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Circle of Life
By nealejames | January 21, 2010
Well, this’ll be a first for several reasons, primarily in that it doesn’t feature photographs (bar one) taken personally. For several of the photos, I wasn’t actually alive! I’m aware that as a photographer, my blogs can accommodate more than the expected measure of text for someone of my profession. However, this is a post that I’ve been planning to write since my mother and last surviving parent passed away just a shade after midnight on October 22nd last year. It’s long overdue Mum, and if you’ll forgive the cathartic sentimentality someone can gain through composing this kind of piece, I hope you’ll see the relevance for it being included in an otherwise romantically biased blog. Although I will start with a wedding photograph. The event? My Mum and Dad’s wedding day.
During my first Christmas midst a reasonably short stint as a Radio 1 presenter (early 90s! and just prior to Blood on the Carpet), my parents surprised with a gift that at the time had pertinence for a different reason to the significance it holds today. It was a Nikon compact camera; the TW Zoom 150. I still have it. It sits collecting dust on a shelf in our shop today. Dad’s proud reasoning for it’s purchase was that as a broadcaster, he thought it was time I took pictures of all the famous people I may meet. In essence I think he was waiting for one photo in particular, an image I never got to capture, that of Elton John.
I adore the photo above. It features Dad with his best man Derek. I’m passionate about monochrome prints, pride of place at home right now (where I ‘pen’ my thoughts) is an original Bert Hardy print, gifted by tog peer and former war photographer Giles Penfound (whole new story another time). Anyway, I digress. So Dad bought me this camera and my simple task was to capture images that he could never hope to witness. Shamefully my Nikon compact only saw a dozen rolls of film. Not one of them contains a photograph of family hero, Elton John.
As far as I can work out, the photo above was taken during my mother and father’s engagement party in the loosely titled conservatory of Mum’s parents’ sweet shop attached to the back of their house on the Great Cambridge Road leading into London. All my grandparents feature. The silver haired gent to the right is Mum’s father. He, like me, was a workaholic, although I prefer to suggest he was passionate about his trade. One of our family’s favourite legends features Grandad Chocolate (so called due to his tenure over this confectionery store) driving golf balls out of the shop across the A10 (GCR, usually to impress the Spurs players that frequented his shop to buy tobacco!!!!!) One Christmas he drove a ball from it’s standpoint by the penny sweet stand through an historic Fry’s Chocolate glazed window. Museum curators would be reasonably shocked. Grandad laughed.
Ahh, Grandmas, both above and both equally loved. They were, by all account, party animals. On the left Dad’s mother. She was incredible. She was widow to Sid. Dad’s father died before I was born. As ‘Nan’ she would listen to all my fanciful stories as a child and feed my inventions. I think, I think, I’m creative today thanks to the influences that nurtured a fertile imagination. My own father’s biggest regret was that his dad did not get to see me. History so often repeats itself, in that Jack, my son, was born over a decade after my own father’s passing. I’ll always remember the final few words my father said to me. In ‘that’ hour he apologised and regretted that he wouldn’t see my children. Not a day goes by where I equally don’t regret he couldn’t experience the joy I feel about my own son. I hope, I wish, I can be half the father he was to me. And Dad, you’re here, always. Hell, I say the same stuff that you did. You’re destined to be here.
Isn’t the one above such a glorious pic? We seem to be travelling even further back in time, we must be talking mid to late 50s? If ever I needed some kind of virtuous proof that my vocation really does make a difference, it’s the image above. Nan, Dad, Grandad. I found this roughly a week after Mum’s passing. She’d saved all Dad’s precious photographs from his childhood and early adult life. As a broadcaster I lived in the there and then. As a photographer I hope to create images that will become clients’ legacy. So, to Mum and Dad…
Mum and Dad above as I remember them. Dad died twelve years before Mum passed, and I don’t think my mother ever came to terms with her loss. She struggled through a series of intense highs and lows both physically and mentally. It’s part of the documentary of life.
And so we leap back again, this time to the early 70s. I was in shorts, flanked by my mother obviously and uncles Roger and Andy. It was my Uncle Andy’s wedding. I plucked this photograph from a tin of memories, probably only seven days after I lost Mum. We all looked at each other. We agreed in unison, that Jack, my son, is very similar…
Not a day goes past where I don’t wish that Mum and Dad could appear in a puff of Heavenly smoke to appreciate the family they have and the difference they have made. If Heaven has adopted broadband I want you both to know that I rejoice with an amazing little boy that looks and acts so much like the son you loved. In 19-ninety something when I opened that gift of a camera, I had no idea of the creative avenues you were leading me into.
As I laid Mum to rest on the 10th November last year I remained no closer to that elusive portrait of Elton John. Though I hope you could hear ‘Circle of Life’ from the master himself, a fitting tribute for you both when I look at your Grandson.
Rest in peace Mum. Now you’re both back together.
Wendy Bartholomew (27th February 1937 to 22nd October 2009)
Topics: Blog journal | 5 Comments »
January 21st, 2010 at 6:38 am
This is awesome!
January 21st, 2010 at 6:49 am
What can I say Neale? A truly moving and powerful piece of writing and a very evocative series of photographs too.
As a social media consultant I could talk about how powerful it is for a business, especially one providing a personal, even intimate, service like photography, to be personal and revealing like this. People buy people and a blog entry like this will establish a powerful connection with prospective and indeed existing customers. I could talk about that, but the truth is knowing Neale as I do, this is so not a marketing effort, but something truly straight from the heart.
I might have to start reading your blog with a box of tissues! After the previous post about capturing the incredible moment between a father and daughter on her wedding day… and now something as moving as this diary…
My own father died in 2003 and sadly never met my daughter before he passed so I can relate to the resonance that has for you Neale. I wrote him letters back then and sometimes still do, and for a journalist and writer who has had so much published, I do not think I could write the equivalent blog post with the same honesty and heartfelt candor as you have done here Neale.
Well done Neale. A truly inspirational and moving posting.
January 21st, 2010 at 10:06 am
Pretty moving stuff Neale. I loved your openness and honesty in sharing your family memories and inspirations. But me being me, I can’t be truly sentimental without something of an edgy twist. So I leave you with this….it’s interesting to me that your father had VERY similar eyes to one Sir Bruno of Brookes according to his mince pie picture.
January 21st, 2010 at 12:37 pm
Thank you very much for sharing these very personal images and words – truly touching. Wish you all the best for 2010.
January 21st, 2010 at 7:12 pm
Neal, what more could I expect?! Surely Bruno hasn’t been knighted though?