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.
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.
the night-tripper ritual
Another sun sinks, carving light into the hillside as we wait. The night-tripper is close. Running his hand across the face of a grassy knoll. Teasing out music which floats on fast-chilling air.
Will he come?
Strange shadows emerge from priapic stones sunk ready into the hill plateau. They wait too for the night-tripper as one last cloud hovers. Lone star set into stone.
A seed-head spumes, one last rail against the dying sun.
Is he here yet?
Dear Sheddists,
earlier this week we pay a visit to to the 'Windrush Garden'. Originally planted for Chelsea Flower Show it's now been relocated, lock stock and barrel, to a new home outside Birmingham Town Hall.
The display is a poignant reminder of the hopes, aspirations, disappointments and joy of a generation that came to serve. A generation from whom we could learn so much.
We read the stories on the back of giant dominoes that lie in the wake of the 'Empress Windrush' and meet a very dignified lady who traveled from Jamaica with her family all those years ago. She tells us of landing in London, aged nine in thin, tropical clothing and being taken by her father to buy a coat to protect her from the cold. She's with her lovely daughter who spotted her mother's photograph in a display in Central Library and is clearly, and rightly, proud of her family history.
These are troubling times in the world right now and it's so good to be reminded of the spirit of hope and optimism brought to us all those years ago by the Windrush generation.
Yours as ever,
electrofried(mr)
