Tate Modern

I was in London, one of my favorite places, and one of the 40 or so times I’ve been there. I started out on a London Walks tour, which I highly recommend. Check their schedule—you can find any number of different walks that will interest you, all led by knowledgeable guides.

On this particular evening, after our first pub stop, I started lagging behind as I began “seeing” images I wanted to capture. Next thing I knew, I had lost the group. A quick search where I thought they might have gone was fruitless, so I was truly on my own and free to wander wherever I wanted.

I soon found myself at the south end of the Millennium Bridge, which crosses the Thames a few blocks from St. Paul’s Cathedral and ends on the other side of the river in Bankside.

Initially, I was focused on capturing the dome of St. Paul’s looming over the city. You can find one of those images elsewhere on my site. But then I turned around, and wow! The brick facade of the Tate Modern, which is actually an old power station wonderfully repurposed as a museum, was right in front of me. And in the lower right of my field of vision—and soon my camera frame—was a three-section floor-to-ceiling window. Behind it, bathed in the warm glow of tungsten lights, was a solitary figure working at a table, wearing a bright red top. Meanwhile, the two banks of five vertical windows above him and on the left side of a central section of bricks reflected the blue of the twilight sky. It was as if someone had painted a scene right in front of me.

Two scenes for the price of one at the same location. It wasn’t the first time I found another photo simply by turning around and looking the other way.

Losing the group turned out to be the best thing that could have happened to me that evening.

This image was featured in APA Los Angeles’ “Off The Clock” exhibition in 2018, as well as in the Southeast Center for Photography’s “Color” exhibition in 2018.