The Photographer.

The Photographer.

I have sat cross legged on carpet since I was a wee’un, leaning into huge boxes of photos of strangers and family. Boxes full of the rejects, proof sheets, the over/under exposed. My Dad kept them all.  I would wade through them for hours. Sometimes I would even shove some in my socks to take with me, to keep looking. image0-012

I used to think my Da was just a photographer, like it was just the job he had before his strokes. But now I understand, he was a Photographer. This is a certain type of person. The type of person who races back into the house to grab their camera just in case there is something to shoot.image0-004 image0-005

He always said he was not an artistic photographer. Not like Chinese Eddie. But I don’t know. I’m trawling through those boxes now, still, again and thinking there is some art in here. These images might be from Balmain, Yarraville, Footscray, Newport. Not sure. I don’t know anyone in the photos.
image0-011image0-007image0-013The old woman with the ciggie is my favourite. The painfully shy teen, the Larrikin, they are classics too. They are all there. Times really change and then they don’t. And that is what a Photographer sees, and shoots, and shows us. 

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