Life Less Literary

Yesterday I went to the 1234 festival, organised by our mates at 1234 records. With my “Access All Areas” press pass, I had some fun backstage and got a few decent photos (appearing soon on Dan Shot Me - a couple are already up on Flickr). Didn’t catch a lot of music, although I was very happy to grab the end of Man Like Me’s set - I saw them last December on the Vice tour, where they were the highlight of the evening.

I hooked up with Jan while I was there, and the two of us pootled around photographing everything, him with his little compact camera and me with another Heath Robinson-esque flash rig, which Suz has described as looking “like a portable version of the Fylingdales Early Warning Station in Yorkshire”. Here’s a photo Jan took of me and my rig:

Just got back from our annual holiday - 4 days (well, 3 and a bit) at Center Parcs Sherwood Forest. The holiday was “cheap” (well, £250 for an 8-bedroom “villa”, which apparently is a lot less than the usual price - we got a discount as foster carers), but everything else was ludicrously expensive. Center Parcs offer literally hundreds of activities, from nature trails to crazy golf to 4×4 “experiences” to arts & crafts, but everything costs. And most of them start at around £15. Per person. For an activity that lasts an hour or two. Many also require an accompanying adult (who must also pay).

So we could well have spent several hundred pounds on activities for the kids. But, being skint, we just made use of endless free swimming (about the only thing on the site that is free). And walked about the vast sprawling site (almost 1000 villas = far too many people) dodging wobbly once-a-year cyclists.

Lots of other stuff to hate about Center Parcs, and a few other things to love, but that’ll do for now.
Next year, we’ll pay a bit more for the accomodation, and go somewhere where the nature trails are free.

This man, with lanthorn, dog, and bush of thorn,
Presenteth Moonshine; for, if you will know,
By moonshine did these lovers think no scorn
To meet at Razor Stiletto, there to woo.

William Shakespeare - A Midsummer Night’s Dream. With amendments.

Tonight, I’m going to Razor Stiletto. For the first time, I decided to dress up. And to combine my dressing up with some strobist experiments.

The fancy-dress theme for tonight is “Midsummer Night’s Dream - Shakespearian Splendour, Fairies & Woodland Creatures”. I acted in Midsummer Night’s Dream when I was 17. I played Robin Starveling, the Tailor, who appears as Moonshine in the mechanicals’ play-within-a-play towards the end of the show. So in homage to that role, I thought I would play moonshine tonight.

By sheer chance, when I took the kids to school yesterday I discovered a load of drum-heads which somebody had thrown out. Now, a drum-head is round. So is the moon. And most of these were also white. “That’s it!” I thought. “I’m halfway there already…”

Thing is though, the moon is illuminated. I wondered about putting a torch behind the drum-head to light it up, but as I’m going to be wandering around taking photos, using my Ebay remote flash triggers, I thought “why not put a flash unit up there, so that the moon lights up whenever I take a photo?”

And so, I built an elaborate wire headgear which holds the drum skin on my head, and holds the flash unit up a few inches behind it so that the drum skin acts as a rather wonderful diffuser (at least, it would with the flash in the right place - I’m still having some trouble avoiding getting bent wires). To this I added on one side a cuddly toy dog belonging to Rowan and Lola, and on the other side a sprig of miniature holly branches. Voila: the man in the moon!

But I wasn’t finished yet. Having got into the swing of making stuff (something I normally never do, unless it’s “virtual stuff”) I carried on with a project I’ve had in my head for ages: the umbrella reflector glove. Take one fingerless glove. Stick some lengths of garden cane in each finger. Put some silver wrapping paper over the lot, in a “bat hand” sort of shape (actually, I’d meant to use reflective gold fabric, but I couldn’t find it. The wrapping paper was a pain because it kept ripping, but it does the trick). I know Robin Starveling never actually dressed as Edward Scissorhands in the mechanicals’ play, but please allow me some artistic license.

To the bat-hand I added my usual off-camera flash technique, slightly modified: I have the flash pointing upwards along my wrist, so that it hits the umbrella-hand and is reflected back over my subject, suitably diffused.

Here are some slightly dodgy photos of the whole kaboodle (better ones will no doubt follow later):

With the flashes off:

With the flashes on:

I can’t wait to try this out. Wish me luck! Results coming soon to my photo website.

It’s almost a truism that, whenever you most rely on it, some piece of photographic equipment is going to fail. This has certainly been my experience, although until now it has been limited to cheap and dodgy flashes and triggers which refuse to work when on a job, but then fire up fine the next morning.

And so when, for the first time, a strange woman walked up to me in a pub, spotted my camera, and started taking her clothes off, you could almost guarantee that something was going to go wrong. I fired off a few shots but then, shortly after hitting (I think) either 60,000 or 70,000 shutter actuations, my Canon EOS 20D stopped working. Auto-focus was fine, metering was fine, everything was fine, it just wouldn’t fire the damn shutter. I could even get the shutter to life using the sensor-cleaning shutter lock-up mechanism, but using the normal photographic mechanism yielded nothing. I changed batteries, lenses, even memory cards, but still no change. Looks like I have to take out one last additional mortgage on my house to pay the £200-odd to get the shutter fixed. Either that, or pay £350 for a new (refurbished) 20D, or £3000 for an EOS-1D Mk III. And then find some more money for lenses

Update: this morning, it works… slightly. I have to squeeze the button very hard, for about half a second, and then I generally get it to fire. This makes me think that the button, rather than the shutter, is what’s broken (auto-focus still works fine on a half-press of the button). Perhaps last night’s strange situation made me sweat too much, and the sweat got in the button and bust it?

I was supposed to be teaching a photography workshop to a group of Muslim girls (aged about 11-14) yesterday. This workshop has been scheduled for about a month, and I already taught a workshop to the same group about two months ago.

So, on Thursday I phoned just to make sure everything was still OK. The woman at the other end said “oh, could you send a woman teacher instead, the thing is some of the parents are unhappy about a man teaching their daughters”.

There is no woman teacher. I am the teacher. If you don’t want me, you don’t get a workshop.

To be honest, I was quite glad of the day off, but Karen - who organised the workshop, secured funding for it, and now has to go back to the funders and explain why the workshop that they paid for will not now be taking place - was understandably livid.

But, the more I thought about it, the more I also got angry. Why don’t they want me to teach their daughters? I already ran one workshop with them and, judging by the assessment forms they completed, it seems they really enjoyed it and found it useful. I like to think that I am fairly sensitive to the needs and sensibilities of different cultures. Having fostered Muslim girls in the past, I have a little understanding of Muslim culture, and I do my utmost to behave in an appropriate way.

I can only assume that they don’t want me teaching their girls because, as a representitive of the male gender, they do not trust me with them. They fear that I might, in some way, violate their daughters’ purity. To put it bluntly, they believe that “all men are rapists”.

It strikes me that this is very similar to if I were to say “I don’t want my daughters to be taught my a Muslim because ‘all Muslims are terrorists’”.

There’s a short clip up on Google Video of my band, The Tajalli Vortex, playing with Damo Suzuki and Eric Arn. I’m at the back playing bass. This is the last two-minutes of our 45-minute set, which started off very subtly and gradually built up to this intensity.

There is also a longer audio clip on The Tajalli Vortex Myspace page.

S’funny, I don’t remember actually “playing” anything on the bass during the entire set, I was feeling so nervous and unsure that it felt to me as though I was just feeling around, very tentatively but quietly adding small noises but nothing very musical. Listening back, there’s a lot more to my tentative noises than I realised at the time.

(I started writing this post just over a month ago. Just spotted it in my drafts, hence it’s a little out-of-date).
Last night was wonderful! I did my first live-run as DanShotMe.com and it worked a dream. And I did plenty more too…

First up, I went to an open studios event at Persistence Works/Yorkshire Artspace. The event itself was a lot more fun than I’d expected, but even better I got paid to photograph proceedings (and I found out when I got there that after some internal negotiation, my initially rather small fee had been doubled!) I was worried that I wouldn’t get anything worthwhile, as I was a bit unprepared and very rushed, but in the event I got plenty of good photos.

After a whirlwind tour around Persistence Works, I headed back out of town to Jonny’s, where a Tajalli Vortex jam session was under way. Annabel, our new singer, joined us, and the resulting music was wonderful, she added a vital dimension, and at last our sound seems complete.

At 11pm, we packed up and Jonny and I headed over to Corporation. I’d told Mark, the owner of Corp, about my Dan Shot Me idea a couple of weeks ago, and he had seemed (if possible) even more enthusiastic about it than me. He rang me again the other day to ask when I was going to come down, so I thought it would be rude not to.

When we got there, Mark showed me around a bit and then let me loose to take some pictures. I was quite nervous at first, doing my usual: walking around and snapping surreptitiously while walking by, then scuttling off before someone has time to object. But then I started confronting people more directly, and at first some took offence but once I started handing out the badges and got

Had a funny ending to the night. I got into an argument with a bouncer because I’d taken a photo of a girl without asking her permission, and she got pissed off. We argued for about 10 minutes over whether or not I was allowed to take photos without asking permission, he asked whether I was a full-time professional photographer, I said no and he said he was so he knew what he was talking about and I didn’t. I told him most of the professional photographers I’ve come across aren’t worthy to kiss my arse, or words to that effect, which didn’t go down to well, but in the end he accepted that I was more-or-less, but very rude. I told him he was right and I didn’t give a shit. Then he went to have a long chat with the nightclub owner (the one who rang me when I was in London asking me to come and take photos). I had to wait outside the door, as if it was the headmaster’s office. Then the bouncer left and I went in to chat to the owner, who basically couldn’t give a toss that I was photographing people without their permission. Nice outcome!

I left then anyway, because my flash was on the blink and I knew I had more than enough good nightclub photos. It was 2am. I put my head up to the frosted windows of the Washington pub on the way back, just to try and discern whether any of the bar staff were still around. Somehow somebody spotted and recognised me through the glass (maybe it’s the beard), so they let me in, I got one last drink while they swept up, and a cab ride back home with the bar manager.

Our latest fostering placement just ended, under very unfortunate circumstances.

Normally, trans-racial and cross-cultural fostering is a no-no: wherever possible, the agencies in charge will try to place a child with a family from a similar background. In practice this is often impossible: foster carers are mainly white British, and the demand for care from other groups in society is such that often compromises have to be reached. Even placing “appropriately” can often be quite inappropriate: if one of your cultural pigeonholes is labelled “Asian Muslim”, does that mean that it’s OK to place an Iraqi Sunni with an Iranian Shia family?

Cross-cultural fostering is something which Gill and I have been interested in for some time now. Last year, social services mistakenly placed a “dual heritage” (previously known as mixed race/half-caste/mulatto/…) boy with us. They were horrified: he should have been placed with a black foster family (the fact that his mum is white British apparently counts for little), and it was only because his paperwork did not mention his racial background that he accidentally ended up with us. Anyway, after some initial getting used to one another, it ended up being the most rewarding placement that we’ve had. We got a huge amount from the experience, as did he, and we were quite keen to carry on with similar placements if possible (which generally it isn’t, sadly).

However, one area where cross-cultural fostering is possible is with refugees and asylum-seekers. Many refugees arrive in this country as unaccompanied children, and there are often few, if any, foster carers from the same cultural background. Gill and I have a reasonable understanding and appreciation of various cultures, plus we are far more flexible than the majority of foster carers we meet (many are unwilling to adapt their routine or diet to suit a child’s culture, but we will very happily revert to vegetarianism, ban pork from the house, buy halal meat, make trips to the temple… whatever is required. Although I am a battle-scarred atheist, and Gill is no big fan of organised religion either, we are professional and sensitive, and do not seek to impose our views on the children placed with us, but instead respect their cultural background).

But it’s equallly important not to let “respect for another culture” slip into cultural relativism. All cultures are not equally valid in all respects and practices. We have been providing a home to somebody from a culture where it is considered acceptible to have sex with girls from the age of 12, where men can do so with relatively little fear of reprimand, but where any unmarried “woman” (i.e. 12 year-old or older) who is seen with a man risks ostracism and, were she in her own country, stoning to death.

And so it was that, because this child staying with us had been seen out with more than one man, we received news (from several quarters) that a contract had been put out on her life (some referred to it as a “fatwa”, although I think this is probably just muddled thinking). Social services and our fostering agency, while concerned by this news, did not take it very seriously at first, and she remained with us for several days. It was only once we, on our own initiative, spoke to the police and to the Refugee Council (both of whom have far more experience with this type of incident than social services or the agency) that we discovered the situation was very serious indeed, and we should certainly take the threat at face value.

She has since been moved from our house to a secure unit, and we now have a “panic button” installed in the house, which brings a reponse from the local police within approximately five minutes (we’ve been told not to let the kids or dog near it as, once pressed, the police will come and, if necessary, break down the front door, even if we phone them subsequently to tell them the button was pushed by a mistake). We sleep with a bucket of water underneath the letterbox. And we do not feel safe allowing any future foster placements into our home until this situation is resolved.

I just found this post-it note stuck to the top of a bin in Crookes Valley Park:

I had many plans last night - and ended up following very few of them. But, a wonderful night nonetheless.

First off, I made a fairly quick stop off at the Cremorne to see the Montgomery Follicles play at Jen’s birthday party. I had been asked to act as official photographer, although I didn’t really feel up to it: I needed some warming up after a two week break from photography.

At the pub I bumped into Mark and Claire from Corp - such lovely people - and then I spotted former Sandman magazine editor Jan and his wife Emma. Turns out Jan and Emma are emigrating to Vancouver in three days! Jan invited me to their leaving do, just around the corner at G2 Studios. Although I was desperate to get down to Modern Romance in time for Paddy Orange’s set, I really didn’t want to miss the opportunity to say goodbye (and I was interested to see what kind of party one of the most musically well-connected people in Sheffield would throw).

On arriving, I discovered that Baby Long Legs were about to play. This bunch are probably my favourite band in Sheffield right now, so it was an extra-special treat to see them (again). Stuart from the Barnacles (and, previously Pink Grease) was also there, with a couple of other members of his band, and he asked if they could do a quick four-song set before Baby Long Legs played. “Dan, you know our songs, come and join the band” said Stuart, and so I found myself in my third new band in as many months, with barely a minute’s notice before going onstage.

By “know”, Stuart meant that I had seen the Barnacles play once before, and hence ought to have a vague memory of some of their sea-shanty choruses. I absolutely love Stuart’s approach to music: too often I have played in bands who feel they must spend months, if not years, locked away in a rehearsal room before they feel ready to stand up in front of the public; Stuart’s philosophy is “just do it!” - I don’t think the Barnacles have ever had a full rehearsal; they just get up, give their best, and have a lot of fun in the process. The result, musically, is as rough as a barnacle-encrusted ship’s keel, but enthusiasm and audacity carries the performance and the audience response is always hugely positive (something which can’t always be said of the more polished acts I’ve played with).

I was also very moved to be thanked by Stuart for putting my Razor Stiletto photo gallery online. I had felt a bit indulgent putting so many (very similar) Barnacles photos in the set, but Stuart was especially grateful because their guitarist (aged 21) had a brain haemorrhage recenty, and is now in a coma, and his mum was very grateful to be able to see these recent photos of her son doing what he loved. I was, needless to say, shocked and quite choked-up when he told me this.

So anyway… I got up there on stage with Stuart & co and belted out “Go down, you blood red roses”, “Haul away for Rosie” etc. And I loved every second of it. I have to say that recently, I’m much more attracted to the idea of singing than that of playing the bass (I may have to find another vehicle for my voice soon…). Partway through the set, at my request Stuart launched into a scurvy sea-dog version of his Black Lace Superman act from the performance art karaoke night.

After our short set, Baby Long Legs got up and did their thing, as wonderful and joyful as ever even though their lead guitarist Hannah was absent and Jim had abandoned his double-bass for a bass guitar “for the first time since 1962″.

Next up was David Ward MacLean, a busker based in York and a special favourite of Jan and Emma’s (he played at their wedding). He played accoustic guitar (6 and 12-string) and sang. Alcohol has clouded my memory of this part of evening, but if I remember one thing it’s that David’s set was a thing of wonder: beautiful and beautifully played songs, with a good dash of dark humour and some great banter in between.

Then Charlie & Lyn did a DJ set and the dancing started. I went outside where I congratulated David on his set. In the courtyard, Tegi Roberts was singing shockingly beautiful folk harmonies with two friends. Tegi’s name was very familiar, but I’d never heard her sing and, in fact, I had half-assumed that she was a he. I was taken aback by the purity of her voice, and the beauty and accuracy of the harmonies (which rather put our Barnacles performance to shame). Being drunk, and emboldened by my recent singing experience, I was desperate to join in although I wasn’t familiar with most of the songs being sung. I sang along with the few parts that I did know, filling in the missing bass part, and again it was a joyful experience. Soon I was singing, humming, la-ing and (at Mark’s prompting) whistling along to everything, whether I knew it or not. I’ve no idea how I sounded to everyone else, but inside my head I made a damned good baritone. A real moment to cherish.

I had many wonderful conversations over the course of the night. It was especially nice to chat to Andy Brown, who can sometimes seem a bit… I dunno, aloof perhaps… but who seems more approachable the more I get to know him (last night he even hunted me down before he left, so that he could give me his last can of beer! [I hadn't thought to bring any drinks with me, hadn't expected to stay long anyway, so I was on the scrounge all night]). When I showed Andy and Chris my improvised flash set up - and explained my next invention: the “umbrella glove” - Andy called me “the Thomas Truax of photography”. High praise indeed, I felt very flattered.

Eventually, people started to drift off home. At 5am I walked back around the corner to the Cremorne, just on the off chance that there would be one or two people left there. Turns out Jen’s party was in full swing, and there were actually more like 30 or 40 people left. I joined the party, although the over-the-top debauchery seemed a bit gratuitous in comparison to Jan and Emma’s incredibly special little do. Everyone in the pub was a lot more drunk than me and most of them, it seems, on something else as well, so I couldn’t quite fit in with the mood. Still, I did have (more) fun, and hung around there until 7.30am. Then I walked all the way from London Road, around the ring-road, to Walkley, in the hope of finding a cab on the way; instead, A bus came along just as I was heading up Crookes Valley Road, so I jumped on board for the last two stops to home, and got to bed just as I should have been getting up. Sorry Gill, Rowan and Lola!