Sunday, 21 August 2016

An Unworthy Choice.

Oh, hell. What am I going to make a post about tonight? I’m really not myself at the moment for one reason and another, and I’m completely devoid of ideas.

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.


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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