Keep Learning - an interview with photographer Rob Covell

Dzifa and I (under our collective title Word Migrants) had a great time hosting our book event, The Book Salon, last week featuring Leila Segal, Gemma Weekes , Agnes Meadows, Rachel Rose Reid, Courttia Newland and singer/songwriter Marcus Begg whose photo you can see here.

It was taken by photographer Rob Covell whose portfolio is becoming increasingly impressive. I have really been enjoying Rob's live shots as well as his stunning photographs of his partner, writer and performer extraordinaire Kat Francois.

Having recently picked up the camera again (it's been just over a year since I have entered the digital realm busying myself with portraits and more) I asked Rob about what photography meant to him.

Art to me is a tool. I see art as a means to convey something. For me that is the most important part, not necessarily the art itself. Like true hip hop or poetry I like it when it teaches me, when it's revolutionary and empowers people. It still has to be good artistically, but if the message is missing or is hidden in too abstract a way, then it’s not easy to grab me.

Photography is the same. Yes, a beautiful landscape, nature pic or portrait will grab me. A gratuitous shot of suffering will not. If I’m taking a portrait, I would like the subject to look at the photo afterwards and feel empowered by it, that they see something beautiful about themselves that they hadn’t seen before.

A lot of discussion around photography understandably focuses on the image. I am very interested in the interaction between the photographer and the subject especially when it comes to more personal and meaningful relationships. Rob told me a little about the role taking pictures played in the relationship with his daughter.

I have a teenage daughter who has autism. I wondered if the relaxation I feel taking photos would help her, so I’ve started taking her out to parks and zoos, and just letting her loose with my camera. She loves nature and has told me how she too finds it relaxing. Photography totally de-stresses her.

So, what's next ?

I really want to get to a point where I can be semi-professional. I work as part of Zupakat Productions, run by Kat Francois and would like to develop the photography arm of that along with my own music production and writing. I’m working on some ideas for combining my three art forms. As with my writing, a main focus of my work will be to re-address euro centric perspectives and history.

As photographers, we have the ability to record the legacies of others, and I think that is a beautiful opportunity to create history that otherwise would go untold. I don’t want to specialise in one type of photography, there’s too much to see out there.

But what’s really next - Keep learning !

What are you doing ?

I was lucky enough to have a grant when I took my degree, which included having my fees paid for. My degree gave me vital skills which I have used throughout my working and creative life ever since. Luck is not a word I wish to use to describe what is in fact an essential. An educated population is a productive and happy one. The government's proposed economic measures will have ripples extending far further than just the lives of the students themselves. This film shows how students at SOAS have been prevented from their right to a peaceful protest. Please feel free to pass the information on so that when you ask yourself 'what am I doing?' you can answer with some assurance that you are doing something to oppose these terrible and unjust cuts.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vNVFp6Ggo60&fs=1&hl=en_US]

A Bottle of Port

Jude and I had a great time recording November's 'The Conversational' on Reel Rebels Radio.

You can catch Tim Wells, Salena Godden and Ash Sakar performing their poetry and sharing some interesting insights about their work on Tuesday 30th November at 730pm on Reel Rebels Radio.

The lovely Salena arrived with a bottle of Port and it was laughter and joy from there on in. Hope you enjoy it as much as we did!

Inspired

It's to my great joy that there are an increasing number of high calibre book nights in London. Two of my all time favourites are the Book Club Boutique curated, designed and presented by the inexhaustible Salena Godden and Book Slam, hosted with effortless charm by Patrick Neate. Inspired by the success of these two very enjoyable evenings Dzifa Benson and I have decided to plunge in to the heady world of book nights with our very own 'The Book Salon'. The first night has a line-up so good that it makes me blush. Well almost.

Before I Go

Yesterday's poetry challenge was from Malika Booker, and a very touching one too.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=be0LSN70iso

1) I would like you to listen to Dolly Parton sing Harper Vally PTA.

2) Then i would like you to write about a time when one of your parents championed you.

3) It does not have to be real, can be imaginary or based on a story that you heard.

4) Write in third person so we do not know it is your parent or you until the end of the piece.

5) if it is imaginary you might also use the clothes and hairstyles as part of your description.

6) See how natural you can keep the voice.

I have also included a link to the lyrics in case anyone wants to take elements of structure from the layout on the page.

http://www.lyricsfreak.com/d/dolly+parton/harper+valley+pta_20041837.html

I am never sure of the real difference between prose and a prose poem although saying that with this 30/30 challenge I am finding myself drawn to the prose format. I wanted to write something for my mother which was not factually true but had an emotional authenticity to it and for it not to sound mawkish. I hope the poem below meets this expectation.

Before I Go

Becca tells me 'Dad's gone off again'. This is not new. Her dad is always 'going off' for a day or two leaving her mum dabbing her tears at the kitchen table and Becca in charge of tidying up Tommy's toys and sometimes even being the one to read him his bedtime story when her mum is really bad.

'Really?' I ask. 'Yes' she says 'Really, really'. It's then I know that our lives are divided into two; not that good and pretty bad, in to really and really really. I live with my mum. It's just her and me. I know by the way she's saying it that Becca's dad is not coming back this time. I sit next to her on the wall and wait for her to say something else.

'In a way I'm happy' she says looking at the ground 'He shouted too much. Sometimes he's the only one not crying. Mum still loves him though.' We sit there for ages, waiting for a bus which should have got here fifteen minutes ago. When it finally comes it's too full to get on so we start to walk home instead.

I know mum won't be in when I get there but she'll be there later and that, as it's Tuesday and she has her class, she'll come back with takeaway. May be some kebabs from the corner or fish and chips if the queue's not too long. I'll do the washing up, the last bit of homework before i go to bed and mum will say 'I love you sweetie' before I go upstairs.

A Postcard From Inside My Head

Tuesday is my day to post a prompt for the poem a day discipline. I have been feeling a bit low over the past few days and I think, in part, I posted such a comprehensive challenge as I know I needed something with a bit of muscle to pull me out of my low mood. I already have a title. Sometimes titles arrive on their own looking for partnership with a poem, and like life, it can take a while to find a fitting match. The, as yet, poem-less title is "A Postcard From Inside My Head". The full prompt is below - if you fancy taking part I'll post your final poems here !

Read this about the Japanese verse form, the haibun, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Haibun.

They key thing to remember about this form is "A haibun may record a scene, or a special moment, in a highly descriptive and objective manner or may occupy a wholly fictional or dream-like space. The accompanying haiku may have a direct or subtle relationship with the prose and encompass or hint at the gist of what is recorded in the prose sections." http://www.haibuntoday.com/ - here are some examples.

Now EITHER choosing from one of the titles on the page of examples (http://www.haibuntoday.com/) write your own haibun. This can be a reinterpretation of the piece, a response to it or something totally new.

OR Choose a headline from one of these online papers or an article you are drawn to and write your own haibun.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/ http://www.thetimes.co.uk/tto/news/ http://www.independent.co.uk/ http://global.nytimes.com/?iht

Good luck ! Naomi x

Coming Home

Today's poetry prompt is from my friend, artist and poet, Janice Windle. "DAY 6 NOVEMBER

Imagine that you meet yourself when much younger than you are now and write a poem about the experience.

This could take the form of a dialogue between your two “selves” or a narrative including a context for the meeting. Would your younger self be disappointed by, proud of, satisfied with, relieved by, shocked or amazed at, approving, disapproving of the way your personality and outlook has developed since you were, say, eighteen? Would your present self be surprised, ashamed, proud, envious, disapproving, approving, of your younger self? Would the two personae get on? what issues would they agree/disagree on? How confrontational would the meeting be?

If you feel very imaginative and intuitive, project your present self into the future and introduce a third character into your poem – yourself as an elderly person meeting the other two."

I have finally started writing my Morning Pages again. I'd recommend this practice to anyone who wants to write. Today's prose poem was a freewrite. It was one of those rare and delicious moments when the piece just wrote itself. It's not a very happy piece but one I hope that has some resonance for others. I always come back to the same spot - writing is the one thing that keeps me sane (ish). It's the only way I know to detangle what's inside.

Coming Home

The story starts like this. The condensation on the windows, the early morning cough and throat-clear of distant traffic, two magpies on the branch of the yellowing tree in the garden, and the promise of a brighter day behind the blanket thick clouds. Most of the house asleep and the air cold and still - and quiet enough to hear the patient hum of the fridge and a blackbird, out of view welcoming the morning in.

You would like to be happier than you are now but last night's novel got under your skin. The female protagonist is a little too much like you. She's lost, self indulgent but kind enough under the confusion. She keeps on trying to think her way out of things when she should just be feeling her way through. Autumn never ceases to make your eyes fall in love with it and all the colours its brings, rivalling May (your birth month) for your heart.

And then the text. From an unknown number. 'I'm back'. It says 'Did you forget about me?' Of course you know immediately who it's from and think about deleting it. You wanted your life to be one neat paragraph after another and when a page was turned, that was it, there was no going back. But no one told you the truth about ghosts, that you could be haunted by your self. You open the text again. Now it says 'Why did you forget me?'

You know the sender, 22 years old her hair far shorter than yours now. A precise barber shop cut, shaved at the sides and a neat halo of bleached curls on top. She's wearing black and the only shine comes from her market bought gold hoops hanging from both ears and the vague glimmer of hope shining in her eyes. She's been dancing all night at a word of mouth warehouse party and still has energy for the weekend ahead. She wants to live life without stopping but something keeps pulling her under the waves, something she doesn't have a name for. You know she has stopped writing poetry, spends her weekends on the hunt for what you, at 47, are still looking for.

A wasp buzzes towards the one light on in your kitchen. What he wants so much will kill him. The heat of the bulb will fry his tiny wings. He seems dejected when you switch the light off but you have to save one life even if it's not your own. You text back 'Please don't ever stop' and then delete it immediately. It feels lightweight and unreal.

Of course you want to tell her that you love her, to keep going and that the only things that are her fault are her fault but the rest is the world just spinning on its axis, and all the people living there and that she is not responsible for everything. Some of it is the dry old physics of being and that there's no maths that can explain why things happen the way they do, that she's not to blame. You want to say keep writing or that she should get out more, or stay in more and not run so much.

You have so much you want to say and so few ways it can be said, here, in this text. You type the text again, trashy as it sounds 'Please don't ever stop being who you are' and hope she can hear it this time.

Boomerang

I was in a stuck and foul old mood today, I was resistant to the beauty offered by Autumn's changing colours. I moaned, stomped and swore ignoring my emails and my ever lengthening to do list. In search of some much needed emotional catharsis I got down on my hands and knees and scrubbed the bathroom and kitchen floors. For a few moments I appreciated hard work in the way only those that don't really do enough can. Then it was back to the week long wrestle I've been having with myself.

Then an opportunity. It was my friend Andrea Robinson's turn to post a prompt for our Poem a Day challenge. It was only after I finished the poem I realised that I had mentioned both boxing and wrestling which seems indicative of my mood ! I also think I need to take a moment here to acknowledge once again if there's one thing that really helps it's writing. I spend so much time fighting it off but she's (I see my muse as a she, and a very determined one at that) the boomerang that won't let me go.

Shadow Boxing

Shadows wrestle with what little light there is. Did I tell you I dreamt of being a boxer, to feel

my fist hard against anything that held still long enough, until the thrust of air and knuckle spun it

through time and space. A pendulum swings irrelevant of what you feel and, like light,

follows its own science. I wish it could be that way, always. Swinging back forth, back forth; a mobile

waiting for sound to happen, wind chimes holding their breath until the wind arrives; a quiet completion.

Instead the wrestling shadows, how time moves every last thing on, each counter on the board, step by chequered

step. The burglar always breaking the rose's neck, the fever mistaken for a passion destroying one's life.

Quotes used: "True rebels after all, are as rare as true lovers,and in both cases, to mistake a fever for passion can destroy one's life" — James Baldwin

"The ghost of your memory/is the thistle in the kiss/ and the burglar that that can break a roses neck" - Tom Waits

First Thoughts

Yesterday I struggled with my poem a day and did not actually complete it until way past midnight. I was determined to respond to today's challenge first thing. I woke up to Malika Booker's very special prompt and this inspired me to write the poem below.

Here's the prompt for anyone who would like to join me in writing a poem.

1. Go to this link on The Wellcome Trust Library. http://images.wellcome.ac.uk/

2. Then click onto the nature section.

3. scroll down to the Mars, Mercury and Saturn images L0030659 / L0030662 / L0030670

4. Look at all three of the Pictures and read the descriptions below.

5. Use these pictures as a starting point. Take the name of a planet or a Zodiac sign and personify the name like the picture does e.g 'Saturn sitting under a tree."

6. Write a poem using "Saturn, Libra etc" as a person. You can also use words or phrases from the descriptions or the pictures in your poem as well.

Sun and Moon

The Moon's tresses are a hand-throw of stars, her whispering calls you over and over again. The Sun's arms vast as any embrace you've known.

Sun's a child and if his embers catch alight who knows what houses, towns and cities will burn with his magnificent force ?

From Moon's butter-soft lips comes a sweet tune, blowing hot on sun's kindling until he's the brightest star in the sky.

And whilst the solar boy-child is shining proud and true, Moon is silvering the night, the slow hum of her dark wisdom everywhere.

Wherever the Sun

Yesterday Jasmin, my niece, popped over with this book. It's called Wreck this Journal and has been described as the anarchist's Artist's Way. It's a book that encourages freedom of artistic expression. I thought it was particularly apt that Jasmin, who is 13 years old, quoted the T Rex's song title Children of the Revolution.

Every day during November I am taking up the challenge to write a poem a day. April is National Poetry Month in the United States and a popular worldwide challenge arising from this has been to write a poem a day. A small group of us on Facebook have taken up this challenge for all the months of the year with 30 days in them ie April, June, September and November. I have to confess that after April's marathon writing activity I was pretty exhausted and did not take part in either June or September.

Like any daily practice it's very educational. Some times a poem arrives and sits in your lap, or writes itself in to being on your laptop and other days it's a hard to struggle to get out even a few words that don't sound cliched or forced. The trick is to write through it and, whilst engaging fully with the writing, observe the arc of one's own emotional narrative.

I will be posting some of my first drafts here along with the prompts (which we take turns in posting in our group) that inspired them. Today's poetry prompt is from writer Karen McCarthy Woolf. It's posted on her site Open Notebooks. Today's poem is a freewrite which means that it has not been edited and was written in one sitting without stopping. I am hoping to bring some of the energy and enthusiasm Jasmin has for her 'Wreck this Journal' project to my own poem a day writing adventure.

Wherever the Sun

Nothing much happens here anymore. Nothing that we notice anyway. It's not bad in the way it was. That's when the cries of a woman being dragged by her hair were common place or the boots, always the boots. Marching, kicking down doors. The anonymous boots kicking faces, kicking at our art and our statues. We still carry the kicking inside us. Perhaps that's why it is so silent now. The shops are fuller, fatter than they were. On Tuesdays we buy eggs and eat omelettes together. On Sundays we cook chicken and the vegetables we grow in the big square in the centre of town. In the bad days, the worst days of our lives there were public hangings. So now we grow vegetables. Potatoes and carrots, tomatoes when it's hot enough. Wherever we seek out the sun there's a seed to be planted. Those old bullets have knotted my heart and I know sleeping is not easy for those who cannot forget. We garden and weep and walk barefoot in honour of all those we have lost, our toes darkened with wet mud and memories written in blood.