Peter Davidson
Profile
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.
My web site is here: Axiom
Also on One Exposure: 1x
Groups
Peter Davidson hosts Photography Critique and Advice and is a member of Friends of RedBubble, Short stories - Spherical Scriptings and United Kingdom.
Journal Entries
For Whom the Bell Tolls
Posted 10 days ago, 11 comments so far.
Another Brick From The Wall
Posted 2 months ago, 9 comments so far.
Active Forums?
Posted 2 months ago, 18 comments so far.
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 over 2 years ago, 3 comments so far.
Art
Writing
Fingered (240 words)
I watched her play with her wine glass, trailing her fingers along its stem. “Chris, I’m too tempted.”
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…
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.
Ghost Story?
The church was abandoned; within the empty sockets of its windows, a skeletal tracery held broken panes of stained glass.
Faith
Everyone, most of all Jim, knew he had no ‘Faith’. He shook his head, annoyed. No whispered prayer would bring this girl back to life.
