My year of hell, which I thought was behind me, continues: My uncle, photographer John Benton-Harris, died on August 26th, less than a year after my mother’s death. (He was my mom’s brother.) I was quite close to him, and lived with him and his wife for the first year after I came to London. He was an incredible creative spirit, and very supportive of my work — we had long, raging conversations about the state of art, culture, society, and the world at large. He’d been a steadfast part of my life in London, a bit of a home base and safety net for this precarious writer, and I’m already missing him terribly.
A little under two years ago, I mentioned a project we were working on; that never quite gelled, and the fault was entirely my own. I was going to juxtapose some of his amazing photos from the Troubles in Northern Ireland, which he captured while on assignment for Newsweek, with my review of Belfast… except I never got around to reviewing that film. But I do have the photos he chose for the project, so it’s not entirely impossible that I might still make this happen.
Mostly, though, at the moment, my thoughts are with his wife, children, and grandchildren, and how diminished we will all be without his presence.
So sorry for your loss, MaryAnn, and thinking of your family in this time of mourning and grief.
So sorry for your loss. 💜