I’ve never been keen on the term, wedding package. It makes me feel like I’m flogging a cheap holiday. It may be pure and simple semantics, but I prefer to use the word, service. Quite a few ingredients make up this service. The initial meeting, the wedding day itself with it’s mixture of documentary, food, landscape and portrait photography, the post wedding retouch and client consultation during album construct. There is one other constituent worth more than a fleeting mention; the prewedding shoot. For many adults of good hearty Brit descent, the idea of having a portrait taken is, well, uncomfortable. Yet superb wedding imagery is placed near the top of the ‘must have’ list for the very same people. For me, the opportunity to meet one final time before the big day itself is paramount. It accomplishes a myriad of organisational and creative facets. We get to know each other a little more. For sure maybe not to the ‘it’s your round next’ level, but well enough that on the day the reaction to me as I fulfill my professional task is more a case of; “Oh, it’s just Neale,” than a horrified; “Here comes the photographer.” We get to discuss the day in a lot more detail, timings, names of important wedding party members, group portrait planning, maybe even some politics to be aware of. Oh yes, and we actually take some pictures.

Portrait trends come and go. Our clients are content to forgo the spartan white background studio shoot. I do use the white backdrop very occasionally at weddings for the evening studio and as that kind of installation it works well. But to relax a couple into the concept that a portrait shoot will not make them feel like they’re floundering in a pool of maple syrup, a simple walk in the park is far more comfortable.

There’s no doubt about it, Budapest has lots of statues. On day one I was capturing virtually every statue that presented itself. Day two and I was being rather more selective. Day three emerged and my interest level dipped. There’s a shade under two million people living in the city. Every single person has their own statue. Fact.

This is my hotel room view. What you can see is the national gallery, once home to Hungarian royalty. It probably would have celebrated the reign of Archduke Franz Ferdinand if he hadn’t been assassinated triggering a string of complex historical odds and bobs that led to the first World War. I learned that at school. My own children will no doubt only know Franz as a musician, who by the time they’re time able to buy their own toons, will be a golden oldie and as uncool as Dad’s McCartney collection.

I love art. I love galleries. I prefer a photographic experience, but I’m just as happy observing brush strokes, albeit slightly more contemporary ones. The Tate Modern remains one of my favourite places in the World. The sport of proclaiming “My Son could do better and he’s only two” is par for the course when you view modern art. This one is for my favourite carpenter, ‘Soccer Stu’ who would LOL at the bad dovetailing of this priceless piece above titled ‘Great Prism.’

Not far from the gallery is the Matthias Church and nestling in the grounds is this. I quite like it, hence the shots.

January is seasonably chilly in Budapest, so the concept of capturing lovers canoodling by the Danube, street entertainers strumming their Hungarian chords and general busy-ness was somewhat lost during my visit. I did capture these two musicians, but my hunt for further locals in pursuit of their profession was pretty fruitless. In this temperature, people simply buckle up and walk on by.

A Beetle for no other reason than I love Beetles. I had one, once. Favourite car. In the snow it suffered heating failures, bellowing exhaust and smoke fumes in to the cabin. Maybe that’s why this one clearly hasn’t been used for weeks. And so I come to the end of my mini tour. It’s been fun, and I return with many images to show for my stay. Budapest is full of history, full of places of worship, full of statues. And full of Burger Kings. As a place to live, it ranks third out of sixty five European cities in the quality of life index. You’d think with that statistic the locals would be positively radiating a smugness. But, it’s not so humorous Pestside. It may be the cold, but natives don’t seem that friendly on the street. Passing nods and smiles seem to be greeted with mute indifference. I’ve never thought of myself as a travel togger, though it would be fun, artistically. Sadly, I’m not a huge fan of air travel it has to be said. I rank it fairly low in pastime pleasures, somewhere between root canal surgery and half marathons. Paradoxically I hold a private pilot’s licence of the rotary variety; machines that defy all known laws of gravity to lift off, when really they should in fact screw themselves into the ground. So, as I sit here composing this post enduring a bout of clear air turbulance which the BA First Officer has profusely apologised for (they don’t do that on Malev) I look forward to composing my next travel blog in April when we take our family holiday to somewhat sunnier climes. Next post, back to weddings.

Didn’t take long on the Pest side of the Danube to find clues to it’s possible whereabouts, though I’m unsure whether this and other similar entrances actually link in to the Sziklakapolna (Chapel in the Rock). You don’t have to search hard to find signs and stories of oppression. Hungarian modern history is awash with erroneous factions and unwelcome regimes. In the early 20s an order of monks fashioned this cave into a copy of Lourdes. All was well, until the turn of the 50s when afraid of their own shadows, the Hungarian Secret Police broke into the place, arrested and executed the Superior, imprisoning everyone else for five to ten years each. They even blocked up the entrance with a two metre thick wall. Gradually it’s all being restored to the way it was prior to communism; fascinating place.

A brisk walk away, crossing the Danube into Buda, you find the Great Market Hall. Well, actually initially you find the university, which in facade terms from my memory, didn’t seem too dissimilar to the market building. Couple of seconds inside the wrong building and it was all quite obvious. Everyone looked studious and there wasn’t a carrot or hanging meat to be seen.

I’ll admit to being a little disappointed about the market as I was hoping to do a real spot of candid street togging. I’m several decades too late for that, since the market was modernised twenty odd years ago. The trader’s market has disappeared and in it’s place; dozens of small shops really, many of them selling the kind of ware only attractive to tourists, and ones that like dolls and tablecloths at that. I opted to study the small cafes on the first floor. Hungarian Langos (deep fried bread) with a coating of grated cheese and cold meats is far more interesting, if not a little excessive in callorific terms.

There are plenty of signs that this was once a communist enclave, the two stroke East German ‘Trabi’ being one…

I was a tad surprised to see so many, didn’t have to wait too long to photograph one. They may look a little out of place next to Budapest’s new fleet of motors, but in that the average waiting list was 15 years, and lifespan 28 years, they’re not an unusual sight. They were still making these things in 1991!

By all accounts I read Stalin’s Hungary was not a pleasant place to frequent, yet in the museum where photography was prohibited one of the guides positively insisted that I record his image for posterity. Many were socially purged during his communist reign, soft way of saying executed. I took the photo from the side. Didn’t really want to look into his eyes.

Today being an historical trail, it seemed fitting that I should visit the Great Synagogue and Holocaust Memorial Park. I’ve photographed in a handful of synagogues, but none quite so large and impressive as this. With room for 6,000 worshippers it has a potted history, serving adversely for and against those that worshipped here. During the war Jewish families were ‘cleared’ through this building by the Nazis before making a final journey not to France for work detail as promised, but to Auschwitz and the horrors that lay within. My guide pointed out that the authorities even made their ‘captives’ pay the train fare.

I sign off today’s post with a couple of exposures by night – and you’ll note not one tram themed image. I thought I’d rather overworked that theme yesterday.

It’s a truism that the aircraft icon on any in-flight cabin display map showing your route and time to destination is approximately the size of Luxembourg. It’s not an aviation coincidence either, as I passed through the place once on a road trip; it was like crossing your front room. And so here I am half an hour into my Malev flight to Budapest for a spot of unadulterated Leica M8 street photography. Just post Christmas I splashed out on this digital fancy in classic clothing with the aim of using it more freely on the street and so this, is it’s first test drive. To be fair it’s equally a kick up the proverbial from Sam, my wife, who bought me this trip as a Christmas gift, a little easier to wrap tickets than an E-Type; there’s always next year. I’m not a great one for using my chunky Canon gear in cities, and though my somewhat less than svelte frame makes it tricky to completely fade into an urban backdrop, it’s fair to say that something that protrudes from my fleece no further than a wallet stuffed with store cards (slight disparity) doesn’t attract quite so much unwelcome attention. So, one M8, a 50mm lens, handful of SD cards, a city guide I’ve not even read yet and I’m good to go.

One of the first things that struck me about the place is just how much graffiti there is. Banksy would be at home in a city like this, as it appears nobody seems interested to curtail the artform. It’s everywhere. People’s apartment blocks, the underground, the overground, government buildings. Maybe they don’t do community service out here?

If you’re not daubing the walls with pictures and tags, you could join the elite set of craftspeople that fashion all manner of statues.

And… another tram.

Courtyard shops are common. I’m armed with a 50mm so the focal length doesn’t allow me to easily show you how these shops squeeze into the tiniest backstreet corners in-between apartments. I did spot one or two impressive ornate arcades too. Budapest appears to be in a transition commercially, where the arcades are emptying, traders favouring the shopping centres. This is one such arcade above; a solitary shop illuminates a small segment of what looked like a hub of commerce once.

Five degrees under and falling, I was heading back to the hotel when I came across a ‘table water musician.’ I asked if he did requests. My joke was lost in translation.

Enough with the trams now.

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)

Photographically, there is a documentary moment at most weddings when a father’s eyes will meet those of his daughter’s for the first time as she stands before him in her wedding gown. The intensity differs from father to father of course and even those dads with the most obdurate courage find this to be one moment more than any other during the day, where a myriad of emotions flatten any wall of masculine parental steely resolve they thought they possessed. It’s fabulous. Professional platitudes abound on the web, so I’ll cautiously express a somewhat overused term; privilege. As a documentary maker, albeit in stills, that’s what makes this job so important, he says, hearing the opening bars of ‘Land of Hope and Glory’ fading up behind this blog entry. Listen, I can swill beer, crack beer nuts and talk sport with the best of ‘em at any bar in this land where spit and sawdust define the landlord’s choice of decor. But I’ll also experience and hopefully always will, a lump in the throat when I witness the sincere pride liberated by a father with momentary tunnel vision, who can see no further than his ‘little girl’ on the morning of her wedding. Phew, that’s said. Okay, big hearty Haka lads and let’s get back to talking rugby.

In venue terms, I know you’re not supposed to have them or at least moot the subject, but this remains one of my firm favourites when it comes to photographing weddings. Congratulations to ‘Englishman in New York’ Matt and Niki. Looking forward to presenting you with your photographs when you come back from your secret honeymoon destination! Not sure if they have broadband where you’re going, but if they do, a handful of images to whet the appetite.

It’s there, our annual cyber design visit gives birth to the brand new BREATHE Pictures website. At first sight you may not think a lot has changed. The splash remains fairly similar, if not identical. It’s when you venture in through the main website link that BANG, things have changed somewhat. I like to think it’s cleaner. My SEO champion will find she has more to play with under the bonnet. Twitter and Facebook links now appear – hell, I may even get to grow the ‘followers’ count. But, and MOST importantly, there are some excellent new image features. Photograph supported testimonials do exactly what they say on the tin, and, well for me, are worth a million spurious tog awards (here speaketh the man who doesn’t really enter comps! – although I do have my bronze lifesavers badge.) The wedding galleries feature a host of my fav shots from the middle to latter part of the last decade, but in that I shot 70 weddings in ‘09 alone, there’s a healthy new collection of shots not featured before as you would expect. There’s also the start of gallery dedicated to album design. It’s a growing section and I’ll be uploading more in the next few months. The ‘our story’ link features some stuff on Nat, self styled Trusty Sidekick to the business over in the west wing (retouching dept). Image wise, it’s our heaviest site yet – and your feedback will be much appreciated. It’s not designed for non broadband users, sorry. Including the album designs, over 500 images have been catalogued and uploaded. It took a little time, bearing in mind last year we presented nearly 40,000 images to our wedding and portrait clients. All in all, more images will make their way on to the site over the next quarter. A big hearty thanks to every bride, groom, guest and chef appearing in our new little BIG site. ‘09 was a superb year – here’s to an IMAGE-TASTIC 2010. (You can’t take the jock out of an old broadcaster it seems.)

What no customers?

And our tip to you Jack (hasn’t he grown?!) – don’t eat yellow snow.

Well, this is my ‘goodbye old decade, hello new,’ post. So, as I round off 2009 and begin a fresh decade, I’ll start with giving a little personal detail about myself, an admission if you like – I am, always have been, always will be; an anorak. There, I’ve said it. Not quite so startling as admitting a drinks problem I’m sure and some people may prefer the term enthusiast, but hailing from my early days in broadcasting where anyone with a slightly more than unhealthy obsession in the technical nature of the business was referred to as ‘Anorak,’ it seems only fair to apply that label to yours truly. There was a time where I could recall every medium wave frequency and assign it to a radio station and region – even in Aberdeen (290 metres medium wave – and where Nicky Campbell was ‘born’ – see?) I spent, like many adults will recall, many hours with a radio under the sheets into the wee small hours, ear pressed firmly against a solid state transistor, tuning a dial across a myriad of stations that only came out at night such as Radio Luxembourg. When I clear my late mother’s loft in the next week or so, I am hoping that I find a dog earred, well worn and much loved old edition of the IBA handbook. Mum kept everything, and for all of my teens, that handbook was the most important piece of literature in my life. On my final approach path into actually broadcasting over two decades ago, I was so bitten by the craft, that I even found myself studying the artistic pauses (known as dead air) – trying to find a reason why the broadcaster had used it – reference Simon Bates, Our Tune. I guess now, I can refer to them as my medium wave moments. Magical, at times irrational, most certainly obsessional. And so, a mite over two decades later, and I find myself once more obsessed, not with medium wave crackles and beautiful artistic pauses, but grit, grain, mood and what I can only describe as the guts of a black and white image. Ralph Gibson, Josef Koudelka, Helmut Newton – have captured all my imagination for instance. The guts, the grain and emotion in their pictures drives me in much the same way that the original Radio 1 brat pack used to – I’m far too young to remember pirate radio of course. The buzz phrase at Breathe HQ, seems to be ‘let’s inject some more guts into our photography.’ In the same way that radio throttled my attentions all those moons ago, I’m now re-obsessing – but this time about photographs. I’m obsessing about light, I’m obsessing about form, I’m obsessing about grain, I’m obsessing about the shadows and sheer depth of an image. I’m obsessing about good old fashioned exposure and print values that frequented the lives of the masters that seems to be edging out of existence as people find that button in their editing package marked ‘grayscale.’ I’m amazed that even my professional peers will press that button and believe they’ve created a black and white image akin to the beauty, depth and style produced by the likes of Bob Carlos Clarke. See? Now doesn’t this sound like the verbal wanderings of someone who should ‘get out more?’ Or perhaps, and the real reason behind this final post of 2009, you’ll accept this as my way of wishing everyone who has subscribed to this blog, or occasionally clicks in, a happy new year, with all my hopes that a new decade brings us all what we’re seeking. For me, that’ll be health and happiness for my family – and that ever elusive perfectly toned image – with loads of grit. Anyone who writes a blog will recognise that publishing one of these things can be somewhat of a cathartic exercise. Anyone who has or will be commissioning me over the next year will equally recognise why I get a glint in my eye when the light, mood and moment come together for my photographic version of a medium wave moment. Happy New Year, and I’ll sign off with a handful of good wholesome grit, I hope.