Middle East Print Sale

Photographs really should be printed and hung on walls; I say this as someone who loves photography not as a photographer.

As I work towards launching a new website dedicated to print sales I am offering a generous discount to raise the necessary funds, buying a print will go a long way to supporting my work as well as the opportunity to own a beautifully crafted image.

The prints are made at a London lab that pride themselves in producing the highest quality Giclee prints using the latest Epson professional Ultrachrome inks on beautiful archival rag paper.

Only $75 for a 30cm x 40 cm print (+ postage) other sizes are of course available.

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The images on this post are just a sample; please do search my website and Facebook page for alternatives.

(Please note a few images are not available due to lost hard-drives when I fled my house in Syria)

Have a browse and drop me a line and I will forward a detailed price list.

My Website

Facebook

johnwreford@hotmail.com

Thank you for your continued support.

Istanbul Street Photographer, A Social Media Story.

Istanbul has a population speeding towards 20 million, its chaotic sprawl stretching from the fringe of Europe to deep into Asian Anatolia, the tide of humanity not only ebbs and flows it grapples, struggles and despite the body blows of urban gentrification it survives and does so often with humility.

For a street photographer, and am not really comfortable with the rank but I am a photographer and the streets do provide my subjects, Istanbul is a feracious playground.

I had been asked to help run a workshop for some visiting street photographers and had set out to scout some new locations, the old Khans of Istanbul provide excellent settings, you only have to watch the movies Taken and James Bond to recognize the potential, the ancient Caravansaries once served as bed and board for traders, the horses tethered in stables around a courtyard and the traveling salesmen would relax on the upper levels with whatever the Ottomans used prior to cable television.

These days the Khans are shops and ad-hoc workshops and as I wandered the upper most level of one a man stepped out of low arched doorway, his face blackened from the grime of his blacksmith forge, with his hands on his hips his stare unnerving, there are times though when you really cannot turn down an opportunity,  I stopped and asked if I can take his picture, he seemed bemused I would want to do that but accepted, I shot, thanked him and moved on, he made one parting tongue in cheek comment of being African, possibly only then realizing why I had been so interested to photograph him.

Now normally it is about now the story would end, not quite, arriving home I edited the image and pleased with the result uploaded to my Facebook page, an hour or so later checking the notifications I noticed a new follower who had commented in Turkish, the translation said, “hey that’s me in the photograph”  and sure enough it was. I am still not sure exactly how he found the image so quickly and can only assume the diligent use of appropriate hash tags connected me to Murat in this teaming teapot of a city of 20 million, he was very happy with the picture and very soon shared with his family and friends, I am taking him a print although finding the same workshop in the labyrinth will be a challenge.

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Murat

For more Istanbul street photography as well as commercial and editorial and portraits visit my website Istanbul Photographer

Do You Have Any Weapons Asked the Syrian Officer?

wreford-6The ancient walls of my Damascene house are a foot deep and yet the noise from outside penetrate as though its wafer thin, fortunately for the most part it’s a quiet neighborhood, just the kids terrorizing the feral cats or playing football are a nuisance but I can hardly grudge them that.
Lost deep in muddled dreams I woke suddenly to the sound of boots thundering along the alley outside, my heart rate and mind racing I lay wide eyed and stared up at the beams of the ceiling, a split second and the butt of a gun was being hammered against a neighbors door and a yell of “jeish” followed by the unmistakable metallic click clack of a Kalashnikov being cocked, I stumbled out of bed and comically tried to pull on my clothes, I grabbed my papers and flung a coat over my camera sitting idle as usual on my desk.
Then the inevitable crash on my door; “jeish” the young conscript barked at me, yes the army I can see that I thought but what the fuck do you want, I offered my papers instead of my thoughts and welcomed in several recruits and an officer, while the officer looked through my passport and questioned me his subordinates rooted through my house.
Did I have any weapons? Well, now there’s a funny story I thought. The truthful answer was yes I did, I had a hunting knife given to me by Ahmed the Egyptian, a failed drug dealer who was trying to move into the stolen art market, the knife was an incentive for my art world connections, probably I should relate that story at a later date, do remind me. I also had a .22 Air-rifle, a pretty harmless weapon unless you are a sparrow or a rat; in fact it was a rat that induced me to buy it, I liked the sparrows and had three regularly flitting about my courtyard, the rat though was not welcome.
Abu Eid the carpenter who worked on my house was also a gun dealer-well collector is probably a more accurate description-maybe, in his workshop he presented various options including an French army pistol and a pump action shot gun, I felt a bit of a wimp going for the .22 but I paid him a 1000 Syrian Lira and hid it inside a rucksack to take home.
Needless to say my reply to the Syrian officer sucking the atmosphere out of my courtyard was a definitive no, of course I didn’t, over his shoulder I watched one of the conscripts poking around near the sofa where I had concealed the rifle, they searched the house as they had been searching all the houses in the Old City, the officer handed back my papers and they all left leaving a stale smell of sweat and tobacco lingering in the night air.
I didn’t really think the silly gun would be a problem but had decided to hide it inside the sofa just to keep it out of sight; nosey neighbors able to peek down into the courtyard could easily mistake it for something more sinister.
This was the first house search, there followed several more, each time a similar routine, on one occasion one of the soldier checking my terrace yelled down excitedly I had a chair up there, the implication being I may be a sniper, I explained its where I drink my coffee in the mornings, you can ask the snipers on the other roof I was tempted to say who some time earlier had waved me from my morning ritual. On another occasion I stupidly decided to sort out all my camera equipment, my desk was strewn with everything I had, old, redundant and broken as well as current, I knew before going to bed I should hide it all away again but couldn’t be bothered, what were the chances of another midnight visit?
They bashed on the door early next morning, I wearily welcomed the troops in, the cannon fodder fanned out and poked around my laundry while for some inexplicable reason I ushered the officer into my office, you are an artist he asked-referring to my answer earlier about my occupation, yes a painter I emphasized with a squiggle movement of my hand and an imaginary brush, a routine I had practiced often, once while crossing the border at Qamishly the border guard suggested we go to his office where I could paint his portrait! There were precious few signs of any painting around my office only something akin to the annual stock-take at Dixons, yep an artist I repeated, I can’t say he looked convinced but he didn’t pursue it, weapons is what he was after and once again they failed to look in the sofa, which I should mention is a style common in Syria with a storage cupboard under the cushions.

As I continued to think about my inevitable departure from Syria I packed boxes and re-arranged the house, I wouldn’t be able to take very much with me so it was just a case of preparing the house for someone else to live in, I decided perhaps the sofa was not such a cool hiding place despite getting away with it three times, I found a narrow gap beneath the closet and slipped it under.
Getting a good night’s sleep was becoming an increasing problem, the noise of the gunfights or the sudden silence, either way it was hard to switch off, sleep was always interrupted, always.
I leapt startled from my bed again, I slept dressed these days, the hammering at my door worse than the shelling, I swore I would replace the metal door with a wooden one after this mess is over, which according to one very well informed friend would be a couple of months, I let the soldiers in and went through the charade again, this visit it slowly dawned on me was slightly different, only my house was being searched this time and not the neighborhood, the raid was being conducted by a Moukabarat officer not military, I recognized him although I couldn’t remember from where, they choose the night because you are half asleep and can’t think straight, I remained polite and answered the usual questions, they searched the house undoing the boxes of books I had packed up, this time they did look inside the sofa but by now it was empty, they bid me goodnight and departed.
I allowed myself a momentary smile of self-satisfaction even though I was under investigation and one way or another would end up either kicked out of the country or well, dead probably.

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Damascus The Beginning of the End ( PT6)

I knew what I was getting into moving to Syria, I knew the risks, I have no regrets, my bank cutting me off and leaving me without funds was to say the least fucking annoying, it’s hard to imagine being made bankrupt is the least of your problems, I could live with the war, I wanted to stay in Syria as long as I felt the risks were calculable, Syrians had to live with this and if I was being denied the opportunity to photograph what was happening at least I could bear witness, the media was as is no surprise all over the place and hardly giving a true picture of the situation.
My issue with the Moukhabarat was obviously something to worry about; for the most part I had been following Kipling’s advice and keeping my head, it’s just routine everybody would tell me, if it was serious they would have come for you, the Old City was crawling with security these days and I wasn’t hard to find, if they did surely my blood coloured British passport would save me from diplomatic embarrassment, my embassy and minions needless to say had long since fled, I had placed all my faith in a corrupt not very secret secret policeman, one thing stuck in my mind, the words of the soft immigration officer, after telling me I was wanted at the intelligence building he advised me not to go.
I sat on my terrace, shielded from snipers, ignoring the shelling and read Eat Prey Love; a book so annoying I wanted to throw it into the air and see if it got shot to pieces. When the power was working my television viewing was just as banal, ten years of being detached from popular US/UK culture I was now well versed in Kardashian catchphrases.
Wasseem would call and tell me where and when I should meet him, numerous visits to filthy offices, usually I would wait outside, at the passport office in Merjeh I sat at the guards desk and watched as several detainees were lead away handcuffed and chained to each other, the filed through the reception area and up the stairs, nobody paid any attention, now as I think about it I hardly paid attention only looking up from the messages on my phone as they passed.
Cruising the clogged streets of Damascus with Wassem as my chauffer had its advantages, closed roads were open to us, checkpoints were just a formality as we skirted around long queues of those waiting to humiliated; a friend had been arrested at a checkpoint a few weeks previously, when he asked why he was told “we’re arresting everybody today” Wassem would pepper me with questions about my financial situation, the value and size of my house with obvious thoughts in the back of his mind, he had an agenda and was helping me not only for the few hundred dollars we had agreed but had his eye on a bigger goal, despite his position he never questioned me on the current situation which was unusual for those connected to the regime.
A battle was raging a few streets away, I climbed to the roof to get an idea of where it was happening, some neighbors had the same idea but they thought it prudent to bring the children too, as if the collapse of the country was entertainment or a video game, suddenly bullets were flying above my head and striking the satellite dishes, I ducked instinctively for cover although I knew I was shielded by the higher building, my neighbors on the other hand were not and made a run for the stairs, the shooting only lasted a few minutes but it gave me plenty to contemplate after, how far do those bullets travel.

Things were not looking any better.

Damascus Old City
Damascus Old City

Damascus The Beginning of the End (pt5)

A Syrian fighter jet screamed overhead, the roar of its engines unable to keep up with its speed, it turns into the sun, the light glinting off the fuselage, I imagine the pilot having to shade his eyes, the jet dives and dispatches its load, a plume of black smoke rises from the Damascus suburbs, the jet disappears but I know in a few minutes it will return, it’s a ritual, the circle of death.
I rarely sleep through the night, the sound of automatic gun fire disconcertingly close, the sound at night travels easily, it’s never as close as I think, then again sometimes it’s very close, usually rebels attacking checkpoints, often brief firefights but just enough to keep my senses too alert to go back to sleep-oddly though I can nap easily through the sound of daytime heavy shelling.
Most days my routine would be to walk through the Old City and out through Hamadiyya Souk, cross Merjeh Square and onto Pages Café in Shaalan, I would also have regular meetings with Wassem outside the immigration offices to check on progress, usually there wasn’t any, the weeks dragged on, on the days I didn’t go outside the Old City I missed car bombs, obviously it would be safer to stay at home but I refused to be bullied into being a prisoner in my own home although in effect I was already under house arrest, I could not really leave the confines of the city without permission anyway.
Once my laptop had died living without electricity became considerably more bearable, the cuts could be so regular you could set your watch by them and then sometimes the power would just go off and not come back for hours and hours. On one occasion I had been living without electricity for three days when I suddenly noticed my neighbors were enjoying TV, I stared up at their window, went outside to check my other neighbors and sure enough I was the only knob without electric, turns out the box had fused when the power had returned three days previously and I was oblivious.
Then the gas ran out.
Sometimes you just have to laugh at the absurdity of things, I often did, or as they say; you just cry. I didn’t cry, I made a conscious decision to stay when I had ample opportunity to leave, at no point had I underestimated the risks and consequences of my actions.
My usual buoyant sense of humor and oddly chipper mood though was shattered with a phone call from my bank in the UK, banks only ever call you when then want something and mine wanted my overdraft paid back that same day, I climbed to the roof to get a better reception, the noise from the shelling was intense and every sentence had to be repeated several times, yes they completely understood and sympathized with my predicament but business is business. Calling them back proved harder than you may imagine, I was sure having conversation with someone in my branch familiar with my account history etc would solve the issue; did I mention the absurdity of things just now? Try as I might the only people I managed to speak to using premium rate numbers were on the sub-continent, the war in Syria didn’t seem to register, the sound of bombing in the background didn’t seem out of place, I probably did lose my temper and may or may not have said things I may or may not now regret.

Merjeh Square Damascus Syria
Merjeh Square Damascus Syria

Damascus The Beginning of the End (pt4)

In the cold light of morning one thing seemed abundantly clear; I was in the shit.
I decided to pack up my things and prepare the house for my leaving, after ten years not such an easy task, I had already started re-arranging things in the hope of renting one of the rooms, several people came to look at the house but nobody wanted to deal with the militia checkpoint outside, the house was still only part restored, my builder, Abu Joudy’s work clothes still sitting on the top of his step ladder, he had long since left the country, Kurdish and without Syrian ID he found life difficult enough even before things went pear-shaped.
The artillery continued to fly overhead, some days it was relentless, very occasionally rebel mortars would fly back in the opposite direction, and several times they came close, bullets would zing overhead sometimes too but generally I felt I would have to be very unlucky to be hit, maybe I just preferred to think that.
I updated my friends and some family on my situation, few people could understand why I could not just leave, it’s simple, my name was listed on the computer at the borders as being wanted and I would simply be detained or sent back to Damascus.
Usually in Syria problems like this can be resolved with “wasta” or connections, over the years I must have built up some, not so very long ago I had a very friendly chat with the Syrian first lady and enjoyed tea with Presidential adviser Bouthania Shaaban, I went through my phone and collection of business cards, many had left, some had defected to the opposition, who could I actually trust? Eventually a friend suggested she knew a guy who smuggled people out of the country and I should give him a call.
I arranged to meet Wassem (his real name) at Trattoria restaurant in Shaalan, it was early evening and already the streets were becoming deserted, I sat on the terrace as I had done so many times before with friends, Wassem came over to me, wearing a pink or was it peach Lacoste t-shirt and a big ben size wrist watch, he didn’t want a drink just the details, I explained, he seemed to think it would be no problem, at least once a week he drove a car over the border with fugitives such as myself to Beirut.
Wassem I was soon to learn worked for Syrian intelligence, the Moukabarat, in most cases the not very secret secret police, this was an interesting turn of events, so I thought if Wassem is working for the very same people who are investigating me perhaps I can just pay him to remove my details from the computer-allowing me to leave legally and not ruining any prospect of return etc, So I left my fate in the hands of wide boy Wassem.
The only other option otherwise was to visit State security branch 235, I felt I would be okay and that my British passport might just save me from the horrors that have befallen so many that have been taken there, I had listened to chilling first-hand accounts from so many Syrians over the years, feel free to search Human Rights Watch and Amnesty etc to read brutal accounts of what goes on, I was prepared to face a short detention if I had to and deportation but more than that does not bare thinking about, a friend who was also expecting to be taken had told me she had quit smoking in preparation for the long stay and cut her nails back so they could not be pulled out, looking back I should have been biting mine to the extent there would be nothing left but somehow I still remained cool, and if I needed any other reason not to visit the opposition forces were regularly attacking the building, I didn’t trust Wassem but left him to see what he could come up with.
Could things get any worse I wonder, well apparently yes it seems they could.
My faithful Macbook decided now would be a great time to retire, it was not so old but each tech guy I spoke to said the same thing, it was fucked. Cash was running low now and although I had found a guy who made regular trips to Beirut with a pocket full of cash-cards to extract cash from working ATMs buying a new laptop was going to be a struggle, inflation was now rampant, I had to pay Wassem and I had to eat.

Deserted Hamadiya Souk
Deserted Hamadiya Souk