I grew up in Skegness on the east coast of England. My mother still lives in the house in which I was born 62 years ago. My father recently passed away. The house has gradually filled to capacity, a repository of memory. I visit periodically and attempt to rationalise the accumulated disorder, but often pause to contemplate a long forgotten item resurfacing from the past. All the memorabilia seems to still the air and one is tricked into thinking the passage of time has been slowed.
With the infirmity of old age, my grandmother would sometimes say «you too will be struck comical one day». The phrase was typical of her laconic sense of humour. Thirty years later my father used the same expression as I reached to clean his spectacles. He had probably not noticed they were becoming opaque.
My parents’ home is near a coastal reserve where I go for long walks with my camera, a spectator to changing seasons. Switching from my usual b&w, I began to experiment with expired colour film a journalist friend was clearing out. I felt the need to record the sanctuary of this house filled with memories and the colours were important.
The town is a seaside resort built to refresh the lungs of industrial workers. Seasonal jobs were plentiful. While at high-school I worked for a photography firm snapping the crowds of tourists. This became my photography apprenticeship. The family snapshots that I revisit today are also an attempt to preserve memories, but tend merely to highlight imperma
