Archives for category: Photographic Art

Friday 12th August marks the opening night for this years Margate Photofest. With the theme ‘Organic‘ eight different locations shall be exhibiting an eclectic range of photographic art, by a diverse range of artists. Chosen to curate one of these spaces, I have gathered five artists to exhibit at HKD, The Trace.  Concerned with remembrance, time and the process of doing,  David Blackmore’s project records the burial of a disposable camera, with the aim of one day retrieving it. Genevieve Rudd uses paint to manipulate the documentation of her Grandmother’s dementia, whilst Kate Elliott presents a project derived from a family archive, which was discovered in a skip in Belsize Park. Causing general havoc throughout the weekend, James Hodgson shall be performing a selection of live art performances.


 

I shall be exhibiting my newest collectionThe Souvenir Museum.

“…God bless you all. From your loving son David”

In 1944 David wrote twenty-one letters to his mother and father. After a fire at the family home a neighbour discovered them in his mothers’ bedside table.

When Alice was Fourteen years old she decided to cut her hair. She had been a child for far too long. She gave the lock of hair to Polly, her closest companion who kept it in her jewellery box until her death in 2005.

Brother and sister, oh how they loved to play! They would always have the memory of that summer. They would always have the memory of Papa.

So intriguing is the trace of people that they perform for me the stories of the past, presenting fictional histories for one to discover.


From the 16th-20th of June the old Truman Brewery on Brick Lane housed the photography degree shows of 2011. The space T1 was dominated by Ba(Hons)Photographic Art students  from the University of Westminster where my project The Interference of Mr A. Ferguson and other performances was exhibited alongside artists, Sam Nightingale and Craig Barker. The show was well received and attended with many of my fellows having good reviews. I was fortunate to have my work discussed for the free-range round up by Coggles blog, please click here for more information.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I wonder for a long while, contemplating who the woman is, what is her name? I turn over the photograph and find written, squiggled in pencil, Josephine. A few weeks later whilst in a junk shop I find a letter written to Alice. I decide to make them friends. They shall be terribly good friends.

Mr. A Ferguson owns a post office savings book, his name is written ever so neatly in blue ink on the first page. I decide that somebody so neat should own some correcting fluid, for the mistakes made in the future. He should keep all of these important necessities in a brown suitcase, to match his brown shoes.

Discovering and making connections, I now see things that are not really there and take great satisfaction in doing so. I have arranged the items, grouped them together to uncover a history that I know does not exist. So intriguing is the trace of people, that they perform for me the stories of the past.


To Be Continued…

I wonder for a long while, contemplating who the woman is, what is her name? I turn over the photograph and find written, squiggled in pencil, Josephine. A few weeks later whilst in a junk shop I find a letter written to Alice. I decide to make them friends. They shall be terribly good friends. 

 Mr. A Ferguson owns a post office savings book, his name is written ever so neatly in blue ink on the first page. I decide that somebody so neat should own some correcting fluid, for the mistakes made in the future. He should keep all of these important necessities in a brown suitcase, to match his brown shoes.

 Discovering and making connections, I now see things that are not really there and take great satisfaction in doing so. I have arranged the items, grouped them together to uncover a history that I know does not exist. So intriguing is the trace of people, that they perform for me the stories of the past.

To Be Continued…

I wonder for a long while, contemplating who the woman is, what is her name? I turn over the photograph and find written, squiggled in pencil, Josephine. A few weeks later whilst in a junk shop I find a letter written to Alice. I decide to make them friends. They shall be terribly good friends. 

 Mr. A Ferguson owns a post office savings book, his name is written ever so neatly in blue ink on the first page. I decide that somebody so neat should own some correcting fluid, for the mistakes made in the future. He should keep all of these important necessities in a brown suitcase, to match his brown shoes.

 Discovering and making connections, I now see things that are not really there and take great satisfaction in doing so. I have arranged the items, grouped them together to uncover a history that I know does not exist. So intriguing is the trace of people, that they perform for me the stories of the past.

I wonder for a long while, contemplating who the woman is, what is her name? I turn over the photograph and find written, squiggled in pencil, Josephine. A few weeks later whilst in a junk shop I find a letter written to Alice. I decide to make them friends. They shall be terribly good friends. 

 Mr. A Ferguson owns a post office savings book, his name is written ever so neatly in blue ink on the first page. I decide that somebody so neat should own some correcting fluid, for the mistakes made in the future. He should keep all of these important necessities in a brown suitcase, to match his brown shoes.

Discovering and making connections, I now see things that are not really there and take great satisfaction in doing so. I have arranged the items, grouped them together to uncover a history that I know does not exist. So intriguing is the trace of people, that they perform for me the stories of the past.

Concerned with the notions of loss and communication I have brought the correspondence of my past to the shores of where England and France once met. The journey and act of photographing demonstrate a ritualistic performance similar to the weekly letters one writes to those living distantly.

Becoming almost like a performance and an obsession I visited Seaford once a week for 8 weeks. With each visit I brought a different letter and photographed it amongst the rocks of Seaford’s coastline. When I was satisfied, I began to stitch the images together.






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