Week / Week

Text & photography by Bert Stephani

I’m a father … Every other week.
My divorced friends said I would get used to it. But after four years I still don’t and probably never will. I always wanted kids, but I never wanted two lives. 

I know I’m very lucky compared to many other divorced moms and dads: the relationship with my ex-wife is pretty good, I get to see the kids regularly after school on my weeks off and I've fallen in love with a woman who accepted that I came as part of a package deal. 

I’ve learned to live with the week/week thing. It makes managing my work and travel schedule easier. But I’ll never get used to the deafening silence that descends upon our house ... every other Friday night. 

Being Born | KAGE phase II

“From the fool’s gold mouthpiece the hollow horn
Plays wasted words, proves to warn
That he not busy being born is busy dying”
— Bob Dylan - It's Alright, Ma (I'm Only Bleeding)

By Patrick La Roque

A friend of mine reminded me of that Dylan quote a few months ago; it's a concept that haunts me constantly. The line between finding your voice and repeating yourself is infinitesimal... One day you're on top of the world, secure in the knowledge that you're pushing as hard as you can, that your creative endeavours are true, honest, a constant exploration of your capabilities as an artist, photographer, craftsman, whatever; the next you're gazing upon a landscape that feels completely empty, devoid of any meaning beyond some endless repeating pattern. You're stuttering and you can't stop stuttering.

I'm not saying we should change for change's sake. But within the parameters we've set for ourselves, we should constantly be aware of our tendencies to be complacent and content with the status quo. It's so damn easy to be content.

Today we're unveiling our biggest reinvention since the project's launch in 2012. 

A lot has changed in the past two years: we've gone from 4 to 8 members, we've solidified our alliance as a group and all of us have grown tremendously both personally and professionally, inside or outside of this collective. And even though many of the things we're introducing have been on the table since the first moment we began this conversation, only now does it make sense to put these in place and offer them as part of the concept. We needed that growth and we needed that time for all of it to be possible.

With today's communication tools it's trivial to get a bunch of people together on a website and call it a collective —  I guess on some level it's perfectly legitimate too. But in my mind that's not what it should be about.  A collective implies an actual ongoing conversation where everyone gets his/her say, where every member participates in the decision process and the direction of the project as a whole. It needs to be about a continuous exchange of ideas. The KAGE COLLECTIVE was built from day one on discussions, photography and cohesiveness; on visual and philosophical coherence within the group. Which is why we'll never add new members every other week or strive to "get" as many photographers as possible. We're not and will never be in it for numbers — we prefer to be relevant, to ourselves as well as to others, at least as much as we can. Beyond the visual redesign, many of the new features/sections we're introducing come from some rather intense internal brainstorming sessions and all of them reflect a very strong group identity on which we wish to build the future.

The most obvious addition to the site is this new blog you're currently reading called CHRONICLE. We didn't pick the name lightly: we intend to go in all sorts of directions with this one. Yes, we'll be writing some technical articles, reviews and tips etc... But we mostly want this to be a journal ON and ABOUT Photography — capital P;  as an idea, a concept and a journey. We want to explore why we do what we do, not just how. We'll write about shoots and share backstories; we'll look at the landscape of the photographic world and share thoughts and reflexions, the sort of thing we already engage in within the group. Basically, we'd like this to be a glimpse into our thought process — which hopefully will turn out to be a somewhat interesting read for you guys out there ;)

If you're a regular visitor, you've probably noticed changes to the way the site is now organized:

  • The front page is now solely dedicated to presenting the project. It includes a contact form: if you feel like getting in touch, that's the place to do it.
  • Stories now have their own dedicated magazine-style page that includes an updating grid view of all stories published so far.
  • Our personal blog posts, @kagecollective tweets and Flipboard mag are now part of the Chronicle homepage.
  • We now offer two different RSS feeds (available on the Chronicle homepage): KAGE Posts & Stories offers updates to both the Chronicle blog and the Stories section. KAGE Uber offers this same content plus updates to all our individual blogs.

Overall we've tried to consolidate the various features into sections that made sense, instead of laying everything out on the homepage. Events and Publications are new sections that reflect some of those changes we've undergone in the past years and a global Workshops page will soon follow. On this front, look for much closer collaboration and cross-projects coming in the near future.

I can tell you we're very excited about the challenges ahead and the plans we've laid out, and we hope you'll be part of the journey. Most of all, we're excited about keeping ourselves busy being born.

Welcome to KAGE phase II.

 

 

the Luxury of Failure

By Bert Stephani

Some nine years ago, when I decided to pursue photography as a career, it soon became clear to me that I needed a good base level in my work. An amateur photographer gets judged by his best images, a professional gets judged by his worst. I realised that I had to learn how to make my worst pictures good enough. I’ve spent lots of time and energy to raise that base level and over the years I’ve became capable of returning with at least usable images from pretty much any assignment, even when things go wrong. 

I still believe that this is a good thing and an essential skill for a professional photographer but we all know that playing it safe isn’t creativity’s best friend. About two years ago, I embarked on a long term personal documentary project about hunting in Belgium. I’m hoping to turn it into a book and an exhibition in 2015 but even if it turns out to be a success, I probably won’t make any money on it. The topic of hunting is rather controversial here in Belgium, so I don’t expect the project to become a showcase towards potential clients either. But it’s something that I’ve wanted to do for a long time: use my camera as a passport to satisfy my curiosity and the fact that I had a hard time understanding why anyone would hunt in this country. And even more importantly: no assignment, no client, no pressure, only … the luxury of failure. 

I promised myself that I would go for only the best images. Instead of playing it safe and make sure that I had usable pictures of anything that happened and some pleasing pictures of anyone involved, I wanted to go for fewer but better pictures. Even if that ment accepting the risk of coming home without anything to show for a long day in the fields. 

It turned out to be easier said than done. I found myself often slipping back in my default professional photographer mode. At a certain point I even taped a note on the back of my camera that said “take risks numnuts!” For a long time it remained unnatural to do so but I slowly grew into it thanks to a couple of tricks and discoveries.

On my first day of the project, I went out with a full camera bag. I had a Nikon D600 with a 28-300 lens with me, plus my X-Pro1 and a couple of lenses. That was of course the safe, professional thing to do: cover all your bases. I got some good pictures but upon reviewing my images the next day, I realised that I failed to capture the feeling of the day. All that gear and worrying about it’s well being in the muddy fields, restricted my vision. 

The next time I went out with just the X-Pro1 and the 18-55 lens around my neck and some spare batteries in my pocket. Less gear, allowed me to see better and I’ve stuck with those limitations ever since in this project. I have been using different cameras and lenses but never at the same time. By forcing myself to leave the camera bag in the car, I think longer and harder about what I want to say with my pictures and what are the best tools for doing so. 

During my first few days on the project, I got impatient and bored when nothing happened for a while. And I got frustrated and angry with myself whenever I picked the wrong spot and couldn’t move safely for the next hour or so. The hunters taught me a valuable lesson in patience. They didn’t seem to mind a bad day. Even when they didn’t fire a single shot during a long (and expensive) hunting day, they seemed to be at ease with it. Only when I started to adopt their mindset, I saw that accepting a bad day is the price you have to pay to experience a good one. It took me a while to be able to trade control for the chance to be awed. 

Even almost two years into the project, I often feel uncomfortable being out there in the fields not playing it safe and taking the risk to come home without a single good picture. But the weird thing is that I’ve never come home without a couple of pictures that I’m really proud of. I’ve learned that whenever I allow myself to fail, I make my best work. 

It pays off to allow yourself the luxury of failure every now and then. In personal projects it’s a luxury that you can afford, makes your work better and allows you to grow as a photographer. I found out that you can apply the luxury of failure to professional assignments too, but that’s for a future blog article. 

Inner Sanctum

TEXT & PHOTOGRAPHY BY PATRICK LA ROQUE

Should I even be here? I'm not entirely sure. My lack of faith, in many ways, has me feeling like an intruder. There's nothing public about this space — It's so obviously private, a hush permeating every square inch. Empty corridors, empty stairways, empty classrooms with empty chairs. The echoes of a bustling fraternity have long since faded, lost in the aftermath of the Quiet Revolution.

We enter a chapel I never knew existed and there's no one here but us. My friend signs himself; I simply bow my head in respect. He leads me to a door behind the altar: "I want to show you something" he says. There's a metal staircase leading down to the original foundations and... A crypt — A long room lined with dirt on either side and tombs dating back to the 1600s, a shovel making it clear this is not only about past, but present and future as well.

I walk in reverence, whispering.

We pass through another door and enter what first seems like a semi-abandoned storage area. But there's life here: potted plants are being tended to, small projects are obviously underway... And yet it's all perfectly still and frozen. In one room I find pictures, newspaper clippings, empty bottles and what appear to be small bone fragments on a shelf, all of it spanning decades or more; like the accumulated knick knacks of an immortal. 

This is a refuge.
I feel the awe of the explorer — And the guilt-ridden pangs of the invader.

Rock Star

TEXT & PHOTOGRAPHY BY DEREK CLARK

A cloud of chalk forms as Al claps and rubs his hands and fingers in preparation for the climb. Weatherbeaten skin, big arms and steely eyed determination is what you expect, and what you get when Alan Wilson arrives at the Bowderstone in the English Lake District. His fingers search out holes in the rock-face as he plots a route to the top. Reach. Grip. Pull.

Al is a Rockstar. His body is his instrument, the rock his stage and you are his audience.

Thanks to Fujifilm UK and Millican for setting up this shoot. Special thank to Alan Wilson for being a real (rock) star.

Incoming

Text and photography by Patrick La Roque

This is where I used to live — This house that remembers everything, where nothing ever changes. This house of everlasting flowers and clocks stilled by the weight of years and books and games on stand-by; everything forever on stand-by.

But there's a stirring...

Time is finally pushing against the walls. We hear it banging at the door, its wild face pressed against the window, screaming in anger. Objects have already begun to fade, quietly, and we know what's coming... We've seen that emptiness in the distance, riding in on thunderheads.

This is where I used to live, where everything still stands — for now.

I want to be a cowboy

TEXT AND PHOTOGRAPHY BY FLEMMING BO JENSEN

I grew up on a farm and for as long as I can remember, I always wanted to be a cowboy. John Wayne westerns were my favourite movies and I never missed a single one on TV if I could convince my parents to let me stay up. I wore cowboy boots and a hat and I practiced twirling my toy Colt sixshooter every day. I pretended my bicycle was a horse, even tying it to a tree. I never liked apple juice as a kid, but I drank it anyway. I figured the sour taste was the equivalent of a cowboy drinking whisky so I felt rather heroic drinking the juice in one go. We had cows on the farm so it seemed to me that I was a cool and authentic cowboy, even if I could not actually ride a horse. I wanted nothing else but to be a cowboy. 

Time travel forward many years and I find myself at the High School Rodeo in Truth or Consequences, New Mexico. I am still wearing boots, jacket and a hat. I use a camera instead of a toy sixshooter. I am surrounded by real cowboys and cowgirls, horses, ropes, hats and bulls. 

I still want to be a cowboy.

Whiteout

Text and photography by Bert Stephani

Gently at first, powder sugar
then more, much more
A thick white blanket muffling every last sound
Defeated by frozen water, the city goes to sleep early

A shovel digs into the frosted crust,
the sound of metal scraping the pavement
Life flows back into the city
through winding arteries of liberated concrete

White sculptures dotted around the city
Soon forgotten, liquid memories
Nothing lost, nothing gained
Just 24 hours of rare tranquility

Nude Technicolor Echoes | Verses.

Text and photography by Patrick La Roque

He's thinking of Saul Leiter in a New York blizzard, of dripping shadows brushed across a fedora
& women sprawled in their apartments, pale hearts dissolving in the twilight.

He drinks light like liquor & he paints & he paints
& vapours burn his face & stretch his mind.
He sees atrocities in the deep, the white magic of dark corners;
& he sees beauty.

He speaks in nude technicolor echoes  
calling mad horses with a long black tongue;
inside/outside, it's all the same —
All a moving canvas,
stilled within a captured frame.