Britain is divided, by 12 regions, a statistical arrangement designed to help governments see the life of the population in graphs, charts and tables. I’m looking at Britain through these regions too, but not statistically, not through numbers that ignore the brilliant details of everyday life, but through the lens of my camera, on the ground, up close.

West Midlands

Somewhere on the edge of Wolverhampton, near Blakenhall, I become part of a scene that says something about social observation in modern Britain. I’m walking slowly, eyes wide open, looking at everything, camera in hand, another over the shoulder. And I’m being followed, to my right, by a kerb-crawling car, whose driver is filming me on his smartphone, Scientology-style. Before I decide what to do, another man approaches the car from behind me and, mistakenly thinking that he is the one being recorded, confronts the cameraman: “Oi?! What are you filming my shop for, mate?!”

A chain reaction of optical cause and effect is set in motion: an observer observed by an observed observer; suspicions arousing suspicions; fear breeding fear. I take it all in for a second – the layers of surveillance and scrutiny – and understand that while I’m photographing modern Britain, modern Britain is looking back at me, suspiciously. I walk away along Birmingham Road, heading back into town, no longer pursued, but still looking, still being looked at, feeling the complex pressures of photographing in a society where the camera can at once be weapon and shield, where photographer can be offender, witness, detective, and judge, and where the photograph itself can become evidence, art, propaganda, myth, memory.

Britain before Brexit: West Midlands Show all 14 1 /14 Britain before Brexit: West Midlands Britain before Brexit: West Midlands Stoke A toy tiger, a long way from its natural habitat, no longer loved, no longer cuddled, caught in wires, lost within a maze of alleyways and red-brick terraces Richard Morgan/The Independent Britain before Brexit: West Midlands Coventry The Multi-Faith Peace Walk visits a gurdwara. The white man in the front row wears a cross, displaying allegiance to Christianity. His hat is a public sign of loyalty to Coventry City FC. There is no disrespect. On the contrary, this is an event that encourages multi-faith interaction, and his sincerity and concentration, I think, show that it’s working Richard Morgan/The Independent Britain before Brexit: West Midlands Birmingham Two outlines of man in British society, 100 years apart. Both carry a heavy load, both with a purpose, going somewhere, under orders, no doubt. But they’re split by the years between them, looking at life from different ends of the century, with different outlooks, facing different futures and fates Richard Morgan/The Independent Britain before Brexit: West Midlands Hanley There are small shops like this all over modern Britain. They are adorned with flags of the countries whose products you may find inside. They have names like “International”, “European”, “Baltic”, “Balkan”, “Eastern”, etc. “Unity Store” is exceptional, however, because it makes a political statement about the desirable relationship between the nationalities and their relationship to Britain Richard Morgan/The Independent Britain before Brexit: West Midlands Wolverhampton The blind leading the blind, or friends leaving the pub together, walking and talking together, going to the bus stop and heading home, not in need of a sighted leader Richard Morgan/The Independent Britain before Brexit: West Midlands Worcester A man sleeps in a pub, preserving body heat, his crossword incomplete and Guinness unfinished. There’s absence beside; a light emptiness that exaggerates the weight of his slumber Richard Morgan/The Independent Britain before Brexit: West Midlands Coventry Warriors in the heat of a Pokémon battle, war-weary, yet glued to the action, fighting on. Reality is up for grabs in this scene, fragmented across three planes: the street, the battle, and the airbrushed projections of femininity Richard Morgan/The Independent Britain before Brexit: West Midlands Worcester A crowd looks on as a young man contemplates suicide, standing atop a building in the town centre. A fireman eventually persuades him not to jump, and he is carried down to earth by the mechanical arm of a fire engine Richard Morgan/The Independent Britain before Brexit: West Midlands Birmingham Jehovah’s Witnesses try to convert people outside Moor Street station. They compete for attention with a sign promising financial gain. There’s a choice here, between the world of faith and the heady skylines of Birmingham and London, where what’s in your pocket matters most Richard Morgan/The Independent Britain before Brexit: West Midlands Worcester A church on the high street undergoes construction. Scaffolding is hidden by boards displaying messages about God and Christianity. Coupled with a secular, national symbol, the text takes on another meaning, a commentary on the nation itself as a broad church, as shelter, as a place of worship Richard Morgan/The Independent Britain before Brexit: West Midlands Coventry Skeletons behind curtains in a spiritualist church. They are there for Halloween, but it looks like a joke about the role of the dead in the church, who are kept close, communicating with terrestrial beings through the energy that binds all things Richard Morgan/The Independent Britain before Brexit: West Midlands Warwick Red poppies made from plastic bottle bottoms. Recycling in the service of memorialisation. The act of remembrance blurs with the ethics of 21st century environmentalism Richard Morgan/The Independent Britain before Brexit: West Midlands Coventry A tent pitched in the middle of the city, next to the pavement, cramped in a corner. The inhabitants’ towel hangs out to dry, below a cruel, unintentional, chance commentary on the transitory, temporary, and thoroughly unhomely settlement. A boy moves in the light, playing or hiding or turning away Richard Morgan/The Independent Britain before Brexit: West Midlands Warwick An early morning view of Warwick castle, still black, just reappearing, yet the flag shines as if it had done so the whole night through, as if it had always been this way; a beacon of light in a world of darkness Richard Morgan/The Independent

I walk out early into Worcester’s Halloween hangover. Discarded remnants of last night’s costumes are strewn across the street. I go to the town centre, where a frightened young man stands atop a building contemplating suicide. There’s a siren screeching. It’s spitting. The high street’s been cordoned off. I join a group of spectators behind police tape. Some people are filming. We watch as a crane lifts a fireman up above the evacuated banks and shops to convince the suicidal individual to come back down to earth.

The crowd doesn’t applaud the rescue. There is no collective sigh of relief. People tut and grumble: “attention seeker”, “what a waste of tax payers’ money”, “all of that for nothing”. They’re quantifying human existence, I think, valuing the young man’s pain and suffering monetarily, as if they’d be happier if he had jumped because the public expenditure would have got something for its money. As the young man gets into an ambulance, turning to flick the Vs at the crowd, I think about what a life in Britain is worth these days, about what it costs to be rescued, the price of another chance.

Hanging from the door of the Collegiate Church of St Mary in Warwick is a drape of red poppies made from plastic bottle bottoms, painted red, with a black spot drawn in the centre of each. As a national symbol of commemoration, the red poppy is being used in a number of interesting ways for Armistice Day – fired from tanks, dropped from balconies, cascading into a red river flowing from a window of the Imperial War Museum – but this arrangement, the painted bottles, is the most interesting I’ve seen yet.

More than 700,000 protesters march on Westminster calling for a Final Say on Brexit deal

It’s a blend of agendas important to this country: recycling in the service of memorialisation; a curious coming together of remembrance and the ethics of 21st century environmentalism. The meaning of the artwork is twofold: never forget lives lost in conflict, but remember to reuse plastic.

When I turn up to Coventry’s Multi-Faith Peace Walk, I’m greeted as a contestant might be on a TV game show: “Hello! What’s your name? Where d’you come from? What’s your religion?” It’s way too early for all that, so I just say: “Hi. I’m Richard. Pleased to be here.” The lord mayor of Coventry gives a speech about reconciliation, an important idea for the city ever since the church called for forgiveness – not retaliation – after the medieval cathedral was destroyed in the Blitz.

We read prayers from different religions, lift the banner of “Peace”, and take a tour of the city, visiting four places of worship – a Christian church, a spiritualist church, a mosque, a Sikh temple – along the way. I take note of comments made by onlookers: “Peace?! What peace?!”, “Some people just haven’t got anything better to do”, “Иди на хуй” (“F*** you” in Russian).

The spiritualist minister tells me that forgiveness is part of the human condition, and I wonder if she is communicating with Hannah Arendt from beyond the grave, right now, before my very eyes. Later I stand amid the remains of the medieval cathedral and look upon the sculpture Reconciliation that is permanently installed in the grounds. It’s a depiction, I think, of woman and man, locked in a kneeled embrace, going through the painful catharsis of forgiveness. I stay a little longer, savouring the moment, acutely aware of how unusual it is to find reconciliation enshrined within the ruins of war.