London types by Frans Kemper

1109 16638 (2).jpg — **London**
**types**

**by Frans Kemper**

Around 10 years ago we visited London. It was a leisure trip. I’ve been to London many times but always for business, so this time we finally had the opportunity to do this great city justice and see the places worthwhile visiting. At least to our taste. We are flea market junkies. It’s the first thing we look for when we visit any place. London didn’t disappoint us. There are many flea markets of all kinds and sorts. Portobello and Camden are off course the biggest and most famous ones, but when you dig deeper you'll find many smaller ones around and sometimes even more interesting.

It happens that during this trip I freed myself from lugging my ridiculously heavy photo bag with every lens imaginable, tripod, accessories, etc etc. And of course a backup camera. Ya never know…
So, it was just one body and one lens. 50mm (FF). Although a little uncomfortable at first, soon I got the hang of it and started to enjoy this freedom. Now I HAD to think about images instead of equipment.

I never looked back.

At present, I use a camera with a fixed 28mm(FF) lens and enough resolution to crop to 75mm and still a good A3 print, if I want to.

Another thing I learned is to set the electronic viewfinder in Black & White.

I am not distracted by colors and pay more attention to the composition.

Of course, it has to fit your style of shooting. But I am not a sports shooter, neither birds nor other subjects requiring zooms.

For me, it’s for the most part street, architecture, and traveling photography. (If we can travel that is)…

Why am I telling you this? Well, paying more attention to the images/surroundings than fiddling with stuff, I noticed that the London people are enormously diverse with many different types around... And to my surprise, everyone I asked agreed to have their picture taken. (Before or after the mischievous deed…)

So, coming back to the flea markets, I met so many different types of people, that I had never seen before. A happy experience that stayed with me. London didn't disappoint me...

And yes, Father Christmas a.k.a Santa Claus a.k.a. Saint Nicholas a.k.a Saint Nick a.k.a Kris Kringle, or simply Santa does exist. I always knew it…

I let the images speak for themselves...

Frans Kemper

The Game of “Morra”

In a frequently quoted observation, Nobel-prizewinning Mexican author Octavio Paz (1914-1918), muses: “The Mexicans descended from the Aztecs; the Peruvians descended from the Incas; and the Argentinians descended from...boats.”

To some extent he has a point, inasmuch from 1870 to the outbreak of the First World War my country received an enormous influx of immigrants. Although immigration to the United States in these years was greater in terms of absolute numbers, as a proportion of the native population, the Argentinian wave was more significant to the host country. According to the 1914 census, there were more foreigners than natives in the City of Buenos Aires, and in the country as a whole, 1 of every 3 inhabitants came from abroad.

Admittedly, one needs to interpret these affirmations in light of their failure to include the indigenous peoples that inhabited the country before the first wave o f Portuguese and Spanish immigration starting in the 15th century, as well as the thousands of African slaves who were brought to these shores in deplorable conditions. These ethnic groups were not considered persons with rights at that time, and the majority of them were lost to history, recruited to fight in the bloody wars that occurred in these lands. It was only in 1813 that slavery was abolished in my land.

The immigrants who poured into Argentina came to pursue the dream the American continents offered, building up our country through their hard work. Escaping hunger, war, and religious persecution, the Spaniard, Italian, French, English, German, Russian, Polish, Ukrainian, Syrian, and Lebanese refugees (among others), arrived with their trunks filled with the humble keepsakes that nonetheless conveyed a precious cultural inheritance, fruit of centuries of the march of history: music, language, literature, religious beliefs and practices, aromas and recipes, workplace habits and tools, in short, all that fashioned and constituted the different cultures of the newcomers, longstanding identities that in no way would dissolve with the passage of time, even when the descendants of these eager arrivals would count more than a century of residence in their new home.

Notably numerous were the arrivals from the northeastern Italian region of Friuli, a corridor between the Italian peninsula and Eastern Europe and the continent of Asia beyond – a doorway opening to communication, trade, and exchange of ideas, but also to invasions by the Barbarians, Lombards, Hungarians, and various others. This situation left Friuli impoverished and unstable, an invitation for many locals to relocate to neighboring countries, and eventually in the 19th century, to cross the ocean in search of the promise of the vast riches that beckoned from the Americas.

The Friulians are said to possess a typical melancholic personality, they are serious, responsible, somewhat withdrawn, rough in manners, at times blunt to the point of rudeness, and timid. This last characteristic can hide their deep sensitivity and warmth. They can be touchy and suspicious, and in their social life gravitate toward family and the companions of their traditional surroundings. All this facilitates an intense interior life. However, their qualities of sincerity, loyalty, and fidelity inspire trust and bonds of indissoluble friendship.

They are also active, hardworking and entrepreneurial, with a keen sense of duty exemplified by the high value they place on self-sufficiency, even if it requires emigration to guarantee their sustenance.

My city of Reconquista is renowned for having welcomed immigrants from many different regions, as well as for the mixture of these cultures that has evolved naturally through the years. In contrast, the small village of Avellaneda, only 3 kilometers away, is composed mostly of descendants of Italians, above all from Friuli, their inward-oriented character fostering, across comparative age groups, a more homogenous population.

The various ethnic groups often organize annual events whose objective is to keep the old traditions -the rhetorical, written, musical, gastronomic, and recreational legacies of their ancestors- alive and healthy.

“Morra” or “Mora” is a game of handplay and numbers whose history begins several millenia back with the ancient Egyptians. The Greeks brought it to Europe and the legions of Rome spread it throughout their Empire. Thanks to its popularity among the Friulians, the custom remains very much alive to this day. The residents of Avellaneda organize a tournament that lasts months, is held in different urban and rural locations, and gets everyone involved: children, adolescents, the elderly, men and women, although these latter are a minority, due to a traditional notion that Morra is a masculine contest in which vociferous virility provides an advantage. Nonetheless, the times are changing, and the women are now finding their place in this previous bastion of patriarchy. It is not uncommon to see pairs composed of fathers and sons, grandparents and grandchildren, Friuilans and half-Friulians.

Games between pairs last only a few seconds, but this short span does nothing to temper the heated passion of the proceedings. After the game is finished and calm is restored, everyone gathers around meat roasted in the gaucho style, and the finest Malbec in the world fills the cups of the Morra warriors who thus assisted, channel for a moment the many centuries of the misfortunes of the peasants of Friuli, as well as their overflowing joy in the succession of succulent and abundant harvests.

It’s a great joy to me to see how assiduously and creatively the different groups of immigrants in my country preserve the culture of their ancestors, but on occasion I wonder whether this is one of the causes (though certainly not the principal one) of the difficulty Argentina has in consolidating anidentity of her own. It is standard for some ethnic groups to attribute their success to their provenance from one or another region of Europe, in detriment to other groups on whom they foist the blame for the errors that lead to “the history of our calamities”. I’m aware, my friends, that this is a gross simplification, but perhaps it will furnish a key to understanding a country as complex as Argentina, an understanding that continues to elude my grasp...

Perhaps the day in which our actions exhibit a mutual commitment to each other in a united nation above and beyond the flags that are planted deep in the heart of each one of us, we will then all begin to pull the cart in the same direction, thus achieving our destiny.

Pacho Coulchinsky

La Mora exhibition

Pacho Coulchinsky

The Preacher by João Coelho

A Character Study

It's a bay protected by a narrow sand tongue that enters the sea, as if it wanted to somehow serve as a sheltered port for those who live and work here. Once the calm waters licked wide strips of sand, now they collide with piles of empty shells of mabangas (a kind of clam common on the west coast of Africa), testimonies of hard work done by countless women. Grandmothers, mothers, daughters, they have all mastered extracting the shellfish from each other to sell in the markets that embrace the city. They also all inherited poverty and the need to survive one day after another.

Today, with regard to the COVID-19 pandemic, there is a lot of talk about living one day at a time, because nobody knows what tomorrow will bring. Suddenly, the world as we all know, has collapsed and a kind of invisible terror has descended which forces us to look to the future in a different way.

Yet that's been the case on this beach for many years. Here, these women live one day at a time because it cannot be otherwise; here the stories are always about the daily struggles for survival.

As if it were a balm against pain and misfortune, religion is present in every corner of this bay. Each one of these women, in one way or another, seeks some kind of relief, strength and hope in one of the more than 1,000 churches of various religions that exist in Angola.

It's also on this beach, where faith seems to be the last hope left, that some churches proclaim their word and practice adult baptism rites in their calm waters.

It was on the morning of that Saturday, when dark clouds were approaching on the horizon foreshadowing a storm at sea, that I met the Reverend Francisco and his three acolytes here. He came to preach the Word of his Church, and to offer baptism to two of the faithful.

With an encyclopedic knowledge of The Bible, he preaches to those who want to hear him, supported by accurate readings of excerpts from The Bible by his acolytes. Here there are no walls where words find an echo, no religious symbols where to pray or ceremonial garments. Here everything is incredibly simple: sky, sea, earth and people.

Skillfully, Reverend Francisco provokes reactions, he questions, he invokes. He seeks answers, interpretations of excerpts from The Bible that require correction, or need him to cast a surprisingly enlightening view.

He uses intricate biblical interpretations with some dictates or provocations in Kimbundo and Umbundo, the two main native languages of Angola, creating empathy and establishing essential bridges to be accepted and effectively heard.

Right and forceful words alternate with analogies that open paths never before explored or imagined by the faithful. The shepherd thus leads his flock to more fertile pastures, where the light of knowledge and discovery awaits them.

Chords taken from a guitar with passion and devotion for one of the acolytes, accompany the Reverend's words and echo across the bay, filling the empty spaces and captivating more and more faithful. They quickly become difficult to resist, grow and take the lead when the Reverend wisely gives them space and encouragement.

Suddenly the music stops and the group plunges into a spiritual ecstasy that precedes the moment of baptism. Invocations are made and promptly seconded by believers, interrupted by moments of a strong silence, where each one gathers in individual meditation.

The ritual of baptism is a moment of great intensity for the group who, in silence, in a contemplative immersion cradled by the words of encouragement and purification that the Reverend chants as he lays his hand on the heads of the believers kneeling before him.

The spiritual communion between the Reverend and the faithful in the water is even greater. It is a moment of enormous intensity, as if they were plunged into a state of catharsis and everything around them did not exist.

João Coelho

A Blustery Day by Keef Charles

Ever been to an event or a concert and been less than overwhelmed by the main act?

So it was for me one Goth Weekend in Whitby, late October.

Ever been constrained by a virus and unable to go out and shoot? I know the answer to that one.

Me too, so I’m going back through the archives. Clearly these aren’t from October ‘20, or even ‘19. They’re from October ‘18 to be precise.

Oh those were the heady days of people banding together on the streets, celebrating their shared interest. Not quite a photographer’s paradise though. Sure, the parade of people in various guises was fun but such was their desire to be photographed, even semi candid shots were difficult to come by. A couple of hours in I sought some respite from the posing.

I recalled a spot I’d seen earlier in the day, at the foot of the 199 steps that lead up to the abbey. I’d noticed how strong the breeze was. It came off the North Sea, channeling it’s way up the incline and grew in strength as it funnelled between rows of old characterful terraced houses.

Ah, what the heck I thought. Let’s head back there, see if that wind is still making mischief. I’m pleased to say that it was! I found myself a spot on the corner of two streets, opposite the steps, my back pressed firmly against the wall of cottage, so as to steady myself against wind’s battering. I spent a while there. Amused by the hats, scarves and coats whipped up and aloft. Arms too flew upwards; desperate to grab those hats that extra fastenings weren’t going to save from wind’s grasp.

I took many, many shots that blustery day but these few make me feel good.

Oh...one shot particularly appealed to a friend of mine. She’s Greek and it reminded her of Medusa. I’ll leave you to decide which photo I’m referring to.

Keef Charles

Bicycle-panning in Amsterdam by Frans Kemper

001 First Image.jpg — **Bicycle-panning in Amsterdam**

**by Frans Kemper**

There are more bicycles in Amsterdam than residents. More canals than in Venice. More dedicated bicycle roads than anywhere in the world. What wouldn’t be easier to shoot bicycle-panning you would say. Not so fast. It took me a lot of time and focus to get a few decent ones. I was loaded with the basic technique, but trial and error did the trick. Finally, I had the Amsterdam bicycle-panning technique under my belt. Distance, shutter speed, aperture, focussing, location and position. Every detail counts.

We Amsterdammers (sometimes referred to as Mokummers) grow up on the bicycle. Besides ourselves (and friends and family), we transport whatever is in the need of transportation. We ride like crazy, fast and reckless. Always in a hurry.

We go left and right from each other, or under or over if need be. Without blinking an eye, at the same time holding the umbrella, flowers, mobile or groceries in one hand.

Not for the faint-hearted.

Ok ok ok, Sunday morning at 07:00 is quiet, steady and easy. But try early Monday morning or Friday late afternoon, especially when it pours.

They also spot every detail during their journey. It was impossible for me not to be seen.

The reactions were hilarious. From ugly faces and cursing too waving, laughing and exchanging pleasantries.

It was a great and funny experience and a time well spent during my stay in my home town.

I let the images speak for themselves.

The first image illustrates something of the craziness. This particular 4-way intersection is in use since 2015. No traffic lights and no lanes. And never a single accident. A perfect ballet of bicyclists and pedestrians.

Ohh…Bicycle helmets? What’s that?…

Frans Kemper

Horses by Shimi Cohen

Horses cannot split the emotion from the action, or from their ego.

The horse is her prey in the wild. Unlike humans this trait allowed it to survive for many years.

From existential survival through the escape instinct, the horse reflects in every movement in it the environment in which it finds itself.

Following the sensitivity of the horse, it becomes a "mirror of emotions" for each of us who has learned to hide an emotion even from himself.

A person's body language that hides emotions such as fear, insecurity and helplessness will see it in body language with high or low energy levels to the horse and it will respond to him in an immediate and clear body language of avoiding cooperation or escape and stress.

High horse neck, slow and stiff movement, eyes open without blinking, sharp movements are a sight for a person who exhibits tension and apprehension.

Low horse neck, harmonious and continuous movement, ears directed towards the rider or carrier, a horse that seeks the next request and obeys every request are a show to a person who manages to balance emotionally between self and emotion or between action and emotion.

Shimi Cohen

Hottest summer by Neta Dekel

Last week was the hottest in Israel for many years. the temperatures around the 40's and seems that the world got crazy.

The weather in the last years is much more extreme - extreme heat in the summer and strong rains in the winter.

In this hot day, I went to the sea, in order to see, on one hand, how people try to escape from the heat and on the other hand - the damage the the people cause themselves by exposure to the direct sun.

Neta Dekel

Blurry summer impressions by Theodoros Topalis

It is summer, the sun rises over the city and

chase away the pleasant warmth of the night.

Slowly everything begins to melt, even the

people‘s faces. Shady and airy spots or a bathe

in the sea attract the city‘s residents until the

sun sets the day cools and life begin.

How I got the idea of this project

In July and August of 2018 I passed my first heat waves in my new apartment, which is on the last floor under the roof. Dramatic temperatures about 30°C in the living room, and much more in the sleeping room ... in my workspace I stopped to measure the temperature!

Editing images was an impossible job, so I decided that the images for the next two months had to be out of cam and the theme had to be something with melting in the heat.

The only tools I used:

my xpro2
Fujinon 18mm (27mm) f2.0
ND 0.3 filter
Polfilter
Across film simulation / sometimes with Red filter

Theodoros Topalis

“Where the streets have no face” by Neville Fan

As many of my friends know me I love shooting people kaleidoscopic variety of expression and especially in black and white. Actually I still love to!

However, this time I show another extreme of my ongoing collection which is thoroughly chalk and cheese. “Can I capture daily street characters without facial expression but still intriguing? ”.

From this moment, I have started this series for several years which I find it very intriguing and challenging. “Hilarious”, “extraordinary”, “unusual”, “intriguing”, “coincidence” and “storytelling” are all the words I wish I can use to illustrate my shots in this series and hope you could have them discovery. You can find I try to hide the characters’ expressions in several ways, e.g. headless, hiding face, replacement of faces, and you can explore more.

These extractions are a small part of my series and still developing and ongoing. I shoot with colours as it adds more impact on the subjects’ behaviours without explicit recognition of their expression. You wouldn’t recognize who they are and I can escape from the privacy issue or portrait right (laughing).

Don’t be misunderstood! I respect the privacy and portrait right very much but sometimes some people just abuse them very much and this is really a very controversial issue in public area photo taking.

The caption by no means take advantage of U2 famous song, in fact, I unconsciously sang the lyrics while I began to sort out the photos, then it comes to the derivative caption.

“Try some difference” and “Usual unusual” are my recent notion in my work! Hope you enjoy!

Neville Fan

Neville Fan

Confinement by Pacho Coulchinsky

Chapter II - A vision shared with my friend Keef Charles

Our common dear friend Keef Charles invited us, in his latest Progressive Street article he titled "Confinement," to think of all the times we experienced confinement before in our lives.

I started to think about his request and went back to the 9 months that I was in the peaceful womb of my mother, nothing dramatic has to have happened because I do not remember something worth telling about that paradisiacal experience.

But what a surprise: the first memory (dramatic?) that comes to mind is the time I spent locked in a totally dark room for almost half a year when I barely had four, all because of an insolent piece of glass that stole my left eye forever. Well ... calling this situation dramatic is something appropriate for my heartbroken parents: for me and thanks to a nice old Ophthalmologist who baptized me as the "pirate", the experience became one of the most pleasant moments of my life: my parents at my absolute disposal, readings of stories at all times, eat in bed and other delicacies to the tone. But all the good things end, and my confinement is over when the Ophthalmologist realized that confining myself in absolute darkness would not give me back my vision (or perhaps my parents got fed up with the pirate's demands? ... I imagine they are It was the most important reason to end that torture).

Much has been written and more will be written about what we have had to experience at this moment in history. Causes, consequences, positive and negative effects, catastrophe, rediscovery, apocalypse, rebirth ... and so on to infinity. The only certainty, at least until now and in my opinion, is that we are reflecting and reasoning that our world is our common home, and we are all in the same boat ... No one is invulnerable, no one is omnipotent, no one is exempt of the ravages that we are all suffering at the moment: physical, mental, economic, social, etc. I also wonder if the rudder of this boat is manoeuvred by the right hands and I am afraid we have chosen the captains quite lightly, not to say stupid.

I have searched my archives, as Keef suggests, for some examples of confinement. And almost immediately, the first tab that fell was that of here called "carritos" (food trucks), so popular here and around the world. At least in my city they are an excellent excuse to meet friends at night to eat a good “lomito” and have a few beers, especially in the summer. If you are alone, there is no need to make prior plans, it is enough to go to your favourite and surely you will find a round of friends there that will make a place for you at the makeshift tables in the public gardens where they are installed throughout the year.

When this quarantine began, all of the food trucks were forced to close its doors but with the passing of the days, they began to work for delivery.

I had some images in my files that some of you already know, but I wondered what would become of its in these times of urban solitude. So breaking the rules a bit, I went with my camera to tour my small town in search of history. I must confess that I love to wander in the solitude of its empty streets, to listen to the silence (Cage was finally right with his piano concert without notes ... the silence is also worth listening to), the barking of a dog in the distance, so far could I not define its origin, the slight sound of the wind in the trees, the rain that begins to fall on the sidewalk ... This was for me a fantastic find, something like returning to those sounds of my childhood, where my town, at nightfall, it became a ghost town. Wonderful!

But let's go back to the food tracks: sadly I found several of them closed, others, only attended by no more than two confined cooks. When I got in and out of my car, some went ahead and asked me to please not get out of the car because they were working with the delivery modality and they could not take orders "live and direct" as they were at risk of being closed, but after explaining what I was doing, they felt accompanied and allowed me to go down and do my job, in addition to listening to them expressing their fear at the lack of work and the possibility of disappearing from the business. These are people who do not work in the best conditions and they do it seven days a week until very late at night, for now, they can only be until 10 PM. They barely survive because people don't place many orders either for fear that the damn virus is just another ingredient in their hamburger.

We all hope that the confinement will end soon. "Los Cumpas", "Los gordos", "Abuela Máxima", "Los topos", "Fede Carribar", "El fenómeno ”,“ Susy ”,“ Luna de Mayo ”,“ Chichipío ” and so many more are eagerly awaiting the arrival of families, lovers and endless rounds of friends under the stars. This already takes too long, and for an Argentine (and for the rest of the world I suppose) the consequences can be worse than the Covid 19.

Thank you very much Keef for your inspiring article.

From one pirate ... to another.

With all my love.

Pacho Coulchinsky

Reconquista, April 2020

Pacho Coulchinsky

Estação da Luz BC*! by Frans Kemper

200131_35916 1.jpg — **Estação da Luz**

**by Frans Kemper**

A certain dear Lady from Milan (hint hint) needed train station images.

“Go and get them” was the clear message.
Hmmm, hold your horses and let me mull on this for a moment. Where the heck do I go here in the Brazilian São Paulo and “Go and get them”? Public transportation is a mess in this metropole... Suddenly it dawned on me. Of course!

Estação da Luz!

A gorgeous expansive Victorian train station built in 1901, named "Estação da Luz" (Light Station). Albeit not so conveniently located in the centre, which is one of the ugliest (read dangerous) neighbourhoods in the city of my present residence.

Now, you need to understand that I really do not resemble a typical Brazilian. I am Dutch-sized (1.92m) and stick out in every imaginative way. Dollar signs (Euros if you will) written all over my forehead, hence not really happy to hang out there with an expensive camera swinging around my body.

Not ever making use of the public transport facilities provided by our lovely local government, I pondered how to get there. Taking a car wouldn’t work for the simple reason that I don’t have one. I move on a motorized 2-wheeler. (No, it’s not a Harley Davidson. Lacking the tattoo’s, fat belly and the blond.) But I figured it out and it seemed that with a 15min walk to the closest underground, I could get there, changing lines only once.

And thus my “Go and get them” began. Expensive camera stuffed in the backpack together with the sandwiches and coffee thermos for the travel, and the little Ricoh GR2 in my hand. You never know you know.

I specifically choose Friday late afternoon as there would be (way too) many travellers going somewhere.
What a rare brilliant idea. Arriving at the station, I was stunned by the amount of travellers. A beehive of activity. Once inside the station, I changed camera’s quickly and started shooting. With the sufficient presence of law enforcement, I felt safe enough.

With a smile from ear to ear I spent the next few hours observing and shooting. Happy like a kid in a candy store. I never imagined that this place could be so inspiring.

Thankfully this is a group for images and not stories, so I let the images continue telling the story, I hope you enjoy.

Frans Kemper

*BC is commonly known as Before Corona (AC probably will never arrive)

Frans Kemper

Amsterdam

Through The Looking Glass by Gerri McLaughlin

“A tale begun in other days,

When summer suns were glowing

A simple chime that served to time

The rhythm of our rowing

Whose echoes live in memory yet,

Though envious years would say forget”

Through The Looking Glass by Lewis Carroll

As a street photographer, I guess I’m a voyeur too, seeking and seeing moments in time of the beautiful ordinary everyday magic of the cities I wander. Sometimes I take the shot, sometimes I don’t, being at times content just to have witnessed some small kindness or expression of love and tenderness in the huge human-ness of a Megalopolis like Tokyo. Many of my shots remain in my memory only and the longer I shoot the streets the more I realise that I am part of the story not apart from it!

As I look through the windows of cafes and other emporiums and see the people there doing whatever it is they’re doing in their own space I sometimes wonder “ am I invading or am I creating a millisecond of intimacy and contact among the vastness of the city”

It’s an ongoing question and one I have yet to answer it’s probable that it changes every time I go out to shoot!

This series has grown over the last couple of visits to Tokyo and that is often the way for me I shoot without too much thought or analysis but in editing I see the themes and them the series come from my subconscious to street level!

Little did I know when I was shooting these shots that I would be the one behind the glass looking out during this pandemic that has put us all truly through the looking glass. Be of good heart and take courage my friends, we know now more than ever that connection is one the most vital elements of all human life…

Gerri

Confinement by Keef Charles

Adjustments (2).jpeg — **Confinement**

**by Keef Charles**

PASSENGERS ARE WARNED NOT TO PUT HEADS OUT OF WINDOWS

So!

Here we are: stuck inside, frustrated, going out of our heads.

We can get through this.

Think of all the times we’ve experienced confinement before

Not the same, granted

Not as protracted, I’m sure

Not as scary, perhaps

But we got through it, right?

I’m not belittling the struggle

I’m doing what many of us do

Taking strength from past experience

Hey, whatever... however...

We find ways to cope

We are humans after all

Perhaps the dolphins or whales might have done a better job of looking after the planet but we are human

As such…

We adapt, we cope,

When we break, we mend

It’s in the genes, it’s in our psyche

The seasons are still changing outside that window

Feels like I’m missing out

But I’m pragmatic, philosophical

It means the world is still turning

It means that…

It will still be there for us when we get back out that door

The journeys put on hold

The loved ones to see

They’ll be made

You’ll see

—-

So, having tasked myself with writing a light hearted article this time, I searched my memories for some examples of confinement. Some a little more obscure than others:

THE CUPBOARD

After deciding to write this article, I asked my mum if she had any stories about confinement. She told me about being a girl in WWII; bomb shelters and the like. Actually fascinating stories but best kept for another time; this is meant to be lighthearted.

“How about something less heavy?”, I asked. “For example”, I queried, “Did you ever lock me in the cupboard under the stairs?” “Certainly not!!”, she exclaimed. After a slight pause though, she said ”But your grandma used to stick your dad in there. It had a glass door though”, she offered, in an attempt to make it seem a little less harsh.

Uhm, that’s ok then. I said, thinking of how my father would have loathed this confinement.

THE NAUGHTY STEP

Another mild form of confinement was being sent to sit alone at the bottom of the stairs. The idea being that, having been chastised for your misdemeanour, you calmed down, thought about what you’d done to be sent there in the first place and, presumably, to look shamefaced as you apologised for your misdeeds.

In reality, at the age of 7, you probably sat there getting further wound up and indignant at how the world was mistreating you. But, heyho, previous trips to the so-called naughty step had taught you something. You stay there longer if you act defiant. You don’t get back into your mum’s good graces without seeming repentant.

So, all quiet on the Western Front, you think mum’s settled down to darn some socks or something. Listen again, holding breath for sake of silence. Yep, she’s not moving around. It’s worth sneaking upstairs to grab that old and worn coin. Toss it in the air and catch. Fate to reveal. Heads: You swallow your pride and apologise. Tails: You stubbornly cling to your principles and find your bum (stubbornly) stuck to the stair for an additional 10 minutes confinement. Uffaaaaa!

THE BALCONY

When we first moved to Singapore, we had to wait to be allocated a house on the Royal Air Force base at Changi. Thus, we spent the first 6 months of our humid posting, living on a sprawling housing estate in a place called Bedok.

It was marvellous! New houses, nice design. Garden enough for us kids but a world of adventure through our front gate, past the monsoon ditch and across a piece of waste ground. Beyond that, seen quite clearly from our house was a Malay kampong. A small village of wooden houses on stilts, sat within the neighbouring jungle. It was amazing. Makes my eyes open wide even now as I think about that cultural feast we had on our doorstep.

Problem was, to get to the village, where the locals allowed us to play, we had to cross this treacherous piece of ground. Further buildings were being erected and many scraps of discarded construction materials were left strewn around. Ordinarily, not an issue. For a boy of eight, it was actually quite exciting. You could find all sorts of useful stuff to stash in the back of your wardrobe: bent and rusty nails; cut-off bits of copper pipe; usual treasure type stuff.

Unfortunately, some of said rusty nails could also be found in the planks that lay around. These nails weren’t always polite enough to face downwards, into the ground; out of harm’s way. Nope. One day I was traversing this stretch of land and I put my flip flopped left foot down on a nail and yelled. Immediately I moved my other foot to try and extricate the first. Bad luck! My right foot also found a nail protruding from another plank! Oh boy, I really yelled then. I screamed like a banshee!!

It was loud enough for my thirteen year old big bro to hear me and run over to haul me off these cruel grips. He carried me sobbing back to the house.

Feet bathed, disinfected and my mouth treated to an ice lolly, I felt loads better; albeit sore. Loads better, that is, until I was told I’d have to stay in the house for the next two or three days to prevent further injury and possible infection in this sub-tropical land.

Can’t rightly remember if it was only two, or the full three days I was incarcerated. Seemed like an eternity, either way. I managed to read most of 1001 Arabian Nights during my time of confinement though. The closest I got to outside was sitting on a chair looking out of the balcony of my mum and dad’s bedroom. Pffff!

THE SCHOOL DETENTION

The age old punishment. Kept back at the end of the school day, unless you had some compelling reason not to get on that day’s bus. Woe betide you if your proffered excuse with some fictitious call from your grannie whose budgie had finally managed to swallow the whole cuttlefish in it’s cage and needed you there, within the hour, to save it’s life and her sanity.

This was the musty, chalk dust filled room where you and others shuffled in to spend the next hour in boring confinement. The room in which was sat the teacher who barely bothered to look over his glasses at you as you sought to find a desk that offered some amusement and salvation, at least. The desk you sought was the one liberally carved with interesting etchings in it’s sloping wooden lid.

Said teacher, assigned this assiduous task, muttered some well practiced sentence about our need to be there, threatened us with additional punishments if we didn’t get on with our homework quietly and then proceeded to mark his class’s books.

So began our confinement. Much coughing, sneezing, tittering and stern looks over teacher’s glasses to follow.

...

And finally, a lead into the accompanying shots; taken during a couple of Forties Weekends. I took many, many more but selected these because they depict another form of confinement; train compartments.

A spurious link you say? Well, I ain’t got shots of some kid locked in a cupboard; a kid sat alone on the stairs; a kid with red holes in his feet or an older kid in school detention. So...

THE TRAIN COMPARTMENT

This is a mixed and varied form of confinement. Normally one of your own choosing.

Your state of mind depends largely upon the reason for your journey, not forgetting the impact of your accompanying passengers. Some contemplative, even morose. Some outgoing, friendly, even warm, on occasion.

I was travelling alone, but for my Nikon. Feeling my way through the train, aware of eyes alighting on my camera, even before I pulled it up to my face. Some of the passengers were suspicious, almost resentful of the lens’ intrusion.

People’s response often dictate how long you want to hang around. You want a mix of reactions and expressions but it’s nice to get some positive.

However, some responses can be a little unexpected, as I found out in one compartment; crowded with a family on their day out. I’d already grabbed their attention through the window; taking shots from the outside, whilst stood on the platform.

Little did I know, that MY attention was also going to be grabbed.

I took a number of shots of them from the carriage corridor, before being ushered in to join them. I shot, chatted, shot some more. Then, ready to move on, I thought I’d just try to get something a little different… shots in the mirror. It was there I was joined by a face and a hand upon my shoulder. Oh! Was that another hand I felt? The second hand was a bit further down than my shoulder. Nah, must be imagining things. Until I felt it again, and a third time, more definite. Not just a stroke, or grab, a pinch. Is this Napoli gender roles reversed? My bum had been pinched. Uffi?

Yep, attention grabbed, shot taken time to find a safer compartment, a smile on my face.

—-

Finally, a little advice, if you will.

STAY SAFE

In some circumstances, the wearing of a mask isn’t always good for your wellbeing. My stepdad has regular visits from a nurse. With the advent of covid19, a friend gave my mum a mask to put on him; offer a little protection when he was visited. Makes sense.

Except that, following instructions given over the telephone, she decided to do a dummy run and fit the mask one Sunday evening. You know, save panicking when the doorbell rang mid Monday morning, getting flustered, trying to fit it in a hurry. Good plan.

Oh, but she stuck her finger in Mart’s eye on the first attempt and let go of the elastic on the second. Oh dear, blind in one eye and missing an ear, I thought he was going look like a cross between King Harold and Van Gogh. Oops.

Otherwise, they’re a good thing. Stay safe.

PS. Read this to her. She laughed and said: “He ain’t worn it since.”

Keef Charles

“Street captures the imagination, it excites me, it’s slices of life! We live on borrowed time; some shots help that time last just a little bit longer.” Keef Charles

County Fair by Don Scott

Would you like to eat a deep-fried candy bar? Or a deep-fried bacon-wrapped pickle? How about a turkey leg (also deep-fried)? You can enjoy all of these and more at the Pima County Fair. This is an annual event held near Tucson during the first week of April. The fair has been wisely canceled this year due to the Covid 19 pandemic.

County fairs are a springtime tradition in many states in America. They are multi-faceted events.

They can be a very exciting and fun-filled. There are carnival rides, farm animal exhibits, musical entertainment, and baked good contests. The county fair is a place where you can eat guilty-pleasure foods and ride nausea inducing rides that spin you round and round and turn you upside down.

Kids and adults enjoy playing games of chance that are extremely difficult to win. For example: throughout the fairgrounds you will find a basketball shoot. Your task is to shoot a basketball through a hoop that is about 4 meters away. From the front, the hoop looks normal. However, if you view the hoop from the side you will see that it is narrow oval instead of being a circle.

Thousands of people love coming to the fair each year. It is a great place for street photography.

Don Scott

I love wandering wet markets by Neville Fan

I love wandering wet markets, especially the one situated near my living place which is a rapid developing district In New Territory of Hong Kong!

There are approximate 75 public wet markets managed by government and over 100 private wet markets in Hong Kong.

To make a rough estimate, there are tens of thousands of wet market stalls in Hong Kong. Wet market Stalls not only sell fresh meat, fresh fish, poultry, fresh vegetables, fruit , flowers and a wide choice of daily commodities such as clothing and household items but also attach cooked food stalls.

Wandering inside these markets could be a big feast for the eyes and absolutely time consuming! Seething with mass of ‘Kaifong” (means neighborhood) , regardless of sex, ages and clothing, watching their buying and selling is very enjoyable and fascinating.

Believe it or not, one reason I am big on taking photos in the market place is that each time after the finish of the shooting and wandering, I must try the famous and delicious noodles in the wet market. I treat it as “positive reinforcement” of photographing in noisy and chaotic! However, It is a shame I can’t go there from time to time since the pandemic of the coronavirus .

Government regulates the “Regulation and Prevention and Control of Disease (Prohibition on Group Gathering)” which prohibit the social group gathering of no more than 4 persons and tables available for use should be a distance of at least 1.5 metres as effective buffer between one table and another table at the premises.

Otherwise, you may discharge liability for the offence by paying a fixed penalty of HK$2,000 (approx. US$260). I’ve observed and guess over 95% of the people wearing protective face mask in the public sector.

Once you left home, you must put on your protective face mask, prepare the anti-bacterial hand sanitizers and even the goggles. After all, I am going out in one of the most densely populated city in the world. Taking photos in the wet market these days makes me feel strange. I almost couldn’t grasp their expression! Suddenly feel like taking photos of AI robots!

They have almost the same appearance on faces and I can’t figure out the interesting story of expression behind the face mask. That’s the most difficult, embarrassing challenge but intriguing occasion encountered.

Every coin has its two sides, I look up my archive and find not so many people wearing face mask was captured, these shoots taken in these pandemic certainly enrich my archive of my market place project.

In Chinese word “Crisis”(危機) which composes of two single character “Danger”(危) and “Opportunity”(機). Crisis=Danger + Opportunity. It illustrates the exact situation in recent daily lives, it doesn’t matter whether in oriental or western society.

These photos some were taken before the 19-20 coronavirus pandemic, others are recently shot.

Stay healthy and Happy in these pandemic days, infected not by the decease but optimism!

Neville Fan

Neville Fan

CONFINEMENT - Touring the rooms of the house

If you told me two or three months ago that all this was going to happen and that I had to stay home for four or five weeks I wouldn't believe it and like me, most of you.

And more than I would be taking pictures of corners and situations all over the house, lying on the floor, climbing a chair, stairs and waiting for moments of good light, I wouldn't believe that either, since it's a type of photography that I don't give any importance to, nor do I care about, but this is the situation. I've spent three or four days squelching my imagination and being as creative as possible, looking for situations and moments, going around the rooms of the house, that is, making time go by to be entertained.

Going in and out with the camera of any room. I would be shooting about 400 or 500 photographs these days, most of which are not worth anything. But, well, I've had it. I don't know what else I'm going to photograph, besides people at home already tell me that I'm a pain, that in some cases I even bother them, so I'm going to rest with the camera. Now I'm going to read and listen to music, apart from watching my favourite films.

They are simply photographs of being around the house. Of spending time. You don't have to like them either, I don't give it much importance. But it's what I did best with my camera to pass the time and share it with you.

I was taking the pictures with the fuji X-T3 and the 23mm/f2 lens. 35mm/f2 and 56mm/f1.2 depending on the situations and what I wanted to achieve. I don't use flash or tripod, only with natural light and the artificial light of the house.

Have the best time you can. And take care.

CONFINAMIENTO

Recorriendo las estancias de la casa

Por Fran Balseiro

Fran Balseiro in Progressive

This is the mask I wore by Shimi Cohen

a few words about Funeral during corona days

Grandma's dead ...", that's what I heard from the other end of the phone in the early morning.

My heart was filled with sadness but also a bit of joy, because "Dada" (Gracia) died of old age and not some bloody illness and was 99 years old.

In these days of Corona, my parents have not seen me in over four weeks.

Dad is not in a healthy way and I had the feeling that he didn't understand what the fuss was about and couldn't say goodbye to his mother. During the funeral, he didn't utter a word.

My mom, the angel of the family looked at us from a distance, can't hug, can't kiss.

"Up to 20 people," that's what the Ministry of Health said, a small funeral is limited to just the immediate family, the people closest to us each and every one.

And Canty, Grandma's devoted therapist, kept calling her "Mother" and the only one of us who managed to shed a tear and cry bitterly.

Such a journey of silence for me in the cemetery, a bleak sky, and my world being pelted behind the lens. This is the mask I wore.

I was amazed at what the Corona made us, we almost dispersed without saying hello, we lost all contact and warmth between the people.

And now it hurts me, and even though I'm the most atheist in the world, not sitting in the "seven" custom, these are the moments when they mention the dead, the good things, the memories.

And I have wonderful memories of you, grandma.

Rest in peace, Grandma, this is the moment when you can embrace Grandpa, whom you love so much.

Shimi, your admiring grandson.

Taking photos straight from the camera.

Kodak Professional Tri-X 400 Black and White Negative Film

Shimi Cohen

articles and other

The mystery of love and death

**The mystery of love is greater than the mystery of death**

**by Keef Charles**

Are you one of the lucky ones?

You know what you want to photograph, you go out, you shoot...and get it?

Perhaps you know what you want to write, you formulate, build a framework and fill with easy flowing prose.

Not me. I get ideas, I make plans but then the rest almost does it’s own thing. Uffa.

Anyway, thanks to a certain lady, I’ve rediscovered the pleasure of writing. More so, as I’m able to combine it with my passion for photography. I’ve already got a few stories and articles sketched out. But now...now the cogs are whirring in my mind, long forgotten memories are being drawn from the recesses of this strange machine we call the brain. Through this process, I recall a lot of my childhood. Much of it is happy, good memories. Occasionally though, something sadder grinds out of the machine:

THE GIRL IN THE WINDOW

I was young, wild of heart

Happy, most of the time

Happy enough not to understand why that little girl just looked dolefully at us from her bedroom window

At the age of seven, I could sense and feel something was awry

She was pale, sad looking

But there was a flicker of recognition from her, up in the window

I’d look out for her, as I trooped off with a mate or two, en route to that day’s joyous play

I’d think about her, half an ear to what my mate was saying

Be it joke or plans for when we got to wherever we were going

Then I’d forget her, get lost in events unfolding

Each time I’d insist we took same route past her house

The house of girl whose name I didn’t even know

One time we took a different route, for some reason

Feeling guilty, I insisted that we retraced our steps and went past that blue door of number 77

After a while, however, I stopped seeing her

No longer did her face appear in the window

Each time I’d look, pause and hope

Alas...

Some months later I gathered from hushed tones of adults, she’d been ill

Very ill

Sentenced to early grave by some disease I couldn’t comprehend

...She was just nine years old.

Progressive is photography based. If I want to write an article, I need shots to make it work; however laterally.

For this reason, I decided, on a blustery day, to drive into the wilds and visit a graveyard I’d always been intrigued by; nestled on the hillside, close to the shore of the lake. I’d driven past it many times. I’d even hiked past its low wall and cast iron railings but had no time to stop for photos.

I don’t know what I wanted. It wasn’t just about the little girl in the window. Maybe it was simply an excuse to get out and think about an article. I needed to feel my camera, heavy in my hands. With COVID19 threatening even this island nation, street photography doesn’t feel as safe as it used to.

I wasn’t looking to write about anything too heavy. We’ve all seen our share of suffering:

...casket too small of a cot death

...funeral of father barely known

…teenage bodies convulsed; sons a witness of mother’s early death

…torment of suicide, questions begging

It’s just that

…when you rush your mum to hospital, you wonder

...when people you care for are at risk of deadly disease, you wonder

...when life is gnawing away at your time on this earth and there’s still so much more to do, you wonder:

...how much those people mean to you

…how long they’ll be around

...if the last hug you gave them, was the last chance you had

...how will you defy the world’s strange turning and even meet up with some in the first place?

Normally I’d cross fingers for decent weather; dry and bright. Strangely enough, I didn’t worry about the weather’s clemency. No. If it was dark, grey, cloudy and even pouring down with rain, the foreboding nature would add to the atmosphere of my shots. If, on the other hand, it was sunny..as it turned out to be..all well and good. The light being the camera’s friend.

So it was that I visited the church grounds and after a quiet and respectful session, headed back to my car to warm up. Fingers thawed out, I decided to get some shots of the train stop, cross the tracks and focus on any memories that welled up from the lake. Good times, with my kids. Building dams across the rivulet; paddling; skimming stones on water’s surface...and such like. I felt ok; things were coming together. I chatted briefly with some picnickers and windsurfers into the bargain.

But my mind drifted:

No longer looking across the lake at the distant rolling hills

Or subconsciously scouting pebbles for skimmers

My mind turned to events far away

Far enough that there’s room for a channel, international border and more

But people so close

My mind switched to images seemingly surreal

A scene from some cheap movie perhaps

A scene depicting...

Workplaces closed

Restaurants barely opening doors

Shops risking contaminated custom

Elderly deprived of carers as the government introduces new laws

Permits required to cross town

Police enforcing roadblocks

City quarantined

A fear for loved ones

What’s more, things have changed radically, in just a week!

This is unreal.

Unprecedented.

Queues, curfews, permits and rationing.

Many of us have never experienced anything like it before in our lives!

Ordinarily, the time spent in a cemetery will be sobering.

Right now, events unfolding as they are, it’s almost a refuge

A time to reflect on love, life and death

Somehow easier because …

For the most part, these lives ended long ago

It’s the desperate uncertainty of today’s situation which haunts me!

So... my mind in turmoil, I’d rather go back to the cemetery, where you’ll find:

Soldiers lost in the rage of war

Partners and lovers, a life foreshadowed

Faithful husbands, loving wives

Pawned hearts, broken hearts

Matters not…

The headstones tell just what they were commissioned to tell

The sparsity of words their only excuse

Sorrow strewn twixt headstones

Celebration too

Ghosts tread grassy walk

However they fell, however, they are remembered

As a love lost to death’s cold grip

or a love cherished in memory’s warm grasp

LOVE UNDYING

These former walkers of the earth…

Do they all rest in their graves?

Settled spirits ... encased, entombed?

Or do some search for that lover, stolen by death’s embrace?

Wandering, wandering...

Some by day, skulking in sun’s shadows

Others...by night, more brazen neath moonlight.

Tell me spirit:

Why then this lifehold so strong?

Did you not feel script complete?

Are you searching for her still?

Beauty so alluring

Neck of porcelain swan

It’s length in kisses, still to count

It’s beauty framed by yoke of dress.

These were times gone by

Fashion reminiscent of some wonderland.

You wish to hook with finger

This ruffled neckline

The tug almost a caress…

To reveal the nape.

Kissing to count

To count its length

Oh...to kiss..each...

and every...

feather

Here’s something a little more upbeat, from the album that gave me my title:

Keef Charles

"This is not going to be forever" by Delfim Correlo

5.0IMG_5843_P.jpg — **"This is not going to be forever"**

**by Delfim Correlo**

First week of confinement.

Second day after the "State of Emergency" declaration by the president of the Portuguese Republic.

“I had to go out and buy some basic goods”.

I decided to avoid supermarkets and go to small stores near my office (places familiar to me). I think I was searching for some evidence of normality and comfort meeting strangers I know for years and I saw every day. Until last week.

And yes…I brought a small camera with me.

Working at home is weird and demanding. Sometimes Is difficult to define boundaries. At the same time, we find ourselves making some confidences, sharing words and feelings of hope: "This is not going to be forever". We experience this odd new reality in an environment where we feel safe. And, staying at home, we follow the succession of daily news on social media about what’s happening out there.

Even so, when I left home that morning, I was not prepared to see it.

March 20, at 9.30 am.

The city that was once full of people, largely due to the tourism boom that boosted the economy after the economic crisis (2008-2009), is practically lifeless.

We don't see any more the streets full of young and beautiful people, with their travel trolleys, laughing loudly and taking selfies. What draws our attention now are homeless and old people. They become more visible now.

Homeless people still live on the streets or, at least, try to survive there, even though they are a group with immune deficiencies. I know the effort the city is trying to make to increase the capacity of some homeless shelters, but we were not prepared…

Older people try to maintain their routines, going to the butcher, the fruit store and the grocery store. This probably gives them a feeling of security and normality.

These people don´t put on a mask or wear gloves. Unless we are already infected or have a more debilitating illness - as well people who take care of those groups - we are neither obliged or encouraged to use those kinds of stuff.

Nevertheless, who attend us at stores usually wear a mask and a pair of gloves. This gives us confidence and a sense of security we need to feel nowadays.

This was what I saw that morning during my shopping shot walk.

Short walks – alone - and exercise in the open air are yet allowed and encouraged. I ended up next to the river before I returned home.

Delfim Correlo

THE ART OF STREET DETAIL by Fran Balseiro

I go out on the street with my camera ready to photograph any moment, situation or occasion that comes my way. Every situation has its moment. And every moment a chance to portray the art of photography.

Although I try to photograph moments of people's daily lives, situations always arise that call my attention; such as details of the street itself and even situations in which there are no people. Small details that coexist between us and the street; which normally go unnoticed.

When we get close enough to everything around us we can discover forms and compositions that attract our attention. In a small circle next to us, for example, we may find many shapes and textures. This is what I would call the art of detail photography, as I try to show situations in a different way; showing small details and strange shapes that are peculiar in our daily life. Some of the images even tell a story about a certain situation in the present or in the past.

From small things we can create big images.

For this type of photography I usually use a lens that allows me to concentrate on the detail, in these cases I usually use the Fuji XT3 with a 35mm lens or with a 56mm lens always using a single point of focus.