When she departed for home after one too many long London winters, she took all her snapshots with her. I used colour slide film, unwittingly. The pictures ran, though. One filled a whole page: Ben and Tracy beneath a giant statue of Lenin. It remains a source of some pride: Though I write about photography for a living, I did not own a camera until recently.
My first was a Pentax Omnio digital compact — a present from my wife. I now own a Fuji X10, which I use as a visual diary. I try not to shoot as much as I used to because so many great photographers have told me that the real editing takes place as you are shooting. I have never printed a digital photograph.
Love, Mortality and the Moving Image
They are stored on my hard disk in their hundreds, maybe thousands. This fills me with a vague anxiety. I can see now that I shoot certain things over and over: I basically shoot the kind of photography I like.
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I think photographs should be intimate. When my father was very ill a few years ago, and again just after he died, I photographed the interior of his garden shed on my phone and digital camera. The images, together and separately, feel like a portrait of him somehow — a portrait of the inside of his head and all the stuff he had collected there.
For me, they possess a meaning that many of my other photographs do not. Something to do with time and mortality and memory, all the things Roland Barthes wrote about in Camera Lucida, and which photography seems to evoke like no other art form because of its very nature — the split second already gone. At some point, I will put some words to them, because that is what I do.
But every time I see a photograph that surprises me, I wish — for a split second — it was the other way around. They are not well-loved, and occasionally get used as doorstops. Yet hidden inside is an invaluable part of our family history — our collection of photos.
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Will is a photographer, and though there have been occasions where we have sifted through photos and even printed a couple out, the sheer, overwhelming volume of pictures he has taken over the years has made it impossible even to begin to manage or access this collection. He takes up to 80Gb of photos per shoot and estimates he has half a million photos.
Combined with human incompetence and the chaos of child-rearing, the inaccessibility of our visual memory bank has become a real bone of contention. Last spring I spent three evenings editing and sorting with no small amount of obsessive satisfaction, I should add a few thousand photos of us all, organising by event and pulling the best into a shortlist folder. We moved house, and the hard drive disappeared. Maybe lost, maybe wiped.
In the digital world, easy come, easy go. If we had had only 10 pictures in the world, would we have been more careful with them? The relatively small number of photos in the family collection from when I was a child meant that many of them came to represent powerful, emotional links to our past: Later, with the death of my father, they took on a rather cruel disconnect to the present world; he seems so vital and alive in a casual moment caught and printed on a random piece of photographic paper, yet he is no longer here. We are still early into our adaptation to the digital world, and unsophisticated when it comes to managing all this material.
We need to be more selective in what we choose to photograph and what we choose to keep. Delete is your friend. But the problem also needs technological recognition. Photo storage needs to be more automated, and photo-viewing software should also help us more. It can learn which photos we view most often, and let the poor photos recede automatically. It could identify duplicate photos and suggest the one to keep. All we need is some bright spark to fix the problem. I got into photography at art college. I borrowed a 35mm camera, and would go in the dark room for hours, practising how to load the neg on to the spools.
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But I only bought my first camera later: My sister Jane and I would make our own large-scale prints, about five metres wide, with an enlarger that we had to tilt on its side to make the projections big enough. We would bring garden troughs into the dark room, roll these massive sheets in water, then in developer, then fix them, before running each sheet under water for hours. We got weekend access and I would stay in there till all hours.
I use a digital camera, and an iPhone: The idea was that it looked really lo-fi, that we just captured it on the fly with loads of volunteers, which we did. The curator Norman Rosenthal was there that day, which was serendipitous: Photography has entered such a democratic sphere now, with the digital realm open to all.
I often take him to exhibitions and he loves sitting cross-legged on the floor and watching video art; his generation have such an empathy with that kind of work. My father had a dark room before Jane and I were born.
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Jane and I put his photo behind a set of old-fashioned weighing scales. The scales reflect the balance, the way the women seem on the same plain. When I see a photograph of my mother, I barely recognise her. This saddens me, and says less about the photograph than it does about memory and my childhood experience. I also have a number of family albums and boxes stuffed with pictures, some well over a century old. I keep them cool and in the dark, and rarely look at them. I was given a camera in my early teens, and promptly broke it.
At art college I managed to work out the mysteries of the SLR and light-meter, but apart from documenting art, I have usually been without a camera. There are years and years of my life, places I have been, friends and lovers, my daughter growing up, fish I have caught, rooms I have lived in, for which I have few visual records. Enter your mobile number or email address below and we'll send you a link to download the free Kindle App. Then you can start reading Kindle books on your smartphone, tablet, or computer - no Kindle device required.
To get the free app, enter your mobile phone number. Sensitive, thoughtful and finely written, this is a compelling and moving account of our relationship to death through photography and film. Would you like to tell us about a lower price? In their use of home movies, collages of photographs and live footage, moving image artists explore the wish to see dead loved ones living. Read more Read less. Kindle Cloud Reader Read instantly in your browser. Product details File Size: Palgrave Macmillan; edition February 21, Publication Date: February 21, Sold by: Share your thoughts with other customers.
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