Today I came across a whole series of photograph’s of me, my son and my first partner. I often get reflective at this time of year as it will soon be his birthday. Twelve years has past since this group of images of me heavily pregnant with “New Labour” written on my swollen stomach were taken.
The photographs took me back to a time spent living at our first home, a masionette on the Bemerton Estate, just off the Caledonian Road in Kings Cross London. It was an exciting, busy place full of the sounds of the city. At night I would fall asleep to the rumbling of trains arriving and departing from the station.
I recall that strange half sleep that you get at the end of pregnancy, the sleep full of dreams and fears, of imaginings of a babies features of trepidation about birth, of the unknown. Of long trips up and down a steep flight of stairs to our toilet on the lower floor of the flat. The interruption of sleep caused by frequent peeing and of the babies head screwing down into the pelvis, becoming engaged, ready to be born.
I remember us frantically decorating the house together, like busy birds preparing our nest, making preparations for our sons birth, our shared hope and excitment about our baby and new lives together as parents. Discussions about how we would work together, how we would forge our roles as parents and artists, this would be “our” collaborative project.
When he was three months old, the world trade towers had collapsed as a result of the 11/11 attacks and the world around us was also gradually beginning to fall apart……
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