Here are some words from text messages, emails and letters I received on finding out the diagnosis, whilst in hospital and afterwards. Collating them all was carthartic at the time, and I used part of it for an art piece later on. I still keep a record of everything that was sent me. It helps to look back at times.
Pissing shitting bollocking cancer Damn it. What a christmas present. What a new years surprise.
thank you for telling us – it cannot have been easy to write that mail. I doubt this mail will help much – its an immediate emotional response, probably saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. But I just want you to know that I care & that I’m here to help in whatever way
I’m so sorry, I want to give you a great big hug and tell you it’ll be ok
It really is so unfair and horrible
It’s not a burden it’s a way to show we care about you.
You're a tough little cookie and will get through this
Goes without saying we're all here if you need anything, will be thinking of you and love you lots
Can I have a biscuit?
I keep thinking about how positive you have been recently, with the course and then J and also your new found modus vivendi with E and E, and i hope that you can hang onto a little sparkle of those feelings still, despite the major hitch of being diagnosed with breast cancer. I also keep thinking about all your amazing photos and I hope you take your camera into hospital with you! I have also been thinking about the sunny days in Soller and the warmth of the friendships. We are all so concerned about you and want you to know we are there to help in whatever way you want, even if what you want is space. We've dissuaded A from dropping in unannounced!
Oh no.that is worst case scenario.totally unexpected, i find this hard.oslo was just a dream,dont worry.ur health is most important.
You are one of my strongest friends and you will be positive and come through it and i will be right behind you!
we shuda met ten years ago.wed hav had a laff.its harder now 4us both.
Oh my georgous lovlyest mate! I was so shocked 2 hear about this from D I couldnt concentrate after he told me! I really felt weirded out and wanted 2 cry in the class and shout "FFFUUUUUCKKKK....WHY does it have 2 b Helen? Its always the nicest that have 2 go thru the REAL CRAP!!!!fuck fuck FUCK!!!!!"
Morning missyLove u too. Sorry if wobbly when u went. Just want to keep u so we can drink wine forever ! X
Yes. Think we need her 4 pure entertainment! Can u imagine... It will b ' who is in charge here?! V glad about her! I clapped my hands!
love you love you love you, see you at the other end. love you more. x x x ...
Been thinking of you all day. Lots of love. Hope they're taking good care of you
Hurrah ! So pleased i have u back. Hope hallelujah family have buggered off! Text tomorrow with any request! Love u madam mac. X x x x x
ur so strong+brave.im not like that.x
Was thinking of you yesterday as most people who i bumped into are. I hope you know how much esteem you are held in by your friends.....not just because of this.....but always!
Heard that you have been amazingly brave and positive. Hope you are not in too much pain. Would love to come and see you next week and will check timing with you. Must be so scary-thinking of you and sending you all the positive energy I can xx
Jane said to tell you she'll include you in her prayer meeting !! I said how lovely. X
Gr8 about biscuits! You sound gd. Forget cancer, how is the hair? Xx
Your 4:30 will be with you in12 minutes (forgot it's on a hill).
54!ur popular!my inbox is basicly just texts from u.
How's the most popular girl in hospital? Done enough socializing? How are you today and when are you home?
U r so busy! U have more of a social life in hospital than i do ever! Cool . Will c u later . X x
Cake a disaster ! May try to take pic to make u laugh! And because it is a disaster pope and i not on speaking terms ! X x x
hi helen... It was really very lovely to see you.... despite the circumstances. Didnt say this at time but it was also good to c u so bright and up. I thought u perversely looked very well!
Everytime I think of coming over I am reliably informed that there is a queue. I bet an audience with the Pope is easier. I have something for you and I need to get it out the house (you'll understand when you see it)
Your cleavage is taking on a personality of it's own Madam Mac !!
what a crazy time to get your head around - i can't imagine ... you're amazing me with your steadiness in how you're talking this through - you're some woman!
It was lovely to see you. I thought you looked fantastically well.
Cry, laugh, whatever. I won’t buckle, and I want to be able to support you. You are my friend, and I know you would do the same for me. I don’t think you are going to suddenly feel better about things, it is going to take some time...
Yes, it's crap. I'll be on the lookout for some funky scarves for you. Can you drink when you're having chemo? (obviously not while you're actually having it...)
am sorry to hear that you are feeling like this at the moment. the intensity and power of the emotions sweeps you away to a new place. You just have to hold on for the ride. I know about your inner strength and your resolve. I know that you are brave and fearless and that you will come through stronger than ever. What you should know is that there are lots of people out here who are plugging for you and wishing you better in no time
This is the quotation from the poem that our conversation reminded me of ‘…they, you will learn, have nothing, that have nothing to lose.’ It may not seem so powerful on its own but I was quite struck by it.
You always sound so amazingly calm about the whole thing.
Wednesday, 30 December 2009
Monday, 28 December 2009
Some year it turned out to be
A year ago today I had diagnostic tests which revealed breast cancer tumours. It wasn’t confirmed until a week later, but all the evidence that day was not good. It was a complete shock as I had only been referred on the basis of experiencing slight tenderness in one place. There was no lump. It turned out to be at least five tumours, one of which was very aggressive, but fortunately at an early stage. If I hadn’t have thought to go to my GP when I did, it would most likely have spread through the lymph glands and my life could be so different. I urge anyone who notices ANY kind of change to their breast to go and get checked out.
I’ve been waiting for this year to come to an end. These last few weeks of it, my mind and memory have been travelling back to happy times this time last year, when I was unaware of what lay ahead, and had only just discovered a new me, one that had started to enjoy living in and for the present, experiencing a new kind of happiness. The first two days of the year were shared with someone who provided fun and laughter which took me back to a time I thought I had lost. Then, within a week of being diagnosed (and with no previous weeks worrying, as cancer was the last thing I thought was causing the tenderness), I had a mastectomy. It was all so sudden, no time to think things through. Emotions all over the place. Laughter gone. Six cycles of chemotherapy spanning 19 weeks followed plus three further weeks of radiotherapy. August 3rd was the last day of invasive treatment. (There are still tablets to take for the next five years). All signs are that it has done the trick. I feel lucky I didn’t experience any major physical side effects and was able to carry on studying and looking after my children, going out and, well, just getting on. Emotionally, though, it has been (and continues to be) more of a rollercoaster ride, and at times, it’s as though another person has undertaken what I had to endure, and I can’t quite believe that I have come through it all intact. There's laughter from time to time, but not in the same way as before. But I'm feeling less and less like I need to escape back to where I was and am intent on moving forward.
Christmas Day was spent with my children and their dad, as usual. He and I separated four years ago, this is in fact the fifth Christmas apart. Before then, we had been together 20 years. He’s still a good friend. We reflected on what he told me on my birthday this September, a time when I was at one of my lowest points. He’d told me that I ought to look back on this year as one of achievement; the way I have dealt with it means I have turned what should have been a shit year into one I should be proud of. I kind of agree. But it still feels like a lost year, a year of limbo floating around waiting for life to start up again.
So I keep ticking off all the “anniversaries”, all the “this time last year” stuff, waiting, anticipating a new beginning. But there’s still a while to go; reconstructive surgery in February will take a few months to heal and then there will be subsequent more minor ops to follow, gradually rebuilding what was taken away (or perhaps “remodelling” is a better word, as the procedures aim to create a flat stomach and perky breasts which hadn’t been apparent for quite a few years post childbirth…) So I envisage another gap year, but one that I am looking forward to and anticipating good results from. Let’s see.
So, here are some positive aspects of having breast cancer this year…
Cropping my hair, which seems blonder
Eventually growing longer eyelashes and fuller eyebrows
Being allowed the indulgence to rediscover myself
Becoming a Top Shop size 10
Winning a prize at art college for my self portrait project
Having the opportunity to take time away and go inter railing
The prospect of gaining new pert boobs and a tummy tuck to boot, all on the fabulous NHS
Most importantly, discovering strong friendships.
I’ve been waiting for this year to come to an end. These last few weeks of it, my mind and memory have been travelling back to happy times this time last year, when I was unaware of what lay ahead, and had only just discovered a new me, one that had started to enjoy living in and for the present, experiencing a new kind of happiness. The first two days of the year were shared with someone who provided fun and laughter which took me back to a time I thought I had lost. Then, within a week of being diagnosed (and with no previous weeks worrying, as cancer was the last thing I thought was causing the tenderness), I had a mastectomy. It was all so sudden, no time to think things through. Emotions all over the place. Laughter gone. Six cycles of chemotherapy spanning 19 weeks followed plus three further weeks of radiotherapy. August 3rd was the last day of invasive treatment. (There are still tablets to take for the next five years). All signs are that it has done the trick. I feel lucky I didn’t experience any major physical side effects and was able to carry on studying and looking after my children, going out and, well, just getting on. Emotionally, though, it has been (and continues to be) more of a rollercoaster ride, and at times, it’s as though another person has undertaken what I had to endure, and I can’t quite believe that I have come through it all intact. There's laughter from time to time, but not in the same way as before. But I'm feeling less and less like I need to escape back to where I was and am intent on moving forward.
Christmas Day was spent with my children and their dad, as usual. He and I separated four years ago, this is in fact the fifth Christmas apart. Before then, we had been together 20 years. He’s still a good friend. We reflected on what he told me on my birthday this September, a time when I was at one of my lowest points. He’d told me that I ought to look back on this year as one of achievement; the way I have dealt with it means I have turned what should have been a shit year into one I should be proud of. I kind of agree. But it still feels like a lost year, a year of limbo floating around waiting for life to start up again.
So I keep ticking off all the “anniversaries”, all the “this time last year” stuff, waiting, anticipating a new beginning. But there’s still a while to go; reconstructive surgery in February will take a few months to heal and then there will be subsequent more minor ops to follow, gradually rebuilding what was taken away (or perhaps “remodelling” is a better word, as the procedures aim to create a flat stomach and perky breasts which hadn’t been apparent for quite a few years post childbirth…) So I envisage another gap year, but one that I am looking forward to and anticipating good results from. Let’s see.
So, here are some positive aspects of having breast cancer this year…
Cropping my hair, which seems blonder
Eventually growing longer eyelashes and fuller eyebrows
Being allowed the indulgence to rediscover myself
Becoming a Top Shop size 10
Winning a prize at art college for my self portrait project
Having the opportunity to take time away and go inter railing
The prospect of gaining new pert boobs and a tummy tuck to boot, all on the fabulous NHS
Most importantly, discovering strong friendships.
Saturday, 5 December 2009
Quoting Lorrie Moore
"Her manner
was sprinkled
with
youthful
motions,
as if her
body
were
on occasion
falling into
a memory
or a wish."
Monday, 23 November 2009
Trainspotting with Herr Rosenheim
The last leg of my quick and brief journey around Europe was to leave the beautiful countryside of Lake Bled in Slovenia on the Thursday to get to Munich, from where I had a couchette booked on the night train to Paris. Arriving there on the Friday morning, I would have a few hours to meet up with my Paris-based sister-in-law until catching the 2pm Eurostar back to Kings Cross. Then a short walk across the station to the Northern Line, the tube back up to Archway I'd be home by 5pm to collect my daughter from after school club. A lot of trains. It turned out to include a few buses too.
Whilst in Berlin, I had made use of the English speaking staff at the huge main train station and had reserved seats on some of the busier trains I was going to be using over the coming weeks. Even having a Euro rail pass doesn't always mean you can travel on any train, some Express ones require a reservation as well. One train I wanted to reserve was the one from Lesce Bled to Munich. A long journey and an all important one for me to catch as I couldn't afford to miss the connection to Paris. However, the Berlin train guy couldn't bring up a reservation for me, and apologetically told me he thought it would be fine to just board on the day.
All my other journeys had gone as planned, (although running through Prague to eventually catch the sleeper train to Budapest with 3 minutes to spare wasn't brilliant -though it was probably my favourite journey on the trip). I'd arrived at Lake Bled on the Wednesday from Ljubljana, the small but lovely capital of Slovenia. I'd walked to the station from the hostel and had 20 minutes to spare before my train left. This was fortunate, as I took the time to ask again about reserving a seat for the Munich bound train at the international ticket kiosk which amazingly had no queue. There, the kind woman told me in good English that it wasn't possible to reserve seats on the train I needed as there was engineering work taking place in Austria. This meant that there would be a bus part way and possible delays. Even if the train ran to schedule, I'd only left myself an hour in Munich before the sleeper train departed. So, armed with this information, I checked my European train timetable which I had brought with me, and worked out that the only other train to Munich would leave a whole 7 hours earlier. I had to go for it though, I couldn't risk not getting the sleeper.
In Bled, I stayed at the really lovely Travellers' Haven hostel, and come Thursday morning I was up before any of my room mates, or indeed anyone else from the place. I'd brought in some breakfast the night before which I ate quickly in the kitchen and then before leaving, virtually ran down to the perfect picture-postcard lake with my camera for some early morning shots. I was hoping to get mist over the water but it was pretty clear, and I suppose not that early really, it was about 8am. Getting back, I grabbed my bag, said my farewells to the few that were now up, and got the bus to the train station a couple of miles away. I was the only passenger.
It is a tiny station, in the middle of nowhere but had a tourist information office manned by a friendly guy. He'd helped me the day before in giving me directions to the right bus stop and showed me on a map he'd given me where to walk to at the other end to get to my hostel. So there I was at 9.30am on a sunny Thursday morning waiting with about four others for the 10.10 train to Munich, the penultimate day of my trip. The tourist info guy spotted me, waved and came and sat with me at the station cafe where I was having a needed coffee, asked me where I was off to and assured me that the delays were major and that it was definitely worth this effort of getting the earlier train.
The train arrived on time. I got in an empty compartment before being joined by some German bloke. He didn't speak English and my German is atrocious so we tried a bit of conversation but all got a bit lost in translation. The guard came in at one point to tell us that the train would be terminating at Villach, a border town in Austria. He didn't seem to know anything about other trains or buses we would need to help us on our way. The German passenger was very frustrated, arms in the air stuff, but at least I felt prepared, relaxed about it.
Once at Villach, it transpired that we would have an hour and a half to wait for a train to take us to a place called Bockstein. This information was garnered by the fact that I studiously befriended a couple of matriarchal looking German women who spoke a bit of English and who you could tell were natural born organisers. They sorted everyone out. By this time, the whole platform was full of passengers, the original train having started in Zagreb in Croatia. I spoke and nodded to Croatians, Italians, Austrians and Germans. I was the only English person. It was whilst waiting at Villach that I encountered an old German guy. I had managed to get a seat on the platform; it was going to be a long wait. This guy tottered up to the bench, wheeling his small suitcase behind him. He plonked himself next to me and spoke to me in German. I apologised and said I only spoke English. He offered me a few English words but then, undeterred, continued to talk in German to (or at) me. At the time, I was writing my journal and listening to my ipod. By this time it was about midday. A packet of biscuits, a small bar of Green and Blacks dark chocolate together with some water was the only food I had. I offered him some but he declined. He then intimated that he was off to find some proper food. Up he got and slowly made it down the platform and disappeared down the stairs.
About ten minutes before the train was due, he returned and sat back next to me. I said hello and smiled and he continued to talk in a Deutsche monologue. I'd worried about my ipod running down on this long journey but now felt I had to turn it off and nod and try and converse. He clearly wasn't going to let me away. We boarded the train, which was already quite packed, but I found a seat for him and myself. He chatted away to the woman next to me, who kept looking at me and smiling. She then translated that he had told her that he was looking after me, that I was alone and that he'd never seen anyone write so fast. The guard checked tickets and explained that we needed to get off at Bockstein then get a bus which would be waiting to take us to Schwarzach-St Weit. From there the 15.05 train would get us to Salzburg.
There was a bit of a walk from the train to the waiting buses. I resisted the urge to rush on ahead, instead walked at a slow pace alongside my new friend to make sure he didn't get left behind. The matriarchal German Fraus were up ahead, rallying everyone else. I again found us a seat where he gratefully rested next to me. All the while he was talking in German, but slowly and in a way that I could just about grasp what he was trying to convey. I uttered the odd response but really my German is way too rusty so it was just the odd word rather than a sentence.
The scenery throughout the whole journey was overwhelmingly beautiful. I have two cameras, a SLR and a compact. I was using both and he was very curious why I was taking so many photographs. I managed to explain that I was an artist. He nodded knowingly. Once we got onto the next train on route to Salzburg, he decided that he would share my chocolate after all. In front of us were two women from the original train - by that time there was a certain camaraderie. He spoke to them in what he subsequently told me was Croatian. I then worked out that he was originally from Croatia, moved to Germany in 1960. He was 77. His son used to live and study in England, speaks many languages and is a teacher now in Germany. Charlotte - who I took to be his grand daughter - is a great musician and dancer but can no longer dance well as she injured her hip. He had visited England in the past and liked it. Wars are unjust, something about Ghenghis Khan, bayonets, Jews and fascism and people being killed needlessly. By this time, he was leaning right into me, his elbow on my arm, and I produced my rail map which I love looking at, to ask him where he lived and about different places. He found Rosenheim. That's where he lives now. He showed me rivers and various towns, all had a story which I couldn't always grasp. By now, we were heading into Salzburg and another change of train for the final leg to Munich - or, for him, Rosenheim. The time was 3pm. I'd been talked to for going on 3 hours.
The next train left at 15.05 from platform 22. By the time we got off the train there was a bit of a surge going on. It transpired that platform 22 was at the other end of the station.There was a bit of anxiety going on all over the place. I tried not to rush in an effort to keep him calm and unflustered. I was clocking the platform directions and was heading straight on. I kept slowing down, looking round to make sure he was okay. He was, he kept nodding and pointing, intimating that I get on my way. Next time I looked round, he'd disappeared. I stopped and went back. I saw the back of him tottering off behind the matriarchs who had diverted left. Now he was looking round for me. I went my original direction and made it to platform 22 before anyone else. It was 15.04. I could see the train was packed, but I waited at a door to make sure he would get on and not miss it. I spotted him coming around the corner onto the platform, and waved. His arm went up in recognition. I got on the train, a huge double-decker and amazingly found a free double seat right near the door. I left my rucksack on the seat and went to look for him. I couldn't see him. Then, I saw the matriarchs bundling him thorough another door into a crowded carriage. I turned back to where a nun was now hovering around my seat with 2 cases. I heaved my rucksack onto the rack and let her sit down next to me. She smiled but didn't utter a word. The train left punctually and as we eased gradually through the city of Salzburg, my imaginary internal ipod was gratingly stuck on the Sound of Music. I would have preferred a slow, deliberate German monologue.
Just before arriving at Munich, 9 hours after I'd left Lake Bled, we came into the station of Rosenheim at 6pm. I was by the window and I strained to see. And there he was, picking his way carefully along the platform, a pause and a look. I waved. He didn't see me. He was looking for me though. I waved in that big way you do. He stood and studied the train. He didn't see me. He then picked up his case and chugged off through the gate. At Rosenheim station. Mein Herr Rosenheim. I didn't even know his name.
Whilst in Berlin, I had made use of the English speaking staff at the huge main train station and had reserved seats on some of the busier trains I was going to be using over the coming weeks. Even having a Euro rail pass doesn't always mean you can travel on any train, some Express ones require a reservation as well. One train I wanted to reserve was the one from Lesce Bled to Munich. A long journey and an all important one for me to catch as I couldn't afford to miss the connection to Paris. However, the Berlin train guy couldn't bring up a reservation for me, and apologetically told me he thought it would be fine to just board on the day.
All my other journeys had gone as planned, (although running through Prague to eventually catch the sleeper train to Budapest with 3 minutes to spare wasn't brilliant -though it was probably my favourite journey on the trip). I'd arrived at Lake Bled on the Wednesday from Ljubljana, the small but lovely capital of Slovenia. I'd walked to the station from the hostel and had 20 minutes to spare before my train left. This was fortunate, as I took the time to ask again about reserving a seat for the Munich bound train at the international ticket kiosk which amazingly had no queue. There, the kind woman told me in good English that it wasn't possible to reserve seats on the train I needed as there was engineering work taking place in Austria. This meant that there would be a bus part way and possible delays. Even if the train ran to schedule, I'd only left myself an hour in Munich before the sleeper train departed. So, armed with this information, I checked my European train timetable which I had brought with me, and worked out that the only other train to Munich would leave a whole 7 hours earlier. I had to go for it though, I couldn't risk not getting the sleeper.
In Bled, I stayed at the really lovely Travellers' Haven hostel, and come Thursday morning I was up before any of my room mates, or indeed anyone else from the place. I'd brought in some breakfast the night before which I ate quickly in the kitchen and then before leaving, virtually ran down to the perfect picture-postcard lake with my camera for some early morning shots. I was hoping to get mist over the water but it was pretty clear, and I suppose not that early really, it was about 8am. Getting back, I grabbed my bag, said my farewells to the few that were now up, and got the bus to the train station a couple of miles away. I was the only passenger.
It is a tiny station, in the middle of nowhere but had a tourist information office manned by a friendly guy. He'd helped me the day before in giving me directions to the right bus stop and showed me on a map he'd given me where to walk to at the other end to get to my hostel. So there I was at 9.30am on a sunny Thursday morning waiting with about four others for the 10.10 train to Munich, the penultimate day of my trip. The tourist info guy spotted me, waved and came and sat with me at the station cafe where I was having a needed coffee, asked me where I was off to and assured me that the delays were major and that it was definitely worth this effort of getting the earlier train.
The train arrived on time. I got in an empty compartment before being joined by some German bloke. He didn't speak English and my German is atrocious so we tried a bit of conversation but all got a bit lost in translation. The guard came in at one point to tell us that the train would be terminating at Villach, a border town in Austria. He didn't seem to know anything about other trains or buses we would need to help us on our way. The German passenger was very frustrated, arms in the air stuff, but at least I felt prepared, relaxed about it.Once at Villach, it transpired that we would have an hour and a half to wait for a train to take us to a place called Bockstein. This information was garnered by the fact that I studiously befriended a couple of matriarchal looking German women who spoke a bit of English and who you could tell were natural born organisers. They sorted everyone out. By this time, the whole platform was full of passengers, the original train having started in Zagreb in Croatia. I spoke and nodded to Croatians, Italians, Austrians and Germans. I was the only English person. It was whilst waiting at Villach that I encountered an old German guy. I had managed to get a seat on the platform; it was going to be a long wait. This guy tottered up to the bench, wheeling his small suitcase behind him. He plonked himself next to me and spoke to me in German. I apologised and said I only spoke English. He offered me a few English words but then, undeterred, continued to talk in German to (or at) me. At the time, I was writing my journal and listening to my ipod. By this time it was about midday. A packet of biscuits, a small bar of Green and Blacks dark chocolate together with some water was the only food I had. I offered him some but he declined. He then intimated that he was off to find some proper food. Up he got and slowly made it down the platform and disappeared down the stairs.
About ten minutes before the train was due, he returned and sat back next to me. I said hello and smiled and he continued to talk in a Deutsche monologue. I'd worried about my ipod running down on this long journey but now felt I had to turn it off and nod and try and converse. He clearly wasn't going to let me away. We boarded the train, which was already quite packed, but I found a seat for him and myself. He chatted away to the woman next to me, who kept looking at me and smiling. She then translated that he had told her that he was looking after me, that I was alone and that he'd never seen anyone write so fast. The guard checked tickets and explained that we needed to get off at Bockstein then get a bus which would be waiting to take us to Schwarzach-St Weit. From there the 15.05 train would get us to Salzburg.
There was a bit of a walk from the train to the waiting buses. I resisted the urge to rush on ahead, instead walked at a slow pace alongside my new friend to make sure he didn't get left behind. The matriarchal German Fraus were up ahead, rallying everyone else. I again found us a seat where he gratefully rested next to me. All the while he was talking in German, but slowly and in a way that I could just about grasp what he was trying to convey. I uttered the odd response but really my German is way too rusty so it was just the odd word rather than a sentence.
The scenery throughout the whole journey was overwhelmingly beautiful. I have two cameras, a SLR and a compact. I was using both and he was very curious why I was taking so many photographs. I managed to explain that I was an artist. He nodded knowingly. Once we got onto the next train on route to Salzburg, he decided that he would share my chocolate after all. In front of us were two women from the original train - by that time there was a certain camaraderie. He spoke to them in what he subsequently told me was Croatian. I then worked out that he was originally from Croatia, moved to Germany in 1960. He was 77. His son used to live and study in England, speaks many languages and is a teacher now in Germany. Charlotte - who I took to be his grand daughter - is a great musician and dancer but can no longer dance well as she injured her hip. He had visited England in the past and liked it. Wars are unjust, something about Ghenghis Khan, bayonets, Jews and fascism and people being killed needlessly. By this time, he was leaning right into me, his elbow on my arm, and I produced my rail map which I love looking at, to ask him where he lived and about different places. He found Rosenheim. That's where he lives now. He showed me rivers and various towns, all had a story which I couldn't always grasp. By now, we were heading into Salzburg and another change of train for the final leg to Munich - or, for him, Rosenheim. The time was 3pm. I'd been talked to for going on 3 hours.
The next train left at 15.05 from platform 22. By the time we got off the train there was a bit of a surge going on. It transpired that platform 22 was at the other end of the station.There was a bit of anxiety going on all over the place. I tried not to rush in an effort to keep him calm and unflustered. I was clocking the platform directions and was heading straight on. I kept slowing down, looking round to make sure he was okay. He was, he kept nodding and pointing, intimating that I get on my way. Next time I looked round, he'd disappeared. I stopped and went back. I saw the back of him tottering off behind the matriarchs who had diverted left. Now he was looking round for me. I went my original direction and made it to platform 22 before anyone else. It was 15.04. I could see the train was packed, but I waited at a door to make sure he would get on and not miss it. I spotted him coming around the corner onto the platform, and waved. His arm went up in recognition. I got on the train, a huge double-decker and amazingly found a free double seat right near the door. I left my rucksack on the seat and went to look for him. I couldn't see him. Then, I saw the matriarchs bundling him thorough another door into a crowded carriage. I turned back to where a nun was now hovering around my seat with 2 cases. I heaved my rucksack onto the rack and let her sit down next to me. She smiled but didn't utter a word. The train left punctually and as we eased gradually through the city of Salzburg, my imaginary internal ipod was gratingly stuck on the Sound of Music. I would have preferred a slow, deliberate German monologue.Just before arriving at Munich, 9 hours after I'd left Lake Bled, we came into the station of Rosenheim at 6pm. I was by the window and I strained to see. And there he was, picking his way carefully along the platform, a pause and a look. I waved. He didn't see me. He was looking for me though. I waved in that big way you do. He stood and studied the train. He didn't see me. He then picked up his case and chugged off through the gate. At Rosenheim station. Mein Herr Rosenheim. I didn't even know his name.
Tuesday, 17 November 2009
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.”
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.”
Tuesday, 10 November 2009
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