This is me, working class, pit yakkers daughter, mother was a cleaner, lives in a two-bedroomed house, works to pay the bills, gets ratty, gets on her high horse, always thinks she’s right, pig-headed, doesn’t care about fashion, or make up, rarely has a bath and wears not just odd but holey socks.
I take photographs, I love taking photographs. I love getting home, uploading and seeing images come alive. I wouldn’t say I’m a brilliant photographer or I shoot exciting stuff but whatever I take is a record, a record of something I’ve touched in life. A moment, a person, captured in time for eternity. One day I’ll be dead, buried under a tree, but my photographs will remain. That’s exciting.
This is me, pit yakker’s daughter & niece, surface labourer’s granddaughter, with a streak of posh(er) on the maternal side, rural smallholders, musical, literate, turn-their-hands-to-anything self taught polymath kind of people, a perfect match. Two bedroomed house yes, now with a proper bathroom snug inside. People use far too much water these days anyway, always washing hair, clothes, dog, altogether too much splashing about.
I too, take photographs and did once love it as much as Catherine, maybe more if that were even possible, but the life of it was throttled away by a destructive and careless Masters degree at the local poly. This lovely collaboration is my recovery plan. One day I’ll be dead, ashes off Noses Point, all hard drives scrapped for the arsenic and copper. Until then, one box of nice prints under the bed is all I need. Ten, maybe twelve of them. A few, but more than enough.