British Journal of Photography

 Interview by the esteemed British Journal of Photography on the making of the 'iconic image'.

 This face is haunted by the aching spirit of Kevin. Society plucked him of everything, his one eye is constantly on the look-out. He was wheel-chair bound for purgatory before he found salvation in the church and the support of The Big Issue. I crouched next to him and fixed on his nomadic eye. He tells me he has a kid! Grasping my hand, he drew me to his toothless cavity and gasped "Naebody shud suffer fae poverty...'specially children." No matter how many copies of The Big Issues he sells, he always keeps enough aside to sponsor his child. This is the closest it gets to family for Kevin - a progress report from the other side of the world. Kevin's hope is that he can help free someone else, if not himself, from the snare of poverty. 

 I was speechless, my head ached from the sudden impact. How do you balance the altruism of Kevin against the hell-bent motives of celebrity child-snatchers?

 

This touch photograph is striking- compare it to the 'portrait' above. Kevin momentarily surfaced for the image.

 

 A wee laddie popped up and asked what I was "up tae?" His name was Robert, one of Jock Tamson's Bairns - a curious kid who could steal hearts as easily as cars. In a call-booth, holding his phone, he took my hand and put it to his ear -

Is anyone listening?

Glesga Gudfellas

 Time's running out on the meter and Joan's lament is running through my head. Inside the car; engaging the key, my concentration was shattered by the rapping of a sovereign on the windshield. Peering back at me, like a scene from Jurassic Park, was a face unaccustomed to refusal. "Let me try oot yer car," came the order. I got out to clarify what I thought he said. Like a silk snake-belt he slipped around me and into the car. "Just as well I hung on to these" I said, dangling the keys at him. "Thaat's shite son, s'no fer me". As he got out and turned to walk away I called him back - he owed me. He fixed me through his reactor-lies and growled "Wha?". "Your turn to repay the favour - I get to shoot you." He gladly conceded, adding "In the past I'd a had them oot yoor mouth if I'd a caught you round here" (I have two discreet gold caps).
 

This was Ian - Glesga Gudfella and former safe-cracker. The cut of his jib was razor-sharp. The Paisley cravat, he explained, was his colors. Ian is the Glesga forefather of the Crip - a Clydeside Crip. Back in the car my focus was broken again, this time Ian and three of his associates were deriding my motor. Once again I took the key out of the ignition. "Introduce me then!"
Ian read out the role-call like a well versed brief:

First in line grins Billy. These days he's putting a different smile on the faces of Glasgow.
 

Jimmy's enthusiasm for misdemeanor is replaced by a wise, calmer demeanor.
 

 'One Hit' Willie stepped up to the mark. "What was the song?" I teased. "A swan song, one hit an' you'll no be coming back" Ian clarified.


  The Gudfellas were on the street, smoking and regaling the glory days of honest crime. In their sobriety they had found self-respect, something they couldn't extract by fear or extortion.

Saltmarket Suffragists

 Dawn had clipped the last blade of grass on the Pyramids as I pulled into a hung-over Glesga. The shutters were coming down from the watering holes as the Saltmarket started to percolate with briefs and thieves. I'm outside The Big Issue's Glasgow distribution point. From the pavement to the counter vendors queue patiently to collect their badges, get their pitch and stock up on the latest edition.

 Over the Roma-Weegie babel I caught the perfectly pitched "Are ye the guy fae London?" I interpreted that to be me as I was motioned under the counter. I surfaced to meet Lisa, a sonsie las who's bite is no contest for her insanely profane bark. She re-directed me again - "John's ootside havin' a fag". I tunneled back under the battlements and on to the street where John Duffy (distribution manager) was savouring the last draw before casting aside his dowt.

 

John(Duffy) Distribution Manager, The Big Issue

He's been working since 5am, overseeing delivery of the new issue to centres across Scotland. John is eminently qualified for the post, the years he spent surviving the streets instills respect and trust in his vendors. To them he's much more than an aspiration.

 

Martin (Hackett), Sales Development Worker, The Big Issue

My guide for today's tour of Glesga's inner-city pitches is Martin fae the Southside. Martin's quietly spoken and tolerant of my scatological tendencies.

 The first of the vendors I'll come to meet is serenading the commuters at Central Station. Joan 'Queen of the Big Issue' greets and sends them on their way, lifted by her cry. There's "no problem. Of course," I can photograph and record her "nae problem at all".

 Taking hold of my arm I guided her inside and recorded her song. Joan's joyful rendition of the Disney classic conceals a painfully modest plea; "to be like yoo..." Her cry is a street lament.

(play to hear Joan's cry)

  After 'touch' she whispered "I wanted tae warm ma'sel on you". Joan is a breathtaking affirmation of the life-line that The Big Issue provides. We left the blind VIP, exposed and at the mercy of the jungle.

 A succession of street-level suffragists painted their story, determined not to be erased, no matter how much they were blanked.

Billy

Raymond

Matt

The homeless have an acutely different awareness of 'personal space'. They are disfranchised from a society that takes the security of a home as a right. Their comfort zone is intuitively ring fenced by mistrust and disappointment. With 'touch' they can personify their boundaries without fear of misinterpretation. There's no coercion, their vulnerability is respected, not exploited. They decide whether to expose their identity or delete their image.

While writing this entry the music of Magazine broods in the background. Devoto sneers "So this is real life."

- you're telling me.

Peter joined- in the spirit!

Heart and Sole

 

I'd heard the rumours, I'd never believed them.

For over 20 years I've walked, staggered and driven past this place- my dry-cleaners is next door. I thought it had been evacuated in a panic; leaving behind a dust encapsulated flash-frame from the 50's. I had to do a double-take, but for sure there he was, fixated, gazing over the barricade of post-war posters. Rooted to the spot with a Gerry can of glue in one hand and brush in the other, stood the Myth of Merchiston - Jock the Cobbler.

 I made my move, entering his world before he evaporated. It was as if I'd fallen into a nail-bar trash can. Classical music squeezed out of tin speakers like Camembert through a cheese-grater. When my eyes had done flushing I stood over him like Chewbacca towering above Yoda. I introduced myself like someone who'd come from the future. Jock craned his head and looked at me as though I was the curiosity!
 He's "been here the whole time. Fifty year an' mare". He only ever ventures into in the shop-front to deal with the customers. The magic happens in the back; where he guards his secret of longevity. Further investigation revealed that Jock turns 90 in two days time. He stuck his glinting eye on me and demanded to know where I'd got my information. I wasn't going to grass-up my source - Jean from the cleaners next door is a woman not to cross.

 Jock tells me being 90 has it's drawbacks: when trying to buy travel insurance the broker hung up when he told her his D.O.B was 1919. "My kid's didnae gae me a party when I turned 80" he rued, "so I dinnae see 'em fussin' o'er 90." I tried to envisage his kids! "Still," I irk him "he's got a letter from the Queen to look forward to in his old age". He rose to the bait and took great delight in beheading my jibe.
 

  When I asked him to be photographed he held my wrist like he was taking my pulse. I think he was checking if I was for real.

Big Issue

  The Big Issue magazine had seen the ActionAid poster, checked out my site and wanted to run an article. Instead of rolling out more of the 'infamous' portraits, The Big Issue took me up on my proposal to photograph the vendors. This was an opportunity to develop 'touch' and shirk the 'Celebrity Photographer' moniker from my back.
 

Big Issue vendor 'Lonewolf'

 In a recent edition I read of a self-made Celebrity photographer; a mock-star and his £2.75m creative home. For a moment I thought I'd wandered onto the pages of Vanity Fair, then I remembered my vendor, Lonewolf (pictured). People presume that, because I've incidentally shot some celebrities, I too am a closet narcissist with all the trappings. They confuse me with someone whose freedom to explore and scrutinise is impugned by fashion. I am as much a 'Celebrity Photographer' as Katie 'Jordan' Price is a 'Literary Genius'. My subjects are not measured by star quality, each is treated with the same deference and respect. My impediment is my stubborn inability to suffer fools- or conform. 
 The Celebrity Photographer made the distinction clear, defining his process as neither; thoughtful, considerate or intelligent. Sandy Hotchkiss puts it nicely; those who provide narcissistic supply to the narcissist will be treated as if they are part of the narcissist and be expected to live up to those expectations. In the mind of a narcissist there is no boundary between self and other. If I must be labeled, how about (for now) 'Independent'? It compensates for my dilettante tendencies! 
 The Big Issue have flagged the upcoming shoot with the caption: 'Poster Boy...Celebrity Photographer!' I can tell it's gonna be a long climb.

Professional Photographer Spread

The Professional Photographer feature- October issue.