Nice to Know You

It’s virtually impossible to do a blog post on Nice in France without some kind of pun in the title! And in truth I have been getting to know Nice, in spite of the somewhat inclement weather.

My first day was one of those hazy, muggy, dreary, drizzly days. Not with the dramatic kind of rain that suddenly gives way to bright sunshine offset against black skies and maybe even a rainbow for good measure, like a ‘forgive me’ card for having been a bit mean. No, the only pleasure I enjoyed was that lovely essence of damp honeysuckle and roses. Which is great, but unfortunately not something you can photograph! So my late morning traverse up the hillside to look down on the bay – which sounds more interesting than it actually was as it mostly involved just crossing from one side of the windy road to the other, dodging cars careering around the corners – resulted in something so ‘blah’ that I didn’t even bother getting the camera out.

After lunch I decided to give it another shot – at sea level – by walking to the old town and port. My guidebook warned me this would take around an hour, but I had a cunning plan. I would hire one of the ‘Velo Bleu’ bikes from their starting blocks by the sea. This was a bold move by me as I’m a bit nervous about the (so-called) ‘Boris bikes’  back home, but I told myself this would be so easy in comparison – the terrain was flat and I couldn’t possibly get lost when all I had to do was keep the sea to my right. So, I registered my bank card, got my bike and was good to go.

Except now it was raining! But that didn’t matter – a little rain wouldn’t hurt me. Well, actually it could, because I saw not one but two people come a cropper by skidding on the wet surface. I hadn’t realised I was partaking in a dangerous sport….But somehow I made it to the port in one piece and was now ready to lose the bike so that I could explore the old town. I was even feeling very smug because this had all been achieved in less than half an hour, which meant my journey was gratis. Well it would have been, except I couldn’t get the docking screen to switch on to register the bike being returned and lock the bike. I tried every free docking slot but to no avail. So, I had no choice but to get back in the saddle and try another dock – except that didn’t work either. Or the next one. By this point I was practically back to where I started from and wondering just what it was I was getting so terribly wrong. Eventually I swallowed my pride and phoned the help number, and was informed that the docks don’t generally work when it’s raining, only on sunny days! As if I wasn’t being punished enough by the weather, it wouldn’t even let me ride a bleeding bike!

I could see that the woman on the end of the phone was trying to get rid of me because firstly I was a problem she couldn’t resolve and secondly she was tired of trying to give me instructions in her broken English. So, when I saw another person crazy enough to hire one of the bikes I chased him down and asked him how I was supposed to return mine. “Come with me” I’ll take you to a dock that works” he beckoned. And so we peddled together through the old town of Nice and I began thinking how this would be a great start to a romantic novel, until I was rudely interrupted by him swearing upon our arrival at the chosen docking station: “Merde! These aren’t working either!” He then went on to instruct me to just lock it up, note the number and write to them, before disappearing into the drizzle.

So, my bleeding bleu bike was unceremoniously abandoned and my bank card is depleting with every hour because there seems to be no means of writing to them (the form doesn’t work, nor do the texts and there is no email address).

Apart from that hanging over me, things got better the next day when the blue bike was replaced with blue skies. So I promenaded along the sea front, climbed a hill to a park for some great views and revisited the port and the old town on foot. I also had a rendezvous with my French partner who just happened to be passing through Nice on route to the Cannes film festival, where I join him tomorrow. Well you can’t be in France without enjoying a bit of French romance!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Aperativo break at the Venice Carnival

untitledI

I wasn’t able to make it to the Venice Carnival this year as I’m in a play and can’t miss the rehearsals. So, I’m post photos from previous years instead.

I love the expression on the gentleman’s face on the left. He doesn’t look too happy. Maybe his wig is itching him, or he’s wishing he was drinking an Aperol Spritz like his companion. I felt a bit like a time traveller watching them both anyhow – was it really the 21st century?!!! The wonderful thing about Venice is that the backdrop looks so historic, and there are no cars, so once people step into period costume you really can start to believe that you have stepped back in time.

My deer

One of the many things, in my totally biased opinion, that makes London special is its wonderful parks. And some of these are wilder than you can imagine – such as Richmond and Bushey Park, both of which have some rather special Royal residents – the Queen’s deer.

This autumn I boarded a ridiculously early train from Waterloo and braved the first of the chilly mornings in order to venture into Richmond park. I was there during the rutting season when the deer are more visible and, dare I add without upset my readers too much, it also helped that it was just before culling season, so they were at their most plentiful!)

It was a fascinating experience being so close to these wild and yet seemingly tame animals. Having joined another photographer and driven into the park as soon as the gates opened pre-dawn, within minutes we saw a huge stag staring into the car headlights seemingly unfazed by our vehicle – as if to remind us that we were merely tolerated visitors in his territory.  As dawn lifted we saw more and more of his clan and were able to get very close without them being the slightest bit fazed by us. It made me laugh to see how some tourists went stupidly close, as if they hadn’t noticed those huge antlers and stopped to pontificate on what damage they could do if their owner got slightly fed up by their intrusion; while at the same time regular visitors to the park cycled, ran or rode past chattering away to each other seemingly oblivious to these magnificent animals inches away from them.

I don’t know which response perplexed me the most, because I felt like I was on a safari and my heart beat that little bit faster every time I saw a deer peering through the grass . Maybe if I had this park on my doorstep I too would take them for granted and the camouflage would work on me as well.

But I like to think that I won’t, because I still catch my breath whenever I see St. Paul’s cathedral illuminated at night, or London’s new corporate cathedral – the Shard – shimmering under the sun’s rays, even though I see them practically every day. And I still marvel at what a wonderful place London is – to have white Portland stone and glistening steel on my doorstep, and majestic wild animals just a short train ride away.

That sea of blood

 

untitled-5 untitled-8 untitled-10 untitled-12 untitled-15 untitled-18 untitled-21 untitled-22 untitled-24 untitled-25 untitled-26 untitled-27 untitled-28untitleduntitled-32untitled-23untitled-11

There has been a bit of a poppy frenzy going on in London, by virtue of the “sea of blood” filling the moat at the Tower of London to mark the centenary of the start of the First World War. The ‘blood’ was made up of thousands of ceramic poppies – one for each Commonwealth soldier who lost his life during that great war. The installation process began in the summer and slowly grew each day to mark the soldiers who fell until the last poppy was planted on Armistice Day by a young army cadet.

With the addition of each flower it seemingly captured more and more of the public’s hearts until it became London’s biggest tourist attraction. People flocked to do ‘selfies’ of themselves with the poppies; they marvelled on how beautiful they looked on-mass and many rushed to buy them, post-installation, at £25 a pop. No doubt they will make a good investment and some wily people, fully aware of this, were already trying to cash in by selling them on Facebook before the display had even been dismantled. I had mixed feelings about it all.

I wondered if the soldiers would have approved of their barbaric, needless deaths being remembered as something to ooh and aah about and a backdrop for selfies. And more worryingly, I wondered if the act of creating a thing of such intense beauty was glorifying and romanticising war or, at the very least, accepting it as an inevitability. By turning those tragic deaths into a glorious work of art it was almost as if their deaths had formed some kind of artist’s palette; albeit a selective one. Why should we just sigh and shed a tear over those poor ‘Tommies’ while forgetting that war continues and that hundreds and thousands more lives have been lost then, right up to the present day with the conflicts in Iraq and Afghanistan.

The Armistice Day ceremony also unsettled my mind. By inviting both Chelsea war veterans in their splendid red jackets and a young army cadet to the ceremony is it not suggesting that war is an inevitability for every generation; and by placing them against that beautiful backdrop where they are made to look so stunning in their uniforms are we not glorifying war just as much now as our forefathers did a century ago when young men were sent to their slaughter with such glorious fanfare?

I am glad of my camera sometimes because the mere act of trying to take photos stops my brain from chattering too much with their nagging doubts. Though I’m aware now that by posting my photographs I am helping to perpetuate that notion of a “good and glorious” war. It makes me wonder about the conscience of photographers, as artists, and where we draw the line. I remember an interview with a conflict photographer, Robert King I think, in which he was asked how he could photograph the atrocities that he has seen in conflict zones such as citizens with freshly amputated limbs. He replied that your mind becomes that of an artist and you try to capture the pools of blood and the decimated body in the most aesthetic way possible. It isn’t that you don’t care, but just like a doctor doesn’t spend time wondering about the life of his patient while you try to save that life, you concentrate on the job on hand and think about it later.

In a remote sense that is what I am doing too. I photographed those “pools of blood” in the most beautiful way according to my capability, then shared the photos. My conscience is slightly troubled by the fact that I am helping to perpetrate war as a thing of beauty by doing so, but at the same time I am recognising another artist’s stunning creation and wanting to share it. Maybe I would feel happier if the actress Shelia Hancock’s suggestion of bringing a tank onto the moat to crush the lot of them had been taken up. That would have been a more fitting finale, rather than letting people own a poppy as a piece of artwork or, dare I say it, an art investment. I would have been there to photograph that for sure.

One thing that comforts me while I pontificate over all this is a wonderful act of nature that I was fortunate to observe. The local birds around the Tower of London had accepted and adapted to the presence of these artificial flowers by quite happily perching on them. I found this very comforting when I thought of what each poppy represented. The birds weren’t using the poppies for PR purposes or political gains – they just enjoyed being amongst them. I can’t help but think that this, probably unexpected, sideshow of the whole installation, was the truest and most moving. It brings to mind a poem by Thomas Hardy written during that ‘Great War’, entitled ‘In Time of the Breaking of Nations’.

Only a man harrowing clods

In a slow silent walk
With an old horse that stumbles and nods
Half asleep as they stalk.

Only thin smoke without flame
From the heaps of couch-grass;
Yet this will go onward the same
Though Dynasties pass.

Yonder a maid and her wight
Come whispering by:
War’s annals will cloud into night
Ere their story die.

With Damien Rice at the London Palladium

untitled-17

This is a slight deviation from my usual postings. But I think it’s justified. Because on Friday I had the opportunity to sing with the international recording artist Damien Rice, at the London Palladium. Which is not the kind of invitation you turn down!

Anyone who knows me will be forgiven for re-reading that last sentence; it’s not a statement they probably ever expected to come from me. So I will explain. I was singing with the community choir London City Voices; and we joined Damien on stage for his finale – the exquisitely beautiful and powerful song Trusty and True. You probably haven’t heard of it yet, because it comes from his new album released literally just this week. But you will.

Forgive me for sounding clichéd but I can honestly say that it was one of those experiences that has you pinching yourself, even now two days afterwards. Every minute dedicated to that moment has been an absolute joy! From singing the song endlessly in the few days leading up to the event (and loving it more and more each time); to meeting him during rehearsal (what a lovely, totally grounded, warm-hearted guy); and then practising with him – as if that’s the most perfectly natural way to spend your Friday afternoon!

Then finally there was the excitement of us all creeping on stage and standing literally right behind him while he sang one of my all-time favourite songs, The Blower’s Daughter, live to an audience of over 2500 devoted fans. And as we silently stood there, our hearts pumping, we looked out on the crowd of devotees who had waited nearly a decade to hear him play live, and we revelled in the electricity; were deafened by the roar of their applause; and felt the growing butterflies in our stomachs. Because we knew that in minutes, now seconds, we too were going to open our mouths, and our hearts, and sing.

Finally, Damien asked the mikes to be switched off and started gently strumming his guitar. It was the start of what was, for this night at least, “our song”. The audience listened attentively and breathed in the delicacy of it, oblivious of the crescendo to come. The song slowly built and built in volume and intensity, until it was time for the secret to reveal itself. The male members of the choir softly started joining the chorus; we heard some quiet gasps from the audience. They had no clue what was going on, as we were standing in total darkness. As the intensity built up another notch it was finally the women’s turn and, as we joined in, simultaneously we were all illuminated. The response was something that is hard to express: the crowd whooped, cheered and clapped; the cameras began flashing in front of us in greater numbers, and the electricity seemingly increased tenfold.

And we sang. Oh how we sang! For this was our moment, and for a few precious chords the audience was ours as well as Damien’s. He was sharing the thrill, the excitement, the passion, the pride, the enormity of it with each one of us.

And did we let him down? Absolutely not. We did all we had been told to do. We were with him all the way, standing right behind him and giving it our all. We sang our hearts out. We did it for the crowd; we did it for Damien; we did it for Richard, our wonderful choir master; and we did it for ourselves. Because we may never get an opportunity like this again in our lifetimes, and we felt at that moment like the luckiest people on earth. The song’s intensity grew and grew and our voices grew louder and more intensely with it – until it reached that crashing, deafening, whooping climax that had the crowd on its feet! Then gently we brought them all back down again with our soft, gently humming to Damien’s final chords and words.

As the lights lifted and the applause finally faded, we trooped back to our dressing rooms; some of us in tears. Within minutes Damien was there too, for he had rushed to thank us. Because that’s the kind of person we had discovered him to be. And well, because thanks to that magical combination of a wonderful song that had just given birth; a beautiful singer; a fantastic and dedicated choir master; and a group of people determined to give it our all, we really were rather good! And he wanted to express his gratitude for that.

In return I’d like to thank Damien Rice and Richard Swan of London City Voices. You fulfilled many dreams that night; you gave me personally an experience that never in my wildest dreams did I ever imagine occurring, and you created memories that will stay with us. Now our strides are that little bit springier; our heads that little bit higher and our smiles that little bit wider. We have sung at the London Palladium a song so beautiful that it’s destined to become the soundtrack to many people’s lives across this planet. And we sang it with Damien Rice. How can we possibly ever feel quite the same again?

I’ve included some behind the scenes pictures as we prepared for our performance. I think they convey how excited we were, and how beautiful we all looked (including Linda and Anne-Marie, featured, old friends and new). Because joy brings beauty. And besides, for that night at least, we were all stars – singing at the London Palladium!

untitled-4

untitled-7

untitled-10

untitled-14

untitled-16

untitled-18

untitled-21

You can hear the song here: http://www.npr.org/player/v2/mediaPlayer.html?action=1&t=1&islist=false&id=359335290&m=359414466

And hear us singing it here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ecaIZTTThdo&feature=youtu.be

Plus here’s a picture of Damien singing that I took with my i phone just before we stepped on stage, and one of me on stage during the rehearsal – just to remind myself that it really happened, and finally one of us all with Damien Rice – I’m the one standing to the right of him looking deliriously happy! (Photo courtesy of Mark Doyle, who has posted more pictures and clips on twitter: https://twitter.com/markcoyle65/media)

photo

photo (3)

Damien Rice

A picture tells a thousand words

untitled-22

I’m not a big fan of busy pictures. I think my images are generally hallmarked by their simplicity and order. But sometimes even a complicated picture can have great composition – like this one. Every person or animal just seems to fit into its own space; nothing seems to be competing with each other. And so I like it. Maybe it also comforts me because it reminds me of a biblical scene – of the animals sitting around the baby in the manger. Except in this case, instead of something being conjured up for an audience, it is real – the animals and humans actually are together in total harmony.

The whole scene looks so perfect that it is like I have played director and staged the shot, but of course I didn’t. I did hang out at this little chai shop for many a morning, so maybe that’s why everything came together. In fact it was one of my favourite places in which to sit, because there was always so much going on. It was located on a kind of crossroads (like the Times Square or Piccadilly Circus of Varanasi) right next to a temple. Which is why the cows seemed so at home there I guess, because they would be given offerings and always treated with kindness.

I remember when the biggest bull I have ever seen came by and the local people gathered around to care for its feet. He just patiently stood there, picking up his huge hooves and soaking up their attention as gentle as a lamb. It was one of those sights that stay with you forever and makes me realise that you needn’t be scared of anything, big or small, so long as you meet it with love and compassion.

I love the scene so much because it contains so much that I remember about India: the chai stalls; the people reading newspapers; the spiritual men; the animals all around you; and that sense of peaceful harmony in spite of the cacophony all around you. It’s an essence of India that I hope I never forget.

Mother and child bonding

DSCF3988

DSCF3990

DSCF3993

A mother was sitting with her young daughter and son outside the Printers & Stationers cafe just off Columbia Road – which is a wonderful place for people watching – especially on Sundays, the flower market day! The sight that first caught my attention was the red glasses next to the red flower as their heads almost touched, so I wanted to capture that – purely for aesthetic reasons. But just as I was discreetly photographing them the little girl moved closer to her mother and then leaned her hand against her head with such effortless affection. It seemed such a mature thing to do that it felt as if the roles had been reversed and the child had become the mother. It was such a moving sight that I’m glad I captured it. I hope they don’t mind my sharing this sweet little moment of intimacy!

Rock Star

DSCF3658

This photo was taken at a car boot sale in Spitalfields, East London. I don’t know if the Rock Star jacket was placed there deliberately because it so aptly matched the colour scheme of the graffiti backdrop, or if it was just a happy coincidence. But it somehow makes the car seem almost unnoticeable, and the whole scene just feels complete, like the jacket is part of the street art and not a random addition. I love serendipity like that.

The Boy with the Balloon (in colour)

Eleanor_Marriott_theballoonchaser2

I found out yesterday that this photo has been selected for a photography exhibition in Bristol. The judge is a winner of the Deutsche Borse photography prize (considered the most prestigious European photography award) so I was pretty chuffed that he considered my image worthy of inclusion.

I’ve previously included a monochrome version of the photo on the blog: https://anenchantedeye.com/2014/07/07/boy-with-the-balloon/ but to celebrate I thought I’d now include the original, which is how it will appear in the exhibition.

John and George

 

DSCF3806

Sometimes I wish I didn’t have to do things like this blog. Don’t get me wrong – I love sharing my photos, and I love getting feedback even more! But if I wasn’t sitting at my desk publishing my photos I could be out and about in the streets of London forever meeting fascinating characters. People like John Dolan and his wonderful dog George.

DSCF3726

I spotted George before I saw John. I was captivated by the sight of this dog with begging note and bowl and thought what a clever idea it was to dress a pet up in a jacket and get him to do the begging for you (though it turned out that the jacket was only on him because he was cold). But I soon discovered that George was more than just a characterful dog; he was a lifesaver. And his best friend happened to be a pretty good artist who was busy sketching his faithful friend while he was earning his Pedigree Chum. And John was more than just an artist – he was a man with an incredible story, whose life had been turned around thanks to this dog in front of me.

DSCF3746

John didn’t need much encouragement to tell his story. It  turns out that he is a former petty criminal who has been in and out of prison more times than George has shaken a leg; he is also an ex-heroin addict and has spent far too many years living rough on london’s streets than was good for him. It was George that got him off the crime because John realised that if he was sent away again he wouldn’t be able to look after him. (Incidentally, the affection between the two is palpable and the intense pleasure on George’s face when his master goes to pet him is so evident that I doubt John can bear to be away from him even for a second). So he switched to begging instead. But he found the process so demoralising that he decided to place George in prime position so that the focus didn’t fall on himself. But he had to do something to entertain himself while George was doing his job, so he returned to the one thing that he had been good at at school – art.

John gradually re-found his groove at drawing and, as generally happens when you have visible talent in the streets of London, he was eventually discovered. What happened next is like the script of a feature film. John got himself off the heroine; got himself an exhibition (his collaborative prints sold for up to £50k each); his book is about to hit the streets (which he assured us would be a bestseller); he’s a regular on TV and there is now an LA stamp in his passport.

DSCF3794

Like George, who was sadly beaten up by some other dogs the night before and was looking very delicate as a result, John still bears his physical and emotional battle scars. And while there was no doubting his talent I could not help but wonder just how much of what he was telling me was true. I enquired how much it would cost to buy the sketch that he was working on. “They usually sell for £50 but I’ll let you have it for £20” he replied. I didn’t have that much on me and I was so distracted by the conversation and in taking photos of George that I forgot to pursue purchasing it. But I did tell John that I’d love to photograph him. “I tell you what, I have an event at Howard Griffin gallery in Shoreditch on Thursday” he replied. “Come along!” “Ok, give me the details”. With that John drew me a little picture of George and said “That will get you in”.

DSCF3798

After saying our goodbyes I decided to view the gallery website just to check that the event really was taking place. Sure enough a rather impressive exhibition of John’s works was just coming to a close. But there was no mention of an event, so I phoned the gallery. “Yes there is a reception,” the employee told me, “but the entrance policy is very strict so you really have to prove that you have been invited  to get in.” So I sent them a photograph of John’s sketch and  a nice response came back saying that my friend and I were now indeed on the guest list. I felt rather honoured to be included, but also rather churlish for not having taken up John’s offer of his latest sketch of George for just £20!

Well least I still have his little sketch in my notebook, which had already felt rather special, but now has an extra monetary value that I hadn’t fully appreciated at the time!

You can find out more about John Dolan and George here: http://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2014/jul/19/john-dolan-homeless-addict-to-artist-and-author

and see his pictures from his exhibition at Howard Griffin here: http://howardgriffingallery.com/exhibitions/john-and-george/

The event I am attending is in aid of Wrap Up – a charity that donates coats to the homeless. (John’s life may have moved forward in incredible ways, but he hasn’t forgotten where he once was, and could still be now, if it wasn’t for that rather special dog called George).

photo (2)

 

 

 

 

The lost Elvis

DSCF1523

Something that I have always loved about my area of London is all the free music festivals. And also the fact that you can pretty much guarantee that if you go to one you will see ‘the two Elvises’ giving it everything on the dance floor. I’ve seen them strutting their stuff for about ten years now and I can’t tell you my delight when I came back from having been away for five years this April to one of the first festivals of the season to see them there on the dance floor as if I’d never been away. It felt so reassuring – as if the clocks had stood still in my absence.

But at today’s festival something was amiss. Only one of the Elvises was dancing! The other one sat looking incredibly forlorn just watching on from a deckchair. He did not try to hide his misery – their was no stoicism about him. It was like his reason for being had ceased to exist. His partner was trying to take up the slack by giving it all she had but it was not the same. She would never be one of the two Elvises – she knew it, we knew it and he damn well knew it.

“What is going on?” I kept asking my companion. “Why is he not dancing? It’s like he has become suddenly disabled, and yet he is tapping his feet so he can’t be.” “Go and ask him” she said. But she didn’t understand. You don’t talk to the Elvises – it would ruin the whole mystique. They danced; they let you take their photograph, but they didn’t talk.

However, fate intervened and as the final band was packing up the still active of the Elvis, to my utter surprise, approached us and offered us his Churros (a kind of Mexican donut) that they hadn’t eaten. This was the most surreal thing ever for me. It was like Elvis himself had suddenly decided to rise from the grave to converse with me. I seized the opportunity to ask him what the hell was going on. Why was his friend not dancing?! “His knee has mysteriously swollen up” he replied. “He’s devastated.” As I watched him later hobble away with his friend and his partner supporting him it was one of the saddest scenes I had witnessed. I wanted to take a photograph because the scene was so poignant but the battery on my camera suddenly died. It felt apt really, as if he shouldn’t be recorded that way.

The guy lying in front of the free entertainers is John, whom you will probably guess was rather drunk. My friend and I watched him with fascination as he attempted to stand at the end of the event; wobbled on his feet somewhat; gazed to the sky as if for inspiration then went crashing through the barriers in front of the stage and lay prostrate for several minutes. We brought him over to sit with us and tried to prize the drink off him, offering to trade it for coffee, but he wasn’t having it. He turned out to be a very sweet person who worked as a litter picker (it took him several attempts to say that) and kept asking us what football team we supported, as if that was the only important thing in life really (he was a West Ham supporter). As we packed up to go home he asked to take a ‘selfie’ of us. We agreed and on the count of three we both kissed him on the cheeks. I have no doubt that the whole concert will soon become a total blur to John, but I smile as I imagine him looking at his photo maybe on the way to work and thinking “Crikey! I must have had a really good weekend!” Unlike the poor forlorn ‘Elvis’, who was missing his blue suede dancing shoes.

 

 

Spotted in the streets of Kathmandu

Looking back at the photos I took in Kathmandu, it’s incredible how prominent the big soft drink companies are – in particular Coca Cola and Pepsi. Much more so than in India where the country’s own drinks such as Thumbs Up still rule. I wonder how many of the people can actually afford to drink these expensive foreign drinks and whether it’s more a case of getting their buildings painted for free if they let the companies use them as a kind of billboard.

Columbia Road people – and pets

  DSCF2371d

As promised, here are my people photographs taken at Columbia Road on Sunday morning, with the occasional dog thrown in for good measure. There is a slight nod to two very different street photographers – Martin Parr and Vivian Maier – in them, especially in the final two pictures (no prizes for guessing who features in the last one!)  I think the photo of the lady smiling with the flowers looks slightly out of place amongst all the other more somber pictures, but I included it because of the contrast with the homeless guy in the background looking on rather dejectedly. And yes he is the same guy featured in two other pictures. I don’t think he was having a very good day so he moved around a lot.

DSCF2461-4

DSCF2421-3

DSCF3008-2

DSCF2997-2

DSCF2943-2

DSCF2892-2

DSCF2858-2

DSCF2828

DSCF2800-2

DSCF2638-2

DSCF2606-2

DSCF2563-2

DSCF2770-2

DSCF2915

DSCF2741-2

DSCF2775-5

DSCF2991-2

DSCF2984-3

DSCF2715-2

DSCF2340-4

DSCF2550-2

DSCF2431-2

DSCF2543-2

DSCF2533-2