Miss Aniela @missaniela - Tumblr Blog

New blog

This blog has moved house. Please go to:

https://rockstarlavender.wordpress.com

All posts from here have been duplicated over at the new place. From now on, all new blog posts will be posted over there, starting with ‘Review of 2015: Year of the Rainbow’. This blog will remain here on tumblr as it is.

...Why the change?

I wanted a new look that Tumblr couldn’t give me. Wordpress, as a true blogging platform, offers more flexibility and better designs. I want bigger picture size, visibility of all blog posts on one page, and other features like image captions. But I still want simplicity, a feeling of peace, quiet, and introspection and not flashing bells and whistles. The new blog provides the balance (I hope).

There is also a new name, ‘Rockstar Lavender’, explained in the newest post ‘Review of 2015: Year of the Rainbow’.

Away in the Canaries: adventure of fashion and family

“MACHINA SILKS: exotic creativity on a far-flung Spanish island”. Since midway in my pregnancy Matthew has been birthing his own vision, our first artistic project abroad as a family. With him at the helm of organisation, I was free to recline into all things maternal, leisurely flash-forwarding to our summer trip with what would be a 4-month child, posing statuesque women in long flowing robes teamed with sci-fi armour on volcanic terrain, all in pursuit of making surreal and artistic fashion photos. 'I'll be shooting more milk than silks', I vowed, to keep off the pressure on myself to perform - I just wanted to get there and back with Lilith in one piece - but I was also excited to get behind the camera again.

Having originally planned to go to Morocco, we decided to keep to the EU, and chose the unspoilt, rugged scenery of Lanzarote, far enough away from the party hotspots on its southern coast that most Brits only know the island for. We declared it "a warmer Iceland”, where the similarly textured and atmospheric beaches, deserts and lava fields made the backdrop to our newest Fashion Shoot Experience, the event where we collaborate with other photographers to fund a week of fashion magic.

Fashion photography, already an ingredient-heavy genre, combined with a trip abroad and a clan of other photographers to cater for, made for a mountain of organisation. Everything was our job and responsibility, from the boring bottom of the pyramid to the more exciting top. I witnessed Matthew go through one setback after another with a saintly patience and such little waste of emotional energy. Contingencies changed the models at least 3 times. The main contributing designer - confirmed for months - let us down only a few weeks before, leaving a gaping hole in the the moodboard of a shoot with painfully esoteric styling. Sculptural women's armour is not something you can find easily - not even at one of the world's biggest costumiers, Angels, for it fails to fall into a historical era or a type at all. Thankfully we knew one other designer whose work comes anywhere near the look we’d prescribed: Boyd Batten of Divamp Couture, keeping the futuristic style of the shoot spectacularly intact. We phewed.

We did not think we’d have a huge hurdle to come with the dresses themselves. Simple but dramatic, long flowing gowns of all flavour colours, that we had no reason to believe our commissioned London designer wasn't diligently sewing in the vast expanse of time she’d been given. A delay in the last month made us fidget, and then days before our flight, a box arrives, suspiciously shabby, and like the proverbial Pandora's, opens up to a litany of dressmaker disasters. Dresses not started, let alone finished; bags of reels and fasteners, our own rags suddenly lost within hers. Our flustered fingers, impaled with falling dress pins, dial the number of an unresponsive line. We are left stranded with crestfallen gazes, our money all already paid. We pull out a misshapen piece of fabric we don’t even know which way round to hang on our mannequin. Expletives dwindle into sighs as we put the outrage to the back of our minds and ponder the way forward. The silver lining is there in the box itself: the purple dress, the only one complete - badly, but, a map for the way forward when you don't have a dress pattern. A few hours later we pile into the house of a local seamstress, clutching said shabby box, Lilith in the sling, and desperate looks on all our faces. ‘I can’t promise I can do it, but I’ll try my best’: the prognosis is cliff-dangling but the blunt honesty a refreshing change. We go away hopeful, and then, days closer to our flight, our faces beam to an email telling us nearly 5 dresses are done. So, "LA/London/Japan-based Fashion Stylist + Designer + Consultant + Art Direction” is put to shame by little old Tina, work-from-home seamstress in Maidstone, who does more work in 3 days than the other did for us in 5 months. We emerge a little more jaded yet re-inspired by the helpfulness of optimism and determination.

Now we were set, with 16 bags of gear maxing out the airline's baggage capacity between our travelling party, ready to shoot the final picture of the puzzle we'd long laboured on, ‘to just get out and do this now’ in Matt’s favourite words. Creatives from all over, including Poland, New Zealand, US, Canada, UK, Mexico, joined us on the tiny island of Spanish idyll for our week-long working holiday, all staying together at a yoga retreat, the Casa El Morro, a cluster of villas complete with pool and and a pleasurable smattering of hammocks and cacti. We’d dine there morning, noon and night in between our schedule of shoots plotted out with the help of our pro guide, Jose, leading our driving convoy fleet of rented cars, with models ready to jump out in their bedazzling futuristic attire looking somewhat like an 80s tribute girlband and a crazy sight for the passing tourists as we dived into nature's readymade sets.

I was cautious that babies can be on a difficult growth spurt at 4 months. But the smile on Lilith’s face on the morning of our 2.30am airport wake-up call prophesised a dream week as far as her moods were concerned, and in fact, the week gathered several comments on her calm alertness which I take to imply is rare. Staying content enough for a long morning getting to and through Stansted, my anxious breast could rest, whilst our pink-hatted elf’s smiling lines for eyes and mouth beamed round at the large travelling pack as they arrived one by one at Departures. That pack included M’s sister to help look after Lilith. I hoped to pump as little as possible, for what I really wanted was baby present on the action, my milk on immediate tap, just as it became on the first joyful day crouching by a volcano. The heat of just 3 afternoons had us leave Lilith behind at the Casa with her steadfast auntie, but for all the rest, our daughter was with us, sheltered and fanned in her red pram that I spontaneously posed with red-dressed model Kim for a humorous alien-mother picture.

To run and push her pram with childlike thrill and vigour, over the rocky, inappropriate terrain, released a spire of misery long locked inside me; a misery post loss of Evan, sent upwards into the deep blue sky we made even deeper blue with our ND filter, the blue of the eyes of the child now in my arms, physical, no longer a mysterious hopeful rainbow concept, no longer a human ‘ham sandwich’ as I’d joked throughout a craving-filled pregnancy, but here, looking at me, drooling on me, warm, bulky, fragrant, real! Parading her to the styling crew who’d long become my friends, who had comforted me on a worried shoot at 30 weeks that all was ok; they took a real shine to her, taking turns at evening dinner to hold a tired, eye-rubbing bundle of grumpy joy and play ‘musical shoulders’ to see who she’d fall asleep on. Looking back on our previous photoshoot trips that timelined her creation: the first menstruation post-Evan, radiating a private happiness in my big coat standing on Nordic black sands. In Harlem, shopping for vit b6 swallowed with a mean green juice to make the freshest start for a new tenant. Hopeful in Sofia, the big ‘if’. Then, 10 weeks pregnant, bedding down alone early in a four-poster of a French chateau whilst the rest of the party outside woohooed with wine. 14 weeks pregnant, in a dripping cold ice cave with stocky Icelanders who knew of my ‘precious cargo’ and guided me through. And now, here we were calmly triumphant, this time in the winds of the Canary Islands, the physical family we ached to be... shooting dresses of all the colours of the rainbow, fabrics that faced their own setbacks, now flying high in a subtle homage to the rainbow child herself.

Each day we shared models and time between all 10 photographers, everyone scattering to find their own ‘set’, our sturdy sunburned men-helpers in wide-brim hats marching back and forth to erect lights and troubleshoot triggers. Matt joined me on most of the setups and it was a pleasant surprise to find we worked together better than ever: agreeing to the same taste in composition, lighting and pose with a rare regularity. ‘Nailing the shot’ is a term I usually find distasteful but it was apt for the shots Matt would step in to fire, then show me on the back of the camera, morphing my face of expectant cynicism into one of agreeable admiration. The models, the landscape and the lighting just clicked - literally - but teamed with the futuristic accessories and rugged backdrops, became something edgier than whimsical. Shooting endless pictures of flowing fabric is addictive and alluring, making a hundred shapes every second in the blowing wind and even more combinations possible in Photoshop. This is both a blessing and a curse: to identify and shape the right one amongst many red herrings. A familiar inner frustration was awakened once I sat down at my home computer. Already surreal looking, I considered not using any Photoshop at all. But I arrived at my usual conclusion that Photoshop was not to be overused nor eschewed for sake of making a point, but sensibly to be used where necessary to enhance a well-chosen foundation. Select an image that excites me, genuinely, through the telltale sign of having bum stuck to my chair till the darkness falls around me without my noticing; embellish and strip it back again until the right oscillation between reality and fantasy is reached, for too much of either spells mediocrity. So far I have released three images on Facebook, my favourite is yet to come.

I’ve been reminded how much creativity releases a particular pent-up energy from my chest and shoulders that nothing else can, and it is the balance of being both mother and artist that makes my soul tick. I came home with a hard drive amassed with a rainbow trail of raw material but also memories to be long nestled in my mind of taking Lilith abroad for the first time. Each night carrying her, lullaby in her ear, across the lamplit retreat back to our fan-cooled room, hurrying to get horizontal for her on-tap nightcap, then curl up close together in dreamfeeding recharge till the next morning, in these pure gut-virginal days before she’d get to solid food. The particularly hot sticky afternoon we decided it was time for her first dip in water, filming M step into the pool cradling her sceptical but calm countenance. The mountaintop moment when a sharp gust of cool wind had me skip back to the car to hold her warmth in my arms... bringing me anticipation for the imminent autumn, and beyond that, our first Christmas together.

But before the nights draw in, we go to France for our next long-planned adventure, ‘Chateau Chique’, and I type this now in midst of the preparations as M works on a dress outside, and Lilith sits in my lap. This time we will be joined with a small gathering of children including our nephew Hunter. He was born not long after we lost our Evan; two little boys who should have grown up together, separated by the unruly happenstance of nature, never to meet. But Hunter will now be getting to know Lilith instead. And as Lilith pulls my finger onto her two sharp, emerging bottom teeth, squirming vigorously in my lap trying to type into my paragraph, I cannot help but have nothing but gratitude for the beautifully crooked way life has gone, and feel like the luckiest girl in the world.

Includes photos by M’s brother Daniel

Life over the rainbow

We wake in a line of three, drinking tea before another day of heat. Lilith, fed before any of us, gets propped up onto daddy for her morning smiles and squirms, whilst I reach over to open up Vol 1 of ‘Wildling’ magazine. ‘For free-spirited families, to tell stories of those who are treating family life like an adventure’. Within its thick matte pages I am pictured in the forest, dancing in black and white, 5 months pregnant with Evan, the baby of mine of whom at the time I was oblivious to the ill fate. I smile to be included in this tidy tome of motherhood, photography and philosophy, children’s fashion and idyllic travel scenes. The editor, my friend Rebecca Lindon, I photographed pregnant in the forest long before I ever became pregnant myself. She was the closest I’d ever first got to the full and rounded, blood mystery of a woman ready to burst with life. Since then I myself have flowered and burst twice over, and many nights I dream, confused, that I am flowering all over again.

In the three months since Lilith’s birth, my eyes have taken countless photos, my mind has written hundreds of words, and every time I thought of coming back to my blog I feared losing the magic to the limits of photography and language. The eventual, imperfect effort is always worth it, for we all need creative release. Since being babymoon novices intimidated by Lilith’s most inconsolable cries, M and I have a more skilful confidence in soothing her, rocking her, dancing her round to sea shanties to be rewarded by the first cooing interactions from her one-dimpled grin. I, with zero prior experience of children and having always been quite intimidated by them, now behold maternity as the most majestic vocation and hold in my arms my own beautiful teacher.

Now I’m here, really here, finally here, in the land we were diverted from last time: the land of parenthood, filled with squeals and spit-ups, toys and tantrums. The joy Lilith brings may only distract from the sadness of losing her big brother, but has positively thrashed away every bit of bitterness, as my eyes now turn gladly round at other families with an intrigue in all the other flavours of babies.

Turned 29: my first birthday with babe in arms

Her eyes that once turned slowly like a landed alien - as a video on my phone now fascinatingly recalls - now dart around wisely, connecting all the disparate things, slowly realising her hands are attached to her body and the breast is attached to me. She has started to notice me mid-feed, her pupils fixated upwards on the wizard behind the curtain as she takes in my face like a movie, mouth moving all the time as though intently munching on popcorn, with her sighs that meet with gulps, or ‘sulping’ as I called it, that funny sound that has helped amuse me during babymoon’s toe-curling latches. Then a wide smile loosens her grip and she squawks in an attempt to laugh. In those eyes I see myself, how they are deep-set; and I see Matthew, in how they are narrow-set; and hints of Evan in the sweet little pencil sketched eyelashes when they’re closed. Eyes open, her crisp pale blue irises are unlike either of ours. As vibrant as the summer sea, they invite compliments from our adoring families as well as strangers, along with the talking point of her mop of hair, born as black as mine and now transitioning strand by strand into golden, as we yet again ponder her evolution of appearance.

I regularly grumble about life’s petty issues, and my neverending to-do list weighs like a knot in my stomach, and yet, I am living my motherhood dream. Distracted by putting our perfect child at the centre of all priorities, rushing to her shrill cries for attention or food, and then satiated, falling asleep on me like a monkey, her two pink petal lips droop open like an windblown flower whilst I type an email yet again missing the question marks my one hand could not reach on full stretch across the keyboard. Out and about, a strapped carrier leaves me hands-free, still delaying a pram in favour of having her slumber on my chest. Guilty it’s been many months since my regular exercise routine so I seize every opportunity to wear her, in determination of building the strength to carry her long-term.

Feeding her is a bottomless duty next down from breathing, but all part of the daunting commitment of parenting itself, and a privilege made so convenient by nature’s design. I need not reiterate the benefits, but amongst the more unusual pleasures of nursing is the relief she gives to me when a breast happens to swell wildly with white life, hard and urgent, and yields to her soft searching mouth, the loveliest pump, her plump cheeks expertly working, summoning the tide. The pang as I palpably feel the milk inject through and turn her dreamy nibbles into rapacious but steady, thirsty quaffs, and this moment finally gives point and purpose to those body parts that have always ever been inadequate since their first teenage budding, in a culture that has inverted everything and made self-loathing a rite of passage for Mother Nature herself. Now, the duo defiantly take centre stage for an exquisite performance, the delivery of a whole nutritional system; two flesh goblets explored by little fingers becoming ever more inquisitive as she drinks, fuel for the sweetest dreams as her frown softens into a full toothless Daffy Duck grin for some lucky onlooker in her babybrain subconscious. And then, full, away she pulls, sighs and snuggles back to the bosom that now languishes slim, its bulge drained and added to her own; and begins a series of irresistible, tiny raspy snores as she deepens into silent sleep, ‘sparko’, as Matthew will say peering over. As angelically expressionless as Evan but with full reassuring life emanating from her pores, I lay watching her for too long to the point that my eye muscles strain from short distance gazing, at which point I try slip away to shower, eat, or work till our lady’s next request.

From 7 weeks in, I decided I must at least try venture into my desire to use ‘real nappies’, and strangely every icky challenge I foresaw just made it seem more desirable. I embarked on a journey of cloth not quite tangible with papery plastic of the disposable, a pleasure that evidently belongs to thousands of other mothers in a world that the mainstream eludes. I still don’t quite know how to describe the fun in putting pretty designs in the direct passage of an infant’s waste, perhaps it’s the juxtaposition that should not feel right, but like a manual gearbox or an old film camera, has joy that cannot be rationalised, except for saving money and landfill. Or maybe it’s the appreciation for a healthy baby whose poop is more sweet than putrid, the gratitude for her healthy digestion filling yet another and another colourful change, filling the bucket as we swap one design to the next: pandas, elephants, and storytime rhymes; velcro bamboo and striped custom-knitted wool soakers... I open up another delivery of preloved nappies with the same scissors that cut Evan’s cord, and lovingly traipse a holdall of nappies for weekend trips away, to royally deck out my grunting monkeyface in pirates, owls and ladybirds from Hebden Bridge to Penzance.

The oft-asked ‘does she sleep through the night’, is met with a mental response that I myself don’t sleep through the night. I’ve never been particularly good at getting up or being woken up, but my body awakes itself at the same times it was programmed in late pregnancy, around the same time as her shut-eye grunting rummage for another instalment of warm sustenance, as I once again appreciate how wonderfully designed the female body is for providing exactly what she needs, in the right quantity, at the right time, without much effort from me other than to offer it with patience and compassion. Having slept with us from the night she was born, I am in awe of how bedsharing has humbly fulfilled my highest expectation, that we can sleep and dreamfeed in one union, her between us as lights lower to the single red glow of a Himalayan salt lamp dimmed clumsily with a cardigan. Night feeds are easiest for their physical proximity, yet other times of day I need a greater resilience and make me appreciate that I am not alone in parenting. Sanity preserved by being a tag team of two, handing her over to each other when crestfallen by failed attempts to soothe her wails, she either needs the stamina of my lullabies or the quick-thinking logic of Matthew: ‘she’s too hot’, after my half hour of over-fussing, has her instantly asleep flat out on her stomach, naked and cool. I still marvel how far my patience has stretched like elastic since her arrival, whilst still being my imperfect and volatile self with a long way to expand, as Lilith finds her feet, her voice and her opinion.

Evan is as important as Lilith, and Lilith is as important as Evan. I look forward to the day Lilith can console me with her own clever words. Her and I (and M) are all related to him, how lovely is that. ‘This kiss is for Evan’ my lips said to her warm soft head one day. Carrying her through nettles and without hesitation putting my limbs first, I again experience that same overwhelming power of love and self-sacrifice, now for a living breathing child on Earth.

With a nod to World Breastfeeding Week, 1-7 Aug

The arrival of Lilith

Nights once silent, punctuated only by a hooting owl, a distant train honk and the soft whirr of an overhead flight path, are now filled with screeches and snuffles. The sounds I’ve long envied from the little ones of other parents are now our own bedtime burden and blessing. Lilith Iris, nearly 8 pounds of new human, whose pink, pudgy robust body I first grasped with weak arms of overwhelmed disbelief, as her cobalt blue eyes unveiled from behind those mysterious folds of flesh that remained forever shut on her brother Evan’s beautiful tragic face two winters before.

On the very first day I discovered I was pregnant with Lilith, a slither of rainbow appeared in the sky and felt like a signal to us. At full term, just a few weeks away from birth, we watched a whole rainbow appear triumphantly in the same spot heralding the new arrival just round the corner. And now we have turned that corner. Our ‘pot of gold’ is splayed on my chest as I type this, knowing it will only get more difficult the longer I take to post the story of her birth, as so many new thoughts and experiences flood in daily. Babymoon has been such a rollercoaster that several times I deferred from writing this, feeling a more complex array of postpartum emotions than I expected.

Joy of being me, free, again; light-waisted and nimble, is compounded with a curious sadness only mothers can feel, as every day I get further away from the birth of Lilith. It is a surprising wistfulness when most of pregnancy is spent in anticipation of the safe delivery of birth, but the only rational answer is the irrationality of motherhood. Glad for labour having come when it did, releasing me from late pregnancy’s ailments in the 40th week as I’d hoped, with all my homebirth ‘supplies’ having been safely gathered in time. My hips started filling with that tell-tale hum the same night I spilt too much madras powder into a homemade curry. My body shivered with unwanted adrenalin as I clung onto Matthew to try sleep through the pelvic rumbles that the night did not swallow up. I awoke to a beautiful spring day, and the realisation something was happening, with the only two people I wanted nearby. My partner, who cleans the house in preparation, and my midwife, in whose arms I shed some tears for Evan, before I continue pacing the house like a cat whilst the appointed two relax with chit-chat, web-surfing and raspberry roulade.

The thoughtfulness of diffusing the bright sun so I could labour outside, and putting on day-long soft music without me even having to ask, Matthew becomes like a Swiss army knife of an imaginary ‘sisterhood tribe’ I always wished I could have at birth in some other life, in some other culture. A small bowl of lasagne and fresh strawberries from him helps placate my empty stomach. Still in the irregular ripples of early labour, a multitude of birds busily chirp in the huge tree that stands like nature’s sentry over our house. I could make out the squealing of chicks within its nodding branches, as I contemplated, was my own chick on her way for real, today? Cocooned comfortingly in my hooded dressing gown, I felt I had to lure out the oxytocin, that shy lioness, by bouncing vigorously on my ball till a resultant wave turned my slow exhalation up to the cloudless sky. Would and could we birth her outside, here in the peaceful secluded garden? That idea waned with the sun’s rays, as the hours drew us back into the indoors and I now sofa-rode the throes like a difficult horse, knowing it was for real now.

Holding Virginia’s hand and Matthew’s on the other side like a child going to the park, every few minutes the power of a surreal playground ride sucked my lower body down into my seat, some softly and some intensely. Filled with gratitude for physiological normality, I melted unabated into each surge’s purpose with drugs of nature’s own, my pain relief being simply the love and understanding from my midwife and partner, their constant demand-fulfilling and massage of my sacrum on every intermittent motion of baby’s descent. Baby, now low and heavy, brings me to the floor; right next to my bookshelf filled with the words of many writers who’d helped me to this moment through pregnancy, loss, love, art. There I was, kneeling naked, putting all those hundreds of pages of confabulated theory into the blunt simplicity of the moment. The moment I’d envisioned for years now, with all the triumph yet banality of reality, recorded with the grainy video pixels of a darkened room. Clothing falling away with every suck of water and sip of lemonade, face deep in the clary-sage scented pillow I’d long cradled and favoured over entonox, here is where a familiar sound started. The sound of my own primal self, that same sound I remembered from last time. ‘She’ was here, the animal - whether I liked her or not - she would take over now, like handing over to her like in a relay race.

Even for the introverted who consider themselves the least vocal, there is no underestimating the importance of sounds and words, and the right environment and the freedom to release them. Birth can bring the tiger out from the coyest mouse, yet that mouse can live on happily coy, treasuring the memory of the night they roared. Calm, calm, calm, yes, yes, yes, and whatever sounds came to my tongue, whilst I barked for the massage to continue without fail. Virginia, can I do this? I didn’t want to, but there was no choice, I was a skydiver readying to jump, but with no luxury to back out, this jump had two lives dependent on it. Still almost in denial that my huge torso was shedding a real human body, heartbeat monitored with another ‘perfect’, I announced defiantly that I want baby now, baby is coming now. Two births have determined I yell, long, loud, not from pain but more like determination in the face of the fear of pain, and just before midnight she emerged... in that most phenomenal alien sensation, an undeniably intimidating but curiously painless ejection as my whole body became her portal of exit and entry, tumbling through a secret door that magically reverts like the solid oak of the wardrobe wall to Narnia, flinging her safely Earthward followed promptly and effortlessly by the organ that fuelled her exquisite formation. Her first cries fill the silence we long endured since losing Evan, cries that gurgle with the life-sustaining liquid that projected to signal her descent moments prior, her arms waving in the confusion of the cold, wide open space, but caught quickly and lovingly by that same royal red towel her brother landed on.

I stare at Matthew, our exclamations ring on repeat, as time stands still, and we gaze more, more at her loveliness, in sheer thrilled confidence of her vitality.

Virginia carries Lilith and Matthew carries me to the fresh sheets of the bedroom, on the first night as three in a bed and a forever-transformed routine.

A blissful and bewildering babymoon began, my eyes going no further than her face whilst we retreat from the world in our own red tent of recuperation. It is both a bonding and a parting. On her belly, her cord stump dries and dies; on my belly, the mast of skin that proudly sailed on high tide shrinks back weathered and peacefully into its harbour. I pick the last of my blood from her hair as our separation becomes complete. She is now her own self: ten toes that curl and fork all together like a graceful sea creature, fingers softly turning over and back like a magician mid-spell. Lips in a raspberry pout from which comes a wrestler’s grunts and groans, but motioning like a fretful woodpecker for the breast, suckling with an expression of shy scepticism that slows into sleepy-eyed satisfaction. The power of my milk turns all the noises of the zoo into the softest snores like a harmony of tiny zippers, a wind blowing through a very distant tree in a faraway magical land. Snoozes, stretches and the sweet feminine chimes of her sighs gradually devolve into the jerks of an unfathomably flustered, angry gnome; the red flag of the mid-brow crease as she bares her top gum to the world with an astounding display of offence designed to hit the new parent hard in the heart. But in between those screw-faced newborn rages I can see glimpses already of her mature, serene-faced woman to be; the same confidence that I first felt seeing her ‘wave’ at 16 weeks in-utero. Bathing her sturdy back and her rotund middle, she is not tiny to me, but huge, since that first tiny seed at conception. A strong, wiry little human who sleeps inches from my face, safe with my maternal awareness that nature honed in me during pregnancy, training me for broken nights long before she arrived.

Joyful but tiring and confusing, the loss of Evan was never going to make me a superhuman mother. I remind myself that the most important thing for parenthood is an open mind and a patient willingness to discover and learn. The orchard we’ve walked for so many months is now grandly festooned high in bright, yellow rapeseed, saluting us either side of the path as we walk as a family with Evan’s sling-slung sister. It has been a journey to get here to our rainbow, but our bigger journey is just beginning.

Below: in chrono order, links to all my posts starting from the birth of Evan, through to becoming pregnant again:

My letter to Evan and to the world.

'We are enough because we are love'

What little Evan, a whizzing yellow stunt plane and several grand mansions taught me

If you hear hoofbeats in Kentucky...think horses, not zebras

Seven months; seven stars made brighter by the darkness of adversity

The first strokes of a rainbow

The rainbow on the horizon

The rainbow is a she

Happy Birthday to my son Evan, and a request to all

Singing a rainbow

The growing of a spring force

The Time of Zwischen

Review of 2014... the wild year of the zebra!

From ice caves to stuffed buffaloes... (view larger on flickr)

Writing a year review is like emptying a huge drawer - endlessly pulling out more stuff you knew was there, and attempting to tidy it back together in an organised fashion!

It has been a wild 2014, epitomised by the zebra in the D810 campaign we shot for Nikon in April. In my philosophical blogging I've invoked that same, exotic image of the zebra - the wild animal of life itself - that followed the loss of our baby son last December. This unleashed a year we didn't expect to be so action-packed. Now we celebrate Christmas with presents not under a tree, but under the 7-foot tentacle that also featured in the year's adventures.

The montage above shows the highlights. In reflecting on my work this year, there are 2 main things that have grown: production value, and planning. Better planning has happened because we have had to explain and storyboard a shoot for a client of some kind - a commission, or a workshop audience. It also happened because our attention has been pulled increasingly to lighting and lots of other fun effects: haze, water studios, Icelandic landmarks; stuffed animals, live animals, a truckload new models and more crazy dresses.

If I compare my work to the self-portraiture I was typically producing when emerging 2006-2010, the biggest difference now is the ingredients. I feel blessed to share my life with someone who is on the same page with me, in a vibrant book of life we read together. Barring clichés, Matthew and I both agree that really our central goal going forward in photography is just to keep the passion alive at all. It seems we're bored easily, relatively insatiable and not into doing things by halves. Only by striving to learn continuously, and being increasingly selective about projects and refining quality over quantity do we feel a continued fulfilment on this road.

Swan Lake, above, has to be our overall 2014 favourite for both of us, shot during our 3-day workshop for Creative Live (blog post here, info page here). Being aired live, it needed more military methodology than ever in planning and execution; honing composition, stationing lighting, and checking each image on the tethered laptop is the way I wish I could always work. As a result, the final image reaps the reward of pristine quality, but marries together with my typical Photoshop craziness - something I was concerned would clash. And then there's the location, the factor we most insisted was important for showing 'what we do'. This place is the handpainted ballroom in The Ruins private dining club in Seattle, a direct inspiration for the trinity of artistic interpretation: Leonid Gurevich's styling, Matthew's technical set-up and my end result.

In fact this has been a stellar year for locations. I have always been a location-driven photographer, but this year I notice even more fanaticism for that element, often more so than even the dress or model. My favourite images are those I feel really showcase the place in which they are shot and I love them precisely because of that. We have shot in a surfeit of super-cool places this year including Greystone Court in New York, Aynhoe Park in England, Chateau Challain in France, Hindiyan's House in Plovdiv, Bulgaria; and twice on expeditions in the outdoor landscape of Iceland. For example, below in the White Witch Awakening commission for Nikon, an image which reached the billboards of Hong Kong, I also achieved my own personal mission to encapsulate the essence of of an eccentric location in one single scene that I didn't feel had been quite done before. A live zebra brought into Aynhoe Park, to make the craziest house in England even crazier.

In another 2014 piece crammed with taxidermy, Elegant Elegy (below) also uses the location as its vital inspiration. This was shot during our French Fairytale week at Chateau Challain in France (blog.) In terms of the whole location, this Taxidermy Room was the room I was drawn to the most, so I'm struck by the eccentric thought that this image alone to me feels it's worth all the work we put it into the multi-thousand-pound week at Challain. I also love that this image is a collaboration with another artist, Kirsty Mitchell who hand-transformed the dress; and also that I indulged in something that had already proved to be a little risque - all those dead animals. I actually steeled myself for negative comments, but my own curious happiness with the image was all that mattered to me. Rather than glamourising the animal 'trophies' I felt as though the woman is forlorn and despairing of the inert creatures, in earnest to somehow be their guardian or protector. For the first time ever, it was like Surreal Fashion was merging with the dystopia in my Ecology series.

Commissioning our own dresses is a direction we will be going into much more in 2015, certainly judging by the amount of dyed fabric samples currently hanging from our washing line, 'maturing' in the December cold like cured meat. Even our unborn baby is not escaping her dad's creative whims; a baby cardigan got given a dunking to turn it from apparently 'garish' to 'couture'!

More highlights of this year include having two of my Surreal Fashion pieces selected to hang in the Saatchi Gallery for their first 'Saatchi Art' show Continental Shift; exhibiting over the summer at Castle Fine Art's flagship gallery in London; and speaking at Photokina, the world's largest photo tradeshow where I presented and exhibited my work for Nikon. I have sold countless edition prints through the year mostly from Surreal Fashion, and we ended the year with an early Christmas of three new sponsors: Manfrotto, G-Tech and a gleaming Broncolor ambassadorship.

But it feels robotic to simply list 2014's 'successes' in the style of a CV. Etched on my soul are favourite moments that mostly relate to people, places and epiphanies, sticking out in my head as vibrant as any photograph. What I recall most about Photokina was sharing the daily backstage camaraderie with the crew and not feeling alone with the daily speaking responsibility amongst the company of 4 other photographers; Lucas Gilman, Marcel Lämmerhirt, Ray Demski and Corey Rich. In the same way, the personalities of the people and camaraderie of creativity is what I remember most fondly about Creative Live in Seattle, and our trips to Iceland, New York and France.

Even the London apartment we stayed in whilst shooting for Lowe Lintus in the summer is indelibly imprinted on my memory for reasons not strictly straightforward. It was just a place to stay, but the apartment - full of art, books and trappings of a new sweet babylife - all mixed up together in one expressive living space, made me hungry for all that which I already love. It was like a mirror held up to my own desires... we were there living our dream taking pictures as trusted pros, with our team of friends helping us, and adding to the joy I had just discovered I was pregnant myself, a secret harboured like a delicate chrysalis sheltered and concealed in my hopeful cupped hands.

Also this year, like any year, I am shaped by negative experiences with people we encounter through our work, but I take lessons from those experiences just as useful. Through observation of an array of life characters I have learnt that to some extent, wealth is more a state of mind than a physical possession. Affluence alone means little, and whether someone has a lot of money or not, it is all about what they do with it.

Girl in a Golden Geyser (Bulgaria)

Goals for 2015?

I am not such a fan of setting 'goals' than I am of looking at where you already are, and what you have done in the year just gone. That gives you the real proof in the pudding of where you are going.

In Matthew's words, 'we like a lot of drama in our images' (a line he says in the video of our D810 shoot, and which I've frequently, mockingly imitated for the exhaustion that lends his tone an unintended tinge of pomposity)... And so, I want us to continue experimenting with ways to heighten the magic in both pre- and and post-production. A couple of fat books I got for Christmas: Tim Walker's Pictures and Kristian Schuller's Tales for Oskar (Matthew scored well there) are feeding the imagination...

I am so excited for the new person coming into our lives next spring, like the most divine piece of creativity you could imagine. Having a baby will change our lives, and I'm not interested in trying to prove my life can be 100% as productive as before. It won't be. Rather than slowing down the cogs of life, the cogs are transforming in shape and colour, spending my working time like a purse of gold coins of which there will be less to splurge. I chose a life that blends duty with pleasure so that the adventure of livelihood and family can be one. That compound comes with some compromise but also the ability to grant myself a rich sum of self-employed 'maternity leave' so I can concentrate on nothing else but my baby in the time leading up to and following birth. Projects planned for the late summer/autumn will put us back in the saddle of our creative life with baby's ear held close to my beating heart. And we'll just see where life goes from there.

Freeze Frame (from a cold, unnerving expedition in Iceland!)

2015 will obligate me to take the opportunities that mean the most to me, a process I have already started in 2014, where even the money offered for unappealing things didn't tempt me as much as sitting watching birds through the window. In fact, this gradual shedding process of refinement has been the most liberating I've ever known, kicking over the signposts that don't speak to my soul's direction, to fix a clear focus like never before upon my dreams and goals.

During our orchard walks and talks lately I've harangued Matthew about the many strange paradoxes that I keep finding in life... for example, the irony that that more relaxed/chilled you are (not lazy, but rather, on a positive vibration), the more successful you can be. Or the paradox that once you come to terms with 'who you are' - your personality, even your limitations - you gain a clearer confidence than ever about achieving your highest potential. The ultimate paradox, of life and death, lies in the popular quote you may have heard from Steve Jobs: "Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart."

(From 'Opulent Elegance' in New York - watch video)

Finally, punctuating this year has been my tumblr blog, which I write on now. How utterly refreshing it has been to wipe the slate clean from my last blog and just write afresh on this one! This taught me never to let anything technical hamper one's need to be expressive, to get as pure a space as possible to unleash yourself. It was baby Evan himself that breathed life into this blog, and this has reminded me how writing is a form of art as much as photography... igniting a spark of inspiration for other things I may like to do in the future outside of photography. One of my greatest pleasures is adorning life in beautiful pictures and language. It is healing, it really just keeps me going.

Thank you for reading my blog this year, and I leave you with a formal portrait of us, and a reference list of my 2014 posts below. Happy new year... x

Summary of all 2014 posts:

Last year's review: Review of 2013: the art of love over fear

Evan/life/loss-related posts... from when I lost Evan, reflections, journey of becoming pregnant again. In chrono order:

My letter to Evan and to the world.

'We are enough because we are love'

What little Evan, a whizzing yellow stunt plane and several grand mansions taught me

If you hear hoofbeats in Kentucky...think horses, not zebras

Don't wait till you die to meet your soul

Seven months; seven stars made brighter by the darkness of adversity

Pull yourself together

The first strokes of a rainbow

The rainbow on the horizon

The rainbow is a she

Happy Birthday to my son Evan, and a request to all

Photography related posts... but still flavoured with the rare spice that Evan brought into my life. In chrono order:

The art of mother & child [looking at 3 artists]

Outpouring live to the world [Creative Live]

Clear skies, calm seas & Icelandic adventures [our first trip to iceland in April]

A Dream and an Awakening: shooting the surreal for real with new Nikon D810 [don't miss the BTS reel, my favourite video of this year]

Seafaring Surreal Fashion on show [Castle Fine Art]

Finding solace & joy in Surreal Fashion

What are you worth? [thoughts on success in photography]

A working holiday for the soul at Chateau Challain [France trip]

A working holiday for the soul at Chateau Challain

'I'm so glad my dad's here' says Matthew, raising his glass at a table as big as a ship deck. From the far other end his dad Gary aptly winks, 'well I'm so glad my son's here.' For back on the day Matthew had said his final goodbye to his mum Diane, Gary's wife of nearly 50 years, he had said to Gary: come to France with us.

Both Gary and I have been through something similar, us with baby Evan, him with Diane: taking care of someone whose life, terminally fated, gradually reaches a sad but relieving closure. The wearying time spent building up to the conclusion forms an anticipatory skin of healing; making a strangely superhuman determination - directly in the face of death - where you just want peace for your loved one. Afterwards, a new lease of life emerges, which relies on you looking positively forward, not wistfully back.

Now, round a big table with 11 of our photographer friends from round the world, we toasted: 'To Diane and Evan!' in what was, for me, the happiest moment of a fairytale shoot in the most extraordinary chateau. This was a new chapter of the Miss Aniela Fashion Shoot Experience entitled 'French Fairytale', at the Chateau de Challain in the Western Loire of France. We had the entire palatial place as our photography playground for a whole week.

(All images credited at end of post.)

I would gaze at the beautiful numerous cribs in bedrooms of the Chateau, that were in place for the owner's several grandchildren, dreaming that one day I might come back with my own babe in arms. Sitting in the courtyard on the first day, I told everyone that this was the exact date we received our sad news about Evan last year. And then I announced that we are now happily 10 weeks expecting again!

Matt and I had come to the Chateau back in July to check it was just right for one of our shoot events, and oh of course to test food, wine and beds. A month prior to that, we'd viewed a derelict Chateau in the south of France that wasn't quite right as we'd hoped, so instead we set the budget for a place oozing full caboodle of authentic regal allure. 'A place I've spent two years looking for', in Matt's words. The American owners have kept Chateau Challain in as much of its former glory as possible whilst making it fit for many a wedding that goes on here; an entertainment venue with historic charm intact. And we'd also checked the driving route, to ensure it would be easy enough for two laden vehicles going 8 hours from Kent to Nantes via the Eurotunnel; me driving our new smooth 7-seater VW, and the other a rented Land Cruiser driven by our loyal assistants Tim and Johnathan, which pulled along a huge trailer full of equipment, makeup and dresses (and did *not* get stuck in a tunnel in Rouen and have to reverse out...)

We had looked forward to this for weeks. It felt like a gathering of a photography family, with faces old and new, hailing from South Africa, Australia, USA, Poland, Germany, Holland, UK, Canada, and Puerto Rico. All crew and participants, totalling nearly 30, were able to sleep over in the Chateau & accompanying Gatehouse. Amongst the special guests were, in addition to Matt's dad of course, Robert from Nikon Professional Services and photographer artist wunderkind, who is also a good friend, Kirsty Mitchell.

As usual it was a production of epic proportion to put together, but we knew there would also be more opportunity to relax than on our gruelling Iceland expeditions. We were blessed with lovely weather which meant our photographers could merrily roam the extensive grounds in search of the perfect shot with their model. The structure was different than our usual events: we had 3 photographers for each of 4 models, shooting a model for 2-3 hours and then shooting a second model after lunch. This gave more time to relax, direct, and just literally think what to do with all the visual opportunity the Chateau afforded in abundance.

We chose a slightly different route with styling on this event. Rather than sourcing everything from designers as the norm, Matt and I decided to take the plunge on commissioning 10 dresses of our own - all inspired by high fashion, some of them more rough diamonds than others but all oozing theatrical potential we increasingly crave and want to pull the reins on. We also decided to put more focus on hair - specifically, wigs - calling in one of the UK's top creative hairstylists Anne Veck to sort out the ladies' bootiful barnets each day. She diligently worked on a set of hair pieces in advance especially for this shoot. Working with Anne was great; being so professional, experienced and yet receptive to our desires; also a fun character on board the shoot's ship (and with her being of French origin, Anne's language skills came in unexpected handy too.) Stylist Minna Attala put together the looks each day.

Amongst my favourite dresses from our commissioned collection was a voluminous silken rose dress that I requested Kim wear the first day. It was thanks to my shooting pal Ian that she ended up in a sunlit spot in the foyer the first morning, with four motley stuffed friends including a half-giraffe I was drawn to like a moth to light. Pictured below is Grace Gray who worked on the models' makeup together with Elbie van Eeden.

Above - my own finished image Crimson Queen. We had the model Kim, from New York, travel over to Nantes to join our shoot and I am so glad we did, and not just because we love redheads... she has flavoured my favourite images from the shoot with her distinct, profound look that is quizzical, almost mournful, and doesn't stiffen on sight of a camera. She also appears in Elegant Elegy further below.

My favourite room in the Chateau, for me, was 'The Taxidermy Room'... I was more drawn to it than any other room in the place, and knew it was where I wanted to shoot model Kim wearing the one-off hand-customised dress that Kirsty Mitchell had spent 3 days in the dungeon diligently transforming. With her having joined us on our road trip for wine and frolics, this was an unexpected collaboration, and a rare opportunity under the seductive grasp of a creative camaraderie. My session took place alongside Ian Mears and Greg Sikorski, with visiting guest Bernard Yeoh snapping some uber-cool panoramic BTS.

A blast of haze, flash of Broncolor strobes, a warm couple of Lupolux HMIs and this deathly scene was born, below. It reminded me of a warped Nativity... it seemed to suggest a premonition of history, what all of this world will come to through humanity's exploitation of nature, with the beautiful American redhead's expression of biblical emotion as if the world was on her shoulders. A strange beauty in the scene makes an atmospheric image of this dystopia, hence my chosen title Elegant Elegy:

My final image became a new Surreal Fashion piece for my series, stitched just as painstakingly as the dress itself, being the scene that most stuck out in my head through this luxurious week. This shoot had production value of my dreams, yet the tone of nightmares... a postmortem museum put forward by the force of alive creativity.

We also had selected pieces from the National Theatre to add a period spin. Below, these theatre costumes made a complete four-model appearance during our Vanity Fair-inspired' group model shot in the dining room. I was a little nervous as I have less experience shooting groups as I do single models, but I looked at some examples from magazines, and saw that a good group shot avoids repetition in poses and eye contact. I tried to develop a shape between the models whilst mixing up their poses with some careful placement, perseverance - and tweaking of the cushions on set by hawk-eyed Kirsty Mitchell. I'll blog more about the technical set-up of this shot, as well as other shots, later on our FSE blog.

On this adventure I loved the shooting, the dresses, Matthew going round with the hazer to pump instant production value into everyone's shots. I loved seeing everyone's first reactions to the place and run round giggling like schoolgirls. It was a pleasure to see everyone at work: our participating creatives Ivonne, Isaac, Keith and Caroline, Greg, Tracy, Ian, Jeiran, Sam, Ingrid and Breanne. Even guest Kirsty Mitchell, after the heftiness of finishing her prolific, production-heavy Wonderland series, enjoyed some lighter shoots round the place and also in unexpectedly customising the dress for us. It seemed to prick some new creative juices from under her skin and it was genuinely nice to see her inspired by this.

I loved how just being present in this wieldy place soothed and inspired the soul, but also that once the week of social energy was over, I was happy to drive 400 miles back to my cosier modest dwellings at the end of it. I enjoyed seeing others unleash their creativity, and also the opportunities to push my own boundaries, taking the 'fashion' and high production out of the equation. For example, going to the lake to shoot Grace in a boat, Lady of Shalot-inspired, in the late morning mist, in an anti-strobe manner, in a way more akin to my earliest whimsy as a photographer (below).

I also shot some more in the Taxidermy Room, with the same model, Kim - but naked, lit by just a couple of CTO-gelled Lupolux lights, her red hair teased into an Aslan mane of wildness (those images are yet to be shared anywhere!) It was truly a week of both stern exertion and curious experimentation, a working holiday for the soul.

Lunch every day was served in the village restaurant, a 3-course sequence of worryingly food-coma-inducing French culinary varieties all served up single-handedly by a woman who just about managed to satisfy all the various dietary requirements. After the day of shooting was done, an evening of wining and dining would begin, some choosing to cosy up in the atmospheric kitchen cellar and others venturing out to the outdoor fire pits. Mid-week we treated everyone to a spit-roast suckling pig followed by my live editing under the tree-hung chandeliers, and a grand dinner for the final night in the palatial dining room, followed by much drunken dancing and horn-blowing to round off a busy week in paradise!

I will now round off this long post with a slew of images taken by a variety of people (all credited further down). A video will come soon too. We're already planning the styling for our hopeful return to the Chateau next year, late summer or early autumn, which will have one main difference: a new little girl in our arms.

___

Image credits, from top of blog post:

Matthew holding wine behind his dad - Ivonne Carlo

Breanne pointing camera at the Chateau - Jeiran Otmishi

High angle view of people in courtyard - Sam Breach

Group shot outside Chateau - Miss Aniela

Minna in sunglasses with all the dresses - Grace Gray

All 3 Crimson Queen images including Grace applying makeup - Miss Aniela

Close up of Kim in taxidermy room - Johnathan Clover for Miss Aniela BTS

Wide shot of me shooting in Taxidermy Room with strobe behind - Bernard Yeoh

Elegant Elegy, 'Vanity Fair-style' group shot, Grace in the lake and indoors group shot - Miss Aniela

The buffalo and gelled light pointing at Kim - Johnathan Clover for Miss Aniela BTS

Matthew's dad Gary with all the models, followed by the group of photographers, close-up of big-haired Amy, and shot of bridge and stream - all by Ivonne Carlo

Panoramic of shooting Ida in pink dress - Bernard Yeoh

Shooting Kim in green dress with Chateau behind - Jeiran Otmishi

Monochrome round the table - Ivonne Carlo

Ida in pink dress and with horse - Johnathan Clover for Miss Aniela BTS

Grace with giraffe - Elbie van Eeden

Painterly portrait of Chateau and lake - Ivonne Carlo

Happy birthday to my son Evan, and a request to all...

(Still Birth, © Polly Morgan)

Today I share a celebration and a request, and, 2 wonderful works of art. First: Polly Morgan's taxidermy, above, so powerfully evocative of my 'Evan experience' in its juxtaposition and bittersweet beauty. Sadness and joy tied into one piece of beautiful surrealism. The balloon is weighed down by the pitiful dead chick; but at the same time the bird is buoyed by the joy of the balloon. There is also sadness in the anchored balloon, and hope in the rising corpse of the little creature. Between them there is delicate, hovering balance. This is life: pain and pleasure, in one inextricable package. Scary and pretty in one. Aptly wrapped in one package of human expression: ART.

Today marks one year ago that my first baby was born, when I'd strolled around my house in labour, so thankful for every surge that filled my hips, each one assuring that my baby was coming smoothly and that I could stay at home. But this was not just any birth. This was to be a birth of a baby who could not live beyond my body. This birth was going to also be a death. Having known this for 12 weeks, I was in a weird world of acceptance. But despite what scientific prognosis said, it was a happy ending: happy, but an ending. A happiness of a different breed. Talk about surrealism in my photography - this was the greatest surrealism I'd ever experienced.

I was Alice down the most bizarre rabbit hole in the forest. My partner slept as the winter night deepened. By 2am our son was born, already an angel, already miles away on his continuing epic voyage, leaving his proud mother drinking a cup of tea before falling asleep with the midwife and Evan's beautiful body cradled between us, lovingly dressed in his lavender suit ('but real, rockstar lavender' as Matthew wrote on his Facebook announcement later that day).

© Mother and Child, Ray Caesar (detail below) A piece that has captivated me all year. Full of many details synchronous with that night, both literal and symbolic. So full of the peace I had with Evan. The first words I said were 'He's ok. It's ok', words I comfort myself with now.

Now here I am 12 months on, with new life cradled in the fluid space of the flesh crib that rocks with new vivacity and hope. It is Evan's sister. During a year of adventures, a year that had a calendar stacked high to make the most of a postponed family life, we created his sibling on the summer peak of one of those creative highs. Our rainbow baby, perfectly healthy, due next spring.

But today, I shed a tear for the little boy I could not do anything more for. Happy first birthday as an angel, Evan, born 11.12.13. You will always be loved, fiercely, and just as equally as any of my children. Today as we celebrate with a special high tea booked at a lovely cafe, and adorn your grave with many flowers, we remember you.

You remind us that life is an animal, sometimes it sits in our lap happily stroked, it purrs back lovingly, but ultimately it is wild, it runs out of our grasp and flies free whilst we can only sweetly savour the moments we had. And we celebrate the little girl who now flourishes in the space you lived your whole, sweet powerful life, we on a humbling ride on the back of that elusive wild animal, an awesome adventure that left us a little bruised, but strangely invigorated, a reminder that there is something much bigger happening in our existence than our earthly humdrum grind. ART is all the drawings we make of that mysterious, unpredictable animal.

A request to you!

All year I wondered what I might dedicate to Evan's birthday, and I found last week that there is a documentary being made called 'Still Loved' by Debbie Howard, aiming to communicate the powerful and inspiring stories of families who have lost babies. Stillbirth, such a depressing topic, but something that happens to families every day. Unlike in our case of Evan having bilateral renal agenesis / Potters Syndrome all along, and diagnosed at 32 weeks, often parents don't know the cause of their baby's sudden death at birth. In fact, losses of all kinds during pregnancy/birth are sadly more common than we realise. People just don't talk about it.

Mothers who lose a child never forget that child, equally loving them just as much as if they were still alive. What has empowered me through my experience is the confirmation of my son's existence by my friends mentioning his name, keeping him 'in the loop', reminding me constantly that he is not forgotten. Through this blog I have openly shared my story and it has been the greatest catharsis I have ever known.

Help other women and their families to have their stories heard. I believe the more compassionate, open and expressive we become about the taboos of life and death, the more powerful we become as humans.

Debbie's documentary is already halfway to its goal, but only has 6 days to go.

Please, consider contributing something even small to the making of this documentary here.

Update: the documentary has reached (and surpassed) its £5k goal! Thanks to all those who contributed!.. x

The rainbow is a she

For a while past the 15th week I was feeling flutters, faint rumblings of remembrance from my last pregnancy, a fine-tuned awareness that something, someone, was moving inside my womb, kicking even, in the fluid within - but not what I could truly call a movement felt.

It was deep in Iceland that I first felt her. In the darkness of a cold night I put my hand on my warm belly to feel a series of nudges under my skin, unmistakeable this time, lasting for a moment before they disappeared again. I inhaled deeply and exhaled with a tear. 'I will never forget this moment', I said to her. 'I love you, so much'.

Every day from then on, I would be rationed a treat of more movement, some days more than others. Like broodily waiting for a lover to call, the arrival of a jolt plastered a Cheshire Cat smile on my face as I caressed my growing greedy belly with a belief that was starting to become real for the first time, a trust in the normality of pregnancy, kick by kick kicked into me.

Soon my mother's hand was on my bump for the first time, saying hello to her new grandchild when the sex was still a mystery, though most of the outfits she'd bought were in telltale yellows and pinks spelling out her instinctive hunch. I slept top and tail and woke with my mum's hand on my foot whilst my hand said good morning to the legs of my own daughter within. On the same family visit I sat dreaming in front of the TV, full of organic chicken and tomatoes and childhood-favourite pierogi ruskie, my satiated belly popping with life like the lid on a pan of popcorn as my other excited hand texted to my midwife back home, 'this baby is so strong and cheeky!'. The timing of my fingertips' strokes caressing my new baby curiously met with the sweeping sanding motions on the gravestone of my baby Evan at the other side of the room, the skilled hand of my sister sanding its finishing touches. Such a juxtaposition was not a sight to fear; both motions were the same language of love. Time, in its ever-wondrous healing quality, had brought me to a place of happiness and relief to see Evan's memorial ready to erect, just as carrying sweet Evan himself to full term last year had brought me more peace with his death than I ever thought imaginable. Now his monument, made by his auntie and etched with the image of I, his mother holding him in her arms, stood proudly emblazoned with the words I wanted any graveyard wanderer to be inspired by:

On a voyage of victory, we learned to love fiercely.

On a third scan we consider to be our last, at the same place as the last two scans of tear-filled relief where we learnt our new baby does not have the rare syndrome Evan had, we happily had our curiosity for the sex fulfilled. We are expecting a daughter - and had further confirmation of her 'perfect health' at 20 weeks' gestation - as we now search for the name we want to give a strong woman.

Now here I sit with a midriff of mounting pride as the scaffolding of ligaments physically tug and pinch, overcome with the magnitude of this blessing in between my grumbles and tiredness. I know that truly understanding the loss of our son last year will be a lifelong journey as we watch our rainbow child emerge into the world and grow from girl into woman, maybe with more siblings. 'This is a special soul sent to us' says my part-time cynic, part-time spiritualist partner Matthew as we enjoy his birthday today in a steakhouse. This time last year, I was pregnant with Evan, 12 days past my 'due date' awaiting his birth and death. Now as we approach Evan's first birthday in 9 days, we celebrate many things... all of it to do with one word: Life. In one of my favourite film quotes (from the 'Poseidon Adventure'), What is up there? Life is up there. And life always matters very much. The life Evan had, the life we have, the life of our new little lady growing centimetre by centimetre in full feisty force.

The rainbow on the horizon

Driving home on a grey day back in the summer, my gaze fixed staring into the dreary tarmac ahead, I asked Matthew with a weary sigh, when will this pain go away? In particular: this discomfort, this bitter jealousy of looking at our relatives' babies like a headache I can't seem to shake off, will it ever stop, when? He answered: it will, in time; the gap will heal, the painful void will be filled with something happy, with new life.

Little did I know that at that very moment, deep down in my womb, the tiny seed of a new life was already snuggling into place.

Then, in my quest to put myself in a vibration of positivity and act out in the present what I wished to attract, I went to a quaint shop in a village and hunted out a present that I would buy specifically for my next child. I chose a miniature model of a wooden rocking horse. A horse for a hurdle already overcome, I just didn't yet know it. Not only had nature began a new life but its destiny was coded: a healthy child was in the works... a baby who was here to stay.

For it was not only the devastating loss we had to face upon the diagnosis of our first son's fate in September 2013, but also, the shadow of apprehension sundialling in varying shades across my mind for our future childbearing. It was most likely that nature's thunder bolt would not strike us twice (bilateral renal agenesis / Potter's Syndrome) but we'd already had a bitter taste of the rare, which lends a temptation to snarl a cynical scowl even in the face of astronomical odds. Or with the total of all the rare conditions possible, what if something else was wrong? Reluctant to get tangled in fears, but some days darker in emotion than others, I concentrated on celebrating reaching the second trimester, the milestone every expecting woman hopes for. Then, I thought more of the fluid and kidneys, fatally absent in Evan, praying they were active in full force in my new bodily resident.

16 weeks arrived. Breathless for 2 days prior, travelling through the rain to the hospital, I hoped this was the day I'd be granted my breath back. With both Matthew and Virginia beside me, we glimpse into that inner cocoon in waves of mysterious monochrome, to admire that little thriving body we'd seen a month prior when we first saw the heart rapidly and reassuringly winking on the screen. Now, 3cm bigger, our baby reclined and stretched luxuriously, chin dipping as little lips sipped the surrounding liquor like a fine wine. Fluid. Kidneys. The words I'd visualised through an entire volume of daydreams, now become real from the mouth of the obstetrician herself, and my breath is already returning, a balm of calm is falling over me but not before I take a minute to cry out loudly, to release it all: love, relief, joy, in an anguished sound, that falls away slowly to smiles and sighs as I peer through slitted wet eyes to view my flexing black-and-white son/daughter with cautious fascination. We all laugh as the baby appears to wave, one outstretched arm more prominent than anything around it, captured in print by a timely click that now sits at my bedside.

Never so pleased to see that usually banal word 'normal', repeated four times across a printed sheet I cannot believe I hold for real. A healthy child grows in my womb and it is no exaggeration to say it's the best news of my life. I just can't believe it... I did believe it... I had to believe it. But now belief meets reality. I already knew I loved my new baby no matter what, but to be on the path leading to the 'hello', and not the path to 'hello and goodbye', feels just... incredible.

The first strokes of a rainbow

One morning in the summer Matt and I were doing our usual walk through the orchard, talking on life, and happened to look up into the sky at the very moment I said 'I hope everything will be ok'. There was a strip of rainbow even though there was no rain over that side, which vanished almost as quickly as it appeared, just as faint as the second strip line I'd received that morning. A line of delicate destiny that I would only see the fruition of as I waited, and tried not to care, about as successfully as a child on the eve of their birthday pretending to sleep.

As I write this now, my belly is full of butternut squash, organic yoghurt and a 14-week squirming little person whose heartbeat galloped reassuringly on the monitor 2 weeks ago as I cried a river. As any mother attests, it feels unreal till you see them, feel them, gently release them into the world, but Evan taught me to love every moment, and that I am trying to put in favour of worrying over what will be. Easier said than done; I have already explored more fears in my mind than the number of new pimples on my face.

In under 2 weeks time we will find out with some degree of certainty whether our new gift is not going to follow in the same fate as his/her brother. The trepidation till then is increasingly palpable as I try concentrate instead on the empowering thought that I will love this baby for however long I am privileged to have them. An attitude of gratitude soothes an aching head.

But, what an honour to again be transformed by fecundity. A journey where the anxiety is as beautifully meaningful as the excitement. The intrigue and delight of the continued absent menses in the first fortnight, that quickly blossomed into shameless carnivorousness that put my perennial meat-shy, veggie-curious caution to shame. Attacking 4 lamb chops on a plate to myself, 5 chicken pieces or a pie stuffed with beef was not an uncommon sight in our house as my skinny body turned on a mammalian 'famine ahead' mode. Like a predator in a wildlife programme my instincts turned to building my baby with the taste true to my cultural heritage, whether my sympathy for butchering cared or not. Like a cat I alternate eating and sleeping; early nights to guiltless lie-ins knowing that one day soon everything will change. My bosom, puckered with grief for months following the redundant burst of white life that longed to feed my son, suddenly spilled over like gleeful cups of tea, rehearsing for a grand pouring debut to be performed with even more vigour after a heartbreaking postponement. My torso bloating with second-time wisdom, swelling with pride into a shelter for a new mystery inhabitant, the arrival of a soul from another dimension, a mortal miracle so wondrous to barely wrap the humdrum everyday mind around.

There has been so much I wanted to write on this blog lately, this post is a start. Even though I have not felt my baby move yet, instinctive magic of motherly power quashes the worry of anything work-related, uttering to ears that can almost hear: nothing else matters. You are the most important thing of all. You are another mighty log of life thrown onto the fire of love between Matt and I, sparking wildly to fuse us closer as we snigger and snuggle up cosy for Christmas, keeping warm the faith that this winter wakes to a spring that springs us somewhere over the rainbow...

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"A "rainbow baby" is a baby that is born following a loss. "The storm has already happened and nothing can change that experience. Storm-clouds might still be overhead as the family continue to cope with the loss, but something colourful and bright has emerged from the darkness and misery. A beautiful and bright rainbow follows a storm and gives hope of things getting better."

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Picture by Tim Charles Matthews

Pull yourself together

'Pull yourself together' is something my partner Matthew says to me in those pathetic moments of life. Not at the profoundly devastating times when he will take my head on his chest and tell me to cry it out, but when tears are a lazy excess. And he is a good filter for types of tears.

In our early years together it would annoy me, because I wanted my irrationality mothered. Eventually I learnt to do he said in those moments, for he probably would have already walked off and not pandered to the attention sought.

I see how much good it does to be told to pull yourself together. Taking offence is your own choice to waste more energy. In the right circumstances, it is empowerment, albeit cloaked in flippant words.

When I was a child at primary school, I was told to 'get out there and stop moping' by a teacher, Mrs Cleaver (who was as stalwart as her name implied) whom I was weeping to one day. I found it harsh. But her words were useful. There is grieving, and there is moping.

Then last year, getting through the hurdles of having my son Evan after his fatal diagnosis, my midwife would tell me several times 'you're a strong woman'. This line helped me through a few physical hurdles. Although I do not believe a childbearing woman should have anything but the kindest, most respectful treatment when she is having a baby, and especially in labour; there is a tact to promoting strength and encouraging her to trust - without ridiculing or reprimanding her, ever.

Consolation has its important time and place. But when someone chooses to promote strength rather than nurse sentimentality beyond its place, they give that person a leg up into independence. When they do the opposite, they help them lie back down into dependence.

My partner has never liked the damsel in distress. He likes me to be strong. He is impressed when I am resourceful. He would never call himself a feminist, but he is one of the most genuine f-word people I have met, without going near an academic tome or even thinking too much about it. The actions speak louder.

Three figures: teacher, midwife and partner, have ignited a light in my mind, how I might empower my children.

Finding solace and joy in Surreal Fashion

As I wrote in my recent post, experiencing adversity has a way of intensifying the flavour of your pleasures, like a sip of water in a drought. I have continued to learn just how powerful are those engrossed moments of creating, to continue bringing pleasure even in hard times. But also, that those moments are not just nice, but necessary to an artist's vision. Art is not about saying 'have I done this right?' but fuelling the conviction an artist has to put out their work to the world with confidence as fiery as a chilli and yet cool as a cucumber. Case in point, the making of Madame Menagerie, above.

"Stop worrying about what you can "lose" or how you can "win" and just follow your joy. Where does your joy say you should go?" - Neale Donald Walsh

I made this image with pure joy. I forgot about fashion, I even forgot about fine art, even though I wanted to make a fine new piece of saleable art. Lately I have decided to pursue technical excellence more than ever, but this picture taught me (or reminded me) that soul matters more than anything. So, I followed my joy.

I followed a curious synergy between the 17th-century painter's green parrot and the model, Kimberley Davis. Both green and red and beady-eyed, I felt they are kindred spirits, coming together at home amidst opulent furnishings of Greystone Court, New York, the modern fairytale castle where this was shot. (I stumbled across the stunning rare-looking Kimberley on Model Mayhem at the beginning of the year and snapped her up...)

At the same time a pair of monkeys with a carpet, from the same painting by Hondecoeter fell into place like milk into tea. Perfectly in scamper pose across a table in the frame, spliced across the book 'Genius' by Harold Bloom, and brought to mischievous life with an embellished ignition of the candle.

When I thought I was finished, Matt suggests the icing on the cake: a snake, to be wrapped round the undulating bedpost. I sought the python from Evelyn de Morgan's Cadmus & Harmonia, 1877, and suddenly I didn't know which was my favourite part of the image anymore.

Those moments of infusion were the fuel to the fire of completing the whole picture. There were times I went down a too-long-logical-road, had to shun my logical left brain and scrub the layers back down to the basics of what drew me to this image to start with, following the spark that made me initially curious in the synergy of the woman and the green parrot. I got great happiness from just thinking about the picture, in the middle of some difficult or testing event of a day my heart beat in anticipation of coming back to the editing and lose myself in nursing and coaxing the brushstrokes of a 300-year old painting around the canvas of my computer screen. I am reminded what it is to create true art. When you believe in the vision so much (whatever that may be) and the resultant feeling of not caring if anyone might not like your work.

The sweet spot is when people do.

Girl in a Golden Geyser shot during a workshop for Nikon on my birthday in Plovdiv, Bulgaria in July. Not fused with paintings but shot in an amazing painted room in the historic 'Hindiyan's House'

So as much as I follow my joy and soul, I am also focused on making my work better. For large scale works, especially portraits of people, good lighting is needed so I'm shooting almost always with flash. Experimenting more with moulding light with gels, filters, strip softboxes and an army of constant lights (thanks to Lupolux we now have enough for a movie set). As I write this, Matthew is in the garden putting eyelets in huge spread sheets of ripstop he bought to create ethereal Tim Walker lighting on our shoot at the end of the month at the splendiferous Chateau de Challain.

I am taking more care in my Photoshop process, being more discriminating with the choice of images I use for compositing, and I am now devoting more time to studying art history and researching paintings. I have sold more prints in the past year from Surreal Fashion than I've ever sold before, and there's also something else exciting in the pipeline next year for the SF series. All those things I always wished I would change, I am changing. I'm facing all those anxieties head on, and a tide is turning toward really being the artist I want to be.

I am looking to the artists/photographers I most admire to adjust my lifestyle and workspace to improving the finesse of new Surreal Fashion works, trying to use internet time more productively and either delegating or sacrificing the other stuff that doesn't contribute to that pursuit. In other words, I am empowering my left brain to get everything ready for right-brained moments, the preparation for the birth of optimum creativity.

The best is yet to come.

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Credits for Madame Menagerie: Model: Kimberley Davis / Stylist & dress: Leonid Gurevich / Hair: Takayoshi Tsukisawa / Makeup: Maraz using Makeup Forever / Necklace: Clara Kasavina / Bracelets & rings, all: GBGH Jewellery / Stylist assistants: Janna & Jenneka Temkins / My assistant: Maciej Jaworski & Greg Annandale / Shot at Greystone Court, New York / Shot with Nikon D800E

Painting: Menagerie by Melchior d'Hondecoeter, 1690. Cadmus & Harmonia by Evelyn de Morgan, 1877.

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Credits for Girl in a Golden Geyser: Model: Eva Valeva / Designer: Agnieszka Osipa / Stylist: Dmitri Ivanova / Hair & makeup: Daniela Avramova / Production: Miss Aniela & Profiled; Nikon Bulgaria / Lit with Priolite / Shot at Hindiyan's House, Plovdiv / Shot with Nikon D810

Fused with geyser shot in Iceland.

Seafaring Surreal Fashion on show

Four of my works from Surreal Fashion currently hang in the group show at the flagship Castle Fine Art gallery in Mayfair, 24 Bruton Street, London. The four are below: Storm Door and Swan Lake feature in large edition, Scarlet Song and Victory Voyage hang in medium edition. All prints are available in small, medium and large (for full edition details, along with credits for crew etc, see captions on www.surrealfashion.co.uk)

The show is on till 21st September 2014

Storm Door (2011)

Shot at Weston Park, UK.

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Scarlet Song (2013)

Shot in LA, features boat from 'Ships in a Fresh Breeze' by Hermanus Koekkoek (1778-1851).

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Swan Lake (2014)

Shot in the ballroom of The Ruins, Seattle US, with CreativeLive.

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Victory Voyage (2013)

Shot in London, features clouds from 1859 seascape by Marcus Larsson.

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I have not exhibited much since my busy days and six solo shows of Self-Gazing, and I am just getting back into it on a whole new exciting tangent. I am very selective about where Surreal Fashion goes on show - and I'm very happy to see them hung in Castle Fine Art's beautiful Georgian building.

Seven months; seven stars made bright by the darkness of adversity

My Evan, painted by Kellie Marian Hill

What has dawned on me lately is that maybe the worst things in life are not the big terrible shocking events, but the niggling, irritating trivial events. Whereas the former is like a pesky mosquito in your room, the former is akin to a snakebite, which may knock you unconscious but you awaken, grateful to be alive, cleansed and even rejuvenated, a detox for the soul.

Seven months on from the loss of my son Evan, I decided to list some things that this painful but enlightening experience has shown me. These are not just vague fluffy things I feel obliged to say, otherwise I wouldn't bother saying them at all. These are real, strong things that have the power to dry up hot volcanic tears. They are seven wonders of adversity, revealing true unconditional aspects of my life.

1. Food does nourish the soul, or simply 'I do love cooking'

In shock and through grief, it is common to lose appetite and motivation to spend time in the kitchen. My diet went from meticulously organic, to choix buns from Asda and boxed convenience foods. Who wants to cook when your world has fallen down? The treats helped pull me through at first, but when I got out my Woll pan again and smelt the aroma of fresh chopped onion and garlic going into the hot seasoned olive oil, and slice a crisp pile of pepper, I realised my own fresh cooked, healthy meal was far tastier, better and even easier. The cream eclairs became sickly, and soon I was becoming my old discerning self that would rather start ordering from Riverford Farms again than battle with the aisles and aisles of endless processed choice in Tesco. Adversity showed me that my healthy eating is not a fad that depends on my happiness. Healthy eating supports happiness. 2. Creativity never stops

If I were to fall victim to polarising motherhood and career, I'd tell the universe it can take back every single wonderful photography opportunity it's given me lately and return me my son at once. But I know it doesn't work like that. There is energy in making art and energy in making new life: everything is made of energy and creativity comes in many forms, we are diversely creative creatures.

During the worst parts it helped to spend time making things, not just as a distraction but as a channel. I did not feel like going out taking pictures, but creativity goes beyond your one usual medium of choice. I kept busy editing video, writing a fresh blog with new zest (this one), as well as private journalling; I released a new website even though I felt like putting myself on hold. Life does not stop. 'Whatever happens in your life... make good art.' (Neil Gaimon). Adversity showed me that art is not dependent on my happiness, but on all kinds of powerful feelings. See all of life as an opportunity for expression. There is always a way to express.

I found a painter online and commissioned the painting of Evan you see at the top of this post. Seven months down the line I cannot share pictures of my baby as other mothers can, but I can share this beautiful painting to thoroughly mark my child's existence. I also choose delicious words for his memorial stone, words like 'victory' and 'voyage' (I could write a whole new future article on the the healing power of language I am discovering). No matter what, a child of mine deserves my full expression. I make sure Evan gets the full brunt of my creative energy so in the future I can concentrate on my children to come, with an equally whole heart. And with our attention drawn to the brevity of life, the calendar has been stacked high this year so Matthew and I can continue living life to the full just as we'd want to show Evan.

3. I can appreciate simple things

Adversity has shown me the power of simple, sensory things. Movement. Breath. Birdsong. For a while after the shock, I found switching from my usual frugal toilet roll to scented paper, it was as though I needed the distracting pleasant fragrance just to get through the banality of a bathroom visit. Adversity teaches us that there is great power in being present in the moment, for it's the only way to escape the fear of what is happening or coming. And then we realise the futility of that fear, for we only ever have 'the moment'. When we engage with our senses: look up to the sky, smell a herb, take time out to properly taste our food, have a long hug, make love, exercise, laugh, sing, dance - all these things feel good because we are forced into mindfulness of the moment, not the daily tension of wolves painted by the mind.

And as I wrote in a previous post, memories and the things that we savour through our senses are ours to keep forever. Not all that we cannot physically keep, do we lose.

I'm still getting the hang of trying to be mindful. Too often I fail epically. It's something I am learning, as is the case for all these points. Knowing something, and actually feeling / doing it, are two separate things. Persistence of practice builds the great power of habit.

4. That death is not the worst thing

Death is scary because we don't understand it, but it doesn't stop the bond from a loved one to another, and I learnt this amazing truth from being forced to experience the bond from mother to child undefeated by the diagnosis and event of death.

"Death isn’t as serious as you think it is. It’s actually very enjoyable. Couldn’t be better really. And saying goodbye to the people you love isn’t as serious as it seems either, because you will meet again" -- (a message purported to be from a passed sibling, from "9 things you realise after you die")

You do not have to be religious to take comfort that death is not the end. Religion is after all a particular version of spirituality. I cannot imagine how I'd deal with family deaths if I believed that death was terrible, and is the blunt end of everything. I have entertained many theories and read mind-stretching books that I may have never opened if it were not for Evan's passing. It is proven that all energy moves on, the many theories of what and when and how and why.. are yours to explore. In our human form we can't wrap our heads around it, we are too physical. But I do believe our abilities as humans are much more than our everyday, humdrum mainstream society even cares to consider. Freed from the shackles of habit, peers and fears, we can go beyond and discover. Visit other channels of culture and knowledge for a different take. Turn off the TV, find new friends, pull at the playdough of your mind. We build our minds bespoke to see what we want to see.

Death has also put life into perspective. Before the Evan episode I was stressed about so many world issues. I have not lost my concern for them but I've refocused on the wider universe beyond this relative toy-town of a world. We make our own reality.

5. How important it was to have good wellbeing in advance

Losing a child has not torn me apart because I'd already made a healthy habit of happy and honest living. I'd suggest that the longer you avoid living true to your dreams and feelings, then the harder you make life when adversity strikes. Start being true to yourself about anything that bothers you in life. It does not mean making sudden, rash decisions - for example to exit a relationship or job right away today. But air your feelings, think without self-censoring, and plan for a well aimed leap of faith. Maybe you dream of living in another country but you fear leaving your relatives behind, a fear that suffocates your dreams in pursuit of the 'safe' option. Maybe you stay in a relationship because you fear the world outside. Or maybe there is person you want to reveal your love for. Don't be pushed around by fears, be led by your true desires. The day I left a relationship with immense difficulty but honesty, I'd got a text from my sister: 'listen to the voice inside. She knows' (except 'knows' was spelt 'kno s' in some strange text speak)

By cultivating the habit of listening to the 'voice inside', you will weather yourself for the storm of life crisis. No problem will be too heavy for the muscles of positivity, and the lens of good attitude that you built.

6. 'There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so'

That quote from Hamlet rings truer all the time to me. We are all obsessed to some degree in saying whether we like or dislike, love or hate something or someone. I'm slowly realising the pointlessness in fixing or stating my like or dislike of anything. Everything just is. Everything serves a purpose. In an argument between two people, they usually both have a point, hidden behind tangled semantics and a bypass of compassion. Everyone has their own constructed reality, inflicted on each other to become one big muddle of misunderstanding and unnecessary offence - partly why I avoid almost all mainstream media as much as possible, for it thrives on drama and tension.

So I'm even doubting that what happened to me was 'bad'. Why was it bad? A child lived a life, shorter than we expected, shorter then we wanted. Who said life gives us everything I expect or want? And who's to say I didn't get what I wanted: a child, who would live, and I would love? And then we might be thankful if our loved one does not suffer, but no-one can be fully protected from suffering, and suffering serves a form of purpose in this human experience. What would be the point of this mortal coil if we do not feel it all? When we decide to feel it all, it can make everything extraordinarily easier. Much of pain comes from resistance.

7. Female strength is the biggest kept secret in this world.

It's possibly the greatest strength in the world.

In a world built for man, woman is a mysterious misfit, her intuition a thing of legend or obsolescence for its frequent incompatibility with pound for pound productivity. And nowhere is the misunderstanding of women's power clearer than in the vast normalisation of medicalised childbirth. Woman, in the most powerful moment of her life, subdued by hands of hindrance and by her own self-sustaining belief that her body does not work without interception, when in fact it - most often - works supremely when left without distraction. In medicine, in agriculture, in science; man meddles with nature in pursuit of domination and commodification instead of seeking to understand and respect the exquisite inherent design.

How empowered I was giving birth to Evan with zero fear in my bedroom, pain absent and melancholy nowhere in sight, was nothing short of a miracle. Now I know the impossible is possible and it's up to me to be inspired by that night for the rest of my life.

It makes me even more avid to enlighten others to know women's real strength in childbearing. Rise up and sing your own long, strong, mould-breaking song; instead of chirruping along to the rhyme of fear you've been taught by teachers, media and small minds all your life. Sing your song alone if you need to, before long you might start a choir.

So there we have seven things, but my mind is a jar of kefir grains already making seventy seven more. Sometimes I think forlornly that Evan could have taught me all this even if he were alive. And then I remind myself, that's the point: death doesn't stop him. Alive or not, this child has changed my life.

A Dream and an Awakening: shooting the surreal for real with new Nikon D810

This year I found myself with a golden ticket: to be the first fashion photographer to shoot with the new Nikon D810, and commissioned to cook up two photoshoots of a Willy Wonka-esque deliciousness where Matthew and I went to town on putting the craziest things from our imaginations into reality.

Being given carte-blanche to road-test a brand new DSLR is a dream job by any photographer's standard, and we were thrilled to be selected. Soon began a dialogue with Gen from K&L Tokyo, during a series of Skype calls confidential under NDA with the camera referred to only by its code name, where the fairly open brief was set with one caveat: no Photoshop trickery allowed. This was to be Real Surreal.

What we called 'White Witch Awakening' and 'Deep Sea Dream' were soon in embryo, jigsawed together from mine and Matthew's imaginations over tea, walks and deep dream-filled sleeps. What I love about this job already, I thought, is that Gen and his clan really wanted to hear our ideas, the narrative behind them, the 'fine-art' in the 'fashion'. First we presented 4 concepts then unanimously chose the best 2. Their methodical, sobering demeanour gave way to a glint in their eyes as we talked of commissioning a 7-foot tentacle, hiring live animals and shooting in water with their precious prototypes. It all built a palpable excitement at the PDF moodboards sent to and fro: the first shoot would have a sleeping woman in a sea-filled room invaded by a tentacle and mermaid; inspired by Mert & Marcus, Gregory Crewdson's water-filled bedrooms, and B-movie style creatures of the sea. The second shoot involved a white witch conjuring stuffed animals to life: inspired by white and bright powdery Tim Walker fashion, Narnia and snow queen imagery, and the eye-widening addition of real animals (Matt: "we just have to have a vulture, soon vultures are going to be 'in!'")

The first shoot would be in an underwater studio, with a set we'd build and install with furniture, fabric 'wallpaper', mirrors, ornaments, a chandelier, right down to carefully-sought nautical details of storybook Thrills of the Seven Seas and a Jules Verne diving helmet. The second shoot was to take place in a location we were already fond of, the quintessentially English, utterly bizarre, Aynhoe Park; a mansion that gives you auto-LSD vision, a living hotel museum-cum-stately home where a polar bear in goggles greets you and a giraffe hangs suspended by balloons in the Orangery. And we were to dine in, sleep in and dominate maniac mansion itself. Yes, this was a golden ticket indeed.

We had an illustrator promptly sketch each scenario and the weeks of production planning and model casting began. Shipping in green silk from India, a redhead from Germany, French furniture from the local village, and recruiting our neighbours to build a plywood bedroom wall along with a team of divers to get it into place; hairstylist Tati Zarubova who's long worked on our London shoots, Elbie van Eeden for makeup, our trusty assistants Tim and Bernard, and Johnathan Clover for extra BTS. From the start we knew stylist Leonid Gurevich's colourful imagination was the one for the job, so we flew him and his assisting sister Marina from NY to bring our mermaid, sleeping beauty and white witch to life. Staying over with us to enjoy the environs of rural Kent, naturally, so I could make him wear my dressing gown and brew them both lavender tea nightly.

On a solid level Matt and I find commercial assignments a cinch compared to the full-on intensity of running our Fashion Shoot Experience productions. Getting one model styled instead of 6, focusing on one brief instead of 11 clients, and having one main mission to complete. But on this shoot, in some kind of wicked masochistic manner we threw in big challenges for ourselves: working in water and shooting with live animals; each with highly stylised sets, the usual styling rigmarole but with divers, animal trainers and total of 5 people from client/agency overseeing a tough four days - but four days that stretched our minds like a happy kid pulling plasticine. After all, if you've been reading my tumblr since the beginning you'll know that challenges have been on our agenda… giving us a taste for making the impossible possible, and making the most of the moment. You can resist difficulty, and shrink back; or you can say: I will take you on, and you will build my muscles.

Deep Sea Dream

First day was Build Day, building the set in water: including the set walls, covering them in fabric, hanging the chandelier, installing the tentacle, hanging the Priolites from above and adding accessories. We also tested the models in their costumes. Second day was shooting: positioning both models into the set, optimising composition, posing direction, and splashing of water around the tentacle (thanks to the work of Tall Tim's toe) so it appears animated, because as the brief went, little or no Photoshop was allowed.

Phone call overheard at lunchtime:

What did you do today Dad?

I've been carrying a mermaid...

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White Witch Awakening

This was two full days of shooting involving a series of technical briefs, one model with two looks, 'casting spells' around the house with a variety of stuffed and live animals, props and shadows. Much time went into setting up the scene for the main wide shot in the Orangery with the live zebra and all the taxidermy placed around, the 'white witch awakening' them from their spell...

Prep was heavy, from painting the panel above the door to match the scene, to building the ramp for the zebra to even get into the room. Getting the perfect final shot of the white witch and the zebra was the tough task. It had to be right, all in camera... contending with a live zebra held on a wire by its trainer, who had to hide every single pixel of himself behind the stuffed polar bear. The model had to keep her arms raised for many minutes and look engaged with a shuffling wild animal who was more interested in the fog from the dry ice we had to put away in the end. The props were continually tweaked to make the ideal framing, the army of people behind me needed to keep every intruding limb well back, and on top of all that, we awaited the key factor: the sun to come out from the cloud to spill into the room and make the shot magical. The pressure was on, and when it all got too much there was tea on hand to help.

Close up:

I absolutely loved working on this project and professed on twitter to find it more exciting than the prospect of the Vogue cover. It gave us licence to dream up a production that our own passion burned for, but with a real end usage that gave it commercial clout beyond the usual free reins I have in my fine art. The technical brief kept it contained and gave me tight focus. Images would be examined on the desktop for scrutiny from a creative director, technical director and communications director and the tiniest focal issue would require reshooting till it was right, and phewing when it was perfect. As a fine-art photographer, I never felt compromised or truly frustrated, because our artistic vision was only appropriate insofar as theirs, and it gave me great satisfaction to keep trying to draw those lines between the dots of my abilities, and the dots of their requirements. In the creative industry, eloping with your ego is pointless when your client puts the bread on the table. Take corrections, know who's boss, know why you have been hired and deliver that.

Watch Nikon's beautifully cinematic BTS reel above, where you can also find out more about my technical experience of the D810. (There's also another video looking more at technical kit here). When I first saw the D810's shots the quality looked like medium format - and that was just the JPEGs. The camera has been improved from the D800E on several levels, with richer tonality and a broad dynamic range. I found the transition highly rewarding as well as seamless, like upgrading your glasses prescription. Certainly the 'pinnacle of DSLR quality' yet, it's crucial gear as I go forward with making bigger and better artworks.

I do such a mix of projects that it's nice to work on a traditional photography assignment, where everyone was working hard on their chink in the chain to bring these final images to completion. Whilst Matt had done the majority of the pre-production planning, I took the lead on shooting direction, often barking orders just to make sure I got the perfect shot of that zebra he'd had the hair-brained idea of getting for us. Then there was the flamingo who was happy enough to sit and shake its head at falling white petals, and the vulture, with metre-length wing span either side, who would intermittently attempt to fly away from the back of the stuffed lion we posed it on. None of the animals seemed to scare the model Mimi, and with her demeanour and perfect complexion that needed no Photoshop, we knew we'd picked the perfect woman, thankfully encouraged - and not deterred - by Matt's initial "compliment" during casting: "You're a perfect, up-and-coming white witch"...

It all ended with a grand finale dinner at Aynhoe Park in its dining hall filled with dozens of globes and animals wearing hats, before we all went our separate ways, coincidentally bumping into K&L and Nikon at the same torrential waterfall in Iceland a few days later!

Over the following weeks I edited the final shots (with a few tiny Photoshop allowances on the finale image from each shoot) and waited till the day we could share this blog post about our top-secret mission: the Nikon D810 is here.

Thank you sincerely Nikon and K&L, for a wonderful privilege, and another adventure to add to life's tapestry.

Gently coaxing a frisky zebra into place...

Select finished shots will be posted larger on Facebook over the coming fortnight.

What are you worth?

What is success? Where do you want to be? How do I answer this question after 8 years of being a photographer?

When you turn down a paid job because you don't feel it's going to benefit your direction. When you value your work to the point where you consider it a credit to a potential gallery, magazine, publisher, and not just 'any that'll have you'. When it's beyond delusion or mere insistence now: it's true belief. Things start to slot into place and make sense. You go out actively to seek the entity that deserves you and do not stop looking because you know your work's worth: it's just a matter of time. Rejection means nothing, it just adds to the journey of finding the people and things that gel with your work at a certain timing - you don't take it personally, we're all humans with arbitrary quirky opinions. You know your level, but you also understand the evolution ahead to get to the next level. All in good time, we are endlessly learning. You're confident in what you've done yet know your best work's always to come. But success might be when you know, above all, that no handout is worth more than your desire to succeed. It is not the pile of money, but the money tree that is the real asset, in the garden of life where there are plenty of other trees too... money is after all, just a necessary thing to get us through this system, and real wealth is spiritual. Your work constantly reminds you of that, for you did not choose it for money, and yet it has the potential to make as much as you want - or as little as you need. In rags or riches, your life is rich from the inside. Now that is success, that is the place to be.

Don't wait till you die to meet your soul

Common are the days prone to stress about societal inadequacies, usually involving pondering financial outlook, anxious about when we will be able to buy a house or new car... I have those days, and they stem from childhood where I'd worry about the silliest things in the middle of the night, like a broken test tube in my Chemistry Set.

But what I am finding increasingly, are days where I feel disgusted by the opposite: by my consumption. Ashamed that I eat animals, burn fossil fuels, and like most people, obediently organise my life around making money. Reviled by my place in a vast assembly hall of hamster wheels all chasing ego, status and power, a bottomless pit. A society so disconnected from nature that it knows not what damage it causes by simply taking a flight abroad or being so 'loyal' to our weekly supermarket shop that Tesco becomes Tesco Bank; a society blinkered to think that in capitalism there are no limits, that we can always be richer, better, get more bang for our buck with no consequence, heck, even live for 200 years once science invents a pill. The human race, arrogant to think the planet is here for them, that all living things serve them, that they can't be wiped out like fleas, that it can in fact replace nature; declaring chemical warfare on crops and on people just as easily, a big boot stamping on nature instead of working with it, an army of fools shooting itself in the foot and then bandaging it up repeatedly. A society that does nothing for the planet but suck it dry, over and over, lords of a system that is expecting the universe on a credit card, bigger and better, shinier and vacuum-packed, decreasingly willing to lift a finger to even flush their own shit into gallons of fresh water, so it designs a self-flushing toilet whilst every day on the other side of the world 60,000 people starve to death.

They are days I feel the world on my shoulders, but I remind myself I am not the only one to be plagued with such thoughts. Comfort comes from how those huge worries, being on the other side of the spectrum to personal and financial worries, can offset the urgency of both and make me plot up somewhere in the middle: telling myself 'I'm doing ok' on both ends: to be enough of a success to put food into my mouth, and at least have the strength to meditate on how I want to do something more.

I am lucky to be able to do something I love for a living, but that does not mean I feel like my soul purpose is being fulfilled. Just doing something enjoyable doesn't mean I feel like my life is serving a worthwhile purpose other than being a parasite on the earth.

Afternoons of introspection remind me that there is the the ego and there is the soul, and they make their distinction through these different types of thoughts. They are in competition. The ego wants cash, clout, praise, never-ending satiation; but the soul strains for something else, and is in union with all other living things, if we learn to listen to it. Lately I read an article called "Are you committed to your soul's integrity":

"Every day, you are probably asked to do something that requires you to betray your soul’s integrity... Every time you betray the truth of your soul, you split from your true self, and every time you do this, a little piece of you withers away, taking it with it your health and vitality.

"...something magical happens when you commit to aligning with your soul... Don’t be surprised if miracles start happening.

"Are you willing to go outside your comfort zone to stand for what is true for you? Do you know your soul well enough to know when you’re compromising your soul’s integrity? Are you willing to let your soul take the driver’s seat in your decision making?"

My strongest life example to relate to this was last year, in deciding to carrying my baby Evan to term, whereupon that decision I was relieved of heaviness and sent a feeling of lightness and peace, remarkable for the sad situation I was in. By listening to my heart, I realise I allowed my soul to take a step forward. The swish of its cloak wafted a new scent into days to come and that is why I consider it not simply a 'devastating' experience, but a 'rich' and 'surreal' one.

But, everyday life and career poses a constant challenge to continue asking what my soul wants and how to live it. It's a Rubik's cube that we all fumble with, but happy for those who know it's a Rubik's cube and not an ornament that sits idly on our mantelpiece. I'm determined I'll never stop playing with it even if the colours never all match into place. I see, from a mile off, the futility of a life so busy working to conserve coins and notes that will half be robbed from our dead bodies by the taxman anyway before it can be given to our own children. Money is a fake wealth, lifelong busybodies saying look over here! whilst your 'inner pilot light' dejectedly streams a small sad wisp of smoke in the corner. I will trust the mysterious swishing cloak of my soul to prioritise a greater wealth, even if it takes all my years for my brain and its purse-watching forecast/fearcast to catch up. I hope a wealth of adventure, love and expression - and somehow doing something worthwhile for this world - will have cheekily pipped it to the post.

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