A Year in the life of an architectural photographer in his time-travelling camper van. Start reading from the bottom of this page.
I hope that these 12 months taken from the core of my experience might lead you to new paths and new discoveries. I encourage you to go and visit these places and share how they impact your own story because, ultimately, we’re all in this together.
Travelling along the lane to St. Melangells is an act of filtration, a redaction of modernity. The pressing matters of the day are pared down with each passing turn.
I get a bit obsessed with the textures and patterns - the way that the personality of a place can change in an instant with the light.
I have a visual in my mind: a soul house is being made by Ancient Egyptian fingers, caked in clay, pinching out a stairway, thumbing in a colonnade, pricking out a window. The loved one is within the cross-hairs of the maker’s mind
I notice another map - this time it holds a different set of boundaries. There’s one that encompasses large scathes of England like a blood red stain. This is a map of Anglo-Saxon Britain and the blood red stain is that of Danelaw.
There comes to certain artists a time in their lives where the culmination of their life's work is caught up in a single piece.
The timing feels right. It’s a singular day with a singular sunrise that’s reflected and repeated innumerably in a host of dew drops in the field before me.
David was a close friend and mentor from very early on in my career. As I struggled through the vagaries of a breakdown (without his knowing) he provided me with the philosophy and outlook to get a tentative grip on what I wanted to become.
Emerging from beyond the lime wash is a ghost angel. The faint outline of a face and wings. I’m told that the eye emerged first and then the face and that, as the wash wears away, more might be revealed.