Photo experiment

Hubby did this in the 1980’s. It’s still up on the stairs. I don’t know how he did it. Is it a camera on a bench looking up to a lamp overhead and the hands interposed between the two? Or perhaps it’s a mirror on the wall with a tipped up lamp? I don’t even know if they are his hands, maybe he had someone place them in shot? It could be a bowl of water with a light reflected in it….

Do you know I’ve never asked him. Its just a dusty, fading photo. But it’s part of him, part of his idea of life, it expresses something about a younger person. Someone still in there.

1980’s views

Photos from an old album. They were taken forty years ago. They won’t mean anything to anyone except me. They are old memories. Of winter when snow fell deep. When I lived in a flat. When the underfloor heating woukd blow out in a strong wind and me and my friends would be very cold till it was fixed.

It also has memories of when the skyline of the city was simpler, when some of the houses still stood. The colours are strange because I always used 400 iso film. That and the misty murk makes it look very gloomy despite the snow. So much has changed since then. No tape recorders or cassette tapes. No black and white TV’s. Even videos seem to have come and gone. Computers were only just being introduced. Yes my memory goes back a long way.

Life and everything

Sunset comes to us all. Life is a temporary blip between aeons of nothingness. Celebrate it while you can. When dawn rose life was difficult, you have to learn, to grow. I feel that real life doesn’t start until you reach adulthood or at least when you have to take on adult responsibilities. Then the middle of your life is taken up with nine to five, working for someone, or for yourself. Trying to survive. Finally, if you are lucky you get to retire, or retrain. At least have the hope of doing something you want to do. Keep at it if you can, find a way through to some amount of happiness. Then, rest.

Face over the gate……

A few minutes ago a young man looked over our gate. He had dark hair and had a scarf or mask on covering the lower half of his face. As he looked over my hubby and I saw him and he say us. He turned away and walked up the hill. Hubby went to the front door and shouted, asking what was he doing and then shouted that he should sod off. The youth ignored him and walked away.

Why were we bothered? Because hubby’s motor scooter is locked just inside the gate. It’s attached to a ground anchor with a strong chain. That’s because it was stolen before but we got it back. It was stolen during a snow storm late at night but my hubby was able to follow the tracks to where it had been hidden! Is it any wonder that we are suspicious of people looking into the garden.

Old touring bikes

Claud Butler and Viking Queen bikes. Looking a bit the worse for wear, in need of TLC. I wish I could still cycle but I’m not very fit and my hips are too stiff to get onto my bike. My hubby still uses his. But I have memories of cycling thirty or forty miles at a time, cycling in the pouring rain, trying to catch trains and missing them so cycling home in the middle of the night. Mending punctures when it was so cold that the patch wouldn’t stick till it got warm when the sun came up. Visiting friends and relatives, visiting beautiful houses and castles. Cycling up massive hills. Lots of memories.

1980’s self portrait

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Oil on canvas

Forty years ago I was at college learning how to paint. I had lots of fun and did some painting too! I used to paint in oils until I discovered how fast and clean acrylics were a decade or so later. I’m a fast painter but acrylics go off very fast so my style changed somewhat. Instead of mixing colours wet in wet on the canvas I ended up trying to get my colours right on the palette. I think I probably ended up with a more splodgy style until I learnt to blend layers on the canvas.

Marigold

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I think that’s what this is? It’s a photo I took a our six years ago. It makes me think of grassy banks and hot blue skies, fluttering butterflies and old black poplar trees in a line. Of little dusty paths with small oval pebbles that scatter as you walk. Of running through the fields around our school doing cross country running. Memories of the old rusty fences that enclosed the laying fields. The running track, the hockey fields, the tennis courts, the netball courts. When I think of my old comprehensive school I realise how lucky I was. Memories I haven’t delved into for forty years. I wouldn’t go back but it’s good to remember.