On Aesthetics : Elizabeth Corrall



When I took my most recent roll of film, the only thoughts that crossed my mind were ‘angelic’ and ‘aesthetic’. I often find in photography the idea of a photo as having a hidden meaning or element of performance can oversaturate my work, I take images to perform and portray emotion, evolving with what my photographic style is and what I want to say more than what the images themselves contain.


This over-saturation of ideas and meanings can clog the mind; so on this roll of film, I wanted to go back to why I started taking photos, aesthetics. I began taking photographs of things I found attractive, and that evolved more and more into making parts of myself attractive to perform them to the camera, creating surreal series’ of work. For the first time in a while, I elected to take images of things that were pretty, with no meaning other than their aesthetic value.


Aesthetics are frequently used on social media, using hashtags to gain likes on attractive images, taking the ideas of being an aesthete and turning it into a way to gain popularity. The idea of an aesthetic has evolved from a beautiful detail in a work of art, in a building, into a moodboard of ‘aesthetic outfits’ and ‘satisfying images’. Aesthetics have changed from something that is beautiful and the reaction to a beautiful object into an Instagram trend.


Going back to basics was important to me when I took these photos, testing what I find aesthetically pleasing, what I consider to be the beauty in every day life, even when that day is grey and rainy. Attractiveness is a very personal thing, we all see beauty in different walks of life, and that’s what makes aesthetics interesting; one person may see flowers as the most aesthetic object from mother nature, for others, it’s the clouds. Aesthetics and our personal view of what is aesthetic is fascinating, no two people see the world the same, we all see with different colours, different perspectives, different senses. My personal goal was to take images that I consider to be beautiful and have no deeper meaning, to show everyone around me what I personally find attractive.


I think aesthetics and the idea of simply using creativity to create beauty is fascinating. I want to create more for the sake of creating, with no emotional ties, just looking at everything we may overlook with the idea of placing it on a canvas. Beauty is in every walk of life, it is who documents it that makes it beautiful to the rest of the world. The idea of taking images that follow this soft, angelic and gentle aesthetic is a personal breath of fresh air, giving myself a chance to recharge from a constant internal pressure of giving all art a meaning.


Sometimes, it is nice to just look at a picture and enjoy its aesthetic – its texture, its contrasting colours, the small details that may be lost when you’re in the moment, rather than deciphering a meaning to every image. Beauty for the sake of beauty is a connection to the core of creativity, turning the world into a new aesthetic canvas every day.

Germination : Lucy Harbron

films, visuals

s p r i n g

Germination is a piece about taking time. It’s a self-affirming message of accepting rest after hurt, waiting and then getting back up. Not a rebirth, just a regrowth, a rejuvenation.

‘I will be still til spring.

I will be still til spring.

and I allowed myself the wait’

Poem by Lucy Harbron, film by Lucy Harbron, Penny Eastbury, Samara Sajid and S. J Zhu

The Past Us : Lucy Harbron

films, visuals

The Past Us is a poem about the realisation that your love has changed. It’s a poem about looking back at a relationship and realising it’s become so misshapen over time, it hardly looks like love at all anymore, it doesn’t really even look like companionship.

A poem by Lucy Harbron, and a film by Lucy Harbron, Penny Eastbury, Samara Sajid and S. J Zhu.

Water Birth : Elizabeth Evans & Lucy Harbron

head talks, visuals





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His dad’s dad had built the boat, age 15. His dad swapped the wood for plastic as a project, after spreading the ashes of the man that raised him, and taught him how to sail. He decided to keep the tradition afloat, but couldn’t do that without dragging the boat into years its creator would never see. He worked until it was safe to sail again, and he had begun to feel easier. The hands of grief slipped with each blow of the hammer; respecting the past, building for the future. A legacy of material and water. But life caught up and he had to work. The garage door shut.

The boy went looking for the key, on the day the girl he loved said she didn’t feel the same. He dragged the boat over the small field, and lifted it over the stone wall, creating a slight dent on the bottom left of the yellowing outer shell. He walked it to the water’s edge, checked his bag, nodded and sailed. When he thought the water looked deep enough, using only the darkness of the blue as a guide, he let out a line.

The sky was beginning to burn when he resigned himself to failure. He threw the stick to the ground, causing a black scuff on the peeling paint of the blue inner wall; the day had melted and he had felt no bite. ‘I can’t do it and I never will’ he muttered, stomping his feet out of failure to find any other way to release his anger. He looked out, acknowledging that he may have sailed a little too far from shore for an amateur, but aware that the feeling in the pit of his stomach still pulsed with the breaking of the waves.  Suddenly, he took off his shoes. He took off his coat, his jeans, but left on his shirt, insecure about his skinny, teenage chest.

He stood up on the ledge and stepped off, falling into the water that enveloped him. He had decided that if he could not catch them, he would join them.

The grey blue of the morning sky had returned, on the 215th time he emerged on the surface. He had grown neither gills, nor a fin to allow him to swim better than a mediocre level, deemed acceptable in primary school swimming lessons.  He saw that the boat had floated back towards the stones of the shore.

‘Maybe when our loved ones die, they become our Gods. The wind of our lives become controlled by them, the sights of the sky spun by them. Each to our own religion, of family morals and memories. Grandad wants to keep his boat.’

He distracted himself from the water, which had become significantly colder in the morning air, with thought. He wondered whether his grandad would recognise him, for he’d only met him a couple of times as a baby. He thought maybe the cold was a punishment for the stranger that stole his boat. The wind an attempt to get his old livelihood away from the boy that could neither fish, nor be a fish.

He noticed his dad’s car parked on the beach, just out of reach of the tide. He pulled the boat out of the water, as his dad rolled down the window, only to say ‘I’ll meet you back at the house’.

To remind himself, he made a mental note; ‘teach the children how to fish and sail this boat.’

(Photography by Elizabeth Evans, Words by Lucy Harbron)