I saw him having a quiet moment on the broad promenade above the shingle beach. He was lost in the murmuration. His mouth moved silently as the starlings swirled and spun in the sky like a shimmering puzzle and his hands moved as it he guided them in their flight. He was truly among them in that moment; free as they were and as fleet and nimble and serene.
This little patch of light outside of St Bartholomew’s Church, Brighton
On the side of St. Bartholomew’s Church in Brighton, the sun shines in little pools of diffusely reflected light. The building opposite the church is adorned with perfectly angled windows that act like lenses to cast shards of brilliant white light that dapple the graffiti festooned wall in a chiaroscuro dance of light and dark. It’s one of those places that as a photographer you make a mental note of and head back to from time to time to see who you can find and persuade to stand for a moment in those shards.
Martin is pushing a trolley in front of him, his hands clasped around the bar highlight the wonderful details of the rings on his fingers and the white hair ponytail cements my interest in his character. Martin was in the merchant navy, managing crews and logistics for deep sea freight operations. He has been all over the world but it turns out he grew up two roads over from where my mother spent her childhood.
I’ve known Ian for a few years now. He is a super talented artist, illustrator and bike rider. I first photographed him randomly back in 2016 on a Sunday morning as he was riding out for breakfast after chasing a deadline for The Observer, his ink stained hands testimony to his trade and effort. Since then I’ve bumped into Ian at least every other time I’ve been in Brighton to shoot and he’s become something of a friend.
‘Professor Scolz’ mimed to me as he walked past, mimicking the pose Ian had just adopted on his bike a moment before. He was interested to see the results and that led to a conversation about what I was doing and why. He immediately understood the value of the human connections.
Tessa
West Wittering beach is a popular destination for all kinds of people but at peak times it becomes something more akin to Blackpool or Coney Island than the windswept coast of southern Britain. The best times to visit are late afternoon in the depth of winter. As the tide goes out at the end of the day, the wide expanse of revealed glossy beach becomes like mirror on which subjects seem to float.
I met Tessa randomly, drawn by her incredible beauty and brightly coloured clothing. Her composure and serenity did indeed make her float with an ethereal loveliness on the mirrored surface of the sand.
I am often drawn to people whose appearance and presentation is such that it can trigger physical attraction in the viewer irrespective of the subject’s gender or the viewer’s sexual preference. My experience of Tessa, and I confess to being a little bashful in admitting this, is that her age was also be irrelevant in my experiencing that attraction. I confess I have always had a bit of thing for older women, but, well Tessa is quite a bit more than just a few years older than me.
Onesies, Dogs & Geronimo
The group is clearly visible as silhouettes on the skyline; a whirly gig of adults and children hunkered down on top of the most exposed sand dune that is catching the full force of the offshore wind that’s pushing over the long grass and kicking up little sandstorms here and there. It’s hard to tell whether swirling, chaotic movement in the group is the result of the wind blowing them around or the unbridled energy of the children let loose to play among the sand dunes. A few moments of watching shows it’s clearly the latter. There are three females with what I presume are their respective children. I don’t know where their fathers are, probably playing golf or something and I muse that I know without any doubt where I’d much rather be.
The children are laughing and cavorting almost dangerously among the dunes. In places the sides are cliff like, the drops up to three maybe four metres but they are all cushioned by deep drifts of sand and so the risk of falling has actually become something of a game. I remember a childhood holiday in Tenby, South Wales, where each day at low tide the portable walkway that allowed foot passengers to board the ferry to Caldy Island would be pushed back onto the beach. It was maybe two metres high though aged five it felt more like four or five and that sense of height made the game of Geronimo we invented for the holiday all the more thrilling. This involved our newly formed holiday gang climbing onto the walkway and then launching ourselves in one long line off the platform while shouting ‘Geronimo’ as loud as we could. The landing was cushioned but it still felt like a thrill.
I love the pastoral feel to this images. As ever the trepidation of pointing a camera at children on a beach, even ones fully clothed in onesies, piqued my nerves but the joy, movement and fun filled chaos was too good to miss. I wasn’t even using a long lens. At one point all hell broke loose as the dogs from other families broke loose and hurtled into the group to make friends with their own dog. In a moment of almost pure comedy gold, a large Dalmatian and a scruffy looking whippet started chasing each other in continuous circle, revolving around the three women sitting in the ground as if they were pioneers encircled by native Americans.
I don’t know why I’ve not been to West Wittering beach before but it is certainly my new favourite place and somewhere to take the boys for their own sand dune adventures.