There’s a certain absurdity to being a photographer in New Brighton. You don't take photos—you inherit them. Every shutter click risks reanimating Parr’s ghost, stitched into the concrete, caught in every seagull wing and chip wrapper. His lens flattened the town into folklore. Mine tries to let it breathe.

The flash bulb pops in my mind—bright, merciless, catching me mid-blink. Saturated colours burst around me: ice creams vividly pink..

Long before the Black Pearl stood defiant on New Brighton beach, held together by myth, nails and community spirit, something quieter—but ju