[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 13 November 2021].
Shiloh photo-bombing another self-portrait shoot back in September on my last day of cat-sitting her and Susie in West London.
barefoot and pregnant
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 2 October 2021].
no girls today
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 16 September 2021].
ca(p)tivated
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 17 September 2021].
So, the cat's out of the bag...
The new side hustle I somehow fell into is cat-sitting! :o
For anyone who's known me more than a few years, I've never previously been a cat person. I was always a dog person.
But, over the past I-don't-know-how-many-years, the idea of cats has stopped repulsing me. I've realised I'm an "animal person". Not just a dog person.
So, when friends asked if I'd be willing to cat-sit for them for almost three weeks - even though I'd never met their feline companions - my first questions were:
Will your home make a photogenic backdrop for self-portraits, and are you okay with me sharing your home on the internets?
Can I bring my iMac as I don't currently have a laptop?
Are you okay with me disappearing for four days as I already have time out of town booked during that period?
Will it cost me anything?
The answers to all those questions were more than satisfactory, so I ventured across to West London at the beginning of September to meet my potential gaolers.
Not only were the kittehs cute and friendly - I bonded immediately with Susie, who's apparently the most hesitant with strangers (not pictured; this is Shiloh). But I fell in love with the house.
The colour schemes and decor. The abundance of bookshelves and bookcases. The furnishings. The hidden doorways (literally, not figuratively). The decorations. EVERYTHING.
My only real struggle since relocating almost a week ago was getting in front of the camera again. Which is largely due to my weight (pun intended).
But I'm tackling that - mentally and emotionally - and from the one shoot I've done so far, I have a selection of photos that don't offend me. I'm hoping to do more tomorrow and at the beginning of next week. And to share more with you.
I just need to be gentle with myself.
I'm also dealing with some worrying family medical news from Australia. And some unexpected flat stuff. And, obviously, having to continue to pick up client work.
But the kittehs help.
They 'meow' and make Mogwai-like sounds at me when they're ready for breakfast (and they've realised that won't be at 5:00, so they're patient for when I'm actually awake).
They make me laugh at their tap-drinking antics even though I can't entertain those antics for long.
And I haven't killed any fish yet.
And I've had the pleasure of giving friends a grand tour of this lovely haven I'm in until the end of the month.
If anyone wants to remind me how squatters' rights work... ;)
Or, if you have a photogenic mansion/house/flat/caravan/van and a pet or pets you need looking after while you go on holiday, DM me.
I'm open to payment in photo ops, pet love and booze ;) (Money's also good).
Also, for you folk who thought I'd struggle with collaborating artistically with cats: Shiloh joined me on the couch of her own volition. Without any real coaxing and, definitely, no kitteh treats. The beeping of my self-timer was all she needed to focus her laser-sharp gaze for this portrait :)
prismatic
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 9 September 2021].
daysleeper
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 4 September 2021].
thinking of a dream i had
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 20 August 2021].
too much stress!
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 4 August 2021].
Much delayed, I've made my book, darkness & light - a collection of 109 of my 366 days self-portraits - available again on Blurb.
A friend of mine who missed buying it when it was first available asked me about it. I don't even know how long ago now. On the back of that, I've finally made it available for a while again.
How long it will be available is yet to be seen. But if you didn't snap up a copy (or didn't know about it) back in 2008, now is your chance to be one of a limited number of folk to have your sweaty palms on a copy.
Because it's print on demand, signed copies are complicated but not impossible, if you want that. Email me at propaganda@bronwenhyde.com if this takes your fancy, and we can work out the logistics.
This is an outtake from the project I edited tonight, almost 14 years later.
The final image for the project for this day was a diptych entitled peeping tom, inspired by the 1960 Michael Powell film of the same name. It was a brilliantly creepy film, so well made, and tapped into my love of photography and psychological thrillers/horrors.
untitled #5
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 29 July 2021].
i have an unhealthy relationship with my body
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 4 July 2021].
CW: eating disorders, body dysmorphia, body-shaming, fat-shaming
This piece also includes language some may find offensive.
I have an unhealthy relationship with my body.
It started just as I was becoming a woman. At least, as much as I recall, though maybe there were other signs before I can remember. I would be surprised if there weren't.
But the first instances that come to mind of my unhealthy relationship with my body were around 11 years old. Definitely by the time I finished primary school.
It started with a combination of examples set out for me, some from family, some from glossy magazines. You know, the way most of us learn and internalise these things from a young age. Not all are intentionally put there to harm us, but others are seemingly as old as time.
I first remember discussing healthy weight ranges with my Mum. I don't know how it came up. I don't even remember weighing myself much at that age. I had to go into my parents' ensuite to do so. I don't recall a scale in the main bathroom when my brothers and I were kids. At some point, maybe I asked my Mum how much I should weigh. Perhaps she looked it up to see what was healthy for my height and age.
I wasn't overweight; I was slim. I was active in the school playground. I played sports: netball, Newcomb ball and softball. And I was one of the few girls in my grade five and six classes who would go in to catch the ball when we played Kanga cricket. I usually tried out for various athletic events for interschool sports: the 100m, 400m and 800m races, relays and, hilariously, looking back, high jump. At the time, I was around the second or third tallest girl in my year, though I never grew any taller after I turned eleven.
But I remember my Mum taking a magazine out of the bottom drawer of her bedside cabinet to show me a graph. I was near the bottom of the healthy weight range for my height.
I never asked my Mum why she kept her Slimming magazines tucked away where she did. It was the kind of place someone might hide away pornographic magazines, not health magazines. So, to this day, I don't know if she kept them there because it was handy for her to read the articles.
Or if she was ashamed of buying them and reading them because she felt shamed by her weight issues.
Or if she kept them there to avoid setting an example of body-shaming to her daughter. Maybe she didn't want me to be obsessed with weight loss and body shapes and sizes and fixate on such things as an impressionable pre-teen.
If it was the latter, unfortunately, it didn't work.
I didn't become obsessive about weighing myself straight away. I still don't recall weighing myself every day at that point.
But I know I regularly went to her drawer to pull out that magazine to check where I fit on the graph whenever my weight wavered. I checked and re-checked it to reassure myself. Eventually, all I needed to remember was to stay as close to eight stone as possible. Then all would be okay.
My discovery of that graph would have coincided with a friend introducing me to Dolly magazine.
Though we were only about 11 and 12, her sister was a couple of years older and already deep in the world of glossy teen and fashion magazines.
I was still crushing on teen heartthrobs in the pages of Smash Hits, Bop and The Big Bopper and reading magazines that were supposedly more healthy for young women, like Girlfriend.
My friend introduced me to Dolly, Teen Vogue, I think, and other magazines handed down from her sister. Magazines to ease young girls into the constant mixed messages they would become accustomed to as they grew older. Glossy pages full of articles about loving yourself whilst simultaneously working out which parts (physical, emotional and mental) of yourself to hate this week/month/year and what the best ways of covering up those shortcomings were: makeup, creams, tablets, fashion.
Like most teenage girls, I internalised all of these expectations pretty quickly. And what the magazines taught me was rapidly reinforced in the halls of my high school.
In year eight, when a boy I fancied told me I had a "fat arse" as I walked up the stairs into the building in front of him, it played over and over in my mind. For most of the following three years, I wore oversize t-shirts over my jeans to cover my "fat arse". I don't know what I weighed then, but it was unlikely to be much over 55kg, but likely less.
At 16 or 17 years old - the earliest I would have been allowed to use a public gym - my younger brother and I signed up at a gym in the small town where we had moved.
By the time I was in year 12 and allowed to wear casual clothing to school every day, I realised I had a flat stomach. And my arse wasn't fat. So I finally gained the confidence to wear midriff tops and my jeans down on my hips.
For the three years I was at college, I spent almost as many hours per week dancing in nightclubs as in the classroom. I spent three to five hours a night, three to five nights a week, dancing to indie, alternative, retro and disco hits with friends.
When I finished college, I managed to get a much-reduced price on a gym membership. I got back into exercising regularly there as well as on the dancefloor.
By the time I was 18, I had internalised an image of how women should look. So much so that I didn't flinch when a guy I regularly went out dancing with would point at and ridicule other women around me for having "cunt-pots". All I thought at the time was how good it was that I didn't have one.
Another friend put up "pool rules" for his inflatable pool bought with his redundancy payment. The first rule was "No fat chicks", and the last rule was "Definitely no fat chicks". I still didn't flinch. I wasn't a "fat chick". Why should I?
When a guy I slept with bragged about how he'd never had a girl in his bed who weighed over 60kg, I was once again proud I didn't weigh over 60kg.
It was only later, when I got together with a woman I met through the last guy, that I thought about how fucked up his thinking was when she pointed out that she had been in his bed and she weighed over 60kg. She was taller than me, far from overweight and gorgeous. There was a shared sense of victory in her breaking his rule without him having a clue.
It wasn't until about 1998 that I realised how much interest I'd lost in food. Up until about 14 years old - with some exceptions - I enjoyed most food. My parents always served up hearty, delicious meals or took us to quality restaurants to sample a variety of world cuisines.
Sometime in my early teens, I switched to ordering entrees instead of main meals most of the time when we ate out. That may have given me space for desserts on some occasions, but, equally, I may have declined dessert. I claimed it was because my stomach wasn't that big. An entree-sized meal filled me up. And, arguably, it did. But it was ingrained in my mind to eat less; stay slim.
When my parents started running a motel and restaurant in country Victoria when I was in year 10, I lost more interest in food.
Most of what we ate the chefs prepared in the kitchen at the restaurant. By November 1993, I had become vegetarian. There were usually one or two vegetarian dishes on the menu at any one time, or the chefs would knock me up a quick and easy pasta. Or I'd have a bowl of fries. Or microwaved veggie burgers, sans bread or fillings.
If you have a limited range to choose from, even the most delicious meal becomes boring and repetitive. I loved snow peas until we lived there, then I just found them uninspiring. The only element I never tired of was Hasselback scalloped potatoes.
When I was at college and in my first year of working, I spent more time drinking Coke and cider and dancing than preparing food. I wasn't unhealthy. I still ate, but it was purely functional.
I rarely ate much before I went out for a night of dancing or before a session in the gym. I still won't on the occasions I do those things. Dancing or working out on a full stomach has always disagreed with me.
But between college, then work, and dancing and sleeping, there wasn't much time left for eating. At the time, I didn't see this as a problem.
However, while I completed a 365 Days project (a self-portrait a day for a year) in 2007, I looked back on a short video I made for college in 1996.
In retrospect, I think it's safe to say I was verging on anorexic. The video consisted of repeated loops of footage: me in the corner of my bedroom in a huddled position, the refrigerator door opening on an empty fridge, and the soundtrack of In Heaven (Lady in the Radiator Song) from David Lynch's film, Eraserhead.
Add a mild case of alcohol poisoning on a near-monthly basis, and I obviously wasn't in a good place at the time.
When I incorporated a still from the footage in my 365 Days project, I was reaching back across time to try to reassure my younger self; to attempt to help her. It took me those 10 to 11 years to see her as she was then.
Until I was about 22, I had never weighed over 53kg. And then he started feeding me.
In 1998, I started dating a partner who loved cooking. Who loved food. He'd had and has continued to have battles with food and his body, but he rekindled my taste for food after about six years. If I found a meal I enjoyed out and about, he'd figure out how to make it for us. He'd always make far more than we could eat, but somehow we would eat it all. He would make it in the belief any leftovers would be eaten the next day, but they never stayed in the dish that long.
We were both working and saving to move to the UK within six months of officially becoming a couple. We also spent three months housesitting for his parents on the outskirts of Melbourne. So our activity levels dropped dramatically. We hibernated a lot during the Australian winter, and we spent a lot of time in front of the television.
My weight went up, though not drastically so. I was simultaneously comfortable and uncomfortable with that. I still didn't go above the upper ranges of the healthy weight range I'd memorised from my early teens throughout our relationship.
Between 2002 and 2007, various factors came into play that contributed to my weight gain. Depression, excess alcohol consumption, sedentary work, far less physical activity (only on rare occasions out dancing by the time I was 30), not enough sleep.
Sometime in 2007, I reached 72kg for the first time. By June 2008, I dropped again to 61kg. By November that year, I was within about 5kg of my ideal weight. By March 2010, I managed to regain all I'd lost plus some to reach my new heaviest weight thus far of 74kg, in time for a road trip from Melbourne to Brisbane with my friend Phil. Somehow I still managed to take self-portraits during that trip that I don't hate, and some are arguably my best work.
Soon after my return from the road trip, I joined a gym again, and by the time I departed for the UK in January 2011, I'd managed to drop to 67kg. I somehow lost another 2kg in transit to arrive in London, weighing 65kg. I steadily whittled that weight back down to 53kg, one kilo above my ideal weight, by February 2012.
Late in 2010, I'd met a partner when I weighed about 68kg. We decided to try out a long-distance relationship when I moved back to London.
He had been on a weight loss journey before we met, with much more baggage to shake.
We both continued to lose more weight between January 2011, when I left Australia, and February 2012, when we reunited in person for the first time in London.
Although he was proud of my achievements, that visit left me perplexed. I had reached within 1kg of my ideal weight, which had made me happier about my body, and yet, somehow, he seemed less attracted to the new "tiny" me. Although there were other factors at play, I'm not going to lie that his reduced attraction to me didn't play at least some small part in my regaining weight.
Meanwhile, to drop to that weight and maintain it (or near enough), I realised my mind had had to shift a lot. Some of it was a healthy shift. But some of it was seriously unhealthy. Not the same type of 'unhealthy' as during my late teens and early twenties, but still not healthy.
I was obsessively counting calories and weighing myself. I spent at least five hours in the gym every week in 2011. In 2012, and until I sustained a foot injury that curtailed my gym-going for a while, I often spent over seven hours in the gym per week, taking part in lots of Les Mills classes and caning myself on a stationary bike.
Whilst seven hours per week in a gym isn't unhealthy in and of itself, the internal dialogue I was having with myself was anything but healthy. The time I was in the gym was penance or payment for poor choices made in my eating and drinking habits or my lack of activity in my daily life.
When I wasn't overtly punishing myself, I was trading calories out for calories I would subsequently be able to take in. If I burned 600 calories on the bike and 450 calories in a Body Pump class, I could eat that pizza or drink that cider, and everything would be okay.
Whilst reducing my weight to my ideal in 2011/2012, even the MyFitnessPal app ceased telling me how much I could expect to lose in five weeks "if every day were like today". I was regularly achieving a deficit in calories in/calories out that was deemed unhealthy. I consumed fewer than 1,200 calories and often burned more than 1,000 calories. Even fitness apps have a conscience.
By January 2013, I'd developed what a GP believed to be Morton's neuroma in my left foot. It was subsequently successfully treated as rheumatoid arthritis in one of the toe joints. The pain in my toe was so severe that it forced me to cut down and then stop exercising entirely.
After cortisone injections, I was discouraged from any impact exercise - running, jogging, jumping - for a while, at least, but possibly permanently. I was also warned not to wear high heels - even low ones - for any period. They would place more pressure on the ball of my foot and potentially rekindle the issue.
With my exercise options and time at the gym somewhat limited, I still spent a lot of time on the stationary bike. I was still keeping my weight within a reasonable range, but it crept up again over time, much of it caused by a lack of exercise and an excess of alcohol. But also through continuing to consume large quantities of food. That quantity of food was acceptable while I was exercising to excess. But, without the exercise to trade the "calories out" against the "calories in", there was a gradual weight increase.
Mixed in there, though not directly related to my weight, my relationship broke down. That contributed to more poor decisions on eating, drinking and exercise as well as depression, anxiety and poor sleep.
Since then, I've hit new highs and had lows again, though not as low as 53kg.
I've tried to be kinder to myself. More gentle.
I've tried to see myself the way I see other women now. Not the way I used to see other women, which was in an internalised misogynistic fat-shaming way. I see other women in a way where I don't think, "She would be beautiful if she lost some weight". I think "She is beautiful". And her weight - whichever end of the spectrum it is, or in the middle - doesn't influence why I see her that way.
It takes a lot of work. I can more easily see others as beautiful irrespective of their weight than I can look at myself in the mirror. Or look at photos others have taken of me when I'm overweight. Or that I'd taken of myself years ago when I was 70kg+.
It's still hard. I still have to re-train myself every time I look at photos of myself. It contributes heavily to why I don't take self-portraits anymore, though I want to.
But, even without being overweight, when I weighed in the low to mid-50s, I could pick apart every inch of my body to tell you what still needed work. What still made me "less than".
I've also grown up in a culture where to be desired is everything, even when I can see past a relationship being a measure of my worth. If I'm 100% honest, desire is still something I use to measure my self-worth. Lack of desire within a relationship is probably an even harder pill for me to swallow.
And it's so easy - when a former lover admits they find me less attractive due to my weight gain - to fall back into unhealthy behaviours, to punish myself. Because maybe my weight gain led to me being less desirable and to our break-up. But that doesn't fix anything that wasn't already broken. And it won't help me be who I want and need to be going forward.
Depending on the day of the week or the hour of the day. How many hours since my last meal and how much or how little I ate the day before. I weigh about 10kg less than I weighed at the new heaviest weight I reached a year ago.
I'm not "happy" with my current weight. I'm not "happy" with how I look, how my clothes fit me and how I look naked. And I know I have a lot of unhealthy habits.
But I also know many of my previous tactics that kept me at or helped me back to around 52kg aren't healthy.
I have to regularly remind myself that those who've never had an issue with weight will rarely understand or empathise. Whether blessed with a fast metabolism or never experienced an eating disorder, addiction or mental health issue.
I need to find a healthier way to get back to being strong and fit and resolve issues I have with my lower back strength. Not to mention regaining strength and confidence with my left ankle after the fracture I sustained in October 2019.
I need to continue to seek a healthier relationship with my body. I've been trying for so long. You would think it would become easier over time, but it doesn't.
shards of glass
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 11 June 2021].
O hai.
For today's* share, may I present you with a reflected self-portrait taken looking up at the metal on the covered area around Gasholder Park in King’s Cross?
I took this toward the beginning of a photo walk along Regent's Canal in London with fellow photographer and good friend Scott Hortop in November 2016.
I have photos from that day of the development in progress still to edit and share.
I have also been working through some of the photos from that day for my Love letters to London. Thus how I came across this one again, previously unedited and unshared, though I shared a similar shot from my iPhone on the day.
Even though it's now officially Friday here in London, let's pretend this is a #ThrowbackThursday post. Something I haven't done for a while. At least not in terms of self-portraits.
Walking along the canal that day, I was called back by an agency offering me work with a company I'd interviewed with on the day after the 2016 US election. A day when the world felt like it had inexorably turned away from sanity. The last company I worked for as an employee (for now, but maybe forever...?) I started there four days later as a temp.
The agency called me as I walked along the canal not far from the second office of the first employer I worked for in London in 2000. Maybe I should have seen that as an omen...
*Today being Thursday, though it's now technically Friday. There's a strong chance I'll share a Friday photo in a short while, as I'll be out much of tomorrow.
100 self-portrait
Day one hundred of The 100 Day Project for 2021.
Fuck. Yes.
My second project completed; two years in a row.
And my first attempt at the project, postcards from another's life, which started in 2018, is still in progress. I'm edging close to a quarter of the way done on that one.
I'll save the analysis of this year's project for a separate post. Once I've had a chance to get my own thoughts in order about this year's experience and to work out rankings of the most popular sketches on Patreon and social media.
My final sketch is still far from perfect. (Spoiler alert: I didn't become a flawless illustrator after 100 days). But I don't think I'd have even considered attempting this self-portrait at the beginning of the project, so I guess that's progress...
As with so many of my sketches, this one started with a 4H pencil. I then overdrew and shaded with a mix of 6B, 2B, HB and H pencils.
077 self-portrait
Day seventy-seven of The 100 Day Project for 2021.
I contemplated meeting some friends for drinks at a local pub to celebrate my birthday today. But, unsurprisingly, everyone else had the same idea it being the first weekend after lockdown has relaxed somewhat. The two most spacious beer gardens in my local area were booked out, so it was safe to say everywhere else would be.
I also entertained the thought of us meeting in the park at Ally Pally. The weather was expected to be sunny but still relatively chilly.
In the end, I decided I really just wanted a day of creativity for myself. Photo editing has been slow the past week or two for various reasons, so I had hoped today would give me a better chance at that.
It's not going as productively as planned, but my sketch was done by 15:45, so that's a start!
I decided to attempt to sketch this self-portrait from nine years ago. I think I did passingly well. At least my fingers don't resemble sausages too closely :P
The original sketch was drawn with a 4H pencil, then overdrawn and shaded variously with a 6B, 2B and HB pencil.
In addition to photo editing, a Skype call with Dad late in the evening and a cheese care package courtesy of my good friend, Don, there's still much to look forward to.
One advantage of spending my birthday alone this year is that I don't have to share any of my delicious cheesy goodness with anyone. At least, not the edible kind ;)
069 knees up
Day sixty-nine of The 100 Day Project for 2021.
As unflattering as this sketch may be, it's not the worst one I've done for the project.
My right leg is a bit on the chunky side versus the source image, as is the slipper sock encasing it (the first slipper socks I ever owned. They were so soft and lovely!)
The angle on the front pillow is a bit too pronounced. And I didn't worry about the polka dots being true to life in terms of placement and focus, but I think it works for the most part.
I sketched with a 4H pencil, then overdrew and shaded with a 6B on the slipper socks. The outline of the skirt was with a 4B. Other elements were drawn over with a 2B and an HB pencil.
044 plastered
Day forty-four of The 100 Day Project for 2021.
Despite going to bed at a "reasonable" hour yesterday morning (read: about 2:00), I didn't actually get to sleep until around 06:00, and then I was up and at my desk working at 08:45. Somehow I'm not yet comatose after 2:00 the next day. I have had my moments, though.
Lack of sleep notwithstanding, yesterday was a good day. I'm so unimaginably thankful for that.
I finished work at a semi-reasonable hour yesterday, but I took some time to message my good friend, Don, and run some errands last evening. Consequently, I still ended up starting on my sketch after 23:00. No regrets.
I managed to finish my sketch with about 15 minutes left of the day.
I picked this snap of my right hand from 2017, demonstrating my bad skin-chewing habits, to try to sketch today.
My forefinger is too long and a little too slim. My middle finger too stubby. (I blame trying to fit it within the page constraints). This then means my ring finger and my pinkie are even stubbier in the sketch than they are in real life. Not to mention the pinkie is fatter than in real life.
My hands (and feet and height) haven't increased in size since I was 11 years old. Whilst I like having small hands, I've always felt they were a bit chubby and not as graceful and lithe as other women's. So it's kind of jarring that I managed to make them look even more chubby and stubby in my sketch.
My thumb's actually relatively reasonable though the angle of my nail is a bit off. The webbing between my thumb and forefinger appears unflatteringly correct. But it occurs to me the creases near the base of my thumb look a bit vaginal. Haha. Oops.
As has become my habit, I sketched this with a 4H initially. I then added some shadowing with a 4B and accentuated the outlines variously with a heavier 4H and an HB pencil. I also attempted to smudge the shadowing with my finger. But that doesn't really come through in the photo of my sketch.
As I was finishing off yesterday's sketch, it occurred to me I've inadvertently developed a style with my drawing. Much the same way I've previously developed one within my photography.
It wasn't intentional. But at almost halfway through the project, it's just kind of happened.
My drawing ability varies from day to day, subject to subject, but I'd say that my style is coming through, whether I like it or not.
For what it's worth, I think I did a fair job on the plasters (Band-Aids for my Australian, Canadian and American friends) and the ends of those two fingers.
041 mary janes
Day forty-one of The 100 Day Project for 2021.
And then, yesterday, all was right with the world again.
The previous day's curveball means I'll be working long hours this weekend to make up hours lost in the past couple of days, but two positives came out of the past twenty-four hours:
Simon and I are now even closer, and our relationship stronger.
I hit a 10kg weight loss milestone.
Turns out the stress of those 24 hours helped me to jump the next weight-loss hurdle.
I probably would have preferred an hour or more on my stationary bike to get there than what happened. Especially as I'd have been able to watch some entertaining TV at the same time. But I guess I'll take it...
By 14:00 yesterday, we also had an update on Simon's long-awaited return to London. The exact date isn't confirmed yet, but he should be on his way back to London by Monday week at the latest. With any luck, we'll be reunited before Easter. An early birthday present for both of us.
I decided to keep today's drawing relatively simple and not focus too much on photo-realism.
Having said that, somehow, one of my feet turned out slimmer than the other, though that's not really reflective of the source image.
I drew this with a 4H pencil then went over the black outlines of the skirt and shoes with an HB. I went a little heavier over the edge where the white polka dots intersected with the 4H, and I used a 2H pencil for the outline of my tights/legs.
As you can see, I kinda botched the polka dots on the right-hand side of the image despite going great guns on the left first.
I made a mess drawing over the left side of the shoe opening on my right foot with the HB pencil.
love letters to london: love at first sight
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 29 January 2021].
“London is a bad habit one hates to lose.”
An anonymous saying, as quoted by William Sansom in Blue Skies, Brown Studies (1961)
I first visited London as 1991 became 1992. My family took a "'round the world" trip through Europe, the UK and the US, with time spent in London and towns in Wales during the UK leg.
As a child and teenager growing up in Australia in the late 70s to the early 90s, my humour and cultural tastes were heavily shaped by British television, especially British comedy. From the various series created by The Two Ronnies to The Young Ones. From The Goodies to Yes Minister and Rumpole of the Bailey. Monty Python, Blackadder, Absolutely Fabulous, Robin's Nest and Are You Being Served? I could go on, but I won't. I'm sure you get the picture.
But my music and some of my television tastes were more focussed on America. At the time, I was a subscriber to Bop and The Big Bopper: magazines focussed on teen stars of US television and film, many of whom were named Corey. (Though I'm sure that had nothing to do with my first serious boyfriend being called Corey...) I was 13, going on 14. You have to forgive me the foibles of youth.
I'd been a fan of Bon Jovi, Poison and other American hair bands along with the 'teen dreams' of New Kids on the Block for a long time. Around the time of our trip, with the influence from my older brother, Rob, I'd started to get into the Violent Femmes, but more importantly, UK bands like The Cure and The Jesus and Mary Chain.
I had inspiring experiences in the US and in Europe while on our family trip. New Orleans, San Francisco and Los Angeles stand out in the US. And pretty much everything in Europe we saw was inspiring. But I was surprised that I found myself turning away from a (by then) more US-centric focus to a UK-centric one by the time I returned to Australia.
Over the following years, my music tastes continued to span the UK/US borders. But I found myself more and more drawn toward the UK with the advent of Britpop.
By the time I finished my Diploma of Illustrative Photography in 1997, I knew I wanted to live in the UK for a time and have the opportunity to travel within Europe. What can I say? I guess I'm a product of my parents with their itchy feet for travel and their own overseas lives in their younger days.
By 1998 I had realised the benefits of my family history. I had started saving to move to the UK in 1999. My Grandpa on my Dad's side was born in Stoke Newington in London, so I could live in the UK on an Ancestry visa with fewer restrictions than many of my friends.
About that time, I ended up becoming entwined in a relationship. Thankfully, my then-partner was a fellow Anglophile (though I'm not sure I'd describe myself that way now). And he was also eligible for an Ancestry visa through his grandmother born in Wolverhampton. Consequently, we bought one-way tickets to London in May 1999 and arrived on 1 December the same year.
We were not at all unique in our intentions in those days. Australians in their early 20s were flocking to the UK in droves in the late 90s. While the 'working holiday visa' was reasonably restrictive, it served its purpose for adventurous Aussies (and Kiwis and South Africans) that longed to experience the other hemisphere up close.
For (what we originally believed to be) financial reasons, we initially settled outside London, in Bracknell. We then 'graduated' to Reading, where we met many friends I still hold dear now. Eventually, with the impetus of one of my then partner's friends and myself, we moved to London.
When we were eventually looking to move to London, those I worked with suggested we move to suburbs full to bursting with other Australians. Areas like Earl's Court. I couldn't think of anything worse. Though I continued to live with fellow Aussies (through my relationship and friendships), I didn't come to another country to spend all my time with my fellow countrymen! What was the point of coming all this way, if not to meet and mingle with locals?!
Despite my concerns, we did end up in an area that was apparently heavily populated by Aussies. We lived near Clapham North Station, on a road that ran between Clapham High Street and Brixton Hill. I didn't realise at that time, but the area was apparently full of Aussies. Maybe it was camouflaged by the pizza place across the road that we sunk our (small) fortune into being run by a lovely gay French couple. Or maybe it was hidden by the friendly Urdu-speaking family running the off-license we lived above. I don't know. But it never ever felt like an Aussie enclave.
While I loved so much of my time in London during that period, I worked long hours in an office in Canal Reach, near Camden Town. Initially clearing a backlog of invoices, and then eventually, with my manager's permission, scanning my own photos and uploading them to my fledgeling website outside of hours. At that point, we didn't have a computer or the internet at home.
When I was at home in the evenings and on the weekends, my time was mostly spent in relaxation. At home, in pubs or clubs, attending raves or travelling. Enjoying the company of my friends and housemates and the interiors of local boozers. And trying (unsuccessfully) to pretend the Champions League and EUFA Cup wasn't a thing.
I took surprisingly few photos of London during my time living here in 2001-2002. Most photos were taken in Bunhill Fields Cemetery, or in and from our flat in Clapham North. The majority were taken during travels with my parents during their 2001 visit. And during trips to Europe with David and our friends.
But I developed a love for the city that didn't die when I decided I was ready to go "home". I remember looking at flight prices in November 2001 for a trip home for my birthday in April 2002 and suddenly, out of curiosity, looking at one-way flight prices. That night I went home and asked David if he was ready to go "home". He said he was and we booked our flights without telling our employers.
What I didn't know then was that about three months after my return to Australia, I would realise I had just needed a break. That a month away with family and friends in Australia, and maybe reconsidering my relationship, and finding a new job on my return, was what I really needed.
Within those three months, I knew Melbourne wasn't home. I should have stayed in London. But it took me about nine years to get back here.
I've been back in London for over ten years now, and I don't see myself leaving anytime soon. I've visited Australia twice in the past three years and both times been reminded that I love the people - my friends, my family - and aspects of the country. But it's not my home anymore.
London is my home.
From foreign correspondent, a piece I wrote while living in Melbourne in 2006:
some days my heart is in london though, or somewhere not here.
i dream of returning to londinium. two year and some months spent in the kingdom; less than half of that lived in the grand city, but daily commute from reading to camden for months before i moved. its grey, wintry, polluted streets are like a lover you know is no good for you, but you want to be held by nevertheless. it's a city to love/hate and not be able to differentiate the taste of either. moreso, i have unfinished business with her; a wish to return on my own terms with a confidence i had not before.
promise made to self that my return would be on the understanding of permanence, not fleeting. and for now, that is a commitment i am unable and unready to make. for now i love being in my rainy city, and the freedoms that affords me, that the lady would deny: such as a dwelling larger than a box of cardboard, with no need of company.
i visited blake; or rather the stone that marks an empty grave. i found him at the tate and felt myself overwhelmed by such a fantastic volume of work. dante's inferno in illustration, amongst other works.
kinfolk bred me with feet hungry for the touch of new lands. eyes wide at the unknown, thirsting for new targets for my memory-catcher.
for now i enjoy being in the present, potentially visiting the isle of the dead in summer and satisfying my taste for one destination...
P.S. I apologise for the quality of the photos in this post. I don't currently have a scanner, and I don't have a proper set-up for rephotographing prints. Previously scanned versions I have are too small to share here. Over the past 6-12 months, I've been reminded that purchasing a scanner should be one of my Patreon goals. So I can share more of my older work with you and also for creating digital collages.
P.P.S. Some images in this post have been published before on previous iterations of my website. But many of them haven't been seen except in photo albums and piles of photographs by close friends many years ago.
P.P.S. Some images in this post have been published before on previous iterations of my website. But many of them haven't been seen except in photo albums and piles of photographs by close friends many years ago.
watching the watchers
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 14 January 2021].
What are they watching?
Answers on a postcard.
(Or, you know, in the comments will do).
flutter
Day seventy-three of The 100 Day Project.
Illustrations:
Old world swallowtail (Papilio machaon) by an unknown artist from Le magasin pittoresque, volume five
crying in the shower
I mostly cry in the shower. Or more specifically, in the bath, because I can't currently stand to shower.
I could be all poetic and say it's because I can hide my tears, even from myself, in the shower. The tears mingle freely with the spray from the shower rose as I douse my head; rinse shampoo and conditioner from my locks.
But it's not that. It's just that they seem to come most freely in there. Where the white noise from the water and the exhaust fan drown out everything but my own voluble and constant thoughts. Thoughts I can no longer shut out.
Crying in the shower feels cleansing; even just for a day. Until my next shower; the next time I'm completely alone with my thoughts again, and they well up, unbidden, once more.
The shower might be where I find myself in tears the most often, but lately I find myself crying almost anywhere. Everywhere. I struggle to think of a day in the past couple of months where tears didn't catch in my throat, even if I somehow managed to stifle them from pouring forth.
The first time they came, despite my best efforts, when saying goodbye at the end of a heartrending afternoon to a woman who looked like my mother, but only briefly appeared to be her, in glimpses.
She knew me when I arrived. She greeted me with open arms and a hug, despite her confused state about almost everything else. That gave me hope for just a little while, but as she repeated the same questions over and over to the hospital staff and my father, that hope died a little each time. My heart broke when she wanted to leave with us, saying 'I just want to spend time with both of you', but we knew we couldn't take her with us for at least another day.
I tried to hide the tears from my heartbroken father over the coming days, but they choked me when I tried to speak more often than I could control.
When my mother told me in one of her lucid moments, 'Don't ever let this happen to you', I hid my tears over her shoulder as I hugged her close, and left the room as soon as she became distracted with one of her newfound obsessive rituals. Barely able to breath, the tears finally streaming down my face in the next room.
Since then, I've cried in shock, in pain, in frustration and anger. In fear and panic. For what I've lost; what I'm losing.
Through my life, I've mostly managed to go without crying much in public. Not unrestrained ugly crying, at least.
But I was crying in the airport as I turned away to go through Security after she asked me when I'd be back and told me to come back soon. I told her I would, knowing full well that by the time I return she'll be gone; one way or another. As I promised, I saw that she could see the look in my eyes, and she looked like she knew she should look the same but she seemed confused about what to feel; why I might have that look in my eyes.
And I ugly-cried in a light plane over Bass Strait. I didn't care that the stewardess could see me as she went through her safety demonstration. I didn't care that the other passengers could hear my sniffles and sobs. I couldn't have stopped it, even if I'd cared.
For about a week my morning ritual consisted of tears. Tears of frustration at myself and others for the things I couldn't do unaided. For shower roses out of reach. Over the inability to lower myself to the floor of the shower or raise myself to standing to get dry. Over being left alone to do things I would usually do alone, but I couldn't.
When my mind manages to drift away from family for a while, I've cried for things I wish to be so, and things I believe will never be. I've cried in his arms. I've cried because I can't be in his arms.
Every day I've felt sure I have no more tears left, but then I tell someone about my mum. I talk with my dad and watch the heartbreak wash over his face again. We cry together over Skype, and I cry later about being so far away when all this is happening. For not being able to take away the hurt, the frustration; for not being able to change any of this.
I cry because she's already gone. Even if she's not yet gone.
And then I cry some more.