During my childhood my dad would take photographs of our family with his heavy, black SLR camera, carried on a strap around his neck with a strange pattern in black, orange and purple colours. I remember having my photograph taken with it on holidays to Greece and Sweden; having to stop in random places when he had found a beetle he wanted to photograph and the blurry prints of the shiny beetles when they came back from the photo lab; sitting down on a low wall near a beach in Greece, smiling back at the camera as we posed for him.
Years ago, before I went to University and began studying the relationship between literature and art, I started writing little stories inspired by some of the paintings I came across in galleries, postcards and reproductions my parents had on the walls at home. I made up stories about Picasso’s Blue Nude and Hopper’s Nighthawks. I wrote a few of them and then forgot all about it.