My mum had been confused for a year or two, but had coped well enough with some friend and family support.
But she fell and broke her hip a couple of Christmases past.
The ambulance men took her to hospital. It became obvious that she was suffering badly from dementia, and it only required the effects of the fall, and hospitalisation, to reveal the extent of her confusion. She had coped only because of the familiarity of ‘home’.
Social Work assessment was ordered, and the decision made that she would not be allowed to return home.
Ever.
She was 83 years old, a good age to have reached on your own.
It fell to me to close her flat, remove some of her belongings that would fit in the small room in her sheltered placement – her new ‘home’, and to dispose of the remaining items. Mum in her confusion refused to sign anything, to stop her rent, her phone, her electricity and told me, angrily, to sort it out myself.
That was not easy.
I contacted a local charity about her furniture and other belongings. Two men appeared in a small van one day. One was brawny, scarred, shaven-head, ex-military and scarily tough. The other was somewhat odd.
They started to remove the furniture and boxes of a lifetime.
The conversation with them went sporadically, in between their removal and delivery of mum’s furniture, and return for more.
Army man said “We moved to the highlands, me and my partner, for a ‘new start’. We did a lot of driving around in a small van until we found a place that felt right.” They had fetched up in rural Lochaber (in a remote part, but very ‘right’ in my opinion) “We were living in a tent, then a caravan” He didn’t add that this was through two of the coldest winters on record. “The people have been so friendly” he said. “I’m doing this work as a volunteer, I like ‘community’ and being a part of it. Too many people don’t value community. I do. This is my contribution. It gets me out and I meet people. I find out about stuff.” he added.
They took the oak display cabinet and boxes of plates.
Then they came back for more.
“We gave the display cabinet and plates to a young Polish immigrant family who have no furniture” he told me on his return “They could not believe how lovely it is, they were so so happy. The woman was quite emotional!”
They took the large orthopaedic bed and a wardrobe next.
They came back for more.
“A Latvian immigrant family got the bed and wardrobe. A husband and wife and two young children. The two parents were crying when they saw it, they were so happy. They have no furniture. They said to say thank you to your mum.”
The carpets went next, and the large flat screen television, and pots and pans.
Before they left, the Army man told me his workmate has a learning difficulty and this volunteer job is therapeutic for him, but he’s very fragile and gets depression. “I have to look after him.” he said.
They came back an hour later. “The young family who got your mum’s carpets have no furniture and no carpets. They were crying when we carried in your mum’s stuff. They said to say thank you.”
“And the tv went to a large family who have no television. The young children were so happy they were jumping up and down so much I felt like Father Christmas!”
He was quiet for a moment, then asked me “What was your mother like? People are asking me to tell them where this lovely stuff has come from. Whose was it.”
I told him. It took a while. He cried a little too.
They took a microwave, a cooker and a fridge next.
They came back for the rest fairly quickly.
“The young people who got the cooker were delighted. They have no furniture, but now they have a cooker and are really really happy!” he told me.
When they had cleared everything all that remained was a view of the sea and a seashell echo of memories. And nothing else.
Well nothing except the calendar, stuck on January, the month mum fell, and was removed. Six months previously. An event that has in its own way made so many young people cry with happiness.
The sadness of it all is that mum does not know this.
Even though I told her yesterday. And last week. And the week before. And the one before that.
We’re glad to say that we will again be offering a free place on the Hinterlands multimedia workshop. We want to give a helping hand to someone who is really committed to making multimedia but may not have the financial means to come on this year’s workshop in Devon.
We’d like budding multimedia makers to apply for the scholarship by sending us an example of how they have used multimedia or some ideas about how they would like to use it in the future. This could be a short piece of multimedia, a slideshow, an interview you have collected or even just an image or set of images. What we really want to hear about are your ideas for how your work could progress with the new-found multimedia skills that you’d acquire on the Hinterlands.
We’ll be featuring some of the applications on the blog and the lucky recipient will attend the workshop, stay on site at the yurts and be fed and watered – all for free.
If any of you out there are reading duckrabbit and are perhaps mulling over some experience you had that moved you, and are wondering whether it’s worth your while telling the story………………..well read on…………………………
Last week an email arrived from Nancy Scott Fields, Native American Shaman and Healer, living in Oklahoma.
This is what she said:
“Thank you so much for this beautiful story of my dear friend. We were very close friends throughout the early years of my life. He was my friend, my protector, my brother and I loved him dearly.
I wanted to contact you and tell you about my dear sweet friend Chissoe Iron. I am Indian and I grew up in Oklahoma. I am now a Shaman and I was teaching a mediumship class this past weekend and Chissoe came through loud and clear and was the subject of my class. Now you must know that he rarely comes through unless I ask him to because I have so many ancestors in spirit that they are usually the ones who help me. This time I asked for someone who was not family. I had my entire class read me. I told my class he was my dear friend and I had known him all my life but we had not stayed in close touch with each other toward the end and I was not sure how he died. I told them I would have to try to contact some of his family and see what happened. After the class I asked if he could somehow show me how he passed and I got the message to look him up on the internet. Now he was not a public man and I thought no way would I ever find anything on Chissoe but lo and behold I got your two blogs about meeting Chissoe and the later one on what happened to him and how he passed.
I couldn’t help but laugh about how he stopped you on the road and I know if I didn’t know this guy I would have been scared. :) He was a big guy! But his demeanor was so kind.
Now how I met him. I really can’t remember not knowing him in my adult years. I was in high school and living in Tulsa, OK. I was a little girl. 5 foot tall and 100 lbs soaking wet. I was a ballet dancer and kept very fit and trim. In high school we had a group called the Tulsa Indian Youth Council. I am Creek and Cherokee Indian and was raised a minister’s daughter and did not powwow. But the group I met through TIYC were other tribes who did powwow. Now Chissoe was not a part of this group but knew the kids who went to the powwows. Well somewhere along the line I came into contact with Chissoe. He just kind of showed up and took it upon himself to be my protector. Now he was as big then as when you met him. Back then he was full of spit and vinegar and was a force to be reckoned with! He could instill fear in anyone with a look. I still giggle when I think of how he could scare people because he didn’t scare me. Not one bit! I thought he was a teddy bear. He had a heart of gold. Now just because we were the same age didn’t stop him from calling me baby girl. That is how he referred to me. He was my protector and my friend. Chissoe was always there to rescue me at any given time I needed him. When I went with my female friends to powwows he slept in the doorway of our tent. You know I never really knew his family I just knew him. He just showed up one day!
Anyway he was there during my high school years at every powwow, my college years at OU and even after I married and moved to California he was always just a phone call away. After I moved back to Oklahoma he would occasionally call but with little kids I didn’t venture out to the places he went. I heard from him right before he passed away. Even though we were never romantically involved I always thought one day maybe we would end up together. Well life had different plans. I miss him everyday. He talks to me often and still is my protector when I need him to be. Thank you, this means so much to me to find out about my dear sweet friend. He was very much the same person as a young man as he was when you met him.
It was so so good to see his face in your photographs. That’s my Chissoe.“
Still anguishing over whether to sit and line up all those words in the way that only you can?
Just do it.
Stories are not just words. They are paths along which others may follow. They shape our world, and they live on long after we have gone.
Weather getting anyone else down? Here’s an antidote.
The Hinterlands returns on 28th May. It’s a week of hands-on practical training led by duckrabbit’s Benjamin Chesterton and Georgina Cranston. Based in the beautiful Blackdown Hills of Devon and housed in genuine Mongolian Yurts, participants will be taken through the full production workflow, learning all the steps needed to gather audio and pictures and produce a finished photofilm. There’ll be local stories to work on, inspiring speakers, great food and much more.
So if you fancy breathing some new life into your storytelling head on over to www.hinterlands.co.uk and sign up. It’s a fantastic week. But don’t take our word for it – have a look at what last year’s trainees have to say.
“Photographers were continually confronted throughout the demo. These vultures not only put people at very serious legal risk by shooting their faces, but physically interfered with the march’s movement and the capacity for people, masked or not, to act…………..”
“………………….Such actions taken towards photographers demonstrate our intent to be neither incapacitated by the media, nor represented by an apparatus which we despise. Aggressively confronting photographers is an element shared by most of the major blocs which acted on Mayday, which is indicative of a clear desire to refuse the traditional, liberally-oriented paradigm of pandering to the media. While the bloc in NYC did not reach the level of physical destruction demonstrated in numerous other cities, its aggressive response towards those infiltrators from the media actualized an increase in militancy unprecedented within the context of recent demonstrations in the city. For anyone who is not acting in order to acquire social capital or to grace the cover of the Post, it must be made unequivocally clear: journalists are fucking enemies.”
“………………….To our enemies: if we won’t hesitate to directly confront hundreds of cops and to destroy property, what makes you think we hold the lens of your camera to be sacred? You want to preserve your four thousand dollar camera to watch us break everything else? We are not doing this for you, and this is not a game. You clearly do not understand that there is no exception. We feel nothing but contempt for you cowardly spectators.
You’d better watch your necks next time.
Signed,
the “did you know that a photographer’s camera could pay your rent?” collective”
What future for citizen journalism? Anyway, the comments and responses made to the above post are worth a look.
Nick Cobbing’s overhaul of his website is just the excuse I needed this morning to sit here with a coffee and utterly lose myself in the majesty of his photography and storytelling.
Cobbing understands that if we are ever going to get to grips with the willful and criminal degradation of planet earth then the beauty of this world can be as much an agent for change as grimy pictures of pollution. That inspiration in his work is as powerful as shock and will often linger longer.
I was lucky enough to spend much of my time at the BBC recording in the natural world and I think those moments of awe, standing in an ancient oak forest at dawn, or hurling snowballs off one of the rising peaks of Meteora, have done more to change and sustain me than any others.
Nothing beats being there, but Cobbing’s eye and words might just be the spark to shut your computer down and get a little closer to the place where we all come from.
And on that note I don’t understand why somewhere like The Tate or Natural History Museum doesn’t do a massive show of prints focused on the environment? These are the among the most important stories of our time and given the success of series like Frozen Planet on the BBC, stories that clearly capture audiences attention. It would be epic …
(John Macpherson will be joining us as a speaker at this months Hinterlands Photofilm Workshop suitable for anyone who wants a holiday with a twist in the wilds of Devon, whilst picking up some kick ass photofilm training)
If you’ve read some of my previous posts you’ll know I like stories and I like meeting people. And I really like storytellers, and how the stories they tell can evolve and inform you, and sometimes surprise you too. I also like islands, have some island blood flowing through me, and like the stories islands have to tell.
So here’s a story about an island that lies hidden behind another island. And a wee bit about the storyteller, an islander, sadly now passed away. But when I photographed Lachie MacLean beside his home, at Knock Farm on the Island of Mull, despite being over 80 years old and fighting Parkinson’s Disease, he was still able to tell a tale or two. Lachie had farmed this area all his life, and his son Donald still carries on that tradition today.
This portrait was taken of Lachie and his dogs just after the cottage he’d spent over 60 years in had been knocked down only a few days previously, all that remained was an empty space and some marks on the wall where it abutted the barn. But the new cottage was built, and starting to create it’s own history.
In the sea loch beyond Lachie’s farm lies a small island. Inch Kenneth. Easily overlooked. No ferries. Not any kind of destination, except for a few seakayakers and sailors. I’ve kayaked there numerous times. There’s one big house, and a wonderful old ruined chapel on the island, reputedly used as a burial place for several Scottish kings when weather and sea prevented passage to Iona. The stones found around the chapel commemorate the MacLeans and many stones have intricate carvings of animals, plant scrolls, ring knots, galleys and swords, and are from the 14th, 15th and 16th century. It is a wonderfully atmospheric location, surrounded on three sides by the sprawling bulk of the Isle of Mull. The last time I visited, kayaking alone to gather images for a book, I narrowly avoided being trapped there by unbelievably sudden and vicious katabatic winds sweeping off the cliffs of Gribun nearby. A beautiful place but with an ‘edge’ that Atlantic-facing locations often possess.
But that’s all part of my story of the island, here’s a small part of the story of Inch Kenneth that Lachie had to tell.
The island used to belong to the family of Lord Redesdale, the Mitfords. They had six daughters and a son. One daughter, Diana Mitford, married Oswald Mosley (British Union of Fascists). Their fourth daughter was Unity Mitford. Her full name was Unity Valkyrie Mitford. She moved to Germany in the 1930′s and at one point had an affair with an Austro-Hungarian aristocrat who was also reputed to be a German spy, Count Almasy. She was obsessed by the Third Reich, and eventually Unity became Hitler’s mistress. When war broke out between the two countries she adored, Britain and Germany, Unity was devastated, and taking Hitler’s luger, shot herself in the head. But her suicide attempt failed, and she did not kill herself. Suffering brain damage which caused a personality change, and with the bullet still lodged in her head, Hitler had her returned to the UK and her family. It is claimed that Hitler telephoned regularly to check on her condition.
Eventually Unity was brought north to the big house on Inch Kenneth (the only house on the island) to convalesce, and spent the rest of her life there, a further ten years during which she became a well-known figure on mainland Mull, coming across for dances and ceilidhs. She finally died of meningitis in 1948, aged only 33.
Eventually the island of Inch Kenneth was sold to the Barlows, the grandson of Charles Darwin. A good friend of the Barlow family is John Berger the filmmaker, photographer and writer. He has been a frequent visitor to the island. Some of you may remember his tv series ‘Ways of Seeing’. There is an accompanying book which is a fairly well known reference for photographers and other visual artists and one I have long had on my bookshelf.
Anyway Lachie describes how a large group of creative types descended on Inch Kenneth one year: Berger and his friends making a film with german and english actors. Lachie was slightly involved in this production, as they used some of his sheep for a few scenes in the film. Lachie has often kept stock on Inch Kenneth, and once told me a wonderfully hair raising tale of trying to take several uncooperative cows across in a small boat.
But Lachie’s love of a story led him into a conversation with one of Berger’s entourage. He related to Lachie how Berger had entertained one of his good friends, a writer, with atmospheric tales about Inch Kenneth, about Unity Mitford, Count Almasy, spying, the War, Hitler, love, romance, intrigue, death and mystery.
And the ‘writer friend’ was intrigued and inspired by the tale.
So inspired in fact that he wrote his own version of the story. You may have come across it?
His name was Michael Ondaatje.
His story is titled ‘The English Patient’
Islands. They hold stories. And they create stories.
Ok…here’s the challenge….watch the four pieces below, three of which took the top places in this years WPP multimedia awards:
Afrikaner Blood, above.
Half Lives, above.
America’s Dead Sea, above.
The monster under the water, above.
Now, you tell me which you think should have taken the top spot, using the poll below. No cheating – you have to watch all the pieces, consider all facets of production, journalism, storytelling, narrative, aesthetic, interest, novelty, length, audio and visual technical quality, context of the competition, etc etc….and obviously you must watch them all…Basically, you are now a World Press Multimedia judge. Well done, give yourself a pat on the back. Or you can lick your elbow.
You are probably aware that Afrikaner Blood won, but don’t let that swing your opinion. When I ran this past all my 2nd year Press and Editorial students not one group voted for it. This is not meant to be a criticism of the WPP judges, nor the piece. It is meant as an exercise in thought and critique. I do not envy the judges having to trawl through 300 or so multimedia pieces. No ‘one second an image’ judging there….
I put ‘The Monster under the Water’ in to mix it up a bit and make you and the students think, and a lot of them thought it should have taken top spot in the WPP MM awards. I don’t know whether Melanie put it into the awards.
None are perfect, that day may never come, not least because perfect to you is unlikely to be perfect to me. Every piece however has great strengths, and a fair few flaws. It is now up to you (or your class) to decide which piece ‘should’ have won:
I enjoy the chance encounters with people that sometimes occur.
I met these three ladies on Mull, at Fionnphort, where the small ferry to the Isle of Iona departs. This is a busy ferry, taking an estimated 130,000 people to Iona each year.
“We came from central Scotland on the bus to Oban. That was a whole day and more than 100 miles” said one lady
“It was tiring” said another.
“We had a night in Oban” said the third.
“Then we had to get the ferry from Oban to Craignure on Mull. That was an early start but it was nice on the ferry with the stormy sunrise.”
“We had to get a bus all the way from Craignure to here. I didn’t realise the Isle of Mull was so big! It took forever. Having to stop in passing places and wait for sheep on the road! But it was nice to see.”
“We hoped to get to the Isle of Iona. We’ve always wanted to go to Iona, to see the Abbey and the wonderful interior.”
Noting a hint of sadness in their voices, I asked “But?”
“But the weather is so bad the ferry will not run today”.
“We’ve spent days and hundreds of miles traveling here on our wee pilgrimage to Iona but can only stand and look across at the island. But not get there. And the forecast is worse for tomorrow and maybe the next day too, and we have to go back home, so it looks like we wont get there. We’ll need to try another time.”
“What will you do today instead?” I ask
Giggles.
“We’ll drink tea and then come out and stand in the rain and look across at Iona!” said the first lady
“The rain is warm so that’s a bonus!” said the second
“Its lovely for our skin. It keeps us looking young!” said the third
I smiled, and replied “I can see that! Do your mothers know where you are?”
And as they walked off arm in arm they just laughed and laughed and laughed.
INSIDE THE STORY is a brilliant new e-book, designed and conceived by Adam Westbrook, that brings you succinct wisdom from 25 wonderful storytellers. It costs just £3.50. ALL of the profits go to the charity KIVA.
Hang on a minute did I get that right? It costs just £3.50 and ALL of the profits go to KIVA? You’d have to be either mad, stupid, pathologically tight or skint to not buy a copy. To be honest I’m most of those things but I was still convinced to buy a copy, so what’s stopping you?
At least please tweet about the book (its only on sale for forty days).
Below you can see my contribution (and David White’s magic photograph). Don’t worry, most of the advice in the book is practical but I wrote my page at one of those points in a project where you either let things go or get depressed.
Finally I want to pay tribute to Adam for pulling this project off with a lot of patience and a lot of love and absolutely zero payment (he did it all from passion). We need more Adams in this world. Respect.
Culloden Battlefield is just behind my house. Culloden holds an important place in British history.
We took a walk there with William on Saturday (he is almost 4, but not quite). He wanted to take his long bubble wand. The generator of GIANT bubbles. Big wobbly long-lasting bubbles that fly a long long way.
We walked along the memorial wall. And explained to William that the very very very few rocks sticking out from the wall at the beginning represent the 50 or so Government troops that were killed in the battle. (They cover an area about four adult paces long. Not far.)
But the Jacobite losses are staggering.
Sobering.
The rocks sticking out to represent the Jacobite losses cover a very very very very very very very very very very very very long way.
At least 1,500 or more killed.
In small boy paces that is a lot of walking. And William listened to the story, absorbed it, and thought about it intently. Then set off unbidden and walked…….
…..counting (he is still learning to count)
“One…..two….three…..four….five…..six…..seven……eight……nine……ten…….eleventeen……..three…..more…….twelveteen……three……five…..six………………….” ….and then was silenced by distance.
The distance of o n e t h o u s a n d f i v e h u n d r e d stones. He rubbed his little hand along the entire length as he went.
At the end he stopped, and turned and shouted
“THERE’S A LOT OF JACOBITE DEAD PEOPLE MUMMY!”
He was right.
We walked on into the battle field and showed him the lines occupied by the two armies, each marked by coloured flags. None flying much on this chill day. Only a light breeze. Snow capped peaks in the distance echoing the few clouds floating in the blue above us.
“What are these stones for mummy” asked William.
“They are memorial stones, to mark the memory of each particular Clan that fought here, and the losses they suffered”
“Mummy mummy a five! Look, a five! Why is there a five? And nothings?”
“Because five hundred of the Atholl men died here William. The Government troops fired lots of cannons and killed lots and lots of men. The big cannonballs came into this place where we’re standing and the Jacobites were killed by them.”
“Why were they fighting mummy?”
“Because that’s what people do sometimes, for things they believe in.”
“What are the flags for daddy?”
“They mark the line of the Jacobite troops. We’re standing where they stood, and where so many were killed.”
