sorry, love

It had been a long night. Darkness was descending ever earlier these days, these final days of a soon to be remembered heatwave. At the edge of the city’s main traffic intersection the heat conserved by the concrete surroundings of Robert’s flower stall wrapped itself around the last of the day’s blooms. An evading sickly sweet smell quickened their fading beauty and limp notes of colour. It had been a busy night too. A night full of promises and lost love for his customers. Men. It was always men who bought from him. They would stop by in their cars, needing perfumed ammunition in order to carry out their various quests. On their way to make up. Or to give up. He had a few regulars too. He knew that these men, like him, had come to think of flowers as a stabiliser, a constant factor in their complicated lives. To them, flowers had a language. They spoke “I love you”, “I’m sorry”, and just maybe “It’s been a good day and I want to share it with you”. It all depends on who’s translating. Robert’s quiet demeanour seemed to encourage his late night customers to confide. He didn’t question, comment or advise. He just listened. They respected his priestly silence.

This humid night had brought a new customer. A short, overweight man in his fifties, his face damp with twin tributaries of sweat and tears, had appeared in the new gloom, stumbling, almost falling into the flower seller’s scent laden arms. A few hours before his arrival, when the evening was just beginning to fade, Robert had spotted him in the distance and had watched him. The man had parked his car at an obtuse angle, and looked to be in some agitated state, pacing up and down the pavement. He couldn’t be heard but he clearly seemed to be talking to himself, imploring with himself, his stubby arms up in the air. At one point he had got back into his car but remained stationary, immersed in his indecision.

Roses of all shades and tones were the offerings that night, their velvet petals having absorbed the last of the natural light were now switched on again, glowing under the sulphurous street lights.

The new customer had taken Robert by surprise. He’d been clearing the discarded stems and leaves from the pavement. His next job would be to select any decent remaining flowers to keep for the following day. There weren’t really any contenders tonight though. His stock was almost gone. Then this fumbling, crumbling man appeared at his side. He needed flowers. That’s what he said. He needed them, his voice quietly resigned. Anything would do, he said. Robert just looked at him and shook his head. But the man thrust his hands into his pockets withdrawing several notes, and, almost falling over, he waved them in Robert’s face. Demanding. Pleading. Anything. Please.

It’s too late. You can tell that. His last chance has gone. Flowers won’t help now. Whatever he’s apologising for, my few stems won’t make any difference. It’s too late. You can see that. Whatever has happened, it’s too late. But I’m glad I had a few left for him. And I couldn’t take his money, could I?

But now I don’t know. There’ll be nothing left to eat by now. He was so insistent. And then his tears. It’s good to be able to cry. I wish I could still cry. But that’s all gone.

Hasn’t it?

But he could see I was about to bin them. They were way past it. Wilting all over the place. But it was dark. He couldn’t see properly. He just had a determination. Flowers. Flowers were all he could see. He was in a bad way, and of course flowers mean sorry. And roses mean love. Sorry love. But it’s not always enough. I know that.

It’s not ever enough. I’m sorry, love.


This humid night had edged out an arid day. In the dry, midday heat, Mike had been stood in the squat shadows of his office building, smoking a cigarette. He’d got through quite a lot of cigarettes this week. It didn’t do him any good. He knew that. It was a chance and time to think though. That was a good thing, he thought. But he only felt uncomfortable standing there in his ill-fitting attire. A pastel coloured flowery shirt was too tight for this particular summer. His wife had thrown it out into the yard this morning along with a dysfunctional family of clothes. Every piece was a solitary vagrant; they didn’t live harmoniously together, had seen better days and were now homeless. And moreover, nothing was comfortable or suitable for this weather.

He stood in the welcome shade, his arm leaning against the wall, the relatively short extension providing a buffer to the heat radiating from the bricks. The shirt felt looser that way too, although the sweat was sprinting down his body. He wondered why, of all the shirts she could have thrown, why this one? He felt sure it had never been so tight. It was quite a few years old. He thought it must be five, six, even seven years ago now, remembering a happier, slimmer time by a southern coast. Yes, must be getting on for seven, he thought. It must be. Seven years. An itch crept down his outstretched arm.

The floral discomfort set off memory cogs. He’d been wearing this shirt that night at Joe and Stella’s, one night two summers ago it would have been. It had been an impromptu get together, the summer sun inviting goodwill to come and play amongst friends. That night hadn’t panned out as they had had anticipated. As he remembered, they had decided at the last minute to get together for a drink before deciding where to go out to dinner. They’d thought of trying out a new place, Italian it was, just down the road. That’s the kind of thing they used to do.

He remembered now, how that night Joe had been talking. Holding forth he was, which was odd, considering he was usually the quiet guy. The four of them - Joe, Stella, Mike and Lisa, his wife – had sat round the kitchen table. A half bottle of wine plonked in an ice bucket was placed in the middle and, for Mike at least, had turned into a focal point during the unusual monologue. As Joe’s words were floating by, he had watched as newly formed drops of water ran slowly down its metal exterior, tiny rivulets tracing an unknown route. That night was when their friendship started to melt too. He understood that now. At the time though, he had thought they were all happy, enjoying the spontaneity, the drinking. Enjoying each other. And he had never stopped to think why Lisa was so quiet that night.

Joe was a doctor, but a reluctant talker about all things medical. Usually. But that night he talked relentlessly about his job, about one of his patients that day. It had felt like none of them could contribute, to question or probe, to turn the monologue into a dialogue. It felt okay to let him spout off, get whatever it was he was trying to say off his chest. Mike had just poured more wine.

There was an intensity about Joe that night. But Mike had enjoyed seeing him like that. Animated for a change, instead of watching like he usually did, as if analysing every scrutinised detail. So that night, it was as if everyone was letting Joe have his moment, and left him to continue with his recounting. Well, that’s what Mike had thought at the time. That no one actually had anything to add. That like him, the women were happy enough to let the wine flow. Now though, now he could see that the signs were there. He wondered why he hadn’t picked up on them. But I was blind, he thought. Or blinkered. Maybe he had been aware of some stirrings, some stray glances, but he just hadn’t wanted to confront them. He’d always been a head in the sand man. Always the one to shy away from conflict. This was why he was finding it hard now. I’ve left it all too late, he thought.

His mind travelling, he realised now that Joe had been attempting to tell him. Or warn him? But I was blind, he convinced himself. Life was good then. Or so he had thought.

God this shirt is tight.
I must try and breathe.
Breathe.

It’s too late though.
I know that much.
Sorry.
Sorry, love.

wasps

Watching the gardener’s gradual progress he thought how tiring it must be. How satisfying though, to be able to see instant results of your hard work. That’s always good.

On this early evening in June the sky is hanging low, shrouded in layers that prevent the sun from breaking through. It’s there though, the sun, somewhere, the dense tiers of cloud closely hiding a surprising mugginess. From the motel window, this high up, he should be able to see pretty much the whole town and beyond its straggling outskirts. The distant fields and hills though are veiled in pale monotones. He likes his room. It feels safe up here overlooking the almost empty car park. His car is there, a shy vehicle in its space on the edge next to the trees, hanging back. Like a wallflower waiting to be asked to dance. The yellow lines demarking the vacant bays stand out in their loneliness, glowing teasingly like strands of sunbeams in the absence of the reluctant sun. So, he was the only guest, was all alone here too.

Glimmering through the haze, it’s a steady movement that had made him wonder about job satisfaction. A weary looking gardener is pushing a red mower up and down and across a sloping grass verge which separates the motel car park from the main highway. Backwards and forwards the man traverses the expanse of green. There he goes again. The mesmerizing repetitive motion makes his mind wander. Wandering, he thought. Is that why I’ve ended up here? Unlike the gardener who knows his route, he has less idea of where he’s heading. But he’s all too aware of where he’s come from. Of what‘s been left behind.

He wonders how long it will take the gardener to finish the plot. Leaning out of the window he can now see how the colour of the grass changes once it has been shorn, as if a paintbrush was attached to the bottom of the machine. Short clippings are deposited along the route. He can see them flying up in the air, propelled by the force of the sharp blades. He worries slightly that they will freckle the newly painted landscape, how they will dry out and turn yellow. A forgotten day comes to him.

She had wanted eggs. He’d only got ham. He hadn’t thought she might not eat meat. The green smell of hay lingered unhurriedly in the pink evening haze. Juice from her apple had dropped onto her freckled arms and he worried about the wasps again. They had been swarming lazily around one of the bales earlier. Up they rose, hovered and dived back down, their wings battling to keep cool.

He notices the mower has stopped, taking a bit of a rest. It’s a sweaty job, there’s no doubt about that. He kind of wishes he could go out there and talk with him, take him a beer or something. He places a cold bottle that he’s been holding to his forehead before taking a swig.

She had wanted beer. He’d only got one. They shared that one bottle that evening. They shared that young summer too, toiling the land, working in the fields, heads covered to shield the sun. He hadn’t wanted the harvest to end. But by then the fields had been plucked bare and the wasps were making plans to hide away.

The sun finally wins its struggle to emerge, like a hole appearing in paper under a magnifying glass, slightly singed at the edges. Then its abrupt searching glow starts to highlight sparse raindrops which seem to have come from nowhere. Interspersed with the stray grass clippings spitting into the air, they look like shards of warm icicles. The glinting spears could be mistaken for diving fireflies. Or wasps.

She had wanted to go. He’d only wanted to stay, his ambitions as hazy as the late September. He went with her though. Followed her, a wasp attracted to her sweetness. And now here he was. Ten years later in a familiar haze. And he’d only wanted to stay.

The gardener reaches the concrete verge. One last swoop and stops. Looking up at the sultry sky, he wipes his brow again, a mixture of sweat and raindrops this time. But he is smiling. He can see that he is smiling. Job well done.

I'm trying

I'm studying Fine Art. I use photography to make art. I'm not a photographer, as some people describe me. I'm an artist (or am trying to be when not being a mother; I know it doesn't have to be two different strands to my life, but it is most of the time and I can't help it). I snap images rather than compose and set up shots. I see and snap. Photographs make up my entire sketch book. Editing then makes some kind of sense out of it all. It's a reductive creative process. I shot about 60 frames this morning; the sun was gorgeous, dancing shadows everywhere. But, I'm trying to make a start on writing my dissertation. Instead I decided to write this. I'm hoping it will help. Not sure how. But I wanted to post some writing I did for an assignment last year; a piece of criticism about an art exhibition, the annual Deutsche Borse photography prize. My dissertation is going to be about the winner, Paul Graham. His work suggests a narrative, and I am going to attempt to write that narrative, try to fill in the gaps, the spaces between. Everyone has a different story. I've just got to try and start to make up mine and stop reading Carver, Chekhov and Nabokov. For now.

Deutsche Borse Photography Prize 2009

It’s the nature of shortlists and prize giving to cause clashes of opinions and disagreements. This year’s Deutsche Borse Photography Prize is no exception in generating discursive discussion on who should have won the annual £30,000 prize. For me though, the judges got it right. Each of the four artists, for I will call them artists, not photographers, held my attention in some way, but only one had me immersed.

Taryn Simon acts as a modern day collector, her series of disparate images set the scene for what could be some Louis Theroux TV show of American curiosities. Large and colourful, but the lengthy explanatory captions captivate the interest rather than the image alone. Emily Jacir’s documentation of the assassination of Palestinian Wael Zuaiter is a fascinating archival record of re-photographed texts and old photographs. But it doesn’t fit this exhibition. Tod Papageorge’s set of black and white photographs of lazing, resting sunseekers in Central Park were taken between 1969 and 1991. They’re insightful, calm and rather beautiful but for me, not contemporary enough for what the competition is about – to find the photographer who has made the most significant contribution to photography in Europe over the past year.

Then we come to Paul Graham and his work “a shimmer of possibility”. The original work is contained in 12 various coloured cloth bound books. These are displayed coffee table style in a glass case, one volume open at a random page. This is my main gripe of the display. What we are shown instead is a selection of enlarged images on three walls; a delicious amuse bouche. But I want the full 12 courses and want to get in that case and devour each volume.

The layout on the walls reflects that of the books’ pages. Groups of images, variously sized of the same subject are shown together but irregularly placed. The largest images tend to show the bigger picture, smaller ones are more detailed, cropped. Subjects are everyday people and life. Blink and it’s gone. These images have been seen by us all, we just tend to pass them by. Here though, the moment is captured: an overweight man taking a cigarette break in the shadows of a building, lost in thought, stressed about work; a homeless guy selling flowers at night, his hopeful face quietly pleading; an urban street scene at dusk, the red sun setting, draining life out of the place but bringing out the youth to play a game of street hoops.

The spaces between allow a continuous taking in of information, the eye flits, sudden shifts in viewpoint and repetition dislodge narrative flow but still a story forms in the mind. Then there is a gap. Pause. The books have blank pages (apparently) which by turning through to get to the next image, allows the mind to contemplate the previous scene, form a narrative (or not). They bring to mind the stories of Raymond Carver; you’re maybe left wondering what the missing parts add up to and make up your own mind.

I realise that this work has engaged me in such a way, I feel as if I have been there and shot the film myself. I know of these people, these places. Somehow. There are no labels to distract, no explanations, as none are needed. I feel free to gaze and I have a sense of real presence. I’m not studying these images, I’m feeling them, the gestures, the essence.

Paul Graham sums up this work for me perfectly. “I’m asking you to trust me and enjoy this quiet journey. Just slow down and look at this ordinary moment of life. See how beautiful it is, see how life flows around us, how everything shimmers with possibility.”