There’s more than a little irony at play when speaking and attempting to inspire at a photography conference hampers your capacity to actually take many photographs but that, dear reader, is the paradox I find myself in this week, having just returned from Northern Ireland late last night.

Really, photography is about the questions we ask ourselves as we’re deciding what to photograph.

My background’s in theatre; and the key questions I ask myself when I see a production (or decide to work on one) are these: “Why this? Why here? Why now?”

By which I mean, why this story, at this time, in this place - what particular, specific resonance does a show bring to an audience? We interpret everything in the context we experience it; so what is it, in particular, that makes the script relevant right now, to the people of this place? The answer isn’t always obvious; and, sometimes, the context arrives just as the show hits the stage…

I’m always seeing photographs but I don’t always take them. Most of them I just register in my mind and enjoy without the need to press the shutter. Since moving to a new town earlier this year though I seem to find that internal trigger going off more and more often…

Sydney’s a city.

Sure, there’s a harbour, there are beaches, there’s the Opera House - but there’s also all the things that come with a large population trying to coexist on a small amount of land.

Traffic, construction, development - history getting plowed under for renewal and development, with little pockets saved by determined campaigning that, once in a while, succeeds in protecting the past…

It’s fair to say that in the summer months every space is filled, every arcade becomes a cacophony of jangling coins clattering through the penny slots and the sands and promenade are brimming with visitors munching on ice cream and fish & chips as they walk with opportunistic seagulls circling overhead well into the evening.

But it’s no longer summer in Scarborough. 

Personally, I’ve never been a fan. Of going out in the rain, of getting wet, I mean.

Swimming is fine - that’s different. It’s the sogginess, the smell of wet clothes, the waiting for your jeans to dry while you’re still in them.

But I have to admit, I quite enjoy photographing it…

I’ve been noticing the sun, this week - well, on the clear days at least, I have.

The sun, its effects, its surrogates - we miss it when its gone, we replace it with whatever we can find, we wait for it to come back; and in the mean time, we make do…

It’s not that I’ve led a double life. Not really.

It’s more like several, sequential, sometimes-overlapping (but often not) lives.

I was back in Canada recently, where my parents are (finally) starting to think about moving out of the home I grew up in.

But the side effect of that is, everything in the house has to go someplace else; so the things I left behind, when I went overseas “for a year” (in 1996), now need to be dealt with, sorted through, decided on. And, being a filer - someone who files things - I could hardly just throw everything out.

So one of those bags that came back from that trip was full of paper - and now it’s here. And it still needs to be dealt with…

It’s not that I’ve led a double life. Not really.

It’s more like several, sequential, sometimes-overlapping (but often not) lives.

I was back in Canada recently, where my parents are (finally) starting to think about moving out of the home I grew up in.

But the side effect of that is, everything in the house has to go someplace else; so the things I left behind, when I went overseas “for a year” (in 1996), now need to be dealt with, sorted through, decided on. And, being a filer - someone who files things - I could hardly just throw everything out.

So one of those bags that came back from that trip was full of paper - and now it’s here. And it still needs to be dealt with…

Spring’s arriving.

Sydney’s warming up, flowers are blooming, and beaches are starting to fill up with sun-seekers, and even swimmers.

A birthday lunch on the north side of the bridge took us to the sandy shore, and the signs of the summer to come were everywhere to be seen.

The sun’s getting hard, again. The shadows are crisp and dark, without a cloud in the sky.

Spring’s arrived.

Sometimes, it's just the lines.

The intersections & collisions. The mix of new and old, of sun and shade, of hand-painted and computer-created - and, once in a while, a burst of something organic.

I guess because I've been away recently, the lines of Sydney are fresh to me again…

It's early. But I'm late.

People are off to work, I've got an appointment on the other side of our neighbourhood - but the light is good, and I can't help making myself just that little bit late as I walk.

Everyone else is rushing, but I go in fits and starts - I'm a fast walker any any time, but then I'll stop suddenly when something catches my eye, the shadows mingle, the angles line up, the dog has David Bowie eyes, whatever.

So I'm going at a relatively good pace; except, of course, when I'm not.

And...somehow, I've misjudged it…

A week is a long time in politics, and in life.

This time last week, we were in Canada, it was summer, the days were long - and we knew who was running the country back home in Australia.

Over the course of this week, we've spent 24h in transit, a week trying to adjust our internal clocks (finally with some success overnight); and 5 days watching our parliament being brought to a halt by internal struggles, and the party in charge attempting to choose a new leader - finally with some success overnight…

The sky is calling. It's time to go.

There's no clearer sign that a trip is ending than the email from your airline saying 'check in online for your flight tomorrow!'

The packing has been going on all day; and at the same time, I'm drawn back to the details of where we are, the particulars of this place, which may or may not be here when I'm next in this country. So my focus is split between putting things in bags, and appreciating my surroundings one last time…

I'm home.

Well, it's one of my homes - it feels like I have three, really: in Sydney, Toronto, and Pointe au Baril. But this is where I spent the most time, growing up.

This house has been here longer than I have; my parents bought it in 1962, and have somehow stayed here all that time - while I can't even remember all my addresses in the last 20 years, theirs has remained fixed…

Some things never change; well, not much.

I know this place. I know its history. My own history is - quite literally - written into the walls.

Living as far away as I do, these visits are much more rare than they were when we spent our summers here, swimming in the lake many times per day, playing cards, reading books, stubbing our toes on the rocks, and messing around in boats.

It's nearly time. We're going soon.

I'm backing up. Packing up. Hitting the road, the rails, the sky - these are our last hours in Australia, and my mind is already ahead of us; even while the things around us are familiar, in my head we're in Toronto…