In a kitchen cupboard are four electric irons lined up in row at an angle like parked cars. I think a certain generation found it very hard to get rid of things – to throw them out even though these were never used and may have been broken.
Another dressing table, this one undefiled by the flotsam and jetsam of daily life. The crocheted doilies have been made by hand. The red glass lamp base was filled with sand. Everything is pink or red or sprigged with flowers – it looks like a room in a museum, but this was my childhood bedroom. The picture was taken about 8 years ago.
In the years leading up to my father’s death, knowing that his home and the house I grew up would one day be dismantled and all its objects sent to the four winds, I began to take photos in order to remember. The furniture and objects in my family’s house had fixed places and year upon year nothing moved or changed – or at least very little. During the years my father lived there alone the original arrangements were overlaid with odd items, such a pills or items kept in the paper bags they came in. Now that my father has passed away and the house is gone I am left wondering why on earth I didn’t take even more photographs. I suppose there are any number of reasons for my reticence; many of these things are so familiar to me as to become almost invisible, others are or seem to be banal. These pictures have assumed a greater importance through the accretion of time and have significance for me that may not be readily shared.