The Living Room

‘Finding Dad’
by Yvonne J Foster

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I collect memories.
I store them in jars, bottles and boxes.
I fold them up neatly and put them in books for safe keeping.

Each memory tells a story.

I do this because there’s something missing.
I have a gap where memories should be.

The memories I have of my Dad only really start when I was 13.
They are so desperately sad and heartbreakingly painful to remember. 

Where are the memories of Dad when I was young?

Yvonne’s father attempted suicide when she was 14. The subsequent years were filled with periods of deep depression. He took his own life when she was 18. The trauma of these years wiped away the good memories of her father. During the process of planning this exhibition Yvonne went in search for the memories that were lost. 

If you need suicide support for yourself or other contact Samaritans call 116 123 or email

︎ @yvonnejfoster

‘Home Fires’
by Julia

Finding myself unable to cope with the effects of traumatic events in my life, I began to break down, losing work, friends, control over my life.

I made a pressurised decision to walk away from ‘home’, as other decisions seemed too hard. 

I had moved over 30 times in as many years and this was the longest I’d lived anywhere. I’d grown roots. I’d loved and cherished my ‘home’, surrounded by nature, friends, family and a great community.

In a whirlwind of deconstruction of the ‘successful’ life I’d built, I collected some pieces that I couldn’t part with, and took them with me into a van, where I travelled with my ‘things’ from my other life.

My last minute decisions of what to keep, made in the messy muddy dark winter as I literally dismantled, and limped away from my only safe place, became ‘home’ for me.  They were my clues, my comforts, my company and my connection to who I had been, and represented also who cared about me enough to keep a home fire burning for me in their hearts.

Out of all my ‘stuff’ there was very little, but what I chose became significant to my understanding what home and homelessness meant, to me.

‘Tangled Threads & Frayed Edges’
by Nicola Miles

Home can mean many things to many people. Revisiting my grandparents’ lives through a few old photos and a box of assorted objects has led me on a journey that has told unexpected stories, stories of different homes and different times.

The gathering of these left behind fragments of lived lives has been like discovering clues on a treasure trail. They have taken me to gravestones in Ireland, the docks of Newcastle, and India, both enthralling and disturbing, and the craggy coves of Jersey.

In the end, it all leads back home, to me, as this is my family and this is my story.

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