Tragicocomedia

Sweeping Nuns, Rome, October 3, 2013

Sticking with the theme of nuns, this seemed an appropriate complement and contrast with the last-posted Favourite Shot, wherein nuns could be seen enjoying themselves and wielding pizza. In this image, taken along the Lungotevere Gianicolense in Rome on the way to the Vatican around 0740 AM in the morning, rather than kicking back, these nuns are al lavoro. I’m not entirely sure in what capacity they are working; perhaps there was a religious institution of some sort in the immediate vicinity, or are they an order who contributes to the cleaning of the streets more broadly? Perhaps someone can tell me. At the time, we were marching very rapidly in order to get in line for the Vatican Museums, famed for their length and the duration of the wait, and so I didn’t pause any longer than to take this shot.

Cleric-watching, including taking an interest in clerical artefacts and ritual, can be one of the more mild diversions when in Rome. As might be expected, there are various shops which specialise in items for the clergy ranging from the luxuriously opulent to the most austere. The sight of things such as beautifully crafted ceremonial items for giving mass on the fly, stylishly arrayed in velvet-lined, chic suitcases, is a curious reminder of the degree to which religion is a kind of craft. The stores specialising in underwear considered appropriate for nuns and priests can be très drôle for the unsuspecting tourist.

Incidentally, it’s my birthday today, and, as is traditional these days in our society, I thought I should draw attention to that fact. It’s also my first birthday as a father. I’m not entirely sure whether this makes much of a difference, but it is true that having a child draws a clear dividing line in life of the before and after. Perhaps, therefore, an image of people doing chores is an appropriate choice for this birthday.

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Nuns with Pizza, Broadway, Sydney, November 2, 2011

Nuns with pizza, enjoying themselves, say no more. This was one of those fortunate moments when one is thankful for all the time (and energy) spent carrying a heavy camera around. I’ve probably said something along these lines before, and would hardly be the first person to say it, but one of the things that makes photography so enjoyable is when everyday life offers up a scene with artistic potential that is entirely random and neither planned nor expected. I’ve often doubted my ability to create compositions, in a studio, for example, and tend to be more reactive than proactive when it comes to taking shots. This can be as frustrating as it is pleasing, for often there is nothing worth shooting in real life, or a scene which might be worth shooting is too poorly lit or interrupted by something – usually a car. Have I mentioned how much I hate cars? The bane of urban photography.

Yet, even worse than failing to capture a scene that was fleetingly there for the taking, is not having a camera with which to shoot it. Sure, one likely always has a mobile phone as back up, but no matter how much phone manufacturers bang on about their cameras, the lenses simply aren’t good enough and suffer tragically when attempting to zoom. Surely I’m not the only person who finds the photos presently advertised as “Shot on iPhone 6”, a little underwhelming. They’re nice landscapes for the most part, which pretty much any camera could capture adequately. Just as one might struggle to take a bad photo of say, Anne Hathaway. Having said that, I don’t mean it pretentiously, or to deny that people do take amazing photos with phones. It’s simply that given the choice between a phone and an SLR, surely no one in their right mind would choose the phone.

This photo was just another case of being in the right place at the right time, with a camera. I’ve always found it mildly ironic that the man is the one lit by the afternoon sun, and not the nuns, who seem to be, somewhat contrary to their supposedly sober nature, having a very good time. This was shot on Broadway, Sydney, on a late spring afternoon.

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Natatio, Baths of Caracalla, Rome, October 10, 2013

Wrætlic is þes wealstan, wyrde gebræcon;
burgstede burston, brosnað enta geweorc.

“Wondrous is this wall-stead, wasted by fate.

Battlements broken, giant’s work shattered”

– The Ruin, Old English Poem, c. 8th-10th century

It is hardly surprising that across Europe in the early middle ages, many people living in the post-Roman world thought that the earth had once been inhabited by giants. With the collapse of the Western Empire, many of the major metropolises across western Europe suffered vast declines in population – by the late 5^th century Rome’s population had shrunk from over a million to less than 400,000, and by the middle of the 6^th century, after Justinian’s reconquest of Italy, it plummeted to a mere twenty thousand. A combination of disruption of the countryside, the breakdown of trade networks and supply lines, and the effects of ongoing war, famine and repeated cycles of plague, the 6^th century was an age of disappearing cities and towns.

Indeed, in this period, many cities and towns vanished altogether, only to show up later in the archaeological record. The crumbling remains were either entirely abandoned or quarried for materials. In some major cities, the shrinking population abandoned the city centre to live on the fringes, where access to agricultural land was easier. Major edifices were repurposed, making use of the cavernous spaces between pillars, for example, which could be bricked in with a ready-made roof. Amphitheatres were fortified and piled up with houses built upon the rows of seats. In Rome, such was the scale of the city that it broke up into a series of small villages, with shepherds grazing flocks through the abandoned, overgrown streets. It was the world’s first true apocalypse, the first collapse of a “modern” civilization.

This photograph shows the immense brick walls of the Baths of Caracalla. Constructed between AD 211 and 217, they remained in use until the aqueducts were cut in Rome during the devastating Gothic War fought between the Eastern Empire and the Ostrogoths from 535-554. The baths complex covered an area of 25 hectares, with the main building no less than 228 metres long and 116 metres wide, reaching to a height of 38.5 metres. It could accommodate up to 1600 bathers and contained libraries, gymnasiums, restaurants and shops. It required thousands of slaves to maintain and had its own aqueduct built to supply the water. As it lay on the outskirts of the ancient city, it was left almost entirely abandoned for centuries after its water supply was cut. The immense and impressive statuary which adorned the vast complex, such as the Farnese Hercules, was not recovered until the 16^th century, almost a thousand years after it fell into ruin.

This photograph shows a view looking from the frigidarium (cold bath) into the natatio (swimming pool), which was roughly of Olympic length, with dimensions of 54 x 24 metres. The epic scale of the wall dwarfs the human subjects and goes someway towards highlighting just how massive this structure was, and, indeed, still is. An hour-long visit to the bath is a great way to spend a sunny afternoon in Rome.

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“Emergency Window” – Mysore, India, January 2, 2013

There is an engaging sadness in the expression of the main subject; a pre-emptive longing for a friend yet to depart. The lady on the train seems more cheery, as though she is reassuring her friend. It is, after all, saddest for those left behind, who have to go on as before with the acute absence of the departed. Yet while departures can presage adventure and possibility, sufficient to distract from the missing, or a welcome homecoming to familiar comforts, they can also be a sorry return to quotidian drudgery. Either way, it is so often the case that when someone close expresses an unconstrained sorrow, the other is driven to optimism and persuasive reinforcement, which often masks the true sadness that lies beneath.

This train window farewell took place in Mysore, a lovely, tidy and well-run city with by far the most attractive old market I’ve ever come across. Originally I gave it the title of “Emergency Window” as the full composition includes a notice above the opening which seemed neatly to compliment the solace emanating from the passenger. The title stands though this symmetry has been removed. On the subject of symmetry, perhaps it is just their identical facing, yet the two women in focus, looking left of frame, not the moving passer-by, appear similar enough to be related. I’ve always assumed it was mother and daughter, though this is just as likely mere inference.

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Venice, Rialto Bridge, March 9, 2007

During the day the Rialto Bridge in Venice is a very busy place. Whatever the season or weather, the bridge is not merely a tourist magnet, but one of the key central crossing points along the Grand Canal and is thus rarely free of people. This is the case for much of the centre of Venice – being as beautiful as it is, the streets are often packed with both locals and foreigners. Things certainly quieten down in the off-season, but the thinning of the crowds starts from the outside in and the Grand Canal retains its floating population.

At night, however, particularly in the colder months, the streets can become surprisingly empty and a welcome quiet descends upon La Serenissima. The freedom to stroll leisurely and alone through the streets, hearing the soft scuff of one’s feet on the flagstones is a rare and beautiful thing. It gives Venice back its subtlety and romance, hidden behind the hubbub of the busy days. It is then that the city’s antiquity and its strange melancholy become most apparent; the precarious decay, the suggestive gloom, the orange of lamps and jade of the luminescent canals seem as genuinely characteristic as the glittering palazzi reflected in the sunlit waters.

This photograph reminds me of the quiet and empty nights I experienced in Venice on my four visits there in various years. Be it March, April, October or November, there were always nights on which the crowds completely dispersed and the streets were free to wander through, unhurried or interrupted by others. This photo is of the stairs leading down the eastern side of the Rialto Bridge of a couple whose dynamic silhouettes captured my attention. I’ve always liked this shot on account of its movement; the setting remains so still, the bridge’s marble polished by millions of visitors, but the couple are wonderfully expressive without meaning to be so. They seem so sexy and alive while around them the city eases into sullen silence.

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