Welcome to the world of
                       Michael G Kimber

The Nightwriter

I admit at the start that the sub-title for this section is a pinch from the television, having been used as the title of numerous art programmes.

    As far as I can remember there was no opportunity to discover, let alone develop, any artistic talents that might have been lurking in the breasts of myself, or my school contemporaries.  The nearest I got to any form of self-expression, was in what was then called technical drawing.  This was a subject I liked, and one of the few at which I did well.  It remains a puzzle and perhaps an indictment of the school system in those days, that there did not seem to be the means to channel talent wherever it was found. My aptitude for drawing, even in this inartistic form, was never spotted, remained un-nurtured, and gently allowed to die.  I had a  natural, perhaps naive, understanding of angles and perspective, which, I feel, should have been recognized as a potential career path; draftsmanship for example comes to mind; but it was not.
    So when my awareness of art begin? I cannot really say.  Certainly during the latter stages of my schooling there were occasional  glimpses of something, but it was vague, unfocussed and with little meaning.  It came to me in odd ways; ways that to some, had little if anything to do with art, and in ways that I myself did not recognize.  Perhaps I would climb a tree and marvel at the view, and the change of perspective when I looked down.  Not that I would have properly understood the meaning of the word at that time. Nor would I have considered that what I saw was any different to what my friends were seeing.  But I do feel that somehow I knew there was more; that the fields were more than just green.
    I would notice things like the bark on the trees; the surface of a stone; or in a stream, how the water was oddly distorted. Reflections and shadows; or the many different colours in a brick wall. This was not art of course, and it was to be a few years yet before it came into my life in a real way.  But when it did it started to make sense of that boyish curiosity; the inquisitiveness that I had known, but had not understood.
      Eventually it was the camera was to trigger off a lifetime’s struggle to achieve artistic satisfaction; an ambition that is still far from realized.
      I had found myself in Ceylon, later to be renamed Sri Lanka, as a guest of the British government, wearing the uniform of the Royal Air Force.  Ceylon was a beautiful semi-tropical island then; variously and aptly named ‘The pearl of India’  or  ‘The Jewel in the Indian ocean’
    Sri Lanka remains just as beautiful today, but its image is somewhat tarnished by the political unrest which has ravaged the island for a number of decades.  Like most problems with an ethnic background, the source of the dispute goes back to ancient times; but to my great good fortune, there was no sign of racial tension during my stay.
    New technology, the relative closeness to Japan - virtually the home of the modern camera - and ‘duty free’ conditions, meant that cameras which would have been beyond my purse back home, were available in profusion.  In any case, such a location cried out for pictures to send back home, so buying a quality camera seemed like a good idea.  The discovery of a lively photographic society on the camp was perhaps the key to my conversion, for soon I was ‘hooked’ by the wonderful new world of the darkroom, and smelly chemicals.
    I had not had any real art training - the nearest I had come to that was some tuition for creating display posters - but here was an outlet which I felt I could exploit.  This is not to say that my pictures had any special merit. At that time such thoughts did not occur, and probably did not for a long time.  Much more important was the feeling that I could produce pictures that others might find interesting, depicting the beauty of the place and its people. Before long I found that these feeling could be expressed, and that I was able, for the first time in my life, to produce images which were mine, which owed nothing to anyone else, and whose first purpose was to satisfy me.  
     Later I came to realize that it was not just for me, but to share.  That there was another person inside me who was beginning to say “Hey, this is me”  Quite a heady feeling!.
     The club atmosphere was both supportive and competitive, and the basic techniques of the craft were quickly learned, though in fact I never stopped learning.  It seemed that the more I knew, the more there was to learn.
     Following its invention, much dispute raged as to photography’s artistic merit. Its detractors keen to point out that there is no artistic virtue in charts and tables, thermometers and clocks.  It was, and for some still is, an artificial debate which goes right back to the beginning of photography, and to Fox Talbot. In its early days it was an argument mostly used by ‘artists’  to discredit the camera, who felt that they were being overshadowed by its immediacy, and the new images that it could produce.
     Not only is it a spurious argument, it is also a pointless one, for in trying to prove that one is better than the other, it fails to recognize that they are merely different routes to picture making.  There are many forms of artistic expression, and how can one be ‘better’ than another.  Is, for example, the composer more of an artist because he creates music, than say the concert pianist, who uses a mechanical instrument to play it?
In any event, it was an argument that eventually artists themselves would defeat, for as time went by, more and more of them took to using this new tool, until few, if any, would deny their value.
    In those early days I was totally unconcerned by such considerations, and quietly got on with learning as much as I could about the ‘art’.
     There was much to see and to ‘snap’ in that beautiful faraway paradise, and there were none of the usual distractions that today’s young men takes for granted.  Girls, pubs, girls, disco’s, girls, and cars (though I did have a motorbike) Oh, and did I say – girls?
     By the time I returned to ‘civvy street’ following my RAF duties, I had acquired ‘moderate’  skills in the darkroom, and was looking forward to maintaining my interest and enthusiasm, even though other priorities were pressing. Many aspects of my life had changed, but some things were the same.  Going back to work, picking up where I left off in my sporting endeavours, reconnecting with friends, and possibly finding a new one.
    This last item was accomplished when my best friend and tennis partner introduced me to a work colleague, and we were married within two years. (See ‘Of Cabbages and Kings)
     I was soon settled at work with my former employers, the ‘Thrift Stores’, as a branch manager, As a new, but enthusiastic member of the Leeds Camera Club, I was able to indulge my hobby - which was now a passion - away from the ‘confines’ of the tropical paradise I had left behind. I was looking at things with new eyes, a new maturity, and  a growing sense of accomplishment. I felt I had passed the point where photography was just an understanding of the chemical and mechanical process.  That very understanding had allowed the artist in me to develop, along with my pictures, and with it my knowledge and appreciation of the much wider world of art in which photography was now an accepted part.  
     I was enjoying some recognition in my club competitions, as well as some further afield, and I was getting acceptances from magazines (even getting paid by them when my pictures were published).
     Then, just as now, photography was everywhere; it could not, and cannot be avoided.  Sophisticated, with the power to sell:  Brutal, with the power to shock:  Sentimental, with the power to move:   Stunning, with the power to bring tears of laughter or sadness. They can also  can astonish, and bewilder   Those giant steps for mankind on the moon; the despair in the faces of New Yorkers on Sep 11; and more recently they depicted the anguish and suffering following the Asian tsunami. They can also bring  great joy to warm the heart. Perhaps the first picture of a newborn child, or be used to bridge the miles to distant lands to maintain family ties.
     For those like me the greatest joy was to see a picture emerge from its developing tray, still wet, uncertain in those first moments, as to its future. Who could tell, in that strange dingy glimmer of the darkroom light, whether it was destined for the exhibition wall, ‘tomorrows’ newspaper, or the waste paper bin. So many hours were spent on my own in the darkroom, and so many pictures produced which didn’t quite make the grade.  But Oh’ the joy, when now and again one of them did.  The painter with his brushes knew no greater thrill than I, when one of my pictures was all that I had hoped it would be.  
     The years moved steadily on, and though some changes had taken place in my life; new jobs, new cars, and new houses, my love of all things photographic had not.  What had changed was that now, into my thirties, I had become very much involved with the politics of the club, and also with the local umbrella group, the Leeds Civic Arts Guild.  I was membership secretary for the former, and chairman of the general arts committee for the latter.  This situation lasted quite a few years, and was a very busy time for me, culminating with my election as President of the Leeds Camera Club.
     This was a very proud time for me as I was following in the footsteps of some illustrious people, and some of the names on the club presidents ‘roll of honour’ were quite famous.  This new level of eminence further added to the growing list of invitations from other photo’ clubs to judge their competitions, or to speak on the subject, all further enhancing the quality of my life at that time.
     It was I suppose, a ‘purple patch’ for me - my fifteen minutes of fame! - and when I look back I feel a mixture of emotions.  Certainly within my chosen field I was one of the names.  Treated with respect by my own club members as their president; likewise by all those clubs for whom I was an invited judge.  I was listened to with enthusiasm, or at least polite attention, when I was guest speaker, or perhaps showing my  own work.
    As a judge I had the opportunity to see a great deal of contemporary work, and enjoyed the privilege to air my views.  That it was a privilege I had no doubt; one that I greatly valued, and went to great pains not to abuse.  Sadly there were others who did not feel like me and cared little for the feelings and sensibilities of the author whose work they might be damning.  It was something I had to learn, for there were many times when firm counsel was needed.  After all, it was for that very reason that I had been invited.  Nevertheless, I made it a rule that in every case before a criticism was made, I would look for, and comment on, something good in the picture. It was a rare case indeed where it was not possible to find something good to say about a picture.
     During all of this time I was trying to improve the quantity and quality of my output, maintaining or enhancing my position at work, and of course playing my part in providing a secure and happy home with my wife.  In spite of her full support during this period it was clear that my work was suffering, but we realized that this extraordinary time would not last for ever. With her blessing we allowed events to take their course, knowing that eventually life would return to a more regular pace.  
    It is said that every silver lining has a cloud, and I was going to find the truth of that little quip. Why it worked out the way it did will always be something of a mystery to me, but sadly things came apart somewhere.
      Following the two years term as president, was a further period of two years as vice president. Different duties but the level of commitment remained much to same.  By this time I had completed about fifteen years of committee work for the Camera Club, and the Leeds Civic Arts Guild.  Perhaps I had been too generous with my time and energy, but almost overnight I decided that some things needed to change.  
    Perhaps too, pride was at work, for at the Camera Club Annual General Meeting when I was due to relinquish my office, the new President misunderstood my feelings and thought I wanted  to stand down completely. In fact all I needed was a ‘rest’, something less demanding, but he offered me no place on the committee.
     It was a bitter blow for me.  All those years of commitment and endeavour seemed to count for nothing.  I felt that I had been abandoned; worse, betrayed.
    Some weeks went by and I waited for someone to phone or write to me. Surely they knew that it was a mistake, the camera club had been my life; I couldn’t just walk away.
     But there was no phone call; no letter. It was one of the few times in my life that I felt hurt, and disillusioned.
     Much later I came to realize there was a lesson to be learned for I now know that it was my pride that had been injured.  It would have been easy for me to have picked up the phone and called the new president, a long time friend, who had probably been sorry to see me go.
     “Come on George” I could have said; but I didn’t.
     I guess I wanted him to come to me; but he didn’t.  
     Silly pride !
     What is it that sometimes prevents a man seeing the wood from the trees?
     My next move, with hindsight, was perhaps rather hasty, and I did come to regret it, but once it was done I didn’t have any reserve to go back. I resigned my membership and severed all my connections, closed up my dark room, and put away my cameras.
     Foolish pride!!
     A classic case of cutting off ones nose to spite ones face!.


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