It's remarkable how some places - buildings, parks, landscapes can change a perception or take you in a different direction. Some places are saturated with meaning, and it just takes a few silent, uncomplicated moments to stop, see and listen to what they have to say.
St. John the Baptist in Inglesham was a place that taught me how to see.
The church sits at the end of a lane at the meeting point of two rivers: the Thames and the Coln. It’s a humble looking building, made up of a simple two cell plan with an interior full of filtered light. Tamped within its angled walls are several hundred years of history that seems to leach into the honeycombed pockets of space.
One day, many years ago, whilst photographing Inglesham, I became the instrument and not the camera.
My intention, on that day, was to take a photograph that captured the layering of the space, so I chose a zoom lens with a focal length that would pull, concertina like, the rooms together. To add an extra layer to the final image, I positioned my tripod outside the porch to embrace the door. I felt like an archaeologist, uncovering the stratigraphy of the church with my camera.
I stood for some time with my bag and tripod, checking the sun’s movement through an app on my device. Whilst I waited, I double checked my camera settings and fine tuned the composition. Deeper into my task I stalked the light. Its angled presence was needed to embolden the parclose and enliven the walls. When the light reached the nave, I fired off a few shots for review. As I thumbed through the images, the click of the function wheel made the camera sound like it was purring. I reduced the exposure to take into account the extra light in the space. A burgeoning glow brought on a faster pace of review. When the shadows lengthened, I set about the golden section: lining up the stiff-leaf capitals and intersecting doors.
"When the shadows lengthened, I set about the golden section: lining up the stiff-leaf capitals and intersecting doors."
But the light was too strong, until an hour later, after several stops of camera calibration, the arcading took root and grew in contrast against the lime-washed wall. The space began to hover, refreshed and bathed in a golden light, with textures fizzing in the low-angled sun. I placed my face against the camera and felt the cup of the viewfinder on my cheek. I felt as if I was in the space, rather than observing it. The camera was ready, the building composed, the mind engaged.
Then click..
The final photograph is one of my most cherished; created by a type of photographical dowsing. It was taken from an intuitive route of beating heart, purring machine and sun-spindled spaces.
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