Thirty years an adult

 

Warm wishes to Scotland’s new Makar (National Poet) Kathleen Jamie. A brilliant and timely appointment. 

 

“Kathleen is a highly accomplished poet who is known for her works in English and Scots, and the meaningful connections her writing draws between our lives and the landscape around us.”  

Nicola Sturgeon, Scottish Poetry Library, August 18th 2021.

 

Twenty nine years ago, just fresh from graduating, I was commissioned by the Scottish National Portrait Gallery to photograph Kathleen at home in Fife, and later to write a piece to go alongside the portrait in ‘Light From The Darkroom’ at the Royal Scottish Academy. The full piece is re-printed below. It was a treat to photograph Kathleen, over the years since I have grown addicted to her beautiful poetry and exquisite prose. 

 

Kathleen Jamie :: 1992 

 

I was nervous of meeting Kathleen Jamie, doubly so as our first scheduled meeting fell through. I got half way to Fife before I turned back as there was still no answer to my phone calls. She phoned later that day to apologise - dinner with friends the night before had spilled over too far into today. Could we arrange another day ? Perhaps this is why she was so generous with her time when we did meet - I spent the best part of a day with her, thankfully as it was only right at the end of the day that I got my picture. When we met, there was a quiet strength and intensity about her that I knew it would difficult to convey in a portrait. I also felt her wariness of me. 

 

She took me on one of her regular walks, me tagging along burdened with camera bags as she politely answered my questions. She walked every day and I guessed she was slowing her pace for me as I frantically searched for the right place for our picture. Can we try a picture under this tree ... on this bridge ... in the park ... I hoped she couldn't sense the inner turmoil as I struggled to capture something of her on film. I had searched for clues in her work, clipped rhetoric where every line sang with a richness and love of language, but had decided I must go with what I felt when I met her. Now here I was, and I was toiling. I began to worry that she might sense this. She wondered aloud about photographers creating images of 'fey poets ... staring into the middle distance'. I felt warned off. Time for a break. 

 

After lunch, a roll from the corner shop, lacking any further inspiration, I showed her some of my pictures. I don't know if this changed something, but somehow I felt she let down her guard a bit. She showed me round her home, a Fife High Street house with tiny rooms. Her partner Phil was busy doing some serious renovations, and though the sitting room was furnished, I didn't see any writing desk. She had been evasive when I'd asked earlier where she wrote, but now it seemed that she felt she could trust me enough to let me into her secret. She lowered a trap door and a ladder slipped down. I followed her up to find a tiny space crammed with outdoor walking gear. Half hidden was a tiny door to her room beyond. 

 

Kathleen explained that the room was empty as she had just packed for a University post in Canada, and I tried to sound casual as I asked if she minded if I went back down for my camera bag. I left all the lighting and medium format gear I had carefully packed and hurried back up the stairs, my heart racing that perhaps I had it this time. I was just in time to catch the intense sheen from the shaft of light creeping through the window of her attic hideaway. The room was so tiny I had to use a wider lens than I would have liked, but I couldn't have hoped for more in the final picture. 

 

The clues are all in there, the typewriter, the dictionary, the postcard from her travels, but it is the inner strength of her pose, the searching self containment of her expression, the grace of those hands and the unearthly quality of light that make this one of the favourite pictures I've ever taken. For me the picture of Kathleen will always be about the processes of inspiration and creation, and the memories it holds of that whole day struggling to get a picture that only came once I stopped looking so hard.