I first met David after he had won a photography competition organised by the Imperial War Museum North. I was on the judging panel and his picture easily stood out from the rest. He had photographed a single tree in Manchester’s city centre against the backdrop of a plain concrete wall. It was no ordinary wall. It was the newly-constructed, already-contentious, concrete plaza in Piccadilly Gardens designed by the Japanese hotshot, Tadao Ando. Beautifully-lit, David’s contrasting image was making a statement on the city’s regeneration. That was 2001.

Following his win we met for a drink one evening. David was keen to quiz me on all aspects of my photographic practice, and I was happy to oblige. Redeye, the photography network, set up by myself and colleagues, was in its infancy and I was able to introduce David to other creators. These connections were mutually beneficial and became long-lasting.

David’s work was not just photographic. He was also an accomplished historian, writer and graphic designer, skills he put to good use in creating an incredible body of work across 20-odd years. He may have initially described himself as a photographer but, over time, he became a hugely-productive multi-disciplinary artist.

The earliest of his work, I recall, was about surveillance in the UK and the rapid rise in the number of CCTV cameras, watching us, watching over us. Apparently the UK has the largest number of these cameras and David turned his own lens upwards on the cameras themselves and those in the hidden rooms operating them. The blurb on the back of his 80-page book, Reality TV, reads, ‘it comes to the surprising conclusion that Big Brother probably isn’t watching you – but your supermarket definitely is.’

David’s subjects have been eclectic as his response to them. In one publication he introduces his approach as ‘the usual blend of politics, piss taking and history’ which is the Dunnico trademark exactly. David had a lot of fun making his art.

His website includes a whopping 38 books from his different projects. I’ve been the fortunate recipient of many of them. On numerous occasions a package which his familiar handwriting would be on the doormat, as he published yet another volume. I’m happy to have a David Dunnico section on my book shelves.

And now, reviewing them as I write, I’m blown away by the variety of subjects he interrogated. War, protest, flags, statutes, ritual, atomic bombs, Manchester’s regeneration, George V, Ena Sharples, and the cover designs of Orwell’s 1984 have all got the Dunnico treatment.

But, whilst writing this appreciation, and delving deeper into David’s archive, I’ve discovered work I didn’t even know he’d done. Like the perspex ballot box fitted with a paper shredder, exhibited in Manchester, London and Krakow between 2018-2022. Titled ‘What if Voting Changed Everything?’ it’s an ingenious piece that, he said, made a mockery of the secret ballot and, at a time of massive political upheaval, was yet another example of his humorous take on hugely significant issues.

And then there’s a sound piece, exhibited in Manchester and Bath 2014-18, entitled ‘100 Breaths per Minute’. It’s literally the inhalations of BBC Radio 4 announcers as they introduce the next programme. David says ‘there’s no such thing as nothing’ as these breaths ensure the airwaves never fall silent.

If the extent of David’s projects is remarkable for an amateur – he worked full time as a carer for disabled adults – then what makes it even more so is that they were all produced after having been diagnosed with cancer in 1991. His reoccurring illness progressively affected his ability to care for others, and he gave up his job in 2021, which, of course, was the inspiration for yet another creative project.

For ‘InValid’ David put scale models of Invacars, those pale blue three-wheeled invalid cars that we had up until 2003, in various poses under plastic domes. In the accompanying booklet, he wrote, ‘I had to give up caring for disabled people when I became disabled myself. I didn’t like it. It made me question my own attitudes towards disability.’

And, typical of David, he’s confronted his own fragility with the same broad brush of irony that he’s painted his other subjects. In 2007, at a time when he was gravely ill, he made an exhibition of photographs of statutes taken in cemeteries from Salford to Paris. The exhibition title, Memento Mori, translates as ‘remember you must die’ and as David wrote, ‘These photographs… look at Victorian ideas around loss, especially the idea that people live on if they are remembered.’

David died on Friday, 28th February, 2025. I’ll miss that package on the doormat.

All images copyright David Dunnico. https://www.daviddunnico.com