Welcome to The Heirloom Project

I can remember my grandfather would sit in his chair in what he called the television room. It was dark, lit by a tall lamp with a patterned fringed lampshade.

There was an old gas fireplace which was surrounded by small ornaments and items that he had collected.

Next to the chair there was a large ashtray in which he kept his pipe.

This was the smell that first greeted me when I came into the house although not what you probably assume to be an unpleasant stale smell but a comforting subtle smell.

Even after my grandfather passed away this smell still lingered and when we cleared his house I knew that this was the one item I had to keep as whenever I smelt it, it reminded me so much of him.

These medals belonged to my grandfather and great grandfather. The smaller ones are from the First World War, and the larger ones are from the Second. My great grandfather Felix was a musical hero, he wrote ‘Pack Up Your Troubles In Your Old Kit Bag’ for the soldiers of WWI. He sang them through the battles in the trenches of France, keeping their hearts and spirits alive. My grandfather Harley was an RAF officer involved in installing radar systems across England to protect us from German bombers. When the war was over he was part of the Berlin airlift giving food and supplies to starving German citizens.

He was also a brilliant theatrical actor on the West End stage. Both Harley and Felix were brave and talented men. These medals remind me of my grandfathers living room, the carpet was red with roses all over it. The cabinets were filled with trinkets from all over the globe, but one cabinet was filled with things only from the war. They were always fun to play with, but when your young you never realise their real value. I never met Felix, and only shared my early years with Harley. I wish I could go back to that living room and listen to all the great stories he had to tell.

The little green plastic box is usually to be found tucked away in a drawer. It contains a humble pair of tarnished silver cufflinks, my fathers. A gift I think from his sister when she lived in Canada during the 60s.

Although he's been gone some twenty years it's only now, in my forties, that I'm starting to understand him more. He worked hard on the roads but the only picture I have of him is at a similar age, dressed in Sunday best. I don't sport shirts requiring cufflinks very often these days but if I did I would most surely wear them.

My grandmother's rocking chair. It reminds me so much of afternoons spent at her house getting bored while the grownups were busy lunching or conversing or just being boring. I remember sitting in it and rearranging the matching nest of tables she had. And trying to think of ways to play with the wooden monkey and stacking soldier she had – pretty much the only toys in the house and they got boring pretty quickly.

My grandmother was not one to fuss over small children but she was very conspiratorial with me – I sat in the rocking chair and she taught me to play backgammon and cards instead. The other 'toy' I was given to play with was a tin of foreign coins and banknotes – much more fun – and useful in backgammon games! It's funny now, doing what I do, to be so frequently appraising the design of mid-century Ercol furniture and Rosendahl wooden toys, I certainly didn't appreciate that at the time and I'm not sure my family did either. They probably did though. Nature or nurture - who knows?

This type of clock used to be known as a granddaughter clock. It is a French timepiece in an English cabinet and an engraved plaque on the front reads: “Presented to Capt. Geoffrey W. Sherston by the tenants of the Grantley and Brimham Estates, March 1935.” The tenants were farmers on large country estates in North Yorkshire and the recipient, my grandfather, was the manager of the estates. The clock and chime mechanism both have to be wound with a large key once a week, and there is a highly sensitive adjustment lever to adjust the speed of the clock if it’s gaining or losing a few seconds over that period.

When I was a child I would spend long summers with my grandparents in Shamokin, a small coal mining town in Pennsylvania. They lived in a quite ordinary and modest house, but I remember it being full of the most extraordinary objects.

When I got bored of lazing around on the porch, I would climb up to the attic and sit there amongst the discarded furniture, peering into wooden chests full of furs and feathers, pulling out hats from dusty boxes and rummaging through piles of piano music – popular show tunes and radio hits from the 1930s and 40s. Even now, there is a particular smell – a mix of heat and dust and old varnish - which transports me back there in an instant.

After my grandmother died, my mother shipped many of her things back to England. I don't think she could bear to leave anything behind. This lamp used to sit on my grandfather's desk and was probably bought by his father. I remember being fascinated by the metal dragons and how, when the bulbs were lit, they seemed to breathe fire. It is very precious to me, not only because it is a thing of great beauty but because it has this magical power to evoke very loved people, places and times.

This Kowa camera used to belong to my Japanese granpa in Osaka. He died when I was 19 and I inherited it.

He was a keen amateur photographer, loved taking photos in camera clubs and used to show off the images of beautiful models posing.

He was also a keen English learner who would translate his favoruite ABBA records into Japanese and wrote to his Hawaian pen-pals in English. Now he must be enjoying his second life living inside me, speaking English every day and being a photographer in England.

Without his influence, I would not be what I am now.

From my grandfather

I inherited this bible after the death of my grandfather, Manuel Simeão da Silva, but the most important thing I inherited from him was his stories. My memory of him wasn’t so much as an ardent bible reader but as the adventurous young man he once was and for his playfulness.

He lived in another state and I was about 4 years old when I first met him. I remember him swinging me on a hammock, feeling terrified by his wrinkly face and dark skin every time the hammock swung close to his face. He was a cafuso, his mother was Brazilian Indian and his father an African.

It was only later when he came to live with us, after my father’s death, when I was 11 that I got to know him better.

He had mellowed by then; he wasn’t the severe man I had heard about. In fact, I think his old age regression matched my age at the time.

He was a great storyteller, telling me the wild tales of his youth and how he was quite the Don Juan. There were many stories about travelling through the jungle, and in particular his encounter with a dangerous snake. How he had eloped with my grandmother and how her father contracted bounty hunters to kill both of them.

It was only much later that I realized I was the only one he told those stories to. At times, I would get bored of listening as he repeated them over and over again. In hindsight I can see the wisdom of the repetition, because I can now remember those stories.

These objects were lovingly made by my grandfather. He offered me the bowl and I received the two salt pots after he passed away. I use them everyday and they remind me of why I miss him so much. He never took himself too seriously and always managed to effortlessly connect to people through a beautiful sense of humor.

"I think of myself as being pretty unsentimental about objects of the past. However, old cameras are an exception. When I was in my mid-teens and very interested in photography, my father helped me to buy a second-hand Mamiyaflex camera. At the time, the cool buy would have been a Rolleiflex twin-lens, but that wouldn't have given me a camera with bellows and the word 'Professional' inscribed on the front of the body.

The bellows were important because they gave me a link with the past and big-format photography. I also regarded the huge weight of the Mamiyaflex as an asset: the owner of such a monster would have to be more than an amateur to be prepared to lug it around the streets.

Today, the Mamiya C33 Professional sits as an ornament in our bedroom, looking across at our bed. Some might think that a bit kinky, but for me it reminds me of my father and a celluloid past which has almost disappeared."