The Professional Photographer feature- October issue.

 

 More exposure- click on the image to see full-size

It was another dreich afternoon in Auld Reekie and I was drookit. Through the cataract spectrum of the nebulous har I could make out the glow of a twisting barber's pole. Before I knew it I was peering through the salon window. Behind the precipitation and condensation I could make out a cluster of Oriental fashionistas. So, this is how my hair-brain logic went: I've got straight hair - so do they. Cool cuts are top of their hip list of priorities ergo they must know this is a good hairdresser. I was in need of a hair-whisperer with flair and this could be my man. I stuck my head in the door and and was greeted by sudden silence. I asked if I could make an appointment. A teenager translated my request into Cantonese and the hairdresser nodded. "Aye come back in an 'oor", she confirmed. For the next 60 minutes I kept wondering if there'd be anyone to translate. How would we communicate? The shop was empty. Jet tumbleweed floated across the floor. "Hi" I said, "Hey" he replied– we were off the starting blocks. He was called Liam, a solid Celtic name. And that was it - we were now looking at each other through the language barrier. On a table was a stack of hair menus. A trichological feast of mullet served with assorted mega-waffles, crimps and crinkles. The unwitting victims tried to hide their embarrassment under their hair-raising creations. Their clenched grins couldn't disguise the fact that they knew what we were thinking. Although tickled, I was not tempted by any of the specials. 

Liam guided me by eye. Locked on like a Sidewinder I tracked his trajectory to a red chopping block with porcelain basin. "Was" I followed his instructions to the missing letter. I submitted my neck to the basin where he proceeded to was(h) my hair. Sitting on his chair he lowered me to ground level. I took a deep breath- hair goes. Gestures to the ready and noises in reserve, we set off. Liam is a Zen Master of the scissors. He beat my crown and calf licks into submission. Another was', a final cut and blow-dry and voila! The logic worked, the haircut experiment was a resounding success. 40 minutes out of the ordinary on a miserable day, all for just twelve quid.
That was four years ago and Liam had just arrived in the UK. He was lured from his wife and son to work 60 hours a week in a Scottish side-street clip joint. In Hehehot, Liam led a team of 12 stylists in a fashionable salon. An ocean of hair has been swept under the linoleum of time and since that first encounter we have remained loyal friends. And the charge? Still 12 pounds. What price a haircut?

 Something I've come across- a funky app with my photographs. Nick Cave's Bunny Munro is now available as an audio download for iphones.

The PR team at ActionAid contacted the Scotsman paper. Their 'Spectrum' magazine want to feature the HungerFREE campaign and run some portraits. My interviewer Ruth (Walker) turns out to be an enthusiastic and tenacious sparring partner. We met at a neutral location that serves the best flat white in town- Peter's Yard. Before she has a chance to whip-off the gloves I drag her outside and insist she does 'touch'. She puts up no resistance.

Over breakfast Ruth asks me why I loathe being tarnished with the title 'celebrity' photographer. Celebrity photographers are a recent phenomena- like WAGS, X-Factor contestants and Labradoodles. They're a pernicious breed that hadn't been conceived when I started out. Me, I celebrate everyone in my own, idiosyncratic way. 

I don't know what to believe anymore, but it's in print so it must be true- I'm "Scottish". Alba I luv ya! Thanks Ruth

 Finally finished the ActionAid campaign image. A week of preparation, three days shoot and three days in post-production. Within a couple of hours of the charity approving the image Design Week requested to run it. This came as a surprise as I hadn't anticipated acknowledgement from the design world.

Grant(Scott) wants to interview me for an upcoming issue of Professional Photographer. I met him twenty years ago, back then he was a talented and courageous magazine art director who commissioned me regularly. I would always present Grant with images that would scare him witless, before pulling out the safety-shot. We had an unspoken agreement; as long as he got his photograph, I could, and must, do my thing. I kept smuggling out my booty under the hemline of a shot that would stop him reaching for the nearest bottle.

Grant's career has gone from art director to published photographer and now he has been appointed Group Brand Editor/ editor of 'Professional Photographer' magazine. I've come to think of myself as an 'Independent' photographer and, although he agrees that the title 'professional' was tenuous, Grant thinks it's time got some exposure.
The questions he conjured made me out to be someone with integrity and determination. Loaded terms like 'incredibly powerful' and 'without compromise' suggested I'd achieved a level of notoriety! I had to choose my words very carefully.

(The article will be run in the October issue of Professional Photographer.)

A couple of weeks ago got a call to pitch an idea for a charity campaign. On the 16th October, ActionAid were going to launch HungerFREE and needed an image to spearhead the campaign. They fired reams of facts and figures at me. Their goals and intentions were achievable and irrefutable. The challenge to communicate the severity of the crisis whilst satisfy the requirements of the many involved and associated parties was daunting.   

 A simple image of hands holding a bowl, containing chains of manacles in place of food, was chosen from the 14 ideas I put forward. A bowl of handcuffs, sounds simple enough. All I had to do was paint them, link them together and shoot 'em. Add a bit of digital alchemy, hammer home their slogan 'Free the Hungry Billion' in bold type and I'm done.
  The receptionist at the novelties suppliers thought she had taken a hoax call when I ordered a hundred pairs of cuffs. When they arrived I linked them together and piled them up to find they lacked any impact. So I called back the suppliers. "I need more, another two hundred pairs should do it." She had trouble keeping her composure over the howls of incredulity coming from her colleagues in the back.

  Next stage; prime three hundred pairs of handcuffs in white, then spray them yellow. A colleague at ImagineArt (art-therapy service) kindly offered me the use of their recently acquired studio to make my mess in. For four days I joined the chain gang, sweeping up and down the lines of manacles with Roots Manuva's 'Witness' on repeat.
  My solvent-induced trance was broken on day 2 when a señorita appeared through the mirage. She was a dancer looking for rehearsal space. Her smarting eyes squinted over an improvised respirator made from a Hermes scarf. Through the manacled perimeter she inquired “Do you know that in Spanish the word for handcuffs and wives are the same?” Before I had time to digest this paradox she blurted: "You must come and see my collection of handcuffs!" After drawing breath I asked if she'd meant to say "her harem?"
  She evaporated in a haze of blushing red.

My body's telling me it can't take anymore and submits to my pathological sense of curiosity. The Edinburgh Festival officially ended last night but the comedians want the final laugh. Making my way down the stairs to the club I'm struck by a backdraft of sweat and jocularity.

This is the last Stand, a rare opportunity for the comedy kindred to convene at the Stand Comedy Club. Seymour (Mace) is on the decks and is spinning old skool toons while

Simon (Viz) Donald tears up the dance floor like a Bigg Market stag.

The elusive Daniel (Kitson) is playing photo ping-pong, returning the volleys of flashes from behind a fistful of cd's.

The bar is free and besieged. In the crush I eyeballed Reginald (T.Hunter). "Sure" he's up for touch. Outside in the the dreich dark we commandeered a lamppost and I listened as his mellifluous tones syringed my aching ears.

The arrival of a mischievously half-cocked Mick Moriarty (Gadfly's) was my signal to split.

end-Edinburgh Festival 2009

 Tonight started with a show at the Forrest Cafe. My old mate from squatting days in London, Matt (Bowyer) is in town. Usually Matt's acting on the stage or in front of the camera, but for the past week he's been working the faders for Station House Opera. He knew the performer who'd got a 4-star review the night before, so we were feeling optimistic. The audience was a mix of hysterical students, culture vultures and bemused parents. Sat next to us was a fifty year old translucent Goth in open-toed sandals and white tube socks. Precariously perched on his pate was a testament to the remarkable fixative powers of Elnette. He was reviewing the show for some on-line magazine that we'd never heard of and certainly wouldn't subscribe to. The show was free, the laudable policy of the Forrest co-operative; just give an appropriate donation. But the show was bad, 4-star bad. I'd have gladly paid not to have endured the relentless onslaught of public humiliation. For the duration of the performance we sat thinking what we'd do if we were sentenced- shoot first. If it wasn't for Matt's misplaced sense of loyalty we'd have high-tailed it long ago.
The applause fell like summonses being served.

 Next stop- the British Council party at The Mansfield Traqair Trust, a beautifully restored Catholic Apostolic church at the foot of Broughton Street. Cliques of artist and dignitaries orbited the vast nave as the PA smashed school-prom-pop off Traqairs exquisite murals. The young things danced like Simon Cowell was judging whilst the adults flayaled like science teachers. The sonic debris rained down like flak, massacaring any conversation. After an hour of being judged I'd witnessed enough.
 I decided to break-up the retreat via the Forrest Cafe and found Tom (Morris) holding court. On the rare occasions we meet Tom always loves to berate me in public and, tonight was to be no different. So that he doesn't have to keep recalling the story I'll tell you it now-

  You see, Tom blames me for steering him off course and landing him where his. It was 1995, he had his career mapped out and prospects were good, but he had a dilemma. He had taken a long shot and applied for a lofty post at a prestigious but waning theatre. He didn't know if it was the right thing to do but gave it a punt anyway. To his astonishment he had just found out that he'd been selected for an interview the next day in London- problem. We were in Singapadu, Bali dining out on a menu of dragonflies and bee grubs. The boat didn't sail for another 4 days. He consoled himself in the delusion that he'd never get such an eminent position at his age and, with his lack of experience. Besides, they'd have to reconvene just for him, it was never going to happen. I politely explained to him that he was simply talking bollocks. How did he know they wouldn't give him an interview? I told him to extract his pontificating finger out of postulating backside and get word to them, what did he have to lose? He found a telex machine in the jungle and sent a message explaining the circumstances.

 Tom got back to London and yes, they reconvened, and yes; he got the job. I've watched on as he and his illustrious career have soared beyond reach. He is the new Artistic Director of Bristol Old Vic and Associate Director of the National Theatre.
 I apologised to his somewhat bemused company for being the cause of his predicament. Conversation turned to the show they'd just seen. I remarked how brilliant the performer was but, because he's a freakin' lunatic on stage, remarked you wouldn't want to live with him. One of his guests tensed and fixed her glare on me "what do you mean- precisely?"
She was his ex and he was on his way, and I was out of there.

CockfightKetcha

Gavin Evans | MySpace Video

 A 30 minute audio recording made back in 1995, Singapadu, Bali. A circle of men, divided into two opposing groups, chant the Ketcha. The performance took place next to a road as tut-tuts put-putted by. It was a hot and tortuously humid night. The heavens opened but didn't dampen the spirits.

12.30 Saturday night. The phosphenes are battling the phosphors so the computers are set to standby. I'm on course for six hours flat when the phone rings. Sally(Homer) is tempting me from the other side. Sally has an innate talent for knowing the whereabouts of a good time. A group of Dutch comedians she's been publicising were having a party and the absurdist Hans Teevmen would be there. I'm sold so I reset my coordinates for the front door and slip into the night. Entering the destination into my phone I set sail and let Captain GPS guide me to port. This night Cptn GPS had had too much Cyber-Rum and couldn't decide which road to dock. I looked like PacMan, pacing back-and-forth, illuminated by the glow of the screen. A taxi driver came to my rescue with The Knowledge and Captain GPS was unceremoniously banished to to the poop deck.
This manor was Edinburgh high society where red laser wire cordons the public from the private. On one corner a tired hotel clings like a defiant carbuncle. At weekends it's liquid filled contents burst onto the pavements. Parties of inebriated women, arms locked for balance, slosh out of the hotel bar and serenade the curtain-twitchers.

After several attempts on the bell a face from a Breugel canvas beckons me in. In synchronicity his moustache signs his name- Evan. Evan's a comedian, the only comedian not of Dutch extraction- he's an Aussie-Scot. I followed him up to the action.

On the stairs I'm introduced to the effusively amicable Heubert who has rock-roadie-charisma and clothes that scream out for cowboy boots.
We kept scaling the Axminster until we reached the summit. Taking a deep breath I take the plunge. I had crashed a de-briefing session. The room was littered with spent comedians on the come-down from last night performances. They welcomed me warmly with "Hay's" and introduced themselves like a class rota.

Hans(Teeuwen) is holding court, squeezing the last laugh out of every vowel, still unable to face the comedown. Charlie Parker crackles through the laptop's speakers and Hans scats with Bird. I'd seen Hans a couple of weeks ago and found his humour a breath of fresh air. In a world where alternative comedy seems to have become paradoxically homogenised it takes someone like Hans to be the prick that bursts the bubble.

Wrapped around him like a freshly plucked feather boa clung his chick Eva. She'd walked straight off the set of a Renault Clio ad and Han's was not Papa. Eva was the prize of rock gods- half his age, painfully perfect and in full bloom.

Leaning out of the four storey window, intoxiquating the night air with blue smoke was Live Producer Laura. She's the guy's nanny, guide, translator, fixer and arse-wiper.

I took these photographs in Mirtijn's bedroom where he'd struck up a relationship with a faux canine companion and it's come-to-bed glass eyes.

Mirtijn started to obsess over 'touch'. What started out as an innocuous request had turned into a revelatory monster. He kept reading meaning in the images, extrapolating until the frustration welled in his forehead.

Kees used the hand for comic effect.

Was Sander making a smile from the hand?


When the photographs were set to slideshow everyone else revelled Mirtijn's his astonishment. They howled as they discovered unseen characteristics in their friends. This wasn't just a bit of fun, this 'touch' thing.
At 5.30 I reversed out of the cab and suggested that Hans should call me if he ever needed my professional services. Eva's purr turned to a growl as she tightened her claws on him. "What?" she snarled. I forgot in the cava haze that she was a photographer too- she had exclusive rights.

Backstage Mayfair Club, Newcastle 1982, Kensal Green 1986, Kilburn 1994

Tonight came wrapped in trepidation. It's been over a decade since I last saw Edwyn(Collins). Back then he was savouring every moment of his long overdue fame. Our families were tight and times were too. We were old friends and Nova Londoners living a block apart. It took almost two decades for Ed to become an overnight success and his wife/manager Grace made sure that all the rewards were duly collected.
It was shortly after I moved back to Scotland that this chapter was emphatically shut. Their lives had been derailed when Edwyn suffered a life threatening brain aneurysm. His remarkable road to recovery is best left for Grace to tell in her moving and inspirational account 'Falling and Laughing: The Restoration of Edwyn Collins'. Time slips through your fingers, some times it's necessary to get a grip. Tonight is one of those times- time to rip it up...


Edwyn is playing his last performance of the Festival and it's his birthday to boot. 50 is the Magic Number. On stage is an eclective mix of friends and colleagues. Guest guitar performances by Romeo(Magic Numbers), Ryan(Cribbs) and leggendario Malcom Ross turned the night into a truly memorable event. Edwyn held the audience in the palm of his hand, the all acoustic set seemed to give new to resonance to his amazing body of work.
Filing out of the venue Grace appeared from the wings and with one embrace dissolved the years of intractabale guilt., tonight we're going to party.
The birthday party was consumated at a hotel in the port of Leith. Ed's a vision; garland of flowers around his neck and a glint in his eye. He's lost none of his charisma or humour. With the throng of well-wishers and party-goers this wasn't the time to be re-building bridges.


If you're a friend of Grace you're blessed to know someone so remarkable. Her open heart, selfless generosity and unquestioned loyalty is matched only by her Weegie pit-bull tenacity- she'd be falling and laughing if she were reading this. We make a pact that the next time I'm in London I'll stay with them and we'll make a start on lost time.

My parting image of William(Collins) was of a nine-year old with more energy than the Hadron Collider and blushed like a tickled squid. My memory of that ebullient child was standing in front of me, transposed by time into a confident young man- blush tamed but still intact.


Seb(Sebastian Lewsley), Edwyn's stoic compadre, music programmer and re-programmer used my hand as an ashtray when asked to do 'touch'. I like his style.

Malcom(Ross), Ed's stalwart supporter, oozing with champagne charm.

Ryan from the Cribbs was trying his damnest to not be so enigmatic, with little success.

And Romeo! I spent much of the night drawn to him like a moth to a flame. It's impossible not to warm to Romeo.

At 7.30am I pull over the covers over me and my sweetheart. It's been a wonderful night of heart and weight lifting.

At the time of writing this Grace is locked into a battle with MySpace over the rights to show the video "A Girl Like You". Grace begged, borrowed and pawned to get enough together to see it made. I racked up a heap of IOU's from friends only too glad to tear up the check. The video was a tesimony to creative ingenuity, dogged determination and a belief that we were part of something very special. Necessity became the mother of a monster- over 1 million hits and still counting.

10am Sunday morning and I'm dragging myself along Lothian Road as the bin men lug the soiled waste from the strip-joints. I'm accompanying my compañero Don Bernardo to a private screening at The Filmhouse and I'm running late, comme bloody d'habitude.

Bernardo's been invited to the preview of a movie by Dianne Bell (above) and I'm here for immoral support. The film is set in Arizona and follows the journey of an obsessive librarian and a free spirited Scot. It is beautifully shot and has a confident inertia. In my half-awake state I couldn't stop puzzling over the title "Obselidia". For a first movie it's a testament to Dianne’s ingenuity, dedication and creativity- bravo!

After the screening we headed 100 yards to the Sheraton hotel for post match analysis and refreshments. Gaynor (Howe), the girl with curaçao eyes and co-star of the film, is here with husband Liam (Howe).

Liam, music producer and former member of Sneaker Pimps, is from my neck of the woods and tells me he has been working on new material with a mutual friend Edwyn (Collins)- small world.

Jules (Duncan) renowned for his creative debautchery can't stop effusing about the film.

I entrap the illusive songstress Jeanette (Burns) who cranes her neck to talk to me, her four-inch heels bringing her chin in line with my naval. Jerry's voice of honey-glazed gravel is so voluminous it's unfathomable how she compresses it into her diminutive frame.
1pm and Lothian Road is waking as I make my way home, au bloody lit.

Got the comps, joined the queue and we were funneled into the Playhouse, flanked by my photograph of tonights act. The 3,000 seater is a sell-out, packed to it's claret rafters.
I suppose you'd call him a star, but not to his face. Dylan(Moran) is too self-depricating for that. Tonight he's playing to his adopted home town of Edinburgh.

Projected behind him on stage loomed my shot. This came as a surprise; I hadn't realised my photograph was going to become part of the set.

Playing to locals and family is a mixed bag of excitement and pant-soiling fear. Dylan defiantly surmounted his nerves and gave a performance that left the audience with withdrawal symptoms and needing more. He is a star after all.

The Stand Comedy Club, the walls are perspiring and the heat is fanned by laughter. Stoking the flames is Stewart Lee, Britain's one-time 41st Funniest Man and satirical thorn in the backside of mediaocrity.

I've been called in to try and resolve his identity crisis. Stewart is often confused with 'Terry Christian, Todd Carty, Morrissey, Edwyn Collins, Leonardo Di Caprio, Ray Liotta, Roland Gift, Ali Campbell, Mark Lamarr and a 1930's drawing of Tarzan.'

It was a tall order but after a couple of sessions I could now offer him a selection of Stewart Lee impressions. From the session there wasn't a single image he'd censor. Stewart was a great subject and impeccably unkempt company.

Edinburgh Festival 2009

I was urban somnambulating, Hypocanthus at the controls. As they'd say (here) I was going my 'messages' at the college art shop, when my co-pilot was hijacked by a cacophony of power tools and generators. The aural attack was coming from the college grounds. Perfect timing: they are digging up the whole-city; it appears the college isn’t exempt from the excavators.

 A look behind the tarpaulin and my simmering rage was taken off the heat. Inside a sculptor was mercilessly attacking a slab of rock. This was to be a stage for a month long performance.

 Eleven shelters, each housing a sculptor and a block of stone, was the setting of Milestone, brainchild of Scottish sculptor Jake Harvey. He had the inspired vision to display 10 international sculptors, and a graduate, at work in the grounds of Edinburgh College of Art. Artists from Japan, the USA, Spain, Germany, Switzerland and the UK were assembled, each demonstrating their mastery and different styles. Over the next month they would create a finished sculpture from scratch. Through gritted goggles they assaulted, smashed, gouged and beat their hapless victim into submission. The creative fallout covered everything in a blanket of white.

 In sculpture evidence of the trauma and struggle between creator and creation is usually polished away before put on display. Here was a visceral demonstration of destruction in the quest for beauty - for art. Quarrying sculptors remorselessly destroying in order to create: they are not art nihilists. Superficially their acts appear as wanton destruction, yet are demonstrations of a fevered desire to consummate their relationship. The rock never submits without a fight. The two find their way together with psychometry and physical ardor. The course is set in stone, dictated by the flow of the petrified veins and mille-feuilles.
 Milestone was an insight and a revelation. It helped me to better understand my processes and draw some analogies. My subject, like the sculptors stone, is defined by the light of it's surroundings. It too is impassive and acquiescent to its environmental conditions until I start to reveal with my light. With light I can obscure, hew and expose with surgical precision. My persona is exposed through my use of light.
 Once a week, for the span of the event, I made my pilgrimage and kept a record of the consequent acts on this stage.

Priest paying homage to Jake Harvey Scott's work



Hayashi Takeshi Japan


Joel Fisher USA


Sibylle Pasche Switzerland


Gerard Mas Spain


Susanne Specht Germany


Peter Randall-Page and David Brompton-Greene


Jessica Harrison Scotland


Atsuo Okamoto Japan


Daniel Silver Israel/UK




Carlos Lizariturry Moro Spain

The Edinburgh Festival is about to kick off and Mark (Borkowski) is already here casing the joint. I first met Mark 23 years ago when he was promoting chain-saw juggling clowns from French circus troupe Archaos.

 For many years we were creatively conjoined, sharing a kindred Carney spirit and delight in enlightening an unsuspecting public. Mark’s now a legend in his field and a published authority on his craft.
 One of his clients, James "Tappy" Wright is in Edinburgh promoting his new book 'Rock Roadie'. Tappy, a former roadie, claims in his book that Jimi Hendrix was murdered by his manager. My uncle Terry, a porter in the London morgue at the time of Hendrix's death, joked he had trouble screwing the casket shut due to the size of the his legendary member. Terry was the last nail in the coffin.
 We finish our breakfast but before Mark dashes off to his next appointment he gets his tweeter-fix and shoots up the cafe.

 The usual story- I met Kamikaze in a disused abattoir in the l'aisselle de Marseilles where the fetid stench of rendered carcasses still clung to the walls. The site was trailer trashed, strewn with crippled and cannibalised caravans. The Kamikaze Plaza was an oasis of cacti in La Esquina Latina. The plants occupied any container that would provide protection from the urban dessert: baths, sinks, bidets, oil cans, crappers... one slip and the illusion was pricked.


 Kamikaze reigns from Principality of Pilton, Edinburgh. His pathological impulse to bring laughter courses through his galvanised veins. Kamikaze's métier is cracking smiles in granite and his motto is 'C'est la Fuckin Vie'. We are each others star-gate.
 I had flown a thousand miles to discover that when he wasn't travelling he lived just 2 miles from my door. That was 7 years ago and now he's come a knocking.
Kamikaze's got a present for me wrapped in his shirt. He has been waiting to surprise me since he came back from Peru. Now he's peeling back his sleeve and there, amongst the hallowed tapestry of tattoos, was the silhouetted image of the Cactus Gardener. My work was now indelibly mortalised. Next week he's off to India for three months of laughter making and tea tasting- C'est la Fuckin Vie!

 Tonight I'm in London, accompanied by nervous excitement. I've been invited to the unveiling of 2 new rooms in Century Club. Century is a refuge of tranquility conveniently located in the heart of London's Theatre Land. This oasis of calm is crowned with a roof-garden, a surviving bastion of tobacco camaraderie.



 I'm apprehensive because the rooms have been designed around my photographs and tonight is the first time I'll see them. Sophie (manager) commissioned two sets of prints- Cabaret for the new games-room and Fuerzabruta for the restaurant. The Cabaret photographs set a seductive and heady tone. All the details have been precisely worked out by interior designer Louise Begley, right down to the felt cover of the pool-table.



 The adjourning restaurant is in contrast light and airy. The suspended Fuerza dancers look down on the diners like sirens from a basilica frescoe. To celebrate the occasion Sophie has laid on food and drinks. I've invited some friends on the condition that they're on their best behaviour.



 Javier is already here, lounging resplendent under one of the Cabaret prints, cocktail in hand. He's talking to Josephine (Darvill Mills), cast member of Cabaret and subject of one of the photographs. Everyone is gobsmacked by the floor-to-ceiling print of Clemmie Svaas and James Dreyfus that greets them.


 Ralph (Brown), the only friend I know to be immortalised on celluloid and in cellulose, has turned up with that glint in his eye. We met when I was shooting the NT Auditions and hit it off like two on-coming mail trains.


 Ralph's a gifted pianist and saxophonist, you can find his recordings on cd and vinyl. He's about to perform at the Brighton Fringe Festival in the tribute band The Brighton Beach Boys and revels in the story of when I met Brian Wilson. As a side-line he's also an author, director, screenwriter, producer, and prize-winning playwright. He is a polymath who won't let go of his infatuation with acting.


 Gerry (Cottle Jnr) arrives soon after brandishing Sue, his Aussie amour. He's going through his Mungo-Gerry-fro-phase, 6 inches of errect frizz. The dude's a walking Vandegraf degenerator. Hair apparent to the throne of the Cottle Dynasty, Gerry was born in a side-show, weened on midget-milk and suffers from an incurable case of congenital showmanship. Gerry's a master of these occasions. Whenever a void appears in the conversation he'll get out his unicycle and do his high-wire act, crossing the chasm and keeping the party moving.


 Rebecca (Daily) came up to me and took my arm for support. She'd been star struck and was still reeling. This involuntary reaction had never happened to her before. Becky, Avid Master and doyenne of the edit suite regularly rubs shoulders with the glitterati. Being confronted by her hero from adolescence 'Danny' (Withnail and I) was a disorienting experience. He'd obviously made a deeper impression on her than she'd realised. Ralph has that effect on people, beware!


 As Abigail said "a party's not a party without vol-au-vents". Patrica (Lima) was that missing patisserie. She took the party up a gear and homed in on Iffat, the two of them committed social reformers.


 By day Iffat fights social injustice with a rolled copy of British Vogue under her arm. Tonight she was keeping a watchful, little-sisterly eye over me, making sure I was distributing myself equally between the guests.


 Brother-in-arms Ed Webster (photographic producer at 4Creative) was casting a critical eye over the images. Ed's commitment to getting me representation is now taking it's toll. My photographs meet with his approval and he promises that the quest will not end until an agent sees sense.


 Michael (Hulls), is a luminary in the world of theatre lighting design. The last time I spoke to him was to tell him his epitaph had just been read out on the radio. A panel of Frontline critics had savaged a performance he'd just worked on- 'in-i' by Juliette Binoche and Akram Khan. The critics agreed that the only saving grace was the lighting genius of Michael Hulls who eclipsed the show by turning 'Kapor into Rothko'! Michael was modestly horrified by this news, Anish Kapoor had designed the set! When the final daiquiri was demolished and the plates were cleaned out we retreated to the roof-top garden to while away the evening under smoke and stars

 Today our presence is graced by Karen (Lamond). Back in 1990 she winged it with me on an assignment to Romania. She had me under false pretenses, she said she was going to be my assistant. Karen brought her unique qualities to the role. Duties that jeopardised feminine poise, such as pushing and lifting, were the privilege of the photographer. I'd been commission by LIFT to travel to Romania by invitation of their Ministry of Culture and Religious Affairs. The assignment was to photograph 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' by the ironically titled 'Comedy Theatre of Bucharest'. The artists were now free of censorship and the prescriptive humour they were forced to perform under the dictatorship.
 By the time we got there the population had been served Nicolae and Elena Caecescu for Christmas. Whilst their son Nicu was banged away we had the run of his pad and the sheets were still warm. This was the caotically assembled headquarters of the newly formed Ministry of Culture and we were their first guests. Nicu had led the playboy life-style and his vulgar pretensions spewed over everything. The bedroom was circular, the bed was round too. When the door was shut it disappeared in a vacuum into the gold flock wallpaper. Above the bed a chandelier of crystal stalactites threatened to impale it's occupants at the flick of a switch. On arrival we were met by the night-porter, a gnarled curmudgeon coming to terms with the seismic upheaval to his life. With a chalk finger he drew our attention to the lampshade. He could swear it quivered. 'Bucharest has a terrible history of earthquakes'.
 Before we could give our hosts the gifts we bore from Scotland, it dawned on us that these perishables were to become our stable rations. At the International Hotel, the only place to eat, the vegetation had been wrestled from a mollusk- gastropod gastronomy. Karen was going through her pescetarian phase. The dishes on offer were a smorgasbord of grey, meat-based gelatinous knackerbrod. Anything would be better than this. So, Karen attempted to barter a tin of caviar from a waiter- Klass. These were the unique qualities she brought to the role of assistant. At night the city lights were extinguished to conserve power. The demonised gypsy population flooded the streets, besieging Bucharest until day-break. Curfew in Bucharest with Karen was a diet of smoked salmon, Drambuie and laughter. The things we brought fi hame.

 The shoot was grueling but an invaluable education in the healing properties of laughter. On our last night I had a kilogram of banknotes and no possible way of spending it. I offered the cash to the theatre but they refused it, preferring to democratically blow the lot on a party- fair do's. Two of the staff were elected to get the drinks: one to carry, the other to make sure he didn't take off with the money. They returned peering over stacks of crates. The party took place in the committee room at the rear of the theatre. A beige cell lit by a bank of migraine inducing fluorescent tubes segregated by a monolithic table. At one end of the room an exhausted upright piano slumped against the wall. Karen asked for a change of lighting- good call. Moments later the lights were killed and a chicane of gold candelabras lined the length of the table. Her next request- some music. They happily obliged with a pair of guitars and the full Beatles back catalogue. An official with an uncanny resemblance to Adolf Hitler frisked the piano and played "Boowgee Woowgie". "Does madam require anything more?" they gleefully pressed. "Two Pink Elephants" she replied, hurling the gauntlet squarely back at their feet. They came pirouetting back from the props department, trussed in pink hobby (horse) elephants. What a party!

 Karen learnt an important lesson; she'd need to change out of her Manolo's if she was going to travel down this path. In the intervening years she has become a successful and sought after beauty director and photographer. 

 She's a crap assistant, but a wonderful travelling companion.

 1st of April, perfect timing for a session with comedian, yoof TV and 'Never Mind the Buzzcocks' presenter Simon Amstell. Thankfully he leaves the razor sharp wit he employs to ruthlessly dissect his interviewees, outside the studio door. The twenty-something Essex boy is a squeaky clean, totally tee-total, drug and caffeine-free Vegetarian. His body is a synagogue to satire and repository for emasculated young men, too feeble to escape his raffish grip.

 Throughout the day we explore every angle to find images for his PR and tour campaign. Portraits of a wide-eyed, aloof Amstell in his grunge counter-couture were chosen.

In short, they showed his stage personality.
 Of course Simon’s not one dimensional. The other images were perhaps too intimate or too revealing for this campaign. Perhaps in some I had portrayed him as his conquest, the hapless lover he wanted to entrap?
Maybe one day he'll let me show them to you. We'll have to wait to see.

 January - another day of monotone. The sodden nap of winter's fire-blanket had long extinguished Autumn's pyrotechnic displays. Feeling seasonally maladjusted and in need of spiritual re-orientation I dial Javier. Whatever mood he's in, his irrepressible effervescence always lifts mine. Things start off well; his Latin temperament is cursing him for subjecting it to the Great British weather. Then he slips a Mickey Finn into my tonic, apologising that he'll be boarding a plane to Nigeria to research Yoruba dance and culture. To rub salt into my anemic wounds he tells me he'd be travelling with friends Rufus (Norris director) and Katrina (Lindsay costume designer). They were working together on the play 'Death and the King's Horseman' by Nigerian writer Wole Soyinka. And as if that wasn't enough, whilst there they'd venture out of Lagos to meet him. The leaden sky was now pouring acid. When I eventually caught breath from the blow to my solar plexus, I realised that this presented the perfect opportunity:


I was first introduced to Wole Soyinka’s work in 1992 when shooting a campaign for Talawa Theatre Company’s production of his play ‘The Road’. Shortly after, when making ‘dis’, I had the youthful temerity to ask Wole if he'd write me a poem. I had created a photograph that I believed only his insight and vision could seal the marriage between image and word. Despite his perilous circumstances he humbled my adolescent arrogance with a poem of terrifying beauty, profound resonance and perfect symbiosis. I never met or spoke with Wole, back then in 1993 the only way to communicate was by fax. At the time of correspondence he had sought sanctuary at the Sheraton Lagos, before fleeing Nigeria for the USA. More than a decade later I have this chance to safely repatriate Wole’s poem with a print of the finished artwork.


Skip to now. It's mid-March and the intransigent sky is still resolutely grey. Rehearsals are scheduled to start for Death and the King's Horseman when I get a call from Jenny(Jules). Over the years I have come to see Jenny as a wonderfully errant sister. She's an extraordinary talent, a gifted actor and stuff, but when we get together our senses of humour strain to be let off the leash and go bounding off in to the woods. She purrs she's got a lead part in a play at the NT. Enough, basta, comprendo, capiche! I get the message and catch the next train.

Rufus is the Zidane of the stage. He paces the action with the stealth of a predator, preying on the smallest indiscretion that strays from the script.

The role of King is filled by the imperious presence of Nonso Alozie. Standing in at a 6'6" he can quake the stage with the force of Ogun, or defy his mass and float with the light touch and agility of a bird.

Rufus's all black cast is a reassuringly welcome sight, peppered with familiar faces from past projects. Above them a newspaper advertisement hollered down. The Evening Standard is already stirring things in the direction of the box office with the headline 'Black Actors White Up at the National' -a provocatively cynical reference to Olivier's performance as Othello.

My fee is redeemed before the shutter is depressed. No price could be put on sitting in on rehearsals, watching an apprehensive cast find their way under Rufus and Javier's masterful stewardship. No money is exchanged, the equation is simple: I get access to remarkable subject matter plus a unique insight into inspirational artists at work - I was royally paid. The opportunity to shoot the cast in full costume came during dress rehearsals. The only available space was off-stage in rehearsal room 6; a windowless casket of coffee stained cream walls and plastic stacking chairs. It could be have been a waiting room or reception you'd find anywhere - Lagos or London. I resisted the temptation to neutralise it and opted to work with its... banality. The contrast of the actors, extraordinary in Katrina's exquisite finery, set against the ubiquitous sterility of their surroundings could be made to work to my advantage.


In Yoruban culture everything, including inanimate objects, has as spirit. The lampshade girl represents this 'Jinn' and she reappears throughout the sequence as a reminder of this belief. For the following six hours the session is a frenetic production line of masquerading black peacocks, priests, servants, musicians and African Royalty - real and fictional. Full dress rehearsals are a time of palpable panic, eyes in headlights stuff. I had between 90 seconds and 15 minutes to shoot each actor before they were spirited away, back on stage.



(footnote) The poem made it safely home to its master. The present was received with joyful surprise- one more of Wole's lost poems had returned to the fold.

End of The Road. End of story.

The re-scheduled shoot with Nick Cave was 3 hours away. My challenge was to get from my adopted home in West London, weighed down with kit, to Brighton by public transport. I'd worked it all out when Lee suggested that the family tag along. He'd drive us to Brighton and while I worked they'd eat fish 'n' chips and potter on the beach with son Ravi. Grandmother, son, grandson, childminder, buckets, cameras and me, packed into a groaning people carrier.
On the M25 grandma Chander punctuated the jollities with howls of incredulity. She was keeping up with events from the motherland, scouring her newspaper for any reports from India. She delighted in systematically deriding the political, judicial and caste systems with unquestionable authority.
Once in Brighton the satnav guided us to Nick's basement lair with air-traffic control precision. Nick greeted me tentatively and made the first move with the offer of a cuppa. I set up studio in a spare room at the back of the flat, penned in on all sides by racks of suits, keyboards, guitars, more guitars and a bed. The Nick I encountered two decades before was a brooding stupor of mistrust with eyes of dark-matter black. The revised Nick had crystalline pupils and could walk without the aid of a wall. I asked if he remembered the session? No. The location? No. Could he recall me asking him to stand in the corner of the room and how he then proceeded to flap his arms like a snared crow? No. Did he recognise me? No, no, no! Did he agree that the photograph was irrefutable proof of our encounter? Yes. He pleaded mitigating circumstances- drugs.

90 minutes later and outside the family was still braving the February squall. Timing was perfect, any longer and we'd both be suffering from photo-fatigue.
Back at in London I asked Chander if I could take her photograph. She took my hand and placed it on firmly on her head saying "bless me".

Nick chose 11 shots from the session, heaping unbridled praise on one image and blessing me with a quote worthy of my epitaph-

'LOVE this photo. One of my favourite Nick Cave (over 50) photo's. Hey, I'd fuck me!'

 London is pristine in paralysis and everyone's going nowhere. Marooned by an tsunami of snow I submit to this freak of nature and postpone todays shoot with Nick Cave. Before returning to Edinburgh I meet up with publisher Jamie Byng to discuss the rescheduled shoot.

 Jamie is a maverick rookie turned publishing colossus who's illustrious career is matched only by his lustrous mane. This lexicological gynecologist tenderly nurtures his artists through every stage of the creative birthing process. His vision has transformed Canongate from an esoteric publishing house to world contender. Jamie's publishing accolades include the Booker Prize for 'The Life of Pye' and the most audacious publishing coup of the decade- Barack Obama's trilogy:'Change We Can Believe In', 'Dreams From My Father' and 'The Audacity of Hope'.
Nick (singer, songwriter, musican, author) Cave has written a new novel and Jamie needs shots for inside jacket and press. The brief is wide open as the session is likely to be dictated by the mood of the subject. I shot Nick over 20 years ago and I'm told that he continues to view most photographers with contempt and derision-
my kind of challenge.

 Tonight I rendezvoused with my amigo querido Javier De Frutos at Century Club. Century is Javier's Soho sanctuary and casa de casa. When he enters the club everyone welcomes him like a scene from Cheers- directed by Pedro Almodóvar. This evening he's accompanied by satirical composer Richard Thomas and musician-cum-viking-cum-cook Lore Lixenberg.


When Lore sleeps she dreams of food. On waking she writes down the recipes and then cooks them- with some considerable success!


Richard is best known for penning the score for Jerry Springer the Opera. Last year he collaborated with Javier on 'Cattle Call' (a culled classic) and now they were cooking up another feast. Conversation journeyed the four corners of absurdity and on the strike of 12 I slipped away- my pumpkin was due to depart platform fifteen.

 The unremittingly fabulous Patricia Lima set her trap. Could a show she was spinning prick my creative epidermis? The bait was the latest offering from Harry Lewiston's cadaverous contemporary - Gunther von Hagens. Dissect the anatomist and you'll find a pathological showman coursing the veins.

The Beuys parodying, persona snatcher was back with Body Worlds and a mission to 'encourage people to strive to live with inspiration'.
 Inside the O2 we're plunged into black and funneled past glass coffins and spot lit displays. For our edification we are infotained by corpses painstakingly contrived into bathetic metaphors. Flayed gymnasts, apocalyptic equestrians and slam-dunking carcasses make learning real easy. The asinine posturing of the 'plastinates' strips away dignity and washes it down with a caustic soda.

The 'incredible marvel of engineering' of the brain display takes it's cue from Hannibal. A man sits at a chessboard with his brain exposed like a thousand-year egg. Has the Lecterer lost it? Body Worlds poses the question- where does exhibition end and sideshow begin?
 I have no qualms about consensual, ethically sourced cadavers on public display. Like the other 25 million visitors to Body Worlds,

I too am seduced by an innate morbid curiosity. 
 I've tried to out-stare the myriad of eyeballs on display at the Royal College of Surgeons in Edinburgh. The ironic fate of body-snatcher-come-specimen William Burke,

his sectioned head decaying in a glass tank, drew a dark chuckle. I have stood in the cool of the whitewashed galleries and contemplated the prematurely ejaculated lives of the babies- expressed from the amniotic fluid into preserve jars of formaldehyde. Their dead eye's, bonded to the glass , begged the question 'what are you looking at?' I'd have the answer, if I were a surgeon. I was looking for a freak show but I was in the wrong venue.

 Later a friend confessed that he was moved to becoming a pro-liver when he encountered the embryos and newborn at Body Worlds. Was this an own goal or part of Gunther's game plan?

 A Costa cafe was the nearest place to steal a moment. Carlos's punishing schedule never lets up and whenever a blue moon rises we seize the moment and shoot the breeze.

 When I first met Carlos Acosta 3 years ago all I knew was he was Cuban and Principal at the Royal Ballet-punto. Enlightenment came when we were locked together in a makeshift studio the size of a freight container. Over 2 days he taught me the difference between the Russian and French techniques and how the combination of disciplines gave him the competitive edge. I was privileged to a private performance of his ballet, folk, salsa and street moves. He danced with such carnal grace it was as if he'd made a pact with the devil, or a contract with Changó.

Back in the cafe conversation turned to current issues: the political machinations in Cuba, his performance as Spartacus and his ambitious plan to present, for the first time, the Royal Ballet in Cuba.

Carlos recommended several books in an effort to educate me on the Cuban condition. One revelation was the account of a 103 year old cimarron- 'Biography of a Runaway Slave' by anthropologist Miguel Barnet. Was this a subconscious reference to his life of cultural servitude?
We're keeping an eye on the lunar diary. It looks like our next encounter will be in another blue moon.

 Then came Vladimir the bodyguard and Yevgenij, a student who took my hand and blew on it.

 This entry introduces a theme that will reoccur throughout Auto Focus:

 Irina was the first touched. We met in 2005 on a hypothermic October morning in St.Petersburg.


 In flawless English she introduced herself as my guide and translator. Emissary and face of modern Russia, Irina was the consummate professional. Earnest and polite, to the point of prim, she never let her personality colour the facts.

Irina lit the touch paper.

 Winter has been stalking for some time and now it's making it's presence felt.



These snaps were taken on a sub-zero afternoon in St.Petersburg. Prize pooches, Laica and Sputnik, protected from the elements by their bespoke space suits, were paraded with obtuse pride to an numbed audience of destitute and homeless. This is the culture of dog couture where conspicuous avarice is a symbol of social pedigree.

Reprieve came in the guise of a wee snowman standing defiantly on an island of retreating ice. He gifted a sublime respite from the drudgery of the cold and, for a moment, all was well.

 The only place to shoot was at the back of a Portacabin. The front half was being used for costume changes and there were no alternative locations. It was the last night of Fuerzabruta's run at the Edinburgh Festival and my last opportunity to take photographs. On stage the performers danced a catatonic frenzy reminiscent of an entranced congregation at a Santeria party. The dance was the Murga, precursor of the Tango.

 In between shots I took the opportunity to document the Murga on my digital compact- hence the scratchy quality.

Some of you may have noticed that the website has changed. After a 4 month trial of the old site a change in tack was needed. The site was inherently impeded by it's dependency on Java script. The advantage of a site programmed in Java is functionality- slideshows, clipboards etc. The major disadvantage is that the images contained within the site are not visible to search engines. To rectify this Kai has reprogrammed the site in HTML. The new site still contains all the previous images and videos (use the search facility to find them). Try this, add the name of the subject you want to view to the end of the url eg. www.gavinevans.com/tricky, this will bring up all of the images of Tricky. One important addition to the new site is this blog. Please link the site wherever possible, thanks.

I've received a request from Admiral Lord Roger Smith. He's archiving the life and crimes of KLF. 'Had I any evidence?' Roger once met Nico in a hotel bar and asked if he could borrow her pen. In a dulcet germane tone she replied 'yes but don't push the nib too hard'. Now he was asking a favour of me, so I started digging.
I first met Jimmy Cauty (the musically inclined half of KLF) in the early 80's when we shared a squat in South London in - that’s me holding the flash. The only other stuff I have is a set of images of an ‘action’ I shot after their last gig at the Barbican, 1997. Primed with ladders, paint and rollers we scaled the east face of the South Bank. I took photographs as Jimmy and Bill Drummond

daubed '1997 What the Fuck’s Going On' on the side of the hallowed wall. Shortly after, Bill asked if I could take a box of tapes shot at the gig and cut them together.

The sublimely quixotic gig was a legendary moment in danger of becoming myth. On the night the MTV live feed didn’t give a sense of the occasion. Piecing together disparate takes, shot live and in rehearsals, had its challenges.

I’ve turned on the radio and Bill’s plugging his choral project ‘The 17’. Ok, I’m on it!

Standing on the platform at Earl’s Court tube station I’m jarred out of my commuter stupor by the juxtaposition of these campaigns. One is for Oxfam, the other is for a gym. Oxfam asks us to consider the consequences of poverty and starvation whilst the other has the fix for over consumption.

To orient myself in the art world I need to find the best guides and destinations. Frieze, Zoo and Connections art fairs coincide today. This is an opportunity to check out many of the key players in one go. My mission is to collect the business cards of as many exhibitors as possible and share the info - pause the clip for details.
11.00 Frieze Art Fair, Regents Park, London. On the first leg of the expedition I’m accompanied to the Frieze tent by artist Leila Galloway. It’s like the New Year sales and we’re at the front of the queue. The doors are opened and the throng floods inside, carrying us with it. Under the big top the art sophists and protagonists champion their prodigies. Galleries display their wares with the aplomb of a Rodeo Drive boutique. This is art gastronomy - Michelin style. In the mêlée I come across the cognoscente of art cool - Gavin Brown. It’s been many years since we holidayed with him in New York


(holiday pic, Times Square/ W43 St, 1997) At that time his gallery was beginning to make waves in the art scene. In the intervening years he’s turned into an art tsunami. At another display I came across Wim Delvoye’s tattooed pigs. In ‘94 I made a proposal to the BAC featuring tattooed pigs. Before getting out of the starting blocks I was emphatically trumped by the brilliant artist Xu Bing. In "Cultural Animal”, Xu’s subversive and hilarious use of calligraphy and pigs put pay to my idea. In the Argentinean zone I bumped into the ‘unremittingly fabulous’ Patricia Lima and her artist beau Gregory, grandson of circus showman Billy Smart. This was a timely cue to exit the big top.

16.00 Zoo Art Fair, the Royal Academy of Arts, London. Zoo is perceived as a counter point to Frieze but their goals are in essence the same. Here the audience is more youthful, the sales pitch less overt. I can’t help feel that its credentials have been compromised by its relocation from London Zoo to the RA. Inside I’m met by guards in military uniform. This is ‘Action No. 60, durational intervention’ by Reza Aramesh - performance art for sale. More of a convention of stripper-grams than platoon, these soldiers wouldn’t go amiss at a Tyneside hen night. Durational Intervention curtailed and things start to look up. Here the art is more visceral and doesn’t take itself too seriously; Zoo has the convivial air of an arts degree show.

18.30 The final leg - Le Book’s ‘Connections’ is the tradeshow for the creative industry. This is where photographers and illustrators agents show portfolios to prospective clients. It is strictly a photographer-free zone: I’ve surreptitiously acquired a pass and I’m posing incognito as an art director. It has been over 17 years without representation. This is an opportunity to meet with some of the best agents and assess the competition. My guide and interpreter for the evening is Ed Webster of 4Creative. Ed is something of a mentor and champion of my work - the geezer’s a diamond. I'm primarily interested in folios - presentation, how many images, what format etc. The portfolios contained anywhere between 30 and 100 images, many were comprised of ‘stories’, each with up to 10 shots. Pixel perfection stifles almost everything here. I need some air, marathon over, I limp home.

Conclusion: there's no great mystery, the requisite basics for survival in the art world are agents and galleries.

Thursday 16th October. I’m in London acclimatising for tomorrow’s art fair marathon. I take time out from checking facilities in the East End and make a trip to Hoxton Square. The White Cube is festooned with explosions of metal and glass. Josiah McElheny’s: Island Universe transforms the space into a celestial foyer befitting a Vegas hotel- portal to the temple of high art. Reminiscent of planetarium projectors, chrome rods trace trajectories to stars and constellations of hand blown glass and electric bulbs: the Big Bang materialised. Who is the Creator; artist, curator?

‘Creatures Great and Small’ at the Kinetica Museum reminds me of the time I met Jim Whiting (see pic). In the 80’s Jim was synonymous with his dislocated androids, his ‘Purvey Legs’ and the automatons in Herbie Hanckock’s music video ‘Rocket’. With Jim’s creations there was always a frisson of pending laceration as pneumatic pistons belched life into metal limbs with terrifying force.

At Kinetica there is no imminent fear of hospitalisation. Here the exhibits vie for my attention like freaks in a cyber sideshow. ‘Creatures Great and Small’ takes a broad swipe at the genre and succeeds in giving the uninitiated an insightful inauguration. Best in Show must go to Tim Lewis for his tour de force ‘Pony’. With an empty trap in tow, Pony tentatively sniffs the air as it tiptoes up to the visitor on satin gloved fingers. The drama of the exhibits resonate with the work of Janet Cardiff and George Bures Miller at the Fruitmarket Gallery. Their Killing Machine (which tragically committed auto-mechanical suicide one week before the end of the show) would have not gone amiss here.

It’s been months of scanning, editing, grading, retouching, resizing, converting, cataloguing, filing and uploading. At long last the new site is finished. Kai Davenport, a keyboard killing programming genius has created a system that allows me to be in control of everything. We’ve decided on the familiar format of the computer desktop as the interface - everyone knows how to navigate their computer. Slide shows, clipboards, print sales, downloads and choice of backgrounds set it apart. One mental hurdle to overcome was how to price my prints - to put a value on my work. I’m hoping that I can create an income out of my archive to fund my personal projects. My prints should be as affordable as possible, so I’ve decided to offer a choice of Open, as well as Limited edition prints. What’s the difference? Limited editions are restricted in run sizes, are signed, embossed and come with a certificate of authentication. Open Edition (OE) prints are embossed but aren't signed or restricted in number. The price I’ve set is more generous than any of the competition. At 20” x16” the images are larger than just about every OE print out there, and they are printed on archival photographic paper.

Site finished - it’s on to stage 2 - publicity. The Edinburgh Festival is upon us, a captive audience on our doorstep. I’ve designed two leaflets and within 48 hours of emailing the order we we’re in possession of 10,000 A3 flyers. Before we can distribute them they have to be folded- individually! Once done, they were thrust into the hands of every unsuspecting tourist, dropped off at every venue, bar, gallery, newspaper and magazine. This continued for two weeks. Statistics show that this campaign had limited effect. Approximately one in 8 leaflets resulted in a hit on the site. Lessons have been learnt and appropriate changes are underfoot.
















In another attempt to gain publicity I’ve asked 3 collaborators to write a catchy line for my press releases. Thanks to Carlos Acosta. Diqui James (Fuerzabruta) and Javier De Frutos.

tora [toh'-rah] feminine noun
1. bullesque
In this world of hyper-cyber overload I’m told I need to brand myself if I’m to penetrate. Several summers ago, whilst holidaying in Barcelona, I was amused by the country’s unofficial emblem- the toro. Posturing on top of hills, emblasoned on bumper stickers, key fobs, crockery and t-shirts, it was everywhere. Its colossal cojones and preposterous machismo pricked my sense of humour. A simple case of gender re-alignment would suffice. Emasculation or emancipation?
Yes, cows have horns. Viva la tora!

In '98 I was approached by the National Theatre to produce a campaign for their Connections programme. Connections is one of the world's largest celebrations of youth theatre. Produced by NT Education and Training, Connections was established in response to a demand for new plays by the best writers around. The NT commissions writers at the top of their game to write one hour plays for actors aged 11-19 to perform. Hundreds of youth theatre and school groups from around the UK, Ireland and increasingly abroad then apply to take part. Writers have the opportunity to write for cast sizes as large or small as they like knowing that they will be produced across the country in a variety of different productions.
 With an open brief and a budget of a couple hundred quid I set about the task. I wanted to get away from the trodden format of the doe-eyed urchin asking for our ’elp. It stood to reason that the campaign’s ratings (and production values) would be boosted if it was endorsed by recognised actors. Hours were spent hanging around the corridors and back stages of the NT waiting to accost any unsuspecting thesp. Any space was commandeered as a studio: rehearsal rooms, offices, stair landings. A trip to the set of Star Wars resulted in a take with Samuel L.Jackson. None of the budget could go on fees, the idea had to be simple, convenient and quick to execute; in-out. An audition setting would satisfy the criteria and allow the actors creative freedom. All I’d needed was a camera, a light and a black background to disguise the location changes. This was the script I gave the actors: audition, speed date, no written lines, the successful actor would play lead role in a romantic play. Off-screen in a dimly lit theatre, two casting directors (actresses Shona and Kirsty MacKay from Connections) are auditioning actors. The actors must assess the situation and deliver a chat-up line to win over the girls. Each gives his best shot. None get the part and are all turned down with a pertinent ‘next’. Conclusion: chat-up lines don't work.

The idea needed no scriptwriters. It didn’t require a crew. It was shot on a Sharp mini-dv handycam to give an authentic feel and keep costs to an absolute minimum. I needed only one light; I could do everything except hold the mic boom. For this I enlisted anyone in the vicinity. The budget would be used for tape stock and tube fares. I would do all of the editing and post production in-house. I kept within budget.
 All of the actors rose to the challenge. For some it was the first time in many years that they had been required to improvise, let alone audition. Throughout the shooting of the campaign the extraordinary performances and interpretations never ceased to amaze. In the end I filmed so many actors that most were consigned to the cutting-room floor. Since shooting, several actors have passed away, their takes unseen. For the 10th Anniversary of the shoot I decided to revisit the project and see what could be made of the lost rushes. From the out-takes came 6 new edits.

 Credits- Actors: Ralph Brown, Daniel Craig, Ken Cranham, Alan Davies, Adrian Dunbar, Adam Faith, Dexter Fletcher, Nigel Havers, Richard Hope, Geoffrey Hutchins, Sir Derek Jacobi, Samuel L.Jackson, Steff Taylor James, Ryan McCluskey, Ewan McGregor, Sir Ian McKellen, Bill Paterson, Ron Pickup, Denis Quilley, Oliver Reed, Maurice Roeves, Michael Sheen, Eamon Walker, Samuel West, Richard Wilson, Casting agents: Shona and Kirsty MacKay Director/lighting camera/edit etc: Gavin Evans. Commissioned and produced by Suzi Graham-Adriani. Assistant producer: Helen Prosser. Production assistant: Flora MacIntosh. Sound engineer John Vick. Boom operators: Rob Fawcett, Alan Grimwood and the staff at the NT.

 I wish to sincerely thank everyone who generously donated their time, talent or services in the making of 'next'.

It was the summer of ’77, A shimmering aqua-marine Honda Superdream basked in the sun. Armed with my Practica, I took aim and shot my first photograph. Soon after I was frequenting local venues in search of musicians and bands to shoot. The Town Hall, the poly and the Rock Garden were the places I’d sow my creative seeds. My first portrait was of "the Bard of Salford" John Cooper Clarke, I was 16.

My first nationally reproduced work was shot at the Hare Krishnas UK head quarters, I was 19. The Bhaktivedanta Manor, a 16th Century a Tudor mansion in its own grounds, was gifted to the sect by George Harrison. Devotees attended to their chores with Stepford Wife serenity, as patrols of peacocks kept inspection. On my first tour of the estate I came across the spiritual master A. C. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada. Enveloped in a haze of powdered light, the guru was whispering into a Dictaphone. I was introduced to him by my devotee who, averting his gaze, bowed deferentially and swiftly ushered me into another room. In this facsimile of spiritual perfection something was amiss. I returned alone to satisfy my nagging curiosity. The quiescent master was not in deep contemplation, his cupped hand was empty - no microphone. His hushed tones were coming from a loud speaker. The founder had died some 20 years previously. Here he was, reincarnated as a transcendental wax work. Effigies and images of the guru inhabited places he’d frequented - a painting on his chair, a photograph of him in bed on a bed - Juju everywhere! I sent the images in on spec to the British Journal of Photography. To my amazement they ran them in their 1985 Annual.

I was 13 when the Shaman appeared from next door. In his paisley print cravat and Jason King moustache he made me a proposition that would change everything. Following his instructions to the letter we passed into his secret domain, his “darkroom”. Caustic vapours choked the air, igniting my anticipation. Bathed in the sanguine glow of the safelight he performed his magic. A mist of white light rained onto a pristine sheet of paper. He waved a wand in the path of the rays and with a magician’s sleight of hand, slid the paper into his brew and rocked. In a hushed tone he commanded me to concentrate on the submerged sheet. The paper turned into fog and through the fog emerged a fat suited man in a hard hat - a Juju. Without a second thought I took him up on his invitation to become the sorcerers’ apprentice. Epiphany #1. On my next visit I sat outside the darkroom, waiting for the Shaman to materialise. On a side table lay an album of photographs. I picked it up and idly thumbed through. A carnage of colour fell from the pages. Exotic foliage fused with flesh, Ektachrome blues and emerald greens drowned in pools of crimson. A diamond encrusted dome shimmered like a celestial chandelier. This collection was a memento from his previous incarnation - a police forensics photographer posted in the Caribbean. This was his forbidden book of dark arts. The chandelier was the skull of a car crash victim, studded with a thousand shards of safety glass. He returned these scenes of terror back to the paradise they came from. Ring-flash exposed every detail with the precision of the surgeon’s scalpel. Looking at these images, I was blissfully unaware of their terrible consequence. I saw extraordinary beauty, horror exquisitely abstracted by the photographer’s crop. Epiphany #2: no subject is out of bounds to the photographer. Two years later, looking at Captain Beefheart posed in front of Joshua trees, came a realisation. I’d been following Anton Corbijn’s (http://www.corbijn.co.uk/) travels and now here he was in the Mojave Desert. Epiphany #3: photography could be my passport out.

How to begin, to set the scene - the protocol? I’ll start by way of an epitaph: This is my earliest memory of a photograph. It was taken in 1965 by a talented amateur with a subject eager to perform. That’s my father stood in his ill fitting protective overalls, the grin of the mad professor, goggles poised on his swaddled head. What made this photograph different was its scale. At 12”x16” this was no ‘snap’. To a child a print this size was reserved for significant others: the powerful, famous or the notorious. The composition, the lighting, the drama, the central character, this was a photograph. Yet confusingly, somehow, the subject was my father David. This image, always a signifier of my eccentric, exuberant father, no longer resonates with his madcap joy. The pose is the same but the sentiment is now changed. David was misdiagnosed with lung cancer. He never smoked. A physicist by conviction, agonisingly he couldn’t reason the cause of his condition. His boots laced with string and frosted with dust concealed a terrible twist. David died on the 16th January 2007. The Coroner’s report came through, cause of death -asbestosis.

holding on - moments left, the last photograph, not the last image.