"I always thought of photography as a naughty thing to do -- that was one of my favorite things about it, and when I first did it, I felt very perverse." - Diane Arbus, 1923-71.
No surprise, then, that amongst other subjects she used transvestites, whom she treated "sympathetically and with dignity, while supposedly ‘normal’ American citizens often appear eccentric or strange." according to a
Tate Modern snippet.
In an 'educational'
PDF document (see page 10), the Tate raises questions through quotations by Sontag hinting at the questionable morality of recording life's non-normal (in my book not abnormal) characters, suggesting that Arbus fits into the category of "supertourist" when it comes to her subject matter. I get the impression I wouldn't get along with Ms Sontag, but there you go. May be it's wrong to judge someone on the strength of a few comments, but she does strike me as may be intolerant and narrow-minded.
So why all this stuff about photography all of a sudden. I mean, those that know me realise I'm not your archetypal click-happy tranny. My site has been noted many a time for its lack of galleries. In fact, I've only ever used photos to illustrate my online diary, and for quite a while now I've stopped carrying a camera while out as Rachel - it's not that I've anything against others doing it, and just to mention the exception that makes the rule, I was very disappointed not to have had just one photo of the
Angels Dinner at the Embassy Club in April. Hmmm, may be we can all be forgiven just one slip every once in a while.
But I'm still getting to the point about all this photography business.
A week or so ago I was looking for a picture of myself to put up on my work blog, and came across a picture my father took of the Olympus 593 engine, that powered the thw world's only supersonic airliner.
My father died sixteen years ago (smoking related disease) a man who arguably no-one knew very well, his family included. He was a photographer, an industrial photographer, he worked initially for De Havilland who produced in 1949, the Comet, the world’s first jet-engined airliner to enter commercial service. De Havilland were absorped into Hawker Siddeley, and in another spilt my father ended up working for
Bristol Siddeley, which eventually merged into Rolls-Royce in 1966. Hating the big corporate culture he took early retirement in 1970.
But in his time he kept a photographic record of development work on the Harrier Jumpjet engines and the Concorde Olympus engines, and here is a photograph of the Olympus engine undergoing development work, and I don't even know whether the public has ever seen it before.
There's a higher resolution image
here.
We had what I suppose you'd call a distant relationship. We rarely talked and even when the subject matter was close to his heart like football (he was a month too old to be selected as a schoolboy international), a life-long Fulham supporter, a keen motorcylist, 'til a polish colleague (in a London Fire Engine) hit him head on on Haverstock Hill, breaking both his legs and putting him in hospital for six months.
So football was out as an activity we both could have done together, because of the state of his knees. he used to spend quite a bit of the weekends in the garage maintaining our old cars (industrial photography didn't pay well). But he'd never explain what he was doing so I'd wonder off, bored and none the wiser.
It was the same with photography, he worked with Hasselblads, medium format, and always had a quality 35mm camera, but was never forthcoming on the subject. I do recall my Mum's frustration though (which was really funny at the time) when it came to taking family album shots. Out came the light meter, the group had to be positioned correctly to get the best out of available light, apertures and shutter speeds double-checked. There was no hurrying this man, he was in his domain, because let's face it, other than the car, my Mum was boss. In fact, looking back, he used his photography skills to good effect where the family were concerned - my Nana was a religious tyrant who lived only a mile away, and with hindsight I really don't know how she didn't split up the marriage, but that aside whenever he could he caught her on camera in the most ungainly poses - didn't take him so long to set-up those shots! There's one in particular that if I ever find I promise I will post here.
After my father retired we moved to Lincoln and bought a 10 bedroom hotel. My parents did well, worked their socks off and we were financailly comfortable for the first time.
But typical of Dad, when he came to buy a new camera he looked at the Canon A1 when it first came out, dismissed it as a sophisticated point and shoot toy, and went and bought a Nikon FM, and stuck with Nikon 'til he died. But he never did pass his knowledge onto me. When he retired he tried the local camera club, but dismissed it as a bunch of arty fartys. To him the pleasure of a photograph was in the technical proficiency of capturing the shot. I'm remember him showing me a photo of a high-speed oscillating metal rod captured on the works Hasselblad, and I could just detect the hint of pride in his voice, but it was only a hint.
Later, when my parents officially retired they set aside a sum of money for myself and my two sisters to buy something that we would treasure. Once I realised what was in the kitty I knew exactly what I wanted - since I was seven I'd always wanted a Rolex Oyster. My best friend's grandfather had given him his Oyster and it was a real waterproof watch - now at this time we were both highly competitive swimmer's swimming for our local club, and to have had a really waterproof watch would made me burst with pride. But a Rolex Oyster was way beyond my family's means and I didn't really ever think I'd ever own one, particularly as through the years I'd checked the prices and they still remained out of reach.
So now I went out to choose one, a stainless steel one, plain, and just what I'd always wanted. My mother looked at it and said she thought I'd come back with an elegant gold dress Rolex. My father just looked and nodded, but I was pretty sure he approved. Later, my mother told me how my father had said what a good choice I'd made, and that meant so much to me.
Although I've had my regrets at not knowing my father better I couldn't have asked for a better send off. He'd had a heart attack whilst in hospital, and unfortunately they revived him, but they couldn't tell whether he would be brain-damaged. My mother just wanted him kept alive and said she would nurse him. But you could see the despair in his eyes - he just wanted to go and I couldn't blame him.
Mum had been by his side all weekend and had to go home to get some sleep taking my two sisters with her. Dad had been sedated by the nursing staff so I sat with him while he slept. His heart rate was up round a 136, which for a 76 year old was very worrying, but as I sat there it started to come down slowly, and when it got to 70 I was begining to think he was on the mend.
But it kept steadily going down and the realisation dawned on me that he wasn't going to survive. I didn't draw this to the attention of the nursing staff and just sat there 'til the monitor LED stopped.
I waited a few minutes, to hopefully ensure they wouldn't try to revive him, and said my goodbyes.
I wondered down to the Sister's office and waited 'til the staff had finished their conversation, and told them he was dead.
I cried buckets at the funeral, didn't care who saw, and continued to cry off and on for the next six months... and of course now.
