the passage of time

  

silence

 

 

observation/reflection/enlightenment

 

 

 

 

 

 procession for hilary

 

interment

 

 

These pictures chart a healing process undertaken through photography.

 

'The Silence' is a mixed-media image constructed over a number of years using photography, collage and photo-copying techniques.

The man split in two is me. In between is a photograph of my father and my sister, Hilary. My father died aged forty eight of a massive heart attack. Hilary died aged eight. She pedalled her bike from behind a bus to cross the road. Her God-father, our family doctor, was waving at her. She never made it to the other side.

 

The tape across my mouth symbolises the silence that followed in the wake of these deaths. No-one explained anything to me. Not family, not friends, not my school, not anyone. I was left alone, a ten year old, in deafening silence as I tried to figure out things myself.

 

'Observation/reflection/enlightenment' is about coming to terms with death and then the subsequent birth of both a learning disabled son and a physically and learning disabled grandson.

 

All things pass. Eventually.

 

The photograph was taken on a Lomo, a little plastic film camera. I took it in a lift at work surrounded by reflected light.

 

'Procession for Hilary' is the only photograph in the series rendered in colour, and deliberately so. A Mexican mariachi celebration.

 

It's part in homage to Anton Corbyn's brilliant 'Atmosphere' video, part in homage to Peter Blake's sublime Parade collage work.

 

The final piece is 'Interment'. Is this the final resting place for the ashes of Hilary or just an eye on the ever unfolding universe?

 

dreams and nightmares - no. 110

finding my voice

Dear Sheddists,

my last post was a memorial to my sister, Hilary. This post is about the impact of her death and three other crucial events in my life - the subsequent death of my father aged 48, the birth of our learning disabled son and the birth of our physically and learning disabled grandson.

This post is not intended to be maudlin. I am not feeling sorry for myself, I just wanted to express in photographs something I have long felt to be inexpressible.

Men do not find it easy to talk about difficult things. Our culture tells us men are expected to be the strong ones. So we don't talk about what really matters.  To compound the problem, we are all so busy we fail to stop and listen when someone needs to speak.

So these photographs are about how I have felt over the years. I want to say a very big thank you to those who have helped me find my voice. First and always is my dear wife who has listened, encouraged, challenged and affirmed for so many years. She loves me as I am.

Second are my children (and their partners) who I absolutely adore.

And then there is Zoe, my cousin and sister (figure that one out!), Debbie, my wife's best friend and Kate Green, my photography tutor who has helped me discover so much about how to communicate in pictures.

I could explain the meaning behind the photos that follow, but I won't. I will leave it to you to find your own interpretation.

dreams and nightmares - no. 109

remembering hilary

The homework for my Photo Group this week is still life. I've been thinking about this particular photo for some time and I should explain a little about it.

My sister Hilary died when she was eight. She was knocked down on her bicycle. Our family Doctor (and Hilary's Godfather) was on the opposite side of the road and he waved to her. Hilary peddled out behind a bus and that was it. The end of a short but beautiful life.

I first became aware of Hilary as a very small boy, I think about three. I went into my parent's bedroom and tugged at the door of a tall walnut wardrobe. It opened and two things fell out, a doll and a bath-toy. I took them down to show my mother. Another door opened in my life that day.

My mother threw out most of our family memories seven years later when my father died of a heart attack in a Hertfordshire lay-by. However, a few precious black and white photos survived the cull. One of the them shows a cute, curly-haired blond girl clutching a crop of rhubarb. In the few remaining photos of her life Hilary always seems to be dancing in a rich summer light.

I never wanted to let go of Hilary after I opened the cupboard. She, and my late father, often visited me in my dreams. Two silhouettes in the sunlight looking down on me. And then, slowly, our hands parted and they drifted away.

What if? It's a question that has no answer. In the photo above a doll holds Hilary's picture, a small bunch of dead roses partially obscuring her from sight. At Hilary's feet lie the remains of two dragonflies, insects that have a rich mythological history. Dragonflies are associated with change and the passing of life.

I took some other still life studies for my homework, this time adding in a collection of dead flies. In the ying and yang of photographic symbolism they represent the black side of the mountain, redolent of death and decay. Both have a place in remembering Hilary.

 

mad tales - hilary

She was spiked in the cool night Hilary, crawling from beneath the cock-roached nightmare of a passing wave that summoned her, and us, to a moment of destiny. Bicycle wheeled spinning and mop up the blood from the opposite side of the road where he stands ... crying. He called, she died.

Pock-sopped white and trembling, forever frozen. Is she me, is she you?

Sometime visitor to this stream.

She calls out repeatedly during the night, ferried here and there by the stranded dream in which she is forever caught. The witness passes by the side of the road calling away ....

Each time she comes to stand beside me I am frozen and screaming. Draw breathe into my lungs as she crosses.  Coming to life in the stream of traffic as the image of Hilary steps out into the dusty summer day to another hit.

The carney caller and bright light shine of another.