Trying to write a narrative to accompany this project is, for me, so difficult.
The Road to Blackhall
For many years Blackhall was no more than a village to pass through, very rarely stopping, only maybe to visit the Co-op for bread, or milk, things you run out of or have forgotten to buy at the large supermarket in the neighbouring town. I never noticed the inhabitants, never wondered who they were or what their lives were like in this ex-pit village. But I have a history that connects me to this place. It is filled with memories of my dad, Albert Anson. He lived here, he worked here, he is buried here.
I wanted to reconnect with him, with my history. I wanted to rediscover lost memories, create new ones. I have a large collection of black and white photos, some taken when we were kids, happily laughing as we played on the beach, in the garden, or sat on the back doorstep. Amongst them are photos of relatives and people I do not know, all long gone. But in these photos I find a connection with my dad. I find a connection with my past.
And now I can add to that collection of photographs. These photos that I have taken are the now of Blackhall, the people and their lives. They help me to rediscover my dad and his past, and they reconnect me to him in such a way that I could never imagine happening.
Blackhall is a survivor. Once it had a pit but now it is long gone. Once the people had employment on their doorsteps but now that is gone too. My dad was born in a neighbouring village. His dad was from Sunderland. I know little about my grandfather (he was knocked down and killed in Blackhall long before I was born) In them days men, and their families, moved around from pit to pit, going where the work was.