… We would’ve watched the tide roll away, but it was just too frackin’ cold (this week’s BSG was pretty weak, by the way… but apparently we’re in for a 3-hour season finale, which better be as good as season 1, and give us the conclusion of all the straggling, dangling plots…)

This is just a sneak preview of what’s to come, when I get back home and I have software to at least rotate my images a little…

It needs a lot doing to it, but it has promise!

After we’d regained sensation in our fingers (and other extremities, in the case of Adam and I), we headed to a lovely Indian restaurant… which was completely purple! Outside had a full-width neon-purple sign; inside it was bathed in purple lights. Luckily I was wearing my pink t-shirt so I fit rather well and looked rather… mauve.

Tomorrow we’re off to the ‘highest point in South England’. Probably at least 200 meters above sea level! I’ll be able to see all the way to… the horizon! Green as far as the eye can see; awesome…!

This week I want to share one of my first — and perhaps still one of my best — ultra-long exposures. It was taken at university, in my ‘early years’ so to speak, long before I developed a decent technical understanding of photography. I was just beginning to work out what did work — and what didn’t. For a few months I only took photos that were exposed for 30 seconds or more!

Today I am still a huge fan of very long exposures, and you can see quite a few dead-of-night landscapes in my Sussex photo collection (page 2 and 3). Not only do you capture some great sights that might go unnoticed by the naked eye, it’s also quite fun to stand in the middle of no where, in a night as dark as pitch and just… be.

This is a post for Skywatch Friday.

Another of my standing-in-the-middle-of-a-field photos. This one is special though, because it was taken during a blue moon!

You’ve probably heard the phrase ‘once in a blue moon’ before, but I doubt you know what it means! A blue moon is the second full moon in a calendar month — a rare occasion, because of the 28-day lunar cycle, and the only slightly-longer calendar month! Because of the 11-day difference between the lunar year and the calendar year, over 3 years those days accumulate until a ‘bonus’ full moon arrives! And that’s the blue moon.

It’s not actually blue, unfortunately, and the ‘blue’ prefix is apparently steeped in folklore. Anyway! Here’s the photo, taken around 3am. You can see just how bright this particular full moon was, helped by the fact that it’s very low in the sky. Many people don’t even believe me when I say it’s the moon! If you can’t see the grass, your monitor is too dark!

This is a post for Skywatch Friday.

This follows on from my tale of how I captured the perfect photo of Venice. Though it left me with an awesome view of the ancient city and a fantastic photo, it also left me cold and lonely atop a tall bell tower (the 14th century clock tower was actually across the square from me). The sun had set and the power cut to the elevator. I was stuck. The Hunchback of NotreVenice in the making. I’ve thrown in a few photos that have nothing to do with the story, I just want to force you to look at my photography, sorry.

I looked out of the window again: it was a long way down to the dark piazza below. There were still lots of people milling around, enjoying the ambience of Venice and the music wafting out from the exclusive restaurants and hotels that lined the square. But none of them were looking up at the tower. Noone could see me frantically waving my arms, trying to attract attention. I hadn’t started screaming yet but it was only a matter of time. If I resorted to screaming, would my voice actually carry far enough to be heard?

(That’s not my photo, but you get the idea of just how tall the tower is.)

Before heading to Italy I’d actually just watched through the first three seasons of MacGyver, which goes some way to explaining why I found myself in such a retarded predicament. I wasn’t afraid, damnit, but in chasing the perfect photo I’d found myself alone at the top of a tower with nothing but a camera bag, an empty bottle of water and a mobile phone that I’d forgotten to charge the night before.

With the temperature quickly dropping and the square below me starting to empty, my mind kicked into overdrive. I knew that a night at the top of a bell tower would hardly kill me but I had a lovely high-ceilinged bedroom to get back to. I was sure that I could smell the faintest essence of pizza in the air, but maybe I was hallucinating; either way, my stomach grumbled. This was Italy, apparently home to the best food in the world, and I was stuck up a tower and starving.

What would MacGyver do? I emptied my camera bag and looked at the contents. No paper clips, no bullets, just a map of Venice and my camera. There weren’t even any bird droppings on the ground that I could scrape together to make a rudimentary flare gun.

I thought about phoning my mother but I knew how the conversation would go:

‘Hey mum. I need your help.’

‘Dad told me you hung out at the top of a tower to get some nice photos.’

‘Yeah… I did… but… now I’m stuck and I can’t get down.’

‘Sebby, what did I tell you about doing dangerous and stupid things? Your primary purpose in life is to produce grandchildren for me.’

‘But… I’m cold and tired and hungry and –’

‘A son of mine that gets himself stuck up a tower is no son of mine!’

Click goes the phone.

So outside help was out of the question… Plus, what help would my mother be able to provide anyway? Tips on how best to tenderise my shoe leather into something edible? A suitable prayer to Moses? I shook my head and looked down at the pile again. The map… paper!

What if…

I could use my pen to write a note! Help, I’m up in the tower. Send aid. Don’t ask me to let down my hair, it’s not long enough. But what if an Italian person found it, one that couldn’t read English? I started to draw a crappy illustration of a man up a tower. It would have to do. But how to get the paper down to the square and get it noticed? I thought about a paper plane, but they’re notoriously hard to aim, and someone would be unlikely to spot it.

I looked down at the pile again. An empty water bottle…

What if…

I could put some coins in the bottle! Wouldn’t that make one hell of a noise if it hit the ground at terminal velocity? I worked quickly, the plan now complete, strapping the note to the bottle with one of my shoelaces. I screwed the cap on tightly and shook the completed franken-bottle, admiring my handiwork. Moving over to the window I sighted up a couple that were enjoying a romantic, candle-lit dinner about 100 meters away. I stepped back and took a run up, delivering the best pitch of my life.

It sailed through the air, landing about 20 meters from the couple. It made one hell of a bang-and-rattle, startling not only that couple but most of the people currently eating dinner in the Piazza San Marco. MacGyver would’ve been proud! Sebastian however, after the elation subsided, was just plain embarrassed.

I quickly whipped out my phone and used the dregs of its battery to turn on the bright light used by the built-in camera. I shone it down in their direction; they looked up!  Success! But perhaps I’d been a little too successful — a lot of people were now looking up at the tower, wondering where the vicious coin-filled explosive projectile had come from. There was in fact an arc of people forming about 50 meters from the tower — close enough to look at me, but not too close that I could surprise them with another weaponised water bottle.

Now I started to wave frantically and scream like a girl. Someone finally got the hint and rushed off into one of the restaurants, raising the alarm. My only concern was that they had mistaken me for a lunatic sniper and instead of the tower staff arriving, armed police would arrive and shoot me out of the tower. Eventually, after another half hour or so — nothing happens quickly in Italy –  some official-looking types approached the tower, unlocked the front door and switched the power back on.

I quickly packed up my stuff and limped over to the elevator, only to find it was already on its way up. I was a little nervous now, knowing I’d probably overstepped quite a few ‘oh, he’s just a silly tourist’ boundaries. Would I emerge from the tower a victorious hero, brandishing my camera above my head and revelling in my artistic prowess? Would the crowd boo and hiss, or applaud? The elevator sure was taking its time. Would I be in all the newspapers by tomorrow evening? Surely, Italians have a sense of humour, right?

At last, the elevator doors opened. A couple of very stern, short and balding Italians looked up at me, wondering if I would come easily or if they’d have to kick me in the ankle first. One of them reached behind their back and instinctively I thought this was it: I was going to be shot dead in Venice, on the first day of my holiday. At least I would die a martyr to the Bohemian movement… and my photos would probably go up in value… my mum would be grateful for that, I guess… But it wasn’t a gun, it was some handcuffs.

The other guard grunted something unintelligible in Italian and shoved me, suggesting I turn around to be cuffed.

When I finally emerged into the square there were a lot of people grinning at me –tourists, I guess — and a lot of peeved-looking Italians, probably all thinking that I’d just defiled their beautiful bell tower. Fortunately, none of them spat at me as I was frog-marched across the square but there were definitely a few boos and lots of noisy tutting. Maybe, just maybe, there were a few cheers from fellow photographers standing at the back of the crowd.

But where were they taking me? Surely not to the Venezia police station…

To be continued.

Walking through the cobbled, dark, dilapidated streets of Florence — literally ‘the flourishing’ — it’s hard to believe that it was once the capital of the Renaissance, an artistic movement whose graceful wings would harbour the finest contemporary artists, the fluttering of which is still felt today. Undeniably beautiful, in its own rustic way, Firenze today is one of the most attractive and charming cities in the world but… what would it have looked like 500 years ago at the peak of its opulence, at the zenith of the Medici family’s power? What would it have looked like before ‘faithful reconstructions’ and centuries of war-torn damage?

It’s a feeling that haunts me whenever I explore ancient sites and cities, a nagging itch that I just can’t shake: how did it look in its hey-day, before tourism and smogged industry? I’ll never know — we’ll never know. In Ephesus, Turkey, that realisation was hammered home: I could be walking around the greatest and most beautiful city that has ever graced this world, but it would forever just be an image in my mind and nothing more. I can run my hands over fallen columns, their reliefs painstakingly chipped and carved to a level of manual craftsmanship that we’ll never see again, imagining what Ephesus might’ve looked like, felt like, but it won’t bring the city back to life. There its remains will lie, feeding imaginations of adventurous tourists until the end of time.

Back in Florence, at least there haven’t been any earthquakes (the most common cause of destruction in ancient Turkey was earthquakes, and the small fact of building accidentally on marsh land). Much of what you see today, picking your way over the ankle-turning cobbles of doom is authentic, aged, well-preserved. But it’s not really the buildings I’m here to see, it’s what’s inside: the finest collections of Gottis and Donatellos in the world, housed under wonders such as Brunelleschi’s dome, the Duomo, a construction of 4 million bricks that is still the largest masonry dome in the world.

But who am I kidding? The Raphaels are beautiful and the Da Vincis spectacular but the Michelangelos…

Passing through security, I turn to my right. There he stands, in plainly flaunted view, at the end of a long, vaulted avenue. Lined with other priceless sculptures that receive scarcely more than a fleeting glance, the avenue serves just one purpose: to heighten and hone my senses, to zoom in on what I’ve come to see: David. Lit perfectly and elevated, his head and gaze are level and contemplative. I wonder if there isn’t some small measure of irony in the monstrous size of Michelangelo’s finest masterpiece. Surely he anticipated, as he chipped away at a eighteen-foot block of flawless marble that his creation would be imposing. Maybe he was allured by the nickname the local authorities had given the raw block of marble: The Giant; perhaps Michelangelo felt that he was simply carving out the rock’s destiny. But who cares: David is huge. David dwarfs you and absorbs the entire room, sucking in your attention like a miniature black hole. Dare to meet his gaze and he defies you, just as he defies the world with the wordless challenge issued by his engraved face and form.

Aged just 26, Michelangelo would spend two years chipping away at a brave new portrayal of the Biblical figure King David. Most artists had presented David after his battle with Goliath, victorious; Michelangelo created a more ambiguous work, a piece so rich in detail that there are many possible interpretations: does that look of contemplation come from his decision to fight the giant, or is he looking up serenely having just vanquished his foe?

Only one person knows for sure and I hope he took the secret to his grave — where would the fun be if there was only one possible reading? The creation of art is only part of the process; admiration and interpretation are both required to make it complete, to make the work whole. The purpose of art, after all, is to create an effect.

Walking through the streets and museums of Florence, as tired and ancient that they may be, the art still roused within me vibrant and vicious images of life during the Rennaiscence. 600 years have passed and yet the art still stirs visitors such as me to stop and think and admire these great masterpieces. I wonder if any of our contemporary creations will be still be considered art six centuries from now.

The Faroes consist of 18 islands, some small, some large, and only one uninhabited. The population spread is also far from equal: about two thirds of the population live in or near the capital. For 1200 years the only way to get around would’ve been by boat. We’re not talking large distances – the archipelago is only 100 miles across – but by land, because of the mountainous topology, most villages would be, by today’s standards, totally isolated. Settlements in the Faroes are invariably placed in bays and inlets with mountains reaching up behind them. These plains are also very small – there’s almost no naturally-flat land in the Faroes! – and as a result there’s only one big town: Torshavn (Thor’s Harbour – cool name, eh?)

Anyway, along came the automobile and roads between towns on the same island begun to be carved out of the vertical-cliffed basalt mountains; ferries were used to go between islands – and more recently, to replace the ferries, tunnels! Lots and lots of tunnels.

I’m not some master civil engineer. I don’t know a whole lot about tunnel making (except for the Eurotunnel because it was in the media for a decade…) What I do know is that cutting your way through dense, metamorphic rock isn’t easy. In fact, it’s more a case of blowing things up with explosives. In a controlled fashion of course.

And that’s where this story takes place: in a Faroese under-sea tunnel. Not a nice, new, two-way well-lit tunnel – no. This takes place in one of the original, single-lane, pray-you-don’t-meet-someone-coming-the-other-way tunnels. They’re not lit. These tunnels are pitch-black except for your car’s lights. Years and years of carbon emissions mean the walls are lined with thick, light-absorbent soot. The only saving grace are the reflectors that illuminate the scars left by the dynamite: deeply-pocked, dirty-black holes.

Except for getting from A to B in the quickest way possible, there’s only one other thing that these tunnels are good for: racing. On the Faroe Islands, a country with no apparent social structure and limited space to build big houses, there’s only one real way to show off your wealth: fast cars. Fancy cars. Cars with spoilers and sexy skirts.

And in the case of my host in the Faroe Islands: nitrous oxide injection. I won’t bore you with the details, but put simply: it makes a car go quick – spine-fusing and eyebrow-ripping fast.

(This was meant to be someone sitting in a car with g-force/wind making their cheeks wobble…
But this was all I could find on Google.)

I’ve completely lost my train of thought. Damn Asian baby. Ah yes… So they race along these tunnels. A bit like a low-tech version of The Fast and the Furious without the flashy lights or the  hot girls in skintight plasticky clothing. You start at one end and finish at the other — the highest max speed at the end of the night wins! Wins what? The multi-tiered, golden and invisible cup of Pride of course! I suppose when you’ve been at sea for nine months bragging rights are about as exciting as things get: “Pass me the knife, Bjorn.” “REMEMBER THAT TIME I BEAT YOU IN THE TUNNEL?!” “Yeah… now pass the damn knife.”

I should tell you now that I’m a bit of a speed freak. So of course, last week, I found myself sitting in a super-charged hod and staring into the murky abyss.

“What if there’s a car coming but its lights are broken?

“Well… let’s hope that doesn’t happen Seb.”

“What if we hit a rock and collide with the wall, smearing our faces into a millimeter-thick laminate?”

“There’s always a chance of that… but it’s been a long time since it last happened.”

And with a cheesy, over-confident grin from the driver — a grin that betrayed his true nervousness — and with the drop of the clutch and the bang of the exhaust we accelerated into the tunnel.

A few seconds later, fully blanketed in black, there’s a rumble loud enough to be heard over the frantically-whirring engine. It’s my turn to grin nervously. It’s my turn to look towards the car’s flimsy roof and perform in the fraction of a second some thoroughly pointless calculations.

Out of the corner of his mouth he whispers tersely.

“Seb.” A second desperate and creaking roar from the dark surround. “Brake… or accelerate?”

This is a story about young love.

Young, embarrassing, sticky love.

Love that we thought safely hidden by the shadowy embrace of a moonless night. How wrong we were…

(An old photo of mine, taken during a blue moon)

You probably know, if you watch the news or have a friend that rejoices in telling you useless, geeky facts, there’s a very big meteor shower occurring right now: The Perseids! If you get a chance, go outside and look for them. It’ll peak at around 100 shooting stars per hour (though by the time you read this, they’ll probably have passed — so do it next year!)

(For more TMI this Thursday, hit up Lilu’s blog!)

This story takes place almost ten years ago, in August, during the Perseid meteor shower. I was 18 and drunk and dizzy with the affections of a certain girl. She was 15 and perky. And lavishing me with lingering looks and touches. It was only a matter of time before things got out of hand.

We barbecued and she laughed at my little jokes. We strolled at dusk through beautifully-lit woodland and she walked beside me, catching my eye and smiling. And when the night’s festivities were finally through and we settled down on the castle’s lawn to rest and sleep, she lay very close to me.

By most measures we had a romantic night that could only lead in one possible, carnal direction… right?

Wrong.

I failed to tell you that this was a party. We were 20 friends having the night of our lives.

I failed to tell you that she was also in a relationship. With my cousin.

But I was young and horny… and she was even younger and even hornier… and you know how I have a thing for pretty young girls…

So there we are, under a blanket, surrounded by a big group of our friends.

We’re all looking to the heavens and counting shooting stars. Occasionally someone tries the classic: ‘There! Over there!’ which of course, by the time you’ve looked, it’s gone. Minutes pass, meteors perish with a dazzle and our chatter slowly dies down as the magic becomes mundane. Sleep begins to take hold when her hands suddenly fine mine.

A firm grip and a meaningful, deliberate squeeze that speaks much more than a spoken word ever could.

My fingers trace teasing, tantalising designs on her palm and wrist.

Her body moves fractionally closer but the tiny increase in body temperature is palpable.

My fingers continue their gentle slide along the smooth underside of her arm.

Her breath warms the side of my neck and then, as my fingers lightly tickle her she shudders, her head dropping to my collar bone.

My hand moves from her shoulder and up her neck, under her ear and she bites me, she bites my neck hard.

My whimpering is only just audible but of course I look around, nervous that we’re being watched, that someone might’ve spotted us — but no, everyone seems to be asleep or looking at the meteor shower. Her bite has become a soft kiss and yet again I can feel her hot breath on my neck. She shakes — with nerves? — as my hands encircle her waist and pull her closer, my concern for eavesdroppers and voyeurs diminishing by the second.

Her body pushes closer and I can feel just how hot she is. She squirms as my fingers tease her waist and hips. With a hard kiss on the lips I smother a moan as my arm and hand and fingertips slide yet further.

Craving her flesh I hastily pull down my pants and undress her with my spare hand until she’s almost naked; bare enough that neither of us feel restricted. My fingers then find their mark and she rolls on top of me, her body convulsing, her hips grinding against mine.

This was a stupid move for an obvious reason: I’m fairly certain our foreplay had been heard already but our friends, in a moment of true Britishness, had decided to ignore it. But that wasn’t all. When I’d rolled onto my back there’d been a quiet click, a terse snap. Our small and sweaty under-blanket world was instantly illuminated in blinding white light. Someone had brought a huge torch, just in case of emergencies.

Those that were still watching the meteors turned to look. Those asleep were woken by the kerfuffle. In a truly Austin Powers moment they all saw our mid-thrust silhouette. There were screams from the girls and cheers from the boys.

To this day, I’m told that my silhouette was very generous.

When I started taking photography seriously I shot, almost exclusively, night-time landscapes. Believe it or not, I actually learnt around Washington D.C. — back in 2002 I could be found tramping around the US capital at two in the morning trying to catch the perfect photo. I took a killer photo of the Watergate complex — one of my favourites of all time! — but about 3 years ago I lost it. My hard disk died. Sucks.

But anyway, for about 2 years I took lots and lots of at-night landscapes. Some industrial (check this one from university), some urban, but mostly very-long-exposure shots of trees and fields to bring out the stars, or give the clouds a dreamy, smooth appearance. And then one day… I stopped!

And then last night, after 5 years… I started again, afresh! You can see the results below. A little note: I’m not going to give away all the secrets, but the colours in the photos are ‘true’. When you play with long exposures you can achieve some pretty startling effects! To the naked eye the colours would be no where near as intense. But the point is: they haven’t been altered; it’s just the magic of photography!

(If your monitor is setup correctly you should be able to see the shadow of the tree, thrown by an almost-full moon! Also, there are many more stars in the full-size version (if you bought a print you would see ALL of them).)

(Really, I’m not cheating with the colours. Note the stars — is that the Big Dipper? And would that make it Polaris at the top of the frame?)

Autumn Bursts Forth & Twister

Seb: Hey, guess what, it’s AUTUMN. If last week didn’t make that clear, hopefully this does. I’ve never actually seen chestnuts still clutching onto the tree like this — normally they’re scattered about underneath the tree!

I was actually out to take some photos of the trees themselves — there’s a beautiful avenue of ancient chestnuts nearby which I thought would look good at sunset. We’re talking proper, thousand-year-old gnarled and twisted trees that have been around since England was invaded by the Normans. I’ll upload another one tomorrow, so that you can see what they’re like.

But anyway: I looked up, as I always do, being tall and all, and I spotted some chestnuts glinting in the warm, yellow sunset. That ‘golden hour’ has never been more obvious!

This photo is an attempt at staying true to my ‘landscape soul’, while still catering a little more for those that like interesting detail in their photos. And those that like bokeh, of course.

Abi: The fair has come to town- and when I say fair I mean a selection of rides manned by neanderthals, underscored by a lingering smell of fried onions and a soundtrack limited to dance tunes from the mid 90s.

I rarely take any photos at night, I set out this week with a vague idea of capturing light and movement (maybe some people) with no clear idea of what I was really doing. This is a bit of a departure for me so things can only improve.

When I was at school this fair was something approaching a big deal. It has dwindled in recent years but the sounds and smells are just the same as they always were. Only instead of cider the kids are most probably on Ketamine or something. Probably.

* * *

Click the images to visit our Flickr streams. You can comment either here or there!

(I couldn’t resist the opportunity to have ’shooting’ and ‘gasm’ in the same sentence. I can’t really call it a ‘meteorgasm’ for obvious reasons. Say it out loud… go on… Loud enough for anyone nearby to overhear you.)

Bit of a smorgasbord of photos this week. It’s winter, so everything happens really quickly — when the sun’s out, it’s beautiful, but five minutes later it can be dismal and grey and rainy. The sun is setting at 3:50pm or something crazy — when you wake up between 12 and 1pm, that makes the apparent length of days very short. Fortunately I have these blog-writing sessions to add structure to my life, otherwise I might hibernate or something…

I’ve been listening to Marvin Gaye again, almost non-stop. I think it’s turning into some kind of addiction, some kind of need – I haven’t put a song on ‘repeat’ since I was 16, but I must’ve listened to ‘Please Stay‘ 25 times in the last few days. It has only avoided tonight’s playlist because I’ve discovered another great album by Gaye called Here, My Dear. But I digress…  as I alluded to yesterday, I should have a (dare I say it) photo shoot with a cute girl at the end of the week. Little does she know just how easy these photos are going to be, because she’s stupendously beautiful and photogenic. But hey, I need the confidence-boost, the ego-stroking, so that in the future I can take photos of ugly people!

Big mish-mash of photos today then: the meteor shower of December 12-14 (Geminids), an ‘out-take’ from 52 weeks, and a couple of ‘geometric experiments’.  I’ve been trying to catch meteors for a few years now, but it’s hard here in south England. Lots of light pollution (I have an airport very close by). Then there’s the matter of clouds and full moons and all that jazz — this year was meant to be the best ever for Geminid sightings, but I was still hampered by cloud and sub-zero temperatures.

Yes, I stood outside for about three hours, and all I got was three photos. I couldn’t feel my toes for about two hours after I came back inside (it was the coldest night of the year so far… brr! ice on my boots!) They’re not even that great photos, but I’ve included a couple in today’s Shooting Stargasm.

The geometric photos are just… experiments. I liked the light, and I’m fast learning that I should just TAKE PHOTOS when there’s any kind of light to be had, otherwise I might not get another chance before another Tuesday Photogasm comes around. I’m also coming to terms with the fact that I might be a very good ‘available light’ photographer. It’s dawning on me that this may indeed be the case… (buy my photos, because I have a nagging sensation that they’ll double in price by this time next year).

Enjoy the photos! Think of me freezing my rapidly-gangrenous nuts outside just for the art.

As always, hover over each image for specific notes.

(Admire Canis Major on the far left! Two stars of Orion’s Belt are just visible)

Phew! That was a rather eclectic mix. Now I’m going to shave off my Hitler beard and think of something disturbing for Thursday.