I have spent 40 years writing for a living; for newspapers, radio and news agencies. Telling the stories of turbulent times and the people who made them so. But it is essentially the task of a hack, passing on facts and tidbits that are sometimes true and important and sometimes not so. It is formulaic work that makes headlines one day and is oft consigned to the dustbin of history the next. Not like a novel or a play that can crystalize the human condition, inspire and live on forever. I’ve tried creative writing but novels are hard work, as are memoirs and poems when the needed soul-baring does not come naturally. It was ever so with me, tending towards the journalistic rather than the creative. (In primary school, I wrote an essay about myself consisting of a very factual seven words — “I have a budgie (parakeet), he is blue.”) Although I admire artists and art, the closest I have ever come to being one myself is through photography, and even that is more akin to the detachment of journalism, looking at the world and life through an unquestioning lens. After childhood Brownie cameras, I bought a second-hand East German Praktica SLR with cash I got for my 21st birthday. Moving on to Pentax and now Canon, the camera has given me a channel for artistic creation my writing could not fulfill.