If you want to know why, scroll to the explanation at the very bottom of all of the photos.
Over time, new photos will be added to the top.
A physical copper connection to the outside world requires the work of human hands. Every single wire I was looking at had been threaded through the frame and connected to terminals at either end by... someone. Behind all this was almost countless hours of human effort built up over hundreds of careers, so that everyone can be connected. So that everyone can talk to their grandkids, ring about a job, talk to a customer, order a pizza...
What struck me as I stood there looking at one distribution frame in just one exchange was how much work had been put in by how many people over the last century so that the rest of the community could be connected.
A friend of mine describes the work of connecting people as more than a job, he describes it as a "calling". Something bigger and more important than just a way to get paid, a "calling" is something with a higher purpose that has to be done. That might be a bit old-fashioned, but even today the work of connecting people is vital to the community. As the technology improves we'll get to the point where more and more of it can be done by a machine. That's generally a good thing - no doubt the machines will be faster and more efficient, allowing all of us the benefit of more service, more functionality, more convenience. But for a little while yet, and for the last century or so, it has needed people making sure that the rest of the community can be connected.
This project is about stopping to think about the people who've spent their careers working to connect the rest of us.
I should emphasise that I do know that the work of jumpering copper-pairs on the distribution frame is just a tiny part of the total effort required to connect people. Perhaps that's my point - it is rare to see such a compelling visual demonstration of how much effort, by how many people, over how many years, has gone into keeping the community connected. Yet what I was seeing was just the tiniest tip of the iceberg in relation to everything that needs to happen before anyone can pick-up a phone.
This project started by pure accident, or maybe serendipity. Without entirely understanding why, I had decided to pull together a photographic project on heritage telecommunications equipment. Obsolete, bulky electro-mechanical switching equipment has a real charm to it. Its construction spoke of craftsmanship and, because it was all moving parts, maintaining it required knowledge, skill and discipline, acquired over years of learning.
On my very first day of the project, I found myself talking to Brian Mullins at the Telstra Museum at Bankstown. Brian started his career as a telegram boy and was in the last class in the PMG to learn Morse Code. It took me a while to notice the way his fingers sometimes tapped-out code on the table as he talked. At the time I first met Brian, I hadn't really worked out what the photo project was about - it was still a jumble of half-formed ideas. I fumbled through the conversation with Brian about how it wasn't work, it was just a hobby, I was taking leave to do it, I didn't want to inconvenience anyone, and I'd probably take another day of leave in a few months and come back and we could go somewhere else to take more photos. Brian insisted that, no, he had time now, and we should go now - and then dragged me about fifteen kilometres away to see another exchange that I "just had to see".
Brian was right - Blakehurst Exchange was exactly what I was looking for, with all of its old step-by-step uniselectors and banks, and beautiful old timber test-desks. I was rapidly absorbed in the process of observing and photographing, completely focused on the equipment, the way the light fell in the gloom of the abandoned old equipment rooms, the textures, the colours, the perspectives and the patterns formed by row after row of components. Brian kept talking throughout, talking about colleagues past and present, and things he'd seen.
I don't recall exactly what it was that he said, but at some point he made a comment that broke through the focus and made me stop and look up from capturing images. Perhaps he mentioned the time he was awarded an Order of Australia Medal for services to heritage. I stopped what I was doing, and looked up from the camera mounted on the tripod. He was leaning up against the old Main Distribution Frame with a fantastic laconic pose, his face lined with experience, and the light streaming through from the exchange windows high behind him.
"Brian - don't move a muscle. Do you mind if I take your photo?"
The original photo project was all about the craftsmanship, and yet here I was capturing images of the dusty old remnants of the craft, rather than actually capturing images of the craftsmen themselves. I needed to capture images of the people who've spent their lives working so that the rest of us can be connected.
The portrait project has proven much harder than I thought. Dusty old equipment waits patiently until I'm ready to grab a photo at the crack of dawn on a Saturday morning, whereas photographing people takes a bit more planning. I'm still making the rules up as I go, but I think we're talking about people who've spent at least 25 years working in telecommunications, and often much longer than that.
I realise that there are thousands of people out there who fit into that category, and I can never hope to do them all justice but... you have to start somewhere.
The original (and ongoing) photographic project on heritage telco equipment can be found here.
Acknowledgments:
Many thanks to all the people who agreed to have their portraits taken to participate in the project.
Thanks to Dom Gallo, Jonathon Larkin and Paul Jacobs for their input to help polish what appears here.
