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Definition 36 | Libertas Restrictus

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PHOTOGRAPHY AND TEXT BY DEREK CLARK

Anyone who has seen the movie Braveheart will remember the character of William Wallace, played by actor/director Mel Gibson, cry out the word FREEDOM. Although a bit overused since the movie done the rounds, freedom is not something I've taken for granted. The ability to go wherever you like, whenever you like is not something all people in all countries are able to do. So I find the obsession in the 21st-century to obtain fame bizarre and self-destructive. Fame might bring the financial ability to afford to go wherever you like, but the freedom to walk down a busy street unnoticed is true freedom. To go where you like in total anonymity is bliss!

Coronavirus has removed or restricted freedom in 2020 and possibly into 2021. In the beginning, it looked as though lockdown was just a way to get people to stay at home so that the government could change the batteries in all the birds, but there was a shortage of toilet roll, not batteries, so I guess that wasn't true :o)

Freedom for me is to take a train somewhere and to wander for miles with a camera in my hand. Most of my pictures include people. But as a street photographer, I had no one to shoot on the streets, as a music photographer, I had no bands or musicians to photograph. As a musician, I had no audience to play to. Life really did come to a standstill.

But even now, I feel the rust taking hold of my photography and creativity in general. I don't have the time to shoot long enough to allow the brake pads to separate from the disks. There is a feeling of being trapped, fenced-in, and on the outside of where I want or need to be. Parts of the country, including where I live, are seeing increased numbers and more restrictions being re-introduced. So even now, as we move toward October and the long dark winter, there is as much uncertainty as ever. But I’m not ready to paint my face blue and shout FREEDOM. Not just yet.

Definition 35 | Typecast

By Patrick La Roque

I really did completely lose track of this assignment. I never do that. It's funny how so many plans just fizzle out these days, diluted in the permeating haze. Btw can I mention just how sick I am of always adding these days to everything I write? It's almost like an apology. I need to stop doing this. 

The goal of the Definitions project was to take a deep dive into who we are, as individuals and photographers. Of course, we never imagined so much would change. Our private conversations, as a group, have slowed considerably. Mainly because I think we're all tired of constantly repeating ourselves (“all good here, kinda...not much to add...same old, same old...”), or too busy focusing on survival, on the future, our families and our sanity.
Sigh…

I hated airplanes.
I miss airplanes.
I miss the knowledge of possible encounters. I miss hanging out with my buddies halfway across the globe too. Our planet was tiny and it got big again. Sprawling, desert-like and unattainable.

Most people define themselves through the work they do—I am a lawyer, I am a programmer, I am an electrician—but there remains a form of compartmentalization. When the day ends, the persona usually gets left behind. I don't want to pretend we're in any way special, but I believe it IS different for creative types. Because the engine for that work, the persona's roots, spring from within ourselves. It becomes difficult to separate this from the whole. The walls are thinner here.

So, what's left to define then, when our activity stops? Who are we left with? I feel like a TV actor whose show has ended. Typecast and suddenly without a script to learn and remember.

...

These are pictures of objects that surround me.
Some have meaning, some are merely clues to other spaces;
all are portals,
into the past or future.

Definition 034 | Don't Get Around Much, Anymore

Definition 034 | Don't Get Around Much, Anymore

Like most of us, I’m finding this year hard.

I’m well aware that it could be worse, of course—Sydney (and New South Wales, and Australia) are comparatively speaking doing extremely well, with new cases under 20 per day for months now; meanwhile, to our south, Melbourne is in their second lockdown after case numbers went over 500/day for weeks on end.

But still, between my father’s passing earlier in the year, and the fact that the entire industry I’ve spent my career in is closed indefinitely, it’s hard to know what my purpose is at the moment. Mostly I try to stay safe, which means rarely leaving the house aside from walks in a nearby park or grocery shopping; so I see the same few blocks, and not much else…

DEFINITION 32 | THE PAGE THAT STAYED BLANK

BY BERT STEPHANI

Yesterday was my deadline for a new KAGE story. Yesterday was also World Photography Day. In the two weeks leading up to yesterday I was aware of both facts and determined to shoot a great story. So I took a blank (virtual) page and grabbed a(n Apple) pencil and ... nothing happened.

Usually the hard part of starting a new story is just to write those first few keywords down. But once that’s done, the rest flows into a finished story pretty easily. It still can be hard work, but it isn’t difficult, not really. It’s just a matter of forcing myself to get going and then do the work.

But this time, the story just wouldn’t come and believe me, I tried. I had some ideas, but they all seemed artificial and forced. So I just kept a camera close and shot whatever caught my eye.

For a moment I thought about investigating which story was hidden in the random images:

The dark tones reflect the cloud that hangs above us in these trying times. The obscured self portraits are a sign of insecurity and the clouds symbolise the fear of change. However I clearly look for light, light at the end of the tunnel. Not everything is lost, after all, the compositions express a desire for order and new structure ...

Bullshit of course. These are just images ... or is there more?

Definition 030 | Addiction

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Images and words by Jonas Rask

In exploring what define me I cannot escape the obvious. I am a complete addict of photography. Not just digital photography, but to an even bigger extent; analog photography.
If some of you out there know me, or have been following my various online outings over the past 8 years, you will surely know that I live and breathe photography.

It has become an integral part of me, and I am so fortunate as to not be financially dependant on doing photography. I’m known in the photography circles as a hobbyist. An amateur.

The fact that I’m an amateur has a huge effect on the way I see and practice my photography. I take pictures for me. For fun. For relaxation. For commitment. For learning. For exploring. For documentation. For the stories.

I started out shooting digital, but after 6 years, my curiosity made me look at the old analog process. As a natural part of my evolution as a photographer it was a step forward while looking backwards. It was something new to learn, and to explore.

A new fix if you will.

It’s no secret that I own many cameras. I think the total has surpassed 40 or 50 by now. And oddly enough, the majority are analogue cameras. They’re pieces that I’ve collected slowly but surely. Rolleiflex 2.8E, Leica M6, Pentax 67, Bronica RF645, Contax G1&G2, Hasselblad 500C, Fujifilm TX1… the list goes on. They’re precious items. They’re the cream of the crop. I wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s part of the analog fix for me. And part of my love for aesthetics.

But don’t be fooled. They’re not just for show and shelf life, because of the rule.

One rule that ensures constant usage of my cameras no matter the season. The rule states that if a camera doesn’t see usage within a 6 month period it needs to go on to a shooter that will appreciate it more than me. My house is not a camera museum, nor will it ever be.
All these old tools work in different ways, and they all challenge my creativity in an equally differentiated manner.

So will I show you my camera collection now? No. I’d much rather give an example of the essence of photography for me at this point in my life. An expression of the rush that my addiction and continuous photography-fixes give me.

The pictures in this story are all shot on a Saturday morning in late June 2020. As usual I had an idea, and I asked my sweet daughter Nanna if she wanted to spend some time shooting. This has become out thing. We have an amazing time while doing these pictures, and we always have tons of laughs.

I had an old AGFAPAN APX25 B&W film in the fridge. I had found it in a box many years ago. I had no clue how It’d been stored, nor how old it was. I looked up the film stock and saw that it was in production from late 1980’s until 2000-something.

The rule is to overexpose these old films by 1 extra stop per decade expired. I figured I’d play it semi-safe and gave it 3 extra stops. That means shooting it at ISO3. Yes, ISO THREE.
I measured the light needed, put an old National flash on my Hasselblad 500C with the 80mm f/2.8 and used that to trigger my modern Good AD200. Shot as a single light.

After the shoot Nanna actually developed the film herself in Rodinal chemistry.

The result is full of flaws, old disintegrated film traits as well as permanent letter markings from the film paper.

But I absolutely love them! Because of the process of getting there. Because of the technical learning involved. Because of the risk-taking. Because of the fun we had while doing them. But most importantly for the precious moment captured in such a unique manner. I will probably never forget this Saturday in June where we shot this roll.

That is the reason for my addiction.

And here are some behind the scenes shots of Nannas developing session. Shot on the Fujifilm X100V

Definition 028 | Sous les sabots...

By Vincent Baldensperger

Frontière entre reportage et documentaire. Sous le soleil de Gaillac en Occitanie, j’ai découvert la passion de Grégoire, travailler son petit vignoble à la fraiche avec l’aide de sa jument. Rituel immuable, prendre soin de l’équidé et le préparer pour quelques heures de travaux entre les vignes. Entre ces deux-là c’est l’entente parfaite, Grégoire guide l’animal à la voix, sans jamais hausser le ton, toujours avec calme et délicatesse. Deux petites parcelles à entretenir au milieu des valons tarnais pour trois quilles pleines de vie.
Une fois de plus j’ai savouré cette découverte, une fois encore j’ai pensé à mon “métier” qui n’en est pas un. A tous les bonheurs qui se présentent lorsque sur le terrain, je pousse la porte et plonge dans un nouvel univers…

Definition 026 | Screed

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By Patrick La Roque

welcome to the holding pattern
shadow play
of limbs flailing
in endless twists

hour upon hour,
day upon day.

i can’t define who i am anymore
i can’t define the world
i can’t define the news
i can’t decipher monday from sunday from friday from easter or winter or fall.

welcome to the holding cell
where crowds gather when i dream
and i cower in fear.
funhouse baroque theaters
packed
got a show to do
got no script
got no words.

welcome to static
white pink and brown
noise
angry
flooding the airwaves.
drunk and blubbering idiots spitting on
sidewalks
chanting automaton patriots of hellscape.
they don’t define me either
i am amorphous
i am intangible
i am liquid
drying.
i squeeze into gaps
of land
rising above barren skies
listening to the black angels,
ears plugged,
outside cancelled,
deep reverb drips & licks
to coat my tongue.

i blast with fury,
blast the gods
with twisting heart writhing
and blood stained hands;
i'm a horse machine
and horse machines are black and white.

who do we think we are anyway?
the moon is gone and mars is dead
if we won't resist.
this is a culling
a reckoning
shockwave purity dance
texas hold’em
flush
and circle down.

the future is typewritten?
fuck the future;
that’s gone too.

...

When life veered off its normal course I retreated into a fragmentary place. Now, I struggle to see the whole again. It’s all broken up. The focal lengths I use don’t even matter anymore: all I see are shapes draped in shadows. And I’m scared, to tell you the truth. Scared to have lost something, to now shoot the decorative instead of the meaningful. Scared to be unmoored forever, adrift on a sea of mismatched parts. No shoreline, no real horizon to cut through the curvature of time.

My mind is full, exploding in fact, but my body is numb, exhausted from too many early dawns, sunrises and birdsongs. From watching our southern border and reeling. So thank god for movie nights, eleventh birthdays and cake. For tall grass where cicadas hide and moan.

We’ll be ok.
We’ll be different.
We’ll be fine.
Like a raging torrent,
unstoppable.