Life, Death and Gardening (formerly Diary No.30)

Life, Death and Gardening is a quiet contemplation of ageing in the UK. 

I took my first photograph of Nanda in 2019 while working for her in the garden. Over the past six years, that single image has evolved into a large body of work, following her day-to-day life.

Nanda is a peculiar character, having largely avoided the pitfalls of modernity. Instead, she has chosen a relatively frugal existence, opting to grow her own food, and fixing and reusing wherever possible.  

However, these pleasures have become less possible with each year that passes. Nanda’s world is slowly shrinking as the things that once shaped her identity gradually slip out of reach.

Nanda’s affinity with the garden has been a lifelong attachment. As a child of wartime Britain, like so many, her diet was supplemented by the food her parents grew. As an adult, with children of her own to feed in London, her allotment provided a place to grow and space to be. By the time she moved to West Somerset, in her fifties, she had a lifetime of gardening experience, and her new home became a haven for flora and fauna. For three decades or so, her small parcel of land provided fruit, vegetables, eggs, and honey. When I began photographing Nanda, she was well into her eighties, but had remained independent, driving until around 86, when a small accident took her off the road permanently. Since then, mobility has become an increasing issue, with one walking stick giving way to two, and steps becoming smaller and less steady. This drawing in of her independence seemed to age her quickly, diminishing her world and putting the pleasures that once shaped her identity, like travel, gardening, and even having chickens, firmly out of reach. Memory, too, has become a challenge; things that had once been so clear have become uncertain, and old memories, perhaps not thought of for decades, reappear out of the blue, like a web of ideas, but some of the connections are wrong. Ups and downs are all amplified, and confusion can cause her great distress, though going outdoors still brings some relief. In those early years, the garden was awash with colour; foxgloves, hollyhocks and evening primroses, as well as chicory, chard and artichoke plants all gone to seed often towered above her. The place hummed and buzzed with activity, like a proper cottage garden should. Over the last few years, though, it has become a semi-wild space, with nature reclaiming its ground so that in late summer it is filled with tall grasses, nettles and thistles. Roses and fruit trees are surrounded, and pink blossoms, red apples and golden quinces peep out through the thick foliage. There is such a clear symbiosis between Nanda and her garden, and for me, it has come to symbolise her life. She depended on it for sustenance, and it on her for management: keeping back the wild; holding back the inevitable. But like the turning of the seasons, no amount of care can keep autumn from giving way to winter. Nanda’s feelings on life and death were cemented long ago. Some time spent looking after a dying friend gave her the idea of her own Nanda-style DNR: a tattoo (her only one) on the right side of her chest, which reads No Blood or Organs, No resuscitation, worn by her ageing skin. Copies of a similar message are dotted around the house – pinned to the backboard of her bed and taped to the fridge. Far more than fearing death, I think Nanda fears the idea of going into a nursing home, giving up her last vestiges of independence, and being surrounded by unfamiliar people in an unfamiliar place, but thanks to her family, carers, and her own stubbornness, Nanda continues to live in her little cottage in the Southwest.