Coot Chicks

These little chicks are coot, you might say. I saw them, on the vlei at Marievale, far out on the water, at the furthest reach of my 500mm telephoto, and even then I had to crop the images severely.

The teeniest chicks, interestingly, were the furthest out – mere orange-beaked fluff,  beside the black hulls of the adult coots, where the water changed colour. Closer in, an older and larger chick was a supplicant, scrounging like any adolescent. And then there was the solitary young ‘un, its oversized ungainly claw like a fifteen-year old with size ten boots.


Bird on a Wire

Here’s a good one. A prisoner in a Turkish prison goes to the prison library, and asks for a particular book. The prison librarian replies, ‘We don’t have that book. But we do have the author.’

Signs of the times, you might say – the modern dystopia. History has not ended – in fact, it’s back with a vengeance.

I saw this black-shouldered kite perched on the power-lines on the way back to the gate at Marievale the other day. I was afraid it would fly off, so I stopped, a way back, and turned off the engine, and carefully opened the car door, and took a couple of photographs. The bird seemed unperturbed, so I drove a little closer, and repeated the performance. The kite had other things on its mind, so I drew still closer. Even so, this photograph is a radical crop, using maybe a quarter of the original image.

Says something about the image quality of the Nikon, and that big sensor.

The original, in colour, is simply a picture: ‘this is what a black-shouldered kite looks like.’ I wanted to show something more, of the bird’s brooding power, it’s fierce beauty. I hope this captures at least something of that.


Black-Shouldered Kite

Against the light

From the corner of the hide, you looked out across the water, directly into the light, where the coots were squabbling and giving chase, and I knew at once that this was an image made for black-and-white. I took several photographs, aware of how tricky the light was, and struggling with the heavy lens to keep the birds in frame. This one came out best.

Against the light

Photography Analogue and Digital

The world I was born into was analogue. That meant film: in my case, mostly Kodak Tri-X, or Ilford FP4. Tri-X for when you wanted to “push” the film speed, where the light was low, or where you wanted a contrasty, journalistic effect or – I shall come back to this in a moment – to go for something even more granular, pencil-like, ‘artistic.’ Ilford for when you wanted something subtler, more fine-grained, and richer.

Analogue generally meant black and white, at least for those of us who wanted to develop our own film and print our own photographs. Hardly anyone worked at home in colour. Black-and-white meant having a darkroom, or in my case, a bedroom taped over with black velvet and blinds. It meant chemicals and water, bathing trays and tongs, your fingers physically touching and rubbing the paper or burning and dodging with a home made tool.

When my eldest daughter was born, I went to the hospital with my Nikon FM and exposed a spool of film, one frame after another, right through labour and the very moment that Kathy slipped out on the end of her knotted and veined and muscular lifeline. I went home afterwards and developed the film, and printed the instant of birth – my child, a living creature, her feet towards the lens, face blurred and yelling in the distance, the umbilical cord trailing into the corner of the image – and rushed back to show her mother.  Later, I took a photograph of Kathy lying wrapped in a towel, her face inclined slightly towards the camera. I knew what effect I wanted – I loaded the Nikon with Tri-X, pushed the film speed, put the film into a fast developer – and emerged with a high key, grainy, sketch-like image of my daughter and firstborn, an image whose memory enchants, delights, and fills me with tenderness still.

Having Kathy, of course, meant giving up the darkroom and turning it back into the bedroom it had always been. The photographs that followed, over the years of her childhood and the childhood of Jonathan and Eve, were almost all in colour, 6 x 4 or 5 x 7, processed in a lab, stuck into one of those photographic binders or albums, or left to yellow slowly in their envelopes. Photography still interested me, but I was busy. I kept the enlarger lens, but got rid of the enlarger and the developing trays. I took ‘happy snaps,’ family snaps, travel snaps, and made the occasional foray, usually unsuccessful, into image making that aspired to be but seldom was more creative. Or, if not creative, at least technically more proficient. And I continued to look, with admiration and envy, and something akin to love, at the deep, sensual, forbidden blacks and subtle tonal gradations of the silver gelatine prints made by the masters.

And yet, much as I love analogue, digital has liberated me. While I might miss, in some abstract sense, the physical, tactile, almost magical experience of analogue photography – from the moment of snapping the image through to the final print – it’s simply not practical or realistic any longer to dedicate all that time and all that physical space and all the infrastructure – tanks, trays, bottles of chemicals, running water – to making images. Digital means I can process and print both black-and-white and colour, at home on my computer, while the latest cameras and sensors can handle a much wider dynamic range and far more challenging lighting conditions than the old analogue equipment ever could.

Of course working within the constraints of analogue was part of the creative challenge, and I am glad to see that – like vinyl – it is enjoying something of a resurgence. But there is so much more you can do today with modern equipment, and so much more you can do – without the hassle and unpredictability of chemicals and a darkroom – in Lightroom and Photoshop, that I can’t say I have any unfulfilled longing to go back to the old days.

I do find though that the modern tools and equipment bring with them a different kind of challenge: the risk that tools and technique trump vision and imagination. You see it, again and again, in the over-sharpened images and garish colours that flood social media – the pumped-up world of selfies and self promotion, the temptation to glamourise rather than observe, the obsession with a glossy and soulless technical ‘perfection,’ leading to a visual and aesthetic wasteland.

Finally, printing an image, which not many of us do any more, remains for me an important form of expression. Paper – the size, weight, luminosity, surface texture and tonal qualities of it – bears powerfully on the image and expresses it differently. I print in colour, but I still love black and white photography, and enjoy making black and white images and prints, on a dedicated Epson photo printer, mostly in larger sizes – A3, 11 x 14, or even 13 x 19 on occasion. I find the Hahnemuhle Silk Baryta captures a good deal of the tonal depth and nuance you would expect from the old processes and seems to work especially well for me, though I use other papers also.

Yellow-Billed DuckHere, to round off this digression, are two images from my recent field trip to the Marievale Bird Sanctuary: a yellow-billed duck, and a Hottentot teal. The duck is just a portrait, though nicely lit, but I do rather like the almost painterly qualities of the teal image.


See? You can do it in digital.

Hottentot Teal








Nikon D500 and 200-500mm lens. Processed in Lightroom and in ColorEfex 4.

Squacco Heron lift-off

Now here’s a thing.  Going through my photos from Marievale, I came across a nice sequence of images of a squacco heron marching through the reeds. You can almost hear the martial music – tum ti tum ti tum ti DUM – as it crashes onwards and finally, clumsily, launches into the air.

I was going to say something also, tongue in cheek, about the perils of anthropomorphism, and how, Once Upon A Time As A Young Man, I would have scowled and protested at this characterisation. Animals are animals, I would have stated, with self-possession and authority. Don’t confuse them with humans.

One grows gentler, perhaps as one grows older, a little more tolerant. And I am able to laugh now at that righteous young fellow, and enjoy, without guilt, that marching band accompanying the heron. The point is, I do know better. And it doesn’t matter.

But then I came to this image, the last of this particular sequence, and realised it was in a different league altogether. Out of the window went the photo-story, the sequence of images going tum-ti tum-ti-tum through the reeds, and instead here is simply the one particular image I want to present to you. The chosen one.

Squacco heron # 5

White-Throated Swallow

This little fellow, I think, has the confidence to speak for himself.

Photographed from a hide at Marievale, with the Nikon D500 and Nikon 200 – 500 mm lens. The more I shoot with it, the more I love this combo!

White-throated swallow # 2

Sacred Ibis

On my left, as I drove slowly onto the causeway that crosses the marsh, was an expanse of dry reeds. Amongst the reeds, away in the distance, was an African Sacred Ibis, going about its business.

Some of you may not see the point of this photograph – it’s not the conventional “portrait,” nor does it give you an up-close view of the bird in its environment.

But for me, you see, this is exactly what I wanted to show: not just the bird in its environment, but the ibis as part of the same flat, two-dimensional space. I am also attracted to the grey charcoal dashes of the reeds, licked about with orange tongues of flame.

Sacred Ibis and Reeds

What’s in the can?

Of course there are no longer ‘cans’ but still, you never really know, do you, what you’ve managed to capture on a day out in the field, shooting moving objects – birds, in this case – until you’ve got back home and uploaded your images into Lightroom on your Mac.

I’ve just been scrolling through a ream of photos in my camera, deleting the obvious duds and misfires, and Lightroom is busily ingesting the rest. But I can say, I think, with genuine pleasure, that there are some lovely images from my day in the country, at the Marievale Bird Sanctuary.

Look out for ‘coot’ coot chicks, pied kingfishers hovering, and more.

It will take a while to further sort, select, and process them – and I am, in any case, without wifi, as my fibre ‘supplier’ has decided it has not been paid – when of course it has, and in buckets of gold.

Tomorrow I shall have to spend a happy hour sorting the wifi out. But because I have cellular data on my iPad, I can send you this post, and alert you to what’s coming.

Photographically, I mean.

Joburg Water and the DA City Council

Our water is off again, in Parkmore – not, in this case, on this umpteenth occasion, for some dramatic, globally important reason such as drought or climate change, but simply because of an aging infrastructure, a lack of maintenance, the incapacity and incompetence and lack of responsiveness of local government….

Not, let me add, an ANC City Council – though the ANC’s record in local government has been almost uniformly disastrous – but a DA-led Council with a DA Mayor. The party, you know, that claims to know how to run a city.

Yeah, great. Thanks a million.

FDR and Trump

I have been watching, these past few evenings, Ken Burns’ richly described and absorbing account of the Roosevelts, including Presidents FDR and Theodore (‘The Roosevelts, An Intimate History,’ on Netflix). The past two episodes have focused on FDR – the extraordinary story of his polio, his ascendancy to the Presidency, the whirlwind first 100 Days which laid out the cornerstones of Roosevelt’s New Deal, the enduring legacy of bridges, dams, roads, Social Security, that map the country that is the US today.

Watching these clips of FDR in action – that jaunty grin, the gritty optimism, the ability – despite his patrician upbringing and bearing – to connect with everyone – I could not help but think of the current incumbent of the Oval Office: the Hitler-esque sneering and jibes, the lying and insults, the hatred and narcissism laying waste to everything.

To yoke one of the greatest of American presidents – certainly the greatest of the 20th century – together in the same sentence with probably the vilest of the lot – is to remind ourselves of the gulf – the huge, yawning, appalling chasm – between the fundamental decency – notwithstanding his imperfections – of the one, and the slimy, venal indecency and incompetence of the other.

It’s about actions, obviously, and it’s about behaviour. But also, fundamentally, it’s about values and character. One man had them, the other wouldn’t recognise them if he fell over them in broad daylight.

As I think about the world around me, and my own small role in it, it is values that matter.  Hopefully, when Trump and all who serve and enable him, are mere footnotes in history – shameful and shamed, but eminently forgettable – it will be values that last.

Not only in America.