Atget's Paris and Ollie's Brighton

One of my photographer heroes is Eugène Atget who in the late 19th Century and early 20th Century methodically captured old Paris, photographing it street by street. I have a treasured book, Atget's Paris, containing some 800 images, most of which were taken in the early morning light suggesting a 'mysteriously deserted city', yet with a 'haunting, poetic quality', as the foreword described it.

During this current extraordinary time, I felt the need to occupy myself by trying to capture some of the same solitude that Eugène Atget found on the streets of his beloved city - on the deserted streets of mine.

I am not an early morning person, but I went out when I could during the day and evening to photograph the remarkable emptiness of Brighton & Hove's streets and open spaces, which would usually be thronging with visitors and revellers, particularly in fine, summer weather.

Amid the trauma of the news, my daily outings have proved a solace, knowing that I am recording Brighton & Hove in a situation that may never occur again in my lifetime.

Eugène Atget's photographs were not entirely devoid of life; sometimes some shadowy citizens, a cat or a horse-drawn carriage would appear. 

I also found the occasional visitor entering my pictures, escaping, like me, from the misery of lockdown for some exercise.

As a commuter, Brighton Station, devoid of passengers with just a couple of staff on the spotless concourse, struck me as particularly strange.

On my daily traipses, I encountered little acts of kindness and signs of love, as well as misery and despair.

It helped me. This has not been an easy time for anyone. 

Many of us are shocked by the inept handling of the crisis by a government that seemed to get off to a fair start. 

The daily news updates have scared half the population witless, while the police seem to have lost the plot, virtually giving up on crime busting.

One hell of an independent inquiry is needed into how Britain got it so wrong.

Meanwhile, runners and cyclists have gone feral, taking over the roads and streets; the air has been cleaner, and the birds have been audible.

Everyone has a viewpoint. Almost no one agrees. 

Like Eugène Atget, I have simply tried to observe and record.

I haven't enjoyed lockdown. But I have tried to accept the situation, stay positive and make the most of it.

One day, perhaps, schoolchildren will study this most strange period in our history - and I hope these 35 pictures of mine will give them an inkling of just how surreal life truly was in the Summer of 2020 in Brighton & Hove.

The Secret Life of My Phone Camera

Since the age of 10 I have been hooked on photography and a bit of an aficionado on the subject.

From 1970 I have taken thousands of photographs on numerous cameras - film and digital - in colour or black and white, negative or transparency.

A camera is a camera and pretends to be nothing else.

Lens quality is paramount to taking a good image.

So I have always shunned phone cameras.

I would as readily attempt to make a phone call with my trusty Nikon FM as try taking a photograph with my telephone.

Therefore, it came as a huge surprise to me the other day that I accidentally looked under the camera symbol on my Blackberry to discover hundreds of images.

Not taken by me, I hasten to add, or anyone else, but by Mr Blackberry - without my knowledge.

Most are, I believe, pictures of the inside of my pockets, although a few seem to have shot by the sneaky phone while I trying to make calls.

I have to confess the wee chap has talent.

As you see from this small exhibition of his photography, he is as much a surreal artist as a lensman.

And, considering his lack of experience and dearth of opportunity, his achievement is truly remarkable.

I am going to enter him for the Turner Prize and who's to say he won't win.

More unlikely things have happened.

At least Mr B's art illustrates my first blog posting of 2014 with more originality and verve than anything I have taken over the festive season.

Christmas was good.

On the Day we had a veggie roast and a duck roast with a large variety of vegetables. Very good.

In total I had 10 meals out of that effort, with post-Christmas curry that went on and on.

Boxing Day was beautiful and I cycled to Rottingdean and back.

Between Christmas and New Year I spent some time in Oxford seeing my parents, brothers and their families.

It was all very restful.

I went back to Oxford early in the New Year and also saw my old friends John and Dorothy Butler.

I read the remarkable Berlin Diaries 1940-45 by Marie Vassiltchikov - one of the most complete and compelling accounts of life in Berlin in the Second World War.

On the recommendation of a friend and colleague, I also read The Genius in My Basement by Alexander Masters - a extraordinary biography of brilliant mathematician and public transport addict Simon Norton, a kind of tetchy conversation between biographer and subject with group theory for idiots lessons thrown in.

I also read an incredibly poorly written book by a gamekeeper and escaped to re-read The Little World of Don Camillo by Giovanni Guareschi.


I am pretty sure I last read it as a teenager more than 30 years ago, and found the same copy in my dad's attic. I enjoyed even more on the second reading.

This past week my nose has been back to the grindstone.

There is always so much to do.

I hope and pray that 2014 will be a successful year and a peaceful one.

My determination is to take a positive outlook and try to put past problems behind me.

Happy New Year, y'all!

Please enjoy Mr Blackberry's pictures.

He is in my pocket as a I write and, for all I know, may be shooting some more.

Photo Reflections

September and early October proved hard going – and not just for the banks (why does Robert Peston speak in that odd way?)

The Summer, by contrast, was idyllic for me - with wonderful stays in Edinburgh, Greece and Italy.

Once back in Blighty, everything seemed to start going pear-shaped!

Sometimes I feel my life is like 100 plates spinning on tall poles.

When I – most unusually – take three weeks off in a month, they first lose rotational speed, then wobble, and start to crash to the ground.

I shan’t bore you with the details, but in September and early October, problem followed problem.


I struggled to keep my life on an even keel.

Then, just when I thought I was getting on top of it, a scrote plundered my bank account, making me thousands of pounds overdrawn (and I couldn't even blame Peston).

My best guess is that while paying for meals in Greece or Italy my debit card was cloned, and then – a month on – a villain started spending my cash on the Continent like there was no tomorrow.

Now the account is frozen and the bank – which, typically, did not notice a thing – is investigating.

I have been in reflective mood following this. . . but also, strangely, because of photography.

Let me explain.

In 1970, aged 10, I started taking photographs – and have never stopped.


I have tens of thousands of them from the past 37 years, but until recently I have never attempted to catalogue them.

So early this year, I decided to see what I had in terms of images!

I thoroughly enjoyed cataloguing the black-and-white photographs I had taken in the 1970s and those I had inherited from the 1950s and 1960s.

However, with new images coming in all the time, I was never likely to finish the task unless I put a lid on new arrivals.

Rashly, I decided to catalogue the photographs in the collection taken this year.

I should not have bothered.

Rarely have I endured such a tedious exercise.

What I always considered to be a hobby is really an addiction.

So far this year there are 73 sets of images in my collection – most 36s, some 24s, and about two-thirds film and one third digital.



Going through them was one of the most boring things I have ever done.

I could not believe how repetitive my photography has become.

Even though I am taking pictures largely on film, I suffer from photographic diarrhoea, producing 20 images of an object or person where one or two would suffice.

When the penny dropped, I stopped taking photos for the first time in more than 35 years.

It has been a revelation.

For the first time in a long time I have been looking at sights of beauty and truly appreciating them.

For instance, the other day I arrived early on a Saturday morning at my allotment at Earwig Corner and found it shrouded in mist.



As the sun rose behind me, the dew on my shed evaporated like steam in a sauna, and before me the blanket of mist over the landscape gradually lifted during a period of at least half an hour until the distant chalk cliff came into view like a giant sticking its head through a cloud.

It was a really beautiful sight and one I would not have appreciated through the viewfinder of a camera.

It makes me think that photographers are often so obsessed with capturing images that they do not truly look and appreciate.

On holiday in Greece and Italy, I noticed it all over the place.

People were so mad about filming that they snapped away and videoed constantly, hardly glancing at what they were recording, probably never to be viewed.

Now I have started to look for myself again, I realise that photographs cannot compare with the sheer depth and stunning beauty of the original.



The best lens is the eye, the best camera is the brain, the best images are held in the mind’s eye.

By comparison, many of the images in my enormous collection pale into insignificance.

Sure, there are some interesting pictures of subjects I would probably have otherwise forgotten.

However, there are also some atrocious shots, and the overall impression is of a maniac behind the shutter release.

This and my woes set me thinking more deeply about a whole range of areas.

Why do I attend my local church in Lewes?

I was appalled by the pronouncements of the vicar – or 'Rector' as he likes to be called – at the recent Harvest Festival service.



He preached that it was “un-Christian” to buys eggs or chickens that were not free range.

As it happens, I buy free range produce.

However, if I were struggling to feed a family on the breadline, I would not appreciate being called 'un-Christian' for buying a bargain battery bird from Tesco.

Readers of this blog may recall my previously mentioning this Anglican priest as the man who produced his stinking socks for his homily at a Christmas morning service.

(What do you make of that, Mad Priest Blogger?)

Moreover, you can attend his church for weeks on end and hardly hear a mention of Christ, such is the obsession with the Old Testament.

The Rector a nice chap, but the problem with the C of E, as with the Roman Catholic Church, is that parish priests have an enormous amount of freedom and are hardly controlled by their bishops.

The best of the clergy are marvellous, but the others either embark on their own kooky journey of faith – or do something really bad.





The other day I was thinking of the Rector’s pleas for his congregation to tithe – give one tenth of their income – to the church.

Then I walked past the great big comfortable rectory and looked at the two newish vehicles parked outside, and thought: ‘No, I will make my own choices, thank you very much indeed.’

I think I shall find another church in Lewes to attend – and keep my donations indexed-linked to the cost of a pint of Harvey’s Best Bitter.

Then I started to think about the internet and my presence on it.

Why have a spent some much time creating Oliver’s Poetry Garret and what part does it play in my life?



Firstly, I guess I write for the same reasons I photograph.

It is a compulsion and an obsession.

When I was a child, I was always making notes, just as I was always thinking of taking photographs, pocket money allowing.

So I write for someone.

When I was national newspaper columnist, my words would have been read by hundreds of thousands or even millions of readers.

Now they might be read by just a handful, but I don’t mind.

I derive pleasure simply from the process of writing.

MySpace is really the home of self-publicists (though aren’t all websites?) and the people who use it most enthusiastically are plugging their music or comedy gigs.


It is interesting to follow what of my former Joe’s Comedy Madhouse acts are up to.

But, despite its initial phenomenal success, MySpace strikes me as a poorly designed and ultimately flawed platform.

It is ugly to look at and few users I know run successful blogs off it or reply to email on it.



But what’s good in my life?

The Poetry Café has been kind to me and my experiences out have inspired me to start a long narrative poem based very loosely based on the life of Byron.

Thusfar I have written 85 verses (of eight lines each).

It is a bit of fun and I am quietly pleased with progress.

Also on a positive note, I was lucky enough to witness The Mighty Rooks (Lewes Football Club) chalk up their first win of the season (after a mere 12 matches) - against The Mighty Yellows (Oxford) - on the hallowed turf of The Dripping Match (down my street).

Chris and Chris have signed me up to write a column for the Rooks' unofficial fanzine, of which they are editors.

I am calling it High On Spring Water (Lewes have closed their ground's bar during matches), and I am told the first edition will appear in the next issue of this marvellous organ, which is entitled Ten Worthing Bombers (and a bargain at less than two guineas).

Returning to my reflections on photography, I have taken one photographs from each of the recent films I have had processed and used them to illustrate this blog entry.

Now I am up to speed with my 2008 cataloguing, I have taken a vow to stop taking photos like a lunatic.




On a recent visitation to York, I stayed in a hotel which had marvellous Victorian photographs adorning its walls. Each a beautiful one-off.

From now on I shall be a Victorian photographer, taking a frame here, a frame there. Thinking and planning my images, not wasting film.

At least it will give me a chance to get on and catalogue my photographic output for the 1980s, 1990s and the rest of the 2000s.

By the way, don't miss A F Harrold's performance at Lewes Pint of Poetry, Lewes Arms, on 24 October 2008.

And I have used some of my archive pictures to liven up some of my old blog entries (see below).

Enjoy!