Today would have been my fathers 68th birthday. I could never imagine him old, no matter how hard I try - he was always one of those people who will be eternally young. He lived like a teenager, died when he was young and left behind a solitary child who is till to this day trying to remember what having a father was like. My father was born into poverty in the late 1940’s and by the time he was seven years old, he had contracted polio. He spent two years in an iron lung, and although to most this would have been a harrowing ordeal, my father always said that whilst he was in hospital, at least he got fed. This illness would affect him for the rest of his short life but by the time I came into the world, he had already learned to conceal his disability. He played football, worked as a builder and to those who weren’t present when he was a child, myself included, there appeared to be nothing wrong with him at all. He never knew me as an adult. He doesn’t know that I am a photographer or a writer. Actually, the fact that I write may even be down to him. Whilst he struggled with all things academic, he started to write his autobiography shortly before his death. I remember him writing word after word, page after page, in the months and weeks leading up to his farewell. Sadly, death came too soon and stole him from this world shortly before he could pen his final full stop. He is missed every day, and in so many ways, his memory shapes and guides both my photography and writing. A real life Oliver, I have always had a passion, as he did, for the psychology of the human species. I am sure, that in some way, he still writes through me. Happy birthday, Dad.
Happy Birthday, Dad
