My Portfolio went live in the App Store 3 days ago – it reached  No. 7 in the UK Photography section and No. 6 in the US! ..   and so far 1559 people have downloaded it. I have received lots of purchase enquiries and orders and kind messages from around the globe. I am so chuffed and just wanted to post this latest message which came in earlier from Sono in Japan. Thanks so much to all of you who have shown an interest in my work – it’s made my week.

—-  ”This is Sono from Tokyo, just boosting up my brand new ipad.surfing on apps tab, I eventually found your Photo book, and enjoyed looking through them with my hus.  It is just amazing that We now can easily connect to the something beautiful, which we  have never known a minute ago.

Technology changes the world, and I just appreciate the chance to get your great works.

WIshing you the best and looking forward to see your coming photos.”

Regards, Sono
Sent from my iPad

Part of the hugely popular BRIGHTON FESTIVAL held throughout the month of May each year, this is the second largest arts festival in the UK after Edinburgh and brings over 2 million visitors to Brighton.

This fabulous new venue is a converted pub where Status Quo once played!  I was exhibiting alongside a diverse group of talented artists showing a colourful range of art, photography, jewellery and accessories. Other artists exhibiting with me were:  Sharon Smith –  Abstract Paintings, Coleen Slater – Photography,  Sarah Hughes – Recycled accessories, Kat Zahran – Contemporary Jewellery, Jess Barrah – Books, cards and home accessories, Heike Roesel – Watercolours and Etchings and Ali Rabjohns – Scarves, wraps and bags.

I rang up just to make sure it wouldn’t be full of talented folk in need of a bit of ego stroking – and when I was reassured it was for the “stick men only” type of artist – I signed up.

Amy Dury – my tutor for the 10 week course – was fantastic. She expelled the big myths   “people who can draw are just born with a gift” and “drawing can’t really be taught” and made us begin to look at drawing in a different way. In our very first lesson she gave us “upside down drawings”. We couldn’t make sense of what we were copying so had to just focus on lines and shapes instead. Many of  us fear not being able to reproduce what’s in front of us. We look at the person or object that we’re attempting to draw and and we become paralysed. We don’t know where to begin and our minds fill up with the things we associate with that object or person, rather than really noticing the shapes, tones, shadows and lines. Basically we dwell too much on WHAT we are drawing and not how it’s made up. I drew the upside down body of a man – which turned out to be a Raphael drawing  - here is the original:

and here is what I managed by copying above image turned upside down:

My jaw literally dropped when I turned both of the above the right way up .. he looked human!! (well, apart from the mutant hand) and not a matchstick in sight  -  and I did it all by myself with just a pencil and a bit of paper – .. it was a real epiphany.. and I URGE all of you with a fear of drawing to have a go.

Coming next –  Celebrating negative space..

Annual Exhibition of Photographic Prints

The Grange Art Gallery, The Green, Rottingdean, Brighton, East Sussex, UK.

April 1^st to 13^th, Opening Hours: 10am –4pm, Sundays 2pm – 4pm, closed Wednesdays.

My photograph “Shipwrecked” was chosen as part of an exhibition that included a remarkable variety of photographers, styles, techniques and subjects. All prints on sale at the gallery.

The Missing Recipe by Nicole Carman

One Christmas, when we still had the cottage; before he got ill, before he got old – my father did a quite extraordinary thing. An unexpected kindness, a rare, unselfish act.

The prelude to Christmas had been potent in our house. My mother and grandmother had spent the last few weeks down in the kitchen, hatching plans for the feast. There was a constant sound of whisking and beating  – plump sultanas mingled with orange peel and soft suet. The bubbling and simmering of steamed puddings emitted a sweet smell of cinnamon and clove that clung to the house like a winter cloak. There had been an ongoing poring over cookery books amid much excited talk of a new recipe for the turkey stuffing. It was to be something altogether different, an exotic blend of apricots, nuts and spices. A minor rebellion against the traditional sage and onion.

Christmas Eve finally came; we left behind a dank and dreary London and headed down to the coast for the festive holiday.  Everybody appeared to be leaving the city, but rather than a stampede of cars, the mass exodus resembled a slow, snail-like trail of motorists, leaving in their wake wet slimy tracks upon the rain drenched roads. The car was weighed down and we were a tight bundle in the back seat, cramped and impatient to arrive, but the thought of all those presents, wrapped and ribboned and ready to be opened, kept us cheerful and giddy with Christmas spirit.

When we finally arrived at our small, but perfectly formed and much loved country cottage, the fire was lit and a Christmas tree procured. Tiny magical lights glowed through the dense emerald branches and sparkling silver baubles dangled and danced.  My father sat at the piano while we hung our red and white stockings over the fireplace. It was late and we were tired when the hall clock chimed, and so, if a little reluctantly, we wound our way up to bed.

But before I had time to drift off to sleep, I was roused by my mother’s tears. Not hysterical tears, but quiet persistent sobs. I could hear my grandmother and her attempts to console her. Listening intently I began to comprehend. Somehow, in all the excitement of leaving London, the new Christmas recipe had been left behind. Although my mother was a very good cook, I had never seen her make any dish without the use of one of her trusty cookbooks, so I knew what a blow this would have been for her. The recipe was complicated and she would never have attempted it alone. But there was nothing to be done, and so she dried her eyes and stole away to bed.

The next morning, Christmas morning, we woke early for that most exciting, celebratory day of the year. So engrossed in unwrapping the presents that lay at the end of the bed, I had quite forgotten about the evening’s upset – but not, apparently, had my father. For while the house had slumbered he had left that snug, warm haven and driven through the night back to London. There on the kitchen table, in time for my mother’s early morning entrance, lay the missing recipe.

And so with incredulous gasps of delight and the spilling of several tender tears of gratitude, the Christmas festivities were back in full swing and my father had given my mother a Christmas gift she would not forget.