A brief note about some of my recent images on my photoblog. I’ve been scanning some black & white negatives that I’ve recently rediscovered, not having had access to a darkroom for many years now. I was fortunate to find the Epson V350 scanner, which is a low end flatbed scanner with an option to scan slides and negatives. It actually does a surprisingly clean scan, and can pick up some great shadow detail.

Which brings me to my point about dark images. Looking at them on my computer screen, they seem to be at the very edge of acceptable in terms of exposure. I tend to like images on the dark scale of things anyway, enjoying picking out the most subtle details in the shadow areas.

There is an eleven grade exposure guide at the bottom left of the photoblog screen, and if you like me, can clearly see the differentiation between the black rectangle and the rectangle immediately to its right, then you are probably seeing a very close approximation of what I am.

In any case, if the images do appear far too dark, please check the exposure guide, and feel free to drop me a comment.

What an interesting day it’s been. Dreamy, unreal, disconnected. Not the kind of words that might describe a recipient of violence, but that doesn’t change the fact.

I’ve often noticed this kind of feeling (almost out of body) when involved in arguments, accidents and physical fights. Not that I’ve seen any of those since my school days (thankfully).

Today was a weird revisitation of memories of my childhood. See, I often got chased down and beaten by other kids in the neighbourhood. My mum is English, and her accent rubbed off on me. It was enough for the other kids to find something different, and being that it was a catholic and nationalistic neighbourhood, I got a good beating and/or spit on on a regular basis.

This afternoon I was crossing a side street in Brunswick when I, (and the other people around me) were almost milled down by a speeding car, which was turning into the side street from the main road that we were walking along.

I was closest to the car, and I know that 9.9 drivers would have paused to let me cross the street in a similar situation. On this occasion, this driver decided my life wasn’t worth a damn, and he actually seemed to speed up. I made eye contact with him. I suppose if I hadn’t, I’d be seriously injured or dead now, because I would have kept walking in front of him.

So, as he passed me, I put out my hand in a reflex motion, half to stop myself falling forwards into the car, and half to let him know that he was seriously out of line. I had lightly smacked the window of his driver’s side rear passenger window with the palm of my hand.

Wow, I’d only walked three paces and I realised that this guy and his companion had jammed on their brakes and sprung from the car. The driver was standing in front of me within seconds. It was as if he’d woke today ready for a part he’d been rehearsing for weeks.

This is where the dream bit comes in. I just remember freezing up completely. He was shouting something at me, really up close and in my face: and all I could do was stare at him. I was standing on the edge of the pavement and when he slammed his two hands straight into my face I lost my balance and feel backwards.

He was short and well built, and I remember his agressive nature and either a scar down his face, or a bruise. So, I think I was probably reluctant to say anything at all to him. I was feeling very nervous.

It was a rude reenactment of emotions I had all too often had as a kid. A kind of paralysis and inability to think, say or do anything; a complete powerlessness in the face of aggression.

Next thing I knew people were crowding around looking on and I was standing up on my feet again staring at this guy, with a completely neutral facial expression I’m sure. My partner, who had witnessed the entire incident from the safe side of the street, was telling the guy to back off and I became very concerned for her safety and tried to veer her out of harms way.

I suppose that the presence of other people might have dissuaded the guy from taking things any further. He and his friend seemed to kind of slip away, or evaporate, get back in their car and take off.

The amazing thing was that people rallied around me to offer their support and to ask me if I was okay. It was really quite moving, and nice to experience, despite the circumstances. A few people offered to be a police witness for me, and had even recorded the car’s license plate.

I guess I feel a bit impotent about the whole thing. But in a way I know that had I responded in an aggressive way, the incident would have escalated. As it turned out, I ended up with a sore face and another experience.

I won’t be approaching the police about it. I think that in a case, where there is no damage to “private property”, or no actual physical harm requiring medical attention, they would not be interested in pursuing the matter. In any case, even if they were, I would be placing my family and I at risk from possible reprisals.

For now at least, I feel a kind of gratitude that I don’t have any broken bones or other wounds.

2:30 AM. Last night. Deafening sounds of splitting metal, breaking glass. A cacophony of sirens, shouting, moaning.

Just a few metres from my bedroom window, a car had ditched into the park, directly across the street, just metres from my bedroom. I jumped out of bed in a state of total disorientation. First thoughts were that a car was in the house, at the very least in the front garden. That’s how close the crash had sounded.

Half dreaming, I scrambled out of the bedroom and out the front door. I saw three police cars and several police standing over the crash victim. He was moaning in agony, repeatedly, every couple of seconds, in rhythm, lying face down in the park, a few metres from the car. I don’t know if he had been thrown from the car, or had just been pulled out by the police.

The pulsating lights and blaring police radios made the scene seem sureal.

I can’t tell if the victim’s moaning, or the police shouting at him to ’shut up’, were more disturbing. I was worried that an ambulance wouldn’t come on time.

The scene was so close to my front door, that I couldn’t stay outside to see what was going on, I felt like the police would become abusive as soon as they became aware of my presence. I was concerned for my family. When I went back inside, I could hear the radios and victim’s moaning, as the police lights flashed through my bedroom curtains. It went on for what seemed like a very long time. The last sounds I heard were of the car being dragged onto a tow truck. I felt really helpless.

Today I looked around at the park, and tried to determine what might have happened.

From what I have seen, I can guess that the car was being chased from the direction it was travelling in. It was then flanked from the front, by a third police car. In an attempt to escape, the driver turned hard at 90 degrees into the park and smashed the car against the kerb, perhaps breaking the engine and/or front axle in the process, but bringing the car to an abrupt halt. He could have been thrown from the vehicle, through the front windscreen, or was perhaps pulled from the car by the police. This is pure speculation, on my part.

I wonder now, what has become of the driver; if he’s still alive; what the events were which led up to the event.

Living so close to the road, it seems in a way absurd that our society is kept afloat, by this constant flow of vehicles, all teetering on an edge between movement from place to place; and a most extreme violence. These cars and trucks becoming missiles which mame and kill, once they stray off their path, or become out of control.

Although in a state of perpetual unease, due to the hourly screeching of tires, and revving of engines: an unease that often leads to intimidation, anguish and anger; I found myself only able to reflect on the man’s story; the events which led up to him lying on his belly, in the park across from my bedroom window.

I’ve found a new job for myself, and the writing I was doing about working in a factory has been put on the long finger, which is dangerous, I know. I’ve been aware that I should write those things down, while they’re still fresh in my mind, but the excitement of the new job, and the extra efforts that inevitably need to be applied, have left me speechless.

Things have settled down with my new job, to the point where I now feel comfortable in my surroundings, the learning curve has levelled a bit and the kind of ‘honeymoon’ period is over.

I’m now working as a graphic designer. Mainly in the print and web fields. The work is a lot more satisfying, and my working environment in incalculably more inviting than previously.

I have begun working towards an exhibition in Sydney, this December, at Gallery Gaffa, Surrey Hills. I’ll be showing in a group, and details will follow, as they become clarified.

I’ve also begun a collaboration with a Sydney based writer, Ismet Redzovic. A very old and close friend of mine.

These new plans and goals have really made me excited about being in Australia again. I had panicked about leaving Korea, and leaving a situation which allowed me to devote a lot more time to art. I worried about moving away from street photography, for the second time in my life. Because I knew once I got to Australia, that I could no longer work in the same way that I had been in Korea, or in Ireland, in the 90s.

Anyway, I’m going on a bit. I hope to document the projects I’m working on in the next few weeks, as well as continue and conclude the writings on factory work.

Watch this space.

Back again after a short break to regain my thoughts and recover from a string of thirty plus degree days with high humidity.

A lot has been written about the effects of architecture and space on the psyche, which would be interesting for me to explore and read about in a thorough way, so I can explore my own experience in relation to others, in a more informed way.

I think it’s safe to assume, for the time being at least, that most people would agree that a grey, four walled, concrete space, lit with florescent lights, where there are no windows, is no natural flow of fresh air, with air that reeks of air-borne solvents and has a bare concrete floor…would not be a pleasant space to occupy, for five minutes, let alone forty hours a week.

However it is the reality that the modern factory worker must face up to and endure.

What kind of influence would this environment have on a person? When coupled with mindless repetition…

Speaking from my own experience: it is best described as a kind of numbing. It becomes painful to think. The combination of boredom and frustration leads one into a kind of madness that shields from a painful reality.

Because the reality repeats and repeats, and seems inescapable; escape itself becomes an overpowering urge. Escape into things that do not require thought, that do not challenge, that facilitate a pleasant state of numbness.

Am I being too radical? Perhaps, but I’m sure you’re nodding your head if you’ve known this reality first hand; if you haven’t, maybe you should give it a try. It would jolt anyone out of any illusions of freedom they might be led to believe in.

More on this later. For now, I’m updating my photoblog a bit more these days. I’ve been looking back at images from Korea. Finding some nice surprises.