Having spent Friday night in prison in Oxford I wanted to recuperate a little yesterday and so took the time to visit the Ansel Adams exhibition at Oxford's modern art museum. Now, back when I were a nipper during my phirst phase of photographic interest, between the ages of about 18 and 25 (before the Exeter sojourn and the heavy-duty clubbing period thereafter), I remember I loved his work. However, since then, sadly, a more cynical Patrick held sway for a while (cynicism, for a long while, being my idea of sophistication) and I rather went off his pictures, or at least, the idea of his pictures. It seemed to me that everyone who had even the remotest interest in photography cited Adams as a key influence and criticism of him appeared off-limits. During this time I wasn't even sure that photography was an art, and that Adams couldn't be as good as I'd thought because he earned near universal praise for his work (I know, strange distorted thinking, but that's how …
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