It has been hard to think of a specific photograph that is important to me. I can easily think of groups or collections of photographs that I definitely feel are important, but it is hard to pick one out of the bunch to talk about. There are family photos, photos of my life, photos I have taken, photos my friends have taken, and photos that have made me think a lot about photography. Some are important to me because of a personal connection to the subject, others because of why they were taken, and still others because I do not have a personal connection. So how do I pick?
It seems like photography begins for most people, myself included, as a personal record of one’s life. Most of my life was well photographed until the age of 10, and then there is a big gap until I get to college. I think its amusing because the years without photos are years I didn’t enjoy so much anyway, so I don’t need another reminder of them. Those years were also years that I didn’t look at photographs from when I was younger. It wasn’t until fairly recently that I have seen the two boxes in the basement of my childhood. Not seeing these photos until now has made the age of 5 seem like it was longer ago than my memory makes me feel.
Most of the photos were taken when I still lived in France and my dad was alive. In my head, this doesn’t seem like so long ago, I can remember how I felt pretty well. When I see these photographs, however, it exemplifies the differences between then and now. The way I look, how outgoing I was, the really great places I grew up in, etc. The photographs exist of me, but in a context that is not attached to my reality of today. Within two years, my dad passed away, I moved to Pittsburgh, and the photos stopped.
What I remember about growing up in Paris is the happiness everyone seemed to have there, and the mystery of the intertwining spaces of the city. Things in Paris seemed happy, huge, and very strange. It was an adult’s world and I didn’t understand it, but it was interesting. Pittsburgh became quite the opposite: people were not so nice and the mystery of the suburbs didn’t match the mystery of the city. I want to know the Paris in my memory more than the real Paris. Whenever I visit, I feel like my perception of my childhood is rewritten with an adult’s point of view. As Paris becomes understandable, its mystery disappears, and so do the perceptions of my memories. Photographs help make Paris a real, concrete, immutable thing. They replace my memories. Seeing the photographs after such a long hiatus was a shocking reminder that my perception of things is more important to me than reality. The more I see these images, the more they replace my memories. I don’t like that.
That’s not so say there are exceptions. I think the photos of my father and I are really important. They document the small amount of time we had together. Unfortunately, these photographs of my dad have almost completely erased any memories of my perceptions of him. Most of the images have become my memory. The only memory I have that isn’t from a photograph is the expression he would have and the way he used to stand. I don’t have many other memories of how he looked or felt. My mother has never had the photos of my dad on display, because she feels like it is sad to have reminders of people who have died, and she would rather remember the good times they had together. I appreciate that she has done that, to the extent that it allows me to attempt to remember him for him, and not for his photographs.
These are personal photographs that are important to me. Photos from my childhood and photos of my dad. They are important because the subject of the image reminds me of an experience I had. Slowly, the photograph replaces my memory. Should my perception of things, or the camera’s perception dictate what I think is real?
More and more, we each see photographs every day of people, places, events, and things that we do not have a personal connection with. The photographs are the only reality we know of these situations. We place our own values and perceptions onto them. But the reality of the photograph and the reality of the situation are not the same.