I recently found an old folder that I used when taking a Photography class in NYU around 2005. During this time I had writers block and had quit music. For almost three years I done nothing creative and worked solely on getting rid of my debts and settling into my new NYC life. Frustration began to show due to my artless existence so Marisa pushed me into taking a photograph class at NYU. Each week we learned about the science and art of photography. Building our own cameras and experimenting with different techniques. I loved it, I’d been interested in photography since I was young but never pursued it as a career. It was too much fun. 
In the folder I found some old photos I took during the class. I scanned them and posted them below. 
The class got my creative juices flowing and the following year after much procrastinating I decided to try comedy. This then led to everything I do now including a return to music. I view those three years as a reset. I work even harder than I ever did before. Anyway, I’m not in the mood to write about “art” or “creativity” right now. Let’s just say I’m glad I took the class. 

Old Day Job
Handsome Devil

Lessons Through Photography


When I was nine years old, my aunt bought me a camera for my birthday. She was an air hostess for British Airways and had a knack for picking up weird and unusual gifts from far away places. That year I received a Zenit-E Russian 35mm SLR camera manufactured somewhere in the grim seventies by the Krasnogorsk Mechanical Factory (KMZ) a little outside of Moscow. I guess she picked it up second hand on her recent visit there.

It was a fully manual SLR with a light meter above the lens. Shutter speeds ranged between 1/30 to 1/500 s, and had a bulb setting with cable release for long exposures. It also had a built in timer on the front casing which ticked down like a time bomb. It was magic.

In Russia it was known as rugged and reliable, hence its popularity. To me it was something to be dissected and understood. I removed everything I could with my father’s crude shed tools and set about learning how it worked. Being rugged, it turned out, was vital while in my clumsy hands and victim to the many over sized screwdrivers and dull pliers I could find.

In no time I was able to not just operate it, but understand it after a few short hours poking its innards. I loved watching its mysteries slowly unwind; the snapping iris, jumping canvas shutter and spinning clogs and levers that dragged fresh film from the cartridge and rolled it all the way back again. Over time and many failed results from the local pharmacy, I worked out the basics, balancing light, clarity, depth and color using only levers and dials. It was my own portable chemistry lab fueled only by light. My only expense was the film.

I took the camera everywhere and photographed everything. I talked about it to anyone who would listen and slowly but surely rose up the rankings to an impressive 20% success rate. That is, of the 24 shots on a roll I was producing at least 5 or 6 good ones. I bought a photo book and called it “The Good Ones Book,” posting all the good shots inside it. My mother, my dog Sam, my late cousin Paul, my late great grandmother Whealan, the Concorde when it landed in Dublin airport, and an unhealthy number of pictures of the sky all fell into the “The Good Ones Book”.

As the digital age arrived I held onto my Zenith-E and refused to upgrade. I had seen the 2 & 3 mega pixel photographs and they represented reality just as Madam Tussauds represented real people. All warmth and depth was substituted for convenience. That could be a metaphor for modern living but I couldn’t be arsed exploring it. I also had no money. It was a little more than that though. I loved that camera, we had history. It was a gift from a member of my family, from the side that never really showed much affection. It was also very heavy which I’ve always associated with meaning that it was expensive.    

On January 2002 I left home to backpack around the world and that rugged little camera was the first thing I packed. Recently I found an old travel journal and have been having some fun reading through old entries and emails. I found this entry below, the sorry end to my friend. I don’t know why the love suddenly stopped. I’m guessing the constant heat, the weight of the camera and the 20% success rate took it’s toll and made this entry necessary.  

…on Tuesday we’re traveling to Port Dixon and then onto Malacca, Malaysia. The following day we take a bus overnight to Singapore where hopefully i`ll pick up a cheap Discman and maybe a new camera! The huge Zenith-E 1970 Russian made camera I’ve being carrying around is still very hit and miss so i`ll try to sell it! It’s an antique.

When I arrived in Singapore I bought a new camera, an SLR just like the Zenith but with a 100% success rate. Everything was automatic, no dials or levers and to be honest, it was a lot less fun to operate. Everyone else bought digital cameras but I stuck with what I knew. I could not bring myself to sell the Zenith in the end, and now I was lugging around two rather large heavy cameras in my backpack. I loved it, we would work something out. We’d been together since I was nine. Whatever frustration I had felt was now gone.

Unfortunately bad luck struck when I got to Perth, Australia. Due to some serious money issues I walked to a local used camera store one day and sold it for $30 out of absolute desperation. Heavy no longer meant expensive, I learned. It was a dark day indeed and the memory of leaving it behind in the shop window stayed with me for a very long time.

Below are some random photographs (badly scanned) I took in no particular order with the Zenith-E. In retrospect I could not have picked a better camera to take with me through deserts, jungles and filthy overcrowded cities. It was dropped, kicked, splashed with water, caked in dust and covered in sand but I could always fix it with what I had on hand. It never failed to give me its best 20%–and that’s better than most people I know.

Zenith-E  Photographes 2002


An American Tank in the jungle close to the Chu Chi Tunnels, just outside Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon) Vietnam. I remember putting my fingers in the deep bullet indentations of its hard metal. You can see two on the end of the turret. A local explained how the tank had its track blown off and caught fire. It lay in an area that had become a bizarre tourist attraction promoted by the government.

Tonle Sap Lake, Cambodia.
We were to take a small boat to meet up with a ferry that would sail us down Tonle Sap Lake from Siem Reap to Phnom Penh, Cambodia. A pickup truck gathered us from our $1 a night motel to the lake shore. As we boarded the comically small boat, its wood creaked and moaned until eventually giving way and sank at the shore line. We were going to miss our ferry! A passing motorboat was flagged down and a few of us boarded it with our heavy bags and gave chase. By the time we got there it was so overloaded we had to sit on its roof. We sailed forever under the baking sun and I managed to avoid sunburn with creative use of a towel, a hat and SPF 50 suncream. That’s my mate Stephen reading in the bottom left. 
Mekong River, Vietnam.

The locals go about their business.


My ex-girlfriend’s feet somewhere in Cambodia in a $1 a night motel. It was always so hot we never once slept below the covers.

Traders, Vietnam. 
School Bus/Boat, Vietnam.
Floating Village, Vietnam.

A floating village which I think was near Chau Doc in the An Giang province. I have a vague memory of sitting on a long narrow boat passing through this eery place. All of it floated in silence on the water, including the power cables–one of which we had to duck under in order to pass through.

Muslim School, Vietnam.
We visited a small town in which the population was entirely Muslim, not too far from the floating village. This isolated minority were flourishing deep inside an overwhelmingly Buddhist country. The locals let us enter a school house to watch the children have lessons. They seemed quite excited by it all, as were we. 
The Killing Fields, Cambodia. 

There were hundreds of skulls on display at the various sites we visited. It was a sobering experience, seeing so many human remains. The memorials, mass graves and our visit to S-21 left a lasting impression on me for a long time after. When I was walking around taking various photographs I had only one thought in my mind, that these once were people.

In amongst all this horror you could be suddenly swamped by a group of happy children demanding that you give them pens. Up to this point on our trip we had been asked for money or pressured into buying goods we didn’t need. Being harassed for pens because the local schools didn’t supply them was a welcome relief.

Brother & Sister, Vietnam

Our bus stopped on the road for reasons I can’t remember. The older sister was taking her younger brother somewhere when they stopped to watch us out of curiosity. They spoke no English but I managed to get them to pose for this shot.


Stephen was snatched from the street by two very excited children who wanted him to meet their family. Stephen is the most stubborn person I have ever met but these kids really wore him down. They tugged at him with every ounce of strength and were unrelenting in bringing their find home. I managed to grab this shot just after he surrendered to them.

Angkor Wat, Cambodia.
Fish Market, Mekong River, Vietnam. 
Mother & Daughter pose on the Mekong River, Vietnam.

Sunset at The Angkor Wat Temples, Siem Reap, Cambodia.

It took a lot of time to set up every shot with the Zenith. This along with it’s 20% success rate meant I had to choose carefully each photograph that I took. There was limited film and if I really liked what I was shooting I’d take two for safety. Each shot meant something, it suddenly became excitement and anticipation that I carried with me everywhere until the roll was developed. Even the ugly ones. This slow and deliberate approach remains a habit even now when I snap something with my iPhone.

The main difference now is that with the Zenith, I was forced to have conversations with whomever I was photographing. I had to be there. There were no quick snaps. I’d have to set it up while making conversation just to pass the time so the subject wouldn’t lose patience and walk away or hide in the growing shadows. The moment itself and not just the shot were captured. I remember standing with my great grandmother explaining why she couldn’t move while I took her picture due to the bad light. The same for my cousin. I remember those moments more than the photographs themselves. That’s what was special for me. All those beautiful moments, like standing in a field wishing my pockets were bursting with pens so I could throw them like confetti over a dark and ugly place.


Off The Beaten Path

Most nights I walk the five and a half miles home from work for exercise. Unfortunately the quickest and most direct route cuts through some of the ugliest parts of Queens. Heavy industry flavors the air while wastelands and half forgotten cemeteries provide quiet sleeping areas for Canadian overnight truckers and their empty cargo. Fathers teach their daughters to drive on empty streets and dogs are let free from their leash by texting owners. It always makes for a sobering passage home. I use the time to think and plan out my evening, my week and on occasion if feeling brave, events past Christmas.
Last week I took a detour and explored a little off the beaten path. I discovered an action movie being shot, abandoned luxurious apartments with stellar views of the city anchored in the slums that fell victim to the property crash and witnessed an entire building get demolished as guard dogs tried to bite through metal fences to get to me. Did you know that there is a man that lives alone in a Winnebago on the off ramp of the Long Island Expressway? 
My greatest find was the below photograph. “NOTHING HAPPENS UNLESS FIRST A DREAM” and the blank billboard board before it.            

I remember years back walking home by the same route and a tune found it’s way into my head. The old post is here if you’re interested.

…It’s Good To Be Alive: Walking Home

Diner on The Edge of America

Once a month I meet up with two good friends of mine for coffee. We always meet at the same diner, same time and sit in the same section. Michael is a fellow Irishman and an incredibly talented stage actor while Jeff is what I would consider one of the funniest comics I’ve ever met. I love our coffee meet-ups, we talk about anything and everything. As the youngest and least experienced I’ve learned a lot from them both over the years. I’m very lucky.   

The last time we met up I noticed a photographer outside the diner taking photographs. He was there for the entire evening but I paid him little notice. Tonight while having coffee the same photographer approached our table upon recognizing us. He showed us the below photograph which is part of a project called Diner on The Edge of America. Kinda cool methinks. It was a very random and lovely end to our evening. 

I love this kind of inside outside image that for me gives you the increased feeling of being there…it’s like the city is seeping into the diner…into the thoughts of the people inside…the city and the people are never separate not in New York…never in the Diner on the Edge of America – Jez Coulson.

Check out Jez Coulson’s website here for his photography.