I’m fascinated by boxes of letters, photographs of people I don’t know and the scribblings of other people’s diaries. I have no idea why, I’m just attracted to them, like a moth to a flame.
But there’s also a sadness when I see these things.
Today we went to an auction house, just to have a nose and a poke around. One lot was a draw full to bursting of letters, newspaper clippings and random photos. I was in love. I spent at least 45 minutes rooting through this tiny little box, trying to get a picture of what these people were all about.
Then it struck me. All these memories and little snippets of history are sat in a cold, draughty, auction space separated from the families to which they belong.
The other thing I stumbled across was a book which was given to the recipient in 1936 by her grandmother. It was a beautiful, old book that had various photographs of the family inside. I wanted to know more.
Does anyone else get sucked in to other people’s memories? Just what is it about the every day life of strangers that’s so fascinating?