by Ashley Savage
Ashley Savage is a photographer whose work has been published and exhibited both in the UK and abroad. He collaborated with Tutu Tedder on the documentary photographic project they entitled, ‘Cancer Sucks.’ In line with Tutu’s last wishes, he is looking for funding, publications and galleries willing to show this work.
Since meeting the showgirl, Tutu, in 1994 when she was performing at the legendary Madame Jojo’s in London’s Soho, we collaborated on many occasions. She was my friend, my favorite muse. When she was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2009, it seemed obvious that we would document the experience.
Prior to completing my BA (Hons) degree in photography in 2003, I had trained in counseling and psychotherapy. As such, I had been interested for some time in harnessing the therapeutic potential of photography. Tutu shared this interest, keen to use her body as a medium of expression. In many of our photo shoots we sought to explore not only the cancer but her enduring encounters with depression and self harm, as well as my own. Since undergoing the onslaught of surgery, Tutu had many regrets about the damage she had intentionally inflicted upon her body during periods of self harm. Those scars are visible in many of our photos and in terms of her life experience, are almost as relevant as the scars from her mastectomy and other surgeries resulting from treating the cancer itself. As a long term depressive, I too benefited from engaging in this project as it gave me focus and a reason to be alive and look to the future, even when I became aware that Tutu would not survive.
With the Cancer Sucks project, Tutu wanted to take back a degree of the control and autonomy that the prescriptive nature of treatment plans and frequent hospitalization threatened to strip away. As the project evolved, we realized how important it would be to document the progression of the disease as realistically as possible, to show what it was like to live with cancer from Tutu’s perspective — the traumas of surgery, the complexity and range of emotions, the highs and the lows.
Eager to break from the generic breast cancer tableau, those pink and fluffy images that fail to reflect the realities of the disease, we knew we would alienate mainstream outlets. Tutu endeavored to be true to herself. Appearing in photographs that were at times graphic, she refused to compromise on revealing truth. Even on her worst days, she wanted me to keep photographing, however bad she felt. From the beginning we agreed to keep the camera clicking all the way to the end, whatever that end would be. These photographs would be our legacy and, for Tutu, they were the most positive thing to come out of her tragic diagnosis.
Our photo shoots were not always convenient or easy to arrange. Once when I was photographing Tutu having chemotherapy treatment, we were asked to stay at the far end of the room so as not to disturb other patients. Subsequently however, several older women also with tubes in their arms got up and walked toward us, wheeling their chemotherapy stands along with them. They were fascinated that anyone would want to record the traumatic experience of having cytotoxic chemicals dripped into their veins in an attempt to stop cancer in its tracks. When we explained our project, they understood. They wanted to watch and ask more questions. It was fascinating how the photographic process opened up a dialogue and transformed the atmosphere in the treatment room momentarily to one of curiosity and wonder.
On another occasion we were in the hospital waiting room before one of Tutu’s radiotherapy treatments when she opened her bag, took out a viking helmet and placed it on her head. As soon as the other patients saw her, the sombre atmosphere in the room lightened up. Everyone became more animated and started asking questions. Tutu kept the viking helmut on for as long as she could that day; she seemed empowered by it. Most of the technicians were as fascinated as the patients. They showed enthusiasm for our vision and, despite the red tape, helped us to obtain regular approval to photograph in the hospitals.
Since the same people frequented both hospitals, they often asked how the project was going, what we would do with all those photos. Our ideas always seemed to get people talking about their problems, their loves, their fears, their hopes for the future, which was exactly what we had wished for. Some of the patients we met while I was attending the hospitals with Tutu died. I hope our interactions had a positive impact on them in some small way. I know they did for Tutu. And for me.
Though, sadly, Tutu died in 2012, I am hopeful that we can continue to show the work to inspire others to document the traumatic events in their lives. In reality, not everyone would be willing to do so in such a graphic fashion as our Cancer Sucks project. But there are many different modes, concepts and mediums to be explored and used. Tutu was a one off, an innovator, a real star who touched the lives of so many others during her relatively short lifespan. I miss her vivacity, humor and the unconditional love she shared with me. I hope her memory will live on through our pictorial collaboration, Cancer Sucks.
To view the complete photo series, visit the website, www.savageskin.co.uk.
“Demystifying Breast Cancer” is formatted as a PDF for you to print easily and share. Click here to download.
