the developing world and the issue of over-nutrition in the developed world. One of the speakers shared an interaction he had with his own GP. As I was photographing the event and not responsible for the minutes of the event, my recollection of his exact words are a bit cloudy, but the message was quite clear. Will exercise, watching his diet and keeping consumption of alcohol to a minimum make him live longer? His GP’s response was, probably not, but it would help him live better.

The story got a number of chuckles across the audience of industry professionals, but the speaker’s message was loud and clear. We in the developed world have the choice to look after ourselves. We don’t have to worry where our next meal or snack or drink is going to come from. We have the choice to regulate or indulge ourselves, and have the luxury to choose to exercise or not. The net result of our choices, however, is perfectly clear. As a society, we are choosing that extra cookie and we are choosing that pint of beer over a run, and we are consistently choosing it on a daily, weekly and monthly basis. Myself included.

So what’s the punchline? I’m still confronting this issue head on, and truthfully, I expect that I will continue to do so for as long as I have the will power. I’m back at a comfortable weight, but for how long? How long is a piece of string? I gain strength from the Rods in my world and accept that maintaining a healthy and balanced diet is an ongoing process. I also remind myself of the things in life I truly deserve: life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. A slice of chocolate cake may give me pleasure, but somehow that doesn’t fall into an unalienable rights. While nothing in life is ever set in stone, let’s hope that the next time I wish to indulge myself, I’ll simply add an extra mile to my run or do a few extra sit-ups to make my day. I may not live longer, but it will help me live better.

Shop closed in the middle of the afternoon

Over the last week, images coming out of England have painted a dark and dire picture of this country that is now my home. Scenes of riots, looting, and the silhouette of a woman jumping out of a burning building are now ingrained into the psyche of people across the globe. Videos on YouTube of people flagrantly oblivious to the suffering of others, endless Twitter messages and the non-stop barrage of politicians, police and pundits stepping forward (now) to discuss how to fix “Broken Britain” has created a complete sense of unease here in the Capital, as well as across England.

Woman jumping from burning building in Croydon

In the aftermath we have images of shops boarded up mid-afternoon to prevent any further disturbances and then ultimately the stories of the disenfranchised yobs and dishonest Samaritans, who seized the opportunity to wreck havoc on society, now being wrangled by the law to face judgment in court.

While these images are now part of our collective memory, I thought it might be good to take a step back and remember that there are good things about this country, and that even though the ugly side of humanity has shown its face full-on, this country is beautiful and I’m fortunate to have the chance to photograph here.

A couple of weeks before the riots, I had an assignment from my client, Kinleigh Folkhard & Hayward estate agency, that was quite different from my mostly people-centric photography; they asked me to photograph a bridge in Finchley, north London. They included a photo of the bridge in the brief they sent me. It was a lovely bridge across a babbling brook with dappled lighting and delightful contrast. They included directions to the bridge and sent me on my way. Initially I was to have done the shoot on a Monday, but because of a mechanical problem with the aircraft on my flight from Minneapolis to London, I was delayed a day, pushing the shoot to Tuesday. It was cutting the deadline a bit tight, but the client understood and we agreed to have it done Tuesday afternoon.

Arriving home on Monday afternoon, I delighted at the beautiful summer evening, and looked forward to an equally beautiful day for the following morning. It never came. Clouds moved over the British Isles around five o’clock the next morning, and hovered over London with their grey light, completely devoid of any contrast or vibrancy. As I walked from the tube station to the bridge, the clouds seemed darken even further, and any prospect of a cloud break seemed bleak at best.

Following the client’s directions, I came across a lovely arched footbridge over a babbling brook. I took a meter reading of the light, set my aperture and shutter speed to what the reading indicated and began photographing the bridge. After having captured it from a number of different angles, I decided to look at the photo the client provided in the brief once more. As I couldn’t replicate the lighting, I could at least replicate the exact location and position of the bridge in the shot. I pulled the image up on my phone and began scouting for the precise place that photo had been shot. Hmmmm…as I came to the spot I believed the photographer had shot it, I noticed that the trees were a bit different. Upon closer inspection, however, I realised that the bridge I was photographing and the one in the photo were two separate bridges. The one before me had a gentle arch, while the one in the photo was flat. This was really strange. I had followed the directions to a T, but oddly enough, this wasn’t the bridge they wanted.

I rang my client. We discussed the bad lighting and the arch of the bridge, and she asked for a few minutes to confer with her colleagues.When we spoke again, she understood the lighting dilemma, but it would have to suffice due to the tight deadline. She also confirmed that there were actually two bridges over the brook. A pair of patrolling police officers passed by. I asked them if they knew where the second bridge was. One of the officers pointed to my left and said there was another bridge about a mile in that direction. I asked if there was anything to my right, and he just shrugged saying he only knew of those two. With camera and tripod in hand, I began hiking. The canopy of the trees darkened as I proceeded deeper into the woods. A gentle pattering of rain fell and then ceased and I continued walking.

After about fifteen minutes, the foliage cleared and the path ended at a main road. “That’s it?” I thought. I looked  around me for signs of a continuing path, but there was nothing. I googled  for any information the Internet could provide on the park, the trail, on footbridges in Finchley. Nothing. I resigned myself to bad lighting and the wrong bridge. Frustrated, I made my way back to the arched bridge.

Setting my gear down at the side of the bridge, I flipped through my shots. Frankly, none were really that interesting. There was no beautiful lighting, no dappling from the sun kissing the bridge through delicate foliage. Just plain, drab grey light. Then it hit me, I would underexpose the shot and push it in Photoshop. This technique is called push processing, and when done properly can create more vibrant colours and contrast when needed. I’ve used this method countless times when doing portraits when I’ve wanted to increase the saturation of the shot. It made perfect sense that it would work in this situation too.

Photograph as shot

To achieve a successful push, you first need to underexpose the image. I looked at my light meter, then decided to stop-down one and a half stops. In layman’s terms, this means I decided to underexpose the picture 1.5 times. Then, when I uploaded the image onto my computer, I would then be able to increase the exposure, and in theory, it would provide greater saturation and contrast.I began shooting again, this time with the confidence that something good would come from it. Looking at the resulting images on the back of my viewfinder, I saw dark pictures with a few highlights. But I trusted that with the right attention on the back end, I could create an image that met my client’s needs.

After shooting a card full of dark bridge images, I packed my bag and headed up the trail, back to the station. As I came to the fork in the trail where I once turned left,  I decided to go right instead. About fifty feet later, I found right bridge. Since I was there, I pulled out my gear once more and began shooting the client’s bridge of choice, employing the under-expose/push trick to this as well. Once I had enough options, I re-packed my gear and went home.

I sent the proofs over to the client and within an hour got a message back indicating they wanted the arched bridge. I then set to work processing in Photoshop. I pushed the image about 1.5 stops and the contrast popped. The final resulting image was going to be a black & white image, so once converted into black & white, I was able to tweak it once again to accent the contrast even more.

Black & White final

Sending the final image over to the client, I paused to think about the entire image creation process. Though the client had quite a specific image in mind for the final product, time and weather constraints scuppered that vision. In order to meet their needs, it required a bit of ingenuity and a few well tried tricks to fulfil the brief and satisfy the client. The resulting image was not what they had initially planned, but one that was indeed unique for them, and distinctly from me.

While I may be over-stretching the mark to use this as an analogy for what England needs to do in the aftermath of the social unrest, I do think that there are a number of parallels to draw from. If we as a society only focus on the surface “truths” from the events, we see nothing but gray skies. If, however, we look for ways to deal with the social issues at hand that employ some fundamental basics that have indeed been tried and tested over time, we as a society may find our own Eureka! moment. Though some may choose to use a giant paintbrush to claim that the root of England’s social unrest lies either in racial or socio-economic-based divisions, for us to find a solution, or even just a solid repair job, for Broken Britain, we as a society need to look at our collective bag of tricks to find a unique and distinct solution for these problems. By not putting it off to a sunnier day and dealing with the situation at hand head-on, we may be able to take these lemons we now hold and make lemonade.

Early this month, Rod rang me up and asked me to photograph some stones for one of his clients; not just any old stones, but Scholar Stones that he had gilded with gold, platinum and other precious metals. The work had been commissioned by a celebrity known for elegant style, and Rod’s call piqued my interest.

Scholar stones are naturally occurring rocks that have been weathered and shaped by the elements. They are characterized by having interesting shapes and paired with open gaps. The stones have been revered by Chinese aesthetics since 1200 a.d., and are still widely used in traditional Asian gardens and homes.

Rod met me at Shepherd’s Bush station and gave me a lift to his workshop, a delightful den where old world meets new. After a cup of British coffee (instant coffee, milk and two sugars), I set to work. The craggy shapes lent themselves to a moody shoot complete with shadows and patches of darkness. Using just one light and a reflector, we shot our way through the rocks.

In the early 1990′s, I spent a year living in Taiwan. While there, I first became familiar with the Chinese love of rocks as decoration. Mountains carved out of giant pieces of jade, pillows made from beautiful marble, and of course decorative stones placed strategically in a garden to help aid the flow of qi. At the time, I didn’t know that these were called Scholar Stones, and I was completely unaware of the demand for them. Do an Internet search and you can find site after site featuring, discussing and selling these objects. Then of course there is the second question of gilding the stones, and upon further reflection, it made perfect sense: beautiful, ancient, with just a bit of bling thrown in for good measure.

I too happen to have a number of rocks tucked away at my home (I just  haven’t had them dipped in gold), as I find rocks to be good luck. If I go for a walk and come across a pretty stone, I’m apt to tuck it into my pocket–I’m the antithesis of “Take only memories, leave only footprints.” Okay, maybe I’m not that bad, but I do find a small stone is one of the sweetest reminders of a happy moment. I have pebbles from a family outing in East Sussex, I have a stone from a trip to Andalucia with Lee, I have a perfectly polished piece of basalt from a hike outside Seattle, and I have a giant agate from the sand pits behind my aunt & uncle’s farm in rural Minnesota.  While none are as glamorous as the Scholar Stones, they  each evoke a distinct memory of where I was at in my life at the time I found them, who I was with and the land from which they came.

While shooting the Scholar Stones, I was enchanted at how turning them even slightly resulted in a completely different photo. At first I was hesitant to move them myself for fear of having them crash to the floor. But once I got into the swing of things, I was able to manipulate them and the light around them in such a way to create these shots. Towards the very end of the shoot, I asked Rod to step into the frame, resulting in one of my favorite portraits to date.

The other day I had what can only be called a photo-filled-day-o-rama. I had three clients, all in need of images immediately. Through careful planning,  I was able to stack them all together into one day, maximizing my time and ensuring that I could deliver the right shot for each. As each of the shoots required a different net result, I made a detailed plan the day before, to ensure that the day would go without a hitch.  I sketched out my lighting for each shoot, made a detailed list of all of the equipment I needed throughout the day, packed my bags, charged all batteries, gave a call to Marek–who would be my assistant for the day, and finally plotted my journey from home to shoot A to B and then to C. When my alarm went off the next morning, I was rearing to go.

Cut-out shot on the left, Composite on the right.

The first shoot for the day was to create a couple of images for a mortgage brokering firm in “the City.”  When people say “the City,” they are referring to the area that was the historical center of the original Roman settlement  Londinium. Today this area is the heart of the UK’s finance industry, and arguably the heart of all international banking. At the center of the City sits the Bank of England, affectionately known as the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street, and next to the Bank is my favorite building in London, the Royal Exchange.  Londoners also commonly refer to the City as  “the square mile,”  because the original settlement was one mile by one mile and surrounded by a great wall. Remnants of the wall still remain, and if you know where to look, you can still see sections that remain.

Bank is the main underground station at the center of the City, and is notoriously busy in the mornings and evenings. Though the journey to Bank lasted just over half an hour, it felt like a lifetime. If you haven’t experienced the joys of a London tube journey at rush hour, I highly recommend you give it a miss. Crammed between a man with headphones tinning out some head-banger hit and a woman with too much perfume applying eyeshadow while standing on a speeding train is not my idea of a good time. Then of course there are the never-ending glares that other passengers are giving me because I had my an entire portable studio along for the ride. Still, once situated in place, the trip advanced with relative ease, nothing compared to what Marek and I would face once we reached Bank.

Bank at 8:45 am is one of the most frenetic places I have ever been. Why I agreed to shoot there at that time of day is  beyond me, but keeping a stiff upper lip and all that, we soldiered through the crowd. Picture Disneyland at 9:00 am on the fourth of July: a seemingly endless sea of people all pushing to get to the front of the line, only to turn a corner and find another line of equally epic proportions snaking its way into the horizon–that is what Bank is like every morning. Marek and I let the bulk of the people pass. Seeing a small break in the crowd, we jumped in to secure a place before another train could arrive, spitting out another throng of people. I was glad to have Marek with me. Apart from being a very talented photographer and an exceptional assistant, he is both tall and strong, two qualities well suited for schlepping heavy gear up and down the tube system.

We got to my client’s office and set up. I was shooting two images both on white background, one of a youthful man in a call center headset, the other of a confident gray-haired guy to be the face of their business. This photo was to be shot as a cut-out, meaning that the person would be cut out of the image and put onto an other background. My client had already selected the background, but now needed the right face to represent their brand. I really enjoy shooting for spec, because it means that my client has really thought through what they want. Many times when working with small to medium-sized enterprises (SMEs), the customer knows they need something, but can’t quite put their finger on what they want. They know if something is wrong, but many times are unable to articulate what is right. Fortunately for me, however, Rob at Capital Fortune knew what he wanted. He and I had considered a number of different models, and then settled on someone Rob knew. A lawyer by day, our subject embraced his role as a model and as the face of Capital Fortune, and we swiftly got the shot we needed. No time to rest, we had another shoot to get to.

Leaving Capital Fortune’s office, I was struck at how quiet the City was. In less than forty-five minutes the madness had been transformed into a nearly zen-like garden. I could almost hear the birds chirping in the distance. Clearly all the bankers were off counting money and doing whatever else bankers do. Marek and I, however, were delighted by the great fortune of getting back onto the tube without passing anyone. Destination: Finchley Central. This was the first time I’d travelled this far north. Living in south London, it’s not uncommon to never go north of the Euston Road. The City and the West End are the typical stops, but unless there is a reason to go beyond your hood, you just don’t. When I first moved to London, I was told about the north/south divide.The Thames cuts the city in two. People who live on one side rarely cross over to the other side. I have one friend who simply said, “I never go south. I’m north of the river, south of [Hyde] Park.” The only fitting reply to that is, “I’m south of the River, North of Croydon.” Funny, but my version just doesn’t conjure up the same visuals.

The second shoot of the day was a series of three portraits of property developer Jonathan Salsbury. Like my previous client, Jonathan had thought about the distinct purposes for his portraits. One was for his company’s web site, one for LinkedIn and a final portrait for Facebook. I find it incredibly interesting how in the space of just four years, how LinkedIn and Facebook have forged their place within the overall market approach for businesses. Recognizing the importance of each medium, Jonathan wanted to vary the way he was portrayed in each, while maintaining a consistent caliber of photography for each.

Assessing the space, I got to work lighting each shot. As his company was quite conservative, I chose soft lighting accented by soft shadows. Using the same white background as before, I simply didn’t light it, resulting in a pale gray effect. For LinkedIn, we chose a more trendy lighting style. Strong shadows against a stark white door, a touch of fashion to this mover and shaker. Finally for his Facebook portrait, a softer, kinder look created by softer, kinder light–generated by the sun and a reflector. When I’d taken the last frame, I knew we had achieved our objective. A quick sandwich and off to our final shoot of the day.

We arrived at the Dorchester Hotel just before 4:00. Upon entering the elevator, Marek gave me a giant grin. He’d not been to the Dorchester before and it was the perfect place to end our day. While the brief for this shoot was a bit less structured, I knew the task at hand–to create one beautiful shot that could be used to promote a men’s underwear show that was being held during London Fashion Week. The designer greeted me warmly. I met the models and from there set out to create the exact effect. The room itself was tastefully decorated in soft neutrals, but I wanted some drama.  A mirror shot, using ambient lighting and a tight grid spot made for a lovely shot.

After packing up our gear and saying our goodbyes, Marek and I nipped into a cab headed  to Victoria Station. We giggled at the span of work accomplished in those short eight hours. From the City to the inner suburbs and back to the West End. From banker to developer to fashion model, it was a day of wild contrasts with peaks at every stop along the way. While looking out the window of the cab, I couldn’t help but think that it was this kind of variety kept my motor running. Certainly, it isn’t necessary to do this every single day, but maintaining the freedom to shoot a wide range of subjects does keep it interesting. Over the last several years, I have met several art directors who want to place my work into a box. They claim this makes it easier for them to find the right person for a specific job.  I’m very interested in turning the question back to them: if you are a design agency and have just finished a brochure for a bank, does that mean you can only do brochures or only work with banks? If you are a graphic designer and have created a logo for a ketchup bottle, does that mean you only work with bottles? Do you ever venture beyond tomato-based foods? People are generally my preferred subject of choice. But once the lighting is right, and the styling is just so, it is the connection with my subject–whether a fashion model or a corporate titan–and listening to their stories, that gives me the variety I love.

I’ve known about this companyfor a couple of years now. Their founder approached me at the tail end of 2010 to photograph her shoes for an advert in GQ. We’d never met, but when I got a text message from her on New Year’s Eve wishing me a happy new year, I figured it would be a matter of days before we’d start working together. It was the first week of January when she brought the shoes around. We hit it off quite quickly, chatting about  life, redecorating houses, and the different personalities of our cats. She then pulled out two pairs of gorgeous shoes, which in just a glance I could tell these were the real deal. The Company is one of those “bespoke British” companies that designs and hand-crafts shoes for the very well-heeled.

After recovering from my shoe-struck moment, we began discussing how she would like them photographed. We looked at the ad layout, and then dove onto the Internet for what she casually referred to as “shoe porn.” We visited countless sites of competing brands with gorgeous shoes. Some of the sites we looked at were as beautiful as the shoes they  presented, while others may have had  quality shoes, but the photography and web design fell flat. Note to competitors….an iPhone snapshot doesn’t really do your shoes any favors.

“You know your tea image,” she said, “I’d like a shot like that.” I’d done a shot a few years ago of a pile of tea in front of a teacup. I’d put the image on my site for a while, then forgot about it. she hadn’t forgotten it, but I knew precisely what she wanted. We continued perusing the various shoe sites, then she left me to it.

I must admit, I don’t have an extensive track record photographing shoes and when I think of my work, shoes aren’t the first subjects that spring to mind. People, yes. Clothing, yes. People in clothing, again a yes. People out of clothing…um…er…yes. But shoes? Why not? One of my photography classmates put it best, “It doesn’t matter what the subject is, as long as you light it well, the shot will be beautiful.”

Photographing the shoes was a delight. They were solid yet sleek, and beautifully crafted. While the upper part of the shoe was impressive, it was the sole of the shoe that really grabbed my attention,  as it was constructed with what my client called a “London Waist” or “Fiddle Waist” sole. The waist of the shoe refers to the  different heights/extremes of the part of the sole in front of the heel, and with the London waist style, there is a beveled effect. These were even further accented by the two tones of leathers used to construct the sole. It’s this level of detail that men’s shoes, quite frankly, miss out, and consequently places this pair into a league of their own.

After having shot this exclusive pair of shoes, I decided to treat  a few of my own shoes to a glamorous photo shoot. Why not? If beautiful lighting could do wonders on a gorgeous pair of shoes, surely my own shoes could benefit from  bit of pampering and attention.  Shoes are one of those things in life that I am really particular about. I don’t keep a large collection of shoes, ok, maybe a fair few more pairs than my brother, but he’s straight. Tennis shoes (a.k.a. Trainers for Brits), street shoes, running shoes, suit & tie shoes shoes, hiking boots, slippers and flip flops constitute my core collection, and each pair has been carefully selected to ensure it serves a specific purpose. I have little to no redundancy in my shoe collection. Also, I maintain a strict standard during the buying process, as if a pair happens to slip by and I’m not completely 100% behind them, they become abandoned at the bottom of my closet where they collect dust until they are donated to a charity shop.

While I tend to keep my idiosyncratic obsession restricted to myself, I am acutely aware of the shoes of those around me. When my parents were selling the family home, we met with a number of different estate agents (Realtors for American readers), and I advised my parents to not to go with particular estate agent (Realtor for Americans) based upon his shoes. When I told my mom, she nodded in agreement. She too couldn’t trust a man in those shoes.  Even more importantly though, I’ve even made  dating decisions based upon a prospective partner’s footwear. I shared  shoe-selection criteria with my friend Rod, and he thought I was crazy. He insisted that “You can always change a guy’s shoes.” The only logical retort to that, however, was simply, “Yes, you may be able to change a guy’s shoes, but you cannot change that element within his psyche that told him it was ok to purchase–and wear–a pair of shoes like that in the first place.” Call me judgemental, and I’d have to agree.

I recognize that my own shoe selection may or may not be everyone’s cup of tea. It’s quite possible that I too have been ruled out of dates or lost out on a business deal  because of my footwear, trust me, people are that petty (present company included). Still, they are my shoes and I stand in and by them.  Lee says I’m hard on my shoes, so I shall apologize now if they look a bit tatty. Though the lighting did’t change, I decided to “keep it real” and give an un-manipulated view and ever-biased commentary on my own shoes, a photographer’s take  of an “Unplugged” album from the 90′s.

I will start with my slippers. These were a Christmas present from Lee’s folks. Lee’s mom Wendy knows I love slippers and every Christmas I get a fresh pair from M&S. I wear them all the time, right now as I type in fact. I hate ambling around the house with cold feet or dusty socks. Ever since I was a kid, I worn slippers. When I was just five, I thought the best present I could give my cousin Chris was a pair of slippers. Not having any money, I wrapped my own red slippers up and gave them to him for Christmas. It elicited gales of laughter from the adults and I was informed how I shouldn’t give a pair of used slippers as a present, but in all honesty, Chris needed a pair of slippers and I didn’t see the harm. The slippers were put back into my own closet and I ultimately grew out of them. Most likely, they were chucked into a bag and given to Good Will.

My Workhorse pair is an ageing pair of shoes that had their its heyday in the early 2000s. Bought while on holiday in San Francisco, this pair replaced my absolute favorite pair of shoes, a pair of Diesels that I’d bought while living in Holland. While that pair is long gone, this pair is reminiscent of them. The red accenting  first caught my eye, and to this day, keeps me from tossing them out. Though the soles are worn thin and the leather is scuffed beyond recognition,  they are still good for painting the hall and demolishing walls.

My Suit & Tie pair has seen better days. Purchased at a time when the Pound was incredibly high against the Dollar, I gulped as I bought them thinking, “HOW MUCH???” Still, their price pales in comparison to the pair in my photoshoot. As I now rarely put on a suit, the shoes simply serve as a gentle reminder of a different time, a different life.

My Sporty Spice pair was purchased as a whim at an outlet mall just outside Seattle. Though I was searching for a different pair altogether, these grabbed my attention. Practical for walking, easy on the eye, and sporty enough to wear most anywhere. I’ve destroyed them a few times over, but a little dip through the wash and they’re like new. Lee isn’t a fan of this pair. He fails to see how well they round out my shoe collection, branding them as somewhat chav-tastic.

Asics are my running shoe of choice, and my Runners probably get the best beating out of all of my shoes. My friend Ben introduced me to Asics years ago, and I haven’t looked back. I’ve run two marathons in Asics, and every two years I go out and buy another pair. This pair is just over a year old and I’ve  logged about 800 miles in them. Perhaps they will see a marathon in 2011, or maybe they won’t. Not sure yet, but at least they will keep me going on Tooting Common.

Controversy is the only word that comes to mind for this next pair. First off, I’m not a fan of white shoes. Kathleen Turner killing  Patty Hearst in Serial Mom has left me scarred. Secondly, this pair is made by Ecco. Not that I get too hung up on brands, but my perception is that Ecco shoes are for a slightly older crowd. This was confirmed when I showed up at my friend Will’s place and he made a similar comment. White shoes for the geriatric crowd, nice. Still, Lee pointed out that the yellow banding made them somewhat trendy, so I conceded.Comfortable and attractive, they now make a a fitting pair for a man of my age.

My Sneakers were purchased last Easter at Aldo. While Aldo does have some stylish models, the quality of their shoes has a lot to be desired. I’d worn through a previous pair and thought I’d give this one a go. Within two weeks, the strap at the back broke. Having spent the better part of three months looking for “the right pair”, I opted to superglue them and not bring them back. They’ve been through shoot after shoot, street after street and finally last week decided to pack it in. The front of the shoe became unglued. Time to retire this 9 month old set.

My Boots were an impulse buy. I haven’t worn boots since my Doc Martins wore out in the early 90′s. I slipped them on and found them a nice change of pace from my largely tennis-shoe-centric collection. Although they were attractive, they were designed with one glaringly bad design flaw–they had a leather sole, which in rainy London is a recipe for disaster. After slipping my way through Soho one wet afternoon, I had them resoled with rubber and now they’re fine.

So those are my shoes. Simple, straightforward but trustworthy.There is a particularly memorable line from the film  Sunset Boulevard. When the down-on-his-luck writer Joe Gillis (William Holden) sneaks behind Rudy’s shoe parlor  to pick up his car which he has hidden from the repo men.  Gillis quips,  ”Rudy never asks any questions. He’d just look at your heels and know the score.” Similarly, if I see your shoes, I’ll be passing judgement too.

Christmas has to be one of my most loved and most hated holidays. I love what the season is all about, giving, sharing and fellowship. I detest the stress and hype that is part of the Christmas I know now.

One of my biggest pet peeves is seeing anything remotely “jolly” before December 1st. Call me old fashioned, but I really mean it. Selfridges annoys me to no end with their Christmas shop opening in August. I cringed at the beginning of November when Oxford Street installed their holiday lights, and at the end of October, I caught my first whiff of an eggnog latte from Starbucks! What is this all about? Christmas comes in December!

That said, I am not a total Grinch. I do enjoy the time with a warm fire, a hot drink in hand and some light carols (not Channing) in the background. The smells are great and the general feeling brings me back to “name that decoration” with my sister Heather in the rec room of our Minnesota rambler.

This year, I decided to celebrate the season in pictures! My friend Federico (model/opera singer/gorgeousness incarnate) and I teamed up to create this little wonder. Lee’s sister Sue made the box. She is a trusty handy-woman to be sure (quite a totty too!). One of the best parts of preparing for this shoot was buying the wrapping paper and ribbon. There were two Chinese women behind the giftwrap counter and one was making my bow. Assuming I didn’t understand Mandarin, one of them turned to the other and asked, “Did you just fart?” I immediately began to giggle and said I believed she did because I could smell it too. The woman was mortified, but we shared a laugh in the end.

Federico was a great sport. He popped into the box. We did the shoot and within minutes, my season’s greetings was a reality.

While flying to Austin for a meeting the other week, I realized that over the years, I have formed a rather biased opinion about Texas without ever having been there. J.R. from Dallas, an episode of Charlie’s Angels where Kelly and Chris go undercover as Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders to take down a conniving southern belle murderess (aptly played by Audrey Landers), the big boss in the white suit from Smokey and the Bandit with his little side-kick, and of course George W. Bush have all been instrumental piecing together a rather negative opinion of “the great state of Texas.” Gas guzzlers, ten-gallon hats and bull horns on Cadillacs all race through my mind when I think of Texas.

My opinion on Texas has of course been tempered over the years. My folks went to Corpus Christi in the 80′s, and they came back in one piece. My friends Susan, Eden, and Steve are all from Texas, and they’re good fun. Ann Richards was a Texan and I admired her. Michelle Shocked, Nanci Griffith, and sexy Matthew McConoughy all come from Texas, so clearly Texas can’t be such a bad place.

Still as a man from north of the Mason-Dixon line with limited exposure to people south of that divide, I find my preconceived prejudices are difficult at best to overcome, and stereotypical images of Texas, Inc. fly in the face of many of my own values. “Everything’s Big in Texas!” embodies the overall excesses that Americans have become famous for: big land, big cars, and an unapologetic attitude against economy. While this behavior happens all over the US, when it is coupled with “Good Ol Boys” and “Don’t Mess with Texas
” bumper stickers, it’s hard to separate the wheat from the chaff.

It was on my flight from Chicago to Austin that once again, I was forced to reconsider my anti-Texas sentiment. Seated next to me was an incredibly talented photographer, Nathan Addison , a photojournalist who also shoots weddings. Nathan is from Texas and lives in Austin. Like all my friends from Texas have already pointed out, Austin is different than the rest of Texas. It’s got the Capitol, a university, great music, great bars and culture. A bastion of liberalism in the red sea of Texas.

Nathan was returning from shooting a wedding in Virginia. His compact flash cards had been acting up, so we commiserated about the stress that corrupt cards create and discussed some trouble-shooting tips for PhotoRescue, an amazing application that has saved a number of my own shoots. Nathan also carried a floppy teddy bear. While at first it seemed odd for a grown man to be holding stuffed toy, when I asked what the bear’s name was, he said he didn’t know, as it was his four-year-old son’s bear. No further explanation was required, as his smile said it all. Traveling with the bear was a sweet reminder of his wife and son waiting for him to return home. We discussed photography, our families and politics. We even discovered our shared passion for long distance running. What? Could this be yet another Texan that appeared perfectly normal? Indeed, I forced to accept that my imagination is far more biased than when faced with reality. Nathan and I exchanged emails and he sent me on my way with a few top tips for my Austin visit.

When I got to my hotel, the Renaissance Hotel Austin, it definitely lived up to my expectations of Texas: it was a huge hotel with a large entrance and an even bigger center atrium. My room was spacious and clean and the bed looked like it could sleep ten. What a change from compact London, particularly since Lee and I have been in the middle of the dusty job of restoring our Victorian home. Ahhhhh….it was nice to be in America. I’m such a hypocrite!

On my last evening in town, I decided to venture out and see the city. Austin, in an odd sort of way, reminded of St. Paul. A smattering of old buildings interspersed with skyscrapers. What struck me most was the number of parking lots in the middle of the city. My cab driver had suggested a few sites to see, but it was clear that the Austin bats were a great place to start.

The Congress Bridge Bats

The cabbie dropped me off at Congress Bridge, and I made my way down to Lady Bird Lake where a small crowd was beginning to form–all waiting for the bats. There was a family sitting on the grassy hillside, and I asked them if they knew when the bats would be out. Like me, they were on their first visit to Austin and had no idea when the bats would emerge. I ventured along the path under the bridge where I chatted with a woman from New York. She too wasn’t sure what time the bats would come out. She had an old Nikon camera and was shooting film, a proud luddite through and through.

A woman on her evening walk passed by and mentioned that the bats didn’t start stirring until quite late, probably 9:45 at the earliest. It was only 7:00, so I opted to take a walk around town. Back up to the street, I headed north on Congress Avenue to see the Capitol Building. It was a lovely walk. The heat of the day had soaked into the buildings and pavement, and as the sun went down, they continued to emanate warmth. It wasn’t too humid, so I figured I was lucky.

My first observation was how empty the street was. Though there were a few people on foot, by and large, most of the people whizzed by in their cars, and even then, it seemed pretty quiet. A nice change from the madness of London. Venturing up the east side of the street, I passed a number of little shops, freshly closed for the evening. I hit a bit of a crowd when I came to the theatre. It was the premier of new movie and the star himself there wearing a smart hat and looking very Hollywood in this Texas town.

Coming to the itself, I looked for the steps where Charles Durning sang that fantastic song, Dance a Little Sidestep in the Best Little Whorehouse in Texas. Sadly, the steps too were just Hollywood, leaving me to hum the little number in front of a ground level entrance.

Wandering the grounds in the twilight, I was struck by the prominent Civil War memorial , commemorating the soldiers who fought and died during the war between the States. What stood out the most was the language used to describe the war. Nowhere did the word “slavery” appear and I don’t recall the terms Confederate or Union either; the only commented on States Rights.

Upon reading this, it was the first time that I really considered the Civil War as a battle over States Rights. I suppose my history teachers had impressed upon me that this was a driving force behind the conflict, but for me, and probably a sizable population, the conflict was much more basic–not the rights of States, but the rights of individuals who are part of a State. In preserving the Union, the Federal Government established what I believe is one of the most important aspects of the US society—creating a civil liberties baseline for its citizens of what will and will not be tolerated across the land.

On a general level, yes, individual States should have authority to determine laws governing their domains; however, the beauty of the Federal government is its ability to regulate issues that transcend regional boundaries, creating the overarching fabric that defines America. Whether we agree or disagree with every aspect of patchwork, by and large it forms a collective security blanket.

While back in the States, two topics, both concerning States Rights dominated the media. In Arizona, the legislation ordering immigrants to carry their alien registration documents at all times, and authorizing police to question people if there’s reason to suspect they’re in the United States illegally was looming; while in California, the debate over gay marriage heated up as the referendum faced a tough appeal, this time to a federal court. While the Arizona situation certainly raises a number of questions about the overall pallor of America (e.g. ethnicity), it should come as no surprise that the court’s action in California comes a bit closer to home for me.

It has been four years since Lee and I moved back to Britain. We met at the end of 2002 and have been together ever since. Lee moved to Seattle with me in the fall of 2003 on a student visa, but when his course was completed and he finished a year of practical experience, he was forced to return to the UK because US immigration doesn’t recognize same-sex couples for visa reasons.

At that time, we hired an immigration attorney in Seattle to explore our options for Lee and I to remain in the US together. After an hour of consultation, we left knowing our prospects for remaining in the US were depressing: we couldn’t get a partner or fiancé visa, the H1 Visas had already been divvied up for the upcoming year, and the only options we had were to either get him an E visa or marry him off to a woman.

The E Visa is an investor visa, but for us even that was out of reach. The visa allows a UK citizens with “a substantial amount of money” into America under the premise that they invest that money and hold 51% or more equity in it. We had to show the cash up front, provide a business plan and then the US government would consider granting such a visa.We asked how much a “substantial amount of money” was, and our attorney indicated that this was a gray area, with $300,000 being the bare minimum. While this figure may not cause much trouble for some, neither Lee nor I had a spare $300k just lying around. We thought about selling Lee’s flat in London and using the cash as seed money, but as there was no guarantee that US immigration would grant a visa at all, the risk was too high. By then the flat would be sold, he’d be off the UK property ladder, and we would be forced to move back to Britain without a place to go.

Next we considered finding Lee a wife to secure a spouse visa. We eyed a couple of good candidates and even had a cursory offer; however, after full deliberation of the potential consequences of “Marriage Fraud,” we decided remaining in the States wasn’t in the cards and resigned ourselves to having a great last year in the US and then return to Lee’s home country. In contrast to the US policy, the UK has two visas for same-sex couples, an unmarried partner visa or a civil partner visa—both of which provide the same immigration rights to same-sex partners as heterosexual couples.

In the year after we completed our education, our Seattle-based businesses took off, but we knew our time there would ultimately come to an end and we would have to pack our bags and return to the UK–not that London is a horrible place at the end of the world, but when you find your stride and then are forced to give it up, the prospect of starting can be a bit disheartening. Together we adopted the British “stiff upper lip,” and in the summer of 2006, we packed what we could, sold what we couldn’t carry, and then retreated to London.

As the sun dipped behind the horizon, and the words on the Civil War monument faded into dark, I glanced at my watch. 9:30—only fifteen minutes until the bats would. Down Congress Avenue and back to Lady Bird Lake. When I got to the bridge, a group of Segway tourists had just pulled in and were waiting. The crowd, which had been relatively empty an hour earlier, was lined with observers waiting for the bats to emerge. I passed the revelers at TGI Fridays and found a place nestled next to a group of school teachers from across the country who were in Austin attending a leadership conference at the University. We shared some idle chit-chat about where we were all from and our impressions of Austin, all the while, our eyes were transfixed on the bridge.

Back in 2004, when Lee and I were still in Seattle, like so many others in the US, we were taken by Barack Obama’s speech at the Democratic National Conference. Powerful, moving, insightful and invigorating were the adjectives used to describe this great man. Why isn’t HE the nominee we mused, particularly when comparing him to the milquetoast candidate they chose. Still, as the years progressed and Obama won the nomination and then the presidency, I was haunted by my own prejudice—that of being a liberal who doesn’t trust other liberals.

In January 2008, I was back in the US for a few days. While there I watched the debate between Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama and noted their distinct silence on gay rights. At the time, as an American living in the UK, I was constantly questioned by my British friends whom I supported for President—Hillary or Obama? Though the battle would ultimately be between a Democrat and a Republican, to socially progressive Brits, Hillary and Obama were the only two options. At the time I openly discussed my disappointment with both Hillary and Obama on their silence, and even pondered voting Republican. McCain was emerging as the candidate and I took comfort in his opposition to the federal ban on same-sex marriage. Giuliani also seemed like a viable option, particularly based upon his noted friendship with out gays. My thinking was quite simple–liberals do a fantastic job showing empathy for a cause, but when their feet are held to the fire, they always seem to be the first to scream and run the other way.

A perfect example of fair weather liberals is Senator Patty Murray. A long standing Washington Senator from Seattle, Murray was elected a socially progressive “mom in tennis shoes.” She touted equality and great things on the campaign trail, but when push came to shove, she donned those sneakers and left us high and dry by voting for the Defense of Marriage Act back in 1996. Since then she continues to hem and haw about equality, but quite frankly when when my Washington State ballot came in last week, I filled it in all but in her race. I couldn’t vote for her with a clear conscience. When Lee and I were in the process of trying to sort out his visa, I put a call into her Seattle and Washington offices and both times was promised a call back, but none came. I filled in the online form and SIX MONTHS LATER, I got an autoreply about Mexican Immigration issues. Again I called to set the record straight with her DC office, and again I spoke with someone who promised a call from the Senator herself. Funny, I’ve been waiting now for four years. I wonder if she has misplaced my number.

OK…so I’ve had my rant. Patty Murray–boo.

This all brings us back to Obama. When push came to shove in the election, I did side with Obama. I listened to his platitudes of , “I believe marriage should be between a man and a woman” knowing full well that it was a delicate line to keep his constituency while hoping not to piss off the rest of the electorate. When he as elected I did have great expectations for what his Presidency might hold, particularly for Lee and me. When he won the majority in the House and the Senate, for a brief moment, I could actually envision them actually doing something progressive to help gays and lesbians across the country.

I saw a couple of bats fly out. Zoom. Zoom. Then nothing. The night got a bit darker. Zoom. Zoom. Zoom. A few more. The crowd tittered when three or more bats exited the bridge. “It is going to be soooooo fantastic!” squealed one of the teachers. I saw it about fifteen years ago and it was just like a giant cloud. We waited.

After the election of Obama, we waited. The recession, the war in Afghanistan, Iran’s nuclear capabilities, more of the recession filled the news and clearly the President had a lot on his plate. The gays could wait. They have waited a long time, they helped usher him into the White House and they would be there again in 2012.

Zoom. Zoom. Two more bats flew overhead. “That one nearly hit me,” said the teacher from Alabama. Zoom. Zoom. And then there was a break. No more bats. A few people started to pick up their blankets and bottles. Zoom. One by one, the crowd began to dwindle. “Let’s get a margarita,” one of the teachers suggested. “That is a great idea,” said Marcy from Michigan. Zoom.

Over the course of the last two years, I have kept faith. Though I shed tears of joy at the election of Obama, it became clear that it wasn’t because of him personally, but rather what change he MIGHT be able to affect through his judicial appointments. Zoom.

Cheryl from California and Abbey from Alabama and I were the last three on the shore. As the last remnants of sunlight disappeared, they said their goodbyes, leaving me alone on the bank of Lady Bird Lake looking for bats. Zoom. Zoom. Zoom. Zoom. Zoom. Zoom. It was a small spectacle of bats, just for me. Nothing on the scale a giant plume, but enough to make me smile.

At last I got tired of waiting for that mythical cloud of bats. I what I came for, I got to see a bunch of bats—still, I was left a bit disappointed. I made my way back up the bridge and to a bar called Oil Can Harry’s, a gay bar not far from the bridge. While ordering a beer, my bartender cheerfully asked how my night had been. “It was OK. I was at the bridge looking for the bats.” “Oh,” as his smile faded. “I did that once. It just stank of piss and it was too dark. Still, I saw some bats. $4 please.” I handed him a twenty and waited for my change.

I appreciated his candor and willingness to tell it as it was. While kicking back my pint on my last night in Texas, I sifted through the events of the last couple of days. Lovely people, complicated history, media stereotypes and the reality of it all. No one was bad. No one was really larger than life. The people I met were just regular folks getting on with their day, but magically we all came together to try and witness something special. The gay and lesbian community is now very much like the crowd on Congress Bridge, we’re all just trying to get on with our day but also hoping to share something special. Lee and I certainly are. At the same time, we’ve come to accept that although the platitudes may trickle out, we still haven’t seen that plume of bats billowing into the night. While I would surely welcome it, I’m sure there are plenty of bat-o-phobics out there who would fear such an onslaught would only be a premonition for the end of marriage as they know it. Straight people still get married in Massachusetts, don’t they? Has Boston experienced the Rapture yet?

So now here I sit, back in London waiting for the bats. I have heard their little noises. I have seen signs of movement. I’ve even experienced what the plume of equality can mean, thanks to the British government. That all said, I still hold hope that someday in my lifetime I will see the plume of bats emerge in their full and beautiful glory.

It gives me great pleasure to know that finally, FINALLY! the issue of gay marriage has been addressed in a Federal court. It is a first step. Zoom. Will it result in a plume? I cannot say.

Our doorbell broke shortly after moving in. We bought an electronic one that has a cheap ringing tone. One day it just went haywire, ringing randomly and changing the ringtone each time it went off. We finally got so irritated by it we unplugged it in hopes to find a proper solution to resolve it. We figure it’s some sort of frequency battle with another appliance in the neighbourhood, but until we invest in a wired bell, it remains turned off, leaving people to knock if they really want our attention.

I made my way to the door where I was met by a handsome man, impeccably dressed and holding a fuzzy microphone. Before he even opened his mouth, I knew why he was at my doorstep. He wasn’t looking for me, he was looking for Mr. Patel, the previous owner. “I’m looking for Mr. Patel,” he said.

“Yes,” he and his wife moved some time ago.”

“Do you have any forwarding information?”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t.”

I looked over our front fence and saw a cameraman and the news van. The reporter thanked me and went on his way.

Just about a year ago, three youths were terrorizing our street, culminating in the death of an elderly pensioner on his way out of the mosque next to our house. The man and his granddaughter had just left the mosque and were standing on the side of the road when three kids–two fifteen year olds and a fourteen year old at the time–whizzed by on their bicycles, whacked the elderly man, knocking him to the ground where he hit his head on the sidewalk, suffered irreparable brain damage and died a week later. According to reports, the youths recorded the attacks on their mobile phones to share and brag about their exploits. Big men, huh?

The reason the reporter was visiting our house was that shortly before they killed Ekram Haque outside the mosque, they had attacked Mr. and Mrs. Patel in their home, now our home. The kids were sitting on the Patel’s wall. Mr. Patel asked them to leave. They followed him into the house and beat and stomped on the 70-year old couple. The kids were caught and were out on bail when they struck again, this time killing a man.

That morning, the judge sentenced the youths–one for four-and-a half years and one for three-and-a-half. The youngest wasn’t sentenced because he was too young.

A bit later in the day, a reporter from the Daily Mail knocked at our door. He too looked at me inquisitively at first. “I’m looking for…” “Mr. Patel,” I finished his sentence. “Yes.” “He and his wife moved several months ago. You may wish to check with the estate agent in Tooting if you’re interested in finding them,” I replied. I asked if the boys had been sentenced. He confirmed they had been. When he read me their sentences from his notes, I felt a surge of sheer anger.

Since moving to the UK four years ago, I have learned countless new words and phrases that I never encountered in the US: anti-social behaviour order (ASBO), local councils, binge drinking (not that I haven’t been there myself–just didn’t have a name for it), and health & safety . These phrases are used daily on every news station in Britain. Whether radio, television or Internet, these are the words that in my opinion genuinely reflect modern Britain.

I closed the door on the Mail reporter and once again the feelings of rage ran through my system. How did Britain get to this point? I’m sure the UK is not alone, but I don’t recall this many feral youths in the States. OK–let me temper my condemnation. Yes, I lived in Seattle and in Minnesota, not necessarily the bastions of gang violence and yes, I tend to keep to relatively safe places. (My dad would probably disagree with that statement.) Still, it is really difficult to comprehend such violence, and what appears to be society’s fear of confrontation, especially when it lands in my own front hallway.
Lee and I have never felt afraid in our home, but should we? Sure the kids have been caught and are locked up for now, but they’ll be back. Will their memories of our place haunt them, or simply taunt them?
The new coalition government is in place. Will it make a difference? While I’m not a big “law and order” type guy, I do hope that the new British government will bring a blend of justice and common sense to society in need of a new order.