36 images Created 8 Jul 2018
Adieu chère Mère
Farewell Dear Mother/Adieu chère Mère
Sacred spaces. The inner workings of three generations of family who have lived within these walls. They have been born, grown, loved, lost and now, gone.
A lifetime of memories have been gathered and held dear in this space. Generation after generation have brought home memories; tokens from voyages to distant lands, diplomas hung on the walls, fashionable clothing, a jewel box with a dried flower within…
I walk through the rooms, I pick up an object here and then, there. I hold it in my hands and think of the memories, the stories, ebbing from the person who carried this home and cared for it throughout the years. I turn, see other objects, reach out, I pull my hand away. I think, do not disturb the beauty of the dust that has gathered. This tells another side of the story, bringing out yet another meaning.
What is the story behind a bookshelf full of travel books and of Napoleon? The checked black and white linoleum that was laid down directly over the wooden floor perhaps thinking ‘it won’t matter, no one will notice, it’s only a temporary solution’. The treasures tucked away in the bedroom drawer. Memories of lost loves, photos, important papers, leather gloves, a pocket watch…
The walls, abandoned hooks, the traces of the bygone years on the endless meters of wallpaper, the rolled carpets. These are all that is now left.
Sacred spaces. Lives lived. Lives loved.
Sacred spaces. The inner workings of three generations of family who have lived within these walls. They have been born, grown, loved, lost and now, gone.
A lifetime of memories have been gathered and held dear in this space. Generation after generation have brought home memories; tokens from voyages to distant lands, diplomas hung on the walls, fashionable clothing, a jewel box with a dried flower within…
I walk through the rooms, I pick up an object here and then, there. I hold it in my hands and think of the memories, the stories, ebbing from the person who carried this home and cared for it throughout the years. I turn, see other objects, reach out, I pull my hand away. I think, do not disturb the beauty of the dust that has gathered. This tells another side of the story, bringing out yet another meaning.
What is the story behind a bookshelf full of travel books and of Napoleon? The checked black and white linoleum that was laid down directly over the wooden floor perhaps thinking ‘it won’t matter, no one will notice, it’s only a temporary solution’. The treasures tucked away in the bedroom drawer. Memories of lost loves, photos, important papers, leather gloves, a pocket watch…
The walls, abandoned hooks, the traces of the bygone years on the endless meters of wallpaper, the rolled carpets. These are all that is now left.
Sacred spaces. Lives lived. Lives loved.
