Growing up, our family had a little caravan that spent much of its life in our backyard. Really, it lived for the adventures it accompanied us on around North America, being towed behind our old maroon Volvo and then later, our blue Chrysler van/people carrier. It had a slightly musty smell which I remember with fondness. Framing the curved windows were sets of utterly amazing 70s patterned curtains in brown, orange, red and cream. There were two sleeping areas, each on one end of the caravan and my parents would sleep on one side and us three kids on the other. There was a little kitchen area in between, with a foot push pump to do the washing up and above the sink a cupboard full of melamine plates, bowls and plastic tumblers. When one of us kids would go on a non-family camping trip, with the Brownies, Guides or Scouts, we would take the kitchenware from the caravan and pack it with the rest of our things. My Mum had labelled the base of each in white out/tipex with initials so that they would have a better chance of returning with us. 

The caravan is long gone now but those plates and bowls are still around, living in the kitchen cupboards of my parents' home in Victoria, Canada. I still get a feeling of joy as I stumble upon them when looking for something on my visits, their distinctive shades of blue, green, dark orange popping out among the white cupboards. I enjoy turning a piece over to see which of our initials are on the base, will it be a ‘CJ’ or ‘PJ’ or ‘AJ’ ?

I got thinking of this set of plates and bowls when I went back to Dance Camp Wales this summer and found myself searching for my bowls that had gone missing during camp. I kept spotting people with what looked like one of my bowls and then didn’t know what to do. I could hardly go up to people accusing them of having my bowl, especially as the white tin with the blue edging seemed a rather popular choice to bring to camp. Perhaps next year I’ll put my initials on the bottom in nail polish. 

Last summer I was a bundle of nerves leading up to the new things I was about to embark upon, my first time going to Dance Camp Wales and shortly after that I was to be leading my first workshop day at the eco village. My body remembers the feeling, the fear and anxiety, holding a weight in the pit of my stomach. But there was also something else, a little flutter of butterflies, of anticipation and something resembling excitement about doing something new. 

When I told my some of my friends last year that I was going to Dance Camp for the first time and dreading it they had responded “You’ll probably love it and end up going every year!” I brushed off as a ridiculous remark that was intended to be supportive and encouraging but I mostly found irritating and to me highlighted how much I wasn’t going to enjoy this experience, how out of place I would feel.

And then I loved it. Whilst I did take two of my favourite photos for my series Where the Red Kite Flies there, it became so much less about taking photos and so much more about the experience of being part of a different community for those 11 days. I knew when I left the camping field last year that I would go back again the following year. 

This year I attended as a ‘worker’, and led five Cyanotype Workshops in the Creative Tent. Driving to the camp field in Pembrokeshire I was aware of how different I felt this year. Gone was the feeling of fear of the unknown, replaced by an ease, a happiness to be going back to a place I knew would feel so familiar after the days spent there last year. But also gone was that nervous feeling of excitement. The feeling of ‘newness’ was gone. 

But leading the Cyanotype Workshops was a new thing for me and it was such a joy watching people enjoying the magic of the process, reminding me of how I felt those first few times in the darkroom, all those years ago, watching the black and white photograph slowly appearing in the tray of developer under the red light. 

One of the great things about cyanotypes is how accessible and affordable they are to make. I had been a bit nervous leading up to camp with how the weather had been panning out so far this summer. Cyanotypes are often called sun prints for a reason, they require the sun (or UV light more specifically) to cause the chemistry to do its thing. But from my experience doing the workshops during a wet summer in Wales,  I’ve learned:

• It turns out you totally can do cyanotypes with fresh chemistry, applied to paper in the slightly dim daylight of the tent, no need to fully dry
• They work totally fine on a cloudy day
• And oh, wow, they even work in the rain

I returned to my cabin after a wonderful time at camp happy but also utterly, completely exhausted and rather peopled out. Then, after three days spent on my own, I start to feel the cabin fever kick in and my overthinking brain starts to take over.  I have a feeling gnawing at me and it is saying one thing: 

I am not sure how to take photos right now. 

In many ways I long for last summer or the one before; both felt like key stages in my project when I was trying new things (in 2021 it was the 5x4 camera) and doing things that felt a bit scary. And also taking a lot of photos. 

Now I’m at this weird limbo stage and I can’t quite figure out how to get the camera raised up to my eyes again. I did get the Mamiya 7 camera out at Dance Camp, me and Mirelle headed back to the fallen down tree where we took the photo of her and Maia on Fire Night last year. I guess the main problem is I don’t really know what I want to capture or say at this point and perhaps that’s only natural, especially having had 2 exhibitions so far this year and another 3 to go; I’m concentrating more on getting the work seen rather than making new photographs. Perhaps having the exhibitions feels like an invisible line has been drawn on the project but I'm not quite ready to let go of the idea of adding more images to the series. How I miss that feeling, of adventure, the unknown and creating an image.

The act of writing this has made me recall that the Cyanotype Workshops captured that feeling in so many of the people who took part in them at camp. That feeling of play, the unpredictability of not knowing quite what you’re going to get, especially with the weather misbehaving as it has been doing. 

To me the act of making cyanotypes feels like the antidote to perfectionism.

This afternoon I unpacked some of my cyanotype materials and made this image below, using the Red Kite necklace a dear friend bought for me for my birthday earlier this summer. I feel happier and like something has been shaken off. For now I'm going to let myself play and enjoy planning my upcoming exhibitions and tell myself that the time to take photos will come again. 

Upcoming Exhibitions of Where the Red Kite Flies

Salt Room at Maker & Wright, Malvern

September 2023

The Northern Eye Festival, Colwyn Bay

October 2023

Sheffield University

November-December 2023