Ceremony Press

When my parents first met, my Dad casually mentioned just that “I Work with Animals”. When I first heard this I nearly wet myself, understanding what my Dad’s previous workplace was. On the surface this sounds like a very caring and considered remark to impress my Mum; was he a vet, or did he work at an animal sanctuary or, even as a farmer. But no, none of the above.  

My Dad worked in an abattoir and slaughtered hundreds of animals on a daily basis to make ends meet, as they say… It was a gruelling job and made total sense to my Dad, working long hard hours for financial security. Surprisingly, my Mum wasn’t scared off by his job and eventually they tied the knot. Over time, my Dad’s skills as a slaughterer gained a bit of recognition. So much so, he was offered a job in Norway with decent pay for 6 months. Enough to buy my childhood house with my Mum. To this day they still call it home. 

I was flabbergasted when my Mum recently dug out an old, ratty plastic bag that resembled Dennis the Menace’s jumper. It housed a documentation of my Dad’s trip working away from home; postcards, letters to my Mum, beer mats, slaughterhouse catalogues, newspaper clippings and the mother-load... photographs. Photography seems to be in my blood. My Grandad Keith (of which my middlename comes from) was an avid photographer of traction engines and anything with an engineering edge, as I guess, this was his job. My Dad followed suit when given the opportunity to do so in Norway.

As I sifted through this visual archive I was greeted with stunning landscapes, utilitarian architecture and tomfoolery (which often comes with lads working away from home), sharing single beds, pushing each other on swings and the casual ‘take a photo of me next to this building’ photograph. This is where my Dad’s signature photography pose was discovered: left hand in denim trouser pocket, right hand shield-ing his eyes from the sun.

To this day, it is still in action. These initial images were a typical retrospective of a trip away from home, but there was more. My Dads pride of his work seeped into these photos and was (somehow) allowed to take photographs within the abattoir. Team photos with blood-stained aprons, carcasses hanging post-skinning, portraits knee high in bloodbaths, elbow deep in sheep, and ripping limbs from animals. Most, with a smile on their faces.

As gruesome as they look, the photographs act more than a record to shock, they are a documentation of labourers wanting to do their jobs well. I would argue that if you find this shocking you are either hypocrite or a non-meat eater (no judgement here, I have dabbled myself). As a youngster I was brought up with the knowledge of where meat came from and what parts of an animal’s body I was eating in a pie or sausage.

As the years have passed, the distance from field to consumption seems to have been removed further and further and to some, this book may act as a stark reminder. This alongside the basterdisation of working class art methodologies in recent times (cue the banner making and tufting workshops), I find myself reluctant to share and talk about this subject matter, but they are here, and I feel it’s more important to highlight than to avoid this unsung archive.

For me, this book is a glimpse of my childhood, parents working for me and my sister to have a good life, contrasted alongside an ethical foundation around eating food from all parts of an animal and an aware-ness of how this came to be sat on a plate. For you, this may be something completely different but I hope this book brings some joy in your life.

Love to my Mum, Dad and family.

Robert