I fell in love with photography when I was 13 years old. Credit goes to my parents for that, as they decided to send me to summer school that year. Well, it wasn’t exactly summer school. More like educational courses were being offered for the summer and they took place at a local institute of learning, so to my mind it was summer school, which was a fate worse than death for a 13 year old kid. Particularly one such as myself who had all kinds of nothing lined up for the holiday stretch. My parents would have none of it, however, and decided that I’d spend 9:00am – 12:00pm from Monday to Friday for a month taking part in an activity of my choice. Or else.
Of all the courses on offer photography was the only one that held any sort of appeal. It was either that or I could learn how to needlepoint my way to boredom by weaving fake Persian rugs. And so, off I went bitching and complaining that first day of July wondering why life was so goddamn unfair, determined not to enjoy myself. The world would pay for putting me through such misery as having to spend my summer holidays frickin’ learning stuff. My parents would rue the day they sent me away to be lectured by teachers with no real lives to speak of. I would make a mockery of their decision by being the worst student in the history of summer school-ism…
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