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A poignant photographic tribute to a botanical master and friend.
I was about five when this picture was taken, and already getting too big for my bird costume.
Here she is, squatting down, head cocked, birdlike, to listen to a small girl.
When I was four, my dad left because my mother had an affair with the milkman. I remember my dad's bike leaning against the wall of our council house.
The godmother of rock’n’roll is my role model for middle age, old age and any age.
Here is a picture of my grandmother, Grace, with the only child she gave birth to.
No photo in my writing room is quite as poignant as this one of Bhutto, taken on 27 December 2007. Less than an hour later, she would be dead.
A new poem by the International Booker Prize winner, written in response to Curtis Parratt’s photo “Fall (5)”.
Your eyes do not deceive: Elvis Presley buys lunch from a platform vendor.
Is it only because this is a photograph of my mother that I feel protective of it?
New Statesman contributors tell the stories behind their favourite photographs.
