My dad, repeatedly said: “There are three very important things I need to tell you. Number one, The food here is either cooked by a complete idiot or someone who just doesn’t care. Number two: I am out of milk. Number three…

…I have forgotten.”

He died very slowly over seven years, a process of gradually disappearing. It wasn’t just the lost memories, or what day it was, or the fact that he’d not eat that was so hard to watch. It was that he forgot how to enjoy the pleasures he used to live for. He grew to resent classical music, couldn’t bear to play chess, and detested the sunshine. The things that once anchored his identity simply faded away.

Yet, as his world narrowed, ours shifted. In the quiet chaos of his decline, we had our first real chance to know each other deeper than ever before. He was no longer formidable; I no longer took his criticisms to heart. My background in care and design taught me how to look closely, so I began to play a private game: how can I help this man enjoy any given moment? Even when he was suffering, and even if it was completely forgotten ten minutes later, those moments mattered. In the weeks and days before he took his final breath, I felt a profound tenderness for him, and he for me.

The Last Suppers honors this timeline through a formal, structured reverence. The composition utilizes a triptych, that holds a heavy, unraveling reality. Like the unposed domesticity of my previous work, there is no aesthetic gloss here. The ordinary fragments left behind in his final month become a quiet monument to his presence and his absence.

By turning the lens toward this slow transition, the camera serves as a final act of witnessing, capturing the ultimate exposure: the unvarnished truth of a body and a mind letting go, and the deep care that remained in the stillness.