Mark Hemmings, photographer, Saint Johner, and poorly disguised international man of mystery, has been living out his habitual jet-set life – travelling around the world photographing all manner of things. Just the typical sort of stuff Mark gets up to, and the rest of us dream about. Fortunately, before you keel over from an acute case of lifestyle envy, Hemmings has just self-published his second book, ‘A Well-Lit Path’, and not only is it full of his photographs of beautiful and exotic far-off-lands, but it also contains a helpful instructional guide, so that you too may someday be a skilled jet-set photographer. Continue reading Mark Hemmings Publishes New Book ‘A Well-Lit Path’
The speed of light is a mind boggling 299,792,458 meters per second. In the length of time it took you to read that sentence, light could have travelled the distance from the Earth to the Moon twice. The stuff buzzes around the universe like it owns the place. The challenge of capturing the fastest known substance under just the right conditions and circumstances seems impossible at its worst, and audacious at its best. For skilled professionals, like Mark Hemmings, it’s just a walk in the park. Continue reading Mark Hemmings: Travelling Light
When I was growing up my father built a model railroad. Its first incarnation was nothing more than a plywood sheet with a couple of tracks running around a station, but it dominated our small garage. It later came to reside in the basement of our new house where it expanded; stucco mountains and lichen forests appeared, a small town settled next to the lake in the valley, and the number of trains passing through increased with every model train show we attended. We’d buy stacks of old issues of Model Railroader Magazine, and while I’d be envisioning the vast miniature empires I might someday rule over, my father would point out photos from the magazine and say, “That’s one of Bob Boudreau’s. He lives here.”
“Left, left, left, left, last right before gravel and you’re there.” These were photographer James Wilson’s minimalist directions to his Hampton studio traveling from the highway. I’m running late, as usual, and coming at it backwards, taking the scenic route through the Kingston Peninsula. “Right, right, right, right, left, oops, there it is”, and whoosh —straight past his studio and into the weeds. Cursing, I course correct and pull up a steep drive to a rambling century home where Mr. Wilson appears from within — self-possessed and welcoming. Continue reading The Portraiture of James Wilson
John England is lying on my living room sofa with his feet up. He is not wearing socks, which isn’t unusual for John; I’ve only ever seen him wearing socks once, on a day I had bought him a pair. He tells me it’s a ‘Californian thing’, but I suspect it’s a ‘John thing’. The occasion, for which I’ve forewarned him is intended to be an interview, feels much more like a therapy session, but he responds to it well.
John grew up in California, and I suppose it shows; his hair is unkempt, he is nearly always sporting a five o’clock shadow, not only has he disavowed his socks, but nearly done away with shoes entirely (I have regularly seen him wearing sandals in sub-zero temperatures), he takes a laissez-faire approach to business, and not that these are in anyway a stereotype of all Californians, but it would be no stretch of the imagination to see him living in some beach-side commune. For all that his talent and skill are undeniable. Continue reading John England Swears He’s Not a Photographer