Being creative was something I was born. From drawing, oil paintings, to sewing and photography. But now with my great aunty's camera in my hands, I'm starting to believe that being an artist is something I've inherited in my European blood. 

My Aunty Lés was a lady who I spoke to on the phone once or twice a year when I was a little girl. She sounded different, said hello and politely asked for my parents.

We received the call that my Aunty Lés had passed away. 

They put all her belongings in a box and shipped them to us in Australia. Literally, the tattered brown box had shards of broken glass falling out the corners. Aunty Lés did not have any children, O'Pa had fled to Australia after the war, and their older brother was killed while escaping the camp. We were all the family she had left.

Her belongs were mostly sentimental items, many photos from her childhood of picnics in the park driven by their dodge, a pair of vintage binoculars (the kind that would have been used at the opera), and an item for me: her camera. Still in its little leather case lined with orange velvet, equip with aged instructions in her dutch handwriting. It is beautiful.