Emily first called me at international o’clock, of a morning or an evening (I’m certain the former in my case and most likely the latter in her case) that seems as though it were just yesterday but the first follow up email indicates it was way back in January. How time flies. Living in Australia she Interneted and Skyped her way towards the planning of a wedding day back in her native Dorset, in the town of Wimborne. Her calls and emails invariably prompted a happy feeling. Eammon spends three months at a time away at sea, part of an air sea rescue team with the Royal Australian Navy. Emily in turn is an air force engine mechanic; having first joined the RAF at the age of 16, more recently she took a decade’s worth of experience and skills with her to join Eammon in Australia, having first met him when he was on a military exchange in the UK. I hadn’t had the opportunity to speak with Eammon until I met both he and Emily in person a few days before their wedding. It took all of around not even a second to realise he’d be about the easiest person in the world to get on with.
I’ve enjoyed some fabulously laid back and fun-filled wedding days but theirs won the coupe du monde for being laid back (whilst joining the ranks of the most fun-filled). The fixed time line comprised of the ceremony start time, and that was pretty much it as far I was aware. Everyone got ready beforehand. Everyone celebrated afterwards, into the night. The day had everything about it that one might normally encounter on a wedding day, food, drink and speeches, cake cutting and first dance included, but essentially the structure was broken down into two key components. We get married. We have a party. It left my happy batteries fully charged.
Eammon’s Mum and Dad opened the front door of Emily’s Dad’s house when I arrived for Emily’s bridal preparations. “Welcome to Bedlam!” I was greeted, jovially. “Is it always like this when people are getting ready for a wedding?” I entered an oasis of calm. At least by my standards. My standards, by my reckoning, are based upon generally calm bridal preparations. By my standards. The making of generalisations isn’t a good thing, in general, but I think this was a prime example of just how laid back, how easy going Australian folk tend to be. There are actually 51 uptight people in Australia (out of a population in excess of 22 million). I almost met all 51 at a party on the outskirts of Sydney once but one didn’t show. I’d spent 10 days in the city, visiting my good friend Ben whom was working there at the time and whose wedding, his marriage to Sarah, I had the great privilege of photographing last year in the UK. On arrival I thought I’d landed up back in London, except the buildings were generally less tall and seemed exclusively more clean, people spoke with you and the wild birds in the public parks were the height of very small houses. Ben took me to 4 parties in that 10 day period and the first 3 were fantastic, populated from the first to the last by easy going, fun-filled, open, friendly, communicative Australians, beer brought with and deposited in buckets of ice for communal sharing, happy times. The fourth party was populated by tight huddles of people, personal clusters of beer jealously guarded, conversations not to be extracted for love nor money (now there’s a notion); it was a singularly fascinating affair. The fifty-first member of the rather exclusive group had been expected but it was rumoured that his taxi driver had not been able to find the place. There are two types of taxi in Sydney, one within which the driver sits inside a protective perspex dome, the other within which no barriers sit between driver and passengers. Of the taxis I used, half came with and half came without. I’d assumed at first that the perspex dome was an anti-mugging device but over a period of days I realised there was a correlation between domes and the ability of drivers to find where they were meant to be going to. Those that knew their way, wherever you asked them to take you to, came domeless. Those that hadn’t a clue as to which was north and which was south drove under the cover of the dome. I surmised this was to prevent the passenger from seizing control of the wheel as they had a far better idea of which direction to take than the driver.
None of this has anything whatsoever to do with Emily & Eammon’s wedding day. They’re not even based in Sydney though they are sort of half way between there and Canberra but it’s a very big place is Australia, in general.
Eammon’s Dad, Michael, elected to step out of all the chaos and spent much of the morning travelling the world, though he was always happy to pop up for a good bit of conversation. I must admit I’m an ardent fan of his moustache, the product I suspect of an air force heritage he in turn enjoyed himself. He resisted the entreaties of the girls to join in the fun of preparations and have it styled, waxed perhaps into a traditional French number…
The Lara Croft of hair artists. “You’re not photographing my legs, are you?” I was challenged, in the jovial spirit that characterised the day. I don’t know if there’s any pride to be taken from the fact that I wasn’t behaving lasciviously but was merely geeking out over the utility belt…
I always carry one in my back pocket as you’ll never know when you might need one. A step-ladder that is, not a bride, nor a hairdresser…
Everyone came to see the dressing of the hair, Emily’s Mum, Christine…
… Eammon’s Mum, Jean; Emily’s Dad, Marcus (himself a former full-term member of the RAF; a family tradition and the merging of family traditions one might say), one of Emily’s sisters and Emily’s Mum again. The best place to hang out on morn of wedding day.
Meanwhile in a splendidly appointed guest house backing on to Wimborne Minster, Eammon and his groomsmen built themselves up for the day to come…
My erstwhile colleague Greg Thurtle followed them as they progressed towards the ceremony and continued alongside me into the evening; a mix of his images and mine ensue throughout the rest of the day. Greg and I like to reciprocally serve as second photographer on one of each of our wedding commissions on an annual basis. Aside from all the other benefits of doing so, in terms of depth of coverage, considering our busy schedules it affords us an opportunity to hang out together in a social context in occasional one minute bursts on a once yearly basis. As we synchronise our camera clocks prior to the occasion I always find it profoundly fascinating to witness what both sides of the wedding party were doing, at exactly the same time, before joining together for the ceremony. Even the simplest of things take on significant meaning when you know they were happening in parallel as the couple progress on a journey that converges upon and culminates in marriage. Greg reports that he thoroughly enjoyed his angle on the day’s story and the guys proved a great bunch to be amongst.
It’s something I’d not witnessed before, myself, to this extent. The father of the bride just hanging out, at the nucleus of bridal preparations. It’s not that fathers aren’t invariably emotionally engaged with the process, and deeply so, but often I sense that they’re just not sure what to do with themselves, a ritual they’re unfamiliar with (and I’ve only become familiar with myself through being privy to documenting it so many times; it’s a fascinating world) and on a rather intensely emotional day at that, to say the least. Seeing Marcus and his daughter Emily like this made me think about my bond with my daughter, a mere five and a half years old so a long way off still from this kind of day (another 25 years or so and I might be prepared for it!) I had to retire to another room to compose my mind. It’s one of those moments I’d not feel trite in saying I was enormously privileged to witness.
Groom’s preparations are almost invariably a great deal quicker than those of the bride. Then comes… the waiting :~)…
Emily bought and brought her dress with her from Australia. The expression ‘stunningly elegant’ is one I think I’m more accustomed to reading than to articulating myself, but…
Time for everything and everyone to come together.
A timely mention of and word of thanks to the Reverend Lockwood. I’d been able to attend the ceremony rehearsal the evening before and I believe in part the invitation for me to do so had been suggested by her. Recently she’d encountered a somewhat intrusive and disruptive photographer (I suspect of the type that, perhaps quite naturally, I never encounter myself but at times experience the consequences of their actions when barred from photographing a ceremony myself) but quite clearly not one to harbour prejudice she made her own appraisal of my conduct as an individual, told me she hadn’t been at all aware of where I was and what I was doing during the rehearsal (and I move around a great deal more during a rehearsal than I ever would during a ceremony proper, as I seek out the best possible position to take that will allow me to relate the story on the day itself without affecting its natural progress) and happily granted me permission to do what I do. Were this just a job, I dare say a 45 minute break from duty would cause me little concern anyway, but it is something a great deal more than that. It isn’t about me, my practice, my portfolio (I already have more than sufficient to prove what I do even were that the case) but it’s about making a significant record for the future; I always think of children being able to witness a day which they had not yet been born to witness, something of profound worth to me when I look at old photographs of my family from a point many years before I was born. So thanks to Rev. Lockwood for facilitating the making of that record.
What was that expression again?..
I often tell the groom, “You’ll know she’s arrived when you see me pop up at the head of the aisle…”
The expressions on both faces are equally poignant and precious…
‘Stunningly elegant’. That was it. Nice long aisle. Lot’s of time to reflect…
ID check…
Yep, she’s the right one…
It wasn’t just the fact of allowing me to record all of this that left a glowing impression on me. Rev. Lockwood also conducted a warm, personal and good humoured ceremony. I know that Emily and Eammon were both highly appreciative of the part she’d played in their marriage and the kindness she’d shown them.
With apologies to Eammon for selecting one with a possibly goofy expression on show but if that isn’t an unbridled display of a colossal conglomeration of happy emotions bubbling up to the surface, then I don’t know what would make for such…
A whole heap more of Anglo-Antipodean happiness and a plentiful party to come, in Part Two >>>
Contact Dorset Wedding Photographer Phillip Allen : phill@misterphill.com : 07870 696248
