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All are stills/photographs taken during my recent filming in Norfolk.

On my 18th birthday the Black house* was torn down.

October is a dark month.
Extended to me is a frequent and often generalised hatred of what a ‘Libra’ I am.
I am not sure I believe in any of it enough to change.
Dawkins likens the generalization of star signs to the generalisation of a countries stereotype, but I am not sure if I agree with that either.

I am making a film at the moment.
I am discovering that the transition from photographer to film maker is a difficult and trying process.
I think in still images, stills of something moving with out a sense of consequence.
Now I have to think outside of a 6x6 film square and my mind is bleeding.
I am certain that, trying to make my photographs move it is something I shall struggle with forever.
Perhaps many photographers are the same?

*The birth place of Satanism.

Oneirophrenia

Lizzie Tovell (Independent) Styled by Katie Burnett, by Me






These are photos of me by Susu Laroche for Milk magazine.


Your chosen path (be it artist or spiritual) is the one who begs and begs to be fed.
Until it is larger than you.
You live and die to give your name to your work.
And host it.

Besides ‘it’, everything external to me is vapid, material and satanic.

If it is not fed it sits ‘there’, where the conscious floats, and eats.
‘There’, it chews on my mind and guts until the ‘blood leeks’ show.
Its business is with the destruction of bodies, for the greater good.
It is all for the good of your psychology (the profound region of my mind).

Art and death are ancient and closely associated obsessions for even the vilest of minds.


I (like women before me) have dedicated my life to that of which is scandalous and vampiric. In order to let the macabre be woven in to my mind.

Who knew, before me, what this was?

I was walking in Nunhead Cemetery today.
It smelt as though the trees where breathing straight into our faces.
Tobias said as we walked around the over grown Victorian graves
‘Look at this place, its taking from its own corpse to feed and grow over the graves’

The very Englishness of the cemetery reminded us of what our country is disposed to look like if we leave it alone for more than a few years.

But it reminded me also of other things that beg to be fed.