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Posted on Saturday December 10th 2011 at 9:08 a.m.
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Turn your back on surfing? Not really an option, but I have once or twice stood in the shorey thinking I'm done. Heading for the coast brimming with expectation, only to fall so far, high-hopes of sweet surf relief dashed by the crowd, hassled out by the attitudinal fighting over funked up conditions. It can at times be all too much.
Enough, at least, to cause a shift in focus. A looking deeper into the smaller moments of the whole, honouring what you have, the experience, the glass half full. I guess its a change in expectations, or learning acceptance, or giving up?
There are the hardcore out there that will disagree; those to whom scoring better waves than you means everything, and sacrifice suffices. But as I float eyeballs half and half above and below the sunset-tinted seawater, even if that crystalline lip I'm framing as it pitches out is only one point five feet tall, there's stoke and enthrallment and a momentary magic that equates to happiness.
And I don't think there is a scale to happiness. It doesn't directly relate to wave size I've found anyway ñ though there's other juicy adjectives: rush, amp, adrenaline, bravery, that make life's ride a little more intense if you're on a boomer.
But its all about what you're looking for. And waves do tend to mirror people in the sense that whether big or small, good or bad, each and every one are the best at what they are. Get that, and literally a whole ocean of possibilities open up to you.
My surfing photography started with trying to get a few shots of my brother and friends, and progressed with fortune (not to be mistaken with financial security) into a regular slot in the surf magazines. The drill became to find the best surfers on the best waves, and anything less kind of didn't count. As a fellow photog put it, ìif I can't get a cover out of it, I won't shoot.
Here we get to an impasse. I just loved shooting, and even if the light sucked and the guys out surfing weren't that good, I'd still spend hours out there snapping away. It taught me a patience and benevolence that led me away from striving for the perfect and towards a celebration of the individual. Which in turn led me to a more art photography ideal, rather than a magazine expose.
And so we get to the Wet Colour project. The first installment (my first ever solo exhibition) ran to very positive reviews at the Depot Artspace in Devonport, Auckland in January and February of this year. It was a nerve-racking, ego-rubbing experience that brought a sense of success and belief in my artistic vision. I even made some money. And it sure was cool to see an entire white-walled gallery jam-packed with colourful spinning waves captured at my favorite spots.
It was enough of a positive experience to send me back down to the Depot recently to ask about the possibility of exhibiting again sometime. It just so happened there'd been a cancellation and their OuterSpace gallery was free for the lead up to Christmas. All of a sudden, my second exhibition of 2011 became a reality. I knew I had the shots (I'm out there shooting hot waves as much as I can) but the next six weeks were nonetheless a process of belief. Suffering for your art seems to be somehow the rite of passage one must take if you want to achieve uniqueness. It takes dedication - in this instance pouring epoxy until 4am off the back of my day job, living in a makeshift hotbox of movable Styrofoam walls to speed up the curing time, and literally sanding through my thumbs.
For the last 3 weeks it was pretty full-on, it was total immersion in the work of presentation, echoing the images origins: from the sea, and of total focus on my subject when I shoot.
Immersion iit seemed a good fit.
The show is open right now and runs until 21st December at The Depot Artspace Gallery, 28 Clarence Street, Devonport, North Shore, Auckland. (Behind the New World Supermarket). Free entry!!
Check out www.facebook.com/wetcolour and www.depotartspace.co.nz, or contact Rowan on 0212527970 or rjklevstul@clear.net.nz for more details.