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JOURNAL
January - 2016
Extracts from, It Fell From an Unknown Height


March - Crufts - The Midlands. An area of England I spent 27 years in - Wolverhampton to be more specific ... you know, that place Martin Parr photographed for Black Country Stories - The Black Country, named as such from all the soot emanated from the foundries that blackened the soil during the Industrial Revolution - a place that has been slow to recover from the demise and the steady evaporation of its once powerful and prosperous industrial past. And that's where I grew up. And although Birmingham is not part of The Black Country, it still falls in the Midland region, a stone's throw and one stop over from Wolves - married to Mercia - and that's where I went to photograph Crufts.

Had to give up the medium format camera. Take the digital camera with me. I'd not used a digital camera for a couple of years. Spend too much time trying to get the bloody thing to do what I want. Periods of time not actually photographing the event. What is this? Why am I having problems? This should be a fucking walk in the park by now, shouldn't it? What the fuck is this, Marc - why are you struggling!? Tremendously deflated. I miss the loading of a roll of film, caring for little else - not having to be concerned for settings and all the rest of the shit that anchors - concentrating solely on taking photographs. So what the digital fuck is actually going on here?

Digital camera out again for another try. This is the same digital camera model that I started out with back in 2010, but unlike someone just starting out, I no longer have a fascination with all the dials and controls and multiple menu screens of settings that can make a mountain look like something pulled from a Poundland calendar - set the thing to manual, try to find the right part in the menu that may tell me why the on-camera flash isn't fucking flashing.

27th - Shit, I completely forgot that it was my birthday today. I think I can actually see myself getting old. I can actually start to see the shadow crawling in of an older man. He's right there in the fucking mirror looking at me; the darkness under his eyes, the greying of the hair, the potting of the belly, the widening of the face and the contoured and crumbling map of life that is his skin. Er! Decay. Pfft! I need some icecream.