Donald Trump wants
black people to vote for him. Fine. GB came second ahead of China in the
Olympic medals table. Yippee. The All Blacks trounced Australia at
rugby. Predictable. Most of the Atlantic has
been falling on my house tonight. I’m the only one who would care.
See?
I know, I’ll post another arty picture and then write a
commentary. OK. Go for it.
This is one of those opportunistic shots I did when I was
still into Modernism, still earning a living as an executive grade civil
servant, and still convinced that my emerging Bohemian tendency qualified me to
know a piece of art when it stood in front of me and crooned ‘Hey, man, I’m
your passport to fame (if not fortune, exactly.)’ So when did an emerging Bohemian
need a fortune? Snap.
I was young and inexperienced, which is why I failed to
notice the wall panel joint running down the right hand side. I only noticed
that when I saw the transparency.
‘Pity about that line,’ said my friend who pre-empted me as
a confirmed Modernist (and who taught me all I know about Modernism, which isn’t
much.) ‘It completely ruins the picture.’ (His favourite joke was to approach
women who had just spent a lot of money in a swish salon, and say ‘Hey, like
the new hairstyle.’ And then he would wait for her to go all coy and reply ‘Why
thank you, Philip,’ and then he would continue with ‘Be nice when it’s
finished.’ He was from Liverpool.)
I had to agree with him, of course, not because he was the
Master Modernist, but because I’d already noticed. But do you know what? It got
published in a photography magazine, which just goes to show that photography
magazine editors are maybe not quite as discerning as they ought to be.
(One day I might tell the story of how a photography
magazine did a feature on the question of whether black cameras get hotter than
silver cameras in sunshine. You wouldn’t believe how ignorant a journalist can
be about his subject.)
For now, however, please excuse me for being boring.
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