For the brute

July 29, 2010 § Leave a comment

I promised you photographs. My memory in exchange for yours.
Mine; a cold, rainy day in Melbourne, Australia. Winter in July.

“Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.”
~ Sylvia Plath

The Rapture

July 26, 2010 § Leave a comment

July, 2010
I learnt that I wanted to speak with photographs in 2002. Really speak. In an articulate and sophisticated way about how I felt and the rapture and humanity going on around me… the everything and the nothing. I realised that it wasn’t enough for the photograph to be vernacular.

It was summer, I was in Paris and my father had given me a Canon Powershot G3 to photograph my debut independent voyage on foreign soil. I wandered down the Seine, through the Tuileries and criss-crossed the Pont des Arts during those long and meandering hours on the hazy cusp of sundown. It was my first day away from home, without the guidance of my parents. I photographed incessantly, the scenes around me, the people (timidly and from afar), the landscapes (much bolder and sadly predictable) and occasionally myself (black and white and in the nude – as you do when you begin thinking of yourself as an artist). I stumbled through my images and clumsily composed frames that I was mildly interested in, but mostly around my misconceptions of what makes a good photograph.

8 years later and I find myself again in Paris. It is the same time of year, the same time of day and I wander a similar path to that of 2002. This time I have learnt better how to articulate. I am closer to knowing what I want to say and I know how to begin saying it. I confront, with each frame, the myriad of decisions I didn’t even know mattered when I was 22, that lead up to the final pressing and releasing of the shutter. I know how to woo the people whose faces I am captivated by and the way to frame a landscape that I want to remark on. I have begun to understand my tools. Paris saw the beginning of this process, the shy introduction to my coming-of-age as a photographer.

Now perhaps, I am more the tenacious teenager – bolder, unwisely cockier and still so damned eager to take on everything the world can throw at me, broken bones, grazed knees and all.

Street Shooter

July 16, 2010 § Leave a comment

Every so often, I come across a street shooter that really makes me look. You know, those moments that are quintessentially generous, the moments that belong to everyone in their familiarity and ubiquity, but are also sacred in their casual magic. The characters that come into play, with their dirty tattoos and entirely disarming charm. When we talk about photographing for history, I believe in the language of the street as much as I do in the language of war. In some ways, the street speaks to me more. War can look much the same, wherever you go… the street is always shifting, evolving, changing from one to the other and perhaps back again in the cyclical nature of fashion. The street will bring you back to the things that you recognise from living; that aimless saunter on a hot day, the people-watching, the waiting in line. It speaks of a time, a place and a sentiment, and the street photograph is a record of that… and a successful one reveals the utter poetry beneath.

© Timothy Dollard

© Timothy Dollard

© Timothy Dollard

© Timothy Dollard

© Timothy Dollard

© Timothy Dollard

© Timothy Dollard

CDG – SIN

July 15, 2010 § Leave a comment

Morning flights. I’ll be straight with you… I don’t enjoy them. It’s the hardest drag out of bed, the bleary eyed stumble around making sure you haven’t left anything behind, the anxiety that perhaps you left it all a little too late and there’ll be an accident on the road somewhere on the way to the airport.

It’s my last morning in Paris and I’m still slowly making my way home.

Paris

July 12, 2010 § Leave a comment

Stop 2: France

(Making my way home)

Reykjavik

July 12, 2010 § 1 Comment

Stop 1: Iceland

(Making my way home)

The 4th

July 5, 2010 § Leave a comment

Happy 4th of July

Where Am I?

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