Tag Archives: series

The Wide Open Spaces of Infinite Darkness

I feel I owe those of you who follow me on Twitter for my photography an apology for the paucity of images in recent months – this is entirely due to the stress of recent months at work, as I mentioned in my last posting (Preview: The Wide Open Spaces of Infinite Darkness).  It seems almost perverse that such experiences could be the inspiration for a series of images that really speak to me.

I have now posted the complete set – 22 images – of The Wide Open Spaces of Infinite Darkness online, my first substantial complete set of images since 1. February this year.  It is a dark and lonely set of images that reflect an abstract interior landscape of the self, but I hope they will be of interest to some of you, and not just to me!  Click on the image to be taken to the page:

The Wide Open Spaces of Infinite Darkness 14

The Wide Open Spaces of Infinite Darkness 14

All were made on a Nikon FM2 with a 28mm lens, on a film emulsion that is new to me, but very beautiful: Neopan Acros 100.  I might still tend towards Ilford’s FP4+ or Delta 100, but the Acros is definitely a film I will use again.

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Short reflections on photographic ‘projects’

In my Wind power opening, I said this was not to be a ‘project’, but that I understood it as being something more akin to a ‘book’. Rob Hudson picked up on that in his comment and asked why I did not want to use the term ‘project’.

For me, this is really very simple. It is, as Rob suggests, something to do with nuance of language, though perhaps not necessarily in the way he meant it. For me, it is about a way of thinking about what I am doing. Let me take a step back from the wind farms…

When I was engaged in working on the What Lies Beneath series from autumn 2011-autumn 2012, I treated it as a coherent body of work that started with a particular image and ended with another. I had made photographs before this that could, from the point of view of the subject matter (water and what is beneath the surface of the water), be included in the series, but they were not made with the intention of exploring the issues that the series was seeking to explore, and so it did not feel ‘right’ to include these images. I was trying to use the creation of photographs to explore a particular theme. In that sense, What Lies Beneath was a project, something limited in scope and intent.

Perhaps it is helpful to think about this in another way. Although I have not completed any kind of photography degree (though I’d love to do so!), it seems to me that ‘projects’ are almost a clichéd part of such programmes of study. The term points to the time-limited and carefully circumscribed nature of what is being done, with the aim of eliciting a certain kind of response or engagement, particularly one that can be assessed in some way (I recognise this pattern from my own work as an academic in a different field!). That is fine for certain contexts, such as university work that needs to be assessed, or something like What Lies Beneath, or another mini-project of three images called Love Me As I Am that I am intending to create soon about a personal story – but it is not the right term or context for all collections of images.

So with Wind power, I am looking at something much more expansive. I have already used images going back several years in the first ‘chapters’ – and I have a number of even older images that I want to use, some from about 20 years ago. Although I had obviously not thought about working on a photographic exploration of wind farms 20 years ago, I was photographing wind turbines 20 years ago, and so these machines have clearly been a source of fascination for me for a considerable time.

That is why thinking about a ‘book’ makes more sense to me for the wind farm subject. Writing a book involves drawing in all kinds of material from all places and times, in order to communicate (what will hopefully be!) a coherent narrative: a narrative that is meant to address a particular concern or theme. In a novel or a poem, for example, this might be about addressing elemental issues around the human condition, expressed through the lives and experiences of characters. In an academic context, we might find similar themes, addressed in terms of reflections upon other texts (understood as broadly as possible). In auto-biographical contexts, the author reflects upon their own life and seeks to offer some insight that might be of interest to the reader. And so on – in all cases, authors draw on a vast range of sources and nothing is really out of bounds. In my own academic work, on European missionaries in the 19th and 20th century Middle East, I have drawn upon sources such as letters, committee minutes, and diaries, and anything and everything that seemed appropriate beyond that: other academic studies (of course), but also poems, novels, hymns, photographs, drawings, film footage, interviews with descendants…

And that is how I envisage Wind power going: I want to draw on all kinds of sources, whether these be ‘historical’ photographs that I have taken, scientific data – which I will hopefully get at least broadly right, drawing on friends like Mike Colechin for help (he’s an engineer when not out playing with a camera!) – literary texts, interviews and more. No doubt there will be sources that I cannot envisage or imagine at this stage: that happens in my academic work, and I see no reason why it should not happen here.

All of that is so much broader than a ‘project’ – in fact, it’s more like a… book!

Crichton Castle valley, 4x5" Fuji Provia 100F, 180mm

Crichton Castle valley, 4×5″ Fuji Provia 100F, 180mm

P.S. And here there is a little bit more water, and stones under the water… but it is clearly not a part of What Lies Beneath! 😉 No, it’s just a rather pretty image I made when out with Mike Colechin in April, with nicely muted spring colours that the Fuji Provia 100F has captured rather well (I’ve made no adjustments to the scan). This is one of the images I was referring to a few days ago in a tweet, expressing delight at the wonders of large format photography.

Photography as an expression of self

What this is not: a theory-laden exploration of self-identity.  Or, at least, not much of it is.
What this is: quite long! 🙂

I have been following various recent discussions on Twitter about creativity between some very different photographers.  Seeing the ways in which people have interacted and some of the statements that have been made has been thought-provoking (and at times rather irritating!).  The debate initially came about because of another posting from Rob: A poem on a misty morning.  One of the people in these debates, Rob Hudson, eventually felt so misunderstood that he sought to articulate his thoughts in a blog posting (helpfully entitled My views on landscape photography – “it does what it says on the tin”, and is worth reading).  In the course of all this, he also posted this tweet:

Do read the article at that link, if you haven’t read it already; it is a well-written and thoughtful piece.  To begin with, however, I want to take issue with Rob’s tweet, because I think it can help elaborate on some important issues.  I am aware that tweets are often written in haste, and given the 140-character limit maybe not always be formulated in a way that might more accurately reflect the author’s views, but this does give me an opening to reflect on my theme.  But first, a story from a different context.

Aspirations and realities

Several years ago, I was in a large meeting of Members of the Iona Community, debating some statement about the Community’s purpose.  I have been a Member for many years now, and these lovely people are my friends, in some senses I even regard them as my family.  And as with all families, there are some crazy people.  Sometimes, the crazies get a bit full of themselves, and I vividly remember several people standing up and in the heat of the debate arguing that we should be describing ourselves as a ‘prophetic community’.  Eventually, Kathy Galloway, poet, seanchaidh, theologian and all-round wise woman, stood up and said:

Prophecy is in the ear of the hearer, not the mouth of the speaker.

She then sat down, and the room fell into complete silence for a moment.  More sensible discussion then ensued – with that one line, she had silenced the pomposity of the lovable crazies and clarified the terms of the debate.

Iona Abbey, ca. 1990 or 1991

Iona Abbey, ca. 1990 or 1991

I think we need to think about creativity in a similar way.  I’m not sure we can aim to be creative, instead I think we should aim to be truetrue to our subject, true to our intentions, true to ourselves.  I’ve written about similar themes before, in less explicit fashion and in other contexts (for example, here and quite a while ago now, here).  I think one of the key issues is the importance of reflecting, of thinking, and not just of ‘shooting’, as another wonderful contemporary photographer, Christopher King, expressed it on Twitter a little while ago:

Torridon, Scotland (click image for more Torridon photographs)

Torridon, Scotland (click image for more Torridon photographs)

One of the issues that arises here is, of course, knowing what and how to think!  Working that out can only happen over time, and by doing: I am very aware that I am on a journey with my photography, a journey that has taken me from seeking to make pretty images such as this landscape in Torridon, to images that ‘do’ more, at least for me.  This is something that I continually struggle with.  It has to do not only with how I understand what that ‘more’ is, but with how I might go about achieving it.

There are, I think, two aspects to this.  The first is very simple: learn technical skills.  This is rather boring: it is something that happens through making images and learning from what has worked and what has not, learning from other photographers about how they created certain effects and so on.  All this is, of course, important to some degree, but it is mostly a bit tedious and I don’t want to waste time on it here.

The second aspect is more complex: if I say ‘we should aim to be truetrue to our subject, true to our intentions, true to ourselves’ then the obvious question to ask is ‘what is true to my subject, true to my intention, true to myself’?  These are all related and inter-dependent, and I want to elaborate on each of them briefly.

Being true to my subject

Stephanie (click image for more photos of her)

Stephanie (click image for more photos of her)

One of the prompts for the recent Twitter debate on creativity was the recent debacle over the Landscape Photographer of the Year competition.  I disapprove of such competitions and don’t want to discuss this story in any detail, but in short: the winning image was withdrawn and replaced with another after it became clear it had been manipulated in such a way as to break the rules, which specified minimal manipulation of the image.  Whilst there are complex questions around what such representations mean (and I think Jean Baudrillard would have had much to say on this story!), one interpretation of the story is that the photographer had not been ‘true’ to his subject.  Some people might say that landscapes can be more difficult than portraits in this regard: Stephanie told me that she likes this portrait, and, as I note on the page that this comes from, she has used a version of this image herself – so it might at first seem as if I am being true to the subject, if even the subject likes it.

However, being true to a subject does not necessarily mean that the subject likes the end result or that something should ‘look like’ whatever was in front of the camera.  This next image, from my What Lies Beneath series, did not ‘look like’ this, because we do not see moving water in the way I have photographed it here – and yet I would maintain that it is still a true representation.

Glen Affric (click for more What Lies Beneath images)

Glen Affric (click for more What Lies Beneath images)

Some photographers, such as the wonderful Lucy Telford, create images that sometimes bear only a passing resemblance to what something ‘looks like’.  And yet I would argue that Lucy is being completely true to her subjects.

So how do we know when we are being true to our subject?  I think it is not enough if someone says they like it and feel it is a good representation, and in some cases, that might even be counterproductive: I have made portraits of people that they do not necessarily like (I’m sure we’ve all had subjects say ‘I look too fat/tired/pale/silly/worried in that photograph’!), but which I think accurately reflects who they are in some way.  I therefore think I am being true to my subject.  And this takes me to the next point: the photographer’s intention plays a key role in whether a photograph is true to the subject.

Being true to my intention

Some photographs (actually, quite a few in my case!) don’t work out, and at the moment I can only be rather vague about how this relates to being true to my intention: perhaps this is about honing intuition.

What (doesn't) Lie Beneath I

What (doesn’t) Lie Beneath I

Sometimes an image appears to be technically in order, and I might even feel it to be true to my subject – but it doesn’t actually do what I want it to do.  After releasing my What Lies Beneath series, I also put some images online that didn’t quite make it into the series.  This is an example of the rejects.  I was reasonably happy with these images, but none of them belonged in the final set.  The reasons varied.  Apart from the fourth image, which predated (by a matter of hours!) the beginning of the series in my head, all the others just didn’t evoke the right emotional reaction for me.  It is very difficult for me to articulate precisely what that is, and I’m not going to try and do it here.  I spent a long time with each image, studying it, letting it work its way into my head, seeking to ‘befriend’ it – a difficult selection process.  But some photographs just were not right – they didn’t seem to be sufficiently engaging or they didn’t have the emotional connection I was trying to seek out.  Whilst I feel I can’t say much more about this, it does point to the third aspect, because part of what I’m saying is that being true to my intentions involves being self-aware enough to be true to myself.

Being true to myself

Click the image to read why this doesn't work

Click the image to read why this doesn’t work

I have explained before why I think this photograph does not work.  The fundamental problem is that what we wanted was to communicate a feeling of loss and abandonment, and what I have created is an image that emphasises Stephanie’s breast.  But I didn’t want this to be about her breasts (and neither did she!), and being true to myself means not using this image (other than to illustrate a point, I mean – it’s not in my galleries or for sale; I feel I want to add that this photograph comes from 2009, and I hope that I would approach it differently now, taking in the entire frame rather than focussing on her facial expression before squeezing the shutter).

Being true to myself means that what I really want to create in every single image is something that is of me – and photographs that focus just on a woman’s breasts are not what I want to create.  Portraits of people are in some ways also self-portraits (as Oscar Wilde and numerous others have said), but so are the landscapes I photograph.  Therefore, whilst the monochrome portrait of Stephanie above communicates something of her joyful approach to life, it also communicates something about me (despite the faux-grumpiness I often exude, I am mostly optimistic and take great pleasure from being alive!); the landscapes I photograph are meant to do that too.  This may not always be obvious to others, but – and I’ll come to this in a moment – I don’t really care what most others think about my images.

Dornoch Sands (click for more Dornoch images)

Dornoch Sands (click for more Dornoch images)

For example, this image from Dornoch Sands communicates something about my state of mind and thinking at the time I made it. It may be that this is a bland blue nothingness to most people who see it, but to me it conveys something very important.  There are various factors at work here: the expansive depth of the sands, the sky and the clouds, the distant hills, the magical dawn light – all speak of home to me, though I had never been to Dornoch and the surrounding area before, and had spent just a few hours on this beach.  Nonetheless, there was something inviting, welcoming and generous about what I was encountering, and that is what I have sought to capture here.  Whether I have done that for anyone else doesn’t really interest me.

Having said that I often exude a faux-grumpiness, it may seem as if there is nothing ‘faux’ about it!  I’ve said I don’t care what most people think of my images, I am not interested in whether they generate emotions for others… surely that makes me a grumpy misanthrope?!  Far from it…

The question of identity

Kwame Anthony Appiah, one of the truly great philosophers of our age, has written a profoundly important book on The Ethics of Identity.  He discusses the need for us in the contemporary world to pursue what he calls ‘rooted cosmopolitanism’.  This, he argues, is a way of engaging in the world that allows the individual to make a life for themselves (the classical task of modern individuality), but he connects this individuality to the global context we are in and the ways in which we relate to others.  We need to understand our own place in the world in order to be able to engage with it.  What and who we love needs to be clear to us, because without that we cannot relate to others: ‘no island… is an island’ (p219).

What I want to glean from this relates to the first part of my statement: ‘we should aim to be truetrue to our subject, true to our intentions, true to ourselves’.  I have explored, briefly, three aspects that I suggest constitute being ‘true’.  As should be clear, these are all aspects of our identity, and identity can be formed in numerous ways, for example:

  1. ascription – to attribute an identity to someone (e.g. ‘you are… [something]’ – clearly, this is often problematic because it silences the voices of others and casts a singular identity upon them, something that Amartya Sen criticises)
  2. treatment – to act as if someone belongs to a particular group (e.g. ‘women are… [something]’ – but this silences a collective group that may not choose to mark any common identity in this way at all – for example, in certain contexts, being women might not be important to the people concerned, whereas being photographers, for example, might be more so)
  3. identification – when someone uses particular markers to identify themselves (e.g. ‘I am… [something]’ – this allows individuals to speak for themselves).
Ardalanish Bay (click for more Mull images)

Ardalanish Bay (click for more Mull images)

We all, of course, aspire to the third of these possibilities – who would not want to be in a position to define themselves, rather than be defined in some way by others?

And yet, this is not easy!

Above all, it requires self-knowledge, self-understanding, self-awareness.  We need to know what our roots are before we can engage with the cosmopolitanism of wider (photographic) society, and that means we need to know what we want, what we are trying to achieve, and how we might go about portraying this in photographs.  Most of this activity is not about thinking, it is about feeling, about emotion.  This happens by listening: to ourselves and to the landscape, for example – it is always possible to force a composition when out somewhere, but to engage with the landscape, to really begin to understand it, requires more.  Michael Jackson, who photographs just one beach, is an exemplar of someone who listens to the landscape and himself – and his images convey profound personal emotion.

In the course of the Twitter debates, I have seen the term ‘workshop photographers’, meaning those who go on workshops and produce images similar to those of the workshop leader.  Now, I have been on two Bruce Percy workshops and have benefited from them enormously, but his images are not mine.  I do not want that photographic identity to be ascribed to me (‘oh, look, you can tell he went on one of Bruce’s workshops’), nor do I want to be treated as someone who makes images in a ‘Bruce Percy style’ (not that I could or would, and Bruce wouldn’t want it either!).

Instead, I want to make my own images that are rooted in my own experience, that come from my own listening to the hills, my own engagement with my subject, my own conversation with the individual I am photographing, my own understanding of my place in the wider cosmopolitanism of the world.  My photographs should be about my voice.  I need to know what it is that I am wanting to express with my images – and my sense is that I am gradually getting there, gradually finding my own way to express my thoughts in my photographs.  Getting there requires a certain level of stubbornness (something I do not lack…!) and the ability to persist with something, even when others have no idea what I’m trying to do.

Tolastadh Chaolais, Isle of Lewis (click for more What Lies Beneath)

Tolastadh Chaolais, Isle of Lewis (click for more What Lies Beneath)

I have found that there are many people who would look at an image such as this from Tolastadh Chaolais and ask why I pointed the camera downwards instead of seeking to capture the fantastic hilly vista cliché visible from the road.  Part of the process of finding my own voice has been to differentiate between (a) the people who say that, and (b) those who ask what it is that I am trying to do, or find something for themselves in the image.  That is what I meant by not caring what other people think – if I pander to the beautiful hilly vista people and produce clichés, then I miss the stones and grasses under the water that actually speak to me, if I take the time to listen.  Being true to my subject, my intention, myself is what creates my identity, and enables me to be rooted in a wider – cosmopolitan – context, and this identity-construction is, of course, an on-going process.  I’m not, in the words of Rob’s tweet, trying to be creative, I’m just trying to be… me.

Two final thoughts

Firstly: doing all this is about being whole people.  Photography is not my ‘hobby’, in the sense that it’s something I do in my spare time for pleasure (I’m reminded of the Edinburgh-based artist, Trevor Jones: ‘Whoever says painting is relaxing isn’t doing it right’).  It’s an integral part of who I am, as is my academic work, and my engagement in contemporary Middle East issues – and all of it needs expression.  That is one of the things I was trying to communicate in my What Lies Beneath series, and it is also why it grates and irritates me that a student resource page I used to have on this site had to be moved due to administrative managerialism (see e.g. Richard Roberts’ article on this, summarised in a short blog posting here) in case students – who are not as stupid as the university’s managers seem to think they are – thought the university was endorsing my photography.  All of these things are part of me, and I seek to live out my identity in my academic work, my writing, and my photography.

Secondly: all of this requires effort, and in some ways, courage.  Many of us are conditioned away from listening to ourselves (‘scientific medicine’ has often led us to ignore our bodies and seek a ‘fix’ for ailments, for example).  It is, of course, immensely rewarding to do so, but the effort is a strange one.  Much of the time I find the effort is about the need to stop trying to constantly do – it is about being still and listening to the inner voice we all have.  Letting that voice come to the fore is a risky business.  We may find things out about ourselves that we would rather not know, or rather not share, and doing so can involve courage.  We are, after all, exposing something of ourselves to others, and that makes us vulnerable – it’s like becoming naked.  On the other hand, it is only through allowing ourselves to be touched at our core that we can truly be who we ought to be.

Finally, one last thought from Christopher:

Warm thanks to Rob Hudson for helpful comments on an earlier draft of this text.

New Series: ‘What Lies Beneath’

Tolastadh Chaolais, Isle of Lewis

Tolastadh Chaolais, Isle of Lewis

I am finally publishing my series What Lies Beneath, an exploration of the connections between my academic work and my photography, each illuminating the other. Some of my Twitter followers were probably wondering if this would ever appear, but I have only recently received the last films back in order to scan and post-process them.

I particularly hope the images and texts are interesting to those working in academia, as well as perhaps those who might appreciate the photographs anyway.

Now I just need to update my sadly-neglected 1953 Project with all the images I have…!

Working on a series is hard work

As regular readers of my Twitter feed will know, I’m working on a series called ‘What Lies Beneath’.  I want about 12 or 13 images for this, and whilst I don’t want to say more about the series just now (all should be revealed in the next couple of weeks sometime – my final film needs processing first), but I do want to say: it is SO hard to pick images!  I have been working on this series for a little while now (since autumn 2011), and have created quite a number of images – yet whittling it down to a small number is very difficult.  Every image has a story attached to it, but the meta-narrative I want to create necessitates some exclusion and continual re-focussing.  This, as will soon become clear, is an integral part of what the series is, but deciding to discard images is hard – I feel as if I’m cutting away something that I really like.  Perhaps some of the discarded images will find a ‘home’ elsewhere, but for now, they need to be excluded, however frustrating such decisions about narrating a certain kind of creativity might be.  Here is one of the rejects, a photograph I made in Strathconon this summer.  It was early in the morning, and I was standing in the river with my camera carefully set up on the tripod – and just as I was squeezing the cable release I realised the laces on one of my boots had come undone and the water was coming in…

River Meig, Strathconon

River Meig, Strathconon

I’ve spent a while studying and meditating on this photograph, and in discarding it, I feel as if I’m letting an old friend down.  Maybe it belongs back in the series after all, and I should get rid of another one…?

Or perhaps I should just add one more to the series?

Oh, but…

See what I mean? It’s hard to do this stuff!

The 1953 Project – the beginning

As mentioned in my last posting, I am moving into medium format photography (though I’ll continue to use the other cameras I have, of course!).  And one of the ‘new’ cameras is key to what comes next…

The Rolleiflex, which produces 6x6cm negatives, is from about 1954, and I want to use it as the basis for a project consisting of a series of images telling a story, connecting the camera’s early years and my present time.

I am creating a gallery for this, and will be updating it regularly.  At the moment there are – of course! – no images there, but a concept text is available, and images will be added over time.  New galleries will be announced on my Twitter feed.

Series, Wholes and Parts: Reading and re-reading images in Thomas Ruff’s “Schwarzwald.Landschaft”

So Neil delivered my books as promised, and I’ve been happily studying photographs…

The three books I had ordered are: Michael Kenna’s Huangshan, Thomas Ruff’s Schwarzwald.Landschaft, and an edited collection by Matthew S Witovsky: Foto – Modernity in Central Europe 1918-1945.  All are purchases I’m very happy with in different ways, but I want to say something about Ruff here.  Kenna is astonishingly gorgeous: I think of these images more as intimate portraits of the mountains rather than landscape photographs, but others have written about his book already (note that if you want one, you should act fast as there are very few available).  I haven’t looked at Witovsky’s book much yet.  At about the same time I had ordered Deborah Parkin’s Childhood Narratives, but I’d like to write something about her work another time.

I’ve come across Ruff before, and he is engaging for me in part because he subverts what we think of as landscapes.  His book – based on a 2009 exhibition at the Museum für Neue Kunst, Freiburg – contains interiors, images of planets, and photographs of the Schwarzwald (Black Forest) in southern Germany, where he was born in 1958 (although he now lives in Düsseldorf).  I should say here that I wanted to write about his photographs without reading the accompanying expositional text, which I will do another time.

I want to pick up particularly on the Schwarzwald images, which are digitally altered in intriguing ways.  For obvious reasons I’m reluctant to scan in pages and reproduce them here, but clicking on this link and then clicking on the book image enables a detailed view of the cover that you can enlarge/reduce in order to study the image (but buy it here, not on Amazon: you get 10% discount and you support an independent bookshop!).  I really like the fact that from a distance, the photograph looks like a completely normal photograph, but upon closer inspection, it is made up of numerous small squares, forming a kind of mosaic and altering the way in which we see the image.  Examining a very small part of the ‘mosaic’ makes it impossible to work out what the image might actually be of – which is exactly what happens with a heavily pixelated image, though here the pixels are treated in quite a different way.  Offering these cleverly distorted images as landscapes, Ruff thereby challenges and questions what I might normally think of as classical landscape photography.  In critical theory terms, I might describe this as an interpretative or hermeneutical circle (or spiral), in which the parts inform the whole and the whole informs the parts, and repeated re-examination reveals ever more about the construction of the image.  Without understanding and interpreting the whole image, the mosaic sections make little sense, and yet with the whole, the mosaic begins to be irrelevant – until viewed again, when the individual elements recreate something afresh to challenge and unsettle us.  What adds to all this is that Ruff tends to create series of images, and so we can take this interpretation still further: each individual image, made up of distorted pixelations, is part of a greater whole.  Just as no single pixel, no little mosaic of pixels can represent a whole image, is Ruff suggesting that no single image can represent what he wants to show us of the (his?) Schwarzwald?  Is each image just another little part of a wider mosaic of images?  A mosaic of images, made up of a mosaic of pixellated segments?

I can’t see myself wanting to change any of my images in this way – apart from anything else, what would be the point in copying Ruff? – but these questions about parts and wholes really interest me, and this book is an excellent opening to these questions.  Perhaps this is especially so because whilst I’ve been off work with my broken arm, I’ve had time to reflect on what it is that I do with my photographs – and I have begun planning a deeply personal and open-ended series that is in part perhaps prompted by my accident.  Some of my academic work deals with these questions of parts and wholes in various forms, so it is quite understandable that I should be reflecting on these questions in other contexts.  However, I’ve also been helped in thinking about these things through discussing a book project with Mabel Forsyth, and we’ve talked about underlying motifs and subjects in our photography.  I’ll not say more about these plans for now, but I’d like to try and produce two or three parts of my intended series by the end of the year if possible, and as that gets under way, I’ll write about it here.