From The Press And Marketing Department Of The University Of Hard Knocks (Or, What Are The Advantages Of Getting Knocked Up?)

'Snap snap. Have you seen the latest emailed missive from our marketing department? Tell me, is it inspired; does it deserve a clap? Or, forgive me my cynicism, but is it rather crap?'

'Remind me what you're on about. My ankles are killing me. They're terribly swollen. I think it may be gout.'

'Gout. Poor you. What to do? Now, let me think. . . I'm sure you've told me a hundred times that you no longer drink. But, hey, never fear. I have just the book you need: Roy Porter's Gout: A Patrician Malady. It's a jolly good read. That said, to be honest, I read it a long time ago; I forget what other foodstuffs Porter said you should forego.'

'Just tell me what the email said.'

''Well, it goes something like this: "Do you have a child applying for university this year? If so, we would like to ask for your help; we would really like to hear. Hear how other universities carry out the process of interview. What questions do they ask? What procedures do they do?" Are they implying that when it comes to attracting students we haven't got a clue?'

'It must be to do with our conversion rate. Have you seen the application statistics? They're in a terrible state. We offer all these places, but the students go elsewhere. No students, no course, it's really not fair. No course, no job and we'll all be redundant. It seems such a travesty given children are so abundant.'

'We'll, I'm feeling sick because I can't take part. I don't have a child, let alone one about to study art. They're promising vouchers to those that they talk to. I wonder, could you lend me your sprog for Marketing to interview? I could do with a little bit of retail therapy. Nothing better than spending the weekend on a shopping spree. I could do with some new shoes and . . . oh, well there's plenty more. Finally, I'm starting to see what children are for.'

'She's yours to keep if you want her that bad. But, you don't have your own. Does that make you feel sad?'

'Not at all. Indeed, I've always thought it a blessing; to get through life without all that messing. The thought of being a mother is anathema to me. To be responsible for a minor . . .  No, I'd rather feel free. But the thought of those vouchers has got me in a state. If I got pregnant now, would it be too late? Would Marketing mind if they had to wait? Eighteen years from now the kid would be full-grown; old enough to go to college (and, of course, to leave home). Old enough to go to interviews and find out how it's done. Do you think by then there'll still be vouchers waiting to be won?'

(Based on an idea by someone else)

Perfect Pairs

The Waiting Pool

'I kept coming back to this route for respite from my work and for my work too, because thinking is generally thought of as doing nothing in a production-orientated culture, and doing nothing is hard to do. It's best done by disguising it as doing something, and the something closest to doing nothing is walking.'
(R. Solnit, 2002, Wanderlust: A History of Walking, London: Verso, 5)

If walking is the closest one comes to doing nothing, then swimming is the physical equivalent of waiting. Dive in, hold your breath as you move silently across the bottom of the pool and, when the waiting time is over, remember to re-surface.

Waiting Room

'The setting represents the interior of a cafe; we have a rendezvous, I am waiting . . .'

Text: R. Barthes, 1990, A Lover's Discourse: Fragments, New York, Penguin, 37
Photographs: Mike Berry

Watching Myself Waiting

Is Waiting A Waste of Time?

As a child I would wait, every other weekend, for the time when I was allowed to go home, hallucinating the moment when I could return to my mother. But, like Roland Barthes waiting for his lover, this proved 'futile, or immensely pathetic': damaging, traumatic.

'There is a scenography of waiting: I organise it, manipulate it, cut out a portion of time in which I shall mime the loss of the loved object and provoke all the effects of a minor mourning'. (R Barthes, 1990, A Lover's Discourse: Fragments, London, Penguin, 37)

As an adult, this early-learned state of waiting became a space I would often inhabit: stasis, limbo. It became my chosen habit.

Marcel Proust describes habit as a 'heavy curtain' that 'conceals from us almost the whole of the universe'. Habit diminishes our senses and faculties, forcing them to lie dormant.

What I was too blind to recognise is that waiting constitutes this thing we call life. Life is the waiting game we play to distract ourselves from the reality of our mortality; that we're all going to die.

But, waiting - life - is also rich with experience. Its fabric is comprised of myriad incidents. External to the body or originating in the imagination, life is the product of one's daydreaming and reflection.

Waiting need not be synonymous with stagnation. As with boredom, it should not be sabotaged by banal, rehearsed distraction. Unobscured by that 'heavy curtain' of habit, waiting can provide the room in which one learns to see clearly; to understand what it means to be: authentically me.

From The Series: 'Some Very Short Photo-Essays'

The American Road-Trip

(Or, Don't Wait For The Hearse To Take You To Church, with thanks to Robert Frank, Ed Ruscha, Stephen Shore, Michael Omerod and Mitch Epstein)

And, for D, born 20.04.64

Perfect Pairs

Perfect Pairs

In The Psychiatrist's Chair

'So . . . ,' she said. It was her opening gambit. But the shrink remained silent, just continued to sit.
'Well then . . . ,' she proffered, trying again. Still no response, so she started counting to ten. She shifted on her seat and looked at the clock. She counted the seconds: tick-tock, tick-tock. She had yet to swear on a Bible, but she felt she was in the dock. Evidently, it was cards on the table if she were going to take stock; of the feelings she avoided because they filled her heart with dread. All the stuff she had buried in the hope it would lie dead.
'Ok,' she conceded. 'Guess it's up to me to proceed.' (Privately, now, she hoped the shrink would take pity, would take the lead.) But the shrink just sat, a blank expression of his face.  Until, suddenly he spoke:
'This is your time, your space. But, your time, by the way, is ticking away.'
And, that was the truth; they didn't have all day. Although she was expected to come back next week, there was no point just sitting here; she was obliged to speak. But while the thoughts in her head went round and round and round, she seemed - inconceivable for her - quite incapable of uttering a sound.

Punctum

House Clearance, 9 Meadow Road, 1999

'This second element which will disturb the studium I shall therefore call the punctum; for punctum is also: sting, speck, cut, little hole - and also a cast of the dice. A photograph's punctum is the accident which pricks me (but also bruises me, is poignant to me).'

Roland Barthes, 1981, Camera Lucida: Reflections on Photography, New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, p27

Studium

House Clearance, 9 Meadow Road, 1999

'To recognize the studium is inevitably to encounter the photographer's intentions, to enter into harmony with them, to approve or disapprove of them, but always to understand them, to argue them within myself, for culture (from which the studium derives) is a contract between creators and consumers'

Roland Barthes, 1981, Camera Lucida: Reflections on Photography, New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, pp27-8

Some Notes On Slacking (Or Suspending Disbelief While Maintaining One's Balance)

Couture:
Dress appropriately. There are three acceptable options:
1. wear black (it flatters and flattens the figure, and gives you a certain and elegant gravitas)
2. wear colours that complement the particular slack-line you're walking on (yellow and black if you're on the Gibbon Jibline, green or red when walking the Heinz Zak Mountain Equipment Chill line)
3. wear camouflage (so you're not spotted).

Etiquette:
1. maintain a sombre disposition (especially when slacking in the local cemetery)
2. when confronted by officials - be they council workers or park-rangers - emphasise your middle-class credentials (extensive vocabulary and clearly-articulated vowels). That way, the intellectual and spiritual element of your pursuit will be recognised, revered and condoned. (One way to ensure community goodwill is to pretend that you're training in aid of some charity event - one that supports those less able and balanced than you)
3. if slacking with another, don't hog the line (remember, the better you get the longer it takes for you to fall off). Set an egg-timer for ten minutes and remove yourself from the line immediately once the alarm rings.

Concentration:
1. Never look at the line; find a focal point that is equivalent to your eye-level and fix an unwavering gaze on it
2. When people approach you, twist 180 degrees on the balls of your feet, and turn your back on them
3. Clear your mind of all that distracts you; a mantra can be useful. Quite often, though, you'll find yourself bouncing to a tune. My current favourite is 'Like A Rolling Stone'.

FAQ:
1. 'Are you training for the Olympics?'
2. 'Are you planning to run away with the circus?'
3. 'What do you think you're doing?'

Things To Anticipate (and ignore):
1. People staring (and occasionally clapping)
2. People making strange, loud noises such as 'boo'
3. People pestering you to let them have a go
4. People asking 'what do you think you're doing?'

Suture

'So,' she said with a sway, as she surfed the Zak-line. 'I was right, can't you see, when it came to eBay? Just auction your stuff, and all will be fine. Abandon materialism; just live for the day.'

'But, don't you regret that you're selling your past?' He was drinking again; he'd forsaken his fast. He'd forsaken the regime that ensured he stayed stable. He was downing the vino and feeling less than able; to maintain his equilibrium in meetings and crits. If he were honest, he'd admit he was losing his grip.

'Losing my past, well there's certainly something to ponder. But my family history's so dysfunctional that I'm tempted to wonder. To wonder if I need to dwell on what's done. In terms of our surname, I am now the only one.  My father is gone, and so is my brother. My mother remarried; swapped our last name for another. So I'm thinking of choosing a name of my own. A name that I like; one that has a nice tone. A name that reflects what's essential to me. You can do it by deed-pole, for a nominal fee.'

'Yes, you can change it by deed-pole, I've seen the brochure.  But, listen, if you don't have a past, can you hope for a future?'

'Yes, you can if you take on the notion of suture. A psychoanalytical term, but it seems to make sense, whether you're inhabiting the past, present or future tense. Suture's about failing to notice the 'seams' that stitch together one's belief in certain realities and dreams. I guess you could call it a suspension of disbelief. Now, if you steal someone's name, are you considered a thief?'

He was no longer listening; was uncorking some wine. As for her, she had just stepped off the Jibline. And, quick as a flash, she jumped onto the Chill. As with suture, maintaining one's balance on a slack-line was a matter of will. For a second she wobbled, and looked ready to fall, but she lifted her arms and suddenly stood tall. The tension was perfect; the line was quite still. Like eBay, this slacking was proving a thrill.

Somewhere Between Tress' Fish Tank Sonata and Sekula's Fish Story Lie A Few Fish Tales.

'Her tender feet felt as if cut with sharp knives, but she cared not for it; a sharper pang had pierced through her heart.'

From: Hans Christian Andersen, 1836, The Little Mermaid

Another Fish Out Of Water

Poisson D'Avril - Two Good Kisses