Photography blogs are boring and make me want to go on a terrible spree. Welcome to the antidote.
Hello, hardcore fans of my stupid bloody writing, thanks for remaining loyal. Yes, there are only four of you, but that’s more than enough for an awkward dinner party, so let’s gather round and talk about ME.
Now, I value the four of you very highly, and you’ll be happy to know that, now I’m settled in the new place, I aim to be significantly more prolific than before; that includes both photography and writing. And guess what? This new blog post is part of my middle-aged freakout inspired by the irrevocable march of the void, like a bloody awful train, swooshing its way towards my podgy, sort of Jesus-looking, fleshy headbox.
Because I’m terrified of becoming the cultural and creative equivalent of a fucking listicle (and because I really, really hate Buzzfeed), this post comes to you in a pseudo-listicle form.
And GOOD CHRIST, is it ever disgusting. Sorry. It has nice pictures though.
After guesting on Thom Rosell’s ridiculously brilliant podcast, Pod Your Own Adventure, (that’s a link you big fool, click it, hear laughs come out of you), I was challenged by Thom to create my own mini book about being a crab, in the style of the Choose Your Own Adventure books. You will have to listen to the podcast to discover why I chose embodying the mind and soul of various species of crab as the subject of the story (aside from the obvious fact that crabs are fucking brilliant).
How am I doing for pathetic, attention-grabbing headlines? Feel like you’re reading a listicle yet? No sooner had I finished my very silly (and strangely emotional) tale of a top carcinologist finding himself inside the mind of a crustacean, I bunged my balls onto the tube and shited off to an evening shoot; namely, The Save Rubyyy Jones Revue over at the Royal Vauxhall Tavern.
Save Rubyyy Jones is a eye-sploding panoply of neo-burlesque, queer, drag cabaret magnificence. If, like me, you’re some sort of culturally ignorant, bulging idiot, neo burlesque is a sort of modernisation and perversion of classic burlesque; you won’t find any standard feather dances here or, if you do, the feathers will probably be on fire and being juggled. Not that you can juggle feathers, flaming or otherwise.
The performers at Save Rubyyy Jones were all incredible portrait subjects. I have a constant, nagging, niggling fear in the back of my hairy boncegob that I am not as well-read or culturally aware as I could or would like to be; if I can use photography as a method of rectifying this, then that’s yet another positive thing it can do for me.
Friday saw me back at Lucha Britannia, one of the most exciting pro wrestling promotions in the country. When it’s good, pro wrestling is really good. Really, really good. Sadly, most people’s contact with it is either along the lines of a bit of WWE in the 80s or ITV’s World of Sport. Don’t get me wrong, I am a fan of both of those promotions, but people extrapolate from their brief experience with either of these promotions that all pro wrestling is like this. Let me try and sell you on pro wrestling for one paragraph. JUST ONE, I promise.
Think of a wrestling promotion as the “artist”, and think of pro wrestling as the “medium”. Pro wrestling is essentially performance art for the working classes; and it is an art. It really is. And just like any other art form, it can be done very badly or very well; the important thing to note is that there is the potential and scope for really, truly brilliant pro wrestling. That’s what you get at Lucha Britannia.
Imagine being given this task – entertain a room of people by staging a convincing, ten to fifteen minute mini-play, 80% of which you must improvise as you go, where you fight and fly around a ring, sweating buckets. If you are the bad guy, you need to make them utterly hate you within a couple of minutes. If you’re the good guy, you need to make them care about you. Off you go! Oh, and I hope you’re in peak physical condition, because you will be exhausted by the time you’re done. And try not to break any bones.
That is why I love wrestling, and why I salute the workers at Lucha Britannia. (I know, that was two paragraphs, shut up).
And here he is. Isn’t he suave?
And I’d do it again in a heartbeat. I also changed the name of it to “Before Turning The Blog On Himself” because, well, it’s miles better and better communicates my frustrations with just how boring so many photography blogs are. They’re even boring for photographers to read, which is silly, because photography is bloody brilliant and powerful and evocative and alive. I promise you I will never discuss a single technical detail here, because I can’t think of anything worse.