Month: February 2016

Thingness – 26th Jan 2016

“We see the things themselves, the world is what we see: formulae of this kind express a faith common to the natural man and the philosopher — the moment he opens his eyes; they refer to a deep-seated set of mute “opinions” implicated in our lives. But what is strange about this faith is that if we seek to articulate it into theses or statements, if we ask ourselves what is this we, what seeing is, and what thing or world is, we enter into a labyrinth of difficulties and contradictions.”

Opening lines of: Maurice Merleau-Ponty ‘The Visible and the Invisible’ Translated by Alphonso Lingis, Northwestern University Press 1968

All the other ends of the world – 25th Jan 2016

And then there are other more commonplace ends of the world. Shorelines and on the edges of deserts of course, but also industrial estates on the peripheries of towns, the corners of warehouses, inside wardrobes in children’s rooms, beyond stage doors, behind curtains, and nestling by the lowest rungs of fire escapes. And in all these places things accumulate; not exactly rubbish but almost always without purpose, waiting for someone to remember what they were for.

Fog (part 2) – 24th Jan 2016

By the time the starlings had finished it was almost dark and it felt like the whole of Brighton had gone home too. Indeed as I wandered homewards along the shore the world itself to my left seemed to have disappeared. I scrabbled across the pebbles toward the sea to have a look.

When nowadays we say things like “It’s the end of the world” we think of apocalypse and Armageddon, nuclear war, ecological disaster… it’s always an ending in time, but before the discovery (by Europeans at least) of the Americas, the ends of the world were an actual place where sea monsters dwelled and from which sailors rarely returned. Tonight, looking out into the soft, dense darkness, I wondered if such a place still existed.

Fog (part 1) – 24th Jan 2016

Another truly dismal day largely spent trying to catch up on work. Even though it was only mid afternoon, the light was already fading as I reached the sea front and I half toyed with the idea of just stopping by the café and abandoning any further plans for the day. Then I noticed the fog beginning to creep in from the horizon.

The thing about photographing starling murmurations is that (rather obviously) they are always set against a backdrop of the sky, and if the sky is filled with clouds, then at sunset these can be a rather too beautiful distraction from the spectacle. I’ve never seen starlings gather in fog before, and have always wondered if these weather conditions might actually be the most perfect, where every other element would be pared down to the barest minimum, just the birds, not even a horizon. I didn’t even know if starlings flocked in these conditions. Would I be able to see them? Would they be able to see each other? I set off for the pier to find out.

When I arrived I realised that at least the setting was perfect. Not enough mist to obscure the pier structure, but the sky had become a complete blank and the horizon was almost lost. The birds themselves arrived soon enough, in small groups at first, then in bigger flocks than I’ve seen for many years. Silent as always, the only sounds the wash of insignificant waves against the shore, just enough to cover the traffic sounds already muffled by the mist; even the piped music from the pier seemed more distant than usual.

The spectacle was not only magnificent but eerie. Great swarms appeared and receded in the fog forming shapes that would have been familiar if they hadn’t been so huge: for a moment a spoon hanging implausibly in the air, then a writhing caterpillar; on more than one occasion swooping past like some monstrous composite bird with giant slowly beating wings, while in the distance, other, barely visible shapes appeared and dissolved against the whited sky like sentient smoke.

I was surprised to see them flying so high; the murmurations we see in Brighton tend towards the horizontal, often hugging the waves, but these seemed to disappear vertically as well as towards the horizon. I’ve read somewhere among the theories that attempt to explain this spectacle (no one really knows why) is one suggesting that doing so makes them a beacon for other starlings to aim for, a broadcast to all, that here is somewhere safe to spend the night. If this is true then perhaps the size of the display was a direct response to the fog itself, creating a need in each bird to become even more flamboyant to counter the obscurity of the weather.

Unseen wanderers – 23rd Jan 2016

It’s a closely guarded secret among more experienced gardeners, that on certain nights, shrubs will sometimes lift themselves from their flower beds and wander abroad in the night air, keen to experience the freedom accorded members of the animal kingdom. Most of them don’t travel far. Very soon they experience a great homesickness for the soil they have lived in all of their lives, and by daybreak will be back in their beds, so neatly position that few of us notice they’ve moved at all. However, occasionally a more adventurous plant will travel further and become lost. With very little idea of direction beyond the narrow confines of its garden or woodland corner, compelled by some unknown atavistic impulse the shrub will then head for the coast. On arrival it will bed down on the shore and begin a new life, by day surprising tourists by its mere presence so close to the watery margins, and in the evenings whispering tales to its seedlings of its former home.