A Holiday with Martin Parr in Folkestone

I'm just back from one of the best things I've ever done. I went on a weekend in Folkestone organised by the School of Life called 'A Holiday with Martin Parr'.

What a brilliant, special thing! To stay in a charmingly kitsch hotel in charmingly kitsch (though also excitingly up and coming) Folkestone with my absolute favourite photographer. Not only that, but in spite of natural fears about what I was in for, given the unknown quantities involved (not least all the other people on the weekend), it turned out to be a completely engaging two and a half days with a really fine group of people, all interesting and likeable, and not a single crazed egomaniac or unaware BO-sufferer or (apparent) psycho among them.

A member of the hotel staff, in the lobby

But I'm getting ahead of myself.
     I took Friday off work and drove down to Folkestone in the morning. The first rendezvous for the Martin Parr weekend wasn't until 6pm (drinks in the hotel, the Langhorne Garden). But I wanted to make the most of the experience and by 12 noon I was sitting on the seafront at Sandgate, a 'suburb' of Folkestone just along from the town in blistering sunshine -- already casting my eyes around for suitable subjects for photos (abandoned grannies, scrapping children, etc, etc) but not actually daring to take any photos of them. I didn't see Vic and Bob or Paul O'Grady, all rumoured to live in or near Sandgate. The night before I had done extensive research on Folkestone in preparation for the weekend, including looking it up on Knowhere.co.uk, which is something one should only do as a last resort and definitely not about one's own home town as it will kill any affection you have for the place. Thus my view of Folkestone, prior to arrival, was one of hellish levels of grimness, perhaps comparable to Albania or Dagestan, with added loveable celebrity residents. As is so often the case (thank the Lord), none of my research was borne out -- or only to a very small degree and highly photogenically.

After Sandgate, I went into Folkestone proper and made a beeline for Rennies' Seaside Modern, in the lovely 'Creative Quarter' (aka the Old High Street). I've wanted to visit Paul and Karen Rennie's amazing vintage shop for years. Calling what they do 'vintage' doesn't remotely do them justice as they are serious (world-class) collectors and purveyors of the best modern antiques, particularly graphic design. In the past we have bought one or two Festival of Britain pieces from them that I don't believe you would easily find anywhere else.

I walked into the shop and, rather daringly, I thought, said to the gentleman who was sitting there, 'Are you Paul?' And he was! So I had a lovely chat with him and was able to pay homage to his and Karen's wonderfulness in person. I met Karen too and you would have thought my happiness couldn't increase when into the shop came Martin Parr himself, with his wife Susie. Great excitement all round! I had already told Paul why I was in Folkestone, so Martin's appearance wasn't entirely unexplained. Soon they were chatting and then MP asked if he could take Paul's picture. I didn't want to intrude on this moment so looked intently into the shop window (from the inside), but it was very very interesting to hear how powerfully MP directed the mini-shoot, knowing exactly what he wanted. I stored all this away for later.
     Tearing myself away from Rennies, I toured the rest of the Creative Quarter, spotted an art gallery that I really liked the look of: Strange Cargo's George's House (with a show on that I liked too, by John Howard), and finally made it to the hotel.

My room was cavernous, with a double bed and a single, and for a while I was haunted by the terrible thought that I might have misunderstood the set-up and have to share a room with an unknown Martin Parr fan, but happily no one else came through the door. The levels of kitsch were perhaps not quite as rococo as I had been led to believe -- this may be the result of my having stayed in more lowly hotels than Martin Parr and the School of Life people: this hotel was not many removes away from others I've known. But still, pink candlewick bedspreads and Seventies wall-mounted radios must be savoured before they finally disappear.
     Going down for the welcome drinks was really the most challenging moment of the whole weekend. No amount of publishing parties and conferences will ever prepare me for having to walk into a room of strangers and introduce myself. Especially a room full of photography enthusiasts jostling for their first moment with the Great Man of the weekend. I had the advantage there in that I had already made Martin and Susie's acquaintance, in the Rennies' shop, so they said hello when they saw me. I must just say at this point that Susie Parr was the loveliest, most gracious, delightful person and added a great deal to the pleasure of the weekend.
     Before I had summoned up the courage to speak to more than a couple of people, we found ourselves walking en masse through Folkestone to our dinner venue. I thought (still in the mindset of Folkestone-as-Dagestan) that the deranged gangs probably wouldn't take us on if we stayed bunched together. Although it was dusk, I had reluctantly to accept that the town still seemed perfectly lovely and unthreatening. What on earth are they to do to dispel their online image? Soon we arrived at Rocksalt, a beautiful, modern restaurant on the harbour front (with a Gordon Ramsay trained chef). The meal was very delicious and I was keen on the use they'd made of local ingredients such as buckthorn. A jolly atmosphere soon rose like a heat haze around us. The School of Life certainly didn't stint on the wine. Then it was back to the hotel (unmolested, not to say ignored, by the ravening natives. I was starting to think my whole internet-inspired picture of Folkestone was entirely false) to sleep and prepare mentally for the real work of the weekend, which was to start at 9am the next morning.

sunrise from my room

After breakfast the next morning, we had a pep talk from Martin to arm us with confidence when we went out to suck the very essence of Folkestone into our cameras. He issued us with a challenge: to produce a 'portfolio' of five photos, which we would then view the next afternoon. The five photos were to be: a portrait, a cup of tea, a shot of the hotel, the fading glory of Folkestone, and a free choice. We streamed out of the hotel. Within seconds (literally) I saw two of us moving in on the unsuspecting rider of a mobility vehicle (I made a mental note to force myself to refrain from all such shots, however tantalising -- in any case I got my favourite shot of said mobility vehicles on a previous holiday to Whitstable -- see below) and one of us already up on a walkway above a shop (how?? Incredible ninja-like dedication to the project) to get a good shot of the hotel. The race was on. Who would get to the ice-cream van and the cockle stall first?

I spent the next two hours asking people if I could take their picture, an entirely new experience for me. It was a combination of unnerving and happy-making. Only one person said no, everyone else was fine about it.

What I realised, when I looked back through my shots, and especially after I had seen what other people had achieved with their portraits, was that I hadn't really taken it far enough. I was so bowled over at having found the courage to speak directly to people that I then just politely pointed the camera at them and didn't try to get to know them or to direct the shots at all. All this is to learn and then try out next time.

my shot for the 'cup of tea' challenge

The two days just filled up with taking photos, looking at them, rendezvous-ing for food (dinner on Saturday night was at a kitschy Italian), watching some of Martin's films, including a brilliant portrait of Teddy Gray's sweet company in Dudley. You can watch the full film online here (really worth it -- 22 mins long). We also had a delightful lecture by Susie Parr about her book, The Story of Swimming.

Still another treat was a talk by photographer Robin Maddock about his career to date and particularly his project to photograph Plymouth, which has resulted in the book, God Forgotten Face.

His work is definitely work looking up. I can't really reproduce any here because of copyright.

We had another mammoth picture-taking session on Sunday morning. There were Newfoundland dogs being trained to rescue people in the sea. I tried to take a good photo of some of the many dogs who were watching it with great interest. Didn't really come off.

Imagine the high excitement, the hopes, the tension when we had all given in our five selected images and gathered in the hotel lounge to view them all on the large screen. Martin Parr announced that we would all vote on which ones we liked best in each category, points would be awarded for first, second and third, then the points would be tallied up and there'd be overall winners. You could just tell everyone was really hoping their images would be liked. Martin gave some comments as we went through -- very positive and very helpful, with pointers on composition that would really have helped me, if I had just had him there at the moment the shutter opened. I found it very difficult to choose which shots to put forward, and when I got home I showed D, D and C the ones I had 'shortlisted' to see if they would have chosen the same five images as me. In almost every case they disagreed with my choices. As for my photo which actually came top in one category, they all agreed it was rubbish. A good counterbalance there, then. I won't tell you which one it was of the ones I've posted here. The people who came out as overall winners were truly deserving and had taken the most beautiful photos. Lots of the photos across the board were brilliant. I think a Flickr page is going to be set up for us to post to, so I'll let you know if that gets up and running. I was left with an intense desire to try to take some better photos. I couldn't have asked for a more enjoyable, stimulating weekend and I didn't put on the TV once, or go online, or go in a shop (apart from Rennies' Seaside Modern, which is exceptional).

"These associations" -- I've been Tino-ed

On Tuesday I went with my daughter to see the Damien Hirst show at Tate Modern. I didn't really want to see it, to be honest, but D is doing an Arts Award, one part of which is to write up something you've been to see. Damien's pills and sharks and butterflies seemed likely to provoke responses.
     As we were walking towards the ticket desk to get our tickets, down in the lower level, I suddenly sensed, without really seeing it, a kind of collective movement. There was no extra noise, but a definite sense of intention. People were striding down the slope towards the Turbine Hall. Quite a lot of people. I felt excited -- 'Is it a flash mob?' I hissed at D. I was very much hoping that all these marching people were going to break into song. Even an impromptu performance of 'Thriller' would have thrilled me.
     Still watching to see what might happen, we went to stand in the ticket line. Just then a woman of about my own age came up to me and launched into an account of how her grandmother had given her a purple suede mini-skirt forty years ago and how it had empowered her. She stood right in front of me and stared into my eyes. It was very disconcerting to be addressed at random in this way and held captive by the narrative. I felt an incredible sense of obligation, that, as always, I should be polite and listen. But at the same time it wasn't a normal interaction. I didn't know what it was but I tried to signal to D to catch it on film. I think I mouthed 'Film it!' at her, but was too polite to speak over the woman. By now she was saying that she had recently given the purple mini-skirt to her own daughter or granddaughter (not sure which -- it was hard to take it all in as I was too busy trying to process what sort of incident I was now part of). D didn't film it!
     The woman came to the end of her story and wheeled away, joining the marchers again. By now they had been up and down the length of the building a few times and were running round in circles, following a leader, I think. Who the leader was was hard to work out.

We watched for a few minutes longer. By now I had decided that it must be some sort of happening laid on by the Tate, although I had no idea what. You could see other visitors were being stopped by people from the group and spoken to intently. I wondered what stories they were being told and whether they were more interesting than 'my' story, which I hadn't really liked. The experience of being buttonholed and given a story, whether I liked it or not, was very strange and I guess that's the intention. It isn't an entirely 'fair' interaction because the person on the receiving end doesn't know the 'rules' of the game, and they don't seem to be encouraged to participate, to ask questions, to tell a story in turn.  In a way, you are 'assaulted' by the story -- but at the same time you feel special, privileged to have been singled out, for whatever reason, to be the receiver of this unique moment.
     Later on, at home, I discovered that it had been the first day of the latest Turbine Hall 'installation'. The group of people (or similar groups) will be marching and running and telling stories to people every day until October 28th. I had a particularly intense experience of this 'artwork', which is titled 'These associations' and devised by Anglo-German artist Tino Sehgal, because I knew nothing about it beforehand and had to find a way to respond to it whilst immersed in it. It was quite provocative, but not really as 'dangerous' as the Director of Tate Modern has proclaimed it: "the most complex, difficult and dangerous project we have ever put into this museum". One is taken by surprise, discomfited, possibly entertained, but not threatened or even asked to do anything other than look and, possibly, listen. I felt I would have liked to be part of the group, marching down the slope and back again, running round. I started to think about what stories I would have told people. Maybe that's enough.
     Reviews have started to appear: Guardian, Telegraph.

Holiday report parts 2 and 3 will follow soon. 

Before my holidays are gone for ever -- Part 1

Woaah, it feels strange stepping back onto my blog after a fairly long hiatus. Sorry for the silence. I can't really blame the fact that I've been on holiday, as that was only two weeks out of quite a few more than that. But it's the desire to do a holiday post that has actually delayed my return because it's just so daunting.
     I have over 500 holiday photos, most of them really poor, and they have to be waded through and weeded out. And I want to write about the holiday in some detail so that I have a good record of it, but it all takes sooo much time. Still... here we go.

The above two photos are my visual clues as to where we've been: a chance version of the flag of the first country we went to (seen on the side of a boat) and blue and yellow flowers for the other country (in a planter there). Have you guessed yet? Not too difficult really: Denmark and Sweden.

We flew to Copenhagen, the brevity of the flight bringing home just how close Skandinavia is to us in the UK. Copenhagen was founded in the late twelfth century by the dashing chap above, Absalon, who combined being a bishop with being a warrior in a way that seems entirely unfeasible today.

Based on a very fleeting acquaintance with its history, Copenhagen's golden age seems to have been between the mid sixteenth century and the mid eighteenth century. The buildings from that period still give the city its flavour, particularly the wonderful spires which dot the skyline. My two favourites are above. The one on the left has a spiral staircase up the outside of it that you can climb up (alas, we didn't) and dates from 1747 (Church of Our Saviour). The twisted spire on the right dates from 1640 and was supposed to show four dragons with their tails entwined, but as no one knew what dragons really looked like they were modelled on crocodiles. This one is on the roof of the beautiful old Stock Exchange building.

We felt very relaxed as soon as we arrived in Copenhagen. It was very laidback and we hadn't done any of our usual slightly obsessive planning of what we wanted to do. We just set out from our hotel and wandered. We soon found ourselves at Nyhavn, the old canalside street full of cafes which is really the heart of the 'tourist' centre but it didn't feel tacky, just friendly and welcoming. We went down into the sunken ground floor of what seemed to be a really old pub/restaurant for something to eat and, feeling the Skandi-love, I decided to have the herring buffet. Ten or twelve different 'ways with herring'! And just some new potatoes, bread and radishes to leaven the herringness.

I did enjoy my gigantic plate of fish but now that I've had it once I don't think I'll ever need to have it again. Under all the various sauces, it was very much still herring.

My 'slot' to photograph the Little Mermaid before the chafing Japanese tourists asked me to move out of the way

Over the course of our three days in Denmark we had a lovely, relaxed time just pottering about. It's a city I now know I want to go back to, because there's a massive amount to do but you would need to have the energy and determination to do it, travelling out of the city to various museums and interesting satellite towns as well as hunting out all the cool stuff in the city itself. There is so much great architecture to see, for starters. The building I most regret not going to see is Grundtvig's Expressionist church:

Closely followed by the Royal Hotel, designed in the Sixties by Arne Jacobsen. Now a Radisson Blu hotel, you can visit Room 606, which is the only room still furnished with Jacobsen's specially designed furniture:

 On a whim we jumped onto a canal boat cruise and thus got to see some fantastic new buildings (the new National Theatre, the new Opera House, the new National Library, a super-trendy floating hotel which I would like to stay in one day) and some beautiful older ones too, particularly the canalside area of Christianshavn.We also saw an MA art show at the Nikolaj Tower, a decommissioned church which made a brilliantly gothic art gallery:

There was art to be found all over the city, even underwater. This spooky merman and his seven merchildren gaze up from beneath the surface of the canal, imploring their human wife and mother to come back to them:

And I also liked this sculptural maze (easy to cheat, though):

We loved Norrebro, the district to the north-west of the city centre, which has streets of great vintage shops, and also the boho University district. We also went to the Danish Design Centre and saw a good exhibition about new materials.

Of course, it wouldn't be a proper trip to Copenhagen without a visit to the Tivoli Gardens, which I had been repeatedly urged to go to by my Dad, who thinks they are heaven on earth. They were very nice (but my idea of heaven on earth is to follow, in part two of this blog) and the buildings reminded me a little of the Festival of Britain back in 1951 (a very good thing):

It felt very safe and our kids were able to go off to the rides while we had a nice lunch.

My kids coming down to earth (at the top of the picture)

During this lunch we started talking to a Danish lady who told us that our visit coincided with the 'three days for Greenlanders' when lots of attractions in Denmark (or possibly just in Copenhagen) were free for citizens of Greenland, which, you may remember from that episode in Borgen, has a slightly difficult colonial sort of relationship with Denmark.

Tivoli clown statue

On our last morning in Denmark we walked in search of Christiania and went too far, finding instead the handsome old military barracks which have been redeveloped to give a home to new enterprises and also the national film school, drama school and art school. We were a little taken aback to see a naked couple swimming in the river, but also pleased because they were like a little symbol of Scandinavian freedom and enlightenment. Good for them.

Christiania is a self-declared 'free state' within Copenhagen, mostly famous for openly selling drugs. We were just curious to see it but only stayed for about ten minutes as it felt a bit paranoid and sinister. There were a great many signs everywhere forbidding photography, and I don't suppose the drugs on sale are any freer from dodginess and misery up the supply-chain than anywhere else. It's pretty amazing (to us from the uptight UK) that such an enclave is tolerated, but perhaps the city think it somehow practical to corral the hippies and dopedealers there -- not all of them, obviously, but a fair number -- and practise a kind of vigilant tolerance. I think there are signs that the authorities may try to close it down at some time in the not too distant future. A great set of photos from inside Christiania by Maja Daniels here.

This first leg of our holiday was over (apart from a last, farewell bounce on the trampolines set into the pavement just by our hotel) and so we got a taxi to take us to the train station. But when the driver found out we were going to take the train across the Oresund Bridge to Sweden, he offered to drive us right to the door of our hotel in Malmo. We had so much luggage that, after thinking briefly about how much it was going to cost, we sagged back in the upholstery and said, 'Yes please'. So it was in grand style that we crossed the beautiful and famous bridge, humming the theme tune to The Killing as we went.

Tune in next time for Malmo and Lund in Part Two... (Here's a little taster)

Paintings

Just a quick post in partial explanation of why I'm hardly posting at the moment. I've been grappling with this painting for ages and have decided to stop. It's not a great photo of it and you can see the doormat, but at least that gives a slight idea of the scale. It's 50cm x 40cm, in acrylics, and shows Dannii Minogue in the back of a car with two friends/minions.

A weekend in Hastings

Hastings bus shelter

I can't believe a week has already passed since we went down to Hastings for a weekend treat. The visit was more or less a spur of the moment thing and motivated only by my vague memory of there being strange dark 'towers' on the sea front that I would enjoy photographing.

The towers surpassed all expectations. I thought there were only two of them, but there was a miniature city of them, an English San Gimignano.

They're fisherman's shacks for drying their nets.

I'm afraid my photos weren't actually very good, so I've gone a bit overboard with the Photoshop.

The towers lend themselves very readily to Gothic fantasies.

But there was SO much more to see in Hastings. It was a fantastic town, full of interest and charm. It may have been a bit down on its uppers a few years ago but it has come right back up and seemed very alluring.

 Is is obviously a place that originated as a fishing town

Nothing I like better than a rotting hulk

The Jerwood Gallery opened in Hastings in March. We went to see the exhibition of large paintings by Rose Wylie. There was a documentary film about the artist (who has only recently come to prominence at the age of 77) playing and I got very disapproving looks from a couple of the other people who were watching because I'm afraid I laughed out loud. Rose Wylie was shown to be extremely eccentric and she seemed to me to revel in her difference from boring 'normal' people. She seemed to have an almost calculated childishness, for which I salute her. Who wants to be all grown up and sensible? I felt sure the film was celebrating her kookiness, but the other viewers clearly didn't agree.
     Then we discovered that Hastings Old Town contains a labyrinth of junkshops, with some of the yards full of stalls and insane junk stretching back behind the shop fronts into large plots behind. Some of it verged on the post-apocalyptic, it being hard to imagine anyone wanting to buy what appeared to be the detritus of a lost civilisation. But it was very enjoyable trawling through it all. I managed to keep my hands in my pockets for most of the time, and just bought an old game:

Make your own landscape with the magnetic picture elements

There were beautiful new shops too and, straddling the two, very high quality vintage shops. One shop deserves a special mention. Hendy's Home Store was just unbelievable: a Georgian house stripped back to its original features and filled with museum-quality kitchenalia, office furniture, bathroom fittings -- each room was full of appropriate things. It was stunning. You can't imagine how they could keep it so well stocked and actually bear to part with anything.

The office department in Hendy's

My photos are useless. Here's a much better set, plus an article about how the house was restored.

We had dinner at St Clements in St Leonards, just along from Hastings, and I can really recommend it -- lovely food and very nice atmosphere. Then we stayed the night in a nice, old-fashioned little hotel in Sedlescombe, which looked like a beautiful, chocolate-box village.

Derek Jarman's house at Dungeness

The next day after a spiffing breakfast (it was the sort of hotel where the waiter brings your toast and whips away the napkin that has been keeping it warm on its way to the table with a flourish), we went for a walk at Dungeness. I would absolutely love a little weekend place here, if such a thing were within our means. It is a unique, wonderful, otherworldly landscape. The wild flowers were unbelievable.

When we had been thoroughly scoured by the wind and been restored by a cup of tea at the miniature railway station, where they were having a special Thomas the Tank Engine Day, much to the excitement of a great many small children, we went on to Bexhill where we had lunch at the fabulous De La Warr Pavilion.

It must have been just before they put the 'Italian Job' style coach on top:

Richard Wilson's new installation on the Pavilion roof

More fantasizing: this beautiful house is for sale just along from the Pavilion. What I wouldn't give, etc, etc....

It was a lovely weekend. I could spend weeks down on the South coast, exploring. I could imagine myself moving their to live out my old age. Already I'm planning another trip -- there's Rye, Pallant House in Chichester, the Weald and Downland Museum, Down House (Darwin's House) -- so much still to see...