Restricted images hide a story. Retelling the story by slicing away the margins is how tabloits make headlines. The most extreme, the better. It may not make sense, but the readers’ shock deters them from revisiting and unpacking the reality.
This introduction of new journalism made it into our every day lives. It trimmed the stories to polarising and accusatory as the norm.
For example, see this image in its entirety.
What information does this image contain that is useful to you? The path, the river, the people in the distance, the dog, the season. Is the dog seeking your attention by waiting on you?
Now, what story does the image below tell?
Consider your first thoughts looking at this image. Is the dog angry, about to react, or playful, is the ground cold and wet?
The second story has dramatised the narrative by removing useful information that would have told the story in all its complexity. It automatically polarised understanding by simplification. The narrative is cut short and the story is left for the viewer to interpret.
Now imagine the text defining the already minimised story.
Dog stares before it runs away, or attacks.
Greying dog lost in the winter.
By doing so we have already disassociated the image from the reality.
Next time you see a close up in the news, ask yourself, what is the purpose of such trimming and what are you missing out in terms of information.
Photography is a gift of storytelling. Butchering details, however insignificant they may appear, is a political decision made by editorial professionals serving singular story telling.
You don’t have to consume what is given and to enrich your understanding ask the questions that can better inform you.
I went to the UK launch of the Judy & Punch movie at the Picturehouse Central near Picadilly Circus.
The event had a live puppet show and actors portraying the audience husslers you’d get in the 17th century pre show crowds.
Drinks flowing, the pre movie event was comic, dark and intense with high pitched call outs and bashing noises, floating between comedy, with hints of tragedy, to fairy tale like medieval perkiness.
Now onto the movie.
Set in the mountain village of Seaside, the scenes are made in 17th century English/western European surroundings with a forest, unwavering views over the mountains and further away and filled with all the weird and wonderful characters you’d find in the dark streets of London mid century.
The story of the name Seaside goes like that. The villagers believed the sea would rise to near the top of the mountain, making their village a seaside settlement. They went on as far as building boats, which coincidentally and comically the housekeeper of Judy & Punch wonders what happened to them.
The script takes you through the success of a puppeteer couple who have returned to Seaside after the money and drink thirsty husband burned through their earnings from the big shows in the Big Smoke.
They start very successful shows at the village, waiting on the day talent spotters will come through and open up a new chance for a show in the city.
Whilst all of this rolls out, the husband keeps on failing. Whilst the wife (Judy and female puppeteer) goes out for the day, he gets drunk, nearly forgets a crawling baby to the fireplace, chases a dog for stealing his breakfast sausages and trips over throwing the baby out of the window into the dense thick forest down the mountain.
The wife returns (Judy) and the fight kicks off where he leaves her for dead in the forest. Nearby travellers/White witches find her, bring her back to health and before they move on their next journey, go back to the village to tell some truths about Mr Punch, who is about to hang the elderly housekeepers to clear his name of his wife’s and baby’s disappearance.
I won’t spoil the finale. From second to second I couldn’t predict what would happen. All I can reveal is that’s the first movie that I watched mesmerised without noticing how the time went past.
Go check it out for yourself and tell me what you think.
Walking through the waterways, up and down across the bridges I am confused as to what price you can place on which experience.
The Olympic stadium glares light in the distance, reflecting onto the waterways, drawing the eye over. There are street lights, yellow glare making seeing harder than it ought to be in the dark.
There is lighting and different shades, colours and intensities, warming up the night’s colouring from square box apartments paid for by the mill.
There are peeping john’s from dilapidated rooms upstairs from warehouse spaces.
The paradox is uncanny. Boxes upon boxes, with different vibration of electric energy lighting up the inside of the box, marking their position to the street below.
Dark chipped corners, with flaking paper glue adverts hanging off, contrasting the clean cut edges of the new apartments.
The most colourful and mesmerising visuals, the caked graffiti. Layers over layers, of spray paint. Different times of the day pushing backgrounds to fore, that shape and the separation from the other spaces, a rolling show of two dimensional characters and shapes.