Gemma-Rose Turnbull

This is my granddad, we call him Puppa, but his name is Tom. As he gets older it scares me that I’ll lose him before I ever get to know him. We love each other but I don’t think we have any idea who the other one is. I guess it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t have to be some deep, profound relationship where you know each other. It can just be love (Just love? Like love isn’t the most important thing).

But still I photograph him, trying to understand him. It would probably be easier to ask questions but conversations have no substance I can retain for when he is not here. They are curious fluid creatures, intent on escaping, slippery to grasp, impossible to hold. Photos are my way of capturing him, stealing his image for when I can’t anymore, something that looms uncomfortably close.

He gets sick of me photographing him. Humphs at me. Damn camera. I don’t care, I push it, test his boundaries. I don’t see him enough to be polite and approach gently. I’m trying to photograph some essence of him, something I can keep, something I can look at and say ‘This is how he was’. It’s hard. I struggle to make images that are him, not of him. I omit his face, for now, trying to minimise distraction. I don’t know if it works. I keep trying. Time is escaping.

I cry every time I say goodbye to him. These photographs are desperate; part of that preemptive sorrow. It’s really hard to make good images when you are desperate.