Travel & Humanitarian Photos
Before the Royal Photographic Society headquarters was moved from the atmospheric Octagon Gallery in central Bath to the anonymous and characterless office on the outskirts of the city it was a magical place to visit. It was a big deal to take the train for a day out in Bath. There was a real sense of excitement and delicious anticipation as the train approached the city and the honey-coloured buildings in the valley were slowly revealed.
And the Octagon was the jewel in the crown, I would put off walking up the hill to the gallery for as long as possible, enjoying the anticipation. I would cross Pultney Bridge and walk a circuit back around to the Roman Baths, pause for tea in the square and join the audiences for the various buskers, knowing that the best part of the day was still to come. The magnetism of the Octagon would inevitably draw me up the hill though and with a genuine, spine-tingling thrill I would finally allow myself to walk into the narrow bookshop and two or more hours of real delight would commence.
The bookshop was so narrow that you’d have to squeeze in to let people pass but that small area contained a wealth of photographic books and postcards that I just would never have seen anywhere else. Having looked at probably every book in the small shop and selected my postcards to buy on the way out I would continue into the Aladdin’s Cave of the gallery itself. I’m sure I must have seen lots of exhibitions with colour images in the Octagon but in my memory all of the photographs were black and white. The first exhibition I saw there contained stark photographs taken in Haiti. Dark studies of men holding severed pig’s heads and carrying coffins down dusty tracks, photos of voodoo dolls and fat women with fearsome expressions. Oh God, it was divine.
Walking slowly around the eight-sided room, studying these outrageous images made you feel like you’d entered a special underground club. The knowledge that in the daylight outside, people were walking along the street, shopping, using the cash-point, waiting for the pedestrian crossing, only heightened the sense that you were one step removed from the rest of the world briefly.
I eventually joined the RPS and took the train to Bath more regularly, attending opening nights and private views of exhibitions there. I once saw Don McCullin open an exhibition in the Octagon and, at that time at least, I wouldn’t have been more impressed if I’d bumped into Mick Jagger or Bono or the Pope. In fact, I’d have been a lot less impressed.
And now? A few years ago the RPS moved its headquarters to a small office building on the outskirts of Bath. It looks like an office for an Insurance Broker or an Estate Agent. Magic? It has none. Disappointed? I was gutted.
None of which has anything to do with what I started this post about so please forgive the rather self-indulgent digression. This post is actually about the Deutsche Borse Photography Prize and the fact that the Photographers’ Gallery in London is relocating to a “£15.5 million, architect-designed, purpose-built address in Soho”. I’m hoping that the Photographers’ Gallery will offer some of the magic that was lost to me when the RPS moved.
I was going to write about the Deutsche Borse because it’s a great competition and the shortlisted works are inspirational but instead I’ll simply point you to this article in the Telegraph and suggest that you take a look at the work of Fazal Sheikh, the first of the shortlisted photographers featured.