And so I find myself, once again musing over the things that I should decide to incorporate into my diverse blog which will span from the far reaches of philosophy, to the warmer, more accommodating medium of film!
However, this particular blog will be something different. Today, I'm going to muse over images. In-fact, what I really want to dwell on is the camera. Not in its' technical form; and with no particular regard to its status as a moving image camera, or a still image capture device. No, what I wish to discuss delves deeper than that. What I wish to look at is the power of such a device. "The pen is mightier than the sword" is an expression I rather dislike, that is commonly throw about by those who wish either to run away, or seek to hide behind scripture. Of course, most would say words are infinitely more powerful than any other form of communication; words enlighten us - I myself love poetry and thus should be the first person to degrade and discredit the supposed 'truth' of the camera. Yet time and time again, I find myself defending not a device, but a principle; a process, and thus a form of record that is perhaps just as valid as the written word. Remember those holiday snaps, taken on a throw-away 35mm from when you were a child - couldn't quite be trusted with a digital camera! (I already find myself making all of these allusions to childhood, where we were not kids of the digital age - I never had sky or a computer until rather later years; my tape walkman was my best friend) I suppose, what I am alluding to, is a time where a digital camera had the wow factor; but even so, the images that were taken on that holiday remain timeless. The light that passed through the lens that day was the same light that provided you with the photograph, the two are forever entwined together. There is something truly beautiful about the negative, and the way that you can physically 'touch' those moments in your hand. As the celluloid layer of formed silver halide crystals passes through your hands - you are touching an imprint. Not of chemistry, or of technicality. But of life itself, and its' documentation.
Whilst walking with a friend recently, we debated about the intensity of an image; the way in which an image can move you, can bring you to a swift conclusion, and can actually lie to you. The image of death shot by Ronald L. Haeberle, a US army soldier, present at the My Lai massacre in Vietnam during the war, speaks to me in volumes. When with my friend, we debated that the camera was more powerful than the gun, because death was a quick, and brutal action; and with as much respect to those who have fallen through war; death remains a largely anonymous and forgotten entity. Yet with the camera, the deaths of the victims of My Lai were not the same. Their names, we cannot see, and their faces we cannot distinguish or relate to. But what we can say, is that this image has scared millions. It has incited not violence, or hatred, but a different kind of thought provocation. This image could have prevented death, through its own influence.
What is certain, is that the image will live forever, but not in the same way that the memories of those who died will remain with those who live on to remember them. The image is real. It exists in our tactile world. The light went through the lens, and it captured death. However, it also captured life. Because, just like a pane of glass, or perhaps even a mirror, the people who see this image, will see themselves. They will see their own reaction. More importantly, they will feel it. Of course, the deaths of those pictured is terrible, horrific and inexcuseable; they will be remembered by those that knew them. But for me, I look at this image and I see a warning. I can see myself vowing that this will not happen if I can prevent it. If I can prevent war, with my small influence in the world, I will. It is all of us together that work together to stop war. The gun kills, and yes it wins figure wise of photography. Although, if a photo can change the way we think - perhaps its effects will echo further than the sound of a gunshot, which has no face, no humanity and no honesty. An image entertains all of these aspects and more; if it can prevent the need for guns and if it can prevent their use, then it has truly won.
Below, I am hotlinking the My Lai photo which has become one of the world's most defining images. I warn you, it is not a pretty piece of fine art. However, you need to see this to understand my perspective. Through death, is the prospect of saving life. Interesting? Do you view things differently? Comment!
http://www.martinfrost.ws/htmlfiles/june2006/my_lai.jpg
Tuesday, 27 October 2009
Monday, 26 October 2009
Democracy or Democrazy? Question Time: episode "Destroy The BNP"
In Question Time's latest episode, Nick Griffin, the leader of the BNP plays the underdog character, the prevailing hero, as he is tied to the lashing post by the producers; who I now wish to call 'directors' - he has committed a fellon on board the ship and must be punished likewise. His views are irrelevant on such real-time issues as Iraq and Afghanistan. His character is rigorously attacked by the panel; tied back to their chairs, not by microphone cabling, but by chains - which hold the pitbulls just inches from the perspiring face of Griffin, who does not cower. Instead, he tries to fend them off, with no weapons, he battles against them; who led by the Captain, the grand Admiral, who commands from which direction the lashes shalt come, the Lord Vader of political programming, David Dimbleby. As the crew watch on with mixed feelings; some rally around Admiral Dimbleby, baying for further blood; some take a more conservative viewpoint, but do not wish to walk the plank with the main target - the usurper, of whom Labour fears implicitly and the Conservatives cannot frankly be bothered with. Then suddenly, as if from nowhere, Jack Straw, a weak, yet experienced pirate, respected by all of those who sit inside his sinking ship, HMS Gordon Brown; offers Griffin a way out. Straw plays the roots card and questions the authenticity and subsequent use of Griffin's ultimate mentor and ideal figurehead, Churchill as a poster boy for his merry band of pirates. Unfortunately, Straw forgets that this was not the right area to approach, with a pirate whose parentage goes back very loyally to fighting in the largest war in the world, in which Griffin's family fought for the free world - Straw's family hid in the corner whilst the Nazis as Objectors - something he accuses Griffin of idolising, sought to murder, rape pillage and destroy any sign of resisting life they came across. So the movie draws to a cliff top climax, with Griffin narrowly escaping with his life, as the crew decides it is time to move onto something, or someone new. Until the next episode, no-one knows what became of Griffin; what is certain, is that he will have amassed a larger army and will return to contest the leading pirate hordes when the time is right - when he has decided that he can be seen as level with those of whom he dreams of being thought of in the same sense - yet for a reason he cannot determine, his voice has been muted, his eyes blindfolded, as he is held to account for something he knows not what; surely between pirates, viewpoints do not matter to much - he decides he's not a bad man, as he swims in the murky waters below the ship - but wait, what is that? is that a boat in the distance; coming to receive him into their company? Oh wait, its filled with people who recognise him and remember they are not fond of him - but realise that it would be inhumane and disgusting to let him drown in the cold and deep waters of the seas of politics.
Yes, even I have to put in my two cents worth! Basically, I was Student Editor and Producer of Student Question Time in 2008; now this doesn't give me any more authority than anyone else to comment on the newest and most recent 'episode' of Question Time; but I felt I might just voice my thoughts; the same as everyone else. I've decided to call this particular edition of Question Time an 'episode' in the dramatic and operatic style it was presented to the British public. Question Time stood as the pinnacle of British political programming. It was fair. It was just. And perhaps more importantly, it addressed all of the parties who guested on its half-mooned presentation table equally. This, it appears, was a previous incarnation of a once great programme. What went wrong? Well, for a start, someone, whose name I cannot mention, has clearly decided to slant the debate to such an extent, that 'QT' as it was once affectionately know has become the Jeremy Kyle of Political programmes.
My co-editor and I used to jest that 'This Week', the programme that succeeds QT, was a cheap, and hilarious parody of Question Time. We truly believed that we were working for the king-pin of all political programmes; that we were above all others because of our loyalty to debate and to remaining unbiased in all areas. It seems that we were the only producers who believed in this ideal. Please don't misunderstand me, neither myself, nor my family agree or support the British National Party. We do, however, respect the right of any party in this country that operates within the legitimate confines; or rather 'ideals' of the law and British politics.
Understandably, people are concerned over the 'ideals' of the British National Party. However, they must not fear them. Fear of the British National Party will not offer us a true democracy - it will distort the way in which we vote; with people deciding to opt to vote for safety in politics rather than ideals. We must vote for who we believe is right; ourselves. We cannot let this party cloud our aims of reaching a perfectly democratic country. We still have yet to reach this pinnacle, clearly; with ushered mutterings of expenses claims eventually morphing into outcries from the public themselves, and ridiculous apologies from MP's who were 'caught short' - for want of a less damaging and more politically suitable word (something the Labour Party could surely come up with).
A wise man once said: "monsieur, je déteste ce que vous écrivez, mais je donnerai ma vie pour que vous puissiez continuer à écrire". Translated, this statement reads: "Sir, I detest what you write, but I would give my life to make it possible for you to continue to write". My political mind is entirely based around this quote. Voltaire was willing to die for something he did not agree with; he was willing to die for the right to freedom. William Wallace also died in the fight for freedom, alongside countless others who campaigned for freedom and the right to democracy. Do not forget this; and think about the issues raised here - decide for yourselves.
Yes, even I have to put in my two cents worth! Basically, I was Student Editor and Producer of Student Question Time in 2008; now this doesn't give me any more authority than anyone else to comment on the newest and most recent 'episode' of Question Time; but I felt I might just voice my thoughts; the same as everyone else. I've decided to call this particular edition of Question Time an 'episode' in the dramatic and operatic style it was presented to the British public. Question Time stood as the pinnacle of British political programming. It was fair. It was just. And perhaps more importantly, it addressed all of the parties who guested on its half-mooned presentation table equally. This, it appears, was a previous incarnation of a once great programme. What went wrong? Well, for a start, someone, whose name I cannot mention, has clearly decided to slant the debate to such an extent, that 'QT' as it was once affectionately know has become the Jeremy Kyle of Political programmes.
My co-editor and I used to jest that 'This Week', the programme that succeeds QT, was a cheap, and hilarious parody of Question Time. We truly believed that we were working for the king-pin of all political programmes; that we were above all others because of our loyalty to debate and to remaining unbiased in all areas. It seems that we were the only producers who believed in this ideal. Please don't misunderstand me, neither myself, nor my family agree or support the British National Party. We do, however, respect the right of any party in this country that operates within the legitimate confines; or rather 'ideals' of the law and British politics.
Understandably, people are concerned over the 'ideals' of the British National Party. However, they must not fear them. Fear of the British National Party will not offer us a true democracy - it will distort the way in which we vote; with people deciding to opt to vote for safety in politics rather than ideals. We must vote for who we believe is right; ourselves. We cannot let this party cloud our aims of reaching a perfectly democratic country. We still have yet to reach this pinnacle, clearly; with ushered mutterings of expenses claims eventually morphing into outcries from the public themselves, and ridiculous apologies from MP's who were 'caught short' - for want of a less damaging and more politically suitable word (something the Labour Party could surely come up with).
A wise man once said: "monsieur, je déteste ce que vous écrivez, mais je donnerai ma vie pour que vous puissiez continuer à écrire". Translated, this statement reads: "Sir, I detest what you write, but I would give my life to make it possible for you to continue to write". My political mind is entirely based around this quote. Voltaire was willing to die for something he did not agree with; he was willing to die for the right to freedom. William Wallace also died in the fight for freedom, alongside countless others who campaigned for freedom and the right to democracy. Do not forget this; and think about the issues raised here - decide for yourselves.
The beauty of Poetry
Poetry. What does it mean to you? Were you the person at the back of the class who hated it; or did it open your mind to new ways of thinking and even new ways of living?
Well, for me, poetry was, and still is the latter. I've always been a fan of words and the way in which a particular construct of words, i.e a sentence (the word 'sentence' doesn't do the marrying of words justice, in my opinion, thus I avoid it!) can provoke different reactions in different people. I'm not ashamed to say, that Rupert Brooke's poem; 'The Soldier' struck a chord and left a deep impression inside the fifteen year old that I was the first time I heard it - although many see the poem as a call to arms and glorification of war, if I was Brooke, I would too hope that my sweetheart would think of me as the sweeping plains of rural England, my body may well be broken and destroyed, yet I remain the man I always was in life, in the minds of those who knew me best. There is something magical in the thoughts of others, I hear myself in all of my favourite poems; I assume this is because they connect with me, but maybe I connect with the poet and his ideas, his philosophies, and certainly his zest for life.
There are always people who seek to degrade the art of poetry as 'words on a page' or 'pompous wordplay' but I see it as a completely genuine and beautiful form. Its' features are true and honest; nothing obstructs the way in which the words which fill a poet's mind flow, or rather spill onto a page. Of course, now we have the internet, the 'page' begins to lose popularity in favour of the screen - though for me, the tactile beauty of a book can never be replaced. Unfortunately, the internet has actually destroyed the presentation of poetry; one can never view poems as some were meant to be, in a collect. Wordsworth and Coleridge's collection, 'The Lyrical Ballads' is one of my favourite books; however its' power and presence is in its true form as a book - the poems in isolation, do not work. Only when read in the context of the whole work, can they be truly appreciated. Some are weak, some are strong in their resolve, but what the book most offers me, is a delve into the minds of two great poets, or rather, two great friends, who fell apart in later years - the greed of Wordsworth and the intellectual and alternative prowess of Coleridge (who happens to be my favourite of the two; nothing to do with his Devonian roots... ahem.)
In later years, I became attached to the works of John Magee. A junior Pilot Officer in World War Two, Magee was nineteen; the same age as me. I think this was what partly drew me to Magee, but also, the strong RAF roots of my family and the way in which my family looks upon the RAF most likely had something to do with this. Tragically killed in an horrific accident, Magee's two works, 'Per Ardua Ad Astra' and 'High Flight' will forever be the bane to which the RAF rallies around when it needs to come together. Magee flew with an attitude that every Pilot in the RAF could relate to; that flight is a magnificent and life-changing process; bringing a Pilot closer to the rest of the universe, and further from the Earth. The 'wordsmithery' if I am allowed to call it that, of the poem, High Flight, makes me cry almost every time I hear it. Partly out of sorrow for Magee's loss, but mostly because I see a nineteen year old with dreams, hopes and ambitions, I also see a nineteen year old who had met God in a different way. The skies and flight had completed his life; his loss had not been in vain - thousands of people will have heard Ronald Reagan's speech to the nation of the United States of America in a time of great urgency and overwhelming sorrow. The tragic and untimely loss of the crew of Challenger; an explorative shuttle launched by NASA in 1986 led Reagan to make a speech that raised the hairs on the back of the most powerful nation on Earth. Reagan's heartfelt message (I am convinced this was not through his acting abilities) used Magee's poem to great effect. "I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth; reached out my hand, and touched the face of God", Reagan spoke in prophetic, hushed and calming tones, the words falling from his lips like tears flowing from the weary eyes of every American. A beautiful moment. One that extended this poem onwards, and forced its' beauty on those who did not usually defend poetry.
High Flight
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there, I've chased the shouting wind along,
and flung my eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long delirious, burning blue,
I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew -
And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod
The high untresspassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.
John Magee
The Soldier
If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
Rupert Brooke
Well, for me, poetry was, and still is the latter. I've always been a fan of words and the way in which a particular construct of words, i.e a sentence (the word 'sentence' doesn't do the marrying of words justice, in my opinion, thus I avoid it!) can provoke different reactions in different people. I'm not ashamed to say, that Rupert Brooke's poem; 'The Soldier' struck a chord and left a deep impression inside the fifteen year old that I was the first time I heard it - although many see the poem as a call to arms and glorification of war, if I was Brooke, I would too hope that my sweetheart would think of me as the sweeping plains of rural England, my body may well be broken and destroyed, yet I remain the man I always was in life, in the minds of those who knew me best. There is something magical in the thoughts of others, I hear myself in all of my favourite poems; I assume this is because they connect with me, but maybe I connect with the poet and his ideas, his philosophies, and certainly his zest for life.
There are always people who seek to degrade the art of poetry as 'words on a page' or 'pompous wordplay' but I see it as a completely genuine and beautiful form. Its' features are true and honest; nothing obstructs the way in which the words which fill a poet's mind flow, or rather spill onto a page. Of course, now we have the internet, the 'page' begins to lose popularity in favour of the screen - though for me, the tactile beauty of a book can never be replaced. Unfortunately, the internet has actually destroyed the presentation of poetry; one can never view poems as some were meant to be, in a collect. Wordsworth and Coleridge's collection, 'The Lyrical Ballads' is one of my favourite books; however its' power and presence is in its true form as a book - the poems in isolation, do not work. Only when read in the context of the whole work, can they be truly appreciated. Some are weak, some are strong in their resolve, but what the book most offers me, is a delve into the minds of two great poets, or rather, two great friends, who fell apart in later years - the greed of Wordsworth and the intellectual and alternative prowess of Coleridge (who happens to be my favourite of the two; nothing to do with his Devonian roots... ahem.)
In later years, I became attached to the works of John Magee. A junior Pilot Officer in World War Two, Magee was nineteen; the same age as me. I think this was what partly drew me to Magee, but also, the strong RAF roots of my family and the way in which my family looks upon the RAF most likely had something to do with this. Tragically killed in an horrific accident, Magee's two works, 'Per Ardua Ad Astra' and 'High Flight' will forever be the bane to which the RAF rallies around when it needs to come together. Magee flew with an attitude that every Pilot in the RAF could relate to; that flight is a magnificent and life-changing process; bringing a Pilot closer to the rest of the universe, and further from the Earth. The 'wordsmithery' if I am allowed to call it that, of the poem, High Flight, makes me cry almost every time I hear it. Partly out of sorrow for Magee's loss, but mostly because I see a nineteen year old with dreams, hopes and ambitions, I also see a nineteen year old who had met God in a different way. The skies and flight had completed his life; his loss had not been in vain - thousands of people will have heard Ronald Reagan's speech to the nation of the United States of America in a time of great urgency and overwhelming sorrow. The tragic and untimely loss of the crew of Challenger; an explorative shuttle launched by NASA in 1986 led Reagan to make a speech that raised the hairs on the back of the most powerful nation on Earth. Reagan's heartfelt message (I am convinced this was not through his acting abilities) used Magee's poem to great effect. "I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth; reached out my hand, and touched the face of God", Reagan spoke in prophetic, hushed and calming tones, the words falling from his lips like tears flowing from the weary eyes of every American. A beautiful moment. One that extended this poem onwards, and forced its' beauty on those who did not usually defend poetry.
High Flight
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there, I've chased the shouting wind along,
and flung my eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long delirious, burning blue,
I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew -
And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod
The high untresspassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.
John Magee
The Soldier
If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
Rupert Brooke
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