The lonely sentinels of fire memory. If only they could talk. Images of a still life. A very still life.

Imagine a chimney...

An abandoned chimney in the landscape. The only remaining memorial of my family’s stories. And each year, with the changing seasons, these memories move a page deeper into the book of earth. Maybe safe, but who will read them? Who will know? Who will interpret the memories? Who will draw them into life?

Imagine a chimney...

I remember, as a child, sitting right here, in front of the hearth warming myself by the fire. The scene is lit by the fire’s light and someone is witling a hawthorn stick for walking and snake protection. A basic, simple and satisfying activity. I remember also a feeling of wellbeing and comfort. Viewing the left over chimneys now, after what happened, all that is just a distant memory watched over by a stone memorial.

Imagine a chimney...

Undressed it still stands, the hearth. Over a period of weeks, camping in a tent nearby, I dress the ancient ruin in its old garments. Photographic family images of the period assist me in this meticulous task. Without the roofs and walls I reconstruct my grandparents’ home and life, with furniture found in a nearby second-hand shop. I place the old black-wood table as observed in the photograph, the chairs in their “just got up from the table” positions. A sideboard here, a corner cupboard there. I suspend two sepia family photographs, where the walls used to be, from the branches of an old tree nourished by the site. As a gesture of completion I make a cup of Robur tea and start my imaginings.

Imagine a chimney...

A group of five chimneys in an otherwise empty landscape. Empty of human endeavour. A group of five chimneys, a small family of sculptural remains, gathered together in the safety of numbers in a foreign forest. They could tell the story of what happened between the moment of hope when they were constructed, and now, a moment of reflection when they are being re-built. In this quiet gathering of chimneys I am able to read the story of Ash Wednesday, how the fires raged through this forest and, in one swift and terrible gesture, removed whole families.

Imagine a chimney...

This chimney, memorial of stored remnants, memorial of stories, memories of love and laughter, of difficulties and tears, of the seasonal birth and death of ordinary everyday life. Where are they hidden? Like a librarian, the ruin of this chimney watches over all the stored memories, of all that has happened.

Imagine a chimney...

Why I wonder, whenever I spot a lone chimney in the landscape, do I also hear the slap of the flywire door and the swish-swish of water being tossed from the enamel hand basin? I search along my journey and arrive back at my first job in Australia, farm hand. Later when I drive my first car I revisit the same farm. Sadly the missus has died. As has the house. Consumed by fire. Leaving just the lone chimney. The power of memorials.

Imagine a chimney...

I come across a lone indicator of a previous time, a stone chimney ruin. In front of this chimney someone has placed a carpet, on the edge of which a pair of shoes stand silently as if in reverence for another place and time. On the carpet stands a wooden chair, on which lies a book. I open this book of memories and, to my surprise, I find another book inside and inside that another book and so on. Book after book ever diminishing. Until at last a very small book, which I open with great care.

In it I find a small flame. A small flame, kept alive by past and present readers. The flame which tells the story of fire. Fire which destroyed the house, but left the chimneys as a constant memory.