Dad

My Dad phoned me a few weeks ago to tell me that, at the ripe age of 71, he is getting married for the first time in his life. He said it wasn't a big deal and that I didn't need to come.

He's getting hitched today.

I'm sending him and his lovely lady my best love (and I'm very glad she's young enough to look after the old bugger) xx



Here are a few words from my Dad that are totally unrelated to marriage but are a bit about photography and life.

'Lovely to see that photo of your fifteen-year old self (looking incidentally very mature for your age). I'm sad that I missed that period in your life but there you go. Old rediscovered photographs bring back many memories, usually good ones, because these particular snapshots on life are generally happy and celebratory: we rarely see photographs which chronicle the sad moments in our lives. Our friend Jean is very ill at the moment and at the age of 75 it doesn't seem she will survive much longer. We are spending time with her in her beautiful home (Jean is an artist and her large house is a testament to her inspiration) but this poor frail little woman is really just a shadow of the graceful and delightful person she once was. I was looking through some of her many photographic albums as she slept when we last visited her and marvelled at the richness of her life: there she was in her thirties in Crete, looking rather handsome and modern: there she was partying in some bistro abroad with the sun in her eyes, there she was at the easel with paint and brushes, there she was surrounded by orchids laughing at the camera.
Was it for some perverse reason that I wanted to take a photograph of her now - in her final frail incarnation on her bed and subdued by morphine: she still looked beautiful. She still looked - photographic. She still looked - Jean.

I put the camera away. Washed the teacups. Closed the door.'

xx



This is a series btw.