The One With Nostalgia
I observed that a photograph can be the object of three practices (or of three emotions, or of three intentions): to do, to undergo, to look. The Operator is the Photographer. The Spectator is ourselves, all of us who glance through collections of photographs - in magazines and newspapers, in books, albums, archives... And the person or thing photographed is the target, the referent, a kind of little simulacrum, any eidolon emitted by the object, which I should like to call the Spectrum of the Photograph, because this word retains, through its root, a relation to "spectacle" and adds to it that rather terrible thing which is there in every photograph: the return of the dead (Barthes, Camera Lucida, 9).
Sometimes photos only meant for passing presses of a button can become the most cherished prizes of them all. There are posed photographs you sit on a mantle in the middle of your living room, filled with smiles and laughter, of certain postures and gestures to the camera. They are the ones that make you wonder just how many of those smiles are genuine or which one would rather stick their head in a toilets than spend another extra ten seconds with the people standing beside them.
The unsuspecting ones, though... those are the ones that pack a punch. A camera captures the essence of a point in time, and sometimes they mean nothing and end up meaning everything. An example that truly hit me came from the "Ways of Seeing" by John Berger as it discussed a painting by Van Gogh. He asked his readers to look at the painting without a single ounce of context and then asked them to flip the page.
This was the last Van Gogh had ever painted before killing himself.
He then asked the reader to flip back.
Did the perception change?
Death is one of the hardest things human beings have to face. Loss isn't easy for anyone, and it's something that sticks like a parasite; through death, however, memories blossom. There was a time where I wouldn't even acknowledge this photo album's existence, its story, its worth. I was so afraid of the emotions threatening to surface that I just never bothered. "I may know better a photograph I remember than a photograph I am looking at, as if direct vision oriented its language wrongly, engaging it in an effort of description which will always miss its point of effect" (Barthes, Camera Lucida, 53).
It is not old, but it holds a story.
It is not amazing, but it is personal.
The unsuspecting ones, though... those are the ones that pack a punch. A camera captures the essence of a point in time, and sometimes they mean nothing and end up meaning everything. An example that truly hit me came from the "Ways of Seeing" by John Berger as it discussed a painting by Van Gogh. He asked his readers to look at the painting without a single ounce of context and then asked them to flip the page.
This was the last Van Gogh had ever painted before killing himself.
He then asked the reader to flip back.
Did the perception change?
Death is one of the hardest things human beings have to face. Loss isn't easy for anyone, and it's something that sticks like a parasite; through death, however, memories blossom. There was a time where I wouldn't even acknowledge this photo album's existence, its story, its worth. I was so afraid of the emotions threatening to surface that I just never bothered. "I may know better a photograph I remember than a photograph I am looking at, as if direct vision oriented its language wrongly, engaging it in an effort of description which will always miss its point of effect" (Barthes, Camera Lucida, 53).
It is not old, but it holds a story.
It is not amazing, but it is personal.
These are my grandparents. My grandfather was my hero, someone I proudly saw as a father figure because my grandparents have always lived with me since I was small. The guy was an ox; he survived countless illnesses and near-death experiences, drove as a truck driver all over the country, and kicked cancer in the butt nearly three times .The photograph above is the last one ever taken of him before he was sent to the hospital in January. He would pass away two weeks later.
When I asked my mother what happened that day without showing her the picture, she remembered very little, just the bare bone basics. When I spoke to my mother about the photograph, she told me it was our second time going to Disney World for the Christmas party in January 2013. I was sick and so was my grandfather, but I was too ill to leave the hotel room until I met up with them at night for the Osborne Family Lights display on the America blacklot streets in Hollywood Studios. As quoted by my interview with her: "We were taking turns with the camera when the lights came on and you took over Gram's scooter so she could walk around with Pop. You were driving next to him on the scooter and showing him all of the Hidden Mickeys on the buildings in the lights, too. I definitely remember that. He was getting really into it and finding a lot of them without you and he thought he was really cool because he was finding more than you."
I never prompted her about the little details. That response only derived from asking who took the photograph, but I could see the way she lit up at remembering almost instantaneously when looking at it. "Ultimately, what I am seeking in the photograph taken of me (the "intention" according to which I look at it) is Death: Death is the edios of the photograph" (Barthes, Camera Lucida, 15).
In Camera Lucida and Photography: The Whole Story, Barthes and Hacking talk about drawing you in, giving you that moment in time that you can only keep framed once -- a memory of death, if you will. To Hacking, this could be considered straight photography, something that isn't trying to obscure or alter anything; it's just a photograph, plain and simple, of a time and a place, shot without any real meaning other than to document our existence. In Barthes, the concept of holding onto life after death in a photo was what inspired me throughout this whole process. In Hacking and Berger's work, the concept of perception is what kept me wondering if people reading this saw anything different before hearing the real story behind it.
To my mother, the first thing she noticed was how sickly my grandfather looked. To Barthes, this was considered studium. He had lost a lot of weight because he was constantly smoking and couldn't keep any of his food down post-radiation and chemo-therapy. What immediately drew me in was just looking at the three of us in the center of the shot. What was my grandmother thinking at the time? What was he thinking? What was I even thinking when the picture was taken? I don't remember. I probably never will. To both of us, looking back to this photograph is bittersweet. We were sad at that time of year despite the holidays, though through talking about it made it a happy memory.
‘Punctum’ is all about rare details that can surprise the photographer or the people viewing the photo. (My mother couldn't help but point out these were really weird words and that she didn't understand photography whatsoever.) To her, the lights stuck out to her. They draped around us like they were framing the picture on their own, though then again my mom probably took it that way. However, I noticed there was another man standing behind us with his camera up in the air. It hit me: maybe this isn't the only picture left. I never saw him before until I looked closer and noticed he was facing right at my mother, camera out. If he was taking photographs, too, then could he have a photo without ever knowing the story of the three people in the far corner, total strangers.
Finding what is beyond the studium and punctum of this photograph allowed me to remember why I shouldn't push it away and keep it hidden in a box; it should liberate me into speaking about my grandfather, discussing our story and sharing a part of me I hold sacred. It allowed me grow closer to my own family.
Most importantly, it allowed the memory of an amazing man live beyond death through photography.
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Works Cited
Barthes, Roland. Camera Lucida: Reflections on Photography. New York: Hill and Wang, 1981.
Berger, John. Ways of Seeing. London: British Broadcasting, 1973.
Hacking, Juliet. Photography: The Whole Story. New York: Prestel, 2012.
Click here to comment.
When I asked my mother what happened that day without showing her the picture, she remembered very little, just the bare bone basics. When I spoke to my mother about the photograph, she told me it was our second time going to Disney World for the Christmas party in January 2013. I was sick and so was my grandfather, but I was too ill to leave the hotel room until I met up with them at night for the Osborne Family Lights display on the America blacklot streets in Hollywood Studios. As quoted by my interview with her: "We were taking turns with the camera when the lights came on and you took over Gram's scooter so she could walk around with Pop. You were driving next to him on the scooter and showing him all of the Hidden Mickeys on the buildings in the lights, too. I definitely remember that. He was getting really into it and finding a lot of them without you and he thought he was really cool because he was finding more than you."
I never prompted her about the little details. That response only derived from asking who took the photograph, but I could see the way she lit up at remembering almost instantaneously when looking at it. "Ultimately, what I am seeking in the photograph taken of me (the "intention" according to which I look at it) is Death: Death is the edios of the photograph" (Barthes, Camera Lucida, 15).
In Camera Lucida and Photography: The Whole Story, Barthes and Hacking talk about drawing you in, giving you that moment in time that you can only keep framed once -- a memory of death, if you will. To Hacking, this could be considered straight photography, something that isn't trying to obscure or alter anything; it's just a photograph, plain and simple, of a time and a place, shot without any real meaning other than to document our existence. In Barthes, the concept of holding onto life after death in a photo was what inspired me throughout this whole process. In Hacking and Berger's work, the concept of perception is what kept me wondering if people reading this saw anything different before hearing the real story behind it.
To my mother, the first thing she noticed was how sickly my grandfather looked. To Barthes, this was considered studium. He had lost a lot of weight because he was constantly smoking and couldn't keep any of his food down post-radiation and chemo-therapy. What immediately drew me in was just looking at the three of us in the center of the shot. What was my grandmother thinking at the time? What was he thinking? What was I even thinking when the picture was taken? I don't remember. I probably never will. To both of us, looking back to this photograph is bittersweet. We were sad at that time of year despite the holidays, though through talking about it made it a happy memory.
‘Punctum’ is all about rare details that can surprise the photographer or the people viewing the photo. (My mother couldn't help but point out these were really weird words and that she didn't understand photography whatsoever.) To her, the lights stuck out to her. They draped around us like they were framing the picture on their own, though then again my mom probably took it that way. However, I noticed there was another man standing behind us with his camera up in the air. It hit me: maybe this isn't the only picture left. I never saw him before until I looked closer and noticed he was facing right at my mother, camera out. If he was taking photographs, too, then could he have a photo without ever knowing the story of the three people in the far corner, total strangers.
Finding what is beyond the studium and punctum of this photograph allowed me to remember why I shouldn't push it away and keep it hidden in a box; it should liberate me into speaking about my grandfather, discussing our story and sharing a part of me I hold sacred. It allowed me grow closer to my own family.
Most importantly, it allowed the memory of an amazing man live beyond death through photography.
-----------------------------------------
Works Cited
Barthes, Roland. Camera Lucida: Reflections on Photography. New York: Hill and Wang, 1981.
Berger, John. Ways of Seeing. London: British Broadcasting, 1973.
Hacking, Juliet. Photography: The Whole Story. New York: Prestel, 2012.
Click here to comment.