My mother had a stroke when she was 84 and still very independent. One Saturday morning, completely out of the blue, a blood vessel in her brain ruptured and her old way of life ended.
I visited her quite a lot, most of my time spent running errands and spoiling her because she liked the attention and I liked to give it. Sometimes we’d go through old photographs, some days were spent just watching middle class white people kill each other on ITV3. I found that kind of dull.
So I started to photograph the house with a disabled camera and continued even after she moved to a care home. She died in early 2017 and her house was sold in September 2018.
So much of what is in her house is familiar across other cultures, the family photos, weddings, graduation, holidays, the collections of useless things that bring the owner happiness, other items that need repair, mysterious items that nobody except my mother understood at all.