A year after my documentation began at The Vicarage, I went down to the house for one last time to be confronted with an empty shell, all that was left to represent my Grandfather was a stuffed owl hanging in the hallway, and an old canoe boat he had used to sail down the river Rye in the 1940s. I remember my initial feeling when entering the house after his death, the smell hit me first, the odour of childhood summer holidays and week long Christmases. I stepped first into the workshop, which leads onto the main door to the house. The room looked as it had always done to me, full to the brim with tools and boxes, dust and rust, cobwebs and a lifetime of belongings. As time progressed the building itself became infectious, it was a chaotic ever-changing interior I could not help but become engulfed in. I realised that until I archived the work I, as my Grandfather had been, became a hoarder of objects that had no function in the present, and now only held a reminder of the past.

The last year has been a discovery on how images, documents and objects, and their functions, can be brought together to show the essence of a building and the light that dances round its large frame. I have purely tried to archive a time that has gone; free from a single personal story, yet hoping to capture an era that is being lost along with the older generation, a time where a wife knew her place and children were to be seen and not heard.