April - 2017
Extracts from, It Fell From an Unknown Height

Warm days are to yet arrive; a cool breeze in the night through an open window. Lying in bed, the soft bumble bee-like hum of late departing planes of Heathrow, pass; a dog barks in the night, other dogs respond in the distance, filling the evening with their uncoordinated and suspicious chorus. All the sounds give me a sense of comfort and being. Load the Mju-ii - throw however many rolls of cheap Fuji film in my bag - head out. St. Patrick's was fun. Arrived an hour before the parade. Find people in all manner of attire, all manner of intoxication. Check watch. 11am. Christ.

Every time I look in the view-finder I can't figure out what will and won't be in frame - the guide-lines are fucking with me. Guide-lines are my Judas. Be still. The day after the Westminster attacks, I photograph a man standing sombrely beside flowers; below him, a Chinese couple, oblivious perhaps to what carnage and death was there the day before in the very same spot, as they take their post-wedding photographs. Books I purchased this month include: David Graham's American Beauty and Taking Liberties / Fred Herzog 'Modern Color' / Arbus Friedlander Winogrand 'New Documents' / Larry Sultan 'Pictures from Home' ... if someone wants to buy me Sultan's, 'The Valley', then please email me, because that shit's the dream. Kettle boils, Pot Noodles at the ready. Inching my way into Edward Weston's Daybooks. A good read.

Some days I look over my work and say, 'That's not too bad, Marc!' Then I look at the works of my peers and think, 'Marc, your work is fucking shit.'
Today I'm on the latter. Thoughts quickly turn to obliterating it all, everything I've produced so far. There's so very little that I can actually say that I like. A deep sense of shittiness washes over me as I come to the realisation that I'm not as good as I'd like to be; the constant chase for the elusive standard that forever seems out of reach. Is this the best I'm ever going to be? The thought scares the shit out of me. I'm glad I know this, if this is true. I want to back-hand it all away, sweep it all under the rug to be consigned as my learning; purge myself of self and all - start over and slay, as one swings and sweeps with the sickle in the slaying of stems in a field of corn. Most of what I have produced has no meaning. What a fucking mess, Marc. Start over.

The warmth of the day isn't too harsh on me, gentle enough not to rash. The rattle of plastic wheels, the tiny sniffs of a cold, soft spoken voices of those that pass, the things that I can handle; cars rush by and I want to put in my headphones to block it all out but I have to try and get used to the city noise. The sun kisses new buds on branches, inviting them out, casting soft flared wisps of deep rich red that I'd love to have an ability to catch and hold; some things aren't for keeping - the red on this hill; as tainted as the dead leaves at the bottom of an empty stained Earl Grey cup. The grass feels thick yet soft through the gardens and the Primroses crown - colours of all then on to Melpomene. I haven't seen them this radiant. Sometimes you can see something so catching within the day that you never want that day to end; there simply wouldn't be enough frames on a roll of film to contain it. A dog barks in the night, and other dogs in the distance respond.