Making the Ordinary Extraordinary

My focus this year is photographing the daily life of families. I want to see what ordinary life looks like and have set myself the challenge of creating art out of the chaos of everyday life. Plus I get to play with fabulous parents and their splendid children! So most of my work will be capturing the moments that tell your stories and finding the light I obsess about. 

I have decided to work on my art based family project too,  and this ties in with my commercial work. It is actually a kind of relief to know that I must work over and over on one thing until I have work worthy of winning something big - okay you know I’m ambitious and I want my work to be art - but why would you pay for the mediocre? You want to know that I shot the moments that will bring a tear when you look back. I am trying to revive the family photo album. I worry that all we have is digital and what happens if we loose it? 

On Mother’s Day I saw many posts on Facebook about Mum’s and lots of old photos. I love digital but there is something so poignant about those old phots that I have of my Gran and she looks glamorous and fun. I’m not sure I remember enough of her without the print in my hand. When I hold the phots I remember her scent and the tone and rhythm of her voice. I want to make books for the families I shoot. Or ribboned boxes of prints. 

Below is a poem by Yeats. I love his work. He wrote this for a woman but it could be a poem for all of the people we love who grow old with us. When he writes “book” I think of a photo book.  Enjoy!

When you are old and grey and full of sleep, 

And nodding by the fire, take down this book, 

And slowly read, and dream of the soft look 

Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

 How many loved your moments of glad grace, 

And loved your beauty with love false or true, 

But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,

 And loved the sorrows of your changing face; 

 And bending down beside the glowing bars,

 Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled

And paced upon the mountains overhead 

And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

W.B Yeats

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