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At least it wasn’t fleas – Miss Pokeno


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Here’s Fuel for the Fires …28 red rags on a washing line…a small scale intervention I did down on some old farmer’s land in New Zealand when I was out wandering the world on the poetry hunting expedition. Filmed it on my iPhone while dodging five hives of honey bees but at least it wasn’t

Read the full story here: At least it wasn’t fleas – Miss Pokeno

The Culture Interview: John Claridge


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Sophie Parkin questions remarkable photographer, John Claridge who was born in Plaistow. His new book East End shows a part of London that we have forgotten but he has not.

How old are you and how old do you feel?

My wife, Janet, sometimes thinks I act like a twelve-year-old, a little harsh I think, maybe fifteen? Okay, okay 71.

How old were you when you started taking pictures?

About eight. I guess it started when my Dad asked me why I wanted to win a plastic camera at the fair on Wanstead Flats. I didn’t know why. Then I said that I wanted to take this special day home with me. I was just fascinated by what this magic box could hold and possess. I still feel this way.

Who or what has been your greatest inspiration in image-making?

When I was 15, I saw the work of Walker Evans, Bill Brandt, Robert Doisneau, Andre Kertesz, Josef Sudek, Irving Penn, Eugene Smith, Paul Strand and Robert Frank.   As you grow up your eyes are being opened up all the time and seeing the work of great photographers allows that to happen right across the spectrum of passion within photography.

Of all the portraits you took, which was your favourite subject and why?

This is a very difficult question to answer. I’ve been very lucky to have spent time and to have met some very special people who all have their own individual persona.

There are three people who, for very different reasons, bring back fond memories.   One being Tommy Cooper whom I photographed in 1967, this was at Thames Television.  After I had finished shooting some pictures in colour, I said to Tommy I’d like to take some serious portraits of him for myself in black and white, to which he agreed. I also mentioned to him, “Do not make me laugh.”  Which was probably not a very clever thing to say. I got three or four rolls that were very serious, sad and deep. He then said, “This is serious!  Aaahh-aahh!”  That was it. By the time I had finished I had tears running down my cheeks, I was laughing so much. I must say I found him very obviously, funny, sad and charming.

In 1966, John Huston was in Rome having completed his latest film The Bible when Dennis Hackett commissioned Irma Kurtz and myself to travel to Rome to do a feature on him for Nova Magazine. Coincidently, Sophie Parkin’s Mum, Molly, was the Fashion Editor of the magazine at that time.  Over several days I shot pictures of him and then in the evenings, we would join him for dinner. Each night I would sit opposite him and he would tell me stories about Bogart (The Maltese Falcon, The African Queen etc) and also discuss cinematography and other photographers. He introduced me to Havana cigars. His secretary and PA at that time was a lovely lady called Gladys Hill who I used to call Auntie Glad. On several occasions, Auntie Glad would, with great affection, chastise me for encouraging Huston to drink too much.   Can you imagine that! It would be a couple of years later that I discovered that ‘Auntie Glad’ had written the screenplay for the film Reflections in A Golden Eye. So you never know…

For 14 years, I shared the lease of 47 Frith Street with Ronnie Scott and Pete King (Ronnie Scott’s Jazz Club). Ronnie and Pete had the club and the first floor and I had the two top floors, where I lived and had my studio. So every night I would go to sleep listening to jazz, which is great if you love jazz and I do. Anyway, in 1986 Chet Baker was playing at Ronnie Scott’s, we met and I asked to take his portrait. So we’re in my studio and I said to him “I have to tell you this. When I was 13, I bought an EP of yours called Winter Wonderland.” He lifted his head and said “Yes”, then talked about the line-up and for a few seconds was miles away with his memories and that was when I shot the picture. I don’t think magic pictures come along that often, but I think this was one of them.

What made you retire from the lucrative world of advertising?

I think when the fun started going out of the advertising business for me was when it began moving towards every creative decision seeming to be made by committee, which, for me, is the very opposite of producing an original piece of work. You might as well sell rock ‘ard tomatoes off a stall.

Personally, I feel I certainly lived through the golden age of advertising, working with great art directors, creative directors, designers, typographers, and writers. And believe it or not, some good advertising account people and clients who were not frightened to explore unknown territory and did not indulge in, as Basil Fawlty would say, the bleeding obvious.

The norm nowadays seems to me to be based on other criteria, that being of running scared and chasing the money. I would like to end with a quotation from Andrei Tarkovsky, “Modern mass culture, aimed at the ‘consumer’, the civilisation of prosthetics, is crippling people’s souls, setting up barriers between man and the crucial questions of his existence, his consciousness of himself as a spiritual being.”

You took so many photographs of the East End, how do you feel about its changing face?

As I’ve said many times before, my East End has gone, so for me, it’s very difficult to comment on an environment that is not mine. I understand the question but I’m not nostalgic or sentimental about its passing, but there again, maybe I am, but not for trivial reasons.

It’s not just the East End but many communities that are becoming more and more fragmented. Having said that, I’m sure there are still bastions within the East End and Soho etc, that continue to hold on to that integrity. I do wonder how long that special feeling can last with the amount of corporate greed that seems to exist.

I think I was lucky to have lived through a special time in the East End when good manners and looking after each other had a true value. Maybe what I’m trying to say is the East End could be a land of great violence and of great beauty.

How would you like to be remembered?

If someone could think of me in the same way as I did when looking at great photographs. Images that tore my soul apart, that would be okay. Or maybe, just a smile and a tear.

Bonuses of getting older?

I’ll let you know when I do.

Which photograph are you proudest?

I’m still looking.

When were you happiest?

I’m always happy when I take pictures. Mind you, I did have a good bottle of red last night and Janet thought I was very happy

John Claridge’s book East End  is published on 1 June by Spitalfields Life £25.

THE BOOK IS ACCOMPANIED BY AN EXHIBITION OF JOHN CLARIDGE’S PHOTOGRAPHS

Opens 1st JUNE – July 21st 2016 at The Stash Gallery at VOUT-O- REENEE’S, The Crypt, 30 Prescot Street, London E1 8BB

There is a special offer pre-show discount on Claridge’s photographs from now until May 30th in the on-line shop at www.vout-O-Reenees.com

Make Wit not WiFi


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Time was when the only accessories to be seen with in your local cafe were a black coffee and a cigarette. There are parts of the world where this still happens, but unfortunately these now tend only to surface in war zones. Militias like a short black and a smoke. If you’re already walking a emotional tightrope with caffeine and cigarettes, this may be too much excitement for you.

Fact is, smokers tend to be the more interesting people and are naturally open to conversation. “Do you have a light?” is one of the greatest unhailed, chat lines ever. It’s pretty much gone. As has coffee. Instead we are offered the impersonation of a caffeine flavoured high-lactose solution. It is a beverage but it is not coffee. The dumbing down of cafes continued when some fool created muffins which attracted women dragging prams, nay thrones, bearing children called Persephone and Titus. That was the moment when wit began to leave the cafe.

"This looks like a good place for a cafe," said Lena. They all agreed.
“This looks like a good place for a cafe,” said Lena.
They all agreed.

And then came Wi Fi. Fucking Wi Fi. Like many modern folk I have it at home. It is most useful for booking travel and watching pornography, as well as cross-referencing recipes for Lime and Coconut Tart. But I do not feel the need to be seen with WiFi in cafes, more to the point Wi Fi Cafes do not attract people who are funny and clever. Quite the opposite. Wi Fi is a drawcard for frugal, bespectacled types with Cross Faces, especially men who sigh with rabid displeasure when you ask to share the table. He is busy sending Facebook messages, however there is the real possibility he is a writer because he has Word on his computer.This leads me to think I may be a hairdresser because I own scissors. Writers rarely work in cafes and most certainly do not have a shiny Mac: he or she has a ravished keyboard with a totally faded ‘A’ that has been replaced twice in six months. When a writer goes to a cafe, they go to escape the book that has come to a dead halt, to discuss NOT WRITING with other writers who are officially NOT WRITING and to figure out what they can do about it. And laugh nervously at their impending doom.

This got me thinking about my favourite writer, Dorothy Parker and her posse who spent their time at the Algonquin’s round table hazed in cocktails and cigarettes, where they discussed NOT WRITING and flirted with words as well as each other. The wit flew in all directions. Gems like Parker’s,”You can lead a horticulture but you can’t make her think,” emerged when Dorothy’s pals required she use the word in a fresh sentence. Today, Parker would be updating her Twitter, where her “What fresh hell is this?” would be misconstrued deliberately by women who decided she was anti-feminist and she’d be blocked. Noel Coward and Robert Benchley would be engrossed in You Tube watching cat videos while sucking on cigars. When asked by a press agent,”How do I get my leading lady’s name into your newspaper,” George S Kaufman would not have responded with the elegant,”Shoot her” because he was Skyping. In Paris at Café De Flore, Sartre would be looking around at the shiny equipment with disdain. “But I have no choice, I need to text,” offers a punter. “Nonsense,” retorts Sartre. “You can choose to kill yourself.” Sitting next to him, Dali would be engrossed in wondering how a shark could produce words. Hemingway would be in a manly rage because he’d written a bad sentence. Annoyed by all four words, he’d throw his laptop in the bin, and immediately take out a new one because that’s what a real man does.

Aside from an ashtray inbuilt into a barber’s chair (which I once saw in Beirut) I think one of the great signs of civilisation is the café conversation that starts anywhere and goes everywhere. People arrive with no agenda, just money for coffee, ideas in their heads and the knowledge that if it’s one of those days, they’ll leave with an intellectual orgasm.

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