This photograph was taken several years ago. It could be described as nothing extraordinary. Yet I think it’s one of my best.
Let’s look at it. The foreground shows a hawthorn with all the branches pruned hard – so much so that it’s no arguably no longer a tree, but a mere stump. It is adorned with ribbons. In the background, Glastonbury Tor and St Michael’s Mount fall way out of focus. The lighting is flat and unremarkable, weather conditions are slightly hazy, time of day is early morning.
So far nothing much of interest.
But context is everything. When we scroll an Instagram feed we don’t have any other context other than those learned social codes we may already be familiar with. The ubiquitous messages of it supposedly represent a ‘perfect land- scape’ (or the perfect pout/dress/house/car/lifestyle/influencer/product). Perhaps we already know the photographer and gain some additional insights that way. Judiciously applied hashtags vie to fill the gaps, forcibly associating the image with the current hot trends.
Yet if someone talks to us we want to hear their unique perspective, not just get a normalised response that fits a predetermined mould. That’s why the politician’s interviews are often so unfulfilling (and why their unguarded moments go viral).
So why do we willingly accept this with images?
Photography is fascinating because it uniquely merges two concepts in visual culture: creative expression and a seed of truth. Paintings contain the former. The artist is free to execute his vision in any way he fancies. The result is severed from reality by a brush in hand. A photo provides evidence.
However, we are all now visually literate enough to know that the photo isn’t pure truth either. It has been subjected to choices (framing, the decisive moment, colour or black & white, photoshopping). These dramatically influence how we perceive the end result. But the seed remains. And our brains, constantly trying to make sense of the world, actually quite like that.
Returning to our stump, this humble tree on Wearyall Hill was the stuff of legends. Tradition says it grew from Joseph of Arimathea’s staff when he alighted ashore at Avalon – connecting the earliest Christians (Jesus’ uncle, no less) to this very spot. May blossom from it was apparently used in the late Queen’s Easter flower arrangement. Overlooking the iconic Glastonbury Tor, this tree (or its antecedents) has been a national treasure for thousands of years.
Until someone chopped it down.
Glastonbury holds a special place in my heart. It’s where I found myself. It’s where I found my wife and soulmate (it’s also where one might find witches, fairy dust and shamanic rituals more easily than, say, a tin of baked beans). I once drove through the night to photograph this tree at sunrise, such is my love of this place.
For me, the photograph conveys a poignant juxtaposition. St Michael’s Mount perched atop the Tor is all that now remains of a 14th-century due to an earthquake. The destructive power of nature lurks ominously in the image’s background in this time of heightened climate change insecurity.
Contrast that with the foreground tree. Here we see that nature has been demolished by the destructive hand (and hacksaw) of man. In a sense, the image represents man and nature doing similar things in violent disharmony. Both are driven by some inner force to ascend through their chosen vehicles of trees and churches. Monuments to their power, looking to the heavens. Yet just as one reaches for the sky, the other dashes its dream, leaving its creation in ruins.
The time of day – a new dawn – in the image hints at a fresh start, a new beginning. But like empty bottles strewn across the lounge from last night’s party, the damage remains in plain sight, not so easily forgotten. The haziness suggests us being able to see nearly everything. But not quite everything. Something – maybe that enigmatic seed of truth within any photograph – somehow remains obscured to us.
Nature will continue to knock down our churches. Some of us will continue to chop down nature’s trees (we ought to do less of it though). Maybe nature did us a favour. Arguably the lonesome St Michael’s Tower went on to become more of an iconic symbol of Glastonbury than an entire church would have done, especially in these secular times. The ‘Devil’s advocate’ would also point out that unless someone had chopped down one of Britain’s most famous trees I’d never have been able to take the photograph or write this reflection.
For me, this image speaks loudly of all these things without any need for words. When we have the curiosity to seek out context, a boring stump sometimes has quite a lot to say.