Photos
Every few months Mrs P announces to the world in general in a rhetorical flourish “we need to go through all the photos and get some printed”. What photos are these you may well ask. The endless litany of pictures featuring our grandchildren, taken by our son and daughter-in-law. These arrive via WhatsApp on a daily basis. Being of the Instagram generation our son’s family copiously document their lives and share it on social media. Conversely, Mrs P is from the analogue generation where photos must be printed and placed in albums. All pictures remain conspicuously unannotated so in years to come you can argue over who is in them, what year it was and where they were taken. And returning to Mrs P’s statement about getting them printed, that falls to me because “it’s all done online nowadays” and that is apparently my department.
Humans are unique in being the only species that seeks to document their lives. Photos provide a chronological history of our interactions with family and friends as well as our passage through life. Sharing memories is an important social ritual bringing both joy when times are good and comfort when life is bad. Plus photos make great evidence in trials and legal disputes but I digress. During the course of my life I have taken my share of photos, so I am not going to play some sort of “holier than thou” card and claim I am above this social convention. In the early nineties I bought a video camera and went through a phase of recording anything and everything that I did. Like most parents, we have albums full of pictures of our son and now his family as well. I still like to take pictures when I go out on day trips and because of my penchant for social media, especially Twitter, I will take a photo of anything that amuses me that I can share online.
However, there is one noticeable thing that has changed overtime regarding my relationship with photos. I no longer appear to be in many. In fact if you wander around our bungalow and look at all the pictures on bedside cabinets, walls or shelves you’ll probably only find me in one. Potentially this is because I was more than likely the person taking the photo in the first place but I suspect it’s more of a case that no one is really interested in me. If you show photos to friends and family it usually tends to be grandchildren and the things they get up to, or pictures of where you went for holiday. No one pro-actively requests to see photos of an overweight, middle aged white guy. Plus I’m not really keen on having my picture taken anyway. I don’t really buy into selfie culture. Why ruin a nice view by putting me in front of it? I’m far more interested in looking at interesting things and places.
I was recently going through my late Father’s possessions and found several scrapbooks filled with pictures of his Father’s family taken when they lived in India and Burma at the turn of the 20th century. There was an accompanying piece of paper that numbered and identified all the photos. Sadly, the glue my Father had used to stick the photos into the scrapbook had dried out over time and the pictures all had fallen out, rendering the key useless. The descriptions written have allowed me to identify some (such as Great Aunt Persephone and the Archbishop of Rangoon, I kid you not) but others will now forever remain unidentified. Something that may eventually be the fate of my photos unless Mrs P and I annotate them in some fashion. Which reminds me I better log onto Snapfish and order the latest batch of family photos. We don’t want anything to go unwitnessed do we?
