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Friday, September 23, 2016

Journals

Last night, I picked up a journal of mine from 2001, 
and began to read. 

At the time I was living in a small town in NSW, Australia.


August 12th, 2001

I spent the afternoon shooting film with Megan; milking sheds, farm houses, a lovely old Bedford truck next to the beautiful classic 19th century kitchen that I could only look at - breath taken by the authenticity of its contents. The man cornered in his armchair, cosy & snug in his chosen spot to watch the footy from the 14" TV way up high in the corner. Fresh logs chopped up to light the stove. Old kettles. Sugar & spice ceramic jars inbuilt into the wall. An old table with matching chairs. The afternoon light shining on the old Bedford past the old man's face next to the window. The light catches the doorhandle of the truck. I photograph it with 400 asa & red filter, my Nikon F90X ready in hand. The kitchen smelt like salami, and I liked the smell. There was a little room like Grandma's secret room - with couches  & lazy boys & a fireplace. A gallery of family photos dating back to the 1800s.

Gumboots by the door.

I craved my own home.

I loved taking photos today. We caught reflections of naked trees in water - so still it appeared as glass. We climbed through barbed wire fences to get our shot, Megan even got an electric shock & I had to get untangled from the fence. 

The lengths we go for our passions.




The act of writing in a journal, has always been close to my heart.

Making them has stemmed from my love of writing,
and always searching for journals.
Also, the act of making - working with my hands,
I would spend so long in the darkroom, which I no longer have.

I need to work with tangible objects.

New books, are in my store. And more to come.









2 comments:

  1. Beautiful journals, thoughtful words that bring to mind a special day and very lovely B&W images ... Larry still misses working in a darkroom, also.

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  2. Your old journal entry reminds me of what is probably one of the greatest conflicts of my life. The place you described is like a small piece of heaven. . . and I crave the same sort of place but often wonder if that can that co exist in a world where I need internet, studio space, light and geographical conveniences to post and store to make a living? Maybe one day. . . but oh I am drawn to the old stoves and ovens, the rocking chairs, woven rugs on wood floors, the porch swings, the unpaved roads. . . secret rooms, little nooks, creaky floors and the wood cut for a fire. The smell of the woods, smoke and nature in the air, on clothes, saturated in memory.

    I am, as always, in awe of your new journals and books! These are the placeholders of future memories for someone to cherish as they look back one day, perhaps long after they've filled it with words. . . And remember. . .

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