Scenes of summer: capturing Brighton in a photograph
Photo by Isobel Turner
As an avid photographer, looking to join the fashion industry, I am fascinated by people. All people. I love to find beauty in every person that falls before my eyes; whether it be a glint in a pair of smiling eyes, or the tree-like pattern that forms under the skin from trails of veins, spiralling to the heart, I spot uniqueness in individuals and worship the stories it gives to me. I guess you could say I love people-watching. Brighton is the perfect place to unravel these tales; as I sit between the paint-cracked railings, I watch the loveable and eccentric city perform, gathering people from all backgrounds and ages into a bubble of acceptance as their personal expressions seep out into the warming atmosphere that this place allows.
It's cloudless. A little girl, no older that five, is singing her heart out from the ground below me; her parents gazing on from the comfort of their hammock. Their exuberant dog is frolicking in the sandy pebbles, playing whole-heartedly with a seagull who is so desperately trying to nab the chips from the elderly couple on the withering bench beside the girl. There are locals, like me, and there are tourists, bustling about without the faintest idea that they are being observed by the teen on the ground. Groups of young women blissfully wander along the beach, scoping out the best place to settle down with a book in the sun. Men stride ahead of the family, insisting on knowing the way to the pier as their children drag behind wailing about the rock with a name that their older sister lobbed into the deep waves of the south coast. My mind is invisible to the people around me but their stories give me insights into human behaviour that are invaluable. There is a woman in a wheelchair on the decking below me, devoting her time to the wellbeing of her beach hut. She cares for the chrysanthemum on the porch as her child, nourishing it with hydration and sunlight and encouraging it to bloom by whistling sweet melodies, reflecting the rich colouring and timid fragrance of the flower.
The peeling fencing creates a shabby, yet artistic, tasteful distance between me and the beach-goers. With the sun beaming down, soaking the people in warmth and glowing nutrients, families stay on the beach for a couple of hours at the most before giving in to the cooling shade of their hotel balcony, but the sandcastles that lay daringly close to the thirsty waves remain untouched for days until another child makes the powerful decision either to destroy the lovingly crafted creation with a single mighty kick, or contribute their own fine skills to fortify the dilapidated sand structure with moats leading to the deep depths of the ocean and rock formations to protect the walls from the oncoming battles of other children.
Looking to the left, I see a young man leaning against the rusty iron railings reading a copy of Dickens’ Great Expectations that looks like it has been dropped in the bath one too many times; just right of him, sitting in the shade under an umbrella in one of the many friendly seafront cafés is another man, around the same age, reading a much newer, or well looked after, copy of the same book; they are both so unaware of the similarities between them, just metres apart from each other as if destiny itself has drawn the two together to meet. I left too soon to see if they would ever find each other. Unknown to the rest of the city, I left my spot between the railings to quench my rising thirst with a beverage from the friendly café. I took one last shot of the seafront with my Nikon camera and the parents of the little singing girl on the pebbles below asked if I could capture their story with the camera in my hand.
Josie Gilbert, Year 12
It's cloudless. A little girl, no older that five, is singing her heart out from the ground below me; her parents gazing on from the comfort of their hammock. Their exuberant dog is frolicking in the sandy pebbles, playing whole-heartedly with a seagull who is so desperately trying to nab the chips from the elderly couple on the withering bench beside the girl. There are locals, like me, and there are tourists, bustling about without the faintest idea that they are being observed by the teen on the ground. Groups of young women blissfully wander along the beach, scoping out the best place to settle down with a book in the sun. Men stride ahead of the family, insisting on knowing the way to the pier as their children drag behind wailing about the rock with a name that their older sister lobbed into the deep waves of the south coast. My mind is invisible to the people around me but their stories give me insights into human behaviour that are invaluable. There is a woman in a wheelchair on the decking below me, devoting her time to the wellbeing of her beach hut. She cares for the chrysanthemum on the porch as her child, nourishing it with hydration and sunlight and encouraging it to bloom by whistling sweet melodies, reflecting the rich colouring and timid fragrance of the flower.
The peeling fencing creates a shabby, yet artistic, tasteful distance between me and the beach-goers. With the sun beaming down, soaking the people in warmth and glowing nutrients, families stay on the beach for a couple of hours at the most before giving in to the cooling shade of their hotel balcony, but the sandcastles that lay daringly close to the thirsty waves remain untouched for days until another child makes the powerful decision either to destroy the lovingly crafted creation with a single mighty kick, or contribute their own fine skills to fortify the dilapidated sand structure with moats leading to the deep depths of the ocean and rock formations to protect the walls from the oncoming battles of other children.
Looking to the left, I see a young man leaning against the rusty iron railings reading a copy of Dickens’ Great Expectations that looks like it has been dropped in the bath one too many times; just right of him, sitting in the shade under an umbrella in one of the many friendly seafront cafés is another man, around the same age, reading a much newer, or well looked after, copy of the same book; they are both so unaware of the similarities between them, just metres apart from each other as if destiny itself has drawn the two together to meet. I left too soon to see if they would ever find each other. Unknown to the rest of the city, I left my spot between the railings to quench my rising thirst with a beverage from the friendly café. I took one last shot of the seafront with my Nikon camera and the parents of the little singing girl on the pebbles below asked if I could capture their story with the camera in my hand.
Josie Gilbert, Year 12
