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There’s a song that was introduced to me quite some time back. Introduced by someone I keenly listen to – and very much to my benefit. He has not only a knack for patience but a wonderfully eloquent affection for music.

It’s called Seabird, by the Alessi Brothers. It’s extraordinary and has a certain but effortless melancholy, enough to suit your very own and quickly dispel it.

And I have been away from land too long and need to come home…

…so I am back with great excitement and enthusiasm – and a familiar sense of calm and serenity that follows an outpouring of words – not indulged for years.

It’s exciting to be again rolling with the blog-post-punches and expressing a little of my one true love and motivation…other than my most beloved motorbike, of course.

Here’s a few from a recent jaunt to the Brecon Beacons in Wales. Skirrid Mountain it’s called, or to call it by it’s real name, Ysgyryd Fawr or ‘Holy Mountain’.

It’s the first time in years I’ve taken pictures only for myself and me alone. Oh how I loved it, running and darting about, falling over and perspiring energetically.

There’s nothing really more to them than a re-stoked fire, picking up a fiercer flame.

And that’s the beauty.



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Another Exercise in Understanding

In favour of not repeating myself I will refer you to my penultimate post, Exercise in Understanding

The images below were taken over three long, exciting and really quite tiring days. Dawn attacks and storming buildings.

It’s exciting, scary and very loud.

These images comprise part of a large ongoing project.


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Nightclubs are not the greatest photographic playground, but they do pay.

This night was the brainchild of a very good friend. It’s not necessarily my cup of tea, but I really do appreciate the effort he puts into it. After all, we can’t all be far-sighted entrepreneurs.

He demanded quantity; I demanded quality. Perhaps the balance is right.

Welcome to Supperclub and all that played-out within:

My good friend (left)

Et moi, fatigued and ready for the hours of late night editing ahead

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Stevie Parle and The Dock Kitchen

My blogging routine was acutely disrupted late last year; this February will render obtuse all that was acute.

Welcome to The Dock Kitchen (and the old Virgin Records studio complex). The restaurant sits aside a canal and above Tom Dixon‘s design studio. It’s a pleasure to look at – and more of a pleasure to sit inside.

A good friend of mine has a vision. My job was to shoot the first jigsaw pieces of that conjured and multi-dimensional image.

Meet the head chef, Stevie Parle. He is young, enthusiastic and really quite a friendly chap.

My good friend and his fellow visionary

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Last night, I was kindly invited to shoot a life drawing class. Only this class was to have a slight twist; models adorned with horns, blindfolds and clown masks sat, straddled and lay upon the furniture, illuminated by a red glow.

Tucked away in the basement of The Book Club, the scene resembled that of a skewed burlesque brothel – a tasteful one, of course. And in the unquoted – and partially forgotten – words of the organiser, this is his inner mind extrapolated and fused into reality, albeit a surreal one. Surrealism aside, there were some truly brilliant artists present and the drawings scattered about were really quite amazing.

It was great fun and allowed me to delve into a new photographic discipline – shooting the nude.

Enter through the curtain:

The 'organiser'

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Er heisst Walter Kurz

In another life, I wish to be called Walter Kurz.

This summer, a friend of immeasurable kindness allowed me a short week in Germany. My stay intercepted, not only the finest of fine suns, but also the pleasure of watching Germany lose out to Spain in South Africa – in spite of my friend’s nationality, which happened to be quite unfortunate at that particular time.

Autobahns, Holstein Pils, lakes, Hamburg and Berlin became our staple throughout.

I haven’t much thought of posting these loose photo essays. Perhaps they’re interesting.

‘Four Days in Deutschland’

And this is Laurens; the friend

Our 'relatively' minor companion

The minor's major

Treptower Park


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