Peter Davidson
Profile
Just a happy snapper these days, when time allows. Not exactly retired, just a wage slave in an unrelated field. Yet I sense the pull of professional photography is luring me again.
An advertising photographer since leaving schooI and photographic college in 1971, I’ve a collection of bruises and tall-tales as well as some qualifications and awards. Early on I was a keen and paid-up member and Associate of the Royal Photographic Society as well as an Associate of the British Institute of Professional Photography but I quickly lost interest in paying their fees as well as being a part of their Establishment.
I’ve had the honour of photographic exhibitions both in London with Nikon and in Saudi Arabia and some work has gained recognition through the Financial Times Industrial Photography, Red Cross Children in Need and once, best of all, a place in the old Association of Photographers Awards.
Thank you, whoever you are, for visiting.
Groups
Peter Davidson hosts Photography Critique and Advice and is a member of Color and light, Friends of RedBubble, Melbourne & Victoria, Short stories - Spherical Scriptings, Street Photography and Photojournalism, The Fine Art of Photography, The Sensual Word, Travel and Adventure, United Kingdom and WMG.
Journal Entries
Thank you, intimate stranger!
Posted about 1 year ago, 6 comments so far.
Thank you!
Posted about 1 year ago, 5 comments so far.
Who was that masked stranger?
Posted about 1 year ago, 3 comments so far.
Art
Writing
Fingered (248 words)
I watched her play with her wine glass, trailing her fingers along its stem. Blood started being uncomfortably redistributed around my body.
North Borneo (Part 1)
Imagined cushions are thrown at my head as I stare down at Afghanistan, it’s 4am and the plane is in (almost) darkness as everyone sleeps.
A Time Too Brief
Her body felt hot beneath the silk as she shivered under my touch, my hands slowly tracing the contours of her body…
Friday 13th
I came down with a bad cold on Wednesday and stayed off work. So I found myself in bed on Thursday afternoon when the phone rang. My stomach fell when I heard it was Accident & Emergency, my thoug…
GraFton
Forty-seven years since the Games, the remains of Parliament lie forlornly across the river.
The Heights
She shrugged. I wanted to brush the hair from her face, hidden behind wind-blown golden strands. Instead she did it for me, taking down her sunglasses. Blue, ice-cold eyes appraised me.
