Jenny Lindhe’s Tingen begins with a death and a box. Nearly thirty years ago, her older sister Cecilia attempted suicide in a psychiatric clinic and died in intensive care four days later, the second such loss in a family that had already buried a father. In the upheaval that followed, Lindhe and her mother sorted through Cecilia’s belongings and kept almost nothing — only what fit inside a single carton. That box stayed closed. Tingen, published by Breadfield Press in 2022, is the record of Lindhe opening it again.

The photographs are Lindhe’s; the book also carries her writing alongside a text by Cecilia Lindhe. What emerges is not a narrative of recovery but an inventory of residue, an accounting of how little survives a life and how much weight that little is asked to bear. The sequence moves through objects and interiors with the patience of someone handling things that cannot be replaced, and the reader is placed in the position of a survivor sorting: present at the examination, never permitted to turn away.

Fia Djerf’s graphic design gives the project its physical argument. The large-format volume treats the photograph as an object among objects, and the restrained palette and paper stock keep attention on the material at hand rather than on effect. The book was shortlisted for the Swedish Photography Book Prize in 2024, recognition that places it within a continuing Swedish conversation about the photobook as a serious literary and visual form.

For collectors, Tingen matters less for spectacle than for discipline. It is a first-hand work of grief made by a photographer returning to her own family’s losses, designed with care, and built around a subject — the family archive and its absences — that has become central to contemporary photography. It repays slow reading and belongs where such work is taken seriously.