Hers & His


A solo show at MEZZANINE in South Bermondsey where I unveiled six new works: 


A show for:
Love.
Nuclear love,
radiating,
explosive.
A white hot fusion.
2.4 children,
Boy and girl.
Men of the north,
saving the pennies,
conserving values,
keeping the neighbours in mind.

But then.
A second.
No precious blood.
Her beautiful brain.
Confusion came and the fusion became fission.




7th November 24 at 16:59: “Ok babies this is mum on dad’s phone…..

Grandma Freda has had a stroke, she’s in hospital but sat up chatting. Tim is therefore going up tonight and I’m going with him so that I can stay with grandad if Tim and Ali need to go to the hospital.”


I was weaving a willow basket at the time, trying not to think the worst. Wetting the solid sticks, turning them soft, placing them over and under each other in an orderly fashion. Thinking of the orderly fashion of her brain vessels and how a couple weren’t in line. It doesn’t matter when you’re making a basket out of willow.


My Grandad Jack and Grandma Freda fell in love from the moment they laid eyes on each other. A story they loved to recount, my Grandma often stating she was “made for your Grandad.” Proud northerners who were working class but liked to pretend they weren’t, Grandad got a job at Timothy Taylors and worked his way up to the top of the business. True to their Yorkshire ways, they lived frugally, saving the pennies and turning them into pounds. With these savings they would take the whole family, all ten of us, on lavish holidays that none of us could afford. Always telling us on the plane home that ‘we’re spending your inheritance now.’ Through my teenage years I struggled with their politics: generational conservatism with a small and big c. I would often pick fights with them over the Daily Mails lying around the house. In my twenties this angst turned into teasing, realising that who they chose to vote for in the booths wasn’t their entire being.



Grandma is a party girl, she loves her clothes, shopping and people.
Hitting up the M&S sale and calling up one of the many northern women she’s accumulated over the years to tell them all about her wears.
“I just try to love everybody.”
She loves Kate and disapproves of Meghan.
One school morning she made a jam sandwich for the bus and said “give that to someone who might be in need of it more than you.”
Craves loose women in the week and the odd glass of fizz on the weekend.
Jaeger leather gloves.
She’s a snob.
She wants the high life.
Working on her high cholesterol.
“I don’t know why but I just love buying towels."
When shopping together you’d turn to say something to Grandma and she’d be stuck at the other end of the street giving away all her cash to whoever looked like they needed it more.
A tenner met with a minty kiss and a ‘don’t tell your Grandad.’
Being proud.
Loving my Grandad to bits. 



Then there’s my Grandad by her side.
Clever, kind, attentive and anxious.
Worrying about everything.
Thinking about money.
Family first.
Being friendly and warm to whatever new friend Grandma has picked up.
Always a crossword on the go.
Walking miles for a free paper.
Arriving two and half hours before the train.
Teaching me how to go blackberrying.
Cutting bread, cheese and ham wafer thin so you could see light through it: Net curtains.
Sitting and playing uno and monopoly with me for hours, whilst Grandma flicked through ‘Ideal Home.’
A tenner here, a twenty there. Purposely collected from the bank the week before so the notes were crisp.
Meeting my calculated spites at the Daily Mail with warmth and wit.
Being proud.
Loving my Grandma to bits.




It’s this love, for each other, for me and for the world, in all its forms: romantic; masculine; philanthropic; platonic that is the backbone to my world view.

A few seconds of no oxygen in her brain changed everything. She became pleasantly confused, recognising the family but struggling to understand our ages or simply what was said five minutes ago. She was whisked off into a care home, leaving my frail 89 year old Grandad alone in their house. My Auntie went above and beyond, sleeping at the house every night despite living down the road. Things got harder, Grandma trying to escape the home to be with Grandad, Grandad in his chair. Paralysed by fear of falling or becoming worse. Too scared to visit Grandma. Then came the time to make the decision no one wanted to make, Grandad be put in a home too. He specifically made the request not to go in the same one as Grandma.

And there they were. Together but apart, now forever. Both alive but not living. The love story withering away quicker than my Grandads asthmatic lungs. The house standing empty. Quiet. Smelling weird every time someone entered.

When I said my final ‘I love you’ Grandad opened his eye, the Martin blue staring back at my own. Then, we all went to call in on Grandma at the home before heading South. “She’s not here. She’s in town with Rita. They’ve gone for morning coffee.” A small perfect moment. Grandma’s personality tenaciously prevailing, blissfully unaware of her other half lost and failing. 

Those last 8 months have overshadowed their perfectness. Their love.

This is a show that reflects those months.

4th July 25 at 05:01 “Grandad died just after 3am last night. Ali got a phone call and went to see him, then rang me around 4. I’m not going up now as there is no point. We can have a chat in the morning, now going back to bed and hopefully a couple of hours of sleep! Love you all Xxx”