A Photographer’s Reckoning: How Will Green’s Pandemic Loss Became a Visual Narrative of Fragility
Welcome to this edition of [book spotlight]. Today, we uncover the layers of 'Death and Other Belongings,' by Will Green (published by GOST Books). We'd love to read your comments below about these insights and ideas behind the artist's work.
Some stories can only be told in shadows and fragments.
Will Green’s Death and Other Belongings is a record of grief, loss, and the way memories linger in the smallest details. After losing both of his parents to Covid-19 within days of each other, Green turned to his camera, capturing a world that felt both familiar and unrecognizable. His images show what it feels like to live through it.
Grief has no clear shape, and neither do these photographs.
There are no portraits of the people he lost, only the empty spaces they left behind—fading impressions on a garden chair, a wasp trapped behind glass, the texture of wet hair on a shoulder. These small details carry the weight of something bigger, something unspoken. The book isn’t just about personal loss, it reflects a collective experience, a moment in time when millions were grieving in isolation. Death and Other Belongings doesn’t try to explain loss—it simply shows how it looks, how it lingers, and how it changes the way we see the world.
Will Green’s camera became his refuge in a collapsing world.
The Book
Death and Other Belongings is a deeply personal exploration of grief, loss, and memory. After losing both of his parents to Covid-19 within days of each other, photographer Will Green turned his camera toward the everyday objects and spaces that carried their absence. What began as an instinctive act of documenting his surroundings evolved into a meditation on mortality, fragility, and the way loss reshapes perception.
Shot in black and white during the height of the pandemic, the photographs in this book focus on small, overlooked details—a garden chair bearing the imprint of someone who once sat there, a wasp trapped behind glass, layers of a spider’s web catching the light. These images don’t depict grief directly, they suggest it, making the unseen feel present. Alongside the photographs, the book includes fragments of text—personal reflections from Green’s experience and a historical document: the first global ProMed alert about the then-unknown virus that would change the world. (GOST Books, Amazon)
Overview of the project: What inspired you to create Death and Other Belongings, and how did the process of documenting your grief shape the project’s direction?
Within two months of the Covid-19 pandemic’s emergence and the initial lockdown, I lost both of my parents to the virus. At first, I used my camera as a means of escape, capturing my surroundings as a way to cope with the loss and the stress of being more or less housebound. I contracted the virus in mid-March 2020, and as the months passed, I continued to experience symptoms like hot and cold sweats, dizziness, extreme fatigue, chest problems and anxiety. A visit to the doctor confirmed that I was now dealing with long-Covid which stayed with me for about a year.
The project gradually evolved, as my emotional journey became entwined with the images I was taking. At some point, I encountered the five stages of grief—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance—and began to see how these phases might be playing out in my work.
Originally, I hadn’t planned for the project to become a book. But by 2022, I started considering the possibility of a collection, either as a small folio box or a self-printed book. Everything changed when I attended a Magnum workshop in 2023, where I met Stu Smith (owner of GOST) and Larry Towell. I shared some of my test prints with Stu, explaining when the images were taken, the personal significance behind them, and how they related to mortality and legacy. It was then that the concept for the book truly began to take shape.
Was there a moment when you realized that what you were documenting had evolved into something much larger than just a personal coping mechanism?
I had not considered this before, but if I had been aware of a shift in approach—from using the image making as a coping mechanism to consciously documenting—I might have had a different perspective. The process felt experimental and was, at its core, driven by a fear of the unknown.
That said, two images stand out, both with a very deliberate intent to record. The first is a self-portrait of my chest with ECG tags, taken after I was released from the hospital following monitoring in a COVID triage ward due to chest problems. At that time, ambulance crews did not take COVID-related patients to A&E for obvious reasons. The second image is of two wicker coffins placed next to each other at my parents’ funeral. I remember this decision being deliberate, though I wasn’t entirely comfortable with it at the time, which itself is a valuable lesson.
Both images were captured around the end of June or early July 2020. After that, I believe I began intentionally searching for a thread of narrative. Many of my images embody a feeling that something foreboding or sinister has either already occurred or is about to unfold
Photography as a coping mechanism: You mentioned that this project was not initially a conscious decision but rather a means of maintaining emotional stability. How did the act of photographing help you navigate this period of loss?
Photography during this period became both a creative and cathartic act for me. It was a way of dealing with loss and the fear of the unknown, especially when confined to my home or the local area. Taking photos and processing film felt like a pushback against the helplessness of the situation. It was something I could control, something that gave me a sense of autonomy and productivity during a time when so much was beyond my grasp. At the same time, I was aware that I was trying to tell an internal story. My view of the world was coloured by anger and fear. I felt the government’s response to the virus seemed slow and inept. Lives were being lost and care homes in particular experienced a heavy death toll. Before my parents died, I had become compulsive about cleaning everything down, including groceries to avoid catching Covid again. I became very anxious and afraid, and I could see that in the images I was capturing.
Exploring absence and memory: Your photographs capture subtle traces of life—rotting fruit, discarded objects, and blurred figures. How did you use these visual elements to express absence and memory?
My personal work had already begun to explore fleeting moments, embracing an open, interpretive approach. During this period, the images became even more transient, reflecting my deepening awareness of life’s impermanence and fragility. The pandemic made me acutely aware of how quickly events can shift—how loved ones can be with us one day and suddenly gone the next. The opening image of the book, showing sheets hanging on a clothesline, evokes a sense of nostalgia, but at the time I viewed it as an image of bedding which had been scrubbed clean of the virus or a shroud. The sagging chair captures the essence of the many people who may have once sat there but have now gone. The blurred figures in the images suggest memory, emphasizing the unsettling, fleeting nature of time. Change is constant, and people continue to leave us, even as life moves on around us. Images like the wasp on glass were the result of the constant feeling of threat. The burning bin image was actually paperwork that belonged to my parents such as old cheque books and bank statements, but it also suggests the destruction of the vessel. The funeral etc.
The role of close-up imagery: Looking back, you noted that many of your images are close-ups. Do you think this was an unconscious response to isolation, and how do you now interpret this aesthetic choice?
I was initially frustrated when I noticed that many of the images I had made were close-ups. It wasn’t a deliberate response to the isolation or the project itself—I only became aware of it when we were laying out the book sequence with test prints. While there are wider images in the book, they had to work in harmony with the close-up shots to create impact. Looking at my broader body of work, I realized this approach is part of a subconscious tendency of mine. Recently, I returned from New Zealand, where I have been working on a long-term project. During this trip, I found myself actively trying to shoot wider, but even then, I gravitated toward smaller, more intimate details.
Historically, I’ve been drawn to close-ups because they allow me to reveal less, to capture something that’s not fully visible or known, often leaving room for uncertainty. This approach fits the way I process and tell stories—there’s something powerful about suggesting what’s hidden or left unsaid.
In the context of the pandemic and my personal grief, I think the close-ups unknowingly mirrored how I was navigating my emotions—zooming in on fragments of life as a way of making sense of a world that felt, at times, very fragmented and beyond my control.
Do you think this was a subconscious reaction to isolation, and how do you now interpret this choice in retrospect?
Subconsciously, this may be something I’ve done historically in my images, as mentioned before, but I don’t think it was isolation that amplified this approach. During lockdown at home, I didn’t always see visuals in a wider context or perceived as an image. Although I did encounter dead bees, a wasp, a rat carcass, and the scar on my partner’s leg, etc, each of these seemed to play a role in the story; as they embodied themes that were emerging – death, danger, and apprehension. The image of the playground slide with an abandoned child’s dressing gown next to it, or the shattered windscreen - looking back at these and other images in the book, my reaction and intention is clear: I am saying “I feel unsafe”, or asking questions such as “What or who was here? or What happened here?”
These details, to me, tell a story in a more suggestive way, and I hope they evoke the same feeling in a viewer who doesn’t know the full context
Transitioning from commercial to personal work: Your background is in commercial photography. How did this transition into a deeply personal, introspective project challenge or change your approach to photography?
My background in commercial photography, is mainly interiors and food, which is fairly standard fare. But transitioning to personal work, especially since 2020 when I began creating Death and Other Belongings, has been a journey of discovering how to express something more intimate and meaningful through images. This shift has been about finding a way to say something in my own voice, staying committed to that voice, and developing a personal style that feels genuine. Of course, influences from earlier work by others, such as post-war Japanese photography, are still present, but over time I’ve worked to forge a style that reflects my own perspective.
Commercial work has taught me the technical side and the importance of working within certain constraints. But working on personal projects has allowed me more freedom to explore and express emotions that are more vulnerable and raw. The industry itself has changed, and I’ve had to adapt, bringing my own style and perspective to clients and ideas. It’s a challenge, but I’ve come to realize that maintaining authenticity is essential in today’s market. While it might sound obvious, the balance between staying true to your vision and adapting to industry demands is easier said than done.
Technical and creative process: You processed your films in your own bathroom and used unconventional darkroom setups. What were some of the technical challenges you faced, and did these limitations shape the final aesthetic of the work?
I used the small cupboard under our stairs and the bathroom. Space-wise, it worked, but I had to resort to the usual makeshift solutions—stapling blankets over doors to block out light, creating a bit of a Heath Robinson setup. I experimented with a few different developers, mainly using Adox Rodinal, along with varying longer development times. The biggest challenge was dealing with dust and drying marks on the negatives, which became more noticeable when I scanned the film on a light box using a DSLR. However, I think these imperfections actually added to the feeling of the images, which I’m not opposed to. For the book’s printing, a few negatives were sent to the lab for scans and retouching, but due to the dust and drying marks, the retouching process took an extraordinarily long time!
We also have a large shed in the garden, and I’ve considered converting it into a proper darkroom. However, when I added up the costs, that idea came to a rather abrupt halt.
Balancing personal and universal themes: Although deeply rooted in your personal experience, Death and Other Belongings touches on universal themes of mortality and fragility. How did you navigate this balance to make the work resonate beyond your own story?
I’ve always felt that photobooks don’t need a lot of text, if any. The images and narrative should speak for themselves or make you question what you’re looking at. However, Death and Other Belongings is a very small, concentrated collection of images—almost claustrophobic. By incorporating a small amount of text, I felt I could offer a broader context of the pandemic. Rather than just a micro view of one person’s tragic experience at home (a person who isn’t even in the images), the text expands the perspective, giving insight into the global impact of what was happening. I had read about the ProMed alert and contacted them to ask for permission to use part of the transcript from the original email. They kindly granted me the use of it. For me, the juxtaposition of my personal, intimate world unravelling at home with the text—an ominous warning of a global event that would affect millions—was striking. It connected my personal experience to the shared, collective one, illustrating how we were all facing similar emotional upheavals, though in different ways and place.
Interplay of text and image: The book combines personal text with documentary photography, including the first global ProMed email about Covid-19. How did you decide on this structure, and what role does text play in your storytelling?
The page that I wrote about my last visit to see my parents in the care home, while they both had Covid, was something that took time to process. It’s one of the most personal parts of the book, and in some ways, it feels like an apology to my parents, especially to my father, whom I couldn’t see again before he passed. Writing this part was difficult—it was both cathartic and full of guilt. I believe it grounds the book and gives it purpose. While the photographs tell one part of the story, that paragraph gives a voice to the emotional weight of the experience. It’s a confession, an attempt to understand and confront my own feelings of helplessness and grief. I didn’t want the book to solely be about my experience at home—it needed to address the broader, more universal reality of loss and the emotional and physical separation so many people endured. Text helped me explore that distance between my personal world and the wider tragedy unfolding,
What made you decide to include external historical elements alongside your own deeply personal experience?
I was aiming to juxtapose the confinement of home with the wider pandemic affecting everyone. In some ways, this contrast adds depth to the personal story, as it becomes a small snapshot of the larger situation. Initially, I considered using a news headline or a paragraph from the media, but the more I explored it, the more it felt like an obvious choice.
While the ProMed information had been covered by the media, I decided to investigate it further. When I read the transcripts, they struck me as ominous in hindsight, hinting at something unravelling—though, according to Wuhan authorities, there was nothing to worry about at the time.
Returning to the theme, I also realized that using the ProMed text might be an obvious way to place blame for the impact on my life. There was certainly a sense of disbelief that it all originated from a fish market in a city that also houses a virology institute.
Advice for photographers documenting personal experiences: For photographers looking to create deeply personal work, particularly in response to trauma or loss, what insights from your journey with Death and Other Belongings would you share to guide them?
For anyone looking to create deeply personal work, particularly in response to trauma or loss, my advice would be to remain authentic and honest with yourself throughout the entire process. Don’t try to predict how others will perceive your work or whether it fits into a wider photographic conversation or audience. The most meaningful projects come from a place of personal resonance. When the work reflects your own truth, it becomes both powerful and vulnerable, which is what connects with others on an emotional level.
I’d also emphasize the importance of patience. Personal projects can often take longer than you might expect. There’s a lot of emotional weight involved, and that can slow the process down, but that’s okay. Let the work evolve naturally—sometimes, it may take years to truly understand how to express your experience or narrative.
Also, remember that personal work is often a journey that may not necessarily have a defined end. For example, I never set out to create a book when I started photographing during my grief. The process of documenting my experiences was instinctive, not motivated by an end goal. So, it’s okay if the final outcome isn’t clear from the start.
To discover more about this intriguing body of work and how you can acquire your own copy, you can find and purchase the book here. (GOST Books, Amazon)
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