My father grew up in Arrochar, a rural village in Scotland. His father was an armament engineer and worked at the torpedo range. With the job came a house. The family moved in just before the outbreak of WWII. My grandfather lived there for over forty years and cared for his garden. We visited him every summer. I have fond memories of the garden, playing with my brothers and sister.

The garden, house and range were flattened to make way for a development that never materialised. I visited the site a few years back and slipped in behind a fence to photograph the remains. There were daffodils growing amongst the piles of rubble. I took a brick. I wish I had taken a flower.

Working with the fruit, flowers and vegetables that my grandfather tended, I am making lumen prints. Placing plants directly on to photographic paper, the process records the interaction between the plant, surface and light. These traces are fragile and fade with time, like my memories and those of my father who lived with Alzheimer’s. His memories are no more.