It began with my Dad. He was an enthusiastic amateur photographer, and when my brothers and I were children, he set about documenting our growing up together. He built a darkroom in the basement of our house and the photographs that came out of it still cover the walls. Invariably, they are black and white.
I fell in love with those pictures. There was something magical about them, not least that they afforded relief to a child of the eighties with a passion for neon green: all crimes against fashion were forgiven – the lurid Dr Martens boots quietly toned down to a neutral grey. People never look at monochrome portraits and cry “what was I wearing?” Perhaps that sounds trivial, but it’s quite the opposite. Part of the magic of black and white images is their timelessness, their ability to see beyond the whims of fashion and surface detail to the essence of people. They capture their interactions and emotions.(…)