Monument

Monument is a deeply personal, multi-layered reflection on memory, loss, and the quiet moments that shape us. The work merges the solidity of a traditional monument with the intimacy of something as fragile and personal as a shoebox. The book inhabits the private rituals I shared with my mother, particularly our shopping trips—our shared moments of connection. While we rarely bought anything, the act of wandering through stores, admiring beautiful objects, became a bond that wove together the years. Tissue paper from those trips, carefully saved by my mother, now rests in a pink, womb-like box—a subtle gesture toward the memory of her presence.

Two quotes, one placed at the beginning of the book and another hidden in a sealed envelope behind the last page, anchor the work. At the back of the book is an envelope, containing a lock of my hair, is a choice for the viewer—whether to discover it or leave it unseen. These texts are in dialogue with one another: the first speaks of retreating into objects as a way to preserve the presence of a loved one, while the final quote speaks to how we are built upon the sacrifices of those who came before us. The narrative is fluid, inviting the audience to create their own meaning and to engage with memory as both personal and universal.

Objects take centre stage throughout Monument. Thirteen carefully selected items, belonging to my grandmother, my mother, or me, serve as markers of lives lived. Many are obscured, photographed through a lens softened with tights—an old technique used to beautify women’s faces in photography. This intentional blurring, a nod to half-light, mirrors how memories often feel: present yet distant, vivid yet softened over time. These objects, like the tissue paper, carry both the absence and presence of the person they once belonged to, inviting viewers to contemplate the delicate intersection of remembrance and loss.

Cow parsley, a recurring motif in the book, acts as a visual chorus throughout the work. As a child, I knew the plant as "Mother Die," a superstition that kept me from bringing it into the house. Cow parsley grows abundantly where I grew up, and its appearance in Monument serves as a reminder of nature's endurance—how life continues, even after loss. Photograms of cow parsley appear scattered throughout the pages of the book, printed, collaged, and layered obsessively across different paper types. This uncontainable element of nature contrasts with the contained, delicate objects, symbolising how we try to make sense of death through both superstition and memory.

Throughout the book are sections of a letter written by my Mum as I left for university and has been on my wall in every house since then. Enlarged, traced onto blotting paper, and revealed with charcoal in palimpsest. This act of tracing over my mother’s words feels like a search for connection, a reverence to the ways she shaped me, and how her presence lingers in my every gesture.

Monument invites the viewer to experience my loss as a universal moment of life. It is not a monument to one figure but a reflection on the quiet, stately significance of our own lives, of the objects we leave behind, and the memories we imprint on those we love. Through fragmented storytelling, unbound pages, and scattered imagery, the work allows for change, interpretation, and movement—much like memory itself.