Photographs and Memories

Last month, I wrote about all the cheap junk we buy to temporarily decorate, only to throw it away. This month, I want to talk about creating memories that last far beyond Tuesday’s garbage pickup.

Both my wife and I have photo albums. We can sit down with them and share with important people—ones where those people can also share their memories of the events in the photos. Today, everything is online, and the thousands of pictures taken (thousands, because there are no film costs involved) often lack any connection to shared memories. How will our great-grandchildren ever learn about us, about where they came from? We don’t have thousands of pictures, but the ones we do have were carefully chosen—ones we can hold and tell a story about. There’s usually a story behind them because that’s why they were kept in the first place. Today, it’s click, click, click: breakfast, lunch, dinner, and often, the person can’t even find the one they wanted to show you.

I can show you a photo of my grandmother or my favorite pet from years ago and share the story behind it. Now, I’m bombarded by empty pics of someone’s lunch or feet on the beach. In 50 years, will Granny be asking her grandson what he had for supper in 2024? Does Granny, or really anyone, actually care? Where’s the story? I used to take and develop my own pictures—it was a wonderful hobby and brought out creativity I never knew I had. Again, very few photos were worth the cost of developing, so only the meaningful ones were chosen. Black-and-white pictures were the best because you could do so much with them! Today’s digital cameras allow you to set what effect you want, and then it does it for you. And with AI, the software can enhance the picture for you. Of course, you can also create something entirely artificial, but no memory is there to share, and I question the satisfaction it brings. It may work for some, but it’s not enough for me.

While we’ve made great progress in the world, I feel that creativity is being stifled, and more and more, things seem to be about “the show.” At a wedding I attended, the bride sang, and everyone was stunned by her voice, only to find out her voice had been “modified.” In that moment, the meaning of that song to her new husband was lost—the pleasure in that moment lost its authenticity. Why can we not just be true and show our real, imperfect selves and tell the stories that make us?

As for me, I want to leave a memory trail, a way for future generations to know who I was. Thousands of pictures will never capture the story behind one meaningful photo well told. Much of the time, I miss the yesterdays and their meanings, along with all their imperfections. I miss the stories no longer told, but I don’t ever miss “the show.”