Sally Harrison Artist

When I ordered these slides, I felt that they were important. There was a delay in their arrival, and I struck up a conversation with the seller, who told me their story. He shared the history of the slides with me.

His father was a soldier in World War II and fought against the Japanese Army in Burma. Later in life, he travelled to Japan to reconcile himself with the nation. As a committed Christian, he travelled back to Japan to forgive. He loved his trip and bought back these boxed slides of rural life, architecture and everyday scenes.

I could see them projected onto the wall of a British sitting room — images of a former enemy nation reframed through light and curiosity. Reading that history, I felt unexpectedly full of light myself. These are not simply educational slides or tourist souvenirs; they are quiet acts of forgiveness, reconciliation and respect preserved in cardboard frames.

When I was a child, I visited Nagasaki with my family. We walked through the memorial garden and the museum, moving slowly through a space shaped by devastation and grace. I remember the stillness, the weight of history, and also the sense of dignity and care in the way it was held. That experience has never quite left me. Receiving these slides — knowing their story — feels connected to that earlier moment of standing in Nagasaki, trying to understand how places endure and how people choose to move forward.

Alongside the original sets, I also have three boxes of empty slide mounts. Nod to Lindsay, who collected them for me from Mommouth. I have ordered an old carousel projector and I’m rumminating over how this can become the focal point/mechanism for a piece of visual art.

The empty frames feel as significant as the images themselves — small apertures holding the possibility of new narratives. I’m drawn to the rhythm of a clicking projector, the slow mechanical advance from one illuminated square to the next, the gentle hum as light passes through film.

Before altering or incorporating anything into my work, I want to sit with each slide individually, holding it up to the light and noticing what it carries and any links to my memories.

The projector will not simply display them; it will bring them back to life. And the empty mounts remind me that this story is not finished — that memory, like light, can always be reframed.

In my collection of photographs I have one, that I must have taken of my mum and Matthew standing in Nagasaki Peace Park.

I hadn’t been sure of the location at first, but the tall dark memorial column and the twin towers of Urakami Cathedral rising behind them brought it back. It’s such an ordinary family photograph. Mum is in a pale jacket—Matthew in shorts and stripes. Tourists exploring. Yet we were standing in one of Japan’s most historically significant places.

The scale of it strikes me — the monument towering, the hills enclosing, and my small family present within it.

I was only 12 when we visited Nagasaki. But still, I was deeply affected by its history. Although some residents were wary of visitors, once they got to know us, they were welcoming and kind. I remember being struck by how, when you looked around, there was little or no trace of the devastation caused by the 1945 atomic bombing.

When we were docked in Nagasaki, we had a guard on our gangplank. This was usually an old Japanese man who liked to chat with my brother. Once, he impressed us by driving a nail through a piece of wood with his hand. He showed such calmness and grounded strength. If I were able, I would return to Nagasaki and ask him how his town had survived such devastation with such grace.

Whilst writing this blog I was watching Studio Ghibli’s anime adaptation of Grave of the Fireflies. A story of a brother and sister living through the end of World War II in Japan, semi-autobiographical and incredibly moving. It felt like a very poignant choice.