I’ve had a copy of this photo of Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon on my desk for years. When I got married, I dug it out.
Is it only because this is a photograph of my mother that I feel protective of it?
I was about five when this picture was taken, and already getting too big for my bird costume.
Your eyes do not deceive: Elvis Presley buys a packed lunch from a platform vendor.
A new poem by the International Booker Prize winner, written in response to Curtis Parratt’s photo “Fall (5)”.
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.
Here is a picture of my grandmother, Grace, with the only child she gave birth to.
The godmother of rock’n’roll is my role model for middle age, old age and any age.
When I was four, my dad left because my mother had an affair with the milkman. I remember his bike leaning against the wall of our council house.
Here she is, squatting down, head cocked, birdlike, to listen to a small girl.
My council flat became a source of shame – but the boy in this photograph knows nothing of that feeling
This article appears in the 08 Dec 2020 issue of the New Statesman, Christmas special