Desk space

Up until a little over an hour ago, for the past six months or so I'd been sharing my bedroom with a monster. A greedy, disrespectful and inconsiderate bastard. Actually, not a bastard, I know this because it is I who Fathered this frightful creature. It was borne of my laziness.

It happened so fast, like a cheap one night stand (so I hear). For me it was a convenient way to quickly organize the research on my dissertation. Without much thought I put together two little piles on my desk, one for written notes, the other for books.

All very well, no harm done, that was at least until the rate of which I was accumulating research exceeded the speed that I could process it.

The two neat piles slowly lost their way. I won't try and swerve the culpability that should rightly fall on my own shoulders. It was ultimately my responsibility to ensure that these piles had a good upbringing, that they were well manicured, pruned and generally tidied up every so often. But, in short, I stopped caring for them. They disgusted me ever more as they grew unsightly and obese, serving as a constant reminder that I wasn't putting enough hours into my dissertation.

The piles had me in their sights, they eventually joined forces and became one large stack. Its intentions were malignant, it wished me harm. I could sense it scowling at me, whispering discouraging words.

In all this time I hardly gave a second thought to my poor old desk who was suffering silently under the huge weight of this beast. I suppose the desk, being the loyal and humble servant that it is thought it a matter of discipline to keep quiet and to not add further strife to its masters mind.

The final straw came in the dead of night. I was in bed, everything was silent in the house. Suddenly the stack made an all out offensive move, it committed what in my book constitutes an act of aggressive warfare. It lunged forward and with a loud horrible wail rolled itself off the desk and onto the floor.

This could only mean one thing, it was actively seeking new territory. The stack had outgrown the confines of the desk in much the same way a Lion cub outgrows its first cage.

The sound of it landing startled me awake. I quickly fumbled the light on and to my horror I saw the digusting sight of it sprawled all over my floor.

For the first time I was... well... honestly, I was scared. Heaven knows I can look after myself alright. But there were women and children next door to think of for christ sakes.

In all our time together the stack had never been so brazen, had never dared, to physically move. It was time to put an end to this madness once and for all.

What spurred me on and instilled in me the belief that I could defeat this beast was just a subtle little look from my good old desk. And that look filled me with regret and remorse. How could I ever of been so short sighted and foolish as to think that I could get on without my desk? After all we've been through, all the work we've completed together. My best words have been written at that desk, my greatest drawings, drawn at that desk. It was my companion.

So through my eyes I reassured it, I told it that it will not have to suffer so for very much longer. But let us not act it haste, I said, or else the stack may end up getting the best of us both. Let us wait, plot a fool proof plan and then strike tomorrow when it thinks that tonight's affront has gone unchallenged.

I brought this thing into the world, I knew whose responsibility it was to take it out. So that's what I did. I eliminated it. Rendered it obsolete. Terminated it. Neutralized its threat. Nullified its future. However you want to put it, the thing is no more.

I write this now, sweaty and bruised, for it put up a good fight. But now the desk is free, never again will I let even so much as a single sheet of paper come between us. Okay, that might prove to be a bit difficult considering it is a desk after all. Well, I won't let another stack come between us at least.

So now here I am, saddled up in my old seat. My desk and I prepare to ride off into the future, in the direction of the rising Sun, carried along by a stream of unwritten words, through the dust of potential creativity.

Oh, first I must do that dissertation.

Little pile of notes just here...

Metropolis

Kiosk 6

Below are the photos I took as part of the research for a one minute film documenting red telephone boxes...

Designed by Sir Giles Gilbert Scott and introduced to the United Kingdom and British Colonies from 1925, the colour red was chosen to make them easy to spot.

Over the years there's been several slightly different models of the box. The most popular is named Kiosk 6 and it was that what I eventually decided to call the finished video. It was first introduced in 1935 and many of them still stand today.

1925 - 1,000 (K1)

1930 - 8,000 (K2 & K3 added)

1935 - 19,000 (K6 introduced)

1940 - 35,000

1950 - 44,000

1960 - 65,000

1970 - 70,000 (K8 introduced in 1968)

1980 - 73,000

At one point in history telephone boxes were the primary means of communication between people in the developed world, beacons of technological advancement.

Today they have been superseded by mobile phones and e-mail. And yet these structures remain, like relics of an ancient civilization.

There's a place in Surrey that collect and restore old phone boxes. I noticed it once when on a train from West Sussex into London. For a few seconds you can see rows of phone boxes, it resembles a grave yard. One day I'd like to shoot something there, a chase sequence perhaps. This is it from above...

A typical day in central London may see the phone box being used more as a place to shelter from the rain, or a hideaway for eager lovers than as a means of communication.

They can also attract less favorable things such as prostitution cards and drug deals, as well as being used as a public urinal and temporary crack den.

The unifying narrative of the film is the passing of day into night around the different locations of phone boxes, in a sense, it's the day in the life of the Kiosk 6.

At its heart the film is documentary, most of the events are real. However, there are also some staged elements in there, for example, the guy waiting with a bunch of flowers, the police car that drives by and the girl who's being sick at the end. I introduced these narrative parts to explore the merging of documentary and fictional filmmaking and was partly inspired by John Smith's brilliant short film 'Girl Chewing Gum'.

Sunset

Each golden sunrise ushers in new opportunities for those who retain faith in themselves, and keep their chins up. Meet the sunrise with confidence. Fill every golden minute with right thinking and worthwhile endeavor. Do this and there will be joy for you in each golden sunset.

Alonzo Newton Benn

For me optimism is two lovers walking into the sunset arm in arm. Or maybe into the sunrise- whatever appeals to you.

Krzysztof Kieslowski

'Morning After' Rushes

Here's a section of rushes from the Saro shoot. These were some of my favourite shots of the day. I love lens flare...

And some set photography...

Hangover

The first sensation was that if anybody spoke harshly to me I should burst out crying. The second that the room was too small for my head. The front of the head was a long way from the back, the sides were an enormous distance apart, in spite of which a dull throbbing beat from temple to temple.

Raymond Chandler's 'Playback'

Saro Promo

Producing a promo video for the Swiss designer Saro tomorrow. We're filming at a beautiful country mansion called Tylney Hall in Hampshire.

This is the treatment and some shots from the location recce...

'The Sun is just beginning to rise and the remnants of the previous nights party float across a turquoise swimming pool.

A young women in elegant evening wear appears and gazes into the distance.

We follow her as she walks through the lush maze-like gardens of this huge country estate.

She walks down a large outdoor staircase and takes off an exquisite pair of shoes

before stepping onto the large vista of the grounds that stretches out far into the distance.

Eventually she comes across a young man lying on the lawn. Like her, he is also dressed for the previous evening’s festivities.

The young man stands up and they embrace.'

This dress is the star of the show...

Except it will be made with this fabric with rope pattern...

Coxinha

A dear friend of mine, Mr Robert Brunton Esquire, a connoisseur of sorts, well schooled in the finer things in life and generally a man of an altogether more sophisticated nature, well, this Mr Brunton recently happened to bestow upon my naive ears a meagre kernel of his worldly knowledge, of which I am most humbly grateful for the rest of eternity.

We were on our way back from the carnival, feeling a bit peckish, and Rob suddenly made a swift left turn into a small, unassuming little shop. With an almost other-worldly accent he announced to the fragile bird of a women behind the counter that he would like two Coxinha's.

Two what? I thought. What is this odd chap up to now?

But the women knew exactly what he meant, she gave him a subtle, almost unnoticeable nod of the head, which seemed to me to be some sort of recognition, it struck me as Masonic even, a secret sign between fellow brethren, like she was saying 'yes my son, you have travelled far, across treacherous sea and ravaged land in your quest for the sacred Coxinha and I respect you for it. But fear not, the moment of deliverance is almost upon us... First, let me pop it in the microwave for a min.'

Somewhat bemused, with a raised eyebrow and skeptical disposition, I awaited the mysterious Coxinha.

Well! I fear the the rest of this riveting anecdote is difficult to describe. My memory of it is blurry, streaks of light, like slow shutter speed photography. But what I do remember as clear as the sky on a bright summers day is the taste. More than just 'taste' though, that word is inadequate... rather the sensation of taste... the joy, enlightenment, transcendence, the manifestation of Jesus Christ in a bite sized morsel of snackage.

The Coxinha, the mighty, all powerful Messiah. I salute you.

Recipe

3 boneless chicken breast, 1/2 chopped onion,
2 chopped cloves of garlic,
6 tablespoon margarine,
2 cubes beef bouillon,
3 cups water,
salt,
ground pepper,
3 cups all-purpose flour,
1 (8oz) cream cheese,
2 eggs
bread crumb

Cut chicken breasts into two-inch cubes. Combine chicken breast, chopped onion, garlic, beef bouillon, salt, ground pepper, margarine and 3 cups of water in a saucepan. Cook over medium-heat for about 30 minutes or until done. When done, remove chicken breasts.

Bring 3 cups of the remaining broth to boil. Add flour to boiling broth and stir vigorously with a wood spoon for about 1 minute until it becomes dough. Remove dough from pan. Knead until smooth, about 10 minutes.



Flatten dough with a rolling pin to about 1/4-inch thick and cut medium size circles with a biscuit cutter. Place the dough in your palm, and add a small cube of cream cheese and a teaspoon of the prepared chicken filling. Make sure you can close the dough with the filling inside. Knead scraps and re-roll, repeat cutting circles until all dough is used.

Fold and close the dough in the shape of a drum stick (a little chicken drum stick in Portuguese translates to "coxinha"). Grease hands if necessary. Baste the filled dough with egg whites and roll them over the breadcrumbs.

Deep-fry the snacks at 350°F for about 8 minutes or until golden brown. Place in baking cups and serve.

Makes 60 bite size coxinhas or 30 mediums.