This much I know ....

I am about to commence year three of a PhD in visual sociology within the centre for education, arts and media at the University of Westminster in Central London. This much I know about surviving and thriving in the first two years of a doctorate: 

  1. The most common thing people tell me when I tell them I am doing a doctorate in photography is that I do not need to be a doctor to be a photographer. People outside the academy may not know the difference between practice and theory. I now say I am doing a doctorate in visual sociology.

  2. It's okay to view a PhD whatever the way you wish, I view a PhD as a form of activism to affect change, for me, research should be for the betterment of humanity. A chance to be a cultural influencer for change.

  3. The best definition of a PhD I have heard is a "PhD is a responsible intervention in a particular, highly specialised debate."

  4. Read, read and then read again. Learn the art of skim reading and taking notes, I write a paragraph for every article that I have ever read and referred back to that when I can.

  5. It's okay to feel intimidated by your supervisor's accomplishments. One of my superiors is a world-renowned professor in photography and at times, I am intimidated by the massive size of his brain and have to remind myself that he interviewed me on my PhD selection panel and requested to supervise me. He sees the merit of my research and the value in me academically. Take that as a massive compliment.

  6. Do the bibliography as you go as well as the textual references and visual/figure references. I keep a copy of every journal article I have read, saves time looking for them again. This will save you massive amounts of time. Do not cut and paste the titles of figures, rewrite them as that can be considered plagiarism.

  7. It's easy to say that don't allow the PhD to become your whole life but it will become your whole life.

  8. The literature review is all about finding the gap in the existing body of work, to do this you have to know what field/s your research transgresses. Know the area you are researching.

  9. Seek inspiration from online. The Vlogs on YouTube by Tara Brabazon, Dean of Graduate Research and Professor of Cultural Studies at Flinders are exceptional.

  10. You'll continually read throughout the entire PhD, don't think this happens in just the first year for the literature review.

  11. If you are concerned about the quality of your writing, don't be. Just write, the idea is to get your ideas on paper and communicate your original contribution to research.

  12. This does not apply to lab-based work but try and change your workspace as it helps with the momentum of working. I work from home so you can often find me in the Bibliothèque Publique d'Information (or BPI), a library inside the Centre Pompidou, in the heart of Paris.

  13. Being self-funded comes with the added pressure of finding the money to underwrite your research. I spend more time hustling for funding for my PhD than I do writing my PhD. A very good website for alternative funding sources is the Alternative Guide to Post Graduate Funding. Don't be shy to crowdfund. Don't be shy to ask for funding or ask people to pay for your intellectual content. See the button beneath this post.

  14. Use professional proofreading - too many grammatical errors and you'll be at minor corrections before they judge the content. I can recommend Scribbr proofreading & editing service, or even Grammarly (paid subscription) works very well.

  15. As women, we don't always scream about our accomplishments, best advice I was given (will not say by whom) was to write your thesis with all the overconfidence of a mediocre white dude applying for a job he is underqualified for.

  16. I'm Generation X, so I print out all my reference as I find reading from a screen to taxing on my eyes, I read with a pen and highlighter, taking notes as I go. I collect these notes, for instance, when I am researching in Paris I called the folder "Paris Reading List".

  17. Understand what the phrase "significant original contribution to knowldge" means. This can mean different things for different areas of research.

  18. It's super easy when you write to put (REF) in place of a reference because you are hammering out the writing and you don't want to interrupt your flow. DON'T you'll waste time having to go back replacing the citations. Trust me on this.

  19. Listen to your director of studies, it is their job is to get you through your doctorate.

  20. Take detailed supervision notes, this is crucial for several reasons, acts as a wonderful memory prompt about what was discussed and serves as a paper trail, especially in the event of a dispute.

  21. In year two, start thinking about life beyond the PhD. Fellowships, teaching, possible job opportunities.

  22. You will encounter classism. No point sugar-coating this.

  23. Know the difference between self-plagiarism and plagiarism, avoid them both, at all costs.

  24. You'll be able to get away with not citing Foucault in year one but you will not in year two.

  25. Cite your supervisors published work (if possible) and find out who is sitting on your year two upgrade viva and if relevant to your research, cite them as well.

  26. Think what discipline/s your research sits in and think about this interms of research and employment post PhD.

  27. Public engagement is essential for marketing your research, you need to put your research out there.

  28. If your research subject is highly emotive such as sex work or animal testing people will attack you regardless of what you say. You have the right to speak about your research is safe spaces on university campuses.

  29. Learn how to address being heckled at conferences and public events if your research is emotive. People will say to you but what did you expect, your research is controversial. What you expect is respect, common decency, professionalism and a platform to talk about your research. To be safe.

  30. It's okay to feel overwhelmed. It's okay to fall apart. It's okay to feel the intense pressure of undertaking the doctorate.

  31. Pick which battles with your supervisors that you're willing to stand your ground on.

  32. Ask to sit in on MA courses, Twice a week during term time I sit in on classes my professor supervisor teaches. Great way to learn and pick his brain when it can be exceptionally difficult to get supervision time on his schedule. Sometimes you have to be a bit proactive.

  33. Supervision sessions do not always have to be held on campus, cafes, libraries, open spaces. This takes the pressure off.

  34. Ask (pester) the graduate school for funding or about upcoming opportunities you can apply for.

  35. It's okay to get upset if as a woman a journalist mentions the colour of your lipstick in an interview about your research. Everyday sexism exists with the academy and reporting on it.

  36. It's okay to feel like an idiot most of the time. Imposter syndrome is very real. Very painful. A PhD can trigger a multitude of mental health problems due to pressure.

  37. You are the subject matter expert on your area of research. You've got this.

  38. It's okay to find some of the feedback brutal, paper cut to the bone brutal. I have cried more than once after getting feedback.

  39. It took me about 16 months to find my footing, those first 16 months were plagued with self-doubt and I was beset with fears.

  40. You will spend way to much time thinking about fonts and you will change it more than once.

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Social Media Detox

I am just having a break from social media, to cleanse my soul and to spend more time devoted to life off the webs - a social media detox cleansing diets of sorts. I have deactivated my Twitter and Instagram accounts.

They’ll be back at some point in time …

For media, to speak about photography commissions or my research, you are most welcome and invited to use the contact form to reach out to me.

Women with lived experience of sex work, you can follow me on @Whoretography if you wish, that is my PhD research twitter account.

Love

Camille

Daliesque ...

I was taking a trip through my wedding photography photographic archive and stumbled across this wedding in Cornwall. What strikes me about this is not the Dali-esque inspired edit that I gave it, or that it picked me up nominations and awards about being an avant-garde wedding photographer, is that fact that using textures or layers as an editing tool in wedding photography, at the time (and possibly still is) was considered out there in terms of wedding styles. I was rebelling against the demand and wedding photography trend at the time that called for the use of vintage-inspired wedding photography lightroom and darkroom presets. These eventually gave way to the VSCO filmesque inspired editing of recent times which has moved on yet again to the demand of shooting with actual film analogue cameras. It's hard to break away from visual cliches and expectations when it comes to wedding photography.

Wedding photography scripts are so ingrained in our cultural psyche, embedded into the rituals of grand ceremonies of our lives and the social importance of these ceremonies is reflected in the need to photograph them. Despite moving on from a post-world war two world when wedding photography really came to be, we need to ask ourselves have we moved beyond what Bourdieu describes wedding photography as being as an important area of collective life? Are we still in the 1960s when wedding photography was popular because of the social conditions of its existence? Obligation, an hommage to the married couple and wedding photography was capturing human behaviour that was socially approved.

Despite our claims about equality, our apparent changing attitudes to marriage, weddings, capitalism, consumption and patriarchy, make no mistake about it, wedding photography remains a sociogram and it's hard to shoot around that especially when you are desperately trying to find a voice of your own a photographic voice of your own.

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Woman + Photographer + Feminist Series: Edition One

Carnal knowledge by Anne Ferran

Gelatin silver photographs 39 x 58 cm or 40 x 52 cm, 1984.

Intimate portraits of Ferrans’s daughters (+ friends) whose youthful bodies have been distorted by a stone rendering effect making them unconventional photographs (even now) of close-ups that appear cut across the frame, incomplete, distorted and fragmented. The images are about burgeoning desire and glimpses of emerging sexuality.

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Fear and Loathing in Socal Media

I have a passionate love/hate relationship with social media, I like the interconnections and sharing of knowledge and being part of a community, I enjoy sharing photographic knowledge and connecting with sex workers, academics and those who are passionate about photography but I loath the surveillant nature and the expectations that exist about free entertainment and access to free content. I am stuck in this Generation X hell of a pre and the existence of the post-internet world where I remember what it was like pre-internet and I am hankering for a nostalgic world of not being connected. I know better though than to believe the world was a better place without the internet. I thoroughly enjoy interviewing 20-year-old research subjects who know no other world than a web-based one. Who for them there is no offline and online self, it's all the same self. I have endless arguments in my head about what is it that I am doing on social media, I find the gaze of men unsettling and I have given twitter and Instagram the arse on more than one occasion. It's the first thing I ditch when I'm pissed off at the world. I have had more than one man tell me my twitter feed is not as entertaining as it was three years ago when I was tweeting about the practice of sex work, or men lamenting that I don't post erotic content or I talk about photography too much or men telling me they'd never want to meet me or I am too outspoken, too sarcastic, too something that does not fit the norm of how a woman is supposed to act online.

So, I locked my account before I jumped ship to Paris and did some webs soul searching. I don't want to give up my social media accounts, but nor can I use it the way I have been, so I have decided to turn my feeds into a nirvana of photography knowledge, after all, it's not like I do not know what I am talking about, I hold a Masters Degree in Photography and I am a second-year PhD student in photography. So, from today, this morning actually at about 7.30am my twitter feed is now solely about la vie photographique and everything photography related. Just making the decision makes me feel so much better, I feel like I am reclaiming my little bit on the webs. I also need to fund my photographic research, so I kindly ask that anyone wishing to access my social media accounts then please donate £25, you can use the button below and I'll add you to my social media network.

I look forward to flooding the interwebs with photography knowledge. I understand that this may not suit everyone's idea of the way we are meant to use social media but regrettably, I need to fund my research and I cannot do that unless I monetise my time online.

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Paris ...

There is a brilliant saying from Margo Martindale's character in the film Paris, je t'aime, Carol in the 14th arrondissement is sitting alone in a park in Paris and says:

"Sitting there, alone in a foreign country, far from my job and everyone I know, a feeling came over me. It was like remembering something I'd never known before or had always been waiting for, but I didn't know what. Maybe it was something I'd forgotten or something I've been missing all my life. All I can say is that I felt, at the same time, joy and sadness. But not too much sadness, because I felt alive. Yes, alive. That was the moment I fell in love with Paris. And I felt Paris fall in love with me."

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I cannot recall the first time I fell in love with Paris, the nor first time I fell in smitten with French men. It was well before joining a Nicolas Sarkozy fan page and a rogue facebook poke that lead me to have my first grown-up affair that played out in glimpses of Chantal Thomass in posh parks, ridiculously small elevators and backs of motorbikes. It was well before my friend Karina and I labelled our time in Paris as la nouveau Belle Époque. I think perhaps I fell in love with the idea of Paris as a suburban apartment owning, in a long term defacto relationship, the next in our clique to be married Melbourne office worker whose lunchtimes were spent reading lonely planet guides and Paris based non fiction books, it was sitting on a park bench in Paris with my partner of 10 years at the time musing how I really wanted to live here and he responded with "you could not survive her on your own", it was years after that remark, travelling to Paris on my own for the first time, getting off at Gare Du Nord to what would become familiar chimes of arrival, buying a paper map and walking up by myself to Montmatre sitting on the same Park bench, crying and trying to convince myself that I can live here, I just needed to make it happen. It just took me a while.

Paris has been a long time in the making. Why Paris? Why not is the succinct answer to that? It's not all pretty hues, delicious palettes and romantic tastes. It's not all lemon sorbet drizzled with crushed macaroons. It's not all handsome men with majestic cocks and whimsical affairs. Paris is dirty and urine-soaked, bourgeois apartment owners are putting profit over Parisians forcing full-time Paris dwellers to the periphery of Paris, incomes are low and the cost of living high.


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As a tourist, it's easy to see Paris as a city of light and love and ignore the smell of piss as just a city quirk. That is not the Paris I know or why I stay. I've lost lovers here, ended a nine-year affair with a married man here, taken pregnancy tests in French, started bleeding in a pretty French cafe when I miscarried babies, become distant with once close friends and lost wallets. My friend had her drink spiked on a night out, I lost her for 12 hours - she was gang raped, the only reason I did not drink my drink that the police suspect was spiked because I was having an argument on the phone with a french lover and when I came back, she was gone. I left her for 5 minutes, I feel terrible remorse about that. I've fucked misogynists simply because of the way the looked and the promise of what outlines beneath a pair of well-fitted jeans, been asked if I wanted to sleep on the couch post fucking. Was flung off the back of a motorbike in an accident. I've smoked spliff in backs of cars driving along avenue des Champs-Élysées and gotten lost in La Defence. I've road-tripped with famous photographers. Been invited to exhibition openings for Paris Photo. Woken up to the smell of a vomit soaked bed post-drug-fuelled fucking sessions that ended in a collection of out of focus polaroids, I have a stash of polaroids from the MDMA and cocaine inspired evenings. Walked urine saturated streets at five in the morning post-shooting. Walked home in the rain. Alone. My facebook reminders are full of snippets of the lives of the French men who once fucked me. Facebook reminds me of the senior partner at a law firm I lived with for 3 months in the 16th arrondissement and the banker from Neuilly-sur-Seine. I've had my fair share of threesomes and foursomes with men who find the rarity of a pretty Australian living in Paris to alluring to resist. Grown-up fucking sans payment and the games men think they need to play to convince themselves they are not paying for sex.

I do write in Paris and for a PhD student with deadlines whooshing over her head, then Paris is the inspiration I need to ensure for my little family unit that I am bestowed with the title of Doctor. Eventually. That pesky Hemmingway was on to something providing you can avoid the booze and fucking.

Paris feels like coming home. More home than home. I'm a better version of me here. I write better here, I fuck better here. Never does payment change hands. I have no interest in the work of sex here. I dress better here. I am a better lover, friend, visual artist, student, photographer, insert whatever else and I am a better version of me here.

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Pleasantly Plump In Paris

This post is inspired by a twitter follower, who in response to me lamenting at yet another photographic essay of a skinny French woman being photographed lounging naked in an apartment somewhere on the snooty bank of Paris tweeted back at me about being pleasantly plump in Paris.

Her exact twitter words of wisdom were:

Living fat or at least pleasantly plump in Paris would suggest a far more exciting and fulfilling life. The boulangeries! des pâtisseries! les fromages! le vin! THAT'S the kind of living in Paris you should start with.

I've lived in Paris. In 2008. I once went for a weekend to meet a man I met through Facebook intending just to pop over for the weekend and stayed with him for three months. Most of that time was spent fucking and eating. It was a lesson in learning not to order diet coke after 9pm, trying not to look offended when the only English spoken to you all night was by a woman asking " You both look tired, have you been fucking?", absolutely trying not to look offended when the sales assistant looked you up and down and insisted that you needed a bigger size ( to be fair, she was right) and trying not to look disappointed when showing up to parties and the only thing on the table were flutes of champagne, a big bowl of strawberries and a bowl of Ferrero Rocher knowing you could not shove your hand in that bowl in case eating too much chocolate prompted speculation about my mental well being. I still spend a disproportionate amount of time flitting there and having flings with French men, my point is, I've spent enough time in Paris to know (I've seen them with my own les yeux) that French women do indeed get fat, pleasantly plump, have muffin tops and that is totes cool that their bodies come in all glorious shapes and sizes.

Of course, you would not know this if you were to look at photographic essays coming out of France these days. For some reason, unbeknownst to me, photographing skinny French women in Paris gives the photographs a certain amount of ... Je ne sais pas quoi ... bullshit authenticity. An edge, that renders them worthy of being celebrated for the mere fact they feature skinny women with all their ribs on display. Regardless as to whether the photographs are actually any good or not, if they work as a single image or as a connected narrative, or they have something to say other than here is my skinny french friend walking around her left bank apartment. What strikes me about these photographs, is that most of them are remarkably unremarkable, black and white photographs with a hint of grain to convince you it was shot on film because that in itself is meant to be somewhat cooler and arty in the age of the digital photograph (like the skinny French woman who is way cooler than you are). Photographs with the colour slightly desaturated and muted with the right amount of contrast, someone's arse poking out next to a flower as a not so subtle comment or play on female sexuality. The only thing that makes them remarkable is the allure and romanticism that we all have with Paris. It's like we are viewing these images through a Paris filter that serves only to feed our cult-like obsession with the skinny French woman. Knowing these photographs are shot in Paris renders them more artistic so much so that we overlook the obvious that this is yet another photographic essay of a nude skinny French woman lying on a bed, the lack of originality is glaring but the Paris filter renders it invisible. So much so that apparently what is served up a diversity amongst french women in a photographic essay these days is, oh they are different ages. Some are in their twenties, some are in their forties.

So, where are all the photographic essays of the Beguiling pleasantly plump in Paris? I would dearly love to know.

By French photographer and film maker, Sonia Sieff. The photo series  Les Françaises,

By French photographer and film maker, Sonia Sieff. The photo series Les Françaises,

By Mary McCartney for her new book, Paris Nude

By Mary McCartney for her new book, Paris Nude

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Could not sleep so I ranted about Instagram at 2 am ...

I am not a fan of Instagram. Of all the social media platforms I find this visual based platform a cesspit of bad photography (digital technology has done nothing to improve peoples understanding of basic photographic principles whether this matters or not is an entirely different conversation), faux happiness, constructed falsehoods and visual bollocks. Instagram is designed to suck you in with the nostalgic pull of the Polaroid and the square format image, dazzle you with soft hues and film inspired grain and get you to stay as a pervert voyeur with a never abating desire to see more. I hate it. I use it because I must. My feeds always seem directionless to me as I am sure it does to you, and my Instagrams certainly don’t feel like me. Hash tagging images with key words from the wedding industry is a key marketing tool for not starving as a photographer and I have muttered before that I could post a photo of a used condom nailed to a wall, hashtag it with wedding industry tags and I’d get likes. I’m willing to accept that challenge. It’s all bollocks of course, Instagram is all about socially acceptable voyeurism, it’s the digital equivalent of giving us a peak into what people would have you believe, is life as they know it, or slices of the life the want you to think they have. Instagram has become reverential, we are all praying to the false visual gods

It was Princess Dianna who once quipped that "Well, there were three of us in this marriage, so it was a bit crowded” That’s they way it is for him and I. It’s me, him and his wife’s Instagram account. I can’t remember the exact moment that I realised she was following my Instagram account, but it was about the time I decided to perv on my followers’ feeds, I scrolled through hers and there he was. I must admit, I was instantly more smitten. There are many reasons as to why she may be following me; we all loiter about Nappy Valley, go to the same pubs and restaurants, at one point I lived at the bottom end of typically South West London street and he lived at the top end of the same street. When I moved to Clapham Old Town, he’d pop in weekly because I was close to work. She may follow me because she likes my photographs, our world is inter-connective and networked these days. Him, even by stealth looking at my various feeds may have prompted her Instagram to suggest me, although my two Instagram accounts are somewhat different in tone and purpose. I suspect its because our devices cross paths for a few hours a week.

So now I have become the voyeur, the pervert with a surveillant gaze and I am transfixed. It goes beyond the fact that I like him, and I enjoy his body. He is one of these rare men who know how to fuck. He has all the qualities that makes a man perfectly fuckable. He’d make an ideal husband. He is someone’s ideal husband. I can see that now whereas before, I just assumed. Do I want to see what I am looking at? Not really. Is it healthy to look? No bloody way, but there we have it. Snippets of their life for all to see. On a public account. This got me to thinking about how we see what we want to see in other people’s Instagram feeds, that’s their Instagram account is a mirror that reflects our own insecurities and desires. Am I viewing it with envy or pity? Is her Instagram feed really slices of her life, or the life I imagine she has or the life she wants? Of course, I view her feed through the jaded lens of her husband’s infidelity and the woefully naïve misguided assumption that I make, and that is that he cheats because he is unhappily married or we fuck well because he likes me. We view other people’s photographs through our own biased lens of experience, moral decay, needs, wants and unfilled desires. A photograph is not to be used to authenticate truth nor is a photograph reality. Instagram is popular because it feeds a visual neurosis that we all have – to seek validation through the photographs of others. To be perverts, to look unseen. To insert yourselves into the visual narrative of others.

This insertion in the visual narratives of others explains why I don’t really like Instagram. I part take in it because its now an evil I must use to make money. I don’t like looking at myself, I have so many versions of myself that are at times I feel like they are all unworthy of being seen. Every day I wake up and struggle with this research doctorate, even though I was exemplary in my capabilities to be accepted in the first place, in fact my research was labelled exemplary intellectually and conceptual. To post my life via photographs on Instagram, Facebook or even Twitter would be allowing others to look at a life I hide from myself even though photographs and photography are my life. I also sloth around with remnants of a complex and deep-rooted eating disorder that saw me flux from anorexic to bulimic to obese. The chore of choosing a photo would be to much of a head fuck, academically speaking. I am grateful I am Generation X and the evolution of my distorted eating happened prior to the digitally networked world of the photograph. Sure, we had magazines, but you’d have to wait for those magazines to come out monthly.

My eating disorder evolved in an age where if you wanted to learn about being an anorexic then you need to buy books. There were no visual cues on hand, no Instagram with a billion and one photos to gaze at from a computer screen, there were no computers and there was no scapegoat either. No blaming Photoshop or Instagram for me having an eating disorder, that’s too much of a piss weak middle-class feminist sell out. There were no pointless and privileged actresses trying to win faux social media popularity contests about who is the most feminist angry at Photoshop and seeking it to be criminalised and punished with the death penalty (sarcasm). Eating disorders are more complex and at the same time, impossibly simple. My father died with I was two, you join the dots, I felt abandoned and robbed, and it my two-year-old mind I rationalised it must have been me, why was I not good enough to have a father. Going completely off topic, my first memories are of his funeral and there is the reason why I did so much coke, to erase the memory. I have photos of his funeral, I look at the photos of the car crash that killed him. I wish I could erase the funeral memories as easily as hitting the delete button on my Nikon DF. Nonetheless, photos of death are not to be feared, hidden away or treated with pity or shame (another blog post, perhaps), why don't we post photographs of death on Instagram?

Feminists cannot shame photographs nor the women who use photoshop, nor can they criminalise photo-shopped images and at the same time post photos on platforms like Instagram with filters and borders, have you heard of anything more ridiculous than the seeking criminalization of airbrushing? I'll wait for them to ban lighting, posing and the wearing of make up in photographs. Photographs do not cause eating disorders; however, the real problem is me spending way too much time looking at this woman’s Instagram feed. The absence of her husband on her feed could be because he hates having his photo taken or because their marriage is shit, or he hates Instagram as much as I do. He has said this to me before. He has said many things to me that he says he hates, like pompous middle-classness that comes with living in Nappy Valley and the need for endless red sole shoes, the very Louboutin’s that I can see on her Instagram feed. I see many photos of their child on her feed and I ask myself is she setting this kid up to be a future influencer ? Why else would she pimp out photos of her child on a public feed hash-tagged with all the right tags but there I go again, looking through my own moralistic lens because I don’t post photos of my child because those photos do not belong to me, they are my child’s childhood photo-moir and there is another advantage of being Generation X ( and another blog post) my mother not releasing private intimate family photos because she wanted to feel some odd connection with strangers through likes and comments. I don’t understand the sharing of photographs of children online but then again, I managed a sex offender register.

My critique of Instagram is not that it’s vain, vacuous and narcissistic. They are labels too easily lobbed at millennial women for the daring audacity of constructing visual identities online, it’s lazy, slightly misogynistic and bowing down to the patriarchal notions of the ideal image of a woman and nothing more than a cowardly way to silence women online. My critique of Instagram is the way that we view it, at best all our pathological fears and self-loathing are reflected back to us through a lens of our own experiences, belief structure and morals regardless how flexible your moral fiber may be and at worst it feed a visual neuroses that lurks in all of us, the overwhelming desire to perv into the lives of others.

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Going Ons ....

Just a quick up date to let you all know what I am working on:

  1. I survived the first 12 months of my PhD - winning already!

  2. Working on a book chapter to be published in 2020 with a European publisher on feminism and photography.

  3. Working on a book to be published with a European publisher on a date to be advised.

  4. Working on version two of the Whoretography Magazine

  5. Organising and Partaking in an artist saloon as part of a central London exhibition in March - details to follow

  6. Also out in March is a article in a new art journal called Hyphen, the article is about visibility, connectivity and men who buy sex.

  7. Getting back to self publishing my own works not only from the Masters Degree but new works on surveillance and men who pay for sex.

  8. and yes, totes forgot! Changed the name and direction of this website.

  9. Also turned Instagram into an art space.

Will keep you all updated on a regular basis.

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The Photographic Theorist ...

So, if you have been following my website for the last few years, you will start to notice some changes in the coming months, I will still be working on Whoretography, the focal point of my PhD but have decided to expand the website to include discussions about photography and photographic theory that fall out of the realm of my PhD studies. I should be clear, this is not going to be a website that teaches you how to be a photographer, give you advice on what camera to use or practice tips to make you a better weekend or professional photographer, it's about the photo and of course film theory that underpins everyday photography that shapes our daily lives. The why behind photography. It will involve discussion about the histories of various genres of photography, critique of photographic practices, discussions about photo-shop, wedding photography, the authenticity of the selfie, the image defined and so much more and really has been borne out of my life photographic that began as a two year old and knowing my father through photographs and not memories. There is a new title, The Photographic Theorist, and that my friends in me. There is a new website www.thephotographictheorist.com , the old website address still works but will be phased out and the website will eventually be published in English and French. My 12 year old nephew asked what I was going to be a Doctor in and I said photography, so he responded with you will be a photographist and that ladies and gents is the best description ever of what being a subject matter expert in photography is called.

If you have any questions, then please use the contacts page to get in touch.

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