I Am Pete Ashton

On Saturday we were honoured to be invited to Maria and Alex‘s wedding which was to be held on a steam train on the Severn Valley Railway with guests requested to dress in the style of Steampunk, a mutant child of cyberpunk and goth where one is invited to imagine adventurers of the Victorian age equipped with the tools of science fiction, albeit powered by steam. In other words, it’s all the fun of goth and cyberpunk without the crushing earnestness of the teens who rule those subcultures.

Dressing up wasn’t mandatory but it might as well have been. Everyone looked fantastic with suits and goggles and corsets a-plenty. (Emma was the official photographer.) Not being one who understands the higher levels of sartorial style I decided not to try and compete on that level. Instead I made myself a stupid hat.

Fiona and myself posing at the station.

It’s a fairly simple affair that got a little out of hand. Inspired by this beauty found grazing the Google image search I purchased a working man’s hard hat, a few metres of conduit, a new drill (I’ve been plagued by the uselessness of my battery powered drill for too long so this was the perfect excuse to buy one that plugs into the mains and actually bloody works) and a can of gold paint. To this I added a bunch of the LED lights I have lying around from my Thingamagoop days and a the body of a corrugated bottle. And a load of gaffer tape. Naturally.

It took about four hours in all, allowing for drying time.

Did I mention it lights up?

Pic by Emma

Here are some more photos, for posterity.

Pic by Fiona

Michael’s thinking is augmented – pic by Emma

Nick found the thinking augmentation process a little uncomfortable – pic by Daz

Fiona was slightly worried that she wasn’t going to be steampunk enough standing next to my absurd helmet. A ridiculous worry as it turned out, but as I was on a roll I knocked together a pair of opera glasses for her from a couple of old lenses I’d never found a use for. She added a panty hanger and voila.

All this has taught me one very important lesson. I have been sublimating my need to make stupid shit out of random junk for far too long. This must be rectified.

[My photos, Fiona's photos (we shared a camera - there is crossover)]

Photo by Fiona

This is one of my “working shit out” blog posts, if you’re wondering why it rambles with no coherent point.

One of the things that’s often interested me in the time I’ve spent in the orbits of “creative” folks is the distinction, sometimes subtle, sometimes blatant, between those who primarily identify as a practitioner of a medium and those who identify with the tribe of their tool reluctantly. Sometimes this maps to the degree of depth and wisdom they display, with the loudest cheerleaders for “the community” not being the best practitioners. The latter tend to be those who, while they respect and have mastery of their tools, know that they are merely tools and a means to a higher end.

Or at least that’s how I’ve come to see it, and my prejudices which follow can be understood on those terms.

I recently had a chat with Karen Newman, currently of the Open Eye gallery in Liverpool, who is looking to do something in Birmingham involving a building or space for photography. I liked Karen. She seems to be on the spectrum of Arts people I can work with, and with any luck I hope to do so should things pan out that way. And if they don’t, it’ll just be nice to have her around the place.

One of the things she wanted to talk about was the photography community in Birmingham, whose in it, how do people communicate and share ideas, what people and organisations should she be talking to, that kind of thing. And to my surprise I didn’t really know. Thankfully my Photo School compadre Matt was also there and he has a better sense of such things, but it did get me thinking.

Of all the arts scenes in Birmingham I’ve been involved with over the last 6 years, Photography has probably been the main one. From starting the Flickrmeets through to Photo School, my gradual mastery of the art form has come directly from those I’ve known and worked with in Birmingham. If I hadn’t moved back here in 2003 it’s extremely doubtful I’d be the photographer I am today.

And yet when it comes to The Photography Scene in the city I feel I’m an outsider. I know people in it, but, Matt aside, I don’t know them that well. This doesn’t worry me. It’s not like I have any animosity towards my fellow photographers. I’d consider a load of them to be friends even if I don’t see them that often.

I find myself disagreeing with a lot of the received wisdom that commercial photographers hold, particularly over copyright and the relative value of photographs. While I occasionally get paid to take photos I’ve never tried to make a career out of it (even I can spot how absurdly crowded the market is) so for me photography is something else.

But I also find myself alienated by the Art photographers, mostly because I don’t really get how it works within the Art world. I get how a photograph can be great art – that’s easy. But I don’t get how the gallery system works. In short, while I love Stuart Whipps‘ work, and like him as a person, I don’t understand how he functions as a photographer in that world.

Then there’s the hobbyists, like the Yardley Photography Society for whom I did a very enjoyable talk a couple of years back about my TTV work. They’re old school, looking for the “perfect” photo, and I don’t really see the appeal of their motivations. You can throw the vintage camera aficionados, darkroom freaks and expensive kit junkies in here too. Nice folks, but not for me.

As I work through all the photographers I know it seems I don’t really identify with any of them. Even Matt’s approach to photography is quite distinct to mine, which is the primary reason we teach well together. Whatever it was we clicked on when we became friends it probably wasn’t photography.

So, here I am, an active photographer in Birmingham with a history of being involved in “photography community” stuff at some level, who doesn’t feel any affinity with people who use the same tools as him. Is this a problem?

One of the things that jumps out at me as I type this is I might feel a connection with my fellow photographers if I wasn’t such a part-time dilettante. Even within my photography I haven’t developed a narrow style or approach. I’m pretty scattershot and reactive in my style, letting the subject dictate my composition rather than controlling and guiding it. I’m also deeply ignorant of The Canon (something which is being rectified with each new class Matt devises) and the giants I’m climbing on the shoulders of. I think I do have a personal style which you can see across my work, but it’s not a deliberative thing, merely something which has evolved. It could be that other photographers have a hard time figuring me out, particularly as I spent five years waving a tube of cardboard around, though I can’t speak for them, obviously.

This all doesn’t stop me calling myself A Photographer though. I take photos and I think some of my photos are good enough to say something to people, to make them think about the world in a small way. I have a fair degree of mastery of the camera, my tool, and can work its inherent restrictions to my advantage. And I use photography as a discipline as a way of seeing and understanding the world around me. To photography something, for me, is to exercise a deep and thorough understanding of that thing. The camera defines and informs how I engage with the world. If that’s not a photographer I don’t know what is.

And I think that’s what worries me about concepts of “community” and “scene” that might emerge around a tool like a camera. The camera is a dumb tool, like a carving knife or paint brush or a computer. We all know that a fancy camera won’t make you a fancy photographer, so why does taking photos automatically put you in the same community as other people who take photos?

And there’s a massive elephant in the room here. Nearly everyone is taking photos these days, tapping the apps on their pocket computer phones and showing them to their personal world on Facebook. If our concept of a photography community is so vague as to let the likes of me in, then why not bring all 1 billion Facebook users on board? (Which reminds me, I really should write something about why Instagram is so much more interesting than people obsessed with the aesthetics of the situation can possibly conceive, but that’s for another day.)

Where am I…

I think the communities and scenes that emerge around different uses of photography are healthy and important. I think enabling these to grow and develop is a good thing, socially, economically and culturally. (Are socially and culturally the same thing now? I forget.)

And I’m certainly not a joiner. For better or worse I instinctively rebel against cosy commodification (or I get bored). For me, once something is given a label that the mainstream can understand it get swamped with tedium. I don’t have a problem with this and I know it can make me an insufferable elitist hipster, so I try to move on to something new and let people enjoy the stability of a thing I know from experience is worth doing.

I am a photographer. I take photos. I don’t know exactly what it means for me to be someone who takes photos and how that informs the way I live my life, but I’m keen to try and find out.

But I don’t really see myself as a member of Birmingham’s photography community. Maybe no-one does. Maybe I’m kicking at straw men.

I do know I’d like to meet more photographers, to learn from them and take the experience of knowing them away with me so I might develop my practice in interesting ways. Maybe that’s the level of “community” and “scene” we’re talking about. People who share a degree of knowledge of and skill with a tool. I can probably live with that.

I passed my driving test a few months ago. For the first couple of days I didn’t drive at all – I was kinda sick of it, to be honest. Having gone through the rigmarole of learning to pass the test, including one fail where I jumped a red light (hell, if you’re going to fail, fail hard), driving had lost any novelty it might have had.

I’d learned to drive initially as a favour to Fiona. When I lived on my own, or with other non-driving folk, cars never entered the equation. Living in a city the combination of walking, cycling public transport, taxis and the occasional favour sufficed. But Fiona owned a car, which sat outside the front of the house and was temptingly useful. Things that weren’t viable, such as a trip to Ikea or a wedding party in the arse-end of the countryside, suddenly became an option. If Fiona drove. So after tipping the favour scales a little too far a couple of times I promised to learn to drive. And then a year later, with a firm nudge from my mum, I actually started.

So when I had the certificate in my hand I was pleased, of course, but didn’t exactly embrace my new found freedom. I figured I’d use the car when I needed to but otherwise my life wouldn’t change. And like I said, for the first week it was like that.

But then I started driving for myself, rather than for the test, and I’ve found I really enjoy it. Which could be somewhat embarrassing for someone with a history of being virulently anti-car. As a cyclist I’d always been quite vocal in my distain for the average motorist. Jeremy Clarkson is the devil and his followers are idiot sheep, wilfully ignorant of the damage their motorised tonnage of metal could do to a body. I was convinced that getting behind the wheel of a car did something to people. It changed their brains, turned them into egotistical, selfish fools. And this wasn’t just an observation of The Other, hidden from personal connection by glass and steel. I’d seen this in my friends and loved ones as they sped around town, cursing at other drivers as I winced in my passenger seat.

For something so dangerous and risky, driving seemed to involve a complete loss of rational logic. People’s behaviour on the roads is the purest example of selfish idiocy. Socialism doesn’t exist on the road – it’s every man for himself and damn the consequences.

And here I am, enjoying driving. Which is odd.

In my defence, one of the things I really enjoy about driving is rigorously obeying the law. There’s a 20mph zone near us which is always in force regardless of whether the local school is open. No-one ever obeys the limit and zooms through at 30mph+. Except me. I slow down and trundle along until the 30 sign appears, and I do this just to fuck with the folks behind me. Speed limits in general are not a hinderance but a challenge – I like to think I get points for sticking to them.

And then there’s politeness. Other than forcing those behind me to obey the law I really like being nice to my fellow drivers. If it’s safe to do so I’ll let people turn onto a busy road because I’m pretty sure it’ll make no real difference to my progress. If I was on foot I’d be nice so why not be nice in the car?

Of course the real reason I’m being such a good driver is because I’m a contrary bastard who relishes going against the grain. There’s no real moral high ground here. I don’t do this because it’s the right thing to do – I do it because it gives me a self-righteous, vicarious thrill. Being a good driver is positively counter-cultural in our society so of course I’m going to try my hardest to be good. If it was the other way around I’d be a total cunt on the road, I’m sure.

But my personal psychological quirks aside, there’s something kinda fucked up in a world where this is the case. As I’ve been driving I’ve seen more examples of bad driving that when I was a pedestrian or a cyclist, because I’m right in the middle of it. And I don’t mean mistakes. There’s an important distinction between incompetence (of which I’ve certainly been guilty of in my first few months driving on my own) and wilful dickishness. The stuff that can be ironed out with practice and training is one thing. Behaving like a delusional self-important arsehole is another.

Other than the lazy catch-all “people are idiots” excuse, which I don’t buy because I’ve seen beautiful, intelligent souls turn into demons when sat behind a wheel, I’m at a loss to explain this. The cult of “The Motorist”, chaired by Lord Jeremy C and feared by politicians, can only really be a symptom, a power-grab by facets of the Right who see their individualistic policies reflected in the psychology of driving.

From media reports I was under the impression that drivers were disproportionately policed in this country – that cops were cracking down on otherwise law-abiding citizens for minor infractions of speeding, but I’ve seen no evidence of this. Driving down the Pershore Road at the speed limit with speed camera signs visible I’m invariably overtaken by some fool doing twice my speed who I invariably catch up with at the lights. How are they not caught on camera? Why do they feel they can get away with it?

But more to the point, why do they think driving at 60mph for a short stretch into the city centre will make a gnat’s pube of difference to their progress? How can they not see the futility of their action, multiply them by the dangers of their driving and come to a sane conclusion?

Driving is fun. I like driving, particularly at night (though not so much on Saturday night through the centre of Birmingham). I like how it focusses my senses on a specific, important task. This calms me down and helps me think. I also like listening to music in the car – old favourites take on a new context and new music can be appreciated in depth. And it feels good to pay back 20 years of favours, albeit indirectly.

But driving, as it is practiced by the majority, is fucking weird. Here’s some things I’d like to see in place.

Mandatory retesting every few years. People get bad habits, conditions and laws change. It’s astonishing that my license is valid until 2042.

Speed cameras everywhere, actively enforced. Especially on minor roads. This sort of blanket monitoring seems to work for the London Congestion Charge.

Education for non-criminal bad driving. If you’re reported x times for being a dick you have to go to a class on being nice.

A systematic destruction of the motorist cult. People need to know that driving is not a right – it’s a privilege which has to be earned.

That should do it.

[Update: Thanks to Michael being unable to not make a fuss, we might be have hired the large rear bar area now. Or we might not. This is why I didn't want to make a fuss.]

On September 19th, barring any unforseen busses, I will have managed to stay alive for 40 years (aka 14,600 days, 350,400 hours or 1,261,440,000 seconds). A few days later my good friend Michael Grimes will also reach the same point in his existence. Neither of us want to make a fuss so we’ve hatched a plan.

We’re going to the pub on Friday 21st September and are inviting you to join us.

The pub in question is The British Oak in Stirchley. We’re probably not going to formally reserve a room, for that would constitute “a fuss” which we’re trying to avoid making, but will merely occupy the lounge on the right hand side from 7.30-ish.

Here’s the pub on a map:

Here’s an annotated photograph of the front of the pub:

Here’s a sketch of the rooms of the pub with the room we’re planning to occupy marked in red:

So if you come in the main entrance and find yourself in the main bar area you don’t have to turn around like some kind of “oh, I don’t like the look of this place” person. Just keep walking through all the rooms.

On a personal note, gifts are really not necessary and I’ve never understood the point of cards. If you really want to buy me something I have an Amazon wishlist. The greatest gift is knowing I have friends who care and will forgive me my idiocies. And I mean that, no matter how wanky it sounds.

A photography job came out of nowhere last month – taking some photos of the rehearsals of Mittwoch Aus Licht, the bonkers Stockhausen opera that Birmingham Opera were putting on. I’d previously shot their production of Life Is A Dream with nice results and they were looking for a similar approach with these.

The brief was to treat it as a documentary exercise – something for the archives primarily – and if any were useful for press then that’d be a bonus. Graham Vick, the director, was also keen that the photos didn’t give anything away so any photos that gave a hint would be useful.

The week I was shooting the Guardian decided they didn’t want the photos of the cellist and the helicopter that everyone else was using and I had to quickly prep some replacements. A couple of these were used by them online and in the G2 section. (My credit got lost in the rush, it seems, but no-one ever pays any attention to those credits so it’s not a bother.)

Seeing it in print, in the first paper copy of The Guardian I’d touched for a few years, was an oddly empty feeling. It’s supposed to be a big deal, having your photo in a national newspaper, and I appreciate it’s a measure of the quality of the photograph in question that it was chosen, but the actual object, badly reproduced on newspaper, is a bit of a let down. But it wasn’t about my photograph. It was about the article and it served the purpose of illustrating and drawing attention to that so I’m happy.

A week later the Guardian did one of their online galleries, essentially posting 10 photos from the Press Pack with captions. My photo from the article was used again along with one of Kathinka Pasveer, joint director of the Stockhausen Foundation, who was there to make sure everything was done correctly.

Now the opera is over (and for the best review I’d urge you to read Leo Chadburn’s magnificent review in The Quietus which pisses all over anything the broadsheet reviewers published) I’m able to show all my photos. Because it’s for the archives I’ve erred on the side of quantity – 135 so far and they’re not all up yet. The Flickr set is here.

I really enjoyed this job. Finding that sweet spot between access and unobtrusiveness is a fun challenge as were the lighting conditions. And the subject matter was constantly giving me more than I could have asked for. An utter delight.

If you’d like to hire me for a similar, or utterly different, photography job, please do get in touch.

As a stop-gap measure to break the long stretch of No Break I’d had this year, we booked a cheap B&B in North Wales for a few days away. The weather darted between the extremes of sunny and rainy and all in all it was a nice time. Here are some photos.

Walking around Great Orme

Conwy Castle

Red Wharf Bay

Snowdon

Swallow Falls

Wales always reminds me of New Zealand, or should that be New Zealand always reminds me of Wales.

or “I unfollowed you because I love you and it hurts too much to see you this way.”

Back in 1991 I was a something of a comics nerd and a regular reader of 2000AD. At that time some of 2000AD’s top creators decided they didn’t want to work for The (big green alien) Man and started their own title, Toxic, which I duly started buying.

The arrival of Toxic caused me to take a hard look at 2000AD, which was going through a pretty dry patch, and as you’d expect it didn’t stand up well. But neither did Toxic. If anything it was worse. Within a few months I’d stopped buying either of them. Toxic died a hubric death and the creators crawled back to the mothership but I was well gone by then. Where, I can’t quite remember and it doesn’t matter because this scene-setting introductory metaphor has run its course.

This weekend I unfollowed all but a handful of people on Twitter. 17, down from 250-odd. There are good reasons for the remainder but they’re not really that interesting (some who just post cool links, a couple of people I need to be able to DM, both Fionas). My twitter stream is empty and quiet, updating maybe once every couple of hours or so.

It’s lovely.

I should have done it ages ago.

So why don’t I just quit Twitter if I hate it so much? Well, I don’t really. I like posting to Twitter – there’s something beautiful about the 140 limitation and I like to think I’ve achieved some mastery of it. I also like some of the exchanges I have with folks about stuff I’ve posted. A chat with Steffan today about how the Welsh might pronounce Lloyds Bank was most enlightening.

So am I being a hypocrite? Reaping the benefits of the network without properly engaging with it? Probably, but that never stopped anyone from justifying their actions on the internet.

Truth is I’m tired of finding people I care for to be boring or annoying. Facebook started this, which is why I can’t bear to be there anymore. All my sparky, intelligent friends rendered tedious and ordinary. This isn’t the Internet I was promised. And now I find those traits coming into my Twitter stream. The self-promotional stuff is to be expected (and pretty useful to be honest) but the petty complaints, bitter jibes, passive aggressive taunts, cruel subtexts. Sure, I post my fair share of that crap but that doesn’t mean I want to read it in others, particularly from those who are supposed to lift me up, inspire me to greatness, to do all those things I want to do.

The Internet is a mirror. What I’m moaning about is merely myself reflected in it. No one should take this personally, though they will because the Internet is a mirror. Ah well.

Oddly enough this isn’t why I haven’t been blogging for months. That’s a whole ‘nother kettle of fish but the fish is a similar breed. Ill-fitting fish.

My life has changed a bit over the last couple of years and looks likely to change again in the near future. I’m nothing close to the same bloke who started blogging in 2000, nor the guy who signed up for Twitter in 2007 or whenever the fuck that was. My Flickr activity alerts tell me about strangers faving photos I can’t remember taking last decade, which is nice but kinda odd.

My online activity doesn’t seem to fit me anymore. I’m not wanting it to be a perfect representation of my inner self – just a grubby reflection of my current appearance will do. There’s too much noise, too much clutter in the methodology I’ve devised.

I’ve often thought we’ve made it easy to add shit to the web but hard to archive it away. It’s all or nothing. Maintain or delete. The Internet doesn’t do The Past very well (Hell, Twitter can’t remember past last week) and I understand why. I’ve got boxes of zines and comics that I can’t throw away due to some warped perception of “historical value” but can’t bring myself to sort through or even find a new home for. It’d be easier just to bin it all.

At some point I’m going to sustainably delete a bunch of things I have online. They’ll still be somewhere safe as I’m not stupid, but they won’t be easily findable online. Sure, I’m removing value from the network but the notion of feeding the web with good content seems archaic and naive now the corporations have taken over and filled the search engines with crap.

In fact the Internet as a whole feels dead or dying. I am, of course, a gin-soaked old frontiersman cursing at the plumbing of modernity while wistfully reminiscing about dysentery on the wagon trail, and all modern types should ignore me. Enjoy your Internet. It really is better than what you had before and should be celebrated and protected. But it’s not my Internet.

I didn’t get into this because I loved the ‘net. I got into this for the same reasons I got into zines. Because they offered me a gateway to people who didn’t annoy me that much. Sure, blogging and comics and zines had their idiots and arseholes – subcultures breed extremists after all – but they also offered a haven for the searchers, the dreamers, the optimists and the noodlers. The people who won’t or can’t do what they’re “supposed” to do. My kind of people. You know, the ones who you could filter by whether they listened to John Peel or not.

Twitter served this function for the first year or so. Those who immediately got it and thrived on it tended to be those who needed it. Michael’s 2009 post on the subject says it best and I know of many people who were lost and alone for whom Twitter became not just a crutch but a way back to society. There’s a reason why those early adopters evangelised so hard – it genuinely changed their lives.

For me personally it didn’t change my life any more than the zines, comics, blogs, Flickrmeets and rest already had. Which isn’t to diminish those Twitter revelations in any way. For me this shit was normal. Welcome to the party, people. Enjoy it before someone shows it to a local radio DJ and the rot starts to set in.

But I’m reminiscing about dysentery and that’s never pleasant so I’ll get back to the point. Because there is one.

I’m disillusioned with Twitter for various reasons. An elitist desire for cosy counter-culture community is demonstrably one of them and the answer from my fellow seekers of that early adopter glow is to go to App.net, the new paid-by-users service that promises to be all that Twitter could have been if the company hadn’t decided to become an ad-supported media company (a model which has worked SO well for Yahoo…). I like the ethics behind App.net and wish it a