Artist

  2. Two neighbouring doors, they used to be the important ones around here. People used to  come and go from these houses, reminding me of my mother’s house, chaotic, attracting all sorts at all hours. Some would whistle up to windows from the back. Others would stand around waiting, leaning on the brick wall, or scuffling about. Kept my head down, to not cause threat or discomfort. ‘Crack houses’, often used to describe houses where crack is bought, sold, and smoked. Usually, heroin too. ‘Crack and smack houses’ is too much of mouthful. Helen’s house was always her home, even if it had crack and smack in it. Even if drugs were sold from there. I doubt they ever had enough for a huge drugs operation. People in active addiction aren’t usually the entrepreneurs of the chain, as they often smash though their supply due to need and high tolerance, Crackhead, Smackhead, Crack house, no. We don’t need to define people by the things they consume, and we don’t need to define a home by its contents. The contents of their bins spilled out onto the pavement, the usual rubbish but with orange lids and squashed disposable spoons. If you know, you know, it doesn’t need to be an obvious needle. Police were often outside. The people left, windows and doors were boarded up, and that was that. Where were they moved on to? The houses were gutted and refurbished. I asked if I could take the  Read More

Image: My mother Helen in doorway

CW: Death, addiction

'We protect ourselves, we barricade ourselves in. Doors stop and separate.' - Georges Perec

1. We all have doors in our lives, whether we own them or not, some feel more like ours than others. I think we've all thought a lot more about other peoples touch lingering on doors lately, with Covid spreading. I've always tried to push parts of doors that other people weren't pushing, but I suppose that's more of a distanced intimacy thing, rather than a germs thing. It's rare that I hold hands with anyone, sometimes holding a door handle is like holding someones hand. I've felt the same way about light switches and remember feeling jealous of my mother's light switch, because she touched it daily, more than she ever touched me.

Her front door changed as her addictions grew. It used to be open more, until it was smashed in and hard to get to. A few years before her death, the garden gate had a bulk of padlocks, maybe out of paranoia, maybe out of a need to feel safe, because the world she mixed in was a dark one, too dark for her somewhat naive and bohemian ways. She used to let everyone in, then she did all she could to keep people out, unless they were like her, a part of this other world, where people wanted to be anywhere else but where they were.