©Rebecca Vaughan Cosqueric 2009-2023
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
What remains
I have always been fascinated by my grandmother's house. For one thing, contrary to a lot of things throughout my life so far, it has always, ALWAYS looked the same. The curtains were changed once. But as far as I can remember, the furniture was always in the same place, the armchairs were always the same, so was the carpet if I'm not mistaken.
You know how places, smells, music can bring you back instantly to a moment or a place and vice versa?
For me, crossing the threshold of the front door after coming up the small lane leading up to the house brought me back to empty milk bottles sitting in front of the door waiting to be picked up by the milkman, and the taste of fresh milk and the sound of Rice Krispies slowly bubbling in a bowl, the smell of paper and books, the smell of tea, my mum's seventies orange springy hanging by the window and cats.
But what struck me coming back as an adult is that this house had stood still to such an extent that it looked almost like a film set.
My granny had to move to a care facility, for many reasons and so her house was left like this for a little while.
In the days before lockdown, before we realized anything that was going to happen in the following months, my mother, uncle and aunt and myself went up to my grand mother's house to put her things away neatly.
I hesitated to ask if I could come because I felt like I was almost intruding on a moment that maybe only her children should have been a part of. But I wanted to be able to photograph it before it was sold. I wanted to remember it clearly, not just from memory. I wanted to be able to walk in the front door as soon as I looked at these, and feel these feelings, smell these smells and see things exactly as they were.
