Seeing as how the weather in England has been the opposite of grey for some time now, it feels like the right moment to get the Holga out and start taking pictures again.
In thinking about this I had another look at some old shots I took in my grandmothers house a year or two ago. A proper project centering around my fascination with suburban houses is needed at some point and perhaps I might go back and expand on these.
This particular house is full of an endless amount of curious things and clashes of colours (she has an completely fearless and schitzophrenic attutude to decorating) and certainly it is these mysterious contents that hold part of the wonder for me, but it's also something about the light that you get this far from a city. In a tree lined avenue or just at the end of a cul de sac.
Things take on a strange resonance, a mix of nostalgia, safety and secrecy. It's a serious and deliberate remove from the life you choose for yourself but I'm always desperate to get inside these places. All quiet light and streaming sunshine.
A similar thought is captured nicely here by a certain teen - there is something in that aesthetic of sun faded remnants of lives unsorted that holds charm for me too. It came out most clearly in this story, but I'm sure that won't be the last time I try to find an excuse to knock on those doors;
"To bathe in them, to lie on their couches, to break eggs in the kitchen, to write my name in the dust on the mirror."