See the new pictures uploaded to the album this weekend! Click HERE and then click 'Photography'.

The next time you go for a walk, take the camera. Whatever the weather, sunshine gives you bright colours, yes. And sharp, interesting shadows that can help build the picture. And physically, it's usually more pleasant. But don't despise the misty morning. Or afternoon.

Don't be overwhelmed by the whole scene - murky, cold, grey-ish. Look for the single object, imagining a frame round it. You could use the age-old trick of the movie-makers - put your two forefingers together and your two thumbs, make a rough square with them and then sweep that 'frame' slowly round the landscape. You could discover a tree, a hut, an animal.

In this shot I was lucky enough to have struggling sunlight coming down on the scene. And then I saw the tree. Then a bonus - the sheep. But the sheep was way over to the right, much too far from the tree. So I walked sideways to the right (not a pretty sight) until the sheep was working in nicely with the tree. I took several shots, moving backwards, forwards and sideways.

At home, looking at all of them, this one stood out as the best. The invisible line from the sheep up and across to the tree creates that very powerful thing: the oblique line, the top of it and the bottom linking the two objects together.

The ubiquitous HMV label

O ne Saturday afternoon in 1936 my father, who was a great second-hand shopper, was browsing in a local shop and came across a cardboard box on the floor, crammed with gramophone records. 8-inch, 10-inch and 12-inch. He liked military band music, and male singers who sang songs like 'Annie Laurie'. He felt that this enormous collection must contain something he liked. So he bought it and, balancing it on his bicycle saddle, walked it home. He dumped it in our 'front room', the room in our little semi-detatched house in Bushey Heath where the piano and the gramophone were kept.

I began rifling through it and found all sorts of things, titles that meant absolutely nothing to me, funny foreign words on the brown labels.

And then I saw it. A 10-inch HMV, with their picture of the dog listening with its ear at an ancient gramophone 'loudspeaker'. It was the label, the gilt lettering, that caught my eye. It said, 'Jesu, joy of man's desiring'. Then it said, 'Johann Sebastian Bach.' And the pianist's name was 'Dame Myra Hess'. Well, I knew a lot about Jesus. We heard about him every Sunday. I loved Jesus. But here was somebody called 'Jesu'. Who could it be? If it was the same Jesus, why wasn't there an 's' at the end? Curious, I put it on the turntable, wound the spring, released the brake and put the needle on the first groove.

A piano began to play, softly. Single notes picked out in a steady rhythm that was nothing like dance band or jazz rhythms but steady, measured, with more notes falling beautifully into place and creating harmony underneath it. I stood there, marvelling. It was like nothing I had ever heard before. A sensation ran through my body. The feeling was indescribable.

I found I had discovered music. The sort of music that has been my joy for nearly 80 years.

Reflections

A short story

J eremy LeFeuvre woke, swore, stretched out a hand and groped for the phone. It was George, his editor at the agency. He sounded a bit on edge, Jeremy thought. Unusual for George. On the day he joined the agency he was assured by the others that if George were to be confronted by a rattlesnake he would shake hands with it and offer it a drink.

‘Leafy? Urgent job in the morning.' He named a local museum. 'Deadline, midday. Greek vase - apparently it’s suddenly become significant. Relates to current excavation work in Greece. They’ll be quivering a bit in the museum so - gently, gently. Anyway, they agreed to close the room to the public while you're shooting. Go get it, Leafy.'

Professional photographer Jeremy LeFeuvre always got his pictures, whatever the odds. He re-set his alarm, turned over and slept.

In a taxi shortly after sunrise next morning and weaving through heavy traffic he kept looking at his watch and muttering. The museum had been told of his brief so at least he’d be able to get on to the job as soon as he got there. But that vase - it would more than likely be in a tricky lighting position. And he remembered his last assignment in another museum; a jittery director and nervous guards.

The traffic ahead had stopped and a police motorbike came up from behind, heading for the front of the queue. Jeremy whipped out his phone and rang the museum, telling them about the delay and that he would be very short of time to do the job and would they very kindly make sure he could get straight to wherever the vase was and begin work. They assured him they would.

He looked at his watch.

It was an hour before he pushed the door to the museum main entrance. A guard was detailed to take him to the exhibit and to remain with him until the job was done. They went up a flight of stairs and into a long room lit by two rows of windows high up on both facing walls. Three rows of eye-level display stands filled the room. The guard pointed to the exhibit at the end of the row; the Greek vase, inside a domed glass cover. It was only a few inches high and the drab colour of something unsavoury.

Jeremy put down his case. ‘Right. Thanks. That glass dome thing. I shall need that taken off, of course.’

The guard was shocked. ‘The cover? Off? No, no, no! The cover is not to be moved. My orders from the Director, sir.’

‘Sorry, I have to insist - see, the reflections of those windows,’ he pointed behind and up to the row of sash windows, ‘see how they're reflected in the glass cover? I can hardly see the vase, let alone make a photograph of it! Please tell the Director now that the cover must come off - wait a minute, though.' He went round to the side and peered through  the glass. No window reflections but none of the interesting bits either. 'No, that's no good. I must have the cover off.'

‘But -’

‘Please tell the Director! And quickly! I’ve got half an hour to do the job.’

The guard started to say something, decided against it and got the director on his mobile. Jeremy cursed himself for not bringing with him the very thing that would have saved the situation - the huge black umbrella that was made for jobs like this.

The Director entered and approached slowly, pointing at Jeremy’s chest.

‘You,’ he said, ‘are not allowed to move or even touch any of the protective covers in this room. Do you understand this?’

‘Look, suppose you do it for me? Or him?’ He indicated the guard. 'Just for five minutes.'

‘On no account. The covers are not moved.'

'That means I've got to cover all the windows - black paper or something!'

'If you are having difficulty you may cover the windows. We will provide a ladder. We can give you black paper.’

‘All these windows? That would take far too long!’

The Director produced an enormous shrug of the shoulders and spread his hands.

‘That is all. You must understand - this room is sacred to us. The least sign of anything bad happening in this room means immediate emergency action.’ At the door he turned. ‘The ladder and paper will be brought to you.’ Minutes later the door slammed open. A guard brought in a ladder and, under one arm, a huge roll of black paper. He leaned paper and ladder against the wall, stood back and watched. One by one Jeremy covered the windows. It took him something short of twenty minutes. As he was finishing the the last window an idea occurred to him and he grinned. Then his phone rang.

‘Leafy? What the hell’s going on? I’ve got to have that image in ten minutes. What’s happening?’

‘George believe me, you don’t want to know. Tell you later. Just finishing getting the set ready - doing the shot in five minutes.’ Sweating in the heat of the room he was aware of the door opening and somebody coming in. He swore softly, then saw that it was only a workman of some sort, wheeling a trolley.

At the camera he examined the image on his screen. He banged off a dozen pictures, each from slightly different angles, downloaded them onto his phone and sent them to George. Then he climbed up to the end window and began removing the paper. The guard watched him from below. When he was finished he came down and approached the guard. The man stiffened, clearly expecting trouble.

‘Those window frames.’ Jeremy pointed, then, grimacing horribly and wagging his head he stared into the man’s eyes. ‘Bad. Very, very bad.’

‘Bad?’ The guard took a step backwards. ‘Bad? You mean - what?’

'Very dangerous. The whole windows  thing could collapse any minute.'

'Blimey!' The guard turned to leave, then hesitated as a voice behind Jeremy spoke. 'You finished here?' It was the workman.

'Yes.' He watched as the man reached out to the glass dome. He very gently lifted it off and placed it on his trolley. He selected a length of cloth.

Not believing his eyes Jeremy said, ‘You mean - you mean you're allowed to do that? Take covers off?’ He swivelled round to the guard but he had left.

Speechless with fury he picked up his gear and went down to the entrance hall. He tapped on the ‘Enquiries’ window.

The face behind the window smiled up at him. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Ah. Yes. Name's LeFeuvre. Just finished my job. You might give the management a very important message.’ He leaned close to the oval opening in the glass. ‘All those wooden window frames upstairs -’ his voice dropped to a dramatic whisper. ‘Deathwatch beetle.’

Many felt that she had broken tradition, losing the familiar sporty look, low-slung and roofless with headlights squatting on mudguards. Yet in the parking lot by the track she still fitted calmly into the sporty scene. She carried five of us round the country on many summer holidays, roof rack and boot loaded to bursting point with luggage and all the must-have paraphernalia of childhood.

Our two boys, whilst not exactly falling over themselves to do so, liked washing her. In the shot above they are assisted by our older son's friend from across the road. Our daughter was otherwise engaged upon, I feel sure, some household duty. A dutiful lot, our three.

I don’t remember breakdowns happening; the only incident I remember causing causing the furrowed brow was when I had visited my very elderly parents and taken them out for a spin. We stopped as near as possible to a coastal beauty spot, parking hard up against an ancient stone wall. I got out via the front passenger door, helped the parents get out and went with them for a gentle stroll down the hill to the beach area and had a lovely hour or two. We returned to the car, I flourishing my keys and preparing to help my parents get back in. But I came to an abrupt halt at the front passenger door by which I had exited and carefully set so that it locked when closed. It was, very naturally, as I had left it - locked from the inside.

I had never registered that the ZB passenger door handle is not blessed with a keyhole.

And, do you know, I cannot remember how we eventually got in.

To have sung in a very good church choir for several years has been, for me, one of the great delights of this life. Our choir was taught and conducted by a Choirmaster who was a born teacher; his manner and his technique were the chief reason for the choir’s excellence and for the subsequent invitations to sing the services in our land’s cathedrals during holiday months.

Sixteen men and roughly 30 boys attended weekly practice sessions in the little first-floor choir vestry above the main church - a not very beautiful Victorian brick building; the Choirmaster rehearsed the boys alone for about three-quarters of an hour and then we men would arrive. For fifteen minutes both men and boys practiced together. The boys then left and we men continued, sometimes for more than an hour.

We sang for both the morning and the evening services. In the mornings the vestry gradually filled with a buzzing crowd of men and boys creating an ocean of flapping blue cassocks being donned and white surplices being hoisted over heads, hair being combed and music books being collected from a cupboard.

Naturally, the boys cared nothing for the state of their hair. The Choirmaster’s constant efforts to make themselves tidy bore little fruit; one Sunday morning I took it upon myself to put things right with my own comb and as weeks went by they gradually took the thing for granted and bowed their head for my attention as I approached.

Watching them processing calmly and in perfect symmentry ahead of us, it was difficult to connect them with the same milling, chattering bunch of kids of a few moments before. Eyeing them from my position in the Decani stalls opposite I frequently caught sight of small breaks in form among the Cantoris trebles; the nudge that a boy would give his neighbour in reproof for a slight mistake or merely a sidelong glance and a pair of lowered eyebrows. Or possibly an amused smile.

Singing the services in our own church was satisfying enough; singing in the glorious, vast, deliciously-echoing space of a centuries-old cathedral was the ultimate prize, an experience that had the power to bring tears.

‘Just been in with Sharpless,’ he said. ‘And he wants to see you.’

Something lurched inside me. What had I done?

‘It's something about your job.’ The lurch came again, a bit higher up.

I had been in the department for about a fortnight, learning the job - writing instruction leaftlets for the company’s photographic materials and chemicals.

In his fairly impressive office Stanley Sharpless, Ad Manager and now famous for his comic lines, 'Cocoa coursing through their veins', motioned to me. 'Sit down, Paul.' He flicked a finger.

My mouth as dry as a dustbag, I sat down in the chair indicated and waited for the bad news. Through the open windows floated the growling of Kingsway traffic.

'I've had an idea,' he said. He straightened out a long strip of paper on his desk. Plain paper covered in pencil notes on both sides. It had been concertina'd into five or so folds to form a four-inch square. 'A lot of people just don't seem to understand how take a good picture. How to hold the camera, how to avoid sun-glare and blurring and so on. And I want a free leaflet to be available in every Kodak dealer's shop. In England and overseas. We’re going to call it TRAVEL TIPS BY KODAK so, ostensibly, it’s for people about to go on holiday. Here's a rough I've done.' He pushed the paper across the desk. 'Take it. Spend some time with it. I've scribbled the headings all the way through. And I want jolly little illustrations - watercolour sketches - dotted amongst the text. All right?’

He smiled as he said it, and it was a friendly smile.

As I went into my own office all five of the other authors were grinning at me. One of them couldn't suppress giggles.

‘What’s wrong?’ I said.

They broke into a little cheer. I gathered that the ‘Travel Tips by Kodak’ leaflet was by now famous - it had been discussed for weeks and was known as 'Stanley's Tips'. They’d all been waiting to see who got the job.

Over the next few weeks I finished it and, in the process, learned how to handle good-natured cracks about tips and travelling.

]]> http://paulwigmore.co.uk/monday/2011/12/port-isaac-again/feed/ 0 http://paulwigmore.co.uk/monday/2011/12/christmas-donkeys/ http://paulwigmore.co.uk/monday/2011/12/christmas-donkeys/#comments Wed, 07 Dec 2011 13:34:35 +0000 Paul http://paulwigmore.co.uk/monday/?p=6122 I’ve always liked donkeys. It probably began when my favourite aunt paid for me to ride on one on Ramsgate Sands back in the 1930s. So, when I was writing new Christmas carols a few years ago, donkeys presented themselves before me and insisted that I should write something about them. 'After all', they said, 'we're part of the Christmas story'.

I fell to imagining three of them in their retirement, standing happily together in a field somewhere, chatting about their memories. The oldest one said he remembered carrying a young woman up to Bethlehem. She was about to have a baby.

The second one nodded slowly. He said yes, he remembered carrying that baby when he’d grown to a 12-year-old boy. His name was Jesus. And the third, the youngest, said he could remember carrying that same boy Jesus after he’d grown to a man. Lots of crowds in Jerusalem, he said, all cheering him.

I wrote the carol especially for children’s choirs, with composer John Barnard setting the words to music. Listen to it now, while you read. NOTE:  The version below is the present one; the singers had a slightly earlier version - but the meaning is the same.

One November morning in 1983 a young composer gathered up his week’s bundle of laundry and was about to leave for the local launderette when he remembered the envelope. It had come in the post that morning. He quickly opened it and scanned the letter. It was from me.

The letter ended with a new work - a Christmas carol, just three short verses. The great composer of choral works, Paul Edwards, had already set a number of my lyrics for choir and this was a new one. He slipped it into his pocket. Something to read while he waited for the machine to do the washing, he thought. Then, as an afterthought, he picked up a sheet of music manuscript as well. He just might get an idea while he waited for his laundry.

In the launderette he loaded the machine and sat down. He took out the envelope and read the poem. He grabbed the scrap of manuscript paper and began writing.

Listen now to what Paul Edwards wrote:

Trying to imagine how any composer could write this profound music while surrounded by the noise of washing machines is practically impossible.

The words had a similarly unlikely beginning. Earlier that same November I must have heard someone say something like, ‘Small wonder you didn’t see it - they cancelled the programme!’ Just those two words, small wonder, stuck in my head for the rest of the day and they were the first thing I thought of when I woke the next morning. All through that day they were going round and round. I tried writing it down to see if that would stop it - and then I had a bright idea. I was in the middle of writing lyrics for a new collection of Christmas carols and I wondered if I might write a carol based on the words. And so the carol emerged.

The sheet music is published by (click on Animus ) and it is available in collections published by the (Click on) Jubilate Group.

COMING VERY SOON - Christmas Donkeys