Iceman

I'm going all nautical today after taking a wander round the Maritime Museum. It's pretty much your average museum, albeit with a slightly more boaty motif than usual. I managed to get some interesting shots, including this one of an old Lune Whammel named Hannah.

However, my trip got genuinely interesting when I ventured upstairs. It turns out the Royal Geographic Society has an exhibition on at the museum, titled Antarctic Witness. Being a relative newbie and definite amateur at this whole photography business, I'm sadly ignorant of many photographers who are probably household names to other people, but thanks to this exhibition, I've found out all about Frank Hurley, and his expedition with Ernest Shackleton.

In August 1914, Shackleton sensibly decided that with things kicking off in a fairly major way over on the Continent, the South Pole was probably the safest place for him to be. To this end, he organised an expedition that would cross Antarctica from ocean to ocean across the pole. He hired Hurley, already a celebrated photographer, to document the trip.

It pretty much goes without saying that the expedition went tits up; they were sailing a ship to the South Pole, but apparently hadn't reckoned with the fact that the Antarctic has a fair bit of ice knocking round the place. The ship got stuck, unsurprisingly, and the crew spent the better part of two years marooned in a freezing wasteland.

Hurley documented this faithfully, through a series of breathtaking black and white shots of the ship and the Antarctic landscape. I'm not sure what blew me away more; the quality of the photographs, and the ingenuity in aspects of lighting and framing, or the fact that Hurley took them with a camera that basically looked like a cardboard box with legs. It made me feel a lot better about my cheap tatty point-and-shoot camera, perhaps illustrating that it's not the tools that matter, it's the workman. But in addition to being a talented photographer, it transpires that Hurley was also a prolific diarist, and kept regular journal entries all through the expedition.

In essence, it could be argued that Frank Hurley was the first ever Blipper.

Obviously, Blipfoto itself would have been in a fairly rudimentary state back in 1914, and internet access from the Weddell Sea ice shelf probably left a lot to be desired, but in my opinion Hurley's blips deserve some kind of retrospective acknowledgement. At the very least, give the bloke a little coloured balloon icon, or something.

Extracts from "Iceman", the Blipfoto journal of Frank Hurley

8th August 1914: No more kittens or sunsets from me for a while; Ernie's asked me to go on a trip with him. Apparently I'm the only person he knows with a camera, so it's my job to do the holiday snaps. I asked him where we're going; he said Antarctica. Apparently it's nice this time of year.

5th November 1914: Landed on South Georgia today. Bit nippy. Never mind though, Ernie reckons it's going to get warmer from here on. Makes sense; it's always hotter the further south you go. Glad I packed my trunks. Struggled to find a decent shot today, but then a puffin decided to perch on someone's head at tea-time. Can't beat a good comedy blip.

22nd December 1914: Here's an iceberg. There are quite a few of them around at the moment. In fact, this whole place looks a lot different to the picture Ernie drew for me back home. There's a lot more of these iceberg things, and considerably fewer giraffes and mermaids.

17th January 1915: This is our ship. The more eagle-eyed among you may have noticed that it's not moving. You may also have observed that I took this photograph whilst standing on top of the sea. The unusually white, and completely solid sea. Having a word with Ernie tonight about the finer details of this "holiday".

14th February 1915: Happy Valentine's Day. I've decided to do a special theme for today's blip. In fact, it's exactly the same theme that I've used every day for the last three weeks. Ice. Ice. Fucking ice.

Tried to go swimming after breakfast. My trunks are now encased in a glacier. Will be having further words with Ernie after supper.

23rd February 1915: Ernie says he's going to set off into the ocean in an uncovered lifeboat, on a solo mission to save us all. Myself and the crew generally agree that this is the best idea he's had in the last six months.