Hand-Made in Darkroom

Katreena ran the men's hairdressing saloon in the Railway Hotel in Freo. A salubrious pub it was not. The Railway;s clientele was a special breed. Bikies, rednecks and wharfies gathered mid-week for a beer or three and the 'titty' show, But on the weekends the Railway becomes all things sugar and spice - family days, jazz, games for kids. The Railway was a pub for all reasons.

Katreena was a 'salt of the earth' woman. You couldn't find anyone more genuine or with a warmer heart. Always a kind word, always a huge smile and a hug. For just $10 you got a prize-winning haircut Tom Cyuise would be proud of, a neck massage, a lesson in life from Katreena the philosopher and a chit for a free drink at the bar. And if you timed it right, you might just catch the end of then titty show.

So Katreena's big birthday was coming up. The big FOUR ZERO. She asked me to take her portrait. First in the studio, then in the Swan River and finally dancing on the batr in a night club in High Street Freo. I was 54 at the time, which is usually the age when photographers peak. So I thought 'why not?'.

The river was bloody freezing. Didn't phase Katreena as she swayed through the water. I stood on the little jetty just like the boy who stood on the burning deck, picking the right time to shoot on Kodak Tri-X film.

I checked the proofs a couple of weeks later. I rated them with spots. Three spots being my selections. Then I marked the proof up to give to Tony my printer. Tony was the best black and white printer in Perth 20 years ago, maybe on equal rankings with the infamous Roger Garwood and the illustrious Lyn Whitfield-King.

No Photoshop. No Lightroom. This image was hand-made in Dark Room.

Buboy

I stripped down to my undies and splashed cool water from the Country Club Hotel wash basin over my face and chest. The humidity had sapped my energy. I was in Brunei, a strict Muslim country, to run photography workshops and this was day one.

Click! I heard my hotel door open. I stopped dead still, listening. Then I heard a couple of footsteps and  a shuffling noise. I looked out from the bathroom in time to see a young Bruneian man leaning over all my photography gear on the bed, starting to pick up my cameras and lenses.

'Hoy' I shouted.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

Some garbled non-sensical words came from his mouth. Then he turned 180 degrees and walked quickly out the door.

I followed him, barefoot and dressed just in my black underdaks. He looked over his shoulder and picked up speed. So did I. Along a corridor, down some steps. I followed. He started running. I started jogging. I didn't reflect on the dilemma of a half naked man jogging through a hotel in a Muslim country. The intruder turned right around a corner and disappeared.

When I got back to my room I rang my Brunei contact. She insisted I officially report the incident as stealing.  She explained stealing from rooms at the Country Club had become commonplace. She urged me to do something about it. I contacted the hotel manager and reported the incident.

Thirty minutes later a local policeman and a security guard were sitting in my hotel room and I was making a statement. They organised a line-up of a dozen hotel staff. I recognised the intruder immediately and pointed to him. He let out  loud garbled sound, turned and ran off for the second time that day. Other staff pursued him and apprehended him. 'Well, that's the end of that' I thought, 'Job done!'  How wrong could I be.

The Filipino manager pleaded with me not to press charges.  He explained it could cost him and other Filipino staff their jobs. My Brunei contact still insisted  I press charges. I was between a rock and a hard place. I decided to sleep overnight on the dilemma. But I didn't get the chance.

At about 11pm that same night I returned from a pasta and red wine* at a downtown Italian eatery. As I entered the foyer the hotel manager approached me and spoke nervously. His job was on the line. He had obviously been waiting for my return.
'The boy's parents are here to talk to you. They've driven 140 kilometres just to see you.'
His voice was nervous and shaking; his job and future at stake.
'Ok, sure', I agreed.

The intruder's middle-aged mother and father and I sat in a dimly lit alcove and drank tea.  The manager looked on nervously from the reception desk. The lobby was empty and quiet. The boys father smiled reassuringly at me and spoke calmly.
'My son Buboy (pronounced Boo-boy) went to the your room by mistake when delivering a pizza'
'No', I replied 'There was no pizza, he was there to steal my cameras. He did not knock.'
'Our son has a learning disability. I am scared that if he goes to jail it will be bad for him'
'I'm sorry, but your son has done the wrong thing.He has to accept the consequences'

Buboy's father changed demeanour. His smile faded. He leant across the coffee table and lowered his voice.
'I have had the Shell catering contract here for 14 years. I am a very influential man. I have many powerful friends in Brunei. If you press charges I will have you deported within 24 hours'

Clap of thunder. New situation. Deportation. That won't look pretty. He was serious.

I took a deep breath.
'OK, if I don't press charges, what will you do for me?'
'What do you want?' he asked
'I want you to guarantee, in writing, that if any of my camera gear goes missing, you will replace it'
He smiled.
''That's not a problem' he said.

The manager brought us pen and paper. We signed the agreement.

I pressed my case further.
'Also, I want the locks changed on my hotel room'
'That's too expensive', he said, 'but I have many staff, I'll supply a personal security guard for the remainder of your stay'
'OK, that's a deal'
I shook his hand and bid him and his silent wife  good night.

oOo

Three days later I travelled north to the six star Empire Hotel to continue the workshop. I had to check out of my regular hotel at the Country Club and check back in again on return from the Empire. It was almost midnight. The Country Club was in darkness; everything was locked. The couple who had provided my transport sat in the car while I knocked on doors, windows and called out. Not a soul anywhere.

I saw a sliver of light coming from under a roller door near the kitchen area. From behind the roller door I heard loud thumping and banging like someone being bludgeoned to death with a heavy instrument. I banged on  the metal roller door.

'Hellooo, anybody there?'

The thumping ceased. Silence.

Then the roller door was slowly raised.

The apparition in front of me was barely believable. There stood Buboy with a 14 inch bloodied butcher's knife in his right hand. His white shirt was completely splattered in blood and bits of gore. Like a scene from the Texas chain saw massacre.

'Buboy, I need a room, can you get me a key to a  room?'

Buboy let out some more garbled untelligible twitter. His mental disability was matched by a verbal disability.

'Its Ok Buboy, don't worry, I'll telephone the manager.'

The couple in the car were incredulous. They looked white, as if they had seen a ghost.

'Dale, we can't believe you are talking to a guy with a meat cleaver covered in blood in the middle of the night. The same guy that broke into your room a couple of days ago'.

The manager arrived dressed in after-hours casual clothes and gave me a key to my new room. All was well.

oOo

On the morning I was due to leave Brunei I was sitting alone in the dining room having breakfast.

'Where's Buboy' I asked the waitress.

She looked hesitant.

'He's in the kitchen' she replied.

'Can you go and ask Buboy and the kitchen staff to come here so I can say goodbye to them.'

She returned a few minutes later with Buboy sheepishly tagging along. I went up to Buboy

'Buboy, you did the wrong thing going into my room. You know that. But I don't want to be bad friends. I want to be friends with you.'

We shook hands.

'Now, can I make a photograph of you?' I asked.

I stood on a chair, camera in hand and photographed Buboy with the kitchen staff.
I smiled. Buboy did his version of a smile.
It was no longer unfinished business.

oOo

footnote:
Buboy was working for a Filipino gang. They gang stayed at a safe distance from break-ins, armed with bags to carry off stolen goods. They reckoned that if the 'stooge' was captured, he would get off because he was the son of  a very powerful Brunein man and he was intellectually handicapped.  As it turned out, they were dead right.

* (In Brunei you must buy a licence for the bottle of wine  and only the people whose names are on the licence can drink from it.) 

The Eleventh Soldier

Sometimes photographs are unplanned and unpredictable. And sometimes portrait subjects spring from left field. The unobservant photographer often misses these opportunities. Here is an unusual link between mother and son. A small dose of initiative has provided lifelong memories and friendships.

Dale Jackson

In 2006 I organised two teams of photographers to shoot stills on the set of the war fim The Eleventh Soldier written and directed by Perth boy Danny Parry. Fourteen acres were laboriously transformed into an Australian military base in Vietnam. A dozen buildings were constructed, sandbags filled, barbed wire strung out and a virtual army assembled on a property near Forrestfield.

One of the young soldiers I photographed looked as though he was still school age, much like some of our WW1 veterans. Coincidentally, he bore my name, Dale. Another soldier posed for me after succumbing to war wounds in the field of battle. Despite the fact it was 'just a movie' being on the set had a profound effect on me, especially the address to the troops before they headed into battle. The address was delivered by a real Vietnam vet and had a chillingly realistic ring to it.

Pam Pettit Jackson 

Danny Parry

I was fortunate enough to get an invite to the premiere of The Eleventh Soldier at the Astor Theatre. As a guest I engaged paparazzi to photograph the guests. Among the glitterati one woman stood out.  An attractive, poised brunette who glided in the crowd. She was there to see her son Dale on the big screen. Two weeks later, as I reviewed the proofs I spotted her image and invited her to be a portrait subject for my UWA Portrait Workshop. Her name was Pam Pettit Jackson .

Since the movie premiere Pam has modelled for my students a number of times. Pam and I have also embarked on a number of unusual photographic projects together and in 2013 Pam won the WA chapter of the ABC's Miss Fisher contest and was runner-up nationally. Pam is a dyed-in-the wool Collingwood supporter, a successful professional model for Chadwicks and still manages to flit off to Paris to celebrate special occasions. More than anything else Pam wins the prize for coming up with the most creative visual ideas for photo shoots of any model I've ever photographed.

oOo

To see what Photography Workshops I'm running at UWA Extension click HERE.
To Book a Portrait Shoot at FACEZ Studio  for you and your family with Dale, Tom or Angelique enquire HERE.

Marilyn Monroe in The Sound of Music

I was on assignment shooting the RSPCA Calendar 'Here Boy - Men and their Dogs'.  Paul ('Mr August') lived on a picturesque little olive grove in the Serpentine Valley with his Greek wife and dog, Jay.

Over lunch I noticed the walls were hung with images of Marilyn Monroe.  In the living area, kitchen, hallway there were pictures, big and small, of Marilyn. On the bookshelves there were books about Marilyn. Our place mats were monogrammed MM  and we drank from Marilyn coffee mugs. I could't help but notice that Paul's wife was remarkably blonde and 'Marilyn-ish'  for a Greek girl.

We walked over the farm and I shot 30 or 40 shots of Paul and Jay in a  bubbling stream beside a quiet little waterfall. When I had finished I asked Paul's wife if she would like me to photograph her. I suspect she might have been waiting for the offer.

She ran off into some thick trees and over a small rise. She called out and then ran over the hilltop and down the grassy slope towards me. I was a bit surprised and took a while to react, half expecting a chorus of 'The hills are alive ....' to break out. .I thought I was going to get a Marilyn Monroe Some Like it Hot performance but it was more like Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music.


Neither Paul or 'Marilyn' were boring people. Just the opposite in fact. People like this keep the world turning. More than that, they make photography a pleasure.

'We are all of us stars,

and we deserve to twinkle.'

Marilyn Monroe

Which lens to shoot Tom Sawyer?

In primary school I was an avid reader, devouring Biggles, The Famous Five and Kemlo and the Crazy Planets. In high school I read less but was awe-struck by Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. We lived in a brand new suburb called Wembley with bush to explore, quarry walls to climb and cubbies to build.

When my son James was turning six I offered to take him and his two best mates away for a 'Tom Sawyer' weekend in the Avon Valley. It was early March and the end of a hot summer. March was warm and balmy, the bush was alive with animals and birds; cicadas were in full battle cry; close to perfect Tom Sawyer conditions.

James with Cindy in the Avon valley, March 1976

Tents, sleeping bags, food, three boys and a daschund cross were packed into a Datsun 1200 coupe. We headed into the rolling hills nortth-west of Perth; down Lover's Lane we found a couple of narrow corrugated side tracks. We pulled our gear under a barbed wire fence near a creek with barely enough water to wet a whistle

What amazed me was the ease with which three young boys can blend in with nature and adapt to the elements without any resort to superficiality. James and his mates ran, jumped, climbed. clambered and slipped. They built wigwams, had 'boondy'  and nut  throwing competitions, grazed toes, lit camp-fires, cooked dinner and told scary stories under a starry sky. They lived the Tom Sawyer dream.  Despite the fact that our dog Cindy had  rolled in a dead sheep carcass earlier in the day she invited herself to share a tent with the three boys at night. Neither party seemed even slightly concerned. (My tent was a safe nose-throw away.)

I can't recall having to yell at any of the boys that weekend. I wandered lonely as a cloud, read a book and took a few dozen photos. A slightly anxious farmer approached us on Sunday to tell us we were camped on his property. I offered to photograph the land owner on a macho outback pose and he left feeling well pleased with himself.  Late Sunday we drove west into the setting Autumn sun with my cargo of three smelly, sunburnt boys and an even smellier, happy dog.

Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn would have been proud of the young trio and their four-legged protector. James and his mates had been explorers, fighters, pirates and cowboys. No lives were lost; jusr a bit of skin here and there.

The Tom Sawyer weekend was the first of one of many forays into the outback in Western Australia with our two kids. We never had a lot of money to spend on holidays but we always had adventures - from Broome and the Pilbara to Albany and Denmark. We rarely used caravan parks or camping grounds. We simply free-camped. Occasionally, we added bikes and canoes into the formula but it was always cheap fun and exploration  and learning.

Years later,  both my son and daughter did courses for Outward Bound Australia and then later joined as staff members of Outward Bound Australia. I'm convinced that Outward Bound had a pronounced influence and direction on my kids' lives. In retrospect, I also now realise how much of an influence parents can have in shaping their kids; not so much by telling but by doing. And I sometimes ponder how many kids Mark Twain has shaped with Tom Sawyer and the Adventures of Huck Finn.

(As for which lens? 200mm Nikkor on Nikon Photomic F2 camera and Kodak VPS film)

Discover which cameras and lenses are best for portrait photography in my next UWA Photographing Faces workshop.

PS The story continues. My son James is now training his son Tom Finn (named after both Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn) in the fine art of outback adventure in the hills and valleys in the Brindabellas on the east coast.

Seven Year Hitch

Seven years and eleven cancelled appointments.

I'd almost given up, but not quite.

On the twelfth appointment I was expecting a cancellation and that meant I could go for my river bike ride and a macchiato in the strip in Fremantle. But this time Helen showed up complete with her mandolin ........ almost ready to be photographed. I say almost because I sensed her anxiety level was a tad higher than normal.  I guess if someone had postponed their visit to the dentist or accountant eleven times they might be anxious. As soon as I fired off the first half dozen shots I descended the staircase and let Helen look at this image on the camera screen.

I first met Helen in July 2001 when she joined a portrait workshop at UWA Extension. Although I demonstrate portrait techniques during the workshop I make a practice of never offering to photograph students outside class. In Helen's case she asked for a portrait and I happily agreed. But it wasn't until April 2008  that we made an image together. It was a case of sympatico on hold for seven years.

In those seven years Helen and I chatted several times. Appointments were made, appointments were postponed.  In that time I learned two things about Helen. First, that she was one of the most interesting and disarmingly honest and down to earth women I had ever met. Something of a rarity these days. I always felt totally relaxed chatting around Helen. Armed with dark sense of humour and sharp intellect the conversation was always energetic and inviting. Fortunately, our politics were in congruence.  Helen also demonstrated a  strong sense of heritage and a dedication to family. Her frankness was refreshing and invigorating. With Helen I learned that I was dealing with a genuine human being and a proud Australian.

The second thing I learned about Helen was that I had sort of met my match in terms of story telling. People often comment on the fluent nature of the stories I tell and interweave with my photographs. Helen had an uncanny ability  and relate a story to take me from a relaxed state and keep me on the edge of my seat for half an hour.

But perhaps the major revelation was in the shoot itself on 13 April 2008.
When I reached the bottom of the staircase after just five minutes shooting Helen looked nervous. She  immediately focused on the image I showed her. I think I saw a slight glistening in her eyes, then a small sigh of  relief.
She quietly whispered 'I never realised I would look this good'.

I knew from July 2001 that she would look that good. Helen realxed immediately and the rest of the shoot was a breeze.

Entries to the 2017 Fremantle International Portrait Prize close on Friday 11 August. Click HERE for details.

Cloud Walker

Thirty years ago at Easter 1985, assisted by wife Margaret  I carried an English steel tripod, a Pentax 67 medium format camera, three lenses and three rolls of Fuji Provia 120 film to the top of Mount Toolbrunup in teh Stirling Ranges

We also carried our sleeping bags and a  ground sheet and food for the evening. My first surprise was the top of Toolbrunup is not flattish like Bluff Knoll but pointy with no real room to camp. There was not enough space to erect our tent so we pulled our sleeping bags under the low bushes for protection from wind and moisture.

I'd planned this carefully, studying the locations of landforms and lakes and the magnetic direction of the sunrise. In particular I wanted to include Bluff Knoll in any landscape I was hoping to get the sunrise reflecting in the lakes. Male a plan and God is sure to have his say and provide you with a few challenges.

I was awake before dawn and snuggled into my down bag listening to small birds telling me it was time to get up. When I did expose my body to the mountain chill  I saw to my disdainthere was no sunrise or lakes. The nocturnal cloud bank covered the entire scene. I stood, as in those religious biblical paintings, like Jesus in a sea of clouds.

Margaret declined to leave her sleeping bag despite my rapture about the scene. I laid on my stomach, shivering and took a frame of the cloud bank on the Pentax. The audible clunk sounded like a gunshot in the wilderness. Bluff Knoll poked his dark mysterious head through the cotton wool clouds. I drifted into a world of my own. Here alone on a mountain top with just my camera. The ache in my legs and back meant nothing for this experience.

I learned that what you get in life is sometimes not what you aimed for. It may be better or perhaps not as good. But its important to have an aim and to strive.

Mount Toolbrunup at 3451 feet is the second highest mountains in the Stirling Ranges.

Learn Landscape Techniques, Depth of Field, steepened perspective and aperture priority control in Practical Photography (Intermediate) at UWA Extesnion.

footnote: After scrambling over scree on the descent to the park we invited the wrath of the Park Ranger. We had left son and daughter alone in their own little tent for the night to fare for themselves. The ranger viewed them as 'abandoned' children and us as irresponsible parents. Margaret and I thought we were extending their education and preparing them for life. Little wonder they both ended up working for Outward Bound Australia!

Goodbye Pusskat

Pusskat

Died 25-2.14*  Two years old.

I will remember

• How you would hide in the bushes and pounce on my legs as I went by
• How you followed me to coffee
• The way you curled up and slept in my computer case
• How you walked on the piano keys and made music
• You sleeping on my lap in front of TV
• Your beautiful loving head bonks
• How you bossed Miller the pooch around
• How you stole a lump of cheese while I was washing up just last week
• How you waited patiently at the back door looking through the flywire
• How much you loved Marg and brushed by her legs constantly
• You sitting on Gran’s quilted stool watching Marg fussing with food
• You walking inside with leaves and sticks tousled through your tail
• The loving companionship you gave to Marg
• The way you came and nuzzled up in bed on cold winter nights

But more than anything dear beautiful Pusskat you were a free spirit.  You climbed trees and fences, had adventures in bushy backyards, lazed in shady spots and loved life.

Rest peacefully beneath your paperbark tree. Your collar and tag attached to your tree.

 I miss you Pusskat.

*It appears Pusskat fell victim to an active  cat-baiter in South Fremantle. Pusskat was not the only victim in the last few days.

Lena the Octopus

In the late 90s and early 00s I shot a few weddings in Bali for Australian couples. The classiest wedding was for a couple who had lived and worked a decade in Bali - he was an architect and she was the marketing manager for a chain of upmarket hotels throughout Asia. Both were born and bred West Aussies.

I survived a series of serious parties in the days and nights leading up to wedding day. The reception was held at a lavish five star hotel at Candi Desa. I put in a big effort photographing the beautiful bride and her charming groom (who also was a dyed-in-the-wool Docker's supporter).

Candlelit tables were clustered precariously close to poolside just a hundred metres from the surf. A balmy, tropical evening - the mood was relaxed, romantic and joyous, the air laden with the delicious scent of frangipani and jasmine. My job as photographer was almost done. I enjoyed a glass of champagne and another and sampled the exotic food.  Now in relaxed mode I approached the dance floor that was thumping to electrified sounds and was lit by a kaleidoscope of pulsating coloured lights.

Out of the darkness leapt a young woman who grabbed my hand and dragged me into the middle of the dance floor. I had never seen her before - not even among the wedding guests. She could easily have won the next heat of 'Dancing with the Stars'. She gyrated and twirled and swung me this way and that. In the darkness I felt every inch of her svelte body as she pulsed with the music. This was better than champagne. She didn't stop. She didn't interrupt her seductive, serpent like movements when she told me her name was Lena.

I thought Holey Shamoley! Who IS this creature from the dark lagoon? I have to get a  shot. I let auto-exposue and auto everything do their things because I couldn't see a damn thing.  She wrapped me up in her tentacles again as we continued this crazy, seductive dance with my tiny Leica gasping for air.

Then poof! In an instant, she was gone! She disappeared into the Balinese darkness like an Indonesian shadow puppet.

I had a sleepless night. I dreamt of Lena and Leicas.

The next morning hundreds of wedding guests were in the luxurious open-sided restaurant overlooking a milky sea, enjoying breakfast and recounting stories from the wedding, the parties and the guests.  I experienced the best egg breakfast of my life - scrambled eggs with black truffle oil on hot buttered toast. The truffle oil vapours permeate the back of your throat and air passages and give you the equivalent of a nasal orgasm.

If that wasn't enough my heart leapt as I saw my exotic 'dirty dancer' Lena enter the restaurant followed by a man and a couple of young ankle-biters. I couldn't help myself, I just had to go up and say 'Good Morning'.
She looked up from her table perplexed and with the expression of a stunned mullet.
'Sorry who are you?  she asked.
I was taken aback. How could my dancing dream girl NOT remember me?
'You were dancing with me at the wedding last night', I said.
'I'm sorry, I don't remember at all'
Bugger! Deflation set in ..... permanently.

Two days later I was enjoying a farewell drink with the newly married couple before flying back to Australia. I related the story about Lena. The bride's eyes narrowed and she looked like a judge about to deliver a death sentence on a  prisoner.
'You mean Lena the Octopus'
'Octopus?' I queried
'Women here know that Lena's like an octopus around men'
(To be truthful I had noticed Lena's all embracing tentacles)
'Actually she wasn't invited to the wedding', the bride continued 'she just sort of turned up. Hubby babysat in the room while she partied'

ooOoo

These days I love eating octopus and have my own speciality dish called Octopus Lena - raw naked octopus  marinated in truffle oil with a hint of ginger and a whack of chilli.

Dinner for One

'Living on earth is expensive, but it does include a free trip around the sun once a year'

The Ranger squinted at me through the dirty, cracked windscreen and in a monotonic voice said,

'Jane turned her 4WD over sixty kilometres down the track. She and the kids are being flown to hospital with the Royal Flying Doctor'

I carried the battered contents of Jane's car inside the house and sat down, alone. Just me and my soup. I ate the bread. Silently, I photographed my soup on film.

Through the window of the dining room I could see the southern tip of Dirk Hartog Island under a full moon. I was sitting alone in a large sprawling stone mansion just fifty metres from the Indian Ocean just east of Steep Point. Apart from the Ranger's cottage this was the western most house in Australia.

What set out to be  a week of private coaching for my student Jane ended up being a week of a Robinson Crusoe existence on one of the world's most exotic shorelines.

The difference was I was in a massive three wing building with an auto-start power plant, my own desalination system and a cellar with a hundred bottles of the finest wines.

There was no vehicle, no telephone, no radio, no television. I did have a camera, twenty rolls of film, a fishing line and a feeling of trepidation being on my own in this magical place.

The moon shone through the open window of my west wing bedroom and, aided by a bottle of fine red wine, I pondered what I would do for a week, on my own, in this remote, romantic location. Except for the gentle lapping of the waves on a moonlit shore there was nothing. Not even a friendly mosquito. My mind drifted to places I'd adventured in and faces I had imaged. 

You are Never Too Old

I saw him walking alone along the parapet wall of the monastery.
An old man, with a bald head.
He could have been a reflection in a mirror.
He was singing in French, naturally happy in his own world.
'Che Sera Sera'
At two metres our eyes met and I followed singing the next line
'Whatever will be will be'
French or Australian we were both fans of Doris Day, it seems.
He beamed the most beautiful smile.
I gestured that I would like to photograph him but he declined.
He said something in French.
Nearby, Susan translated his words for me,
'No, I am too old'
I felt disappointed and a bit sad. You are never too old. In particular, you are never too old to be photographed.

Later, I saw my Frenchman looking reflectively towards a cross on the mountaintop from Montserrat.
My mind raced back to early 1958 when I faced one of the most important decisions of my life; whether to join the Marist Brothers as a religious brother. I had tossed and turned countless nights wrestling with the decision.

Eventually, it was meeting a girl that changed my mind. I decided I was never going to give up the loving someone real for something intangible.

There was my Frenchman, the Benedictine monk nurturing the boy and the cross on the clifftop. Then, a girl walked through my frame.
Whatever will be, will be.
Che Sera Sera   

Leprosarium Girl

Following my photographic coverage of the 2004 tsunami in India I lived in the Hebron Orphanage in Andreh Pradesh for a  short period.
The orphanage accommodated about 200 orphans and was located alongside a busy canal that bore more resemblance to a sewer than a river.

My Indian minders kept careful watch on every step I made and every photograph I took 'for my own good'. I didn't react too well to being constrained and after a few 'exchanges' they let me go my own way
About five hundred metres down the road was a leprosarium. I was told that this area was strictly out of bounds and in no way was i to visit the  area.
After a casual walk one afternoon I entered the leprosarium and spoke to adults and children for thirty minutes before my minders located me and attempted to round me up.

The girl pictured above was a member of the leper community. She stepped forward from her group of children and talked to me. She had no mother and father and lived in the colony with her grandmother who had contracted leprosy.

  

Miss Horrocks - Walking on Sunshine

It was 1960.
It happened in Subiaco, Western Australia.
St Joseph's Marist Brothers School

Imagine an all boys school with 400 Catholic boys aged between ten and seventeen. Imagine all fifteen teachers are male Marist Brothers. Imagine St Joseph's Church a stone's throw away with two Catholic priests. Imagine one boy has a camera.

Imagine what might happen when the Marist Brothers School employs a new Grade Four teacher. The new teacher is not a Marist Brother or priest. The new teacher belongs to no religious order at all. The new teacher is secular, single and sexy.

The new teacher is female.

Miss Horrock's arrival at Marist Brothers was as though the sun had burst through the grey clouds. If you listened hard enough you could hear Katrina and the Waves singing 'Walking on Sunshine' (except Katrina wasn't around yet). There was chatter and gossip; in the same league as if Pope Pius XII got caught reading Playboy. Miss Horrocks arrival did not go unnoticed ........ by anybody. There were stirrings in the ranks of both boys and brothers.

To make matters worse (better I thought!) Miss Horrocks was slightly shy and bashful and suffered from a delightfully bad case of blushing at the slightest attention. With over 400 rampant lads in the paddock suffering from a sacred dose of Catholcity  Miss Horrocks received more than the occasional glance. She blushed quite a bit.

Build into this scenario that one fifteen year old lad had worked his butt off for eight weeks during Perth's searing summer to buy himself a Hanimex C35 camera.

Just like in the Agatha Christie novels there was motive and passion. Then opportunity came knocking. The Feast of Christ the King was a major celebration for Catholics worldwide - even in Subiaco. All the boys and brothers piled into buses headed for Aquinas College to join all the other Catholic schools and colleges for Mass and singing and marching.

My mind was somewhere else.

I was  fifteen and had never asked a woman to pose for me (especially one I had never met formally). But armed with my new camera and a roll of film I felt brave. Not only did I have the confidence to ask Miss Horrocks to pose, I felt it my duty to do so.

Her cheeks flushed when I asked her but she sat on the wall and held her hat and smiled so gracefully. I focused and clicked the shutter. Just one shot.

I thought 'I really like this' and sat next to Miss Horrocks for the ride to Aquinas.

It was my Catholic duty.

Bridging the Gap

It was 1985 and my body told me something was seriously wrong. In the space of 48 hours I had gone from being a seriously fit professional cyclist racing 200 kms in a day to barely being able to climb three steps to my front door. It virtually happened overnight on 15 September 1985.

Three months later my doctor diagnosed myalgic encephalomyelitis (ME*.)  Dr Trevor lord smiled gently and uttered words I've never forgotten,
'Dale, you've got something called ME. Now for the bad news; its not going to kill you'

Trevor Lord was right. ME didn't kill me. However, it was the end of my job, the end of my cycling, the dwindling of friendships and almost the severing of my marriage and family. They were tough days.

Two and a half years later and still struggling physically and mentally I joined the Cycle Touring Association's (CTA) Bicentennial Tour from Albany to Perth. I didn't ride my bike; I drove a car. I wanted to be with cyclists along country roads. Fourteen years earlier I had helped start the CTA in Western Australia. The CTA was like family to me.  It was part of my part of my blood.

I drove my KIngswood station wagon and photographed the 21 cyclists riding through the south-west forests, freewheeling down hills in their white and yellow shirts and camping in youth hostels.


'A palette of colour races past. Gears and chains chime out their melody and then fade. I turn and look 
at the yellow and white stream winding effortlessly, gracefully down the grade and out of sight.'

In cycle racing parlance the term Bridging the Gap is used to describe the effort put in by the peleton to catch a breakaway. In 1988 the gap was between my body and mind and that of the healthy throng of cyclists.

'Let's count the spokes in their wheels on the print. 1/1000 sec @ f5.6 on Plus X film. Sit on the road; worm's eye view - remember the shot of Greg Jack on Gravity Hill in'78, sitting on the road. That road's bloody hot! Have to settle for eye-level.'


In reality it took another seven years to regain my health to be able to work again and cycle but the Bicentennial Tour was the catalyst that got me back on the road, struggling every day to bridge the gap.

I was fortunate a few years later to meet Australia's most famous cyclist and member of parliament Sir Hubert Opperman. I remember his words fondly,
"Unless you have headwinds and hills, you never appreciate the tailwinds and downhills'
Life's like that as well.

Inside the weatherboard and iron dormitory the wafting incense of the mosquito coil overpowers me and I drift off to dream of  ... Banjo  ..... bicycles  .... and beautiful things.

(The full story of Bridging the Gap was printed in the September/Ocober 1988 edition of Freewheeling)
*ME is now referred to as Chronic Fatigue Syndrome (CFS)

footnote: In 2014 the CTA will celebrate its 40 Anniversary and will re-run the Perth-Albany Tour. 

Photos:
Top: Stan Wiechecki leads the descent through Karri Valley
Second: Donna Earles (USA) cools off after a 40 deg celsius ride
Thurd: Bea Page on the flat near Pemberton
Bottom: Leone Pollard of NSW with local farmer near Pemberton

All photos shot on a Yashica Mat 124G 120 roll film camera on Kodak Plux X film

This is my home

One of the most inspirational photographers in my life was Margaret Bourke-White. Not only was she one of America's most passionate photographers but she broke new grounds for female photographers. She was unafraid - unafraid of war, unafraid of challenges and unafraid of the so-called glass ceiling. She loved photography and she loved life.

On the wall next to me as I write I have just one quote on the wall. Its from Bourke-White:

'Saturate yourself with your subject and the camera will all but take you by the hand'

In January 2007 I led a group of photographers through Egypt. At the end of three weeks I was exhausted and headed to Marrakesh in Morocco for some R & R. I chatted to  a local driver and asked him to drive me into the Atlas Mountains in his 1958 Mercedes 220S. He knew the area well, spoke good English and seemed tuned in to me as a photographer. As he pulled into a 'scenic lookout' I eyeballed my driver and told him I didn't want any more scenic lookouts. I wanted people, real people.

The Mercedes climbed through smaller and smaller villages into the Atlas mountains. The driver left me to have coffee and ventured by foot up a steep slope. He returned twenty minutes later saying he had found a lady who had agreed that I could visit her home.
We walked for a further thirty minutes to small hamlet of brown, tumble-down mud-brick buildings surrounding a courtyard. I met the lady, a middle-aged muslim mother of three who inited me into her home.

 It was the smallest  house I had ever been in in my life. It consisted of one room, one end of which was the kitchen and the other end the sleeping quarters. I sat on a small wooden stool in the sleeping quarters while she prepared tea. The only light entering the house came through a glassless window opening and the doorway.

The mother boiled the kettle on single butane burner. My driver translated back and forth. She told me she was honoured and excited to make tea for me. Her husband had left three years earlier to find work in the city and she hadn't heard from him again. She did not know if he was still alive.

 I told her that it was me who felt honoured being in her home and sharing tea with her. She laughed and chuckled when I asked to photograph her. 'Why?' she asked. 'Because you are a good mother and a survivor' I replied 'and i think you have made me the best tea I have had in a month. She laughed again but never posed. I photographed her as she went about her tea-making.

oOo

The 2015 Fremantle International Portrait Prize is Western Australia's premier photographic award with a $5000 cash first prize. Entries open in June 2015. Entries are open to photographers worldwide. Click here for details.

(Photo info: Fuji S2 Pro 6MP camera, 12-24mm Nikon lens @ 12mm, 1/45s @ f4 handheld 1600ISO. 29 Jan 2007)

Elephantine Island - Egypt

Elephantine is an island in the Nile River in northern Nubia. It is a part of the modern city of Aswan, in southern Egypt. There are archaeological sites on the island.

Between 2005 and 2009 I led five groups of photographers on cultural, historic and photographic tours of Egypt before the revolution.

We lived on one of the hundreds of cruise ships while navigating the Nile. In some ways, the Nile cruises were the highlight of the tour. We got to observe ordinary, everyday, non-touristy life on the banks of the Nile. Women washing clothes, men tending goats, children playing, crops being harvested. In my imagination I could so easily transpose the scenes to a hundred or a thousand years beforehand. I had the rather presumptuous advantage of sitting on board a boat with a tripod and long lens. However, I did feel that I was not intruding on life.

We often rented a felucca (beautiful traditional Egyptian sailing boat) for an afternoon, sailing the Nile and visiting Elephantine Island which is populated mainly by Nubians. Here, the Nubians live their traditional lives without pretence or pandering to tourists. Vibrant colours adorn the buildings and the fences. Unpaved streets wind aimlessly between houses, shops and yards of sheep and goats

My number one photographic goal on each of the five tours was to capture a close-up of a Muslim woman in a full burka. Its not easy. Being an older white Caucasian makes it even more difficult. I got close many times in my negotiations and had some partial success but never achieved a 'keeper'.

T spotted the women in this shot from a distance. It was patently obvious to me that I would not get any co-operation in taking shots. As I raised my lens they stared at me for a few seconds then covered their faces completely. The dark blue colouring on the lips is natural.

Dale Neill conducts photography workshops at UWA Extension in Perth, Western Australia. Find out more about his workshops at http://www.extension.uwa.edu.au/tutor/39