There was a bit of the sunglow thing going on in the sky this morning but this shot is more the result of me playing around with some filters which my new camera seems to have built-in. Some of them are ridiculous, to be honest. But this one produces a reasonable effect, even if it is me just messing with gimmicks as I get used to the thing.
In the 1940s The Valley stadium in south-east London could seat 70,000 people and was one of the biggest football grounds in the country. It doesn’t quite have that same scale any more but it’s still a decent football stadium: if you can find the entrance to the away end, anyway. At least the extended trek that was required to gain access allowed the opportunity of this shot, the only point from which the city behind could properly be seen. And the steward, doing his thing.
Photographically I still mildly regret not looking out of the window at about 3am on the morning of 2nd August last year and seeing this building aflame. This picture is taken from my house so we’d have got a good view: as it was, I did smell the burning and hear a distant alarm but once my subconscious had determined that none of this was coming from our living room, or similar, I went back to sleep and missed the opportunity. Never mind. The rebuilding is under way, as you can see. I like the green on this shot, which is what caught my eye in the first place.
Everyone grows up, even Hell’s Angels. Every Sunday there will be some motorcycle club or other relaxing in the square. This lot had better gear than most.
As a result of my travels down the years I have developed a theory that the general national psyche of particular places is in no insigificant way formed by its weather. A frequent British opinion is, ‘why expect good times to last? Something crap will inevitably come along soon’, and this is applicable both to our feelings about life in general but also the weather. You saw the picture — last Friday was a glorious day. Not any more, not a bit of it. This sun hat cowers under the rain-covered glass, very glad that it is not being worn.
There only really was one subject for today: day 4,242 of Being 42. The number is only meaningful right here and now, 11 years, 7 months and 10 days (including three February 29ths) since I started, but here we are. I knew this graffito was here, on the road to the railway station at home in Hebden Bridge, but for once it’s alright to choose a shot.
On the hill of Montjuïc, which rises between Barcelona’s city centre and the port, there is the site of the 1992 Olympics, much of it feeling rather neglected these days. When we first saw this place my initial thought was that it was something to do with the Olympic village, rows of concrete blocks with what seemed like dark windows in them, all looking strangely moody. Closer inspection revealed why: in fact they were these mausoleums, piled on top of each other like apartments arranged into streets and avenues, with stepladders here and there so families can reach the highest. I’ve never seen anything quite like this before except, to some extent, at Novodevichy in Moscow, but even that doesn’t quite reach this level of stacking.
These are not my tools. Six days we’ve been working on the problem, fruitlessly. Get a professional in and it’s sorted two hours later.
I despise litter, but sometimes there is, if not beauty, at least interest in it: frankly it’s amazing what gets chucked away. What these ceramic roses had been doing somewhere on or near Abingdon Street in Manchester, I have no idea, and whether they were broken first, then disposed of, or whether the breaking happened because they were chucked, who knows. Either way, call it my homage to the cover of the classic New Order albun, Power Corruption and Lies.
Found myself hanging out for the afternoon in the bits of Manchester that are so far out they are actually Salford, or is it Trafford. Salford Quays is a good-looking spot on a day of sunshine and showers. There were three or four shots that could have made it today. But I’ll go with this one: the shapes are pleasing.
Being 42 