Together We'll Change The World

It was a hazy day but it was our day. What did we expect, we were in Berlin on a spring day. The weather was unpredictable. Melanie followed us clutching my coat and bouquet.

Just days before our wedding, Lee suggested we walk part of the wall that still remained. “We are in Berlin” he said. “We may never come back. Think about it. Who else gets to do that on their wedding day.” 

I laughed. “You can’t be serious. It’s our big day. Nobody does something like that on their big day.” I said. 

A dream you dream alone is only a 
dream. A dream you dream together 
is reality. 
~ John Lennon

But Lee was adamant, he had that look in his eye. “And we are not everybody. You and me - we are different! Together we are going to change the world.”  There was a moment’s silence between us but I knew I had to compromise on this point. Lee was a true revolutionist. “I won’t be able to wear heels.” I said conceding.

Lee smiled, “I know you hate walking in heels.”

We had twenty minutes to ourselves in between the service and the reception. It was a casual affair, a handful of friends and relatives. They didn’t see me slip off my pretty white heels and put on my boots - Melanie following closely behind.

We walked up to the wall. Lee put his hand out and touched history. The wall of shame that divided families and showed the German post war government for what it really was.

My husband caught my hand told me he loved me - I felt the passion in his voice. I hitched up my dress already dirtied by the street. A smile spread on my lips, “we are going to change the world”,  I mumbled as we headed to our wedding reception. 

About the photo: Berlin is amazing, it has more character than any other place I have been. This photos was taken at the East Side Gallery.

Secrets

I sat in the rocking chair on the veranda, soaking up the Spanish sun. Looking out onto the vast lawns that stretched before me, a smile formed on my lips. I couldn’t quite believe that all this was now mine.

I could hear my mum and sister in the kitchen putting lunch together. Some Serrano ham, salads, a loaf of bread from the baker and a pichet of Tempranillo. My mouth began to water in anticipation.  At least mother and Chrissie had got used to the idea that the estate was mine. It wasn’t as if I was going to be a strict gatekeeper of the house. It was here for all of us to use – I was the last person to put down any restrictions. But I suppose it was the principle that stung them. Why did Aunt Mathilde leave her house to me and not to Chrissie and me or even just mum, after all she was her only sister.

Nothing weighs on us so heavily 
as a secret.
~ Jean de la Fontaine

I got up from the rocking chair and started to set the table. I used all my energy to shift the heavy marble stand to a shaded area of the balcony. Mum was never good in the sun.  It was then that I noticed the shadow cast on the orange pillar that framed the veranda. I looked to the right to see where the shadow was being cast from and located it just meters away from where I had been sitting. How had I not noticed this before? The shape was most definitely that of Mathilde! I walked over to it to examine the bust further. It looked like it had recently been moved.

The face looked intense like Mathilde was trying to say something. The gaze of the statue pointed me towards a large cicada in the garden. I don’t know whatpulled me towards the tree, but I walked several meters over to it and in the trunk there was a hole. Instinctively I put my hand through the space and felt around. There was something in there: a letter. I pulled it out and held it in my hands. ‘Angelica’ was scrawled across the envelope in Mathilde’s hand; a letter addressed to me. 

I looked back up towards the balcony; Chrissie and mum were waving me over. I turned back towards the tree and slit open the letter with my fingernail. Slowly, I read through the sheets of onionskin paper carefully put together by my aunt. Once I read through them I read it again. unable to believe what she had said. I heard footsteps behind me and quickly slipped the letter in my pocket.

“Come on Ange, didn’t you see us calling.” It was Chrissie. “What are you doing out here?”

“Oh nothing. I just wanted to see the garden.”

“Well come and have lunch. I am starving.”

Chrissie put her arm around me as we walked back towards mum.  I no longer had an appetite though  because now I knew why Mathilde had left all this to me.


About the photo: This photo was taken at the Alhambra in Granada on a crisp December morning. 

Frenzied Love

It was his birthday. Did Molly know that? Was her tardiness deliberate? Mike thought back to their first chance meeting just over two months ago now. They had met at a bus stop on one of those beautiful spring mornings when the air was crisp, but the sun was shining. Molly had stepped out of the sandwich shop in St Clements and almost walked straight into Mike, her gaze focused on the ice cream she held in her hand.

First love is only a little foolishness and a lot of curiosity.
~ George Bernard Shaw

Mike had noticed Molly’s dress before he actually noticed her. Her attire was not something you could miss. It was a bright red with cream polka dots. He followed the line of the dress up to Molly’s face. Beautiful cerise lips instantly caught his attention and her electric blue eyes made sure he didn’t look away even for one moment. She smiled then and apologised for nearly ruining his jumper with her strawberry Cornetto.

“I’m sorry, I nearly walked into you.”

“Not a problem,” Molly had said still unable to look away. He noticed her Texan accent. “Can I get you another?”

“I shouldn’t really be eating ice cream,” Molly replied. “I’m going to a barbeque.” 

“Not on Chapel Lane?” Mike had asked hoping she was going to the same event he had been heading towards.

“Why yes!” She said pushing a platinum blond curl behind her ear.

The afternoon that followed was fuelled with alcohol, then followed by a frenzied evening of love making, which soon resulted in Molly moving into Mike’s one bedroom apartment above the games shop on the High Street.

Mike lit a cigarette and inhaled the smoke deep into his lungs. He loved the first draw on a freshly rolled cigarette. The nicotine hit was exactly what he needed this morning. He saw Molly sashaying towards him wearing something blue. He paid no attention to her clothes these days. Mike noticed how men turned to look at her as she passed them by. Her favourite perfume, something sickly and sweet, filling their nostrils and making their heads turn. Mike shuddered how he could have gone from loving someone so completely to despising them in less then ten weeks. ‘It’s moving too fast,’ He heard his sister’s words of warning ring in his ears.

“You’re late,” Mike snapped as Molly approached him.

“Am I?” Molly asked; her voice like nails on a blackboard.

“The pub. My birthday.” Mike said

“I have to change. Carry on without me.” Molly waved her hand across her face trying to dissipate the smoke that Mike was blowing in her direction.

“But I have waited for over…never mind.” Mike stubbed his cigarette out under his foot. With clenched fists he walked head down towards Cowley Road muttering obscenities under his breath. He had made up his mind he would break up with Molly today, but then he had said that to himself for the past two weeks. It was just that he hated to be alone.  As Mike debated in his mind, loneliness over a life with Molly, he saw a pair of yellow shoes that made him look up. A five foot four brunette stood in front of him eating a packet of crisps.

“Sorry, I nearly walked into you,” she said.


About the photo: While doing one of my course assignments, I stumbled upon this gentlemen on the High Street in Oxford. The whole setting and him sitting, smoking, without a care in the world, against the red of the store front was just picture perfect.

Passion

A sharp wind hit Evie as she stepped on to the ice rink at Somerset House. She belted her red jacket to keep the cold out. The lights above flashed on to the white ice turning the ice from blue to pink.

Rest in reason; move in passion
~ Kahlil Gibran

“Evie,” she heard her name being called and looked around. Callum was on the ice with Mary Beth.  Her heart skipped a beat. Had he called out to her? He wasn’t looking at her now.

On the ice her knee began to ache. Skating around with the rest of the crowd she tried to warm up. But the cold had seeped into her bones and her joints were stiff.

“Evie!” she heard her name again. Again she looked up but no one was there. “Was it Mary Beth trying to put her off?

Her mother had spent the morning sharpening her blades. Evie knew she had to focus if she wanted any chance of winning next week’s heat.  “A mowhawk, a dip, a three turn and a stroke,” she whispered reminding herself of her mother’s old routine. Evie concentrated on her legwork blocking out the rest of the world.

She didn’t see Callum and Mary Beth leave; she didn’t see the other skaters make their way back towards their homes. Evie only realised she was alone when half way through a turn the lights went off and her left leg gave way.  She missed her footing and the weight of her body came down on the ice. The sharpened blade pierced her hand; a single drop of blood fell on to the white ice.

“It matches your jacket.” She heard a voice say. But before she could look up a hand reached out towards her.  It was Callum, he was alone. “Looks like we can fix that,” he said smiling at Evie as he helped her to her feet.  “Drink this,” he said taking a silver flask out of his jacket. “I was watching you skate before you fell. You have such grace, such passion.”

Evie raised the flask to her lips. The liquor was fiery and she felt awarmth spread through her. “Where’s Mary Beth?” She asked.

“We’re not together anymore.”

“Oh?” Evie looked at her boots.

 “Let’s see your hand.”

Evie showed Callum her palm. He took out a tissue from his jacket and pressed it down on the scratch. Touching Evie’s chin, Callum lifted her face towards his. Their eyes locked and Evie smiled.

About the photo: I was walking the streets of London with a mission and a (patient) friend and we walked past Somerset House and had to step in. It was beautiful, brimming with skaters, gracefully sliding across the ice.

The Marwari Horse

At one o’clock Sushmita picked up her sandwich box and headed out of her office for lunch with the rest of London. It was overcast but the temperature was pleasant - like a mid-winter’s day in Mumbai.

She had been in London for almost a year now and had never been to Marble Arch. The guide book which now sat under a pile of tee-shirts in her one bedroom apartment, had said it was a ‘must see.’ But standing under the smoke stained archway the original entrance to Buckingham Palace did not look as spectacular as she had imagined.  A flicker of green caught her eye as she gazed through the archway. Sushmita walked towards it.  

She instantly recognised the twisted ears of the Marwari horse. ‘To keep the desert sand out’ she whispered under her breath. Sushmita smiled as she walked around the sculpture. Reaching out to feel the cool bronze under her fingers she then sat on the grass beside it.

Taking out the sandwiches from her bag, she looked up at the six tonne Marwari horse. It reminded her of home; of her days in school and her study of the Moghuls, Maharajas and warriors of feudal India. A little piece of Indian heritage in London she thought as she closed her eyes and took her first bite. In that moment she was home. 

But the thing about remembering is that you don't forget.
~ Tim O'Brien

About the photo: You know when you have spent the night awake, chatting and laughing, and the next morning when you are half awake, half asleep, and the sun is streaming down on a crisp winter's morning...everything seems to inspire you. This was one such occasion at Marble Arch in January.

Beauty

“Einee minee miney mo!” Lorraine jabbed her fat fingers at us as we stood there on the platform, shivering in our swimming costumes.

“Your turn!” She said looking at me straight in the eye, registering my fear.

“Don’t show her your fear.” Karen had whispered to me as we all walked down to the platform. But it was too late now, Lorraine had already seen it.

Feelings are much like waves, 
we can't stop them from coming
but we can choose which one to surf.       

~Jonatan Mårtensson

I stood on the metal grill, which was warming up in the sun. No longer shivering with cold but I was nervous. I edged forward so that only my toes were off the platform. Wriggling them I peered into the aqua abyss looking for a way out. I had only just leaned to swim. I squinted towards the shore hoping to locate my mother but I could not see much. It was the other children and me abandoned by our parents, glad that there were enough of us to keep ourselves entertained.

“What’s the matter? Are you afraid? If you’re scared just say so. You don’t have to jump, but then everyone will know you are a scaredy cat and then you can’t be a member of our club anymore. We can’t have a scaredy cat in the Invincibles.” I weighed up my options as Lorraine started to count down, “Ten… Nine… Eight…Seven…”

And then I jumped. The water was warm but it dragged me down filling my nostrils and mouth with salt water. I used the strength of my body to pull myself up back to the surface and gasped for air. The others in the cave were silent. I panicked. I thought that something must be wrong. But then I heard cheering, whooping and clapping. I opened my eyes and wiped the salt water from my face, beaming at my new friends. 


I found my confidence and swam out, away from the noise of the other children. Looking out from the other side of the cove, it was a peaceful and beautiful setting and the view looked completely different from when I was inside the cave. I knew then what beauty was.

About the photo: This photo was taken at the bottom of the gorge in Ronda, Spain. It was actually quite eerie, having come down several hundred feet by following stone steps down a dark and wet building. The opening in the photograph was the only breathing space and the beautiful view of the water through it made the journey down worthwhile.

The Red Poppy

The 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month – I stood as still as I could my head bowed in respect for those who had given their lives. Lest we forget…

Your intellect may be confused, but your emotions will never lie to you.  
~ Roger Ebert

A trumpet signaled the end of those two minutes. Our parade had stopped and now we were starting to march again; our feet keeping up with the thud of the drum. A flicker of light had caught my eye averting my gaze away from the rest of the band: The light reflection of a silver watch on the wrist of the man dressed in black. All black - except for his red poppy.

The man unnerved me. Maybe it was the way he was walking: with his back stooped that way, had he been injured in war? Or maybe it was the pain in his eyes. His poppy stood out. It made me think of the real poppies, the ones that had bloomed in the trenches of Flanders all those years ago in the Great War. But we marched on ahead and when I turned around, I no longer saw the hunched man with the pained expression.

Later when the police questioned us, Millie said she saw him too: his deep red poppy, the colour of blood. Nobody saw the sniper. Nobody heard the shot. I can’t help wonder if the sound of the trumpet drowned it out. I guess I will never know.

About the photo: This was a Help for Heroes event in Oxford along Cornmarket Street and the expression on the young particpants' faces due to the audience was absolutely worth capturing on camera. The GAP shopfront proved to be a perfect contrasting background.

Half a Life

If you truly love Nature, you will find beauty everywhere.  

~ Vincent Van Gogh

The flower stood proud at Lottie’s feet quivering at the edge of the freshly mowed lawn. The sun was beating down on her shoulders and she knew her skin would soon be golden. She licked her lips tasting the remnants of lemonade her mother had made for her.

She could hear the children in her neighbours garden squeal with delight as they jumped over the garden sprinkler in their swimming costumes. As Lottie brushed her bare toes over the soft petals she captured the moment in her mind’s eye. This was what summer felt like.

But as she crouched down to pick up the red flower she noticed it was withering away. Was it the heat? Or was it just coming to end of its life? She pulled off the thin scarf shading her face from the sun and ran her hand over her smooth head. Lottie wanted this little red flower, the name of which she didn’t know, but somehow she knew she wouldn’t take it back inside with her. Instead a smile formed on her lips knowing that she wasn’t the only one anymore.

About the photo: In trying to capture all that is perfect, we sometimes forget that damaged has its own beauty. Following the heatwave in September 2011, this flower is half dead but yet it manages to express that it has lived a full life.

Tomorrow is Another Day

Dusk settled across the river Thames. Alice emerges from the narrowboat holding a mug of hot chocolate in her pink mittens, which clashes with her green woolly hat. A thick grey scarf her mother gave to her last Christmas is wrapped tightly around her neck to keep the cold out, but her feet are bare. Alice has never felt the cold on her feet. She takes in the quiet evening, the receding sound of the birdsong and the stillness of the water. Behind her there is a limestone bridge – her old existence.

Alice takes a deep breath. The cool evening air fills her with hope. Hope that tomorrow will be another day - a new day – the first day of the rest of her life. The violence of the past is behind her now. No longer will she feel the pain of a fist against an already bruised cheek, the sound of her own bones cracking under her soft pulpy flesh.

“Ally” she hears her name being called from the cabin. Softly she pads back into the warmth of the narrowboat, putting down her mug settling down next to her lover, with her head buried into his chest. A position they are both becoming accustomed to. “So do we stop here? Or do you want to keep on moving?” he asks her gently.

Alice looks through the window beyond the starboard towards the rolling hills of Oxfordshire. “Lets stay here a while,” she answers; a smile forming on her lips, “Lets call this home.”

The sole art that suits me is that which, rising from unrest, tends toward serenity.
~ Andre Gide

About the photo: This photo was taken on a very chilly evening in November 2010 at Port Meadow, Oxford. The colours in the sky and the stillness of the water made it a very idylllic scene.

Tears

Ever has it been that love knows not its
 own depth until the hour of separation. 
~ Kahlil Gibran

The midday sun was strong, beating down on Clara’s back. She took shelter outside an old church just as she was approaching her home town of Toledo tired from the long trip she had taken from Madrid. Clara rubbed her feet as her body absorbed the cool of the marble - and then she heard them sing.

The doors were shut and Clara was too timid to intrude on the Mass. She didn’t want their eyes to turn towards her as the heavy wooden door creaked open. So instead she listened from her seat outside. The hymn was familiar, a song from her wedding, Dulce Comunion. Clara started humming along with the choir inside until her eyelids grew heavy with sleep.

Moments later people started leaving the church. A tall gentleman with a walking stick put four euros next to her feet just as she opened her eyes.

“Non Señor,” she called out as soon as she had realised what had happened but he had gone. Gently Clara rose to her feet. They were still sore from her long journey and her muscles ached. She looked at her watch, she didn’t know why. Time didn’t really mean anything to her anymore. Her days only consisted of an endless wait. A wait for Salvo and Rico. Whilst the congregation gathered on the pavement outside the street in their Sunday best, chatting to their friends and showing off their children.

Clara quietly made her way to the front of the church where the candles lit up St Christopher. She dropped the four euros into the offerings box and lit three candles: one for her late husband and one for each of her sons. She fell to her knees and prayed that they would come back safely from war. Tears fell on the dusty tiles beneath her as she began to wail; her emotions overpowering her. A man put his arm around her and without thinking she turned and buried her head in his chest. Just as she had realised what she had done- her cheeks turning red with embarrassment, she sensed a familiarity. She drew in the scent of the man by her side before she pulled away. Looking at his face through bleary eyes a smile formed on her lips.

More tears began to fall but this time they were tears of joy. She could not speak but she held on to him for her life because she knew when she looked again he would be gone.

About the photo: The position of the lady sat at the entrance to the Church created a perfect composition. In the picture, I tried to capture her patience and stillness while she waited for the crowds to leave and ask for money. This was taken in Granada, Spain in December 2010.