Looking for Light

A book made in the aftermath of my friend’s suicide. It began as a way to dismantle the structures I’d been living by—image, truth, meaning—and slowly rebuild them with full awareness of their constructedness. It’s both raw and delibera

Looking for light was a project borne from trying to make sense of the world after the loss of my dear friend Sam to suicide. 

Sam was my first friend who was a photographer, with whom i learnt the passion of the dark alongside. We would spend hours in the red light together at college. Under the guidance of John Stadnicki (known fondly as ‘the bastard’ by those he taught) who also sadly and strangely passed away whilst I was making this book on grief. 

After the passing of Sam, it was hard to see anything in the world. I fell to drugs and other distractions to try and suppress the overwhelming sense of loss. Before this, I’d been on a path. Working my way up as a runner in the film industry - shooting freely with out much thought, just presence. Suddenly it was as though all this momentum and direction was gone. 

I lost touch with all my contacts, ignoring them even. Moved back in with my mum and dad and started to work as a woodworker making hedgehog houses at a local workshop. I had planned to go away. Slowly saving and reflecting until I felt ready in my mind to start to look at the world again. I planned a trip to Cuba, enticed by the promise of colour and different perspectives - a week away from leaving and I had an accident at work. Burning myself on a space heater. After the immediate pain I thought nothing of the burn, pulling down my work trousers and cracking on with the day. It was only a couple of days later when cycling and feeling a throbbing pain in my calf that upon inspection i noticed two red lines tracking up from the burn toward my heart. I was rushed to hospital, placed on a drip and spent the weekend I should have been flying to Cuba, stoned on some hash I’d smuggled into the hospital: recovering from septicaemia.

Back in this dark place after light was seemingly there at the end of the tunnel I fell back to darkness. Before, I decided to use the money I’d saved to go away to buy a little red van. This van changed things. Suddenly, with the freedom to go anywhere and stay there too: my whole perspective shifted. As mentioned in the book as I’m sure you’re aware if you’ve experienced too, grief never goes away - it comes like waves of missing where you almost feel guilty at times for “being okay” but life, and light is ever flowing and changing. If you don’t move on with it; it will move on without you. 

You might wonder why I’ve given this context to the “looking for light” book shared, I think it’s important to serve as a foundation for what meant it came to fruition: a summer driving around in my little red van, making sense of what had passed and what was there now. Visiting locations significant to Sam when he’d been alive, places I’d been when I was a youth before things were so complicated. With the loose intention of finding marks of the green man: an effigy and expression to where man’s oneness with nature had been lost, something Sam had now returned to. 

Within the book are my hand written notes made whilst exploring myself and the south coast. For the first time since Sam passed I stopped smoking weed - leaving the days and evenings normally spent in an anxious cloudy haze free for reflection and focussed reading. Waking up fresh, able to continue trains of thought that had preceded the day before. It was as though through losing this substance upon which I had become so dependent upon, i was finally back present in the world. Mixing digital, black and white and colour film work the book loosely follows the chronology of the journey - peppered occasionally with dates or days of the week, these don’t always make sense in terms of what’s being viewed. Subtle references to the constructed nature of meaning in the existences we have built for ourselves - in reality, there is no reality. 

With no real conclusion other than the acceptance of the fact that the only real conclusion is the ultimate one... Looking for light doesn’t try to answer any questions, it just asks them. Asking the viewer to ask themselves them too if they’re paying attention. It is something that can be read at face value as something of aesthetic chaos, the untangling of a mind as conventional order of colour and presentation is lost catalysed by the loose and sometimes illegible hand writing as a personal artefact it serves as so much more, a long awaited coming to terms with loss.

What follows is the critical report that accompanies the work:

 ‘Looking for Light’ chronicles a pilgrimage that I made for the sole purpose of finding out why it was being undertaken, echoing many a person's own pilgrimage from birth to death. It’s a personal journey with universal overtones, which ultimately resulted in recognition of unaddressed loss as well as suppressed emotions in the face of past trauma. Over the course of three months of travelling and following no route but its own I pursued leads and, whilst documenting this passage, even lost another dear friend, tutor, and mentor along the way. I started from the cemetery where my friend Sam is buried, with the idea of hunting for a modern day Greenman (a character from folklore seen throughout history, viewed as an archetype for man's lost oneness with nature). My pilgrimage ended months later in another cemetery with the revelation that we have raised ourselves so high above nature through the simulation of ‘higher’ purpose through culture, society and religion that the prospect of returning to it, the ‘real’ below our simulation is now only met when we die. In other words, a hunt for life, which ended with death. 

“What society seeks through production, and over production is the restoration of the real that it escapes.” - (Baudrillard, 1983) 

“In the modern epoch, ‘man’, with the help of technological innovations, has become the determining centre of reality” (Heidegger, Bolt, 2011) 

Modern society has changed the course/purpose of our existence; we’ve even taken the liberty to define our own purposes within things. We have overcomplicated from the ‘one’ of mere existence (in the world of the ancient Greeks a world where “man was looked upon by what is.” (Heidegger, Bolt, 2011) meaning man effectively "exists among other things” (Heidegger, Bolt, 2011) - dichotomous to our modern day anthropocentric perspectives of man looking out at ‘his’ world. 

Through simulated realities beyond the cyclical flow of things, we fill our existences around the physical and not the spiritual “The limits of my language mean the limits of my world.” – (Wittgenstei, Martland, 1975). We define and quantify in order to take ownership of that that is, via quantitative vs qualitative experience - though it cannot be forgotten that happiness comes from within. No matter the amount of quantification, or the ‘stuff’ we fill our existences with as a distraction from the chaos of life, any sense of order is really a simulacram concealing the ‘truth’ of the chaos below. My work and journey follows my delayed experience of accepting Sam’s passing and returning to nature, and an acceptance of our own mortality. 

Life, death and nature are the central themes of the project's creation, with metaphysics serving as a further lens to ponder reality. When looking for life, it is inevitable we will be met with death, inextricably linked through the laws of nature; there is no escaping the ground, no matter how much we try to raise ourselves above it; we all return. 

On poking at a wound it is uncertain what may emerge, and what's brought to the surface may not even have any bearing to that that occurred when the damage was done. Perception, and memory of experience are as much defined by that going on inside as out. 

“How often do we tell our own life story? How often do we adjust, embellish, make sly cuts? And the longer life goes on, the fewer are those around to challenge our account, to remind us that our life is not our life, merely the story we have told about our life. Told to others, but—mainly—to ourselves.” (Barnes, 2012) 

As the years have passed since Sam died, so has my memory of him. Diluted and distorted across the unrelenting flow of time - the recollections of stories and situations, how he laughed, how he spoke. Beyond the limitations of photographs that only represent him from the singular perspective by which they were created (and their very existence meaning that they’re a representation on his behalf too) I can only use my imagination to reframe his physical, tangible form. Even this is becoming more and more fleeting. In the words of Susan Sontag: 

“Perhaps too much value is assigned to memory, not enough to thinking. Remembering is an ethical act, has ethical value in and of itself. Memory is, achingly, the only relation we can have with the dead.” (Sontag, 2019) 

How we choose to remember people, whether a conscious decision or not, becomes our ultimate, and lasting relationship with them if they’re not around to defend the truth from their own perspectives. To further this, a photograph can serve as evidence; enhancing or even changing the experience of remembering. Through recounting something from a perspective that wasn’t even experienced, can it change our experience of that moment? 

At the beginning of summer as the project was beginning to form itself I was sitting at Sam’s grave remembering him, as well as postulating how, or who he may be now. I then went to the local lakes we often used to frequent with friends, where, upon reaching the gate to jump onto the private road beyond; it felt like I had been slapped in the face. Beautiful arboreally filtered light was shining, at a low angle, right down the path in front of me, throwing the two people walking towards the gate on the other side into silhouette. What was so shocking about this spectacle, was the fact that the man in the party looked exactly as I had imagined Sam to look earlier that day, whilst sitting by his grave. Even his gait matched that I remembered of Sam. Luckily, being friendly, once I had explained what had happened from my perspective the couple were quite understanding, and Edward (Sam’s doppelganger) didn’t actually punch me for shouting unwarranted expletives in his direction! Standing back from this experience it could be read in many ways. Did the fact that I had been imagining Sam so intently mean that anyone met in that environment, on the way to the place we had spent so much time together could have taken Sam’s form? Could it be some twisted form of confirmation bias whereby the brain simulates the experience of someone into something it is expecting, or even wants to see? 

Jung speaks in “Synchronicities” (Jung, 1973) of prior psychic experience, or dreams having the ability to change the meaning and significance of things that occur when they do, referred to sometimes as “deja vu” (Jung, 1973) in the case of dreams. One such example he uses in the book is that of a patient who is incredibly resistant to his practice, the patient being well educated and used to critical thinking, making her “psychologically inaccessible” (Jung, 1973). As a result little progress is made into her treatment until, one day, she recounts the dream she had the night before in which she was handed a golden scarab brooch. Whilst she describes the brooch to Jung he hears a tapping at the window, upon turning around to determine the source he sees a large scarab like insect asking to get in. Opening the window he reaches for the insect, taking it and handing it to her with the words “Here is your scarab.” thus “puncturing... her rationalism” (Jung, 1973) and “(breaking) the ice of her intellectual resistance (…to his practice)” (Jung, 1973). This single act, connecting the ‘outside’ of his world and the ‘inside’ of her mind, was enough to cause such a shift in her belief systems that treatment became effective. Could it be that this early ‘meeting’ with Sam was my own scarab for the project? Was the world manifesting that which I was trying to reach right before my eyes - making sure I was paying attention to the subtleties, and readying me for the seemingly esoteric, more than coincidental, interactions that I would experience from that point forwards on the trip. Was I paying attention? 

That evening I went to Sam’s family home for dinner. Sitting across the table from his parents and brother Darcie, I recollected my experience in the hours before. They were deeply understanding and they themselves spoke of situations in which similar things had occurred, though they all said it had been a while since something so specific with a person had happened. As the evening continued we got to the topic of the ‘Hope Cove’ stone that had always been on Sam’s grave - a hand painted pebble from a favourite holiday destination they used to frequent in Cornwall. In the time that it had been left outside on Sam's grave it had begun to bleach in the sun, like an anthotype, the pigments in the paint fading as our memory of Sam had. - so they decided to take it inside to protect it from further weathering (if only we could do the same with memories). Something about this piqued my interest, and I made a loose plan to go to Hope Cove and replace Sam’s stone. While discussing this Sam’s brother, Darcie, mentioned another significant and much larger stone at Hope Cove. This was an outcrop that he and Sam would walk out to and look back upon the bay of ‘Hope’, allowing them both to get out of their parent’s hair for a while. This sounded like another interesting avenue of investigation, so once Darcie had written up his notes about how to find it [Fig. 1.] a plan of action started to form - a treasure trail of latent moments. 

[Fig. 1] Darcie’s instructions in the notes on my phone. 

It quickly became apparent that in a sea of stones., with some ‘Hope’ or even blind belief, and with no one to tell you otherwise; any stone you choose effectively becomes that in question. Through the burning desire to find the stone that Sam and Darcie had visited so often I was willing to suspend the need for truth and satisfy a primal need for comfort - effectively simulating what I wished to see, to be, before me. - and who was around to say it wasn’t so? 

“People’s opinions are mainly designed to make them feel comfortable; truth, for most people is a secondary consideration.” (Russell, 2007) 

Was it worse to leave here not having found the stone (which could be any or all of them), or worse to lie about that fact? I accepted in myself that, for all intents and purposes, any stone I chose became that in question - therefore I had technically already completed the self assigned task. Feeling unsatisfied with the reduction of “Sam the Stoner’s Stone” into mere simulacra led to a more subjective analysis of the world of ‘Hope’ that was being presented to me. I was searching for the ‘real’ with the truth behind it, not merely assigning meaning to that which was ‘real’. Fact, or truth is only in the moment - everything beyond is fallible, be it 

intentional or not. Reality exists for only that moment, it’s the simulation of it that pervades in our minds and mouths. Had I returned from Hope Cove without any photos, could I have claimed to have found the stone? Through evidence [Fig. 2.] shared with Darcie I had confirmation that it was the right place - but what if he had remembered it differently too? 

[Fig. 2] ‘Sam the Stoner's Stone’ 

While sitting beneath Sam’s stone, I could hear three voices in the distance, drifting on the salty sea air along the coast path towards me. As the people drew parallel, still a fair way off, I shouted hello. When they were close enough we started chatting. The three boys, all aged 20 were about to start at Uni in the new term (Sam was 20 when he took his life and a week away from starting his own BA in Photography at Bristol University). They asked what I was doing and I explained my project, and why the stone I was leaning against was important. At this point the more vocal of the three told me that he was also called Sam… Not the last time I would have a seemingly meaningful encounter with a Sam (or three) throughout the course of the trip… 

After this first day spent in Hope, I had to travel North to Somerset for my Grandpa’s funeral. Arriving the night before at Glastonbury I slept in my van near the Tor; intending to wake up and go for a wander as Grandpa and I had done years before. Making it to the top of the tor on the morning of the funeral, looking out upon the endless rolling fields below, I was transported back to my youth. Where I’d been expecting a sensation of familiarity and sentimentality, I was instead overwhelmed by lamenting suppressed, seemingly lost memories - I felt I had done something wrong here. In my mind this place that I held so holy; the place that I’d come to mourn my Grandpa, on the day of his funeral had become transformed by something forgotten from my past. 

It tried to dredge up this suppressed trauma - more a fingerprint of emotion passed than a tangible memory, like a latent image imprinted on expired colour slide that has been left in a hot car for too long. The essence of something was there, it would just take the right process to draw the ‘truth’ out - and even then it may have been warped through entropy and the 

constant decay of time. Perhaps I should just bite the bullet and ‘cross process’ it, abstracting the truth of the slide’s vivid colour into increased contrast and unexpected colour shifts at the hand of the c41 chemicals. Could I expose some form of latent light - a form of ‘truth’, though not as directly experienced? 

At the wake later in the day I spoke with my Grandma about my experience at Glastonbury Tor hours earlier. Laughing, she vividly remembered what had happened when we had gone there more than twenty years before. It had been me, my cousin Sam, Grandma and Grandpa, out on a day trip we had climbed the Tor. Apparently, shortly after arriving, the 5 year old me decided to walk off - disappearing for a good couple of hours, throwing everyone into a flurry of panic. In my Grandma's words due to my somewhat ‘independent’ reputation “had it been any of the other cousins we wouldn’t have been so worried.” Hours later, when they had just about given up hope, I was found sitting with my back against the Tor, drinking in the same views that I had experienced that morning… Could I have been sitting in exactly the same spot that day as 20 years earlier? Had it not been for that conversation with my Grandma, ‘cross processing’ the experience with her and confirming what had happened all those years before from her perspective, what would I have believed? The long forgotten experience diluted to pure emotion could easily have changed to something else entirely in my mind over time. Through Grandma’s corroboration it formed into a ‘shared’ experience - allowing me an insight into her perspective of the phenomena. It also gave me a wider picture of the experience, grounding it in the foundations of the ‘physical’ from her experience beyond the fleeting ‘emotional imprint’ of my own perspective. Following this explanation from her my mind could fill the gaps and corroborate what had happened on that day - though did what I now remember truly happen or had we collectively created this ‘new’ memory in my mind? 

“All memory is individual, unreproducible - it dies with each person. What is called collective memory is not a remembering but a stipulating: that this is important, and this is the story about how it happened, with the pictures that lock the story in our minds.” (Sontag, 2019) 

[Fig. 3] Aunty Katie, Grandma and Dad at Grandpa’s wake. 

At Grandpa’s wake I shot a roll of film. I was unaware until processing the roll that it had been shot previously at the clock shop of an ex girlfriends’ uncle in Pewsey. Almost all of the images from the wake were double exposed with clock faces [Fig. 3]. Photography as a medium is capable of ‘freezing’ time, though it does so with a sense of impermanence. At 

every point beyond the initial image capture it demands more time in exchange for the ‘revealing’ of the moment which has been lost - otherwise the image simply fades. In the words of Barthes: 

“cameras, in short, were clocks for seeing,” - (Barthes, 1996) 

What he doesn’t mention is the exchange in time required for the freezing of those moments. Cameras are “clocks for seeing” but they demand that we see the manifestation through to closure - otherwise there is nothing to see - or, nothing to be seen. The image is merely latent light stored in a light-tight canister and the aberrations caused by the conditions of storage of these imprints can affect their outcome/recollection just as our own memories warp with time too. 

This brings to mind one of my final photos of Sam. A photo taken at his funeral, on an old Olympus om10 loaded with a roll of kentmere 400 - the film John, our tutor, used to give to us at college. I brought the camera and film along with the intention of placing it in his coffin so he had a camera to use on the other side. Before placing it amongst the rest of the ephemera people had brought to be buried with him, I decided to take a photo of his coffin where it stood. I then took the camera from around my neck and placed it in the basket. This had not been the original intention of the exercise, it was an afterthought when presented with the subject - yet, it’s an action that still haunts me late at night. That photo of Sam purely exists because he no longer does. That photo of Sam only exists where it is beside him now. A photo that can never be seen that only exists due to the particular circumstance. My ‘ultimate’ photo of my friend, and one that does not, and never can exist… 

The latent moments that form upon the surface of the substrate, are as a result of silver halides’ ‘photolytic decomposition’ when exposed to light (Trivelli, Sheppard, 1925). Through this reaction to light the halides decay, changing form; decomposing into silver metal and halogen - entropy incarnate. A permanent change, resulting from their being witness to something which no longer exists in the same way it did when it was recorded (if at all anymore). A metaphor for our own unseen change at the hand of being witness to ‘enlightening’ events can be drawn here. Another parallel is taking time to reflect - to see how or what the effect of such events can sometimes be. Inherently photography is caught in the past, a photo of something can only come into existence if that thing no longer exists as it did when photographed. In turn, through the creation of a photo we are partaking in an irreversible form of decay, much like the unrelenting decay at the hand of time itself… 

“No man stands in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river, and he’s not the same man.” - (Heraclitus, 1991) 

Nothing exists except for that in the immediate moment, all that remains is a representation of that. 

“...when there is no longer the situation of the real world set over against a light-sensitive film (it is the same with language, which is like the sensitive film of ideas), then there is, ultimately, no possible representation any more.” 

- (Baudrillard, 2009) 

What if none of it ever existed? Or what if in this same sense it always did… when you hand a guitar to a musician they will see the latent vibrations. Strings holding an inert tone, waiting for release by those in the know. An inherent potential, whereby with the correct ‘input’ a plethora of sound can be output. The music always exists within the bounds of the instrument, as it does within the mind of the artist. But how does this reflect on photography? In handing a layman either instrument (guitar or camera) some form of output will be possible. With the immediacy of the guitar's sound, as well as a demand for greater technical 

understanding of its operation, most people would struggle to represent that which is inside with the tool (instrument) that is out. This hasn’t changed or affected the instrument's potential to represent the sounds intended. It still contains all the same tones; there is just a knowledge gap - or missing context, between the player and that being played. With a camera, thanks to the ongoing automation and simplification of its operation, as well as the almost universal human experience of sight, it becomes more an extension of this experience - looking out whilst also looking in. With the automation of camera and process, the layman will end up with discernible frames - representations of moments passed, offering context by animising the perspective. Could it be seen that these frozen moments always existed within the bounds of the film in the same sense that the notes are waiting for their player? With this thought, as our world moves towards ever increasing automation, will it be long before it plays itself? 

“In the beginning was the word. It was only afterwards that the Silence came. 

The end itself has disappeared...” - (Baudrillard, 2009) 

[Fig. 4] St. Boniface’s fingers from a wood carving in Crediton Holy Cross Church 

St Boniface [Fig. 4] - born Winfrid, of Crediton near Exeter, around the year 673 AD - was a key proponent in the transition of much of Germany from more traditional ‘pagan’ belief systems. These were founded around a respect for the environment based largely in a fear of the ‘gods’ believed to be contained within nature. Much like the pre-socratic ancient Greeks mentioned earlier in this report they didn’t separate nature from themselves; a more universal perspective of everything ‘as it is’ as opposed to everything ‘as it is defined’ - before the shift in paradigms from oneness with nature to nature for one. This was facilitated by the spread of anthropocentric belief systems of the church - a belief system founded on the basis of man's myth of his own importance. 

“ In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” - (John 1:1, 2011) 

Explaining that which was unexplained in the world, and putting himself as the core context of it all, if man is made in the image of God, who in turn is made in the image of man - does that mean man sees himself as God? 

“We are not silent dogs, we are not silent spectators, we are not mercenaries running from the wolf, but concerned and watchful shepherds for the flock of Christ, for the great as well as for the small, for the rich as well as for the poor, for the one of every age and condition, and when it is pleasant and when it is unpleasant; and let us make known the will of God, as long as God gives us strength.” 

- (Boniface, Mirabella, 2022) 

When in Hesse in Germany St Boniface “...summoned the people…” (Anderson, 1990) of the area (who were deeply attached to tree worship) to one old Oak in particular - “...the sacred oak of Thor at Geismar…” (Anderson, 1990) Having witnessed the attempted sacrifice of a child to the god believed to be contained in the boughs of the tree, Boniface decided to act, taking it upon himself to fell the tree; much to the horror of the onlooking Hesse people. “He continued to cut away at the tree until its trunk burst into four parts of equal length, lying in the shape of a cross.” (Anderson, 1990) thus forcing that which is natural into the shape of something which symbolically represents so much within the religion. Having “the wood used to construct a chapel dedicated to St Peter” (Anderson, 1990) effectively appropriated and recontextualised the German’s understanding of their sacred place. This helped to convert the mode of worship here into one that aligned with his own Christian beliefs (it was common practice to build churches on the site of previous spiritual importance in the spread of Christianity throughout the world.) - almost taking the ‘outside’ of nature, turning it into an ‘inside’ - then closing the true reality of what was already inside, out. 

As we took nature inside our homes, we forgot about what was already within… 

[Fig. 5] 8mm film still of a ‘Greenman’ roof boss from the short film 

So what has that got to do with my project? The ‘greenman’ [Fig. 5] or - “The archetype for our oneness with the earth” (Anderson, 1990) was mentioned in the opening paragraph as one of the key conceptual themes guiding the initial project. Throughout the trip at the back of my mind, however distant, was the thought to what, or where such a figure may reside in our modern day interpretation of existence - and how to represent ‘him’ photographically. 

Having searched around many churches in the Crediton area and identifying ‘his’ form on roof bosses and the meeting points of beams, I knew how ‘he’ had been represented in history. These were generally terrifying grotesque figures with foliage spewing from mouth and eyes, seemingly representing the nature trying to burst from the seams of our anthropocentric simulation. Or were they in fact symbols seeking to represent the unnabating consumption of the natural world? It took an afternoon in a Crediton graveyard recording the church bells on the day of the Queen’s funeral to really see the ‘truth’ surrounding me. The broken and forgotten tombstones surrounding me represented the lives of long forgotten and broken people below. Though they had not been forgotten by nature as I could see them bursting between the cracks of the representation of their past before my very eyes. This was where my ‘Greenman’ was now - and where we would all return. [Fig. 6] 

[Fig. 6] Man returned to nature. 

“My son, my body is returning to my mother earth, and my spirit is going very soon to see the Great Spirit Chief. When I am gone… never forget my dying words. This country holds your father’s body…” (Chief, 1999) 

Looking back on the process from which ‘Looking for Light’ was born and despite the sadness which surrounds all of it - it now feels like it was a necessary part of my grieving process, though not one that I had intended. In fact the project became exactly what I hadn’t 

intended. It became a cathartic process in which I was forced, through self imposed isolation and sobriety to finally address some of the numbed pain of the past. 

With each death beyond Sam’s that sense of despair has never returned in the same way and maybe never will. It’s almost as though, through the shock factor of a call from a friend out of the blue explaining the gravity of something that was impossible to process, a part of the innocence of youth was lost. 

I wrote the following after Sam’s passing: 

After Sam died 

So did part of I. 

Gone were the endless baleful days of youth 

Replaced by a wistful longing for moments passed. 

Photos are never in the present 

Latent light stealing your moment from a place, 

Captured memories lie dormant. 

Waiting for more time and attention to be brought back into the light of day 

Thinking about it; that maybe explains a lot 

Knowing the instability of things; 

Suddenly aware of the end. 

An entire discipline reliant on the past. 

When that’s too painful and the future too far to see, 

The moment is the only place to be free. 

It seems to explain to some extent why it was so difficult to pick up a camera and go out shooting after his death – I was stuck in the past where there was too much pain, the only positivity being in that which is yet to come… but how can you take photos of the future, or even, the now?... 

This motivated (over the course of my Masters) a much more conceptually grounded experimental undertone formed in elements of my more ‘extreme’ or abstract practice. I have investigated things that are there, but cannot necessarily be seen - certainly not on this temporal plane, or perspective of existence. I have tried to pursue a ‘camera beyond representation’ - a hunt for a ‘lens’ through which to see beyond, or beneath; experience as we know it. Stripping back preconception or quantification, a distilling of phenomena to their essence. 

For the final show, the final output was a series of three 60cm x 290cm images made with the ‘representation-less camera’. At face value, these could simply be read as abstract and dynamic expressions of movement, it might be easy to dismiss the final display as nothing more than concept. However, these final images are as much about the process as they are about what is being depicted. I constructed the camera by hand from materials found on my travels. I tried to put myself into the device for ‘capture’, whilst trying to remove myself from that which will be seen. How could I photograph something that can be felt but not observed? 

I made the camera from an old cylindrical tin with multiple pinholes to expose the film within. 

For the first panel ‘The Hill’ I rolled the tin down the hill outside the family home where I grew up - a view as familiar to me as any part of my body - yet here depicted as a constant flowing moment, something so ‘close to home’ that should be instantly recognisable stripped back in totality, 

The second panel utilised natural gusts for ‘The Wind’, effectively handing authorship to nature - an insight into its path, or pure energy if not its appearance is revealed. The movement of the tin is shown in the apparently abstract expressions on the panel. 

The final panel, ‘The Protest’, allowed authorship to be shared unknowingly by individuals who kicked the camera between anonymous protestors at a protest. The outcome is an image formed with no intention of representation, something that ‘just is’ - as a result of what has happened to it. There is no expectation of understanding beyond the context of the words (‘The Protest’) below the image - to frame the distilled experiences held above to an anthropocentric, comprehensible lens. 

[Fig. 7] The hill, The wind, The protest. 

The three different but strangely complementary images are a commentary on the quantum level. Staring up at all three phenomena presented before you, though differing frenetically, they are seemingly almost the same thing. Energy flowing from one image to the next, a recognition of the transience as well as the hidden simplicity of things. 

“Everything is light” - Nikola Tesla 

Bibliography: 

Anderson, W. (1990) Green man: The archetype of our Oneness with the Earth. HarperCollins: London. 

Barnes, J. (2012) in The sense of an ending. London: Vintage, pp. 95–95. 

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