Remembrance of Things Past
Do
you have a photograph that resurrects memories of a time and place?
I
have one, well, really two pictures that have that effect on me. One of them I
took, and the other is a postcard taken before I was born; yet they are related
by my memory of different aspects of my relationship with my father.
The
one I took is of my dad, Dell, and his wife, Gladys. It was taken at their home
at Eagle Lake in California. As you can see, they were standing on the balcony
of their house (built by him) that looked out on the lake. Behind them are the
hills on the opposite side of the lake, hazy dark lines in the distance. The
water to their right is shimmering, a boat dock partially seen on the lower
left. It was/is a warm summer day; I always visited them in the summer. My dad
has his left arm around Gladys, the other casually extended and resting on the
railing. They are both smiling different smiles.
I
don’t remember the day, or even year that I took the picture. It was shot with
my Yashica Mat. I know this because it’s square. I know too that I wasn’t a very
good photographer because my parents are a bit dark and the background is a bit
washed-out. This small casual souvenir of a picture brings me a heavy sense of
loss and regret. My father died young, at 67, and there were too many things
that I left unsaid, too absorbed growing into my adult self, and too eager to
cut myself free from his apron strings (he was a great cook). This photograph
reminds me of that time, that distance I
created.
The
other photograph is a postcard of the Golden Pagoda in Los Angeles’ Chinatown, that
I found at a swap meet. When I saw it the image made me smile. My dad loved all
things Chinese, I’m not sure why. When he lived in L.A. and even after he moved,
during those visits we would go to that pagoda-shaped restaurant. He knew the
manager, a friend, and he enjoyed the food. This postcard reminds me of the
wonderful things that I knew and loved about my dad—his generosity, his
gregarious nature, the way he embraced life. Both images, ephemeral apparitions
of remembrance, are as fragile and vaporous as the paper image they inhabit.
It
is strange to me that the photograph that I’m connected with, the one I took,
the one that showed me how close (proximity) I was to my dad is the one that is
a rueful reminder. I’m ashamed to say that I was there, but really wasn’t
there. The other photo, taken by another person, was of a place filled for me with
sounds, smells, tastes and conversations related to dad. That place is still there.
I can go to it and walk inside, but it has become an empty shell without his
presence. They are two pictures of the way things were, existing now only in
feelings—of regret and happiness.
Tell me what you think
Frame
10A
Addendum:
“A
photograph is both a pseudo-presence and a token of absence. Like a wood fire
in a room, a photograph—especially those of people, of distant landscapes and
faraway cities, of the vanished past—are incitements to reverie.” Susan Sontag,
On Photography
