Skinningrove | Chris Killip | Stanley Barker 2024
Skinningrove | Chris Killip | Stanley Barker 2024
Skinningrove | Chris Killip | Stanley Barker 2024
Skinningrove | Chris Killip | Stanley Barker 2024
Skinningrove | Chris Killip | Stanley Barker 2024
Skinningrove | Chris Killip | Stanley Barker 2024
Skinningrove | Chris Killip | Stanley Barker 2024
Skinningrove | Chris Killip | Stanley Barker 2024
Skinningrove | Chris Killip | Stanley Barker 2024
Skinningrove | Chris Killip | Stanley Barker 2024
Skinningrove | Chris Killip | Stanley Barker 2024
Skinningrove | Chris Killip | Stanley Barker 2024

Skinningrove | Chris Killip | Stanley Barker 2024

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“Like a lot of tight-knit fishing communities, it could be hostile to strangers, especially one with a camera. “Now Then” is the standard greeting in Skinningrove; a challenging substitute for the more usual, “Hello.” The place had a definite edge, and it took time for this stranger to be tolerated. My greatest ally in gaining acceptance was Leso (Leslie Holliday), the most outgoing of the younger fishermen. Leso and I never talked about what I was doing there, but when someone questioned my presence, he would intercede and vouch for me with, “He’s OK.” This simple endorsement was enough.

“I last photographed in Skinningrove in 1984, and didn’t return for thirty years. When I did I was shocked by how it had changed, as only one boat was still fishing. For me, Skinningrove’s sense of purpose was bound up in its collective obsession with the sea. Skinningrove fishermen believed that the sea in front of them was their private territory, theirs alone. Without the competitive energy that came from fishing, the place seemed like a pale reflection of its former self.” - Chris Killip


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