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.