I’ve always had a deep love for photographing abandoned places. It was—and still is—my first true passion when it comes to image-making. There’s something about how things age over time, untouched by human hands for months or even years, that I find both beautiful and peaceful.

Over time, I’ve realised that this connection runs deeper than just the aesthetic. It’s all very familiar to me. I find comfort in photographing the spaces I grew up with.

I was raised in the countryside on a small, farm-like property, where abandoned buildings dotted the yard and old farm machinery was scattered around. There were old huts hidden in the chestnut woods at the bottom of the field, and streams ran along either side of the property where I would catch sticklebacks in jam jars. Often, it was just me, alone, wandering the fields and woods nearby. My great-grandfather lived in an old caravan tucked away at the edge of my father’s small field. As a child, I would explore it often, and I can still see it clearly in my mind: the roof caved in from years of rain and neglect, ivy creeping up the walls, and a bird’s nest resting in the fireplace. I only wish I could have known him and his home before its demise. 

The old, abandoned railway carriages my father used to store various things became my playground. I was surrounded by these forgotten spaces from a young age, and they’ve always felt like home to me. That’s why I still feel drawn to explore abandoned places today. There’s a surprising comfort in these spaces—they bring me a sense of peace when I’m exploring them. Sometimes, it feels almost profound. I’ve even found myself visiting certain places over and over, seeking that same feeling again and again.

This work, then, is a tribute to everything abandoned and forgotten—the emotions those spaces evoke. It’s an ongoing project, one that will continually change and evolve, just as I do. The spaces I document and the subjects within them will shift, but the feelings they evoke will always stay with me.