SHANGHAI

Nanjing Lu leaves nothing to the imagination, a capitalist monstrosity eating away at the very heart of China’s communist struggle. The Bund, Technology Park, People’s Park, modern Pudong and even the French quarter follow in its ravenous footsteps. It’s just not China, at least not the China I expected. Heading away from tooting taxis and angry hordes of money-wielding tourists I wander through the backstreets of central Shanghai, twisting and turning ever further from the glistening Metropolis and its Starbucks sheep.

As tall glass buildings give way to low-rise suburbia the street life builds, just a few side stalls selling Gerbils and freshly cut pineapples at first, then chatty hair salons and busy cafes, carpenters tapping mindlessly, antique traders screaming through megaphones, and suddenly you’re center-stage in an unfinished Sino-Shakespearean masterpiece. In Shanghai, the old China exists by thriving at street-level; hairdressers and butchers deftly slicing their meat as if the same, fish mongers man-handling yesterday’s catch from shallow coffins, dropping them on the ubiquitous scale-encrusted wooden chopping block, hacking and scraping until satisfied.

Toads hang in nets, gerbils share tanks with terrapins, pigeons display to the highest bidder, and crabs routinely make a bid for freedom while meaningless arguments distract their stall owners. Sound and colour visually erupt from all directions, cornered by crimson-red blood sailing its way down the gutter, passing glistening scales and entrails of all descriptions. Quacking ducks get plucked from tiny cages and plunged headfirst into boiling hell, their screech drowned by the latest romantic ballad to eject itself from the speakers next door. Volume at 11, naturally.

Happily, no one seems to notice the lone wanderer, and sidestepping a few unidentifiable objects I make my way past squirming shells, blue lobsters, hairy crabs and their less-hairy cousins tied up into neat little bundles ready to drop in the pot. Steam and incense bellow from cook-pots and cloud an already dazzled vision, and I finally step in something so viscous it almost takes my shoe off. Exhausted I find myself off the main thoroughfare and sit at a small table, order a cold Tsingtao with noodles and watch the chaos continue for an hour or two, everything ticking along just like clockwork.

Shanghai Skyline

 D4 / 14 – 24 f2.8 / Pudong

A slight but determined drizzle descends through the eerie yellow mist shrouding Pudong’s glistening heights, fusing with the perilous waters of the Huangpu, violently churning and chopping as a billion white crests displace tarpaulin-covered barges to safe harbour downstream. A sandstorm hailing from the dry deserts of Xin Jiang silently drapes the cityscape like a veil, Shanghai’s famous baby blue lost through impenetrable tones of mustard and coffee. Black umbrellas burst to life as eager tourists choose to brave the gritty weather, posing for photos against the apocalyptic background of wet concrete and sandy glass, grinning white teeth shimmering through noxious mists like Cheshire cats.
Pulling my raincoat closer, I shoulder the saturated 500mm and set off down a deserted Nanjing Lu, hop-scotching loose paving stones as wet sand falls from the sky, filling in the city cracks like oil on canvas.

Pudong

D4 / 70 – 200 f2.8 / The Huangpu

Yu Yuan

D700 / 70- 200 f2.8 / Yu Yuan Yuan

The Burbs

D4 / 70 – 200 f2.8 / Shanghai suburbs

1933

D4 / 14 – 24 f2.8 / 1933

1933 Shanghai

#6

 D4 / 14 – 24 f2.8 / Shanghai backstreets

A Dream Within A Dream

D4 / 14 – 24 f2.8 / Shanghai backstreets

A Missing Bar

D4 / 70 – 200 f2.8 /  Shanghai backstreets

Out To Dry

D4 / 70 – 200 f2.8 /  Shanghai backstreets

Street Food

D4 / 70 – 200 f2.8 /  Shanghai backstreets

Huangyaguan Changcheng

Maurice is first to slip under the main gate, deftly ducking and rolling under the China-red wrought iron gate, and with an almighty creak unbolts the locked blockade from inside. The monolithic gateway gently swings outwards, leaving just enough space for us to slide through before locking it tight once again…

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The Great Wall

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WHY #10IMG?

After 15 years shooting digital, my field-work attitude had shifted for the worse; I became accustomed to the high FPS my Nikons could turn over, became lazy when bracketing for HDR, began to abuse high ISO, just accepting the grain in all weather. I’d even leave my tripod at home and just make do with image stabilistion. Above all, I’d become lazy, relying on technology to finish a process I’d start in my mind. I didn't start like that during my analog days; back then it was sacrilege to 'fill the buffer', as it were - we thought, composed, and captured with each and every click. Romanticised maybe, but true.

So I changed.

Capturing one solid image for a collection is pretty easy, anyone can take a great image with a bit of skill, practise, and luck. Seriously, anyone. Two great images - still not hard and sometimes they even look good together. Three, four, and five start taxing the cranium; you need to start thinking ahead, above, and beyond. You start to sweat. Working up to ten images takes dedication, time, and skill, but once you have your collection, you get a real sense of achievement.

Forcing ourselves to select a limited number of images amongst an infinite number of possibilities enables us to think deeper about our photography, it gives us motivation and focus during times of lack-luster malaise, and it aligns our thoughts, encouraging exploration and thematic expression in collections.

IOIMG isn't typically about obsessive image matching for competitions or exhibitions (although I'd go so far as to say the images in your collections should, in some way, compliment each other), nor is it particularly constrained when choosing subjects or themes for image pools; I like to use  IOIMG as more of a guiding principle designed to help maintain standards and encourage exploration in my photography as I explore the many different avenues within the discipline.

Without a guide, we'd get lost.

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