All photographs are memento mori. To take a photograph is to participate in another person’s (or thing’s) mortality, vulnerability, mutability. Precisely by slicing out this moment and freezing it, all photographs testify to time’s relentless melt.”
Susan Sontag
This week’s post comes from an idea I saw on Substack from Andrew Eberlin, who took the concept from Desert Island discs and applied it to photographs. Instead of which eight discs would one take to the Desert Island, he first offered the eight black and white photos he would take, followed by another post including eight colour photos.
I’m limiting my post to black-and-white photos only. Also, unlike Andrew, I’ve chosen photographs for their meaning to me rather than the quality of the photographer’s composition, lighting, or skill. Having said that one or two of the photographers are household names. There is also a degree of chronological order as to when the photos were taken,
The first is a bit of a cheat as it’s my photo of the framed print of a photograph by Louis Alphonse de Brebisson, of Église Saint Gervaise in his hometown of Falaise (and the birthplace of William the Conqueror). My framed print hangs proudly in my little lounge. I could not find this photograph online. I found other pictures he took of the church from another angle, and I suspect on the same market day in 1855, but not this one. I found my print in a photographic gallery in Falaise in 1991 while on a family holiday in Normandy. My first glimpse of it captivated me, not so much by that grand edifice of the church but by the ‘ghosts’ of the market sellers. In some cases, they offer only a blur, but in a couple of instances, the outline of a spectral horse-drawn cart is distinguishable. I recalled John Berger’s quote, “what makes photography a strange invention is that its primary raw materials are light and time”.
I have an ‘original’ copy of the following photograph, the taker of which is long lost, signed almost one hundred years ago by the man pictured, Hughie Gallacher, who was then centre forward for Newcastle. Hughie gave it to my father, who played for the Newcastle youth team at the time, as a keepsake. As well as playing football, my father watched the game throughout his life and always said that Hughie Gallacher was the best of all the forwards he saw play. He was part of the original Scottish Wembley Wizards team that beat the then all-conquering England team 5:1. In 643 games, Hughie scored 463 goals, one hundred more than Jimmy Greaves, whom many say is the best British goal scorer there has been. Sadly, later in life, alcohol and mental health problems afflicted Hughie, who took his life in 1957.
My father was a firefighter for much of his life and, although attached to a brigade in the northeast of England, spent time in London during the Blitz. This photograph by Bert Hardy, most famous for his work for the Picture Post, vividly captures the stories my father told of the intense heat, destruction, and at times helpless attempts to extinguish the rampant blazes. And, of course, this was all against the backdrop of falling bombs and buildings. The ‘ghost’ of the firefighter in the foreground seems to reflect all those “heroes with grimy faces” that risked their own lives in the fight to save the lives and the property of others.
The following photograph is by one of those photographers that are more household names, Jane Bown. I’ve read the Observer and the Guardian for over 50 years and often saw Jane’s work in the former newspaper. After her death, the Guardian held a small exhibition of some of her work near their offices in Farringdon, and it was at that exhibition this photo caught my eye and that of my wife, Sarah. It’s a beautiful capture of a relaxed moment between a loving couple.
Playing football in the street was de rigeur where I grew up, living in a block of terraced houses in England’s northeast in the early 1960s. My friends and I played a game called ‘gates’. So-called because two gates on either side of the street were our goals. And because there wasn’t money for a real football (or ‘Casey’ as we called the heavy footballs of the time), our ‘football’ was a bald tennis ball. In this photograph by Roger Mayne, the street is much broader than that I played in and in this game, the young goalkeeper is valiantly looking to save a full-size football. However, it captures my memory so well. We did not play with jackets on, but we did wear short trousers. Knees mend quicker than trousers being the byword. A print of this photograph held me on first seeing it in an artist’s supply shop in the late eighties, so I asked for and received it as a Christmas gift.
My maternal grandfather was a miner, while my paternal grandfather was a shipwright. Thus, they represented the two significant industries of the northeast up to the late 20th century. A little-known fact is that the two groups thought little of each other. Those who built ships believed that those who dug coal were undereducated and that brawn was their only attribute. Conversely, miners saw shipbuilding as ‘easy’ despite the industry’s apparent dangers. Scenes such as this, taken by Chris Killip, were everywhere on the banks of the Rivers Tyne and the Wear once upon a time. At the start of the 20th century, the shipyards of the Northeast built half of the world’s shipping. Those shipyards are gone, and as I look out of my window towards the Tyne, I see warehouses and tower blocks where cranes and towering ships would once have been.
Durham ‘Big Meeting’ or, to give it its proper title, Durham Miner’s Gala was one of the mainstays of the calendar for those who worked in the northeast mines and their friends and families. The first 'Big Meeting' occurred in 1831 with a rally. The intent was to form a coalminer’s union. The official start, however, was some 40 years later. It was an opportunity for those in the mining industry to celebrate their critical role in the development of British industry and the economy. Of course, with the closure of the pits through the nineteen-sixties and seventies, the Gala became a smaller affair. More of a remembrance of glorious times past. Not surprisingly, my maternal grandparents were regular attendees, and my mother and I occasionally joined them. This photograph, again by Chris Killip, captures the late afternoon aftermath of the event. Weary families, detritus and, often, ‘tired and emotional’ men ‘littering’ the racecourse close to Durham in which the Big Meeting took place
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While I am from the northeast and love Newcastle, my adopted city is London. Any city invigorates me, and London is above them all for me. When I moved there in 1974, the south bank was not the tourist attraction it is today. It was an edgy part of town where I spent the first four years of my working life. I commuted all through that life. In my early days living close to the centre of London, it was by tube. Then, moving out to north London, my commute became a walk, bus, train, two tubes and another walk. The last stage of which was through Waterloo Station. This photograph by Nico Goodden brings back those memories of the warp and weave of we commuters as we hurriedly navigated our way to and from tubes and trains and our places of work.
So, there we have it—a brief canter through the eight black and white photographs I would take to a Desert Island. Next year my weekly post will be a photograph and associated commentary as I progress through my first full year living back in the Northeast (the Big Meeting may not feature, but Houghton Feast will). Next week I’ll close this year’s posts with another Desert Island ‘offering’, but for now, I trust everyone has a good Christmas.
An excellent choice of photos Harry and a fascinating read about the meaning of each one to you.