This is an old sepia photograph of a seaside resort, which was taken, I suspect, in the early twentieth century. I don’t know where it was taken: I am sure it is somewhere in England, but there are few clues in the photograph itself. There is what looks like a ruined castle on the top of a hill in the […]
Seven people and a wall. Seven mid-century faces: post-war, post-depression – all tweed jackets and Oxford bags. That first, troubling half century is behind them – the future is awaiting them.
This little Victorian Carte de Visite dates from a time when photographs were for special occasions, rather than the result of a selfie-click on a smartphone. Young men or women would have their photographs taken on birthdays and holidays, wearing their very best clothes, and posing against a background of stone antiquities and tree-trunk props (the props really were to prop you […]
There was a time when people would dress up to walk along the prom. A time of hats and coats and canes. A time of conversations through pipe-clenched teeth.
Sometimes, old photographs lay around for ages, decades, centuries – holding within them images of great beauty. They are warehouses of history, repositories of memories, constantly being removed from pillar to post, from old cupboard to old shoebox. And then someone comes and with the help of a little digital renovation, a new image emerges from the shadows.
A photograph of unknowns from who knows where, on the back of which it gives the date: 24 June 1918. One is left with the aching question: did he make it?
An old faded print of so little significance that it has been long abandoned. A faded caption on the reverse commemorating faded relationships. A thing of beauty.
There is nothing better than a busy photograph. Two tin baths, half a skirt, a branch cutting through a frown: this 1926 photo contains enough for a lengthy essay.
Sometimes you don’t need to know who the people are. You don’t need to know their story: their past, present or future. Sometimes the image itself is enough.