SPIRIT WINTER 2014
SPIRIT MAGAZINE ISSUE THREE WINTER 2014
FEATURING PHOTOGRAPHY
Veronica Gilkova 8-19 Austen Sorensen 22-25 Sorrell Higgins 26-29 Jowita Paszko 36-43 An interview with Brittany Arjune 46-49 Jed Langdon 50-61 Nicola Coe 62-65 Paul Sykes 66-69 Kate Riep 72-81 Stephanie Sabine 82-85 Angele Boudreau 86-93 Alexandra Badea 96-103 Kirsty Macdonald 104-109 An interview with Hanna Lee Reehl 110-129 Stasa Bukumirovic 130-135
WRITING
Mel pedler 5 Elspeth Vischer 6-7, 70-71 Holly Deakin 20-21 Robert Thompson 30-35 Beth Macdonald 44-45 Yasmin Harley 94-95 Henrietta Ross 110-111
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131382 © Photomorgana | Dreamstime Stock Photos
Dear Readers,
This issue is the penultimate in the seasonal series, after the spring issue we’ll be gathering up themes, ideas and brainstorms to keep Spirit going and create something that you love.
The weather is a real talking point at the moment because of the devastation that’s been caused by the vast floods and battering winds. It’s awful to see people losing their homes and livelihoods, I hope this issue gives but it’s another remindyou some reasons to er for us all to look after like winter, we have one another. some incredibly moving I’m incredibly humbled thought-pieces and as by images of people always some beautiful trying to make the best photography to inspire of a bad situation, helpyou and hopefully awaking their neighbours en the urge to brave and even playing in the the cold winds and exflooded roads. plore the winter scenery, This whole season has whether it’s submerged had me wishing spring in water or covered with would hurry up and a blanket of snow! come around, although a Stay safe and keep day like today when the warm! sky is crisp and blue and the air has a bitter chill to it reminds me just why I love winter, wrapping up warm and sipping hot Bethany Macdonald tomato soup. Editor
Beth
spiritmag@live.com twitter.com/spiritmag_ facebook.com/spiritmagazine flickr.com/groups/spiritmagazine
Untitled by Mel Pedler Two souls colliding, Veins pulsing in time, Bones wrapped together, Hearts crossing the line. Dancing in ecstasy, Spirits released, Whispers fill spaces, Darkness unleashed. Smoke billows through mouths, Suffocating two chests, Heat burns through young eyes, Souls in unrest. Scratching blood from raw veins, Flesh upon flesh, Weight crushing weak bones, These worlds cannot mesh. They do not belong, Shadows obscuring pure vision, Released, Intoxicated, Knife, Incision.
rESOLUTELY uNRESOLVED by Elspeth Vischer culturevoyeur.wordpress.com
Defying people to let themselves down: Is what this month of horrors does And amongst the discounted lives of pleasures, Comes a slashing of souls and make-believe goals.. So why resolve to do anything ever again? Thin lips breed boredom, and bodies too. For creativity to flow surely excess is essential? Well maybe that’s a far too romantic way to go.. Yet and all it bleeds us dry, the air, And the glass- cutting through skin, And painting us blue, Some people only able to sleep to its tune. I hear wind cry out to escape the humdrum, I see people try to paint themselves red, And adorned with the plastic hearts of next month, Just to escape the Picasso blue period. Artistic as it is, is it perverse to relish? All creativity breeds on excess, And emotions no lessAre the best excess. So finally accept, that this month is the best. For it is resolutely unresolved; And kicking and screaming you came into it years agoProblems and all.
Veronica Gilkova flickr.com/photos/bluehedgehog
A New Zealand Christmas Words by Holly Deakin hollysvision.blogspot.co.uk When I think of Christmas, I imagine a blanket of snow, untouched on the never-ending fields, cold gusts of perpetual wind, a sense of peace and friendship between strangers – a feeling of warmth and love wherever you go. Christmas is a time of year that brings people together and fills our hearts with gratitude and kindness, as we sing along to Michael Buble’s Christmas album one too many times. However, these past two years I have experienced a bizarre twist on my favourite time of year. In the Southern Hemisphere, Christmas is set in the height of summer. Australia, New Zealand, South America, Africa and parts of Asia all have a searing hot Christmas. As outlandish as this will seem too many, Christmas here is indeed different compared to a typical Winter Wonderland. Thick coats and scarves are replaced with shorts and sun cream, and Christmas dinner is swapped for a BBQ and salad. To me, Christmas is not the same without a grey miserable sky and a box of Quality Stree, but here in New Zealand we are accustomed to “slip, slop, slap and wrap” – a kiwi phrase, condoning children to be sure to always remember their sun cream and sun hat. Having experienced two Christmas’ in this part of the world, I must comment on the complete westernisation of Christmas. On these hot and sweaty days, songs of snow and cold are still sung, Christmas trees are still put up in the burning heat, and Father Christmas still visits us in his thick winter get-up and reindeer in tow. It is bizarre to think that on one side of the world we are having never-ending sunshine, and on the other there are blistering snowstorms and rain. Christmas is different for many, and when I chatter to my friends about the strangeness of it all, they cannot seem to picture my point of view, and think that a cold Christmas is odd. However, no matter where in the world you are, Christmas is about sharing the love and joy that is supposed to be felt every December 25th. It is about family and being grateful for what we have in our lives. It not only conveys our love and care for one another, but brings us all together in ways that other holidays do not; whether you are sitting on a beach, or snuggled in front of the fire, the whole world, for one day, is full of peace and tranquillity. I always find that the most beautiful thing about Christmas. So whether you are wrapped up in a coat, scarf and three layers of jumpers, or lying in your back garden in your bikini wearing 50+ sun block, we are all celebrating the same thing in different ways. Every family, every set of friends has their own traditions, which make this holiday so special and unique to us all. We all have things that make Christmas our own, and sometimes just those little things can make us feel at home, even if we are in a place that is not where we are supposed to be.
Austen Sorensen
flickr.com/photos/austensorensen
SORRELL HIGGINS flickr.com/photos/sorrelhiggins
Moments Robert Thompson
Moments. What are they? Periods of time, seconds, circumstances, happenings, and connections. Seems anything can be a moment, ill-spent, wasted, revolutionising or devastating. As Harold Rottenfield sat and watched television, Channel Four’s evening news - six o’clock sharp, he did not ponder upon such things. His head was not filled with his own life, what there was of it, but of moments outside of his own range of existence, of ferment in the Middle East, a failed economy, bleak futures despite this, he still had a happy smile on his face, having just finished work at the post room where he was manager and because he was looking forward to a baked dinner which his wife was preparing. The clang of kitchenware coming from the kitchen next door in the Rottenfield’s semi-detached heralded a feast for him, and he let out a satisfied sigh of middle-class suburban contentment which made the hairs jutting forth from the gaping holes of his nose dance. Helen Rottenfield could not be more different. There was a kind of febrile excitement in her movements as she cut the fish-pink chicken into slices and placed them on the oven tray, a meticulous attention to detail, indeed, she was filled with what she was doing, the life that met her eyes. Moments had come and gone in her life, and all really the same, uneventful, in her twenty year marriage to Harold. Nuptial vows had been taken at thirty to a man four years her senior and ever since then the frenetic pace of her life had wound up, then died out almost, until she was quite content to be housewife for the last ten years. Or so she thought. Yes, Helen had experienced a moment, or rather, an epiphany. As if from the clouds an idea had formed in her head, gestated, and then had become resolve. Of course, she had tried many things before, art courses, creative writing soirees where dilettantes feigned interest in her inventions, meditation classes that were just too out there, and so she had been left with her role as housewife in the end, a relic in the twenty first century, trying her hardest to become the woman she was not. The woman she was not: you could see a trace of Latin in her, the raven hair and ever so slightly dark skin, and the obsidian eyes which belied her Celtic ancestry, though her pent up passion did not. The moment had arrived, engulfing her, and she was going to tell her husband. Not easy, no, definitely not, because Helen wanted to become a butcher. An atavistic moment? Possibly, going a few generations back in Ireland her forefathers were butchers, though she was not aware of that. And that was the thing: forefathers. “A butcher! Not exactly a woman’s job, is it?” she imagined the sanctimonious shock of her husband, “Why don’t you take up art classes again?” She knew her husband, or thought she did, but this decision, this career choice was so anomalous, so out of the ordinary, that she was sure there might be some disquiet on his part.
And what about him? Where was his moment? When would his mid-life crisis appear? The pace of life in the Rottenfield household continued as it had always done, and this was what was getting to Helen. Boredom. She secretly would have been relieved if she had caught him on the internet talking to potential Thai or Russian brides, so she could become the merciless Celtic goddess demanding submission, or divorce. Or even if he had become an alcoholic or was depressed, then all her latent maternal instincts could have been unleashed, her love, even. She regretted having no children. Harold‘s fault, infertile, which she was angry and sad about. Life was stultifying, at least for her. But butchery! How did she hit upon it? She loved meat, the taste and texture of it, and after a few weeks of watching a competition on the television, Britain’s Butcher of the Year, she saw butchery as an extension of art did people really know what anatomy of cattle was the best to eat and how best to serve it? It could help Harold, even, he was putting on weight, and with her meaty expertise she could shape the best diet for him. Deep, deep, deep down in the recesses of her soul, however, there was a sadistic streak in our Helen that mated with the genetic passion within her. Almost as if a sin she tried to wipe from her mind, she also imagined the slaughter of these animals, not just the incising of them after death. There was almost something sacrilegious in those thoughts, but at the same time, something with purpose, poetic even. “Is dinner nearly ready, luv?” Harold walked into the kitchen and stretched contentedly after his hour’s sojourn on the couch, his belly belching over his waistline. “Another hour,” she answered nervously. “I’ll put on the kettle.” The kettle howled away, blowing steam-clouds of suburban comfort, but for Helen it was a siren, a presentiment of the bomb she was about to release. “Harold, I have something to talk to you about.” “What is it, luv?” he replied absent-mindedly, eyes looking out of the window onto the wet winter front drive. “You know we are always talking about me doing something, about finding myself, you know, something other than keeping house-” “Yes.”
“I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately and…well I never quite found myself in the art classes or anything else, they were all a bit stuck up but more than this, I’d like to start working and have found out about courses-” “You know I’d always encourage you, luv.” “Yes, but there is not much that really floats my boat, I’ve been thinking a long time about it, but I’d like to become a butcher…” The bomb had dropped. She would have to wait and see whether it was nuclear. Seconds went by, moments in which the blood in Harold’s brain swirled and dizzied, he trying to get a hold on reality, on what he had just heard. Now, a man’s role, traditionally, or anachronistically, is to provide for the family, to be the breadwinner and for the wife to serve him. The woman, ostensibly, might not seem to hold the power, but, Lord, can she create havoc in the house if she is not appeased. So Harold had always held the status quo, supporting his wife in her half-hearted endeavours to find herself, secretly always certain that they would in the end be abandoned and then she could take her natural role; the natural role which was so refreshing in this twenty first century world. Miraculously, if she did find something she wanted to do in a career-sense, then he would just have to live with it, and find a compromise. But a fucking butcher? “What made you come up with this idea?” “We watched Britain’s Butcher of the Year, and, I dunno, I was just taken with it, it’s something I want to do.” “But this is not an art class, or something like that, these courses, I see from these brochures, are expensive, and…and, imagine the smell you would bring home! And what would my friends down the pub think?” There was more than this: role-reversal, his woman in a man’s job, on a par with him financially and socially, it was weird. He had taken a lot of barbs at his machismo, the unspoken heartache of their childlessness, which he felt guilty about but also self-pitying. “You’re worried about your friends?” The passion flared up in Helen, her obsidian eyes emitting a volcanic light, “and not about me! I sacrificed my life for you-”
“Who pays the bills?” “I even took this stupid name, rotten field, oh, I should have known…strange how you have that name and are - infertile!” Helen had spoken the unspeakable. Neither of them had mentioned this haunting fact for many years. Harold said nothing, but collapsed into a kitchen chair with his cup of coffee. “No need for that,” he said after five minutes. “”I’m sorry,” Helen said, unctuously. Her actions betrayed her real emotions, though, as she cut the vegetables… chop, chop, chop, chop, chop…Harold shivered. “But-” “But what?” Helen asked with glittering eyes, knife poised for another chop. “It’s a man’s job, there’ll be a lot of men about, I don’t want my wife around that, I’m thinking of you…I’m not happy about it.” “Fine! Fine! Fine! I’ll take these brochures and throw them in the bin! Sod, butchery, sod finding myself, and sod you, Rotten-fucking-field!” With an ostentatious flourish the butchery brochures were dropped in the bin where, of course, they could be easily retrieved. Harold was quite shocked. He detested swearing, so did Helen, usually. A wild word had intruded into the suburban security of their household. He was speechless, but there was no way he would backtrack. Who was the man of the house, after all? Helen never spoke for the rest of the evening, only a yes or no. When dinner was brought forth they both munched with loud noises, Helen mechanically, dissecting her food carefully before putting the chicken and vegetables into her mouth in neat little cubes. “Lovely dinner, Helen, thanks,” Harold stuttered, an overture at reconciliation. “Don’t thank me, thank the butcher, he saved the best for me! Not such a ridiculous job, is it? I’m going to bed. Goodnight!
Ah, the silent treatment, the worst of all, women can really be superhuman when they put their minds to it, subsuming instinct because of principle. Timidly, Harold sought bed, where his wife lay in a straight line with hands beside her sides underneath the white covers. Motionless, something of the vampire about her. Yes, asleep, seemingly, like a vampire, but not really asleep, and horrible when it wakes up. Oh, I shouldn’t be referring to my wife as it, Harold reflected guiltily, but my, she can be a handful! I might give this whim of hers a try, because this could be serious. I’ll sleep on it…
Jowita Paszko
flickr.com/photos/ijowita
I have yet to go on a holiday that is as enriching as the one I took on a narrow boat. As a sufferer of motion sickness I was a little bit troubled by the thought of living out of a boat for days, cramming all my stuff into overflowing cupboards and shimmying down tiny hallways, but I was excited by the prospect of always moving. But seeing the countryside undisturbed by urban life was something I hold in high regard, and is the reason I put aside all my trepidations and just went with it. When we first arrived at the marina and began unloading the contents of the car into our boat I realised just how cosy it was, our double bed was tucked away with a perfect view of the rippling water around us, and all my clothes managed to neatly fit in the wardrobe at the foot of the bed. The living area had enough space for us to sit at a table and argue about monopoly, chill in the kitchen or stretch out on the sofa, and the hallway was definitely big enough for us to comfortably jog through. Throughout the week my phone served me as a camera and a vessel for playing games, I was treated to no signal, no 3g, no wifi and therefore no outside contact. No social media, no texting, no calls, it was liberating and invigorating! After the first few hours of twitchy anxiety trying to refresh Facebook I realised I would just have to live without it, and live without I did! I spent a great portion of time sitting on the bow of the boat watching the world go by and waving to oncoming boaters. We woke up early, ridiculously early, and usually within an hour would have a set of locks to run towards, a dog or two to stroke and a group of people to exchange pleasantries with. What struck me was the trust that people have for each other in the boating community, there’d be eggs and jam sitting out on a side, completely unsupervised with a piece of paper saying how much you should pay for each, and a little slot in a box for your money. In the city you’d expect to have no jam or eggs and no money, some people even had books decorating their garden walls for people to stop and browse as they were boating by. We bought some nectarine conserve and some freshly laid eggs. And even though there was a chill in the air we had some beautiful weather and I learnt a lot about life on a boat. The experience taught me to slow down life, take a pause and look around even if it’s pouring with rain, that the boating community is incredibly supportive and friendly and that I can live without social media – even if it is just for a week.
Adventures on the water Words & Photograph Bethany Macdonald
BRITTANY ARJUNE Facebook.com/BrittanyArjunePhotography http://www.flickr.com/photos/brittanyarjune/
Tell us a little about yourself, where do you live and where are you from? How long has photography been a hobby and career of yours and what motivated you to get started? Hi, my name is Brittany! Or as some of my friends once in a while call me, Bambi (oh the beauty of being in an art ma jor where everyone is a classified Disney character!) I am Canadian-Guyanese who was born and raised in Ontario in the lovely and currently frozen Canada. Photography became a hobby and growing passion back in highschool around grade 10, but once I got my hands on my first DSLR in grade 11, it started to become serious in terms of learning to shoot seriously to the point where I now take photography classes and study art in university! I’m pretty sure the macro button was my motivation to get started into the journey! It was a fascination that peaked my interest and I just had to know what else I was capable of doing with a simple point-and-shoot before saving up money for my Nikon! Continuing to get better and create stronger work was my reason to keep shooting.
What’s your typical set up before shooting photographs? What equipment do you use? I don’t really have a typical set up since I’m always trying to do something different. I like to typically work with a concept/mood board, try to plan out some essential shots, but normally location scouting, picking outfits and setting up a set if required is all I do before I shoot. By the time I start shooting, I just go with the flow because you never know what can happen during a shoot! I do own two soft boxes, but that depends if I’m doing my “middleof-the-night-so-my-householddoesn’t-see-me-doing-crazy-thingsand-judge-me-for-it” portraits! My partner in crime is my Nikon D5000; I shoot religiously with my 35mm lens
now, and hope to own a 50mm lens soon. Sometimes though, I’m a bit of a heart breaker and shoot with a friends Canon rebel once in a while, just don’t tell my Nikon that! What is it that compels you to pick up your camera and take photographs? The beauty of seeing an image in your mind and your camera being the key to making it come to life. I love viewing the world through my lens; it makes me more aware of my surroundings. I’ve learn to appreciate everything I see much more now thanks to photography.
Who is your inspiration? Do you have any favourite artists or photographers? Hard to only pick a few! There are so many people and I’m always stumbling across new people that I admire so much now! Some photographer’s that I really admire are: Ben Zank (he literally lives the saying, “doing ANYTHING to get the shot!”), Elena Kalis (her underwater photography is absolutely stunning!), Joel Robinson (I can only hope to reach his level of conceptual photography some day!), and Sysommay Kaiphanliam (she uses light to illuminate her portraits to create such dreamy portraits!). I feel quite blessed that I am surrounded by artistic people in my life because my friends are constant inspirations for me since we are all quite diverse in the arts.
Have you done any projects that you were really proud of? I would say that my Underland Alice project was something I was and still am quite proud of! It was my first ma jor collaboration working with a makeup artist, new models, and a whole team! I absolutely loved it and from that project I met some friends who have become very important to me in my life now.
Do you have any advice for any aspiring photographers? Funny I’m being asked this when I would be asking other people for their advice instead! I would probably say that having patience is key from what I’ve discovered. Patience in terms of learning from mistakes and the frustration of shooting, understanding you are different from other photographers who seem better than you are, timing with life and not giving up on excelling a shoot or trying getting your work known. The drive you have for photography should be the same drive you have to become your own better self. Don’t be afraid of where photography leads you; embrace it with an open mind, and I promise you, you won’t regret it.
Jed Langdon facebook.com/jedlangdonphotography
Nicola Coe flickr.com/photos/abirdsings
Paul Sykes flickr.com/photos/99649260@N06/
SHAKE OFF THE MORNING by Elspeth Vischer culturevoyeur.wordpress.com
The man’s centre of gravity was shaking, And his face looked extra-terrestrial, As he refused to step out of the cold air, Seeming as if it was the only thing forcing him awake. Indeed, fresh air, fresh air, He needs to head to the job centreSo he can afford more fresh air. Callous lips keep no secrets, And it hurts people’s pride to meet his eyes. As he shakes the pleasantries out of a sunny morning, And January once again retains its true harshness. Withdraw, withdraw, from the world; For it doesn’t care, and barely even notices… You’re growing cold and more drawn out, So try to draw out your doleOr no one will pass you on the bus again… January freezes up pity, And your aching movement continue to defy gravity.
Kate Riep flickr.com/photos/kate_riep/
Stephanie Sabine
flickr.com/photos/stephaniesabine/
Angele Boudreau flickr.com/photos/angelegboudreau/
A Resolution Worth Keeping Words by Yasmin Harley
Winter is a time for new starts. After the inevitable stress of the pre-Christmas rush disappears and we finally emerge from the alcohol and food coma, we are forced to look at ourselves and what we have become. We are forced to see how the endless turkey, bottles of wine and boxes of celebrations have taken up residence on our thighs. How the stress of all that work before Christmas has only added to those silver stands on our head. How the endless parties and screaming children have created dark bags under our eyes. And of course our answer is to come up with that New Year’s resolution, in order to help create the best version of ourselves. Whether it’s losing weight, quitting smoking or trying something ne, we are hopeful and excited to achieve our new goal. Many a year have I said this year is the year; this is the year I will lose weight. I will get fit. I will do something new. And I am ashamed to say that 99.9 percent of the time I fail. There is always an attempt of course, I’m not completely useless. It lasts all of a month and then all of the sudden life gets in the way, a life that calls for stress and busy days and routines.
There are too many other possibilities, things to do with my day that are better than figuring out the best way to achieve the goal I set a month ago! And so the vicious cycle begins, I go another eleven months, doing different things, losing and gaining weight like a yo-yo. Of course I achieve some big things. Everyone does. But none of them are the small and minor goal I set myself at the start of the year, which of course makes me feel like pants when the next New Year comes around. And I try to make the same resolution, this time I will keep it. But this year was different. This year I did not try to keep the same resolution. You see, this year I lost two people in my family. Needless to say, I loved them very much, and as I sat there on New Year’s Eve, I realised that the small and common New Year’s resolutions are effectively pointless. Things like exercise and dieting will only change our appearance for a short period of time unless we actually keep them up. The New Year’s Resolutions we should be making is simple, it encompasses everything and is something we should aim to achieve every day, to enjoy living. I know it sounds cheesy and quite frankly something that comes out of a Disney film.
But it’s true! If there is one thing that this year has taught me it is that life is hard, and can end at any moment, whether you are 80 or 18. So why should we focus on the small things, worry about the way we look etc? Life is filled with enough stress and worry, about who we are and what we do, without adding more. Surely as long as we are happy with ourselves, and surround ourselves with people we love we can make the most out of our year. Therefore, this year, I made a seemingly small and silly New Year’s Resolution. To find something everyday that I find joy in or am grateful for, one thing at the end of each day that was the high point of that day, no matter how bad that day has been, which funnily enough makes life more enjoyable. Whether it is a simple I love you or doing something new, I get to remind myself of the treats of life, especially when it becomes hard to deal with. And to me that’s a New Year’s Resolution worth keeping.
Alexandra Badea flickr.com/photos/peachyfeathers
Paris BY Kirsty Macdonald
Whispering Worlds The garden was in darkness as she crept slowly down the bare wooden stairs. The only light came from a streetlamp, its orange sickly light casting shadows over the familiar back yard. She searched for the small silver key that would allow her to unlock the door, her anticipation building. The voices whispered constantly to her as she turned the key and stepped out, her bare feet touching the cool, rough paving slabs. The world greeted her with eerie silence, as she began to wander towards the familiar small patch of garden where she spent most of her time. There was a desolate and painful feel to everything now that autumn had predictably arrived. The large oak stood majestically, hovering sage-like over the entire garden - now bare, its gnarled branches reminding her of her own mind, tentacles furiously pulling, grasping, and dragging. Leaves covered the floor, their once vivid orange and browns losing their vibrancy as they lie dying on their deathbed. It reminded her of her depression; how a once beautiful and colourful mind could be turned into damp, decaying, mottled leaves that slowly wither away. The Geraniums that once brought a spectacular splash of colour had now faded with the absence of the soul-replenishing sun, the tall and happy Sunflower that waved infectiously in the breeze, now slowly withering as it realised it would not survive another year. The Hydrangeas with their pretty, eye-catching flowers, which always looked wonderful against the back-drop of the dark oak, now non-existent. The beautiful white Jasmine which now stood forlornly in its pristine white ceramic pot. Jasmine, which once elicited a sweet smelling fragrance and stood elegantly with its expertly crafted white trumpets that people once marvelled at. Everything that had once lived so unabashedly had died, she noted, as she walked the small space until she came to the small area of grass where the oaks roots protruded like a monster from the depths. She realised the only part of the garden still with some colour was the grass, as she wrapped her nightdress around her tightly and lay slowly down. The grass was cold and damp and it tickled the smooth white flesh of her bare arms and legs. Resting her head, she remembered how Virginia Woolf had once lain down on the earth, after sadly discovering a dead bird and pleaded with a soft but anguished voice to be taken into the very earth that lay beneath her. She could understand the whisperings, although not depraved or nefarious, frightened her and made her short limbs tremble. The cold nebulous shape of depression had worked its way up from her feet with icy swiftness this past winter, through her pulsating arteries that lead to her fragile heart until her heart was nothing more than a black marooned vessel sending out a pleading S.O.S. She lay curled up, smelling the decay of the season around her, feeling the cycle of death move closer until it was palatable on her rasping breath. She imagined herself sinking into the very earth, a long, painful but curious journey as the earth’s carnivorous jaws consumed her, floating into and through layer upon layer of soil and matter, her energy slowly being extinguished. Lying as quietly as she could, for hour upon hour, she contemplated her existence and the breath of disconnection that she felt. The coldness, not only of nature but also of misery seeping deeply into her bones, the steel like grip of something alien and completely remorseless pulling her into the abyss.
How long had she been lying here, she wondered – raising her head to scan the space around her. She pulled her limp hair away from her face with irritation. Her small feet were covered in earth, soil sticking in rough patches to the under soles. Her body was damp; limbs cold to the touch and her nightdress, recently her only companion, was smeared with grass stains. As she slowly sat up to look at the garden, dread and weariness building up inside of her, she noticed something out of the corner of her sharp, green eyes. The faint colour of a purple crocus was pushing its way through the earth, adding a small but precious splash of colour to an otherwise barren landscape. Standing unsteadily, she walked over and delicately touched the small flower with trembling hands. Her breath caught in her chest, as she unexpectedly realised that soon the whole garden would be awash with its extraordinary and mesmerizing palette, flowers that in winter had all but disappeared would push through the soft, life-giving earth and create a spectre of beauty, enchantment and joy. The whisperings had ceased in the pale light of the morning sky, the deadening feeling that had graced her presence for so long, finally taking flight as the sun began to shine its benevolent light into the soft contours of her pretty face. ‘All things change’ she whispered curiously to herself as she stood slowly and walked dreamily away, back through the door that she had opened many hours before and back up the creaking wooden stairs. Henrietta Ross is a writer and Blogger from the UK. She is fascinated with chocolate, tea and Literature, in that order! http://henriettaross.blogspot.co.uk
Hanna Lee Reehl flickr.com/photos/hanna_lee
Tell us a little about yourself, where do you live and where are you from? Hi, I’m Hanna! I’m a 17 year old homeschooled high school junior living where I have spent my whole life the middle of nowhere, New Jersey. I’m surrounded by corn fields, cow pastures and stretches of forestland, which can be kind of stifling, but also comforting, and conducive to pretty photographs, which I am extremely thankful for.
How long has photography been a hobby and career of yours and what motivated you to get started? I’ve always had an inclination towards filming things and taking photos - I used to steal my dad’s video camera and my mom’s Polaroid camera, haha. I’d make little movies with stuffed animals and my pets and weird things like that. Then when I was a little bit older I got a point-and-shoot and would sporadically take photos with that. But I got really, really into/obsessive about it when I was 12. I started getting involved on Flickr in a community of fashion-type photographers, which was pretty awesome. I got really sick with Lyme disease and vertigo around the same time, to the point where reading and writing was literally impossible and I had to leave the sixth grade. I had always written as catharsis and until I got better enough to start writing again, taking self-portraits was my primary form of emotional expression. Then I quit Flickr for the most part and started socialising with friends in my town a lot. And in doing that I came to see photography as an act of preserving memories for others as well as myself. Like, taking photographs of other people as a way of brightening their days/sharing their stories. My interpretation of their stories. I guess I’m the kind of person who falls in love with everywhere they go and everyone they meet, so I feel compelled to document things. Also, I’m doing a lot better now health-wise, I can read and write again, thankfully!
What’s your typical set up before shooting photographs? What equipment do you use? I use a Canon Mark II with varying lenses. I also have a film camera (which I used pretty intensely for a period of time but got scared of because I’m a spaz and am terrified of losing photographs). And I used that film camera’s lens for a while with an adaptor on my Canon, which was interesting. I had wanted my photos to look dreamier and bought this cheap toy-camera-to-Canon lens thing but it was like way too intensely dreamy, so I bought the adaptor ring. And that’s definitely my favorite lens/the lens I’ve taken the most of my photographs with (not recently as much, though). All the photos I take of other people I don’t do any prep for, really. I just grab my camera and go for it. When I take self portraits I don’t do much, either - just set up my camera on a tripod with a self-timer. Usually I work with natural light. Sometimes when I’m doing fashion-type shoots I kinda manipulate the image manually by way of putting fabric in front of my lens and shoot through it, and shoot through little glass prisms and filters - I have these cool rainbow-making filters, too (diffracting filters), and shooting into tiny mirrors, like hand-mirrors and tiny mirror squares, and any reflective surface I can find, really - I have a series of photographs taken into reflective surfaces that I’m pretty proud of.
What’s your favourite type of shot? Spontaneous or set-up? Do you try to tell a story through your photographs? Oh, man, this is a difficult question for me. There’s a definite satisfaction in creating more elaborate shoots - my friend Chris is a make-up artist and photographer and he and I have done quite a few shoots together, where we’ll have an idea for a shoot and then find a girl to style/model for us - and he’ll do her makeup and we’ll take photographs of her and the whole thing is really atmospherically pointed (like, we go into it intending to craft a certain atmosphere in the final product). But spontaneous photographs always carry the heaviest weight for me. Both my own and other people’s. I love Polariods/Instaxes and photos taken with disposable cameras and shitty toy cameras and even cell phones - I take a lot of iPhone photos too, hahah. If I was to wax poetic about it, I’d say something along the lines of - I’m interested in creating photographs that “tell stories,” documenting moments as they are and also capturing the beauty in the mundane, and also seek out to document or create visual distortions & illusions.
What is it that compels you to pick up your camera and take photographs? I very rarely leave the house without my camera. When I socialise with someone I want to take their photograph because I want to preserve their character on that day (I don’t socialise too much, so that isn’t as crazy as it sounds). Pretty much any time I see something that catches my eye I decide to take a photo of it. And my self-portraits are usually just like these weird visions that pop into my head - sometimes they come to me in dreams - I’ve tried to recreate visuals from my dreams before. And sometimes they’re just like rapid-fire connections I’ll make in my head - like, I’ll look at something (a location inside my house or outside my house or an object) and just imagine what sort of character might be in it. And kinda build off of that.
Have you done any projects that you were really proud of? As I mentioned before, I like my series of reflection photos, and I’m always adding to it, so that’s exciting. And I’m trying to work on a series of photographs to define/summarize my coming of age experience, because it’s been so disorienting to me with getting sick and all. I think what I’m proud of most is having documented my life and loves through photographs, and that’s my ultimate project/goal. To preserve memories for both myself and others. I think that’s what all art is, in a way - the preservation of memories. Emotions. For you to look at and be legitimately nostalgic about, and other people to look at and experience vicarious/imaginary/empathetic nostalgia for.
Who is your inspiration? Do you have any favourite artists or photographers? Who are my inspirations? My first inspirations were the people first found on Flickr when I started out, who kind of opened my eyes to what photography could be - Erica Segovia, Sita & Bethany McVay, Anna Hollow, Olivia Bee, Michele Mobley, Francesca Allen, Ryann Riggs, Amber Ortolano, Lauren Wisnewski, but some ma jor influences from older photographers include Gregory Crewdson, Robert Mapplethorpe, Diane Arbus, Ryan McGinley, Francesca Woodman, and Andre Kertesz. And I am really inspired by the cinematography in music videos and movies and such - when I was younger I was really into Sofia Coppola type atmospheres (The Virgin Suicides and stuff) but then I watched a bunch of really weird, disturbing movies by David Lynch and Harmony Korine (and some other random people - my movie taste is pathetically limited because I have no attention span) and I was like, “I think I want my posed/artsy work to be a bit freakier/more psychological than girls in pretty dresses.” Note: Discovering Gregory Crewdson’s work was so eye-opening to me because it’s such a flawless blend of psychological and artistic, they truly do tell whole entire stories. Convey the emotional weight of a whole entire movie. Sorry, just had to express my love for him, haha. Music itself really inspires me too, and books, and paintings/illustrations. And architecture. And history. And science. Life itself everything. Everything is inspiring.
Do you have any advice for any aspiring photographers? Take photographs of what truly moves you - the things that make you happy to be alive. Or if you’re into portraiture, try to express those things that you just can’t get out of your head, whether they be pretty or ugly, visual or conceptual, whatever. Find lots of other art and things to fall in love with to stay inspired. And if you want to get better, you can’t get frustrated and stop. You don’t need to start out amazing (no one does!) - just start out honest. And fearless. That’s important, too.
Staťa Bukumirović
flickr.com/photos/patterns-of-fairytales/
Spirit Magazine Issue three spiritmag@live.com