Rottingdean. 1924–2017.

Viv never dyed her hair. She could touch her toes at 95. She made caramel puddings that would make your eyes water, and she had a way with words that could stop a room — like the time she saw her son leaning out the window to adjust the TV aerial and said, Good gracious, Michael — be careful. That's how Emu died.

She was seven years old when she was evacuated. The family who took her in were not unkind exactly — but they were not warm. At Christmas she sat and watched the other children open their presents. Nobody had thought to get her anything. There was one teacher who used to put a yellow ribbon in her hair and tell her she was pretty. She often mentioned that particular childhood memory.

She lost her son in recent years. Those are the hardest losses — the ones that invert the natural order of things. There were days, she said quietly, when it was difficult to find reasons to go on.

But then there was her granddaughter, Maisey. Seven years old, wise beyond her years, who visited most days and hid sweets and small treasures around the house for Viv to find at unexpected moments. And Joseph, her grandson — just the sweetest little boy.

She was highly amused to sit for these portraits, endlessly saying Gracious, I look awful don't I? — and then soldiering on regardless, as she always had.

The conversation below was recorded in her home in Rottingdean. It was later played at her wake.

LightKeep began with Vivienne. She was my grandmother. I made this portrait and recorded this conversation not fully understanding why — only that it felt urgent. She died a few months later.

I understand now. Every conversation in this archive starts the same way it started with her: with someone whose story was nearly lost, and the simple decision to ask before it was too late.