“The great thing about real life is that it belongs to you. You can make it up as you go along!” ― Victoria Ashton
Sham of the Perfect is a collaborative photography project made up of an international collection of photographers who are passionate about both family documentary photography and being parents. The project’s name is inspired by the poem A Spring Issue, by Sarah Dunning Park. Our intent is to tear down the sham of perfection shown in more idyllic work and present life, parenthood, families, childhood, and home as it actually is; full of flaws and full of beauty simultaneously.
2019 will be my 5th year contributing to this project. Here are my photos from 2018, mapping our year in weekly images.
Want to document your real life moments?
I may not be able to follow you around all day every day, but I do offer Day In The Life sessions, helping you to capture the small but important moments with your family. Click here to get in touch and learn more.
“And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.”―Haruki Murakami
I completed the second year of my photo-a-day project on December 31st, 2017. When I started documenting my days on Jan 1, 2016, I never thought I’d make it through a year, let alone two. And, for sure, this year I almost gave up many times.
It was a really tough year. The toughest. On many days, I felt like a little rowboat caught out on the ocean in the perfect storm. I have never felt so adrift, so at-sea, in so many areas of my life at once. It brought me to my knees. It was energy-sucking, confidence draining, emotional nudity. It was humbling. I questioned everything, including myself, and I’m still not sure that I’m standing on solid ground yet. Have you ever got off of a boat after a long, rough voyage? For a while after you step on land, you find yourself still internally swaying, not sure if it’s the ground beneath you moving, or if your equilibrium hasn’t yet caught up to the fact that you’re finally off the boat. That’s how it feels right now. Shaky. Uncertain. But also a bit of a relief.
Looking back on these images was hard and helpful. Hard because it’s like I began the year in one life and left it in another. Helpful because I realized that, along the way, there were many moments I wouldn’t want to write-off.
And that’s why I’m going to continue in 2018. Who knows what the next 12 months will bring my way? Who knows what life I will be standing in on December 31st of this year? And who knows how grateful I will be for the reminder of the little moments along the way.
Maybe I can’t be with you every single day but I can document the flavor of your life in a documentary session. Trust me, every memory has its value, even the moments that don’t feel like they need memorializing at the time. Get in touch to learn more.
Last month, I went to London. On my own. No husband, no kid, no friend, no relative, and no schedule. I had only one mission: to avoid the typical tourist traps and experience London as I know it and remember it, in all its gritty, pulsating, multi-cultural glory. And, to follow my curiosity wherever that led me.
Where better to do that than in London’s iconic markets? Where tacky and trendy meet antique and boutique, where people-watching is an unavoidable pleasure, and each neighborhood offers-up its own quintessential experience.
I walked 50 miles in 4 days, carried blister plasters in my bag, and realized (painfully) just how little I walk in the U.S.
DAY ONE: Camden High Street and Camden Lock Market
Camden is an assault on all the senses. It’s a street that moves to the beat of the dance music blaring from the gaudily-adorned shop facades that reminded me of a slightly-twisted, Through the Looking Glass version of Main Street, Disneyland.
And then, just as quickly, it’s a serene canal framed by weeping willows, crossed by quaint bridges, and with views of transitioning barges, then a skyline of cranes and office buildings when you turn another.
It’s a street-food trip around the world with Korean, Brazillian, Columbian, German, Italian, French, Middle-Eastern, American (“Southern Fried Mother Clucker”), Indian, and a whole host of creative mixtures (think Korean Burritos) jostling for your stomach’s attention, beside the British staples of Fish & Chips and Pie and Mash.
This was my delicious lunch, served from a little stall beside the lock where you can watch them chop the fresh ingredients: a 3-curry combo with lamb and aubergine, spinach and chickpea curry, plus Dal, garnished with fresh mint, a dollop of yogurt, and a sweet chutney. All for just seven pounds.
It’s an indoor-outdoor market that never seems to end, winding in and out of buildings and alleyways and under brick eves that create a network of connected, mini neighborhoods each with their own personality; offerings alternating between vintage clothes, Union-Jack magnets, and modern art. There’s Alice Cooper blaring from a vintage record stall and, two-stalls down, Bob Marley jammin’ in a store merchandised from wall-to-wall with the reds, greens, yellows, and blacks of his home country.
In short: it’s not for people who don’t like lots of people or constant stimulation. In case you were wondering, I am not one of those people. I was buzzing with energy by the time I walked back to the tube station.
INFO FOR PHOTOGRAPHY BUFFS | Shot on a FujiFilm XT-1 with a 23mm 1.4 lens
One of the best things to recommend Sacramento is that it’s almost equidistant between San Francisco and Lake Tahoe – ocean and city 90 minutes in one direction, lake, and mountains 90 minutes in the other. Before I got pregnant and my body got all wonky on me, the husband and I used to love going up to Tahoe in the winter to ski. I’m a winter girl and I love ice skating and skiing and hats and scarves and gloves and hot chocolate and fireplaces. I love the awakeness you feel with the cold wind in your lungs. I’ve missed all that due to hip issues and knee issues and now foot issues and, I admit, my dreams of my girl skiing down the mountainside with me egging her on, have not materialized. In the absence of the ideal vision, there hasn’t been much in-between either. Which is how my girl got to almost 8 without seeing the snow. (sadface)
Sometimes, in fact, 90 minutes can feel like a lifetime away.
We have bought snow gear almost every year for my girl (and then not going and having to donate it because she grows out of it before the next snow season) and so, when we finally mustered the time and commitment to make it up the mountain a few weeks ago, I had to buy her new snow boots, and she had to wear last year’s ski pants that wouldn’t fasten around the waist. She’s a summer girl that likes bare feet and flappy, barely-there dresses. To say she was less-than impressed with all the layers and bulk would be an understatement.
But we were undeterred, forging out into the snow-covered rocky outcroppings of Sand Harboron the Nevada side of the lake, laying in the snow, and making our first family snowman. Ok, really, the husband made the snowman, my girl thought it was too hard and gave up early on, and I just took pictures. What!? I couldn’t find my ski gloves. That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it.
This stuff just isn’t like they script it in the movies, is it?
I’m on a mission to take and photograph more day trips this year – my own and yours. Let’s chat about your plans for family fun in lakes, mountains, beaches, cities, deserts, or anywhere in between.
For as much as I love the bustle and excitement of London, the English countryside and its green rolling hills, are deeply ingrained in my childhood memories. In the summers, my parents and I would go on Sunday drives. Sometimes these drives had a destination, planned by my dad and his AA book on places of interest, and sometimes they didn’t… just a meandering drive through country lanes to see what was going on in the little towns and villages of England. We always ran into something. A cute village, a picturesque riverside, historical landmarks, a village fete. Even when you’re in the middle of seeming nowhere in England, you’re never far from somewhere and something. I love this about being home.
One of my favorite day trips was to the many historical homes and castles dotted around every area in the British isles. I HEART British history, hard. We went everywhere around the country when I was a kid, in day trips and two week holidays, criss-crossing the nation in the path of Kings and Queens and Lords and Ladies. And it was definitely something I wanted to share with my girl while we were home.
I have some really fantastic memories of this stately home in Essex. The most recent one was right before I came to officially live in the U.S. My parents, my then-husband-to-be and I, came out for the Last Night of the Proms, a picnic under the stars classical concert with full orchestra. There is such patriotism around the Proms and we waved little Union Jacks while singing Rule Britannia and Land of Hope and Glory while the sky lit up with fireworks. For a 20 year old girl who was leaving home for a new country, it was a bittersweet evening.
The English countryside is so beautiful, as are the large, historical home that adorn it. I love the sweeping, green lawns, and the big blue skies with puffy white clouds. I love this history and the majesty.
After all good days out, a drink and a spot of dinner at the local pub, is the perfect ending.
Leeds Castle is actually not in Leeds but it is affectionately known as “The loveliest castle in the world.” It dates back to Norman times and was one of the homes of Henry the VIII (who I have a historical obsession with) and his first wife, Catherine of Aragon. The grounds around the castle are just as breathtaking as the castle itself and the walk along shaded pathways up to the castle entrance was just incredible. The castle is one of those places where I could have happily strolled around for hours, exploring each nook-and-cranny with my camera, finding something new to love at every turn.
You can also stay at the castle, either one of the many cottages, in their bed-and-breakfast rooms, or on the grounds in what they call “Knight’s Glamping.” Personally, a night in the Maiden’s Tower looks good to me. Maybe next time…
Old MacDonald’s Farm is a relatively new attraction to the area where I grew up. We took my girl there not long after it opened, which was during our last trip 5 years ago. Although it doesn’t hold childhood memories for me, places just like it do. Small, simple, fun parks like this can be found all around England and they’re perfect for a relatively inexpensive but fun day out. Whenever we went on our two week holidays, we would inevitably find and visit little parks like this wherever we were.
Since we went on a weekday during school hours, we basically had the park to ourselves. In some ways that was cool but it did mean that the visit lacked the atmosphere created but hundreds of kids flying around at breakneck speed to the next thing.
Norfolk and my nerd-gasm at a Church in Windsor Castle
I grew up about 12 miles east of London in a small-ish town called Rainham. It’s basically a London suburb at this point, situated just off the Thames, but it has a long history going back thousands of years. There is a Neolithic excavation site in Rainham, an Anglo-Saxon burial ground, and the local church is a Grade I listed building, erected around 1170 AD, that stands as it was built. Although the history is long and deep, it’s not what you would call a picturesque town. It looks pretty ordinary and isn’t exactly the hub of any major activity. But, it’s home.
After we rocked London (click here to see that blog post) this was our next stop. I jumped in a rental car and drove straight to the last house my parents owned before they moved to the U.S. to be with me. My maternal grandparents – my Nan and Grandad – lived next door to us (to the left of the photo below) and even before we moved next to them when I was 13, this was the street I would come home to after school, waiting for my mum to arrive home from work. Mum didn’t drive back then and she used to take a train and a bus back home. From the front wall of my grandparents’ property, I could see the end of the street where the buses passed by. I knew approximately what time her 87 bus would come by and would stand at the front gates with my eyes glued to the end of the road, waiting for that double-decker red. Then, at the first sign of her rounding the corner onto our street, i would take off in a full-out run to throw myself into her arms. I still remember the excitement of how it felt to see her head turn that corner and the feeling of happiness and safety once her arms were around me. I remember her smell, that she was always lugging heavy bags of large ledgers, and that she would often bring me home a McDonald’s hamburger, my grandad some kind of meat pie that he would devour at one sitting. Then we would sit in my grandparents’ front living room and talk about our day while we would wait for my dad to arrive in his car to pick us up and take us home. We never went straight home, there was always a cup of tea on the boil first.
My parents sold this house to come out and live down the street from me in the U.S., eight years ago. We had so many happy memories there that it’s hard to stand in front of it and not be able to go inside. It’s even more difficult coming home, as I did for 15 of my 20 years in the U.S., and not, this time, having a “home” to stay in. Residing in a hotel in your home country seems just wrong. And I never realized, until after it happened that it was gone, how much having that home-base, at home, really mattered. We stood in front of this house with heavy but thankful hearts, wishing we could see how the garage conversion had been done and if the beautiful kitchen we had spent so much time in, was still well-cared for.
The hotel we stayed in was actually in Romford, a large town not far away that is the major retail hub of the area. Mum and I used to visit religiously, every Saturday, to walk around the stores, the market, have copious cups of coffee, and a light lunch. When I was really little, my dad used to come with us and we would go early enough to have breakfast out. When we did, we would often go to a small cafe (said “caff”) in the shopping center called Gingham Kitchen. In the 70s and 80s it was resplendent with orange and brown checkered furnishings; the sign up-front is still original and hints at that earlier style. I honestly didn’t expect to turn the corner and find it still there after all this time but there it is, still standing, still busy with it’s odd mix of hunched-over pensioners looking for a cheap, satisfying lunch, and locals who know that the toasted sandwiches and lasagne beat out any of the fancy spots that have popped up around town.
In case you’re wondering, I had a toasted sausage sandwich and my mum and daughter had toasted cheese sandwiches. Basically it’s like a grilled cheese but without the grilled part; less greasy in general. It tasted exactly the same as it did 20+ years ago. I love that about home, the little things that don’t change.
Like Rainham, Romford isn’t exactly a picture-perfect postcard town. But to me it’s home. Below you can see one of the major thoroughfares and the hotel we stayed in to the left.
Romford is a market town and Fridays and Saturdays for most of its life have been bustling with the energy of the market area. When I grew up this place was a hive of activity, a place where the latest fashions would hang in a stall beside fresh produce being sold by loud-mouthed stall vendors who enticed you over by calling out things like “Come on, darlin’, come get yur bananas, nice and fresh, just a pound a bunch!”, and where East End traditions like jellied eels were still popular. At Christmas time the market stalls would blast the latest popular Christmas songs and the cauliflower would sit beside gaudy tinsel and foil decorations.
I don’t know what happened to Romford market in the last decade, but the buzz has gone. It was half empty and a sad sight. But we eeked out what we could of those old memories.
On our first night in the area, we drove back to the home I grew up in, about 2 miles east of the last house my parents owned. I lived there from age 10 months to 13 years and so this is really my childhood home. The street is really narrow and tiny and the houses are huddled together in terraces, with cars parked in what used to be front gardens to try and free-up some room on the street. I had to stop the car in the middle of the street and left it running while we jumped out to take a quick photo in front of our old house.
As we did so, an old man came out of the house next door and looked at us strangely. “Sorry,” I said, in case he thought we were up to something fishy “we used to live here and just wanted to take a quick photo.” At that moment the man lifted his head and looked at us critically. “Pauline?” he asked, referring to my mum who was about to jump back in the passenger seat. Mum and I suddenly looked properly at the old man and realized all at once that this was Jack, the same man we had lived next to for almost a decade, almost 30 years ago. He still lived there! Before we knew it, he was calling out his wife to greet us and we were taking pictures on his front doorstep. There was just something incredibly touching about my own daughter standing with the man who had known me so well at her age. And, just like finding Gingham Kitchen still in the same place, serving the same food, something so comforting about finding Jack and his wife right where we left him.
Then, the woman who now owns our old home, popped her head out of her door and ended up talking to us. She told us about how much she loved the back garden I have so many amazing memories of, how much she loves living there. I wish she would have invited us inside but the invitation never came and I didn’t have the guts to ask for one.
Next stop was my infant and junior school (equivalent to elementary and middle schools in the U.S.) It too has a long history: the building that is now a nursery school, dates back to the 1700s and was a classroom I was once a student in.
(Related: Get spaces for classroom rental singapore at affordable prices and make the most out of a cross cultural learning experience)
Things don’t look much different than they did when I was a kid. A few more boarded-up shop fronts, but that’s about it. Otherwise home remains almost exactly how it appears in my fond memories. It makes my chest ache to think about all that and it was a dream come true to show my daughter where and how I grew up, especially since those places and spaces are so different to the ones she calls home. What is this desire to share our own roots with our kids? I don’t know but it’s powerful and primal.
Final stop before we retired our first day was the Fish & Chip shop we loved, The New Cherries. Not only is it the best chippy in the area but it’s also a rocking Chinese restaurant. And yes, it’s still there and hasn’t changed a bit. Since it’s take-away only, we bought paper plates and plastic knives and forks and then ordered all our favorite things. Cod and chips and a saveloy for my daughter (that I may or may not have picked at) and then deep-fried shredded beef in chili sauce, chicken chow mein, special fried rice, and curry sauce, for me and mum. It was a certifiable food-gasm and we sat on the bed of our hotel room and groaned and moaned with pleasure. The whole room stank by the time we were done. Nomnom.
The Chinese plate
We ate many delicious meals in many beautiful places in our two weeks in England but this was hands-down the best meal we had the entire time we were there. It’s definitely a story that will live on in many re-tellings for all of us.
Backing-up one step, we also got talking to this guy behind the counter at the Fish shop. Turns out he’s the son of the owner who has owned that restaurant for 40 years, basically all my life. He was very impressed that we came all the way from America to seek-out his family’s food and even offered to bulk-ship us some saveloys back to the U.S.
I know they say home is not a place, it’s a feeling but… I kind of disagree with that in many ways. Maybe it’s something you can’t latch onto until you’ve lived for an extended time in a place that is very different from where you grew up. And maybe I am indeed confusing the feelings I have about this place with the memories I still hold so close to my heart, but I do know that this place is and always will be home in all the senses of the word. If anything, 20 years gone has only intensified the feeling.
i wish I had lingered longer and taken more photos. Next time I will be more leisurely in my exploration. Looking at what I got now, it feels lacking, like so many things I wanted to capture thoughtfully, are missing.
Next up: exploring grand homes and castles and constantly marveling at the presence of green, green grass.
I'm Michelle and I love vampires (before they were cool), peanut butter and that deliciously off-balance feeling you get when you step off a plane in a new country. I'm also a mum, a writer and a visual storyteller.
Click here to learn more about all that.
How to book a session of your own
It’s super-super easy and it doesn’t hurt. (Promise.)