I have to admit straight off that without the challenge of a 52 week project my self portraiture this year has been sporadic. That’s not to say I’ve given up — I’m enjoying the moment when I realise that I don’t have to take self-portraits to a schedule — but I can pick and choose when the moment strikes.
Though as any writer will tell you —and many photographers will confirm — if you allow yourself the luxury of getting out of the habit then the moment will strike less and less often.
The moment struck here on White Edge, which was more transparent than white on that day in Mid-February, when the snow had melted into water-ice after a few days of sun-filled days and frosty nights. I managed to slither my way along White Edge and back along Froggatt without falling over once, though my feet did lose control a few times.
It’s hard perhaps, to get a sense of the slick of ice that covered every blade of grass and clung to hollows and dips in the path, but it’s there.
There are plenty more self-portraits on rolls of film waiting to be scanned and posted. Just don’t expect 52 of them.