Ah summer, you have been greatly welcomed. I’ve enjoyed many a day of relaxing in the sun, which to be fair isn’t as sociable now as it was at the start. But I can’t help but shake the fact that the new term is looming. It’s the 8th of August, which means I have over a month, but still. I have no idea where July went so really that says it all.
Back to work mode.
Really the argument here should be that I never left “work mode”. You’re a photographer. You’re supposed to observe all the time, capturing moments constantly. It’s not a chore.
I don’t find it a chore. And I haven’t stopped observing. Just stopped recording, which to be fair in my eyes is probably just as bad as not observing. So here I am back on this.
It has been a while.
So I’ll start with research for this project that I’m attempting. Home. I’m photographing people with objects and in places they associate with home. But I find it hard to make them relax and feel at home when I have a camera in their face. So maybe I should stop that idea because I’m just not enjoying the images. They feel forced, because they are forced. And it doesn’t give me pleasure to look at them.
So to have a rethink, best thing to do first? Google definition of home. Obvious yes, but a start none the less.
homewards - at home - indoor
Territory. That’s interesting. Instinct.
Home comes down to primate instincts. Every creature has a home. From a 16 bedroom mansion to a hole in the ground. To underneath the bridge at Central Station, which Ross Kemp opened my eyes to during his wonderful study of Glasgow residents. That still baffles me.
I think what’s interesting is just how humble some home owners can be. People search their whole lives for somewhere to belong. Once reading this brief and deciding to give it a shot, I struggled so much to define what home meant to me. I still struggle.
Home. For me, safety, somewhere you don’t have to pretend. Somewhere that reflects you inside out. A museum of your belongings and things. I often think (as morbid as it may be) that if I were to die tomorrow, someone would walk in here and observe my life as I’ve left it for them. When I tidy my room I am tidying my tracks. Where I’ve been that day. What I’ve used, what I’ve opened, closed, drank, eaten, scribbled. Where dust has fallen, which occurs more often than not in my space. I say my space, I refer to my room, in my flat. It’s my sanctuary and my escape.
Is that my project? This is what happens when I allow myself to completely relax and think. I think by writing.
My next step: Look at artists that have documented their own space. Their own environment. How have they made it visually interesting yet 100% personal?