©Richard Baker 2016. All rights reserved.
Procreate pro·cre·ate (prō’krē-āt’) v. pro·cre·at·ed, pro·cre·at·ing, pro·cre·ates. To beget and conceive offspring; to reproduce. To produce or create; originate.
In August one hot summer and again on a spring day in 1998, we twice became parents to two wonderfully perfect little babies and for 21 years as a dad, I would hold and help feed them; then get them to school and help them read; dry their tears; give them hugs; take them on holidays and on to university.
But in about 7 hours this man will cross the parental chasm – from procreator, to sterile male. Nestled below the bladder, my prostate has been working all this time like a well-watered pump house but recently it has slowed down, enlarged slightly and squeezed bits of me that aren’t supposed to be squeezed.
GreenLight Prostatectomy is now available on the NHS as day surgery to 14,000 men a year with enlarged prostates, thus saving the government £3m: Less bed time, fewer complications and shorter periods off work. One signs the consent, ingests the chemicals and wakes up 90mins later feeling thirsty and disorientated.
My time comes tonight and while I am blinking up at a flickering neon light, the surgeon will probably be at the family table sharing events of the day. Yesterday, he removed someone’s kidney via keyhole (in the near future he’ll do so robotically, he tells me) but by six, he will be pointing a laser at the part of my prostate nearest to the narrowed urethra. The area of blasted tissue will until then be guaranteeing fertility, producing during a lifetime healthy amounts of semen. This abruptly ceases.
I’ve done my bit for humanity but this is the last afternoon as a fully functioning Homo sapiens with the ability to add his genes to Olympic pool. My primeval pieces are to be irreversibly altered and in the time of writing these paragraphs, another hour has passed before I am gelded for good.
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Tags: greenlight prostatectomy, nhs, prostate, PVP, surgery
It’s come to my attention that a Carnegie Library campaigner has allegedly been talking about me in unfavourable terms recently with something along the lines of ‘That Richard Baker has made loads of money’ (on the back of the campaign) but has ‘refused to help’.
Seeing as I haven’t had the chance to defend myself in person, I’d like to react here with the first accusation, that this is untrue – but with the second, that I am dumbfounded.
I have definitely not made loads of money from my Carnegie photography. Far from it. As exhibition costs climbed and despite the very generosity from the Friends to help with printing it, including local discounts, I’ve typically barely broken even.
But this misses the point.
I have indeed been offering mounted/unmounted prints which were more expensive that I’d hoped given what I thought buyers could afford. A large proportion of the cost goes to the frame supplier with another to the printer. To date – and after lots of interest – I have sold five prints and one download but as I stated at the time of the exhibition(s), the Friends will still receive a percentage of those sales. I’ve also seen a couple of online usages via Getty though it will be a while before those meagre percentages come my way (in Dollars!).
I have given campaigners free jpegs to tweet. Once I send someone a picture, it becomes orphaned (detached from its author) and while I’m happy to supply something to help the cause, I do so knowing the picture can be shared onwards without my name or copyright credit. This is something one accepts though it is common practice, at the very least, to credit the photographer – something not always practiced. The Bishopsgate Archive have also been given copies of the exhibition edit as a historical record (given gratis) so the Carnegie Occupation of 2016 and #defendtheten will remain viewable and understood long after my days are over.
I am a working photographer and choose to cover local and national events for my income so I make no apologies for trying to sell (ineptly, at times) my work. But I also empathise hugely with good causes like the Carnegie campaign and had I been approached more, would have happily given others a picture for their website or newsletter in context to the occupation. Even if I possessed the business acumen to make a pile off the backs of decent folk – I still would not have chosen to do so.
The price of a well-placed picture is not just accountable in money, of course. During the occupation my tweets were getting an audience reach of thousands – and a reach of tens of thousands on Instagram – so I’d like to think that as a sum total, they contributed in a very passive way (not to relegate the tireless work done by others) to the success of that nationwide campaign. I saw it as my role to witness and report and as such, I believe that additional exposure was the help I gave.
What I’ve learned said about me is painful. I wish that person (and potentially others repeating it) had come to challenge me face-to-face rather than talking maliciously behind my back to others who don’t know me well. If anyone has views on this I’d be pleased to read their comments.
Being considered a local spiv who exploits good people fighting an honest cause harms my character and damages my professional reputation – and as such, I consider it slanderous.
Please therefore think twice before perpetuating such falsehoods.
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Phew. Three years since I last posted on this blog.
Over the past 10 days I probably bored the pants off some of you with the #carnegielibrary hashtag on Twitter so apologies for that (I don’t really).
The closure of our Carnegie Library by Lambeth Council started out as a local issue 300 yards from our front door but became a national – then by the end, an international story.
When you start a project like this there is no certainty of outcome and you therefore get swept along on with the emotions of day-to-day news and rumours.
Many of you will have got involved in local issues but it’s not common for us to find ourselves with feet in both camps – as reporters and sympathisers. I started to explain to people asking who I was and why I was always hanging around taking so many bloody pictures. So at first I’d say something like ‘I’m a photographer and happen to live just over there’ .. and as the week went on, I’d hear myself saying ‘I’m a library user and resident and also happen to be a photographer’.
This threw me completely at one point and I seriously questioned which way I should be swinging my bat to the point that by last Saturday, just before the occupiers of our public building finally emerged through the front gates to see 2,000+ locals blocking our road, I found myself trying to stage-manage the end picture, organising the Unison people how the occupiers might come out: ‘youngest first etc’. Not that it seemed to matter as inevitably, all Hell broke loose anyway though I remember twice telling a young lad at the front to put his pointy stick down as it was going to spoil the picture.
The youngest occupiers were 11 month-old twins; a police officer joins the Saturday Chess club.
Local issues like the closure of a library (main cliche coming) gels a community together in ways I’d never realised and it was marvellous seeing very clever and motivated people who have returned to their office jobs this morning, using their individual skills to get extraordinary things done.
The occupiers lived in the library for 10-days, fed and watered by the kindness of locals.
This has little to do with cuts but council mismanagement and secrecy and the library this morning is locked. It’s 20,000 books are still on the shelves with no-one to read or borrow them. The A-level students and adult literacy group will have to study together elsewhere as will the lonely and elderly who just want to talk – not to mention the desperate who need local help from trained librarians.
This isn’t just about books. Shame on Lambeth’s Labour Council.
Filed under: Books, Britain, England, Heritage, history, Lambeth, Libraries, London, nostalgia, Photography, politics | Leave a Comment
Tags: Books, Photography
London, 51°30’54.22″ N 0°05’18.44″ W
Entranced by ancient lanes, psychogeographers continue downstream through Tokenhouse Yard towards the great parapet of the Bank of England.
And while treading water for a moment, they listen to mp3 audio of babbling waters and the prose of Tom Chivers, with the culvertized River Walbrook still flowing below their feet.
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Tags: city of london, psychogeography, tokenhouse, walbrook, weala broc
Bang on three-thirty, the UKIP smokers spilled out from Westminster Hall to light up after what was a gruelling group hug inside. MEP Geoffrey Bloom had earlier referred to their women members as “sluts” and whacked the political reporter Michael Crick across his comb over.
Grassroots UKIPers emerged to take in the air: A lady with red hair and nicotine teeth with her party rosette sunk low; a suit who otherwise might have been a Guy Ritchie gangster, wearing a sharp Union jack tie (a U-Kipper?) and party £ pin – every bit a UK-PLC corporate; a country gent from the shires in tweed and sucking on a worn pipe with a freshly-brushed beard.
Nigel Farage appeared too, crossing the cobbles towards sweating TV technicians. After racism finger-pointing, tweets were now zigzagging showing him on a screen grab with Hitler pixels across his upper lip – either a digital slip or well-placed larf by a BBC leftie. Politicos wanted his comment on this disastrous day and the leader stood with an earpiece plugging him into the wider networks like a snarling Clint Eastwood taking a bullet for the President. Bloom’s behaviour had wrecked the party conference, he needed to quickly admit.
In a city so cluttered and visually chaotic, plain backgrounds are valuable but it wasn’t until I neared the north end of Trafalgar Square later, that I saw a corner hoarding and the discarded fruit & veg box. While I hovered nearby, some drunks eyed me warily but the empty landscape of box and ply seemed compulsive as a metaphor of Britishness.
As fringe politicians try engaging us with tales of anti-EU xenophobia, here was the abandonment of the Union jack, our glorious national colours left as litter on the pavement, amid a background of banality.
Filed under: Britain, London, Photographer, Photography, politics, Street Photography | 1 Comment
Tags: eu, europe, smoking, ukip, union jack, xenophobia
51°30’38” N 0°5’7″ W
From the surface of the sun, about 93 million miles away, to a dozen paving stones on Eastcheap, the hotspot was heating up nicely.
At lunchtime, bareheaded north Europeans poured from their air con offices to experience the blistering heat, squinted into the Biblical light, and then photographed the phenomena with their smartphones.
Helios was having a blast.
51°30’38” N 0°5’6″ W
I started my psychogeographic route along the celestial pathway and photographed from the western side at 10.30am to the eastern end 4 hours later – each picture shown here in its longitudinal sequence.
51°30’38” N 0°5’4″ W
51°30’38” N 0°5’4″ W
The Indian summer was already delaying the late autumn, spoiling Londoners for a further two weeks, when news came through of a strange event: An intensity of solar rays, reflected from the concave plate glass windows of one of the capital’s newest skyscrapers known as the Walkie-talkie, and focussing on the street below in the heart of the capital’s financial district.
A Jaguar owner returned to melted trim and wing mirror and a cyclist found his saddle smouldering. Tarmac turned to soft putty and thermometers produced from building atria registered a suffocating 50° and up to to 66° C (144°F) – possibly the hottest place on the earth’s surface ever recorded.
51°30’38” N 0°5’4″ W
En route to buy their sushi, a fraction of the 386 billion billion megaWatts of solar energy scorched the Londoners’ foreheads but somehow, the Walkie Talkie’s developer Land Securities admitted his modelling had failed to predict this event.
Its Uruguayan designer Rafael Viñoly’s also shirked any blame:
“Architects aren’t architects any more,” he complained. “One of the problems that happens in this town is the superabundance of consultants and sub consultants that dilute the responsibility of the designers until you don’t know where you are.”
He also underestimated how sunny this metropolis can be, although skulking in the shadows then crouching in the inferno was a corporate dressed in grey and armed with an industrial thermometer – clearly taking regular readings, and very loathe to divulging his motives: “I won’t say anything, I’m working.”
51°30’38” N 0°5’3″ W
So bright were the multiples of suns appearing in the glass (it was difficult and foolish to decide exactly how many though 4 seems a good number) that sunglasses proved ineffective, as if an eclipse was luring the over-curious into burning their retinas.
51°30’38” N 0°5’3″ W
51°30’38” N 0°5’3″ W
As qualified as the suits may be, in quantitative easing perhaps, under the glare they reverted to adolescence. Eggs and Teflon frying pans appeared and while there was a certain degree of sizzling, few realised that the hottest zone was on the periphery of the brightest light. In a moment of overheated excitement, German TV crew cracked their own yolk on the boot of a Mercedes, too hot to touch, until stopped and questioned by police about criminal damage. If there were wider health & safety issues, no official in a hi-vis and hard hat was present to bother about anything as improbable as a spontaneous combustion.
51°30’38” N 0°5’3″ W
Others took selfies of themselves under the brightness, like space tourists beneath an exploding supernova.
51°30’38” N 0°5’2″ W
The solar rays took a little over 4 ½ hours to transit east along the 150 yards of Eastcheap with the most intensive being half way, near the corner of St Mary at Rood, at 90 degree right-angle to the skyscraper. Here was the best location to stop with your sandwich and feel toasted.
51°30’38” N 0°5’2″ W
Despite being so widely-reported, this astronomical event seemed to have escaped the notice of some visitors to the capital. After all, a free space is a free space.
51°30’38” N 0°5’1″ W
51°30’38” N 0°5’1″ W
51°30’38” N 0°5’0″ W
After heat damage to the frontages of a some businesses, a netting screen was placed as a celestial shield.
51°30’38” N 0°4’60” W
In places, the light was cinematic. So HMI-bright, that one’s shadow reflected from the skyscraper was harder than direct sunlight. In other places there were no shadows.
51°30’38” N 0°4’59” W
As the sun’s angle to the building increased during the afternoon, its intensity fell away too and my hot walk along the sun’s spectacular line was fading.
Our star burned on – always unaware of its effects on strange humans below.
More of this photography can be viewed here.
Filed under: London, Photographer, Street Photography | 2 Comments
Tags: longitude, psychogeography, Rafael Vinoly, solar, sun, walkie talkie
Our band of weekend ramblers left south London early for the beautiful north Kent marshes. During the hour’s car journey east, we imagined a dash to a future airport terminal where a sprawl of concrete ramps and runways would take over the landscape – all yet to be built but ‘on the drawing board,’ as they say.
By late morning we were making good progress on the Saxon Shore Way, passing the exquisitely panelled Kentish rectory (more New England than home counties) at St Mary Hoo; then isolated clapboard farmhouses and the wonderful rusting hulk of an agricultural Nissen or Quonset Hut.
After another 2 downhill miles of estuary panorama towards the river itself, we stopped for a sobering lunch on the sea defence embankment, our backs to the Thames and its keen breeze to speculate on what might be in store for this lovely remote place, only 30 miles from the city.
Around us surely, was the argument against building the £50bn airport, planned to handle 150m passengers a year at nearby Cliffe, bordering an RSPCA bird sanctuary. I does have huge support, if not from the government – from London mayor Boris Johnson. But it would only be viable if Heathrow itself closed and just as with the former Greenham Common air force base – its Neolithic acres ironically returning to common use, its hamlet residents re-established, its own wildlife reverting to pure habitat.
As we chewed on home-made rolls and sipped imported London tap water, there was little to disturb our peace today. Some of us snoozed in the sun and others looked back across Halstow Marshes where interested young bullocks grazed near the runway-wide irrigation dyke may have been excavated many centuries ago. As we munched, we considered the Blitz, when Göring’s Heinkels lumbered overhead on their missions to bomb the city, the river serving as a Google Map to help find shipping and warehouses. In 10 years, we may return to see a very different place. Instead of oystercatchers there would be Boeings – replaced by a political deal to feed a hunger for runways.
There is still no aviation kerosene nor concrete ramps and taxiways here although behind us were the stark reminders of spreading heavy industry – white storage tanks of the Coryton refinery across the river while further upstream is the new Dubai-backed Thames Gateway container port. In the other directions are the chimneys of power stations such as Kingsnorth, the scene of passionate climate camp protests.
But airport land grabs or not, our wetlands are still under threat: In England in Particular (Common Ground, 2006) it says of grazing marshes, “The intensification of coastal developments and agriculture has significantly reduced grazing marshland, now estimated to stand at less than half a million acres. Two-thirds of the Essex marshland and half of the Romney Marsh were lost as grazing marsh between the 1930s and 1980s. What remains is drying out and suffering nutrient overload from fertilisers. Only 12,000 acres of unimproved grassland remain ..”
Just like Pip in Dickens’ Great Expectations (1861), I’d like to say – although only in the spirit of this post – that I grew up out on the salt flats. But our own east Essex family branch is in fact traced to wizened agricultural labourers on the exposed Foulness Island, itself the site on Maplin Sands of a 70s airport plot though now only offering one firing range and one pub.
On our way home we left the cars against the stone wall of St James, Cooling, the location of Dickens’ dramatic opening scene. We might have brought the book along but a copy wasn’t to hand. Instead, we had to rely on an app (2013) and one of us stood with their iPhone over the lozenge graves of 13 unknown children in the churchyard – and read aloud:
Ours was the marsh country, down by the river, within, as the river wound, twenty miles of the sea .. Beyond the churchyard, intersected with dykes and mounds and gates, with scattered cattle feeding on it, was the marshes; and that the low leaden line beyond, was the river.”
.. To five little stone lozenges, each about a foot and a half long, which were arranged in a neat row beside their grave, and were sacred to the memory of five little brothers of mine – who gave up trying to get a living, exceedingly early in that universal struggle ..”
Filed under: Books, cemetery, England, Landscape, Photographer, Photography | 1 Comment
Tags: airport, boris, dickens, great expectations, halstow, kent, marshes, rambling, walking, walks
Contact #102 of 136, Summer 1996 (click to enlarge).
Throughout the hot summer of 1995, during the latter stages of my wife’s pregnancy, I planned to make some form of diary – of written words and documentary pictures – during the first year of our first child’s life. A first thought was to add my own contribution to our family tree and create a visual document for the older person to look back on, to give – as a personal memento far beyond earliest memories of childhood – on its 18th or 21st birthday.
When a pink dawn broke across south London rooftops, I felt my legs give way and tears fall in the delivery room as our daughter came to us. Until then, we had we no idea if we were to have a son or daughter, healthy or not so the decision to photograph this tiny baby’s journey from birth to first birthday, as well as her mother’s adventure from expectant to actual motherhood, became a very uncertain project to explore.
Before I started the project that became ‘Ella – From Womb to First Candle’ the work that took a year of hard photography and 60,000 words of daily diary entries, the idea of tackling something more personal than any other personal project, was one of the toughest. If there was a story to tell about parenting, then I was also to discover my role specifically as a doting father. And not only that, I was endeavouring to be around whenever key moments unfolded: The visits; the registry book; inoculations; first haircut; first steps; outings and tears.
In the contact sheet above, it is now the following summer. Ella has been with us to Portugal where she has attempted some tottering first solo steps, the result of which was an immediate tumble onto hot sand and hotel grass. We guessed she was soon ready to walk properly under her own steam and I wanted to make a picture that showed leaving her first symbolic footprints. In the first and last frames I can see myself holding a remote trigger so Ella would launch herself, her mid-way totter between parents.
The perspective I saw from my position was at 90 degrees to the static lens so the processed photography showed an event unseen.
The resulting sequence tells us of Ella’s first independent steps, escaping from the clutches of her mum, 11 months after leaving the womb, of leaving safety. The 2 frames I marked (#27 and #31) and the one I liked best (#31, above) has better time and space. I like the evolutionary Homo erectus upright posture, the hominid’s mastering of balance and momentum.
Ending the year’s work came to represent for me as a father, a wonder. Published as a Mother’s Day essay in many countries, it also became a turning point for me as photographer.
This spread (using a horizontal chronology) ran in one of the last printed issues of LIFE, in June 1998. Three fateful double-page and full-page cigarette ads (“No Waiting! This is where you find satisfying taste at ultra-low tar.”) rings the death knell of this once fine magazine that I read myself as a child.
Ella is 18 soon and I want to mark her reaching adulthood by having this re-published somewhere. There may be a self-published book for her too.
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Tags: birth, childhood, contact sheet, development, documentary, family, parenting
Although he had just dismounted from the iron rooster that brought him to Liverpool Street station, St George of the Thames estuary was pacing breathlessly down Bishopsgate minus his horse.
Nearby Leadenhall Market seems to have become an annual gathering place for anyone with a smattering of patriotism, a nostalgia for old England in a red-themed tie and rose – suits from all corporations, supping English (and German) ales and assorted grogs. In the centre were the Ewell St. Mary’s Morris Men, a troupe of middle-aged Britons in baldrics and breeches, jigging and sweating under stove-pipe hats. Tossing them into the air at the finale of their folksy hopping, the men stretched up with hankies towards the bunting – a tribal worship to the national divinity like pagan prayers to the stars in neolithic Stonehenge.
I last wrote about England’s patron saint’s day in 2009. Then, office juniors were “pinching Wasabi chopsticks” and an Enzo that almost ran me over gave no clue of the gathering double-dip recession. This time I should mention how in the post-banking scandal era, the City is still enjoying its gluttony of bonuses and tax dodges.
But such was the scrum around the merrie band that I instead escaped for an espresso near Watling Street. There I spied an Evening Standard vendor’s tin shelter that is seemingly used a lavatory by perhaps the same young men who have crawled to the pub opposite.
The warmest day of the year lends a second good excuse to sink more booze and expel a public wee – a higher priority than a sense of national identity or moral duty.
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Tags: English, leadenhall, st george's day